Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first thing Bruce notices when the flash of light fades around him is that he’s alone.

He wasn’t alone before.

“Robin!” He scans the rooftops for a flash of color and reminds himself to remain calm. Dick can usually handle himself; it wouldn’t do either of them any favors for Bruce to panic prematurely.

But this isn’t a usual situation.

His concerns are validated as he takes in the cityscape. It’s different—wholly different. Entire buildings have changed shape or disappeared entirely, leaving patches of the night sky where concrete should be. Even so, it’s still recognizably Gotham; he can place himself about five miles due west of what seems to be Robinson Park—or whatever it may be called, here and now.

It isn’t where he was a moment ago. Which means he also can’t trust that Dick wasn’t similarly spatially displaced. He can make his way to where they were originally headed, but there seems to be a good chance that the new club they planned to investigate in the Diamond District might not exist at all now. Did it make sense to go so far south with no guarantee Dick would even be there?

Somewhere out there, Dick will be making the same considerations. Will they come to the same conclusion?

The air shifts behind Bruce. He whirls around, dropping into a defensive stance as he takes in the newcomer. The colors suggest Robin, but it’s clear even before the figure skids to a stop on the roof that it isn’t Dick.

The newcomer is older, for one, and greener—his costume, but also his movements. Dick was raised as a professional acrobat from birth; his ease in the air borders on supernatural. Bruce is comfortable enough, but he certainly feels better with his feet on the ground than when he’s dangling on the end of his grapple. He can tell this boy feels the same—which begs the question of why he’s wearing Robin’s R on his chest.

“Whoa, Batman, it’s me!” The boy holds his hands out defensively in the face of Bruce’s fighting stance.

An alternate universe, Bruce posits: one where someone else became Robin.

The hypothesis strikes him as wrong as soon as it materializes in his mind; there’s too much of Dick tied to the name and costume that it’s hard to imagine it being developed without his involvement. A successor, perhaps?

Somehow, he likes the thought of that even less.

“Who are you?” Bruce demands.

“I’m Robin,” the boy says, with a touch of uncertainty. “If… that means anything to you?”

The boy recognized Batman, but he either doesn’t recognize Bruce as he is now, or doesn’t recognize Bruce at all. What were the chances of landing in an alternate universe where Batman and Robin were neither Bruce nor Dick? Were they perhaps successors both?

Somehow, that thought seems less painful.

“You’re not Robin,” Bruce says. The boy winces, and Bruce feels a grim note of satisfaction at a theory confirmed: the boy is walking in someone else’s shoes, and he knows it. “Not the Robin I know.”

“Right,” the boy says. “Of course. Did he… come here with you?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

The boy raises his hands higher in self-defense. “Hey, we’re on the same side here!”

“Are we?”

“Okay, let me just—” Slowly, the boy brings a hand to his ear and looks slightly off to the side. “Hey, Batman? I’ve got a Code Marty here, I think.” He must be speaking into some kind of radio, but it’s too small for Bruce to see, and he can’t hear any response from the other side. “It’s, uh, Batman. And also possibly Robin, somewhere— Oh. Got it.”

The boy looks at Bruce. “Batman’s got him—our Batman, I mean. I can take you to—”

“No,” Bruce says, hope warring with wariness that this may be an elaborate trap. “Bring him here.”

The boy seems surprised by Bruce’s protest. Green, Bruce thinks again, perhaps uncharitably. He was new once, too. But he’d learned early on that trust was to be earned, even if the face was familiar.

And, at least from Bruce’s perspective, though the boy’s name and costume may be familiar, his face certainly isn’t.

“If we go to a Cave,” the boy says, “then—”

A Cave, not the Cave. Bruce files it away as another detail to dissect later.

“I don’t know you,” Bruce says. “I don’t trust you. Bring Robin here first; then we can discuss what’s next.”

The boy looks wary at Bruce’s vehemence, but he looks to the side again and says, “Change of plan. Can you bring Robin to my location? What? What do you mean you lost—”

The boy cuts himself off, but he glances at Bruce as he does it, and Bruce knows how that sentence was meant to be finished.

Dick has run off.

Bruce’s mind races as the boy covers his mouth to speak in a hushed tone into his radio. This conversation confirmed to Bruce that Dick was also transported; Dick likely also received confirmation of the other way around.

Which means Bruce has to make the call—will Dick be heading to where the Diamond District should be, attempting to approximate their original rendezvous point, or has he chosen a different destination? In this strange not-quite Gotham with a strange Batman and Robin, which of their potential meeting points had the highest likelihood of still existing?

The answer comes to him immediately. He aims his grapple gun at a nearby rooftop and takes off to the north.

“Wh— Hey!” 

Bruce expects the boy to follow, but he doesn’t stop to check his progress; the boy will either keep up or he won’t—and likely he won’t. Either way, it doesn’t matter as long as Bruce makes it there first.

And Bruce does make it there first—before Dick, even. He lands on a rooftop across from the Monarch Theatre and makes his way above the streets to loom over the one place that he can never forget. Blood clings to the streets, a stubborn stain that will never wash away, no matter how much the skies over Gotham weep. 

The birthplace of Batman, in his world—and, perhaps, in every other. 

Dick appears beside him, boots touching pixie-light against the concrete as he lands in a crouch next to Bruce. “Found you,” he says in a voice that’s no less gentle and understanding for sounding so light-hearted.

The familiarity eases Bruce’s soul; around him, Gotham gives a sigh of relief. This is Robin beside him. All is right in this small part of the world.

He rests a hand on Dick’s head. “Were you followed?”

“Yeah.” Dick looks up at him, expression oddly somber. “You should be nice to him. He’s you.”

“You’re certain?”

“He recognized me,” Dick says. “And… well, you’ll see.”

The flutter of a cape interrupts them before Bruce can ask. They both turn. The Batman of this world is slightly larger, more armored, and considerably older, judging from what Bruce can see of his face under the cowl. He’s staring at Bruce, taking his own assessment in return.

“Batman.” The other Batman’s voice is unmistakably Bruce’s, though deeper with age.

“Batman,” Bruce returns in the same tone.

“And Robin,” Dick chimes in, and his voice is bright, but not as bright as it usually is when he does this.

Batman’s gaze moves to Dick slowly—almost reluctantly. “And Robin,” he echoes, something nostalgic and quietly devastated about him.

The puzzle pieces fall into place.

Gotham is different, Robin is a successor, and Batman is at least a decade older and looking at Dick as though he’s mourning a ghost.

They’re in the future—and in the future, Dick Grayson is dead.

Although Bruce is sure Dick has also realized the truth of this world, he behaves more or less like his usual self around the other Batman—Wayne?—as they make their way to the Cave. 

He asks to drive the new, more futuristic Batmobile—which Bruce has to refuse on his counterpart’s behalf, because Wayne actually looks conflicted by the clear decision—and then leans over the center console from the backseat and interrogates all the buttons in sight—which Wayne indulges—until his attention gets caught by Wayne making an abrupt turn to the west.

“We’re not going to the Manor?” Dick says.

Wayne glances at Bruce, sitting beside him, before he answers. “No. I currently reside in the city.”

Bruce didn’t think he would ever leave his family home, but… He was young, still, when his parents died, and as an adult, he had few clear memories of living in the Manor with them. With Dick, however— He understands how he might not be able to bear it there any longer, if Dick were gone forever.

There would be one too many ghosts haunting the halls.

“Where in the city?” Dick says.

Wayne glances at him in the rearview. “Fort Graye.”

“Where’s that?”

“Cobblepot Heights, formerly.” Wayne hesitates, then elaborates. “There was an earthquake in Gotham, some years back. Most of the city had to be renovated or rebuilt entirely. The developer there petitioned to rename the neighborhood at that time.”

That explains the drastically different cityscape. Bruce both needs to and doesn’t want to know the extent of the damage Gotham has undergone. The Manor might not even still be standing—though he can’t imagine any version of himself leaving it in ruins, no matter what. Even ghosts and memories need a place to live.

“Cobblepot Heights was all brownstones before, right?” Dick says skeptically. “Is there even room for a Batcave under one? Don’t tell me they’re Bat-treehouses now.”

There’s a shadow of a smile on Wayne’s face. “It’s more of a garage, but—”

“Batgarage.”

“We don’t call it that.”

“You should.”

“All right, there’s a Batgarage in the basement.” Wayne’s smile widens slightly. He’s being overly indulgent, but Bruce can’t fault him for it. “It’s necessarily smaller given the location, so I’ve expanded some of the micro-Batcaves throughout the city to distribute the equipment.”

“And we’re still in the Batmobile, right?”

“This is still the Batmobile, yes.”

“Good.” Dick settles back in his seat, satisfied.

“I suspect our displacement was magical in origin,” Bruce says. “Your equipment may not be sufficient to return us. Would contacting the Justice League be an option?”

“The League is… currently disbanded,” Wayne says. “But we have options.”

Bruce checks in on Dick; as expected, he looks devastated by the news. He’s always been more of a fan of the Justice League than Bruce is, and more of a fan of Superman, especially. 

If the Dick Grayson of this time is no longer alive, who else might be gone?

The thought nags at him for the rest of the silent ride to Wayne’s home. Dick has died. Gotham has been destroyed. The Justice League has fallen apart for reasons unknown. This world seems to be a significantly darker one—is it fated to one day be his?

“This might not actually be us, right?” Dick whispers to Bruce once they’re out of the car, and Wayne is on the other side of the Garage.

“It might not be,” Bruce says, but he fears that it could be.

The lack of Alfred’s presence in the Garage is conspicuous; Bruce knows better than to comment on it. When Bruce was a boy, Alfred had already been near Wayne’s age now. Another ghost for the Manor’s halls.

Dick presses his lips together as he looks around, but all he says is, “Golly, it’s so boring in here. You should get a new dinosaur. Maybe a flying one for the ceiling, if there’s not enough room for one on the ground?”

“Are you disappointed there aren’t enough things for you to climb on here?” Bruce says.

“I’m just saying a pterodactyl would be cool.” Dick eyes Bruce. “Hey, what do you think about a vacation to Dinosaur Island?”

Bruce smiles. “Let’s save that discussion for once we’ve returned.”

Dick grins back.

“Clothes,” Wayne says, handing each of them a small monochrome bundle of soft fabric. “The neighbors here are unfortunately closer and nosier than at the Manor, so it’s best to be ready to go upstairs at a moment’s notice. You can change behind the curtain.”

Both Bruce’s and Dick’s clothes are slightly large on them, but only slightly. Bruce is likely wearing an extra set of Wayne’s clothing, and Dick likely the clothing of a younger teen—but who, Bruce isn’t sure. The other Robin would have long outgrown them.

Wayne steps out from behind the curtain, having finished changing himself. “Let’s—”

There’s a pinging sound from off to the side, and a blue, stylized symbol of a bird appears on the computer monitor. Wayne’s expression goes carefully, calculatingly blank. The symbol means something to him—something important.

Wayne goes over to the computer and enters a short series of keystrokes. “Nightwing.”

A name associated with Krypton, Bruce recalls. Perhaps this is Superman, and they’re in an alternate universe after all?

“Hey, B.” The voice on the other end of the line is male and friendly, but not Clark’s. It’s brighter, and with a warmth to it that Bruce hasn’t heard directed at himself in a long time. More than just an ally, then; a friend. Or something more? “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I had something to take care of on fifty-seventh.” Wayne doesn’t reciprocate the warmth, but Bruce isn’t sure if it’s because he’s unappreciative of it or because he has an audience. He is sure, though, that the number 57 is some kind of shared code between them. “Is there a situation?”

“You tell me. Raven felt a strange surge of energy over in Gotham, but we haven’t seen anything on any of the feeds. O didn’t have much for us, either. You happen to notice anything strange over there?”

Wayne is silent for a beat too long. 

“I’m taking notes on the call for the report, by the way. I’ll put that down as vaguely affirmative brooding silence.”

“The situation is under control.” Wayne’s complete lack of reaction to Nightwing’s teasing seems to confirm they’re close—Wayne would be more annoyed otherwise.

“Right,” Nightwing says, with the air of someone kicking back his heels. “So you gonna tell me more about it or am I gonna have to go find out for myself?”

“Nightwing.”

There must be something in Wayne’s intonation that Nightwing takes note of this time, because when he says, “Acknowledged,” his voice is coolly professional. “I need to head out soon, but someone from the Titans should be available if you decide it’s not under control.”

“Acknowledged,” Wayne says. “Is that all?”

“That’s all.”

The bird symbol disappears from the screen without movement from Wayne; Bruce presumes that means Wayne was hung up on.

“Are the Titans the new Justice League?” Dick says.

Wayne looks at him, and for a stretching, silent second, it’s as though he’s seeing someone else. Then he blinks and turns back to the computer. “Something like that.” He brings up something else on the monitor and starts typing as Dick continues to question him.

“Who’s Nightwing?”

“Their leader.”

“Is he related to Superman?”

“No.”

“Are the Titans related to the Teen Titans?”

“They’re older than the Teen Titans.”

“I could’ve guessed that.”

Wayne smiles faintly, but before he can respond, the door at the top of the stairs opens.

A boy enters the garage—the boy whose clothes Dick is wearing, Bruce hypothesizes, given his age. He walks down the steps slowly, his eyebrows scrunching together as he takes in Bruce and Dick.

There’s something in his face that reminds Bruce resoundingly of himself. 

“This is my son,” Wayne says, answering the question before they can ask. “Damian.”

“Hello,” Damian says politely. He comes to a stop beside Wayne, but they don’t touch at all.

Bruce never considered having more children, but if he did, he expected he’d be more physically affectionate, after growing used to Dick’s constant presence. But perhaps Dick’s death had changed things. In any case, Damian doesn’t seem to be expecting anything of the sort from Wayne—he’s barely even looked at him.

In fact, from the moment he entered the room, Damian’s gaze has been locked on Dick, examining him in almost morbid fascination—like he can’t quite understand what he’s seeing, but he’s mesmerized and disturbed by it nonetheless. He recognizes Dick, clearly, but perhaps he’s never seen him in person. 

Luckily, Dick doesn’t seem to fully notice Damian’s expression, busy as he is whipping his head between Damian and Wayne like he’s watching a tennis match, even though neither of them are moving.

“Holy mini Batman,” Dick says. “So you’re like his son son?”

Something about his phrasing rubs Bruce the wrong way.

Dick glances at him and bumps his shoulder against Bruce’s side. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Damian crosses his arms, looking uncomfortable with the conversation. “I am Father’s biological son, yes,” he says, apparently deciding to resolve the discomfort by answering Dick’s question directly. “My mother—”

“Let’s limit the specifics in the information we share,” Wayne interrupts. “We don’t know how it might affect the timeline for them to gain information about the future that they shouldn’t.”

“Understood,” Damian says, frowning.

“I’m running an analysis on recent abnormal energetic activity across the globe. Start the procedures for the space-time test battery.” Wayne nods over to a table of equipment on the other side of the Garage. 

“That sounds cool.” Dick bounds over to Damian. “Can I watch?” 

Damian glances at Wayne briefly before walking away. “I suppose. But our technology is significantly more advanced. You won’t understand anything.”

“Betcha I will,” Dick says, cartwheeling after him.

Damian eyes him with that morbid fascination again. “Have you ever walked normally in your life?”

“Nope!” Dick says. “So, when did Bruce start teaching you about—”

He chatters on as they move toward the other side of the Garage, Damian clearly listening and responding, and Bruce amends his earlier hypothesis; Damian is displaying the same indulgence of Dick that Wayne did. Therefore it’s likely that he also once knew Dick—perhaps grew up with him in the home—and misses him.

At the very least, it reassures Bruce to know that Dick hadn’t died as young as he feared, if Damian can still remember him.

“Something on your mind?” Wayne says, with barely a glance away from the monitor.

“I still don’t understand it,” Bruce says. “How you could have replaced him so easily.”

Wayne stills. “Elaborate.”

“Robin,” Bruce says. “The one I met earlier tonight. He wasn’t Damian.”

“No, he wasn’t.” Wayne falls silent, eyes fixed on the screen, ostensibly working on his analysis, but Bruce knows himself well enough to know that Wayne is debating what to say—and to know that Wayne doesn’t want to say anything, if he can help it.

“I never intended for or wanted anyone else to be involved in this,” Bruce says. “Dick was a special case.”

Wayne pauses in his work. “I know,” he says. “But circumstances… changed, over the years.”

Bruce can’t comprehend it. Even now, he can’t imagine someone else filling Dick’s shoes. Can’t imagine the dissonance that would come with calling Robin’s name and having the answering voice be someone else’s entirely. And if he were to lose Dick… he can’t imagine how he’d even be able to bear the sight of a robin, much less hear the name.

“How long ago?” Bruce says. “Since Dick…”

Wayne turns to him, and Bruce experiences a moment of surrealism at being pinned by his own piercing gaze. In Wayne’s face, he sees the lines of age and grief. The pain of knowing the world could always be crueler. He wonders what Wayne sees in Bruce’s. Memory? Nostalgia? Regret? 

“It was about ten years ago,” Wayne says.

“And how soon—”

“This isn’t a productive train of conversation.” Wayne turns back to the monitor, staring determinedly at the numbers and letters on the screen. “We don’t even know if our timelines are connected; circumstances may be entirely different, where you’re from.”

“And if they’re not? Wouldn’t you want the opportunity to change things, if you could?”

Wayne’s fingers skip a beat as they fly over the keys. “Sometimes, situations happen the way they do for a reason. There’s no guarantee that trying to fix a perceived mistake will actually make things any better, in the end.”

The most charitable assumption Bruce can make is that Dick died for a critical reason—saving the world, or the other Robin, or Damian, or Bruce himself—and the decade since has dulled the pain.

But it’s hard for him to feel charitable when most of him is filled with rage at the implication that Wayne has accepted that Dick’s death could be for the best, for any reason. It’s akin to saying that it was for the best that his parents had died, so he would become Batman.

He became Batman to save others, the way that he couldn’t save his parents—or himself, from the pain of their loss. If he could go back in time to jump in front of the bullets, he would. And he would much rather die for Dick’s sake than let Dick die for his own.

He looks across the room. Dick is still hovering over Damian as he works, undoubtedly bombarding him with questions. He catches Bruce’s eyes and smiles, tilting his head in question.

Bruce looks away. “I won’t let it happen.”

“I don’t think,” Wayne says, “that you’ll have a choice.”

The anger boils over—but so does the nausea, the fear at Wayne’s certainty at the inevitably of it all. Bruce wants to shake him down, demanding details and answers. 

But Wayne will never give them. Bruce knows himself well enough to know that for a fact.

He walks away, leaving Wayne to his computer and making his way to the other side of the Garage. Dick is now juggling a few glass vials; he beams at Bruce as he approaches, and Bruce’s anger fades in his presence, even as the nausea rises. “What’ve you got there, chum?”

“Test formulas!” Dick says. “Damian said to mix them.”

Damian, who is measuring out a blue liquid into another vial, seems wholly unconcerned with Dick’s mixing technique. Like the cartwheel, he knows what to expect. He knows Dick.

But though Bruce can see a faint longing in Damian’s expression, Damian still doesn’t look at Dick the same way Wayne does—like the ghost of the past has come to haunt him.

“Did you know,” Dick says, “apparently Nightwing isn’t Kryptonian. Or even from Metropolis. Damian says he’s Bludhaven’s hero.”

“Blüdhaven,” Damian corrects, seemingly automatically.

“Interesting.” There’s enough occupying Bruce in Gotham that he doesn’t typically operate in Blüdhaven unless a case takes him there, but still, there aren’t many heroes eager to set up base so close to the Batman. Bruce wonders if the location came before or after the friendship. “Why the Kryptonian name, then?”

“He’s friends with Superman.” Dick seamlessly catches another vial Damian tosses at him, adding it to his juggling rotation. “Who I bet is still the coolest. But Damian thinks Nightwing is cooler.”

“He is,” Damian says, systematically assembling an electronic device on the table. “Though he wouldn’t agree with the assessment.”

“Only super uncool people would think they’re cooler than Superman,” Dick says. “Is he cooler than Batman?”

“There’s nothing in the past twenty-four hours that indicates a widespread anomaly,” Wayne says as he joins them. “It appears what happened to you both was an isolated incident.” He takes in the juggling and visibly chooses to ignore it. “Is who cooler than Batman?”

“Nightwing,” Dick says.

Wayne looks at Damian. “And why are we talking about Nightwing?”

“He asked,” Damian says defensively. He moves aside, giving Wayne to inspect the assembled device. “I haven’t told him anything important.”

“Yeah, just that Nightwing’s awesome and the bestest ever and Damian loves him lots—”

“I did not say that.”

“I’m a detective,” Dick says primly, and Damian flushes, giving himself away. Dick turns pleading eyes onto Wayne. “He won’t even tell me what kind of powers Nightwing has. Will you tell me?”

Wayne smiles slightly, as if at some private joke. “He can fly.”

“Oh.” Dick’s eyes are big and round. “Neat. So do you think he’s cooler than Batman?”

“He is.”

“What about Superman? Is he cooler than Superman?”

“I would say so, yes.” Wayne holds out his hand. “May I?”

One by one, Dick transfers the vials from the air to Wayne. “You’re both so biased. There’s no way he’s cooler than Superman. Are you friends with him? Is that why?”

“Everyone is friends with him,” Damian says. 

“He’s been in the hero community for a long time,” Wayne clarifies. “And he’s well-liked.”

“Not longer and more well-liked than Superman,” Dick says.

Wayne hands Dick and Bruce each a collection vial instead of answering. “Spit.”

Wayne could just be tiring of the argument, but considering how generally indulgent he’s been of Dick thus far, Bruce thinks it’s more likely he’s avoiding the implicit question. But someone like that should already be active in their time, and he can’t think of anyone who fits the bill.

Perhaps this truly is an alternate universe, after all?

He hands back the collection vial with his spit; Dick, who waited to follow Bruce’s lead, hands his back shortly after.

“D’you think I’d like him?” Dick says as Wayne inserts the vials into the machine. “Nightwing, I mean.”

“Yes,” Wayne says, with that private smile again. “I think you would.”

“You should call him.”

Wayne and Damian both stare at him. Dick turns his big, beseeching eyes to Bruce.

Dick’s ulterior motive is clearly to meet this favored, flying hero, but there’s wisdom in the suggestion nonetheless—and besides, Bruce can admit to a fair amount of curiosity about Nightwing himself.

“Nightwing did imply there was someone on the Titans who might know more about how to get us back if they were aware of the situation,” Bruce says.

Wayne is unmoved. “Nightwing and the Titans are already aware of the situation.”

“Not really,” Dick chimes in. “You just said there was a situation. What?” he says, when Damian continues to stare at him.

“You are,” Damian says, “remarkably the same.”

“Thanks!” Dick says. “I think.”

Wayne closes a lid, and the machine on the table beeps.

“It’s set up to run a number of assays that will help pinpoint your travel mechanism and dimension of origin,” Wayne says. “We’ll have results in about an hour.”

Before he can say anything else, the doorbell rings, the electronic chime of it echoing throughout the Garage.

Wayne frowns at Damian. “Are you expecting anyone?” he says, pulling out a device from his pocket as he walks toward the stairs.

Damian follows after him. “No, I—”

“Never mind.” Wayne puts the device away and picks up his pace.

Bruce exchanges a glance with Dick, and they go up the stairs and into the hallway just as Wayne reaches the door.

He only opens it a crack, using his body to shield most of the entrance. “I thought you said you were heading out.”

“Yeah,” says the other voice that Bruce recognizes as Nightwing’s, “heading out to Gotham to see what you’re hiding from me. Are you gonna let me in?”

“I have it handled.”

“Sure you do,” Nightwing says. “Is that why Tim called me and said—”

Wayne sighs and opens the door wider before Nightwing can finish. The man who must be Nightwing strolls in, smiling at Damian before he turns his head toward Bruce and Dick. His pleasant smile slips to surprise; Bruce thinks his own expression must be similarly stunned.

“Whoa,” Dick says, “you look just like…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but, by the way the air goes out of the room, he doesn’t have to. 

Everyone knows who this older Dick Grayson looks like.

The older Dick—Richard?—smiles and crouches down slightly, until he’s at Dick’s eye level. “Hey there, mini-me. Would you like a hug?”

“Uh-huh.” Dick trots over to him, wrapping his arms around his older counterpart and squeezing. “I’m so glad you’re alive,” he says, echoing Bruce’s thoughts.

“I’m— Of course I’m alive?” Richard smiles, somewhat bewildered as he searches Bruce’s expression. He turns to Wayne and Damian, arms still wrapped loosely around Dick. “You guys haven’t been telling them that I’m dead, have you?”

“Of course not,” Damian says.

There’s a pointed silence from Wayne. Richard and Damian both stare at him intently. Wayne’s shoulders hunch, just slightly. “I didn’t… tell them that.”

“Bruce,” Richard says despairingly. “Why.”

Wayne’s gaze flicks briefly over Bruce and Dick before he says, “This isn’t a conversation that we need to have in front of them.”

Bruce has his ideas about it. He was angry enough at the idea of Wayne replacing Dick when he thought Dick was dead; now, to know that Dick is alive but… estranged?

It feels worse. Objectively it isn’t—Richard is alive, and he’s here—but the idea that he usually isn’t here makes the nausea rise again.

But he’s here now. And Nightwing and Batman are close; that much was obvious from their conversation earlier. Nightwing also seems to be close to Damian—or is idolized by him, at the very least—and Damian is Bruce’s son, who lives here with him.

But Richard doesn’t live here, and Nightwing doesn’t operate in Gotham, and, at this very moment, there’s still an entirely different boy out there bearing the name and colors that should still belong to Dick.

Dick, who’s been frowning at everyone in the room, suddenly focuses his frown on Richard. He takes a step back, out of Richard’s arms. “You’re not Robin.”

Richard’s expression turns slightly guilty. “No, I’m not.”

Dick takes in the collective silence, turning to each of them one by one before stopping on Damian. “Are you Robin?”

“Yes,” Damian says, seemingly relieved to admit it.

“No,” Wayne says at the same time.

Damian’s expression turns horrified at their mistake.

“There are two?” Bruce says.

“Two?” Dick echoes, and Bruce knows that, in his own horror, he’s also just made a fatal mistake. “Two what? Two Robins?”

“Hey—” Richard says gently, reaching for him.

Dick turns his wide, betrayed eyes onto Richard. “What’s going on? Why are two other people Robin? Why aren’t you Robin?”

Richard hesitates. “Let’s just say… I grew out of the name.”

“It’s Mama’s name! You can’t grow out of it!”

“I know,” Richard says soothingly, putting his hands on Dick’s shoulders. “But—”

“Is it because of…” Dick’s gaze darts over to Bruce, not Wayne, and the sheen in his eyes strikes at Bruce’s chest. Dick looks back at Richard. “You’re not partners anymore?”

Richard hesitates, though there’s no point in it. They all already know the answer; Dick just needs to hear him say it.

“Dick—” Bruce tries, only to be met with a fierce, watery glare.

“You said.” Dick breaks out of Richard’s hold to stare at Bruce, eyes glittering with hurt and accusation. “You said we’d be partners forever. You promised me.”

Bruce reaches for him. “Dick, I—”

“You promised!” Dick’s voice cracks. Bruce’s heart shatters with it. “I thought— How could you—” His tears overflow and he flees the room before Bruce can catch him, turning and thundering up the stairs as a sob breaks free.

Damian takes an aborted half-step toward the stairs. “Where is he—”

“The roof,” Bruce says, hurrying after him. There’s only one direction that matters to Dick when he’s upset: up.

Wayne steps in front of the stairwell, bodily blocking the path. “Let me. It’s me that he’s truly upset with.”

Richard puts a hand on Wayne’s arm, as if he’s about to pull him aside. “He doesn’t really know you.” He glances at Bruce. “Maybe it’d be better if—”

“He has questions only I can answer,” Wayne says. “Let me try. Please.”

Bruce doesn’t think there’s a single thing Wayne can say to make it better for Dick, but Bruce doesn’t know how to fix this, either; he can at least give Wayne the chance to try.

Richard’s gaze flicks to Bruce, taking in the expression on his face. He bites his lip, considering. Finally, he lets his hand drop.

Wayne nods in acknowledgment of the silent conversation, then turns and heads up the stairs.

Damian follows after him. “I’ll make sure Father doesn’t upset him more.”

“Thanks, Dami,” Richard says, giving Damian’s hair a brief ruffle as he walks by.

And then Bruce is left alone with Richard, who smiles sympathetically at him.

“Hell of a night, huh?” He passes Bruce to the kitchen bar, gesturing for Bruce to take a seat on the other side. “You want tea or anything? I’m guessing Bruce hasn’t been much of a host. My Bruce, I mean.”

Bruce exhales. It does nothing to ease the tension of knowing Dick has been hurt—that Bruce has hurt him—and that he doesn’t know how to fix it. Doesn’t know if it can be fixed. “Tea would be appreciated.”

Richard hums an affirmative as he rifles through the cabinets and drawers, collecting teaware and mugs. He opens and closes some without taking anything out.

He doesn’t know where everything is, Bruce realizes.

It makes the reality of this time and place sink in even more. Dick has his own home, somewhere else, far away. He’s a grown man, around the same age Bruce himself is at this moment. And he isn’t a part of Bruce’s life anymore—or, at least, not a central one. Their partnership—their relationship—wouldn’t last.

And Wayne thought that perhaps it was never meant to. That’s what he’s been mourning the entire time—not Dick, but them.

“Was it really Robin that you outgrew?” Bruce says, as Richard fills the kettle.

Richard puts the lid on and turns on the stove before he says, “Did I outgrow you, you mean?”

“Did you?”

Richard fiddles with the mugs on the counter. He’s pulled out five: one themed after Superman, one themed after Wonder Woman, one themed after Batman, one themed after Nightwing, and a white one with what appears to be a photograph of a younger Damian wearing a school uniform and a serious expression printed on it.

“Not in the sense you’re thinking,” Richard says. “It was just… We were Batman and Robin for ten years, and we both changed a lot in that time. We weren’t the same Dynamic Duo by the end that we were at the start.”

“I don’t see how replacing you with a different person entirely could have fixed that.”

Richard smiles slightly. “We’re better at it now, but we weren’t great about letting each other know how we felt back then, so we both just… tried to move on in our own ways, I guess.” Richard stares at the kettle when he says, “Back then… there was a long time when you just… stopped talking to me. Honestly, I wasn’t sure you’d ever talk to me again if you didn’t have to. That was probably the worst of it.”

Dick hadn’t wanted to leave, Bruce realizes. Wayne—Bruce—was at the root of it all.

He clenches the countertop until his fingers turn white, fighting back waves and waves of sickness.

“I asked him to tell me what went wrong between you,” Bruce says. “How to fix things. He didn’t want to.”

“Is that what he said?” Richard’s tone and expression are thoughtful—not angry, not upset.

It gives Bruce pause. Nightwing and Batman are close, he reminds himself. Wayne was trying to keep Richard away, but when Richard arrived regardless, Wayne let him in with minimal fuss. Their relationship isn’t the same as Bruce and Dick’s, but it’s there.

Something is still there.

“He implied that what happened between you was inevitable,” Bruce says, reading between the lines of Wayne’s words. “That what you have now is the best that he could hope for.”

Richard stares at the kettle again, silent for a long moment as the water begins to simmer. Bruce feels the tumultuous bubbling of it in his gut.

Finally, Richard says, “I don’t… entirely disagree with him.” He turns to Bruce. “Don’t get me wrong. A lot of it really sucked. I hate fighting with you. I hate not talking to you even more. But I’m happy with where we are now, and I’m not sure we would’ve gotten here if things had gone any other way.”

“You can say that in hindsight,” Bruce says, “but for me—”

He can’t envision that kind of future, and he doesn’t want to. He isn’t prepared to endure untold years of being estranged from Dick, only to have them build entirely separate lives where Dick exists in the outer orbits of his universe. He’s never pictured exactly what he hoped their lives might be like, ten years down the line, but he knows it isn’t this.

Richard’s expression is kind, but sorrowful. “Trust me, I wish I had a good answer for you. We both said and did a lot of things that— Maybe they could have gone better, and maybe they couldn’t have, but… I don’t know if there’s a world out there where I would’ve stayed. There was just so much I wanted, and so much you wanted, and so much that other people wanted or expected from us… I don’t think either of us were ready to handle it, at the time.”

“But you would go back to fix it, if you could?”

“Some things, yes,” Richard says. He’s examining the kettle again, but Bruce doesn’t think he’s truly seeing it. “I would try. But others…” He falls silent again.

Bruce waits him out, breathing intentionally and steadily so he doesn’t work himself into a panic. He was wrong; Dick had wanted to leave. What if Wayne’s fears that things are better off this way were right? What if the part that Dick regretted most was not his departure, but his return?

“There’s a lot that you don’t know,” Richard says. “About this world. About us. About the others. If I went back, I’d know every change I made would be sacrificing part of a certain future. I’m not ready to make all those sacrifices just to save myself some pain. And I don’t think Bruce is, either. That’s why he said what he did to you.”

Bruce has never wanted to feel powerless again—especially when it comes to losing those he loves. For a time, he avoided it by avoiding letting anyone into his heart. But now Dick has made a home there, and now Bruce is being told that it’s only a matter of time before he’ll be gone, too.

No, worse—that he should let Dick go; that he should sacrifice him on the altar of predetermination, for the sake of events that have yet to come to pass and people that he has yet to even meet. That it’s a moral good—a moral imperative—to break their bond so that dozens of yet-meaningless others can form in its place.

“I don’t believe that,” Bruce says, forcefully enough that Richard’s head snaps to him immediately. “You will never convince me that hurting you and losing you are necessary evils.”

“That’s not—” Richard starts, then swallows his words back. After a moment, his countenance softens. He smiles, almost sadly. “I wish I could remember when things were that simple.”

Silence falls between them. Inside the kettle, the water simmers violently.

“There’s something else he told me,” Bruce says. “That I might not be from your world. That our timelines may not be connected at all. If that were the case— What would you tell me then?”

Richard stands very still, and doesn’t answer. Finally, slowly, he says, “If you love him—”

“Of course I do.”

“Then make it plain to him,” Richard says. “As plain as you can, however and whenever you can. Even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts to do it. Make sure he knows. That’s the best I can offer you.”

The kettle whistles sharply, steam blowing into the air. Richard turns off the stove, transfers the water to a pot, and flips over a sand timer sitting on the counter. They both sit in silence for a moment, watching the grains trickle down.

“Do you know?” Bruce says quietly. “If he still loves you?”

“He does,” Richard says, with a gentle confidence that finally begins to ease Bruce’s fears.

“And… do you?” Bruce says. “Love him?”

“I’ve never stopped,” Richard says, with the same confidence. “I won’t ever stop. And he won’t, either.”

“That’s—” Bruce pauses, taken aback by the assurance in Richard’s words.

Wayne and Richard both acknowledged something had broken between them—something fundamental, that could never truly be fixed. But they’d found a way to do it anyway—a way to pick up the shattered pieces and rearrange them into something different, but no less whole. No less real.

“Good,” Bruce finishes quietly. “I’m glad.”

Richard smiles at him, soft and sincere, and Bruce is suddenly and unbearably proud that, even after all Dick’s been through, the world still hasn’t managed to harden his heart—that this strong and kind and gentle man is who Dick will one day grow up to become.

Footsteps come back down the stairs, the light pattering of Dick’s feet leading the way. Bruce barely has time to turn before a weight slams against his side. 

He puts his arms around Dick. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Dick says into Bruce’s shirt. He looks up. “Sorry I yelled at you.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Bruce looks over at Wayne and Damian.

“He’s sorry, too,” Dick says, looking at Wayne intently.

“I am,” Wayne says, but he’s looking at Richard, body aligned to him like a compass due north, “sorry.”

Richard turns that soft smile onto him. “Me too.”

Wayne returns the smile, and Bruce realizes, with relief, that they truly are—and will be—all right.

“You’re all just in time for tea,” Richard says, lifting the teapot. “Why don’t we move to the table? Help grab some mugs, Dami?”

“Grayson, why do you insist on using this nightmare,” Damian says, scrunching his nose at the mug with his face on it as he adds it to the collection in his arms.

“Because it’s my favorite!” Richard says. “And don’t worry if you accidentally drop it, because I still have the pictures and I will buy five more. Oh, Bruce, could you grab the coasters?”

Bruce reacts instinctively to his name, but Richard is, of course, not talking to him. Richard smiles apologetically as Wayne leans across him to fetch the coasters. It’s a delicate dance of domesticity, the warmth of which fills the entire space.

In this unfamiliar Gotham, in this unfamiliar place, Bruce suddenly feels at home. 

Dick goes on tiptoe, leaning towards Bruce, and says quietly, “They seem happy, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Bruce says, just as quietly, “I do.”

Together, they all make their way to the dining table, and Wayne and Damian arrange the coasters and mugs. Richard has just finished filling two with tea when a rush of cold air sweeps through the room.

Richard sighs, setting down the pot. “You couldn’t have waited five minutes?” Then he takes in the newcomer. “Oh, baby Supes!”

“He’s hardly a baby,” Wayne says.

Not at all, but Superman would appear much younger, to Richard—the same way that Bruce and Dick appear younger. This Superman is from their world.

“Clark!” Dick cheers, taking a running leap toward him. “You found us!”

“I did,” Clark says, catching Dick with a mid-air spin even as he takes in the scene. “I’m glad to see you’re both safe. I can take you back, as soon as you’re ready. I’m sorry it took me so long to get here.”

“I’m surprised you found us as quickly as you did.” Bruce honestly thought it would take longer before someone would even notice they were missing—the next League or Teen Titans meeting, at least.

“Actually,” Clark says, descending with Dick in his arms, “Dick called me.”

Damian frowns. “From here?”

Dick giggles. “Of course not. It was right before we fell through the portal. I yelled ‘Superman’ really loud.”

“Honestly, amazing technique,” Richard says, giving him a thumbs up.

“I thought so too,” Clark agrees. He’s staring intently at Richard, and only breaks the stare to glance briefly at Dick. “Are you…?”

Richard grins. “Yep.”

Dick tugs on Clark’s cape. “He goes by Nightwing now.”

“Really?” Clark says, with awed interest.

Wayne looks somewhat miffed. Bruce wonders if Dick’s new identity has been a point of contention between Wayne and his Clark, or if Wayne has just been silently annoyed about it this entire time.

“Way to ruin the surprise, mini-me,” Richard says with a slight flush, and Wayne looks even more miffed.

“It’s not gonna happen in my world. I’m gonna be Robin forever. Sorry, Clark.” Dick pats Clark’s shoulder.

“Well, it’s already flattering to know you took the name on some world.” Clark smiles at Richard. “I’m glad we’re still friends here.”

Richard beams back at him. “I’m glad, too.”

“We shouldn’t keep them too long,” Wayne says.

Richard rolls his eyes, but fondly. “Yeah, yeah. One more for the road, mini-me?” He opens his arms in Dick’s direction, and Dick does a front flip out of Clark’s arms and jogs over.

Wayne comes over and shakes Bruce’s hand while Dick and Richard say their goodbyes.

“He’s a good man,” Bruce says. “You should be proud.”

“He would have turned out that way with or without me,” Wayne says.

On a fundamental level, Bruce honestly suspects the same. Dick is who he is—indomitably good. That would have won out, no matter what. But:

“You’ve given him a family again,” Bruce says. “We both know not to underestimate the importance of that.”

Wayne looks at Richard contemplatively. He’s standing beside the table, laughing at something either Dick or Damian has said—likely Dick, given the mischievous expression on his face and the flustered expression on Damian’s.

Meanwhile, Bruce studies Wayne again, seeing what he’d missed before—the wrinkles of smiles in the corners of his eyes, the lines of laughter etched into his cheeks. The comfort of knowing that, no matter how much cruelty there may be in the world, there would always still be an endless capacity for love.

“Even knowing what you know now,” Wayne says, “I think, given who we are, and who he is, that you won’t be able to avoid making the same mistakes that I did. I’m still not sure you should avoid them. But perhaps you don’t have to make them all.”

“I hope,” Bruce says, uncertain of how well he’ll succeed, even as he says it, “that I don’t.”

It’s a quick trip back to their own Gotham.

They go into the Garage—Batgarage—to change back into their costumes. The experiments are still running. Bruce sees everyone look at them—even Nightwing—but no one mentions them.

It doesn’t matter to Bruce. Whether this is meant to be his future or not, it doesn’t change what he plans to do.

They say a final round of goodbyes, and then Clark uses the spell paper given to him by Zatanna to create a portal. One moment, they’re there; the next, they’ve stepped through the passage home.

Clark flies them to the Batcave from where they land in the middle of Gotham—and makes an extra trip to bring back the Batmobile—before leaving them to rest after their long night.

Dick drifts against Bruce’s side as they make their way upstairs, exhausted, and Bruce supports him with an arm wrapped around his shoulders.

“I still don’t want that to be us,” Dick says quietly. “But if it is… then that means, no matter what, we’ll be okay, right?”

Bruce holds him a little more firmly against his side. “No matter what,” he promises.

For Dick’s sake, and for his own, it’s a promise that he swears never to break.