An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
A @batfam-christmas-stocking written for @sqoiler!! Happy holidays <3
----
“I’m stealing you,” a voice announces over his shoulder. It’s a voice he recognizes, one that belongs to Stephanie. Bruce turns around, totally unconcerned about the people he’d just been talking to. Sure enough, Steph is standing there, dressed up more than he’d ever seen before. Her dress is purple, a more subdued shade than her old costume. There aren’t any shoulders, but long sleeves cover her arms, and a built-in belt sits high on her waist, just under where the neckline dips. There’s a slit for her leg in the flowing fabric, which brushes the ground.
He recalls that when the children were discussing what they’d be wearing to this event, Damian mentioned how low the temperature can get in an effort to not overheat everyone. She and Dick had commiserated about fashion and how sometimes looking fabulous is worth freezing to death.
Hmm. He’ll have to watch out and make sure she doesn’t get too cold.
Stephanie looks behind him for a moment, eyes falsely wide. She plays the naive debutante role very well. “This isn’t important, right?”
“No, not really,” Bruce says, even though it kind of is. One of the people he’d been speaking with scoffs, but he ignores them and steps towards her. She usually doesn’t interact with him unless she wants or needs something—clearly his attention needs to be aimed at her right now. These society people and their business can wait. “What’s up?”
“Let’s dance.” She doesn’t wait for a response, just grabs Bruce’s wrist and tugs him out onto the dance floor. It’s been set up between the tables, but there are less people dancing than ones standing around the edges of it, talking and sipping at champagne. There’s a band on a small stage playing classical songs that are always played at these stupid galas, and luckily, they’re beginning a new song just as Bruce and Stephanie reach the floor.
It’s like dancing with Cass—they assume the position for a waltz, a few inches of space between their bodies. She’s taller than his daughter, and while it doesn’t quite put him on the wrong foot, it does make their dance feel unfamiliar. Thankfully, her presence in his life has been increasing over the past year, enough that it’s not uncomfortable. Thankfully, he thinks with what can only be described as fond exasperation. When did that happen?
“So,” Steph says once they’re moving around the dance floor. People are staring. Everyone wants to know who the new kid with the Waynes is. He’ll have to have Damian make a post on social media about her to clear up her relationship to the family. “This is a gala.”
But what is her relationship? he wonders. She’s not quite just a family friend anymore. But he’s not her dad. Not really. Her mom is alive and well, occasionally contacting him with concerns and questions. Boundaries with Steph and her mom and himself are very firmly set—boundaries with Steph and the kids are not. Dick is already big-brothering her. “Yes.”
“My first.”
“I’m aware.” She must be feeling nervous, he surmises. Her eyes are flitting every which way. Though, why she’s coming to him and not Cass, he’s unsure.
“It’s…not like what I expected it to be. I’ve always heard Tim complain about them, but I don’t know, it’s not as terrible as he made them out to be? But on the other hand, I haven’t talked to many people yet. They’re probably all judging me, aren’t they. Ugh.” She rolls her eyes. “Hey, what rich person insult will piss them off the most?”
“You’d be better off asking Duke that,” Bruce says. Or Jason. But Steph and Jason haven’t, as far as he knows, bonded much. Met a few times, yes. Talked shit about him for several hours one night, yes. But bonded over anything but that? No. He isn’t sure they’ll get along if the conversation is about something else, even with their similar backgrounds.
“I just figured since you’re, ya know, a rich asshole, you’d know which one is best. If I heavily imply I think they’re overcompensating with their big houses and cars and shit, will someone actually turn red with rage? Because seriously, I would love to see that.”
Bruce takes a moment to consider it, eyes sweeping over the other people in the room. He skips over his children, focusing more on the insecure men and women that Steph could easily take down a notch. Not wanting to be overheard by the others on the dance floor, he tells her in an undertone which ones are the best targets.
She listens attentively, a grin widening on her face with every new name. When he’s done, she says, “Thanks! I’m gonna need those in writing, though. Don’t wanna forget.”
Unsure if she’s joking or not, he leads them into a turn. “Just remind me after we’re done here and I’ll get you a more complete list.”
“Cool.” They dance for a few more moments in silence, both of them noticing how close some of the other dancers are getting. Rather loudly, Steph clears her throat. “They really think they’re being subtle, huh?”
Amused, Bruce glances at the faces around them. Everyone hears her words, and while a few seem undeterred, most pale at being caught, moving away in a very obvious manner. “Curiosity makes the cat brave,” he quips, repeating a sentiment Cass shared with him recently. When she doesn’t respond, he looks down to her face, finding her staring in the direction of the doors they came in through. “Something on your mind?”
He’s really asking, why did you come and get me? If it’s just nerves, she would’ve been better off with one of the others. No, it must be something else.
Steph blinks, turning her gaze upwards. Never one to back down, she meets his eyes long enough for him to see she’s not in any distress, at least. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
“I don’t know,” she mumbles. “Everything. Nothing.”
“Hrn,” he replies, a gentle reminder that he’s listening and she can keep going.
“It’s just—why did you even bring me here, B? I stick out like a sore thumb. It’s so obvious everyone here is judging me and probably think I’m with Tim or something,” she makes a face to show just how unappealing that sounds. And honestly, Bruce has to agree, knowing that the two work much better as friends than partners. “And I don’t even know why I asked if they’re judging me, because I know they are! I heard someone ask if I was another one of your charity cases! They know I don’t belong here. And I know it too, so—”
“Stephanie.”
“—so why ?”
“Because,” he says, lowering his voice as the music stops. He doesn’t want anyone overhearing this. “Because you are a family friend, at the very least. You’ve helped save my children’s lives as well as my own. You deserve to be here with the rest of us. If you want to go home, I’ll happily call Alfred to come and get you, but can I tell you what I think?”
“What?” She asks, sniffling quietly. Her eyes are wet but she’s not crying. To anyone else, her eyes would just look a little shiny, probably from all the twinkling lights.
“I think you’ll have more if you stick around and help me subtly insult all of these assholes.”
A surprised laugh bubbles out of her, and she leans forward, her forehead resting on his chest. He pats her back, letting her calm down without having to worry about people seeing.
Spotting Duke sitting by himself at a nearby table and hoping that’s all that needs to be said, Bruce taps her shoulder and asks, “Why don’t we go sit down and eat, hm?”
Pulling away, Steph exhales loudly and says, “Yeah, okay. As long as I get to actually eat something, I mean. Tim always said the portions are way too small.”
Together, they walk to where Duke is sitting. When he sees them, he grins and stands, meeting them both with hugs. Hugs from Duke are a more common occurrence than from any of the other kids except Dick and Cass.
Bruce makes sure to hold on until Duke is ready to let go, having heard the sentiment from Alfred once and internalizing it. It’s made it easier to handle hugs—though still a little uncomfortable, they’re nice. Really nice.
“Hey kid,” Steph says, slinging her arm over Duke’s shoulders.
Duke leans obnoxiously into her side. “I’m only like 3 years younger than you, you know.”
“Eh, details,” Steph replies. “Anyway, we were gonna eat. You hungry? Wanna join us?”
“Hell yeah,” he says, grinning. “I wasn’t sure how to get something to eat, so I was like, just sitting around hoping someone would come and help me.”
“Your pouting was very potent,” Steph tells him. “I think Bruce saw it and almost combusted with a need to be fatherly and stuff.”
“Here, I’ll show you both,” Bruce says, steering them towards the bar where orders are taken. Duke has been with them for a year now, but they haven’t exactly discussed the father stuff. Other than a few times where Duke has accidentally called him dad—and good god, did that always make Bruce flush with happiness and pride—the only thing Bruce knows for sure is that Duke misses his real parents and still occasionally looks for them.
Standing between them, he can’t help but notice the looks people are giving all three of them. This event was supposed to be a more casual one, hence the bar, but the people Bruce is forced to invite are some of the worst and most judgmental assholes he’s ever met. They’re used to Duke by now, but Duke plus Steph is clearly too much for them. He glares back, trying to seem stoic and protective rather than pissed off.
They look away. Good.
The kids chat as they walk, and chat some more once they have their meals and are seated at a table near where Cass and Dick are dancing. Damian spots them and immediately makes a beeline to the empty chair, stopping long enough to set down his drink before going to get something to eat for himself.
Bruce takes a sip of his drink, eyeing Stephanie. She seems calmer now that she’s not alone, but he’ll have to keep checking on her. The night is going to wear long, he can already tell, and he doesn’t want her to keep feeling so out of place, so judged.
He joins in on the conversation, which has somehow turned to Pokemon, and for a while, he and three of his kids—or whatever Steph is to him—just talk and eat. It’s surprisingly relaxing, considering where they are.
Eventually, though, it comes to an end. Dick and Cass come by, Dick only sticking around long enough to steal something off Bruce’s plate before he goes to find Tim. Cass, however, holds out her hand to Steph, who gleefully takes it. Before leaving, she turns to Bruce and sticks out a closed fist. “You’re cool sometimes, I guess.”
Pretending to be exasperated, he fist bumps her. “Thank you. Now go have fun, hm?”
She hesitates for a moment. Then, “Hell yeah,” and his girls are gone, grinning happily and dancing.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
A @batfam-christmas-stocking fic written for @renecdote!! happy holidays <3
----
Alternate universes suck so much. Tim has always known that, but he’s never really grasped it, not until he and Dick were forcibly thrown into one a week ago.
Gotham feels different, even though it doesn’t appear that way on the surface. The violence is more personal, less showy, and as far as they’ve seen, there are almost no super villains. Somehow, though, there’s more crime on the whole, every corner of every street host to pimps and drug dealers and traffickers.
Tim tries to fight it, tries to intervene, but Dick pulls him back. “We can’t risk it, you know that.”
He does. But that doesn’t make it easier. “They need our help,” Tim fires back, everything he’s ever been taught about bettering the world, the pressure of saving people, battering around in his mind.
“It’s not our world or our place,” Dick explains, and for all that he sounds apologetic, his eyes don’t stray away from the shadowy parts of the street where they can hear people being hurt.
Dick is a good actor, but Tim can read him like a book. He’s following the protocols put in place for dimensional travel, playing the I’m The Big Brother And I’m In Charge card, but he doesn’t like it anymore than Tim does.
The rules are what they are for a reason, and Tim knows that. Grudgingly, he lets Dick pull him away, go back to their own little shadowy corners. They sleep on cardboard they find in dumpsters, huddling up for warmth. In the mornings, they go to the local library, hoping to fill out some of their knowledge on this world, since no rescue or way out otherwise is forthcoming.
There, sitting at the outdated computers, they find out that Martha and Thomas Wayne are still dead. Bruce wasn’t 8 when it happened, though—he was 16. He got shot too, making it painful and difficult to walk or move in general. According to one interview from a few years before, he’s kept on bedrest a lot, and has been in and out of physical therapy ever since it happened, now fifteen years prior. When he’s not doing that, he’s campaigning for control of Wayne Enterprises and tweeting about coffee.
There’s no Batman. Not like how they know him, at least.
One day, Dick flirts with a cop and Tim pickpockets the man’s scanner, and they learn that whole case files, suspects and evidence all neatly put together, have been sent to the GCPD over the past six years. They never see anyone fly overhead, though. At first, they think it might be Babs, but when they try to look her up, Tim finds that she’s been locked up in Arkham for at least the last four years.
Neither one of them want to know why, so they just don’t look into it any further. “This isn’t our Babs,” Dick reminds himself, and Tim, too. But mostly himself. “She’s not .”
They share a look, and don’t have to say anything to know it’s time to compartmentalize. This Babs isn’t their Babs. This Bruce isn’t their Bruce. This world doesn’t have the Joker or Poison Ivy or any of them except Two Face and the Penguin. This isn’t their world .
“Come on,” Dick murmurs, sticking close to his side as they leave the library. As they head to their latest alley, they pass all kinds of drug deals and gang members beating the shit out of people. By the time they actually get to where they’ve been staying, they’re both so tense, one smartass comment from Tim is all it takes to snap them into an argument.
”I’m sorry,” Tim says after they’ve gone back and forth a few times, sounding hostile even to himself. “I’m so sorry I can’t see things the same way you do. I’m sorry I’m not perfect Dick Grayson , who always knows what to do without even having to think about it, who always does the right thing, who is totally fine letting all these people suffer, because it’s in the protocol!”
He doesn’t even believe his own words. Tim’s just upset, unable to handle living on the streets for a week in a universe where everything is unfamiliar and grim, lashing out against one of the only things he can control. Dick is all he has here—and spending that much time with someone, let alone one of his brothers, would be hard even in the best of circumstances.
Dick flinches, and Tim only has a second to feel bad before the flash of a reflection from a gun in the window above them catches his attention. He moves on instinct, stepping forward and trying to pull Dick down even as Dick tries to move towards the mouth of the alley, protective to a fault. The bullet hits Dick’s left shoulder with a sickening and familiar crack-thwack .
For a moment, everything is silent, slow motion. Dick sucks in a pained breath, stumbling back a few steps, and Tim hopes and prays the bullet hasn’t hit an artery.
And then Tim twists to face the mouth of the alley and books it towards him, jumping on the bastard and bringing him to the ground. He rips the gun away and lets all of his pent-up anger and stress out, punching and punching. It’s only Dick, gritting his teeth and clutching his shoulder, calling out his name that saves the guy’s teeth from actually being knocked out.
Panting and shaking with fury and adrenaline, Tim stands. “Are you okay?” He demands.
“Fine,” Dick replies. “We—we should go.”
“Yeah, okay.” But he bends down instead, patting the guy’s pockets until he finds what he’s looking for: a wallet. As he rifles through, searching for a driver’s license or state ID, he explains. “We need to know who he is. If he’s working for Harvey….”
They both shudder at the thought, but the truth is worse. The name is Italian, familiar to Tim from a bust a few years before. He’s one of Maroni’s men.
Another thing they learned during their hours of research at the library: seven years ago, Haly’s Circus came through town. Bruce Wayne didn’t attend, or more likely, couldn’t. Mary and John Grayson fell to their deaths, and once it became clear that little Dick Grayson, only eight years old, knew something about the murderers, he ran. He’s been missing ever since, and if he’s still alive, then the Maronis are probably still on the lookout for him. Tony Zucco, apparently, is still alive. Still working Gotham’s underbelly, terrorizing and murdering. The Dick Grayson native to this universe is a threat to them.
They probably heard me say Dick’s name , Tim realizes, tucking the wallet away in the man’s pockets. Which means he was shot because of me. Fuck.
----
Big brothers, Tim finds, are fucking heavy. Especially when they’ve been shot and are steadily losing blood. When they’re dead weight, fading in and out of consciousness. When they’re relying totally on Tim to drag the both of them to uncertain refuge in an unfamiliar city.
And Tim…he wants to be someone Dick can rely on. (Obviously, he already is, but his anxiety says maybe this is just who Dick is. Tim could be anyone and the situation would be the same. Still, it would be better for Dick if Tim was Damian, instead. Or Bruce. Or Donna. Or anyone but himself, really.) But more than anything, he wants someone who can help Dick, who can keep him alive. Living on the streets the way they are just doesn’t lend much in the way of medical supplies.
Tim drags Dick all the way to the clinic, based on a vague awareness that it exists here, too. When they get there, though, the building is obviously abandoned, Leslie nowhere to be found. Wherever she is, he doesn’t know, but he hopes she’s okay. He can’t think of a situation that would keep her from helping the people of Gotham. Still, he sets Dick up against the wall and breaks in, hoping for something useful, and finding nothing inside but rubble and evidence of homeless people using the space for shelter.
He goes back to Dick, feeling like the world is ending. They don’t have any first aid supplies, and even if they did, even if a first aid kit fell out of the sky right now and Tim could patch Dick up, it wouldn’t mean anything. This only happened because Tim wasn’t paying attention, wasn’t thinking to be careful. It could happen again. What does he do then?
What would Bruce do? Roy? Wally? Diana or Clark? Hell, Kon ? Any of them could help Dick so much more right now. More than Tim can or will ever be able to. And really, what good is Tim if he can’t even keep his brother alive?
Aware the thoughts aren’t helpful right now, he shelves them for later and looks back at Dick, cataloguing everything he sees like Bruce taught them to do. Dick’s still steadily bleeding out, and though that’s most concerning of all, Tim finds the only thing he can think about is how they don’t have clean clothes so Dick can walk around in something not soaked in blood.
With a strangled shout, Tim kicks the wall. It doesn’t affect him, much—thank god he’d been wearing steel-toed shoes when they were transported here—but the brief release feels good. Sort of. It’d be a lot better if he were still laying into the Maroni guy, if he’s honest.
“Tim,” Dick says, both reproachful and concerned.
“Shut up,” Tim replies, dragging his fingers through his hair. His mind is racing. He wants to go home so badly his chest aches with it.
Dick knows him well enough that he can sense what Tim is thinking. Slowly, he shakes his head. “No, Tim. No . We can’t.”
“Where else are we supposed to go?” Tim cries out. It’s a stupid idea, it’s against the protocol, and they’ve already talked about it anyway. They’d agreed it’s stupid and they can’t do it and moved on. But he can’t help feeling the impulse, especially now.
“Stephanie’s,” Dick shoots back immediately. But they both know it’s not possible—here, Steph is another face on the dozens of missing persons posters that litter the city. He realizes it a second too late, and stumbles over his next words. “Just, anywhere but there.”
Jason is dead, has been for years now. Damian doesn’t exist. Cass is in Star City with Dinah Lance. Luke and the other members of the Fox family have never lived in this Gotham. Duke’s parents are still alive—they recently moved to Blüdhaven, and took their young son with them. Harper and Cullen are nowhere to be found, but Tim tells himself that’s a good thing—it means they aren’t in the obituaries. Kate is overseas on a honeymoon with her wife. Half of the Titans and Justice League don’t seem to exist, and the ones that do wouldn’t step foot in this cesspit of crime and drugs.
‘Anywhere but there’ means nothing. Nowhere. There’s no place for them to go, no one who can or even would help.
The words, or maybe the thoughts that come with them, wear Dick out. He starts to fade again, eyes slipping closed, and that means Tim’s in charge.
And Tim? Tim wants to go home .
He grabs Dick, keeping him from sliding down the wall, throws his brother’s arm over his shoulder, and starts off towards the Manor with every ounce of determination he can muster.
----
Several hours later, when it’s dark and Dick is pale and mostly silent, barely keeping up, they make it home. Everything feels different: the security that allows them to get all the way up the drive (after only a little effort on Tim’s part), the trees oddly placed and the doors and shutters all painted a light blue instead of the rusty red he’s used to. It’s disorienting and upsetting. Home is supposed to be familiar and it’s not and he hates it.
Tim knocks on a side door that only family knows about, hoping against hope it won’t be Bruce that answers. He doubts it, but he’s positive he won’t be able to keep his composure in front of his dad. It’ll be a little easier with Alfred. Probably. In any case, Alfred is the better option of the two.
While they wait, Dick mumbles, “This is stupid.”
Tim presses his hand against the wound, trying not to be impatient. Trying not to feel sick with nerves. He doesn’t reply, knowing Dick isn’t really paying attention right now.
When the door finally opens, Tim could collapse with relief. Alfred stands there, one hand hiding his rifle out of their sight in an all-too-familiar pose, while the other holds onto the doorjamb. His hair is darker than Tim is used to, his face less wrinkled. He’s staring at them like they’re weird, strange boys, standing at what’s supposed to be a virtually unknown entrance to a private, secure home in the late hours of the night.
Blood covers Dick’s upper body and Tim’s hands, and they both look and smell rough. They don’t make a pretty picture, and Tim knows that, but there’s nothing he can do except get Alfred to let them in somehow. He’s been thinking about what he wants to say, what’ll appeal to Alfred’s compassion or curiosity or both. Please, help my brother before he loses too much blood. Please, don’t tell Bruce about this. Please, I’m so exhausted and I need a cup of your chamomile and a cookie and also maybe a hug or I’m going to explode.
What he says instead is, “ Alfred .” It’s a relieved sob, leaving him without permission, and Alfred’s shocked and confused reaction is much more noticeable than it should be. “I—we didn’t know where else to go. He’s hurt.”
There are more words on his tongue, an avalanche of them wanting to come out, but Alfred stops him there with a raised hand. He doesn’t put the rifle down, but he says, “Come in, then,” and opens the door wide enough for them.
Dick groans when Tim drags him up the steps. Blinking sluggishly at Alfred, he says, “Alf…?”
“Yeah, it’s Alfred. Come on, help out here a little bit. We’re just gonna sit down and hopefully get you patched up, alright, Dickie?”
“Hrn.”
Tim bites his lip at the Bruce noise, stupid tears stinging in his eyes.
He’s home. It’s unfamiliar. Dick is hurt. He’s in charge.
Now is so not the time to cry.
Alfred leads them to a nearby couch in a sitting room they’ve never used in all the years Tim’s known Bruce. Rifle still in hand, he seems much more unsure than their Alfred, who would’ve already had the situation on lock by now.
“We need a first aid kit, please,” Tim says. He glances at the weapon, and adds, “We won’t cause any trouble, I promise. I—I know this is probably super weird, but….”
But what? Tim can’t think of a way to end the sentence so he just doesn’t. Instead, he turns to Dick and starts pulling his brother’s shirt off, something they really should’ve done hours ago. While he uses the fabric to put pressure on the wound again, he hears Alfred moving around behind him.
If this Bruce is anything like theirs, a first aid kit shouldn’t be too far away. There’s one in every bathroom back home.
It’s not long before Alfred is back, shooing Tim away and setting a large first aid kit on the couch. His rifle is gone, but Tim knows it can’t be far. There’s no way this Alfred trusts them enough to not have it close at hand. “Do I dare ask what happened?”
God, it’s good to hear his voice. “My brother got shot,” Tim says, reverting to his natural instinct to reveal as little as possible. Normally Alfred is someone he can give a full mission report to, but Tim is just Tim right now, not Red Robin, and this is not his Alfred, so he’s going to keep his mouth shut up tight.
“Well, my word. You wouldn’t know it from looking at him.” And there’s that Alfred sass. It doesn’t make him laugh like it usually does—no, it just reminds him again that he isn’t actually home. “Care to explain more? Should I be concerned you were followed?”
Tim thinks on it for a minute, but really, there’s no way Maroni’s guy got up in time to tail them. The rest of the mob family have probably heard about them by now, but Tim isn’t too worried about it. He can’t find it within himself to be. All he can really think about is Dick, Alfred, Bruce. If coming here was a mistake after all. If they’ll ever make it home to see their Bruce and Alfred. Eventually, he says, “No. We weren’t followed.”
Dick groans as Alfred starts to prep the gunshot wound to get the bullet out. He sways a little, dizzy, and mumbles an apology when Alfred has to readjust him.
Alfred says, “Just hold as still as you can, and you’ll be alright.”
Hearing the tenderness in Alfred’s voice does something to Tim. This is Alfred , he thinks. He can help us with more than just this.
He blurts out, “It was one of Maroni’s men.”
“Sal Maroni?” Alfred sounds suspiciously uninterested, not even bothering to look away from his work. “The mob boss?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmm. Alright, young man, I’m going to get this bullet out now.”
“Tim,” Dick grits out, reaching out his hand. Tim takes it, sitting down on the other side of his brother. He forces himself to watch as Alfred goes through the familiar motions. Dick doesn’t actually squeeze his hand that much, too used to this kind of pain, but Tim thinks maybe they both feel better having the lifeline.
He stays there until Dick is stitched up and accepts a dose of Tylenol—no matter how much Alfred gives them concerned looks and insists on something stronger, a Bat doesn’t take hard drugs.
Not quite huffing in exasperation, Alfred acquiesces and leaves Dick alone, sitting back against the cushions. Then he turns to Tim. With his hands on his hips and his sleeves rolled up, he’s honestly kind of intimidating. “Now you, young man,” he says.
“Um. What? I’m fine. I didn’t get shot, I don’t need anything.”
Alfred raises an eyebrow. Tim can out-stubborn almost anybody, even his other family members, but Alfred Pennyworth is not one of them. Everyone bows down to him.
Tim sighs and scoots a few inches away from Dick, and when Alfred shoos him all the way into the other corner, he goes. Surprisingly, the older man sits next to Tim, between him and Dick, and instead of reaching for the kit, he just. Puts a hand on Tim’s shoulder. Which Tim finds extremely weird, considering how British and physically distant Alfred is. Oh sure, he hugs them all. He catches them when they fall, he reassures them with arm pats and shoulder squeezes. But it’s unlike him to just... sit here and rest his hand on Tim’s shoulder, looking him in the face with an expression Tim finds he can’t read.
Not being able to read people, especially someone he knows so well, freaks him out.
Tense, Tim says, “What?”
Alfred is quiet for a moment, then asks, “Where have you boys been staying?”
Oh. Yeah, okay. He’s suspicious of them. Tim can understand why. “We have a place.” It’s a disgusting alley behind a pizzeria they can’t afford to eat at, scraping by with the last of the money they had on them when they were sent here, but it’s not a lie.
Alfred backs off, picking his battles and probably recognizing this one for what it is: unwinnable. He’s more than perceptive enough to read between the lines anyway, add up all the clues—their clothes are dirty, their hair greasy, and Tim knows he’s looking pretty gaunt. And considering how jumpy Tim is acting, it’s likely Alfred thinks they’re homeless. Which they are.
“Are you injured anywhere?”
Tim holds out his hand, his knuckles split and raw from earlier, and ignores how badly he’s shaking. Alfred takes his hand, and grabs alcohol wipes from the kit. He dabs at the wounds, glancing at Tim’s face like he’s expecting a reaction. And yeah, it stings a little, but he’s had much worse. This is nothing.
“Hmm.” Alfred moves Tim’s hand around, looking for other wounds, finding a few little cuts. “So your brother’s name is Dickie?”
“Dick,” Tim corrects. Bruce and Jason are the only ones who call Dick that usually, and Jason almost always does it because it’s his ‘little brother duty’ or something. The only reason he said it earlier is because he hoped it would be comforting. “Short for—”
“Richard, I assume.”
“Yeah.” Tim falls silent, trying to keep his hand still. When a few moments of silence go by, he looks up at Alfred, finding him making an expectant face. “Oh! Yeah, sorry. I’m Tim.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Tim. You seem to already know my name.”
Yeah. Shit. Unable to think of a lie beyond ‘you look like my grandpa’, Tim laughs nervously. “Lucky guess?”
Dick snorts. “You jus’ look like our gran’pa, that’s all. His name’s Alfred. Yours too, huh?”
Alfred doesn’t look convinced, but he goes along with it anyway. “Yes, mine too.” What an odd coincidence , he doesn’t say, but Tim hears it anyway.
It doesn’t take long after that for Alfred to finish up Tim’s knuckles. He offers to put some band-aids on, but Tim shakes his head. “No, no, I’m fine. Thank you.”
Dick gives him a look, and despite the fact that he’s still acting loopy, there’s a strength to it. Tim can tell what he’s thinking—that if the cuts weren’t on the knuckles, a very awkward place to put bandages, Dick would be insisting on it. Well, whatever , he thinks, resisting the urge to stick out his tongue. You’re not in charge right now anyway.
Alfred stands and looks them over for a brief moment, hesitation obvious in the way he pauses, inhaling deeply. Then, with determination, he says, “I will prepare you something to eat. Do either of you have any allergies I should be aware of?”
“Sulfites,” Tim says at the same time Dick says, “Shellfish. And pet dander.”
“Dick, man, I’m pretty sure they don’t have pets. And even if they did, pets aren’t allowed in the kitchen under any circumstances.”
“Oh yeah,” Dick says with a faint chuckle. “Forgot.”
“Mister Tim,” Alfred cuts in before Tim can reply. It’s unspeakably weird to be called Mister Tim instead of Master Tim, even though Alfred called him that for years. “Will sandwiches suffice?”
The thought of eating Alfred’s food—and even more than that, something they haven’t fished out of a dumpster—is drool-worthy. Quickly, he agrees, “Yes, that’s perfect. Thank you.”
Alfred nods and leaves, probably thankful to get the heck away from them for a few minutes. Once he’s gone, the brothers fall quiet, both a blessing and a curse. Not having Alfred asking questions that Tim has to evade is great, but it does give him the opportunity to keep freaking out.
What do they do next? Alfred might not let them leave while Dick is healing, and that means the chances of running into Bruce raise astronomically. Tim knows that he won’t be able to handle that. Not at all.
“Stop it,” Dick whispers, loud in the overwhelming quiet. “I can see your forehead vein from here.”
“Shut up. I’m trying to think.”
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
Tim sighs, letting the banter drop for a moment. “Look, I’m sorry you got shot. I know it’s not my fault,” he says, speaking over Dick’s immediate protest. “I know that. But I’m still sorry.”
“…Thanks. I’m accepting your apology but not your responsibility.”
“Duh.” Tim fiddles with his hands, satisfied but also knowing, in his heart of hearts, that it is in fact his fault and Dick is totally wrong. “I’m not sorry I brought us here, though.”
“Duh,” Dick repeats, sounding more than a little peeved. Not that Tim can blame him, really. If Tim and Damian had agreed to something, and then Damian went back on it… that’d be really annoying.
Still, that little brother duty Jason talks about means he has to defend himself. “Dick, we were gonna end up coming here anyway, don’t you see that?” He shoots to his feet and drags his hands through his hair, pacing in front of the couch. Despite his earlier flip-flopping, he’s sure now. This was the right decision even if it does suck a lot. “Where else could we possibly go? We don’t belong here. The only way we can get home is by ask—”
Tim cuts off immediately when footsteps echo down the hall. They sound different from Alfred’s, a third tap that sounds a lot like a cane.
This Alfred doesn’t use a cane. The only person who could is—
Both Dick and Tim tense as the doorway is filled up by Bruce freaking Wayne.
“Um,” Tim says.
Bruce looks different. Not just in the sense that he is, in fact, using a cane, but just. Everything. He looks younger, a neat beard covering much of his face. There’s barely any salt in it at all. The scars that litter the skin of his face and arms, mostly bare considering he’s wearing only a t-shirt and pajama pants, aren’t there. Worst of all, there’s no recognition in his eyes.
His sons have become strangers. But no, this man is not their father. Tim has to shout it at himself. He’s not! Bruce Wayne would never look at them like this. Especially not Dick.
Dick makes a noise, a small and sad little whimper, and Tim thinks, shit. Shit shit shit. Unable to do anything to help, Tim shuffles closer to him, hoping it’s enough to comfort.
“Who are you?” Bruce asks, moving further into the room. He says it casually, like this is a totally normal situation, but there’s steel there, too. Of course there is. This is Bruce Wayne. He doesn’t mess around, especially when it comes to strangers invading his home. And as much as that feels like a knife to the chest, that’s what they are. Strangers . The word lingers in his mind, leaving a bad aftertaste.
Tim gets the distinct feeling that the cane, for all that it serves to help Bruce walk, is a weapon. One this Bruce will have no issue using against them. “Um. We—we’re homeless,” he blurts out, trying to push the thought away. “And my brother got shot, so we came here looking for help. We’ll be gone soon, I promise. Don’t worry about us, this is just a one time thing, and we won’t tell anyone else. I know this is a house and not a triage center.”
Bruce is already looking at him like he’s an intruder, but at that, the man’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. Oh, right. That’s something the other—the right —Bruce would say. Has said many times. Because it’s something their Alfred has always said, and apparently this Alfred too.
Scrambling, Tim keeps going, pasting a fake smile on his face. “Alfred knows we’re here. He’ll be right back. It’s okay, we’ll just wait right here and not steal anything, so you can go back to bed. Goodnight.”
“Tim,” Dick bites out, obviously trying to communicate that he thinks Tim is being a weirdo, and that he’s doing nothing but tipping Bruce off to the fact that something is wrong.
“I’m freaking out, okay?” Tim exclaims back, curling and relaxing his fingers in an effort to control himself. It’s impossible, though—this is their dad , for crying out loud. Their dad, who they haven’t seen in a long time, not since before they were attacked as civilians and flung through the wormhole that deposited them here. Their dad, who Tim really, seriously needs a hug from right now.
Bruce comes closer, leaning against one of the two unused chairs. Where Tim tenses further, unsure of what he’s about to do or say, Dick relaxes. He’s really out of it now, the blood loss and medicine finally catching up with him. He’s blinking heavily and listing to the side. “Hand me that, will you?” He asks Bruce, gesturing to a throw blanket resting on the top of the chair.
Suddenly feeling very protective of Dick, Tim says, “I can—”
“No,” Bruce interrupts, the corner of his mouth curling up like he thinks this is funny. “I’ve got it.”
He grabs the blanket and walks over to the couch. Tim stumbles back a few steps to give him room. For a second, it seems like none of them breathe—but then Bruce leans on his cane like a crutch, bends down, and lays the blanket over Dick.
Tim has seen Bruce tuck people in before, usually Damian. All those times, he either didn’t care much, or a swirl of jealousy had tightened in his stomach. He can remember wondering why Bruce didn’t tuck him in. Why his parents never did it, why Mrs. Mac and all the nannies hadn’t either.
This time, his eyes sting with tears. He forces them back, biting the inside of his cheek.
Dick snuggles into the cushions behind his back, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. “Thanks, dad,” he mumbles, slipping off into a nap.
Bruce and Tim both freeze.
“Um,” Tim says, because something has to be said, this needs to be nipped in the bud and stopped right now before Bruce can ask anything. But really, the chances of Bruce Wayne not asking questions? Less than zero. And Tim’s brain is screaming, because what the hell could he possibly say to explain that ?
Alfred enters the room again before anything can happen, carrying a tray holding a few sandwiches. He sets it down on a side table before looking up.
“Oh,” he stops short when he sees Bruce, hands hovering above the food. “Master Bruce, I thought you were downstairs.”
“I was just doing some reading,” he waves off, but he can’t quite manage to sound casual. “Now… did he just call me dad ?”
Oh fuck , Tim thinks. Awkwardly, he laughs, “No! What? No, that’s ridiculous.” Seeing that this tactic isn’t working—Bruce and Alfred both have legendary ‘bitch please’ looks that go beyond the confines of time and space, apparently—he shifts gears. “I mean, okay, yes he did. But—but it’s just because you look like our dad! A lot like him, actually. Haha.”
Bruce and Alfred stare at him, concern building as he keeps laughing, spurred on by a week of non-stop stress and the pressure of being in charge— maybe , he thinks, this was a bad idea all along and we shouldn’t have come here and Dick was totally right. It’s only when his laughter turns to hiccuping sobs that either of them move, Bruce managing to grab his bicep in time before Tim can sink to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. Alfred hurries to his other side, fretting, “Come on, young sir, just sit down now.”
They lead him to one of the chairs, where he collapses, his head in his hands. Dick is better at this—at leading, at interacting, at not breaking apart. It should all be the opposite: Tim sleeping off a GSW while Dick lies through his teeth as he explains what’s going on. Not that Dick would’ve gotten them into this situation, anyway.
“I’m sorry,” he sniffles, refusing to look up. They’re both staring at him again, clearly unsure what to do with a strange, crying teenager.
After a moment, Alfred says, “You boys say I look like your grandfather, and now Master Bruce looks like your father. By chance, what is his name?”
“Bruce Wayne,” Tim replies to the floor. “But… not him. A different one.”
“A different Bruce Wayne?” The confusion and curiosity is clear as day in Bruce’s voice, and Tim can’t help but snort a little.
“Yeah. Um, this is going to sound really crazy, but my brother and I are from a different universe.” He peeks at their faces, not surprised at all by the blatant disbelief he sees. “I can prove it.”
Alfred and Bruce share a wide-eyed look.“How?”
“I know you’re the one who’s been sending the GCPD all those case files. And before you say you’re not, you just said you were doing some reading. Downstairs. In the cave below this property, right? Back home, it’s called the Batcave and you’re Batman.”
“Go on, Mister Tim,” Alfred says after a moment. “We believe you.”
Relief crashes down on him and more tears slip out against his will. “I need your help. We need your help. We’ve been here for a week, and—and—and we have no idea how to get home. None. There’s no one else we can turn to, ‘cause the people who would usually help us either can’t or wouldn’t, since they don’t know us here. And god, this world is nothing at all like ours…. I just want to go home. I don’t know what to do. Please,” he begs, desperate. “I need advice.”
Bruce hesitantly sets a hand on Tim’s back, rubbing up and down in a motion that is, wow, extremely soothing. “We’ll figure this out, Tim. I promise you, Alfred and I will help you boys any way we can.”
Before Tim can ask if it’s just because they’re his sons in some other universe, Alfred clears his throat. “It may take some time, mind you. But you and your brother will need to stay here anyway, seeing as that wound needs time to heal. I can’t, in good conscience, let that happen out on the streets.”
Tim wants to refuse. Wants to say thanks but no thanks, you can put us up in a motel or something until everything is worked out. Wants to cry and cry and wake up from this nightmare. Instead, mentally and physically exhausted, he just says, “Okay.”
Both men are concerned by the response, he can tell. Though he isn’t looking, he can practically hear the silent conversation they’re having over his head. Then Alfred stands. “I will make up two of the guest rooms, then, sirs. Mister Tim, could you help bring Mister Dick upstairs?”
“Just set up one, we can share,” Tim replies. It’s late and he doesn’t want Alfred to have to do anything more than he’s already done. Than he’s already doing.
“If you’re certain….”
“I am. Thank you.”
He’s not gone for long, and thank god, because Tim can hardly stand to be alone with Bruce without spilling even more. He’s already said so much tonight, he feels empty and hollowed out, kind of like a balloon that’s been blown up only for all the air to wheeze out of it, leaving it sad and stretched. Holy shit, that metaphor. He needs to go to bed, and he needs a mattress instead of another cardboard box laid over hard cobblestone and concrete.
Shaking his head to stop his thoughts, he moves over to Dick and wakes him, a hand on his uninjured shoulder. “Dick, wake up,” he says a few times until his brother is blinking heavily at him.
“Wha’?”
“We’re gonna go upstairs and sleep. Come on, I’ll help you.”
“Hrn,” he says again, and this time, Bruce hears it. Tim glances at him, almost surprised to see the emotions on Bruce’s face. Apparently that’s a Bruce noise in this universe too, and it only helps to cement Tim’s story.
Tim helps Dick stand up, swinging Dick’s good arm over his shoulders. Together, they slowly ascend the stairs, something Tim is more than familiar with considering how many times something like this has happened at home. At the top, they meet up with Alfred, who takes them to a guest room that is thankfully unused in their version of the Manor.
Alfred helps Dick get settled into the mattress, his shoes and belt shed. “I could get you both some pajamas,” Alfred says when he sees the way Tim flops down, both of them still in battered, dirty, expensive chinos.
“We’re okay,” Tim says, aware that the only pajamas in the house must belong to Bruce and Alfred, and that neither size would fit them. He’s not sure he could handle it right now even if they did. “Thank you though. For…for all of this. It means a lot.”
Alfred graces him with a gentle smile. “Of course, young sir. I would like to think that your Bruce will appreciate this.”
He leaves, and then it’s just Tim and Dick. They’ve shared a bed plenty of times before, on nights when there was no one else around and they didn’t want to be alone. Dick was the one who taught Tim one of the best parts about having siblings: cuddles. Dick is a cuddle monster, but maybe tonight Tim won’t wake up being held protectively to his brother’s chest.
Under the covers, Tim stares at the ceiling. His mind refuses to shut off even though they’re finally somewhere safe. Somewhere he can sleep and not worry about what might happen when he’s not paying attention.
He feels a little better, now that there are actual adults in charge, who are going to help. Who can keep Dick from getting hurt again, especially from Tim’s carelessness. But it makes him miss home, just reminds him how far away he and Dick are from their real family. He’s curious, on some level, about this Bruce Wayne. He trusts him to take care of them long enough for them to return home. How long that’s going to take is a question, though, one that he thinks can probably be answered by: a long time.
It’ll be good for Dick, at least. Give him time to heal.
God, Dick shouldn’t have been hurt in the first place. But of course he did, and of course it was because of some dumb argument, because of Tim—
“’M not perfect,” Dick whispers, making Tim, who was certain he was asleep, jump. When he turns to look, he finds Dick’s eyes are closed. Squeezed shut. “’M not . I don’t know what I’m doing, Tim. I didn’t wanna come here ‘cause of the rules, and ‘cause it’s hard… hard to see them. ‘M lucky I getta sleep through it, I guess.”
“Dick—”
“I woulda done the same thing, okay?” And now he opens his eyes, meeting Tim’s head on. “This was the right choice. Coming here. Alfred gives the best advice.”
“Yeah.” Tim’s throat feels thick, the word hard to get out.
Dick reaches out his good hand and rests it on Tim’s cheek. “Thank you for bringing me here. You saved me. Now go to sleep,” he says, and then teasingly smacks him. “I can hear you thinking all the way from here.”
“You’re like two feet away,” Tim points out, but he tries to listen anyway. He closes his eyes, thinking maybe he will be able to rest. Dick is the best at comforting people.
“Shhhh,” Dick says, grinning. “Doesn’t matter. Sleep.”
“Yes, mom.”
“ Shhh !”
Tim laughs, and for the first time in a while, it’s real. He feels safe and warm and not alone, and while he can’t exactly say he’s happy right now, he’s a lot closer than he was just a few hours before.
Tomorrow , he decides, settling down, I’m going to take a shower and eat a real meal. And then, then I can finally start figuring out how to get us home.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
A @batfam-christmas-stocking fic written for @dawnseternallight!! Happy holidays <3
----
Grayson is laying in bed.
It’s not an uncommon sight—his brother does need sleep, no matter what he might think—but it’s different today. He’s stuck in a neck brace, one leg in a cast up to his knee and the other ankle bandaged tightly. Three of the fingers on his right hand are splinted together. His ribs are bruised. Even from the doorway, Damian can see that his eyes are glassy with pain or medication or both.
Damian can admit to himself that he feels uncomfortable seeing Grayson this way. Grayson is Batman, after all, even if he doesn’t wear the cowl anymore. And Batman? Batman doesn’t get hurt. He’s strong and capable and imposing, and nothing can get through the armor he wears—both literal and figurative. So to see Grayson like this, so beaten down, it makes his stomach twist and tighten. It’s fundamentally wrong.
He’s never seen an adult wounded this badly before. Mother was never injured to this extent. Father hasn’t been either. Pennyworth has had scarcely any injuries at all in the time Damian has known him.
He’s not sure how he’s supposed to handle it now, especially when it’s Grayson who’s been brought so low.
Standing straighter, he finally speaks, voice as soft as he can make it. “You look pathetic.”
Grayson gingerly turns his head, the corners of his mouth curled up. Only he could still be smiling right now. “Thank you so much, kiddo. Really.”
Nose scrunching up at the despised term, Damian huffs and tries to ignore how raspy Grayson’s voice sounds. Brown would describe it as being shot to hell. He doesn’t like it. “Don’t call me that.”
Grayson hums, turning back to his television. One of those old sitcoms from the 1990s is on, volume turned almost all the way down. Why? Does he have a headache? Is he tired? Damian decides he’ll speak quieter next time.
“Sorry. Habit.” Grayson shifts a little and grimaces.
“I’m sure Drake wouldn’t mind if you continued to refer to him that way,” Damian says generously. He means it, sort of. Drake does seem to enjoy when Grayson reaches out and shows his affections with silly nicknames. If Damian happens to know that he isn’t particularly fond of ‘kiddo’… well, that doesn’t really matter. He’s just trying to help his brother feel better. Two of them, even.
“You think so?” Grayson laughs. He grimaces immediately after, a low whine of pain slipping out.
Damian edges into the room, fingers stretching open and closed, open and closed. It’s a tell, but it calms him a little, and Grayson is too distracted to notice anyway. Feeling foolish, he asks, “Do you need that heating pad thing?” Those help with aches, don’t they? Damian has never used one, but it’s the only thing he can think to offer.
His older brother shakes his head. “Nah, m’fine. Just don’t make me laugh again, or I might croak.”
“Don’t joke about that,” Damian mutters. He steps closer, enough that Grayson reaches out and grabs a handful of Damian’s hoodie. He’s going to stretch out the fabric, but Damian doesn’t mind.
“I’m bored,” he declares, infusing as much grandeur in his words as he can manage. Which is, unfortunately, a lot. “And you made the mistake of coming in here, so now you have to entertain me. Tell me, Dami, how was school?”
“Boring.”
Grayson makes a ‘go on’ noise, gently shaking him.
Sighing, Damian says, “I could hardly concentrate. I don’t remember much of what was taught.”
“Why not? Did something happen?”
“Yes.” Dumbass , Damian mentally adds.
Of course Grayson, that fool, tries to sit up, worry coming over his face. “Are you okay? Don’t have a concussion, do you? I know you hit your head last night, did anyone check—”
Damian pushes him back down, trying to avoid all of the bruising. It’s much more difficult than should ever be the case. “I’m fine, Grayson. It wasn’t anything that happened to me. You might’ve heard, but my brother got severely hurt over the weekend doing something extremely stupid .”
“It wasn’t stupid,” Grayson protests. Of course he does. “It saved your life. Nothing that saves your life will ever be stupid, as far as I’m concerned.”
Damian makes an outraged noise. Sweeping his hand to encompass his brother, he demands, “And this is better?”
“I’m an adult. I can take a beating—”
“That is so not the point—!”
“Boys,” Father says from the doorway. He doesn’t sound angry, but Damian stiffens and twists anyway, acutely aware that both Father and Pennyworth told him not to bother Grayson. They won’t understand that he couldn’t help it, that he had to come and check on him, had to see for himself that his older brother was okay. Really and truly. Titus is the only one who does understand, or at least, the only member of the household who might’ve seen him sneaking around in the hall without going to get Father.
For a moment, Father eyes them both. He lingers on how Grayson is still holding onto Damian’s hoodie, and the horrible neck brace. Then he meets their eyes, first Damian’s, then Grayson’s. “Can whatever you’re bickering about wait until Dick can breathe comfortably?”
“Daaaad,” Grayson complains, “I can breathe comfortably. Look.”
“Look at you breathing.”
“Yes.” Duh , Grayson doesn’t say, but Damian hears it anyway. Grayson breathes deeply, only to groan, “Oh god, ow ow ow.”
“Sounds comfortable to me.”
Grayson moves, a shrug aborted at the last second, and his face tightens with what must be pain. “Dami said he’d go and get me the heating pad. Which is why he’s in here.”
“And why you’re arguing?” Father asks, raising an eyebrow.
“We are disagreeing because he thinks this is preferable to me getting a little hurt,” Damian tells him. No, Father won’t be happy he’s in here, but he will be on Damian’s side in this. Father hates to see any of them so injured.
“It wasn’t a little !”
“Yes, it was!” It wasn’t, and Damian knows that. Killer Croc could’ve killed them both last night, and most certainly would have if Grayson hadn’t intervened. But it’s not like Damian is going to just admit to that.
“ No , it—” Grayson tries to sit up again and cuts off, hissing out a breath.
Father sighs, and moves into the room. Sitting down beside Grayson, he helps him sit up, rubbing his back. “Damian,” he says, sounding weary and old. Damian doesn’t like it. “Can you go get the heating pad? And ask Alfred to come up here, please?”
“Yes, Father.” He hesitates, unsure of how the men will react to what he wants to do. But then he remembers he can do whatever he wants here, so Damian leans in a presses a quick kiss to Grayson’s head. “Don’t croak,” he demands, an embarrassing flush rising in his cheeks.
Damian ducks out of the room before either of them can react, Titus falling into place behind him as he hurries down the hall, a little lighter. Grayson will be okay. He has to be.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
A @batfam-christmas-stocking fic written for @lurkinglurkerwholurks!! happy holidays <3
----
“You guys really don’t have to do all this for me,” Duke says as he and Alfred step out of the suit fitting place. His words are part uncomfortable and part resigned. Jason and Steph have both already talked to him about what it’s like to be a Wayne kid—to have all that money at his disposal, and adults around who will spend it on him without a second thought—but actually living it is different.
There’s some Wayne Foundation event happening soon, and Duke is expected to go. He’s also expected to have a suit, and since he hasn’t had to wear one since his aunt’s funeral way back when he was a little kid, Alfred made plans for him to get one. Several ones, actually, but today he only tried on the one meant for the upcoming party.
Alfred slips the cuff links they brought along back into their box. “It’s no matter, Master Duke,” he says, casually handing the box over like it doesn’t hold very expensive cuff links that Thomas Wayne once wore. “All young men need a well-fitting suit.”
Staring down at the box in his hands, he asks, “But one so… much?”
After a brief moment, Alfred closes Duke’s fingers over the box and guides him gently by the wrist to slip it into his jacket pocket. They start walking, and Alfred pats his shoulder once. “So much, sir? If you mean the cost, I assure you, this is hardly a drop in the bucket. Master Dick in particular has gone through a great many suits in his lifetime, and there have been no repercussions.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about, though.” Feeling like he can confide some in the older man, Duke says, “I don’t know, it’s just…. That thing cost so much money, and I’m only going to wear it once? It just seems like a waste.”
“If you’d like, you may certainly wear it more than once. People will talk, of course, if you do so more than once every few months, but the opinions of others should have no consequence on how you live your life, Master Duke.”
“I guess. Hey, where are we going? The car’s that way.”
“Oh! I’m sorry, I’m afraid I forgot to tell you. There’s another stop that needs to be made at Trader Joe’s.”
Duke makes a face. That sounds boring, and he’s ready to go home. “How long do you think you’ll be?”
“Not long at all.”
“Can I like, do some window shopping then? I won’t go too far, I just haven’t seen much of this part of Gotham, you know? I figure some exploring will help me with my, uh, job.”
Knowingly, Alfred agrees. Soon enough, they get there, and Alfred promises to not dilly-dally. Shrugging, Duke waits until he’s inside to wander off, glancing at the shop windows. One is a toy store, and though Duke is sixteen, much too old to play with toys, he finds himself standing there for a while, staring at all the colorful and expensive items.
It’s weird, knowing that if he asked for something inside, he could get it easily. His life has never been like that—even before the orphanages and group homes, his parents’ jobs weren’t well paying enough that he could ever get something from this place. They did their best, and he can’t think of a holiday that went by where he wasn’t happy. The memories of his parents’ smiles, exhausted but content, are never far from his mind. But the facts are that this store would’ve probably always been out of their reach. And now, if he wanted, he could go and ask Alfred for some money, enough to get something from here, and Alfred wouldn’t say no. Maybe he’d say Duke needs to follow a certain rule, like only get what he can hold, but that would be it. He can’t imagine Alfred would say anything about only spending so much.
It’s different and kind of overwhelming, but he’s getting used to it, he thinks.
If Steph is to be believed, he might never be fully used to it, though. Honestly, Duke isn’t sure that’s a bad thing. He doesn’t want to lose sight of what it’s like to struggle, but at the same time, it’s nice not having to worry about it anymore.
Seeing two men hustling it down the street, he’s thrown from his thoughts. Relatively well dressed, though not anything like the suits Duke was just trying on, they seem mean and like the thugs he’s come into contact with through his day job as the Signal. Not the ones he’s really used to, the ones who he used to see when he was a kid, who rob people because they’re starving and there’s no other way to get money quick enough.
It’s somehow still surprising when they see him, standing there in a nice outfit and with a visibly expensive watch, and decide that he’s the one they’re going to target. Not that surprising, granted, but for some reason, he had thought crime wouldn’t be so bad here. The rich parts of Gotham always tout themselves as being “safer”, after all. He should know better by now.
They descend on him so fast it’s kind of impressive, honestly, or at least it would be if it weren’t extremely annoying. The taller of the two speaks first, his voice gravely and deep. “This is a mugging,” he says, pulling a gun from his pocket and aiming it at Duke’s chest. “You gonna make it easy on us, kid? ‘Cause me and my pal here got no issue doing this the hard way.”
The thing is, Duke is a civilian right now. Any other day, any other circumstances, he’d be suited up as The Signal, and he could deal with these losers easy as pie. He can easily envision how he could take them down—the shorter guy has a weapon, too, but he’s anxiously gripping it in his pocket. It’s probably not a gun, or he’d have brought it out when his friend did. Maybe a knife, or some other kind of blunt object. Which means that Duke could allow the tall guy to get close so Duke can disarm him, and punch him hard enough to knock him out before moving on to Shorty. No real threat of being shot, and whatever Shorty’s got, it shouldn’t be too hard to disarm him too. Duke is getting really good at these petty fights, enough that he doesn’t really feel threatened.
Except Duke can’t do anything. Duke Thomas, the civilian, is someone who isn’t supposed to know how to fight, just another rich wimp.
Raising his hands, he tries to seem weak. Like he’s scared and playing it off like he’s amused. There are layers to this shit, and he’s not about to fail at one of the easier parts of the job—acting. “W-what do you want? Money?”
“Your watch,” Shorty says. “And your jacket.”
“You got any weapons on you?” Tall Guy shifts his aim up and down, trying to be threatening.
“No,” Duke says honestly, but they don’t believe him. Pulling him roughly to a nearby alleyway, they pat his pockets, and when they find the box, Shorty slips it out and carefully examines it. It’s a nice box, old but hardly worn at all.
“Thought you said you don’t got any weapons,” Shorty growls, slowly opening the box while Tall Guy keeps the gun aimed at Duke. When Shorty sees the cuff links, he snorts, puts the lid back on, and slips it into his own pocket. Then he steps forward and keeps patting until he finds Duke’s wallet. “You richie-riches. Pah,” he says as he opens it up.
Duke can tell the moment he recognizes the name he sees on Duke’s driver’s license.
Duke Thomas is a name that’s becoming well known, same as all the other Wayne kids. He’s the only one who’s consistently been in the papers lately, though, since everyone is curious about the newest foster child.
“You one of them Waynes?” Shorty demands, tone harsher than the grin widening on his face would suggest. To Tall Guy, he says, “We should kidnap ‘im, man. Get a ransom offa Wayne. I hear he don’t mess around when it comes to the children.”
“You’re right,” a new voice, a familiar voice, interjects. “He doesn’t. And neither do I.”
As Tall Guy and Shorty turn their attentions to Alfred, Duke… doesn’t relax like he thought he might. Instead, he tenses, because how likely is it that Alfred is distracting him, blocking out the mouth of the alley, so Duke can have a chance to fight these losers? He knows Alfred isn’t helpless, but of the two of them, Duke is the one with more experience dealing with losers like these two.
With their backs to him, he drops his hands and starts to crouch into a fighting position.
Except…it turns out, Alfred doesn’t really need him to do anything. Tall Guy steps forward with the gun aimed high, his finger on the trigger. “Who’re you?” He demands, standing straight and tense as Alfred approaches. “The nanny?”
“The butler, actually. In any case, that is my grandson you’re threatening, and really, sir, simply so you can steal his watch?”
Tall Guy and Shorty don’t seem to know what to say. Shorty pulls out a knife.
Alfred disarms and knocks both of them out within a few minutes, and Duke hardly even has to help, just punches Shorty when he comes staggering over, dazed and in pain. A few punches is all it takes before Duke’s knocking the guy out. Before they leave the scene, he makes sure to retrieve the cuff links, not wanting to lose them.
They hurry back to the car, and once they’re both settled in their seats, on the road back to the Manor, Duke can’t keep quiet anymore. “Why did you do that? I could’ve handled it.”
“Yes, I have every faith you could have, Master Duke,” Alfred says. “But your identity must be protected. If this gets out, no one will be much surprised to hear that I fought them off. No suspicion will be slung at you. And even if that were not the case, you are family.”
“I’m only Bruce’s foster kid,” Duke refutes. It’s easy to think of the Waynes as family. It’s not as easy to think about his real parents, and what they would think about all this, what they would want for him. They would want him to be happy, he knows that, and he’s happy with Bruce. But he can’t ignore that his parents could still be out there somewhere, that for all everyone knows, this could be temporary. It doesn’t feel great to put distance between himself and the others, but right now, he kind of needs it.
“Yes, but still, you are family. You always will be, my boy. And while you are part of us, I will defend you. Unfortunately, you’ll just have to get used to it.” Alfred smiles, then, and though Duke is feeling a big mess of emotions, he can’t help but smile back. It felt really nice to be defended. He hasn’t always had someone who would do that, and even if in the past few years his friends have filled that role, he remembers being a young kid, no one in his corner once his parents were gone.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
A @batfam-christmas-stocking fic for @writtenskyes!! Happy holidays <3
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Jason stumbles out of his room, idly scratching at his temple as he yawns. He’s barely awake, having only slept two hours, and he’s so hungry he wouldn’t be surprised if his stomach started to actually eat itself. This is why Alfred always harps on me about three meals a day, he thinks, only a little self reproach in his inner voice.
Three meals a day is way harder to maintain than people might think. Facts are, he usually only eats one meal and a few snacks a day. But this morning, he’s going to eat, dammit.
He doesn’t realize Cass is sitting on his couch until he accidentally stubs his toe. At his loud and abrupt cursing, she snickers, though he notices immediately it’s not quite as lively as it usually is.
Shaking his head at himself, he rubs his toes, trying to soothe the pain. As he does, he thinks about how really, it’s not surprising she’s here. Here being his actual place instead of one of his many safehouses, only a few of which are known to Bruce. The other kids and Alfred know more locations than dear old dad does, but of them, Cass and Alfred are the only ones who knows where he actually lives.
After a nasty accident a few years ago in which case Jason needed a blood transfusion, they’ve known about how Shiva actually was Jason’s mom, not Sheila. And yeah, okay, it took months for Jason to come to terms with that, but ever since? He and Cass have been cool. He’s softened quite a bit to the idea of having a sister, and hell, a family. Well, mostly the sister part. The family part is a work in progress.
His relationship with Cass is totally different, though—she’s the only one he can really, truly relax with. Plus, when they train together, she always kicks his ass seven ways to Sunday. It’s fun, and more than that, there’s way less pressure to be better than there is when he trains with his brothers. It’s only partly because he knows he’ll never win against her.
All of this is just to say: duh. Of course she knows where he lives.
She doesn’t know everything, though. Case in point: the surprise on her face when Lizzy trots out from behind him, only briefly interested in the new person as opposed to breakfast.
“Sup,” says Jason, not waiting for a response to walk into the kitchen. He can still see her over the counter, though, and makes sure to wait to get Lizzy’s food until he sees Cass sign a greeting back.
They’re quiet while he gets her bowl filled up, and then he offers, “You want some cereal?”
Her response is a signed “yes”.
Yeah, definitely not having a good day. That’s okay, he can deal. The more time they spend with each other, the more they’re both getting used to how to act when one is going through a rough time.
Silently, he makes them both bowls, cereal first and then the milk. He brings them out to the living room carefully, and after handing her bowl over, he joins her on the couch. Mirroring her, he ends up with his legs curled criss-cross, his back to the corner where the arm meets the back.
For a while, the only sounds are the munching of their Frosted Flakes and Lizzy moving her bowl around on the floor as she noses around for more.
Lizzy ambles over to the couch just as Jason is finishing his last bite. Instead of putting her head in Jason’s lap like he expects her to, she goes over to Cass.
As far as Jason knows, Cass doesn’t like dogs—he’s certainly heard Damian happily regale Duke about how she never wants to steal Titus away like some people do.
“Liz,” he says, about to lean forward to pull her off by the collar. A big dog like her is probably the last thing Cass wants bothering her right now.
Cass surprises him, though. She welcomes Lizzy into her lap with a little coo, barely vocalized, and Jason watches with some awe as Lizzy starts to whine and nudge at Cass’s neck and shoulders, the exact same way she does to him when he needs help calming down.
See, the thing about Lizzy—something Cass most assuredly doesn’t know, something nobody knows—is that she’s a service dog. A PTSD-trained service dog. She’s not really supposed to go to other people, seeing as she’s Jason’s.
Cass doesn’t seek him out much during the day, especially not at his place. Her presence here alone is a sign that she isn’t feeling well. Another thing is that she isn’t talking—she still prefers to sign most days, but she can speak and often does. Her sentences are on the shorter side, yeah, but she also jokes and every once in a while, insults. When she gets like this, nonverbal, it usually means she’s needing a break and isn’t up to expending all the mental energy it takes to talk.
Which is fine with Jason. It’s nice to have someone he can be quiet with. Most of the time when they hang out, he reads while she practices ASL or ballet. Neither of them can really have that with the other kids—the ones who come closest are Tim and Damian, when Tim is working and Damian drawing, but together, they bicker a lot. And even alone, Dick is always coming to find one of them, Duke wanting to show a video he just saw, Bruce needing one or the other for this or that reason.
So, yeah. He understands.
But it’s still kind of surprising to see how Cass reacts to Lizzy. She welcomes the dog into her lap and immediately starts to pet her, gently scratching behind her ears. Lizzy, for her part, whines and sniffles and is generally just there for Cass in a way he is intimately familiar with. Being on the receiving end of a dog’s care and attention is great anyway, but Lizzy, having been trained since she was a pup, is amazing at it.
Jason relaxes back into the cushions, making sure not to stare too much as the tension in Cass’ shoulders loosens and her lips curl up.
He finishes his bowl before she does, trying not to slurp the milk. He stands with a groan and heads to the sink. From the different vantage point, he has to say Lizzy looks adorable in his sister’s lap.
He spends some time cleaning up the kitchen, letting Cass and Lizzy be as alone as they can be. But eventually, he starts feeling twitchy, bored by the tedious work. He isn’t here often enough that it’s all that dirty, anyway.
When he steps back into the living room, he goes right to his bookshelves and finds one of his old favorites, Pride and Prejudice . It’s where he got Lizzy’s name from—Elizabeth Bennett, one of his favorite characters, sometimes goes by Lizzy in the book. Jane Austen has been a comfort to him for so long, it honestly felt wrong to name his dog after anything or anyone else.
He finds his place back on the couch, and asks, “Want me to read out loud?”
She scrunches up her nose like she always does before giving a negative answer—like, the answer is obviously no and he’s silly for not realizing that. Amused but also understanding, he nods and settles in, opening up to where he left his bookmark yesterday morning.
For over an hour, they sit together, the only sounds coming from outside—ah, good ole Gotham and her non-stop police sirens—and Lizzy’s gentle snores and sighs and content little grumbles, the brush of Cass’ fingers over her fur.
It’s peaceful and grounding, and maybe there’s a jealous worry in the back of his head that Cass is totally stealing his dog right now, but whatever. It’s a perfect morning.
