Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jason wakes up with a sharp jolt, his head pounding like a jackhammer. The first thing that hits him is the smell—damp, moldy, and thick enough to choke on. He groans, blinking his eyes open to a dingy ceiling, cracked and stained with years of neglect. This place looks bad. Real bad.

As he pushes himself up, his body screams in protest. His muscles ache like he’s been through hell. What the hell happened last night? He tries to remember, but nothing comes to mind. Just a dull, painful fog. Whatever this is, these aren’t injuries he remembers going to sleep with.

Glancing around, he notices the water damage on the walls, the broken furniture strewn about, and the mattress he’s been lying on—no covers, no sheets, no frame, and a yellowed pillow that he hopes wasn’t originally white. It’s grim, even by his usual standards.

This place is a dump, Jason thinks, wincing as he forces himself upright. He grunts, realizing he’s been sleeping with his boots on. “Classy,” he mutters under his breath, his voice raspy, as if he hasn’t spoken in days. With a groan, he gets to his feet, every step a battle against the soreness that courses through him. It feels like his body’s been put through the ringer.

Jason stumbles toward what looks like a bathroom, hoping to splash some water on his face and clear the cobwebs in his head. As he flicks the light switch, the dim yellow glow reveals a cracked mirror above a rusty sink. But what stops him cold is the reflection staring back at him.

It’s him. But it’s not him.

He blinks, takes a step closer, gripping the edges of the sink. The man in the mirror looks like Jason Todd, but… older. Bigger. Bulkier. New scars mar his face, his arms, his knuckles—ones he’s never seen before. The reflection is definitely him, but he’s older, scruffier, and there’s a hardened look in his eyes, like he’s been through at least a decade of battles he can’t remember fighting.

Jason rubs his eyes, half-expecting the image to shift into something familiar, but when he opens them again, the older version of himself is still there, staring back.

“What the hell…?” he whispers, running a hand through his hair. There’s a patch of white and he can tell it’s not dyed. This isn’t right. This can’t be real.

He touches his face, the scars, the stubble, the bulk of his arms. It’s all real. Too real. He feels the weight of this body, the years in the tension of his muscles. He looks like he’s aged ten years overnight, the second puberty hitting him like a freight train.

Did I time travel? Amnesia? Amnesia makes more sense. And from what it looks like, he lost a huge chunk of his memory. So technically it’s time travel? From his point of view?

Jason digs into his pockets, searching for his phone with a desperation that’s creeping up on him. He finds one that sits unfamiliarly in his hands. It’s seen better days but hey, his own phone doesn’t look too good, either. The screen lights up with the day’s date. Damn. Whatever fucked with his memory took the exact number of years away with no leeway. Out of instinct he puts in his passcode and the home screen shows up.

Hey, at least some things are still the same.

He briefly wonders if that’s even secure, but quickly waves the thought away. There are bigger problems. He opens his contacts, scrolling through the names. Some are familiar, others… not so much. The absence of certain names hits him hard. No Alfred, no Damian, no Cass. His stomach lurches, but he pushes the anxiety down. He has to stay focused.

He scrolls through his favorites, and a different kind of unease settles in. Roy? Artemis? Kori? Sure, she’s dating Dick, but why would she be on his list of favorites when none of his family is there?

What the hell is going on?

He switches to his messages, scrolling quickly until he finds a thread with his family. He exhales in relief—they’re there, at least. But half the numbers aren’t saved, and he doesn’t recognize some of them. Not entirely surprising given their line of work, but it’s unsettling how out-of-touch this version of him seems to be.

Jason considers calling Bruce, but his thumb hovers over the call button. His dad would probably go straight into panic mode, asking a million questions Jason isn’t ready to answer. Not to mention the tests. My god, the tests. No, he can’t handle that right now.

Instead, he presses on Dick’s name and waits as the phone rings. Each ring sets his nerves more on edge. When Dick finally answers, his voice is tight, and there’s a subtle undertone of worry. “What’s wrong?”

Jason frowns. “Why do you think something’s wrong?”

“You wouldn’t call me this early otherwise,” Dick replies, blunt but with concern in his voice.

Jason glances at the time. “What, you don’t do katas at fuck o’clock in the morning anymore?” he jokes, trying to sound casual, but the response is just... silence. Genuine confusion from the other end.

Jason clears his throat, feeling the weight of the situation again. “There’s something wrong with my memory.”

There’s rustling on Dick’s end of the line. “What do you mean?” Dick asks, the tone of his voice immediately more alert.

Jason exhales slowly, not wanting to admit it out loud, but knowing he has to. “I don’t remember where I am... or how I got here. I also... think that I’m missing a few years.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Dick asks, his voice sharper than before.

Jason stares at his reflection in the mirror, his fingers unconsciously playing with the white streak in his hair. His mind flashes to the sleepover with Steph and Cass. “Uh… going to sleep in my room?”

“Be more specific, Jay,” Dick presses.

Jason’s brows furrow in confusion. “What do you mean be more specific? I only have the one room in the Manor.”

Silence.

When Dick speaks again, his voice is clipped with urgency. “I’ll be right over. Stay where you are, Babs will track you.”

Jason stares at his phone as the call ends. Something is very, very wrong here.

He stops snooping around his phone. He doesn’t even look up anything online, worried about what he might find. He doesn’t want to mess up the space-time continuum if it’s time travel. The chances of this being time travel is slim, but it’s not zero. And if this is a case of amnesia, if something drastic has changed since he fell asleep all those years ago, he’d rather hear it from his brother than an image or a text on the screen.

Jason does his best to brace himself for what he assumes will be an older, possibly more grizzled version of Dick Grayson. Maybe a few extra lines on his face, a bit more wear and tear from their shared lifestyle. But when Dick arrives, Jason’s thrown off completely—he looks exactly the same as the last time Jason saw him. He’s also shorter than Jason, something he’s never experienced before.

The confusion only deepens.

“You actually stayed in place,” Dick says with a raised brow, glancing around at the dingy apartment. “Considering you're in Crime Alley, that's a surprise.”

Jason blinks. Crime Alley? He hadn’t even registered where he was. His thoughts race, trying to make sense of things. “Wait, if I’m in Crime Alley, what took you so long? I’m freaking out and you’re dragging your ass to get here?”

Dick sighs, shaking his head as if the answer is obvious. “I did my best with the rush hour.”

Jason’s confusion only grows. “Even with rush hour, you could’ve gotten here from Bristol in under an hour.”

Dick’s entire body stills, his expression going from mildly concerned to something far more cautious. “Why would I be in Bristol?” he asks, the question tentative, as if he’s afraid of what Jason might say next.

Jason raises his hands in mock surrender, trying to lighten the tension he doesn’t quite understand. “My bad, did you get a job in Gotham and move or something? I got memory problems, remember? But also, if you’re here, then you wouldn’t even have to deal with the bridge traffic, so just admit you didn’t leave right away.”

Dick’s jaw drops a little, clearly caught off guard. “Jay,” he begins slowly, “I live in Blüdhaven. I’ve been living in Blüdhaven, even before you moved into the Manor.”

Jason stares at him, speechless for a moment, before muttering, “Blüdhaven?”

Both of them share the same look of confusion now. It’s like pieces of a puzzle that just don’t fit together, no matter how hard you try.

“Maybe this isn’t a case of amnesia...” Jason finally suggests.

Dick nods slowly, his expression still wary but also understanding. “Yeah. Something else is going on.”

“I’m thinking... a different world?” Jason offers.

“Probably. Sounds the most logical. A classic bodyswap.”

Jason snorts. “You telling me... the interdimensional part with the bodyswap is new, though.”

“Oh, for sure.”

There’s a long silence before Jason looks at Dick, his voice quiet and uncertain. “Do you really not live in the Manor anymore?”

Dick shakes his head. “No, I don’t. And since you’re talking about the one in Bristol... neither does Bruce. Neither does anybody.”

Jason’s brows raise in shock, and Dick’s expression softens with sympathy. “They moved,” Dick adds, his tone gentle.

Jason can’t imagine that—Bruce Wayne not living at Wayne Manor? “Where would they even be living then? The penthouse?”

Dick sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Bruce did for a while, but after certain… events, he bought a new place. A new manor, in Old Gotham.”

Jason’s mouth opens, the questions on the tip of his tongue, but he stops himself from asking why he’s not there. Something about the way Dick is looking at him—like he’s almost waiting for him to ask—makes him hesitate. He’s afraid of the answer.

Dick breaks the silence, his voice quieter now. “There’s an open invitation for you to move there, you know. But… things are strained. Between you and him.”

Jason feels a chill run down his spine. Strained? Sure, things had been rough with Bruce in the past—he had always been rebellious, resisted orders on occasion—but the idea that he might have pushed things so far that he didn’t even want to live with his family? That thought makes his stomach knot.

He stares at the floor, unsure of how to process it all. “I don’t understand what’s going on,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

Dick looks at him with something close to pity. “Yeah,” he says softly, “I can tell.”

Jason wants to scream. Nothing about this world makes sense, and the idea that he’s somehow grown apart from the people he thought he’d always have—after losing them all once already… it’s terrifying. What the hell happened to me here?

As Jason contemplates and having a moment™, Dick surveys the apartment, wrinkling his nose at what he’s finding. He then looks at Jason, putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You know we should probably get out of here, talk somewhere else? I’m pretty sure that’s black mold in the corner—probably not good for your health.”

Jason glances around, once again taking stock of the questionable stains in the corners of the ceiling and walls. He grimaces. “Yeah, that’s fair. But we gotta go somewhere we can eat. How about Batburger?”

Dick gives him an odd look, raising an eyebrow.

Jason’s stomach drops, suddenly nervous. “Wait… there is a Batburger here, right? Please tell me there’s a Batburger because that would be too weird.”

Dick huffs a laugh, amused by the sudden shift. “That’s where you draw the line? Batburger?”

Jason shrugs. “What? So do you have Batburger or not?”

Dick shakes his head, smirking. “We do, we do. It’s just... what is it that you said? It’s ‘fuck o’clock in the morning’? Like come on, really, Jason? Batburger for breakfast? That’s a new low. And if Alfred ever finds out he’d be—” he cuts himself off mid-sentence, glancing away as his voice falters.

Jason fills in the rest with a wry grin. “Yeah, yeah. Alfred would be so disappointed. But, you know, I’m not gonna tattle if you don’t.” He leans in, whispering conspiratorially. “Besides, the Jokerized fries are too good. Honestly, I’m curious how they compare to my world’s.”

Dick gives Jason an unidentifiable look for a long moment. There’s... pain? Sadness? He sighs, “Fine. Let’s go see if the fries are any different.”

On the drive over, Dick glances at him. “So, anything else look different to you? Other than the safehouse situation?”

Safehouse, huh? At least that’s better than ‘apartment’. Jason shrugs, looking out the window at the familiar-yet-not streets of Gotham. “Not really, not so far.”

Once they’re at Batburger, Dick chuckles as they pull up to the drive-thru. “You want the Bite-Mite meal, Jay?”

Jason nods, dead serious. “Yeah, sure. I can start a figure collection here. But get me an actual meal, too, though. A Bite-Mite’s not gonna cut it for me.”

Dick snorts, shaking his head. “Alright, whatever you say.” He orders for them both, adding the Bite-Mite to the order, somewhat amused.

Once they park with their food, Jason wastes no time, shoving a few Jokerized fries into his mouth, savoring the familiar taste. Against all odds, it’s the exact same flavor. He then eagerly reaches for the toy.

He pulls out a figure in a leather jacket with a red helmet.

Dick laughs when he sees the toy, but honestly Jason is just confused. He frowns, turning the guy in his hand. “Who’s this supposed to be?”

His brother blinks at Jason, then at the toy. “Wow. Your world really is different.”

Jason’s frown deepens as he grabs the checklist that comes with the toy. He scans the tiny pictures, comparing the characters. Batman’s the same, Robin... Batwoman... but he pauses when he reads the label under the figure he’s holding.

“Red Hood?” Jason’s confusion only grows. “Isn’t that one of Joker’s old aliases?”

Dick chokes on his drink. As he’s coughing, Jason keeps scanning the checklist. Batman, Red Hood, a Nightwing instead of a Nightwatcher. That’s him, right? But the outfit is too different from his own, too snug.

He looks at Robin again. He’s shorter than the rest of the line-up, so it must be Damian. The figure sports more gray than red, however, with not an iota of green. “Weird,” he mutters under his breath.

Then he sees another figure: Red Robin. Jason stares at it, eyebrows raised. “Wait. Seriously? Red Robin? Like the restaurant? ‘Red~ Robin yummm~’ and all that?”

Dick laughs before sputtering again, recovering enough to say, “Yeah, you should talk to Tim about that one sometime.”

Tim’s Red Robin? What? Jason continues to look at the checklist. Aunt Kate, Harper and Cass are there on the list, too. But he doesn’t see Steph. Unless she’s Spoiler? To be honest, he’s only taking a guess, since Spoiler is the only blonde girl in the line-up. But damn, that is a lot of purple—too much for even Tim.

“Is this you?” Jason asks, holding the toy in front of Dick, stuffing his mouth with more of the fries.

Dick wipes his mouth before giving Jason a measuring look. “No, that’s you.”

Jason freezes mid-chew, staring at his brother in disbelief. “What do you mean me?”

Dick nods slowly. “You’re the Red Hood.”

“Why the hell would I take his name?” Jason spits with venom. “Not after everything he’s done to us, to you—to me.”

Dick winces at that, but Jason’s too focused on his own confusion to notice. “Yeah, I know, but you… took it. After you came back.”

Jason stares at him. “Came back? From where?”

Dick frowns, leaning forward a little. “What do you mean, from where? After—” He cuts himself off, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Jay, do you not remember?”

“Remember what?” Jason asks, staring at Dick like he’s grown a second head. “I’m from a different world, so you need to give me the rundown, Fearless.”

There’s a tense silence between them as Dick's expression shifts from disbelief to something more cautious. “Jason... you died.”

Jason lets out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “I’m sitting right here, though?”

Dick’s face softens, but it’s clear he’s still troubled. “Of course. You don’t remember it because it didn’t happen to this version of you. In this world— my world—you died. The Joker killed you.”

Jason freezes, his heart thudding uncomfortably in his chest. He stares at Dick, looking for any sign that this is some twisted joke. But the serious, almost pained expression on his brother’s face isn’t one he can easily shake off. “Killed me? Joker? That’s… when?”

Dick sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ethiopia? If that means anything to you.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t associate many things with that country. “When I tried to find my bio mom?”

His brother nods. “So that did happen to you, too. But then... what happened? How did you...?” Survive?

Jason shrugs, more unsettled than he’s willing to let on. “I honestly cannot tell you. I should be asking you that, to this day you never told me how we got out of there in time.”

Dick’s hand flinches slightly, something Jason notices. “I... went with you?”

Jason tilts his head. “Yeah...?”

“Why? How? What about the space mission I was on that year?”

Jason’s brow furrows, his eyes squinting. “That didn’t happen in the same year, though?”

Dick brushes a hand through his hair. “Okay... okay… and I actually came with you? Just like that?”

“I mean, I asked, so why wouldn’t you?”

Dick doesn’t answer. He might not even have an answer to that. Did this Jason even ask? Or were they not close enough for that to be an option? Jason slowly unwraps a burger and pecks at it, suddenly not as hungry anymore.

“So am I a zombie now?” Jason asks, trying to break the tension. “How am I alive? If I... died?”

Dick’s face grows serious again. “We don’t know. Gotham decided to spit you out of the ground, but you weren’t responsive, weren’t all there. Then, I don’t know how, but the League got you and... do you know of the Lazarus Pits?”

“Oh. Ra’s’ oozi-jacuzzi, I’m aware,” Jason says, wiping some condiments that got on the corner of his mouth.

Dick huffs at the name but presses on. “Yeah, that’s the one. They used the Pit to heal you.”

Jason leans back, taking this all in. “Okay, but what I don’t get—why would I take the Joker’s old name? Why would I be the Red Hood? Especially since... you know, he killed me.”

Dick looks pained but doesn’t avoid the question. “When you came back to Gotham... you weren’t exactly pleased that Bruce didn’t avenge your death.”

Jason’s fingers still as he plays with a fry. “He didn’t—what?”

Dick continues, his voice tense with old emotions. “You felt like he just... moved on. So, you took the Red Hood identity. At first, it was to remind Bruce of the day the Joker fell into the vat of acid. Every time he saw you, you made him remember that night. But then, for a long time... it was also to remind him of you. Of what happened to you.”

Jason’s eyes stare into the distance, digesting the weight of it all. “Damn,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “That’s dark.”

“Yeah,” Dick agrees, looking down at his own food, clearly unsettled by the memory. He shifts in his seat. “So what do you go by then? And Tim? Since it’s obvious he’s not Red Robin from your reaction.”

Jason clears his throat. “I go by Nightwatcher.”

“Night Watcher, huh?” his brother echoes, emphasizing the ‘Night’ part of the name. There isn’t an ounce of recognition in his voice, making Jason’s heart drop. “Like Nightwing?”

“That you?” Jason questions as Dick nods. Jason then waves a hand dismissively, “Yeah, I doubt there’s any connection. And Tim’s... Donatello.”

Dick’s eyebrows shoot up. “Donatello? Like the Renaissance artist?”

Jason nods. Again, he notices the odd choice of words—the lack of familiarity. “Yeah.”

“Where’d those names come from?” Dick asks. He seems amused, but still puzzled. 

Jason takes a breath, connecting the dots quickly. He feels his stomach twist, queasiness setting in. His family here wasn’t reborn like his. Which means they never had the memories, the shared history... the closeness. He can't help but realize that this is what would’ve happened to his family if they hadn’t remembered their past lives—how different their dynamic would’ve been.

How apparently he and Dick no longer live with their family, how he had died.

Jason needs air. Now. He opens the door, ignoring Dick’s voice as he leaves the car, almost spilling all the contents of his food onto the parking lot. 

For a moment, Jason imagines running. Going as far as he can to get away from whatever fucked up differences are in this world. That wouldn’t do him any good. That would just make him lost and stuck. 

He stumbles to the curb, plopping down. He’s shaking, the bag of food trembles in his grip. Jason just barely manages to set it down gently before he wraps his arms around his legs, hiding his face in his knees. 

Jason can hear as Dick scrambles out of the car himself, footsteps purposefully loud.  For a while, there’s nothing. No questions. No attempts to force a conversation. Just the quiet sound of Dick sitting down beside him on the curb.

Jason leans into him, and for a second, Dick flinches—clearly unsure. But then he wraps an arm around Jason’s shoulders, pulling him closer. They stay like that, the silence settling over them, giving Jason a much-needed moment to just breathe.

Eventually, Jason breaks the quiet, his voice muffled against his knees. “I’m sorry.”

Dick tilts his head slightly, looking at him without judgment. “For what?”

Jason sighs, pulling his head up just enough to talk. “The names... they’re important to me. To my brothers. And to have them not mean anything to you, to the others in this world... it’s overwhelming.” He rubs his eyes, feeling exhausted. “It just hit me harder than I expected.”

Dick stays quiet for a moment, letting Jason’s words hang in the air. Then he gives his shoulder a small squeeze, the comforting gesture doing more than any words might have.

“I get it, Jay,” Dick says quietly. “I mean I don’t—not really. But I do. Our worlds have different names that mean different things for us, and it’s hard to grasp how we could be us without them. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” Jason nods.

The silence returns, but it’s not uncomfortable this time. 

Dick’s phone vibrates once, and he ignores it. A few more vibrations follow in quick succession, and he mutters a curse under his breath before pulling out his phone.

“It's Damian,” he says, tapping at the screen.

A moment later, Dick’s body flinches as he exclaims in a shouted whisper, “That’s today?”

Jason, still leaning into him, raises an eyebrow. “What’s today?”

“I promised Damian we’d hang out,” Dick explains. “We kept pushing it back for one reason or another, and I guess I forgot it was today.” Because of whatever’s been happening this morning. Because of Jason.

Jason watches as Dick’s phone lights up with a stream of texts. Looks like the kid had been waiting for this day for a while. Jason hesitates. He doesn’t really want to be alone right now, but it’s awkward to just invite himself. Especially considering Damian’s obvious excitement. The little guy probably doesn’t want his brother’s attention divided.

Instead, Jason asks tentatively, “What’s, uh, my relationship with Damian like here? On a scale from 1 to 10—1 being ‘attack on sight’ and 10 being, I dunno, braiding each other’s hair.”

Dick huffs a quiet laugh. “Solid 6.”

Six, huh? Jason leans back, processing that. Not great, but not as bad as I thought.

His mind drifts, wondering what their dynamic must’ve been like when Damian was Robin and Jason was Batman—if that even happened here. Did this world’s Jason ever wear the cowl? Or was that someone else’s job? His train of thought is broken when Dick speaks again.

“Do you want to come with us?” Dick asks, his tone casual but watchful.

Jason pauses. “What does Damian think?”

Dick assures Jason that Damian says it’s fine, but Jason can’t help feeling unconvinced. Still, he supposes it wouldn’t hurt to test the waters. If it turns out Damian truly doesn’t want him there, he’ll leave and lick his metaphorical wounds elsewhere—maybe even literal ones, considering how his body still aches. Besides, it’s Gotham. He knows this city better than anyone.

“Sure,” Jason says, nodding. “I’ll give it a whirl.”

As he gathers his things, he glances down at the cold burger in his bag. “Think Damian wouldn’t mind if I bring my ice-cold Bite-Mite meal?”

Dick chuckles. “He can only have the fries, Damian’s vegan.”

Jason does a double take, blinking in disbelief. Damian? Vegan?

Internally, Jason reels at the thought. The little dude he knows loves experimenting with food too much to limit himself to vegan dishes. How many times had he wrangled Alfred into letting him take over the kitchen to try some elaborate dish from a country no one else had even heard of? With his own twists on things? Alfred’s defenses against the kid’s puppy eyes were already thin, and somehow they’d only get worse with time.

If he hasn’t gotten immunity yet, then Jason’s afraid that it is too late for him.

Maybe that’s why Splinter had spent most of his days meditating.

Jason realizes he hasn’t replied in a while and shrugs. “Sure, more burger for me.” With that, they both get back in the car.

As they settle in, Jason asks, “So, how much did you tell Damian about... you know, my situation?”

Dick glances over at him while pulling away from the curb. “Told him you’re having memory problems. Figured it’s best if we monitor you for the day, see how things go. Not telling Bruce, because... well, we all know how he is.”

Indeed they do. “Alright. I can play the amnesiac, I guess. Thought that was my problem at first, anyway.”

They finish their food by the time they pull up to the (new) manor. A sense of familiarity flares up inside Jason as he takes in the surroundings—isn’t this one of Joker’s old hideouts? Lo-something? He tampers the feeling down, maybe it’s different here? He jogs down the street to toss the wrappers and drinks away in a public trash can, turning back just in time to see Damian walking toward the car. He looks about the same as the Damian that Jason knows, but there’s a hardness to his scowl that’s a little different.

They both reach the car at the same time.

“Hey, Damian,” Jason greets casually. He notices this Damian’s eyes, a brilliant emerald green—so different from his own’s haunting aqua-blue. It’s unsettling to see such an unfamiliar color on the same face as his brother.

Damian gives him a curt nod, barely looking at him. “Todd.”

Jason blinks at the coldness. Todd? The formality feels distant. Uncomfortable. He’s not sure how to feel about it, so he lets it slide—for now.

“So, where we headed?” Jason asks, changing the subject as he gets back into the car.

Dick replies, “We’re going to the Crescent Oaks Ranch. About 45 minutes out.”

Jason racks his brain for any memory of that place but comes up blank. He’s just about to ask more when Dick calls out, “Bathroom break, anyone? Speak now or forever hold your—”

“No,” Damian interrupts flatly.

Jason shakes his head, and with no one needing to stop, they continue their journey.

As they drive, Jason glances back and notices Damian wearing headphones, his focus fully absorbed in a sketchbook. Curious, Jason waves to get his attention and motions to the sketchbook, hoping for a peek. Maybe Damian’s art will offer some clues about this version of his brother.

To Jason’s surprise, Damian rolls his eyes but gives him a begrudging look. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he hands the sketchbook over. Jason flips through it and is immediately caught off guard by what he sees. It’s a comic. Not just character design sketches, but fully composed panels with action sequences, dialogue bubbles, and scribbled notes in the margins.

Jason signals for Damian to take off his headphones, and once Damian does, Jason asks, “How long have you been doing art like this?”

Damian’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Why do you want to know?”

Jason frowns, caught off guard by the hostility in his tone. “It’s just a simple question. No need to bite my head off.”

Dick, sensing the tension, jumps in. “Remember, Damian, Jason’s lost his memory. He’s just trying to get to know you better.”

Damian clicks his tongue, clearly annoyed. The habit is just like his own Damian, which brings Jason some comfort. After a pause, Damian mutters, “A few years.”

Jason nods appreciatively. “You’re really good at it. The comic composition is great,” he says returning the sketchbook.

Damian stiffens, his expression sharpening as if he’s waiting for some sort of catch. “I do not care for your false flattery,” he snaps, eyes narrowing before swiping his sketchbook back.

Jason raises his hands in a mock surrender. “No falseness here, just facts. It’s solid work.”

Damian doesn't respond immediately, turning his attention back to his sketchbook, though Jason can see the subtle tension in his shoulders. It's clear this version of Damian isn't as open with him, and Jason finds himself wondering what exactly went wrong between them in this world. 

Damian turns his music back on, and it’s loud enough for Jason to hear it even from the front seat. Jason sighs, watching the scenery outside as it flies by. His fingers twitch with the urge to draw—the peaceful waters beneath the bridge they’re crossing would be perfect to sketch.

He tries to spark another conversation, asking, “So... Nightwing, huh? Where’d that come from?”

Dick glances at Damian in the rearview mirror before answering. “It’s from a Kryptonian legend.”

Jason huffs with amusement. “Huh, guess this version of you’s a bigger Superman nerd than mine ever was.”

“Hey, now,” Dick chuckles lightly, then shoots back with his own question. “What about your Dick? What did he call himself?”

Jason thinks for a moment. “Well, he didn’t really have a name for himself. But Damian called his new persona 'Ani' in public—and it just stuck.”

“Annie?” Dick attempts to repeat.

Jason shakes his head, clarifying, “No, Ani. Short for aniki —y’know, big brother. It was just a habit when we were kids.”

Dick’s shoulders tense, and he flashes Jason a quick look before asking, “Wait, what do you mean? Kids?”

Jason furrows his brows. “Yeah, like... children?”

“That’s obviously not what I meant,” Dick cuts in, his tone sharper. There’s a brief pause before he asks, “Really? Japanese?”

Jason shrugs, not really understanding the confusion. “Yeah. Why?”

Dick shifts a bit in his seat. “Okay, but what did the other me call himself before 'Ani'? Did he just run around the place nameless for who knows how long?”

Jason is thrown off by the question. “What? Like your first name? Obviously, it's Robin.”

Dick shakes his head, flashing him a quick look. “Don’t be a smartass. I mean, what name did I take after Robin?”

Jason is completely lost now. “Uh... Ani?”

Dick’s frown deepens as the realization starts to settle in. “No, I mean... what was my name when you were Robin?”

Jason lets out a laugh of disbelief. “Why the hell would I be Robin?”

That’s when it hits Dick, eyes widening. “Oh my god. You said that your me never left.”

Jason looks at him, the confusion on his face deepening. “Yeah...?”

Dick leans back in his seat, looking like he’s trying to process a massive revelation. “That’s it. I never left. I never became Nightwing because... I stayed Robin.”

Jason furrows his brow, still trying to piece it all together. “But why would I be Robin instead?” The idea feels foreign to him. Then the pieces click. “Wait, when you left Gotham, you left Robin behind, didn’t you? But why?” He looks at Dick with a deepening frown. “Why did you leave Bruce?”

Dick’s mouth tightens at the question, the weight of old memories flashing in his eyes. “I didn’t leave Robin. Not at first. Bruce and I… we didn’t see things the same way. We were both stubborn, and we both had terrible tempers. An incident happened, he fired me and then I left.”

It feels odd, finding out that Leo is the only reason why Dick never leaves Bruce. The desperation to not lose another parental figure probably led Dick to push down any desire to argue, to get angry at him. Jason gets it—sometimes Bruce reminds him of Splinter, too.

He remembers how Dick has told him how Bruce is overbearing sometimes to the point of feeling stifled. But Dick has also said he understands why their dad is like this, considering what they do for a living. Considering what has happened to them in another life.

Losing him would have been too much. Losing him was too much.

But without Leo, Dick didn’t have any of that influence to keep the peace. He didn’t feel the need to deny any feelings of resentment, to dampen any disagreements, to not lash out when Bruce goes too far.

This Dick had the freedom to go his own way, without the fear of a familiar loss. This Dick had just left when he’s had enough.

Heck, this Dick probably thinks his brother is a pushover, for staying. Jason doesn’t know what incident would have caused Bruce to fire Dick—maybe it happened in his world, too. But then Leo refused to leave through his own tenacity.

“And then I became Robin,” Jason realizes, the implications sinking in. His chest tightens as he wonders how Dick had felt about that—his dad just handing over his title to some random kid he decided to adopt one day. Did it mean something, or was it just Bruce filling a void?

“Then what?” Jason continues, trying to cover his unease. “Timmy comes along and slaps a ‘Red’ in front of the Robin name?”

Dick sighs, the sound heavy with complication. “It’s not that simple, Jason. It was a time when... you were...” He hesitates, his voice growing softer. “You know.”

Jason knows exactly what Dick’s implying. It was when this version of him was dead. “Oh,” he says, the word thick with understanding.

Dick continues, glancing briefly in the rearview mirror at Damian, who remains quiet. “Bruce changed after losing you. He became darker, more violent. I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten because I wasn’t here. But Tim… Tim saw it. He knew.”

Jason listens intently as Dick explains how Tim had tried to get him to take up the mantle of Robin again, but Dick refused. “I couldn’t do it. So Tim decided to become Robin himself,” Dick explains, his tone softening. “He became Bruce’s light.”

Jason smirks at that, an underlying sadness to it. “That’s kinda poetic. Also kinda corny.”

Dick chuckles, but the moment’s still heavy with meaning. Then, curiosity flickers in his eyes as he asks, “So how did your Tim join the family, since things are so different in your world?”

Jason blinks, reminiscing before answering. “He just came up to me one day after school and point-blank asked if I was Nightwatcher. He wanted to know where I got the name from.”

Dick can’t help but laugh, his face lighting up with amusement. “That sounds just like him. Always so curious.” There’s a subtle mirth to his voice as he adds, “Always asking questions, always wanting to know more.”

“Glad to know he hasn’t changed that much.”

“So...” Dick trails off after a beat of silence.

Jason raises an eyebrow. “So what?”

“What’s with the Nightwatcher title?”

“Oh. Just... something I’ve always workshopped.”

“Really,” Dick muses. “So you’re telling me, if left to his own devices, little tiny Jason Todd would have picked Nightwatcher as his codename?”

“...Maybe?”

As they pull up to the ranch, Jason’s eyes widen at the sight of the horses. His heart skips a beat, and he mutters under his breath, “Sewer apples.”

Dick glances over, confused. “What?”

“This is a horse ranch?” Jason says, his voice edging toward panic.

Dick frowns as he turns off the car. “Yeah? Did I not mention that?”

Jason shoots him an exasperated look. “No, no, you didn’t mention that.” He slumps in his seat as they park. “I wouldn’t have joined if I knew we were coming to a horse ranch.”

Damian, who’s just taken off his headphones, grimaces in the back seat. “What do you have against horses?”

Jason spins around in his seat, eyes wide. “They hate me!”

Dick can’t help but chuckle in disbelief as he unbuckles his seatbelt. “They don’t hate you, Jason.”

Jason bites back, his voice firm. “No, really. They do. Every single time I’ve been near one they start acting up. Doesn’t matter if I’m riding them or not.”

Dick raises an eyebrow with a smile. “Maybe they can sense that you hate them, so they retaliate.”

Jason shoots back instantly, “They were the ones who started it.”

They all get out of the car, and Jason reluctantly follows behind as Dick and Damian head toward the stables. Dick glances back over his shoulder. “Hey, if you really don’t want to ride a horse, you don’t have to come with us.”

Jason appreciates the offer and nods. “Thanks. I’ll pass. Hey, Damian, can I borrow your art supplies while I wait?”

Damian looks up at him, clearly suspicious. “For what?”

Jason rolls his eyes, already getting tired of this prickly version of his brother. “I’m not gonna mess with your pages. I’ll doodle on the last ones so you can rip them out easier. How does that sound?”

Damian clicks his tongue, then grudgingly goes back to the car to retrieve his sketchbook and pencils. He hands them over with quick, careful movements before walking fast to catch up with Dick. As soon as Damian’s by his side again, Dick ruffles his hair affectionately, earning a grumble from the boy.

Jason finds a spot underneath a tree, settling down in the shade as he watches Dick and Damian greet one of the stable hands. His eyes follow as they go through the process of prepping the horses—checking the saddles, adjusting the reins.

Meanwhile, Jason flips to the last few pages of Damian’s sketchbook and starts drawing. The horses being ridden by some equestrians catch his attention—some standing still, others in motion. He captures their shapes in quick, fluid sketches, letting his hands move without thinking too hard about it.

His attention shifts back to Dick and Damian, now preparing to mount their horses. A smirk plays on Jason’s lips as an idea hits him. He starts drawing them as cowboys in the Wild West—Dick with a sheriff’s badge and Damian as his pint-sized, scowling deputy, hats pulled low over their eyes. He adds in some dust clouds for dramatic effect, imagining the two riding into town like something out of an old Western.

The soft scratching of the pencil against paper is oddly calming, and for a while, Jason feels himself relax, even if the horses are still looming in the distance.

It’s only the sound of Dick’s distress that has him looking up from his sketches. Whatever’s going on, Jason might get some material out of it. Dick’s horse is snorting heavily, its head tossing and tail swishing in irritated, agitated movements.

It tries to rear back, its hooves kicking up clouds of dust, and Dick looks alarmed, struggling to keep control. Jason recognizes that twitchy restlessness, the way the horse’s ears pin back and its nostrils flare—this wasn’t typical skittishness. It’s a specific, sharp discomfort he’d seen before in Usagi’s world, something to do with a nerve sensitivity in certain horses.

Damian moves closer, attempting to soothe the horse, his hands slow and measured, murmuring something under his breath. Jason grimaces, knowing this would only make things worse in this particular case.

Jason looks around and none of the ranchers are around. But Jason knows what to do.

“Dick!” Jason calls out, jogging over to the fence and raising his voice to be heard. “Stop! Don’t pull back on the reins—just let it go loose. And Damian, don’t approach it head-on; it’ll feel cornered!”

Dick glances over, confusion flashing across his face, but he follows Jason’s advice, easing up on the reins and letting them go slack. Damian, after a quick, annoyed glance at Jason, sidesteps, coming at the horse from a different angle, using a slower, wide approach.

“Good! Now, let your legs ease off slowly. Keep your voice low, but don’t touch its neck—it’s too sensitive right now!”

For a moment, Dick wavers, but he follows Jason’s instructions, his voice calming as he allows the horse to slowly shift its stance. The horse’s erratic motions start to slow, and gradually, its breathing evens out. Finally, the horse calms enough for Dick to guide it back toward the stable at a slow trot, his shoulders visibly relaxing with relief.

Jason goes back to the tree but not before noticing Damian approaching him at a steady walk. Jason immediately scrambles up the tree’s trunk, shooting him a scowl. “Don’t bring that thing too close.”

Damian rolls his eyes and clicks a sharp “Tt,” but he heeds Jason’s demand, slowing the horse to a stop before swinging off. He approaches the tree with crossed arms, his gaze probing. “Your behavior is perplexing, Todd. You claim to fear horses, yet you knew exactly how to handle the situation with Richard’s mount. How?”

Jason crosses his arms, stubbornly staying perched on a branch. “Not scared of them, if that’s what you’re getting at. I just don’t like them.”

Damian’s eyes narrow as he considers this. “That’s a distinction without much of a difference.”

Jason huffs, glancing pointedly at the horse. “Call it whatever you want, just keep that thing over there.”

The horse has the audacity to snort in his direction. Jason narrows his eyes at it, silently challenging the creature.

Dick exits the barn and jogs over to them, holding his phone up with an incredulous look. “So… apparently you blocked Bruce’s number?”

Jason blinks, struggling to keep his expression neutral. He’s not the Jason who did that, so naturally, he has no memory of doing it either. “Oh,” he replies, a little flatly, while his thoughts start spinning.

What kind of relationship did they have for Jason to feel the need to block him? He’s trying to wrap his head around how bad things must have been between them, but then another thought strikes him; if things were so strained, why does Bruce still want Jason to live with him? Bruce’s offer of living together makes no sense, especially considering the fact that this Jason would rather sleep in a rundown safehouse than under the same roof as his own father.

It feels complicated in all the wrong ways.

Dick raises a brow at Jason's simple answer, giving him a look that’s half amused and half exasperated. Damian, however, is nowhere near as subtle.

“That’s reckless and irresponsible,” Damian says, crossing his arms. “What if there’s an emergency?”

Jason, already feeling the prickling unease of dealing with this world’s Bruce, decides to ignore Damian’s jab. He looks back at Dick. “So… what did Bruce want to contact me about?”

Dick pauses, studying Jason carefully before shrugging. “He didn’t say, but he wants to talk to you. Sounded kind of… serious.”

Jason’s mind races. Based on what he’s learned, Bruce and this version of him don’t exactly have a picture-perfect relationship. And while he’s not sure what went down between them, he’s certain it was enough to keep them at arm’s length. The thought of speaking to Bruce without knowing the history or dynamics? That feels risky. What if he unknowingly says the wrong thing and widens the rift further?

Jason furrows his brow, a thought creeping in. “Do you think it has anything to do with my… condition?”

“Only one way to be sure,” Dick replies, his tone nonchalant, but Jason can sense the underlying concern.

Dick glances at Damian, opening his mouth to say something—maybe offer to come with? But Jason quickly cuts him off. He doesn’t want to further intrude on their time together. He’s seen how much Damian had been looking forward to spending time with Dick, and he already feels like he’s overstayed his welcome.

“Actually, I’ll just grab a rideshare,” Jason says, trying to sound casual as he pulls out his phone. “Could you text me the address?”

Dick hesitates. “Are you sure?”

Jason exhales, frustration creeping in. “I’m just going to talk to our old man. What’s the worst that can happen? It’s not like he can kick me out of the house or anything.”

He tries to sound more confident than he feels, but deep down, a knot of anxiety twists in his stomach.

Jason stands at the end of the ranch’s perimeter, hands shoved into his pockets as he waits for the rideshare. The car that pulls up—a clean, well-maintained Camry—is a welcome surprise in a city where most cars are a little worse for wear. The driver rolls down the window and looks over.

“You Jason?” he asks, a bored expression on his face.

Jason nods, slipping into the backseat, where he finds the comfort of Gothamite etiquette—silence. The driver doesn’t bother trying to make small talk, and Jason is grateful. He’s got enough rattling around in his head without a stranger asking him what he’s doing out this far from the city.

For a moment, he considers unblocking Bruce’s number. He could just skim any new messages that Bruce might send, get a sense of whatever might be important. But no, he thinks, sighing. That was this Jason’s decision, not his. So that means he’s going in blind.

They soon pull up to the looming gates of Pennyworth Manor, and Jason surveys the grounds. It’s so unfamiliar—so foreign. Here goes nothing, Jason thinks as he reaches for the door. He overextends, fingers slamming against the handle a little forcefully, reminding him of just how much bigger this body is. He has longer limbs now, almost tripping himself once or twice by just walking around. Even after hours inhabiting the body, it still feels wrong, too clunky and awkward.

He wonders how this Jason can even sneak around with such massive shoulders, let alone do his usual flips and tricks. He waves the thoughts away as he opens the door, successfully this time, before stepping out of the car.

Jason walks up to the towering doors of the manor, ringing the bell. He barely has time to take a breath when the door swings open—not to Alfred, but to Bruce himself. For a moment, Jason just stands there, caught off guard. Bruce looks… different, and it’s not just the change in setting. Something he can’t quite place yet.

Bruce's face is expressionless in a practiced manner as he steps aside, wordlessly inviting Jason in and leading him to the kitchen. Jason trails behind, his eyes darting around to take in the subtle changes. No familiar knick-knacks, no small touches from Alfred. Even the apron hanging on the pantry door isn’t the one Alfred would always wear.

“Have you eaten yet?” Bruce asks, breaking the silence as he begins pulling out ingredients from the fridge.

Jason shakes his head. “Not since this morning.”

Bruce nods, setting out bread and deli meat. “I’m making a sandwich. Want one?”

“Sure,” Jason says. “I can eat.”

As Bruce assembles the sandwiches, Jason watches him, studying his features closely. Then he realizes what’s different. This Bruce has more gray in his hair, and faint lines around his eyes that weren’t there before. He seems… older.

Bruce then speaks, a bit of roughness in his tone. “Where’ve you been all morning? We were supposed to—”

“Damn, you look old,” Jason blurts out before Bruce can finish his sentence.

Bruce blinks, clearly taken aback. “Excuse me?” he asks, his brows lifting in surprise.

Jason sighs, feeling the tenuous hope of pretending to be this Jason slipping away. Truthfully, he was probably never going to get far with that under the watchful eye of anyone in the family—especially Bruce. He carefully considers his words.

“First off, I was with Dick,” he says, only to be met with a wordless grunt in reply—the ‘I know’ grunt that Bruce does when he’s already pieced something together. Jason resists the urge to roll his eyes. Of course Bruce knew; he probably tracked him, noticed he was with Dick and Damian and that was why he called Dick in the first place.

“And second,” Jason goes on, his voice a little firmer, “I may or may not have just woken up in this body. I’m still Jason, but I’m not supposed to be here, so please don’t freak out and try to perform a thousand tests on me—I’m... pretty overwhelmed right now and not exactly in the mood for it.”

Bruce puts down the knife he’d been using, his expression shifting from surprise to something else—more focused, more scrutinizing. “Explain.”

Jason shrugs, running a hand through his hair as he tries to piece together the little he understands. “I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t understand what’s going on, either. Last thing I remember, I was back in my room, asleep. Then I woke up in this dump,” he says, motioning to himself, “and in a body that isn’t mine.”

Bruce pauses, before gesturing for Jason to follow him. He leads Jason through a side hallway down a staircase. As they walk, Bruce begins to fill the silence. “Last night, Jason and I were on a mission together. A science facility had been stockpiling alien tech, running illegal experiments on-site. They were also creating an unstable but powerful fuel of sorts—dangerous in the wrong hands.” He pauses, glancing back, gauging Jason’s reaction as he continues. “The plan was straightforward—apprehend everyone involved, dismantle the operation, and seize whatever intel or tech we could. It should have been simple.”

The stairs go down further than Jason expects, and the air becomes colder around them. “We took down the guards without trouble, but we didn’t anticipate one of the scientists turning violent. They… pulled a weapon. Some sort of raygun. Jason— my Jason,” Bruce’s voice tightens as he corrects himself, “moved in to shield me from the blast. At first, it looked like nothing happened, but the gun became red-hot and clattered to the ground. Fuel cell cracked.”

Bruce hesitates as they reach the heavy basement doors before pushing them open. The room itself is made entirely of concrete, lined with high-tech equipment and machinery. It’s obviously meant to be this manor’s version of the Batcave, but the place is sterile and structured in a way that feels more sinister, something more akin to an evil lair than a hero’s headquarters. It doesn’t feel familiar. It doesn’t feel like home.

Bruce doesn’t seem to notice Jason’s discomfort, recounting the events that had transpired just last night for him. “We managed to shut down the operation,” he says. “But one of the more loyal scientists—probably hoping to keep anyone from reverse-engineering his work—destroyed all the research data and the remaining fuel on-site.” He lets out a breath. “The facility exploded. We got out before it went up in flames.”

Jason shifts, still piecing together the implications. “So, what you’re saying is… that hit probably did something to him ,” he says slowly, glancing at his own arms like he can confirm the foreignness of his situation. “Or maybe to both of us.”

Bruce nods, his eyes serious as they land on Jason. “There’s no telling, given the nature of that technology. After we apprehended the surviving scientist, we regrouped back here and tested everything we could think of on him. There was no obvious sign of any adverse effects, so I didn’t push him to stay. But I had him agree to check in the next morning.”

“Ah,” Jason says. “I see.”

“Yes,” Bruce replies, voice unyielding. “I wasn’t expecting him to… vanish.”

Jason absorbs that, a faint pang of sympathy for the Jason of this world, who’s gone missing under these circumstances. There’s a flicker of guilt, too—of taking his place, even if accidentally. “Well,” Jason starts, unsure of how to put it, “guess I’m here instead.”

Bruce’s jaw tightens, but he unlocks a nearby cupboard and carefully extracts a broken weapon. Jason looks it over, taking in the alien craftsmanship, sleek but strange. The gun looks mostly intact, but the fuel compartment, a small glass chamber, is shattered and drained of its contents. 

Bruce’s eyes follow Jason’s as he explains, “Repairing the raygun is simple enough. It’s the fuel that’s the real issue. Barbara managed to salvage most of the wiped data, and based on what she’s found, there’s another branch of the same facility that might still have some of it. If we’re lucky, there’s more of this fuel. If not, we’d be looking at reverse-engineering it—weeks of work, maybe longer.”

Jason’s lips press together as he nods, letting the weight of Bruce’s words sink in. He knows a mission like this would normally be straightforward for him—under different circumstances. “All right,” Jason says, voice firm. “Where do we start?”

Bruce studies him for a moment, wary. “The reality is, you’re an unknown factor in the field. We don’t know what’s the same, what’s changed, or if your involvement could make things worse.”

Jason crosses his arms, his gaze resolute. “If there’s anyone that wants this mission to go off without a hitch, it’d be me, wouldn’t it? I’m sure this world has its benefits, but there’s too many differences for me.” He shivers, casting a glance around the Batcave—Bat-basement. Batment? Batcellar? “It’s weird.”

Bruce considers Jason’s words, his face stoic and unreadable. The silence stretches, and Jason wonders what’s going on behind those calculating eyes, how much Bruce is really weighing the risk of trusting someone who isn’t his son but wears his face.

Finally, Bruce nods, though his tone sharpens when he speaks. “I’ll consider it. But you’ll have to follow orders exactly. No diversions. If you can’t do that, I’ll pull you from the mission myself. Are we clear?”

Jason frowns, feeling a flicker of irritation at the added edge in Bruce’s tone. It feels unnecessarily harsh, a reminder of the differences between worlds, but he swallows down any comeback. This isn’t his Bruce, after all, and pushing back won’t get him anywhere.

He nods once, his voice clipped as he replies, “Crystal.”

They have a quick lunch before getting ready for the mission. Back in the Bat-basement, Bruce slides a box over to Jason, who opens it, eyes scanning through the contents. It’s an assortment of gadgets, all compact and dark-toned, ready for quick, silent deployment—a grappling gun, smoke bombs, a taser, some weighted batarangs, and a set of thin-bladed knives. Jason plucks up a few items, weighing each, checking them over, when something catches his attention.

He freezes, blinking down at the row of spare ammo magazines lined up neatly in the corner. “Huh,” he says, a slow realization hitting him.

Bruce glances over, noticing he had stopped moving.

“Rubber bullets,” Bruce clarifies, “if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Jason lets out a short laugh, looking up in disbelief. “Didn’t think I’d ever meet a version of you that uses guns.”

Bruce holds his gaze, a beat of silence heavy between them. “They’re for you.”

Jason’s eyebrows lift as he tries to process it. “Wait, so… the me here uses guns?”

Bruce nods once, brief and certain. “Primary weapon of choice, most of the time.”

Jason looks back at the magazines, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “Not really my style. I’m more of a sai or tonfa kind of guy.”

He starts sorting through the equipment with Bruce watching him, the corners of his expression unreadable, as if recalibrating his understanding of the Jason in front of him. He then shifts out of sight before reappearing with a pair of sai.

“Thanks,” Jason says, taking them and examining their condition before setting them into his growing pile of chosen gear.

“We should run through the code phrases,” Bruce says, breaking the quiet.

Jason nods, standing straighter. “Sure. Hit me with ‘em.”

Bruce lists off a few, each one crisp and direct. Jason absorbs them quickly, though he can’t help but chuckle when he notices certain overlaps. “Weirdly close to ours, just… with some variations,” he says.

“Variations?” Bruce asks, prompting Jason to elaborate.

Jason nods, grinning. “For starters, the one you call ‘Eagle Eye’—we call that ‘Hawkeye’. Guess we like different birds. Then there’s ‘Ghosting,’ which you use to mean disengage and retreat. For us, that’s ‘Shadowdrop.’” He gives Bruce a look. “What about team names?”

“Team names?”

“Yeah, like when Damian and Dick partner up, they’re the ‘Tide Pods’ and when it’s me and Tim, we’re ‘Book Club’ to name a few examples.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow, a silent question in his expression.

Jason shrugs. “Yeah, my Damian’s a little obsessed with naming things—animals, team-ups, people.”

“People?”

Jason laughs, a warm memory surfacing. “Oh yeah. Any rogue who doesn’t come in with a name, he’ll give ‘em one. And then we all stick to it. No take-backs unless they change their look significantly—or something equally dramatic.”

Bruce hums as he finishes setting up the room to spar. Of course they had agreed to this in advance, and Jason had never been one to turn down a spar, but he isn’t exactly in top form. Which is the reason for the spar in the first place. Plus, Jason has an inkling that Bruce is trying to gauge his current abilities to decide how much babysitting he needed on the mission.

“Let’s go through a few more code phrases,” Bruce says. “It’ll help with any contingencies.”

They move into the training mats, and without any further preamble, Bruce shifts into a ready stance. Jason matches it, trying to loosen up in this body before things get real. He knows he has to adapt, quickly. Bruce strikes, each move clean, deliberate, but there’s an unmistakable restraint in his steps. The realization irritates Jason, though he’s forced to admit he needs every bit of the leniency.

The first few hits feel sluggish, like his body’s fighting him with every move. He can see a strike coming, and his arm twitches to intercept it, but it’s slower, heavier. His brain fires off the right cues, but his muscles don’t follow like they should, and Bruce’s gloved hand slides under his guard, tapping his shoulder.

“Code phrase for splitting up in an ambush?” Bruce demands, not giving him any time to reset.

Jason grits his teeth. “Magpie in the branches,” he bites out, ducking under another swing and aiming a jab that Bruce sidesteps.

Bruce nods, barely approving. “And the phrase for when you need medical support in the field?”

Jason pivots, blocking another hit just in time. “Tower down,” he answers, a beat late.

“And the code phrase for requesting a clean exit?” Bruce quips, voice calm as ever.

Jason grimaces, catching his breath. “Fade to black.” He locks eyes with Bruce, irritation visible. “I’ve got it, alright? Just give me a second.”

Bruce’s expression remains unreadable, but he pauses. “You need time to adjust to this body,” he says, then drops his hands to his sides. “It’s no small task. But I’ll push you in the field, Jason. I have to know you can keep up.”

Jason clenches his jaw, frustration simmering just below the surface, but he nods and re-steadies his stance.

The two finish running through a few final code phrases—and hand signals—and wrap up sparring before moving on to suit up. As Jason tightens his gauntlets, he hesitates and glances at Bruce.

“One more thing, though,” Jason says. “Can you, uh… not call me Red Hood? In my world, I never took that on, so it’s… weird.”

Bruce doesn’t visibly react. “Understood. What’s your preferred codename?”

“Nightwatcher,” Jason replies. “That’s what I go by back home.”

“Nightwatcher, then,” Bruce says, giving the name a quick nod of acknowledgement.

Without another word, Bruce turns and leads Jason further into the Cave, heading toward a bookcase in the back that swivels to reveal a hidden staircase descending deeper underground. Jason lets out a low whistle. “Fancy,” he mutters, eyes sweeping over the stone walls and the passage’s sleek lighting.

The stairs lead them to a hidden hangar, where various sleek vehicles are lined up like pieces of a well-planned arsenal. Bruce gestures to the jet nearest them. “You should ride with me.”

Jason pauses, a hint of confusion flashing across his face. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s more efficient this way, isn’t it?”

Bruce says nothing, just presses his palm against a console to open the jet’s hatch. Jason follows him in, feeling a brief pang as he remembers: things are different here. Their relationship is different. Just how bad, he still doesn’t know—not bad enough where he wouldn’t stand in front of a weapon for Bruce, but not good enough where he could (or wanted to?) ride in the same vehicle as Bruce. How complicated. Jason shakes off the thoughts as he settles into the co-pilot seat beside Bruce, gripping the armrest as the jet’s systems hum to life.

The flight to the facility is weighed down by a thick, uncomfortable silence, each minute stretching. Jason doesn’t make any attempt to break it, stubbornly fixed on the blurred horizon as Bruce adjusts the controls. When Bruce finally hands him an earpiece, Jason takes it wordlessly, slipping it into his ear.

“Outfitted to work inside a Faraday cage,” Bruce explains. “Last facility had one; this one may as well.”

Jason gives a nod, noting that the earpiece fits perfectly, not even a hint of discomfort. As he leans back, attempting to be casual, he asks, “So… this whole alternate dimension thing. Jarring for you as much as it is for me?”

A low grunt from Bruce. Typical, but Jason knows that means he’s listening.

“Things here… they’re just different. Some things, so different I don’t know how to wrap my head around it,” Jason continues, his voice low.

Bruce is silent for a beat, then nods slowly. “The differences are very apparent. You and your Bruce… you seem close. Closer than we are.”

Jason scoffs. “It’s that obvious?”

“You’ve dropped enough hints to make it pretty clear—specifically one big historical difference that could explain why this could be the case,” Bruce says. Right. No Red Hood means no vendetta. No vendetta could mean many things, no rift for instance. No death. Bruce clears his throat. “Moving on, there are also physical differences I noticed. During our spar, your reflexes were sharp. But your movement suggests you’re used to a different body, too—a smaller, more agile build.”

Jason snorts, folding his arms across his chest. “Of course you noticed that. And hey, not all of us can be built like a brickhouse.”

“But,” Bruce continues, as if he hadn’t heard, “you still eat sandwiches by finishing the crusts first.”

Jason feels his cheeks heat up, caught off-guard. “I… save the best parts for last, alright?” he mutters, half under his breath.

A hint of a smile tugs at Bruce’s mouth, so brief that Jason almost misses it. “I see.”

Jason shifts in his seat, the silence between him and Bruce growing heavier with every passing mile. Finally, he can’t hold back anymore. “Do you… think you and your Jason could ever fix things?” he asks, almost hesitantly.

Bruce’s gaze remains fixed on the jet’s controls. “I don’t know,” he replies, his voice even but subdued. “Too much has happened. These days, we barely exchange more than mission briefings.”

Jason nods, uncomfortable as he recalls that this world’s Jason even has Bruce’s number blocked. He clears his throat. “What… what happened?” The question escapes him quietly, an urge gnawing at him to understand—to maybe prevent whatever drove this Jason and Bruce apart from happening back in his world.

Bruce sighs, and after a long pause, he says, “Are you aware of why this version of you chose to take on the mantle of the Red Hood?”

“Yeah,” Jason says, glancing away. “Dick gave me the SparkNotes. But still, Red Hood? Seems… dramatic, doesn’t it?” Jason pauses, considering. “Look, Bruce—you’re his dad. Of course you’re going to grieve him. It’s not a surprise that you wouldn’t break your code just for revenge. Is a part of me kind of bummed you wouldn’t avenge my death? Sure. But I get it. Your moral code, why you won’t break it—it’s clear.”

Jason plays with a white bang covering his eyes before continuing. “And if you weren’t, then Dick would definitely do it.” He then straightens his back, his head whipping towards Bruce. “Hypothetically!”

Bruce’s hands tighten on the wheel, and he responds quietly, “Dick did actually try to kill Joker after… you… he died. I stopped him.”

Jason stares, caught off guard. “You’re kidding me.”

“No. It was something I couldn’t allow him to go through with—to have that on his hands. But it… it almost happened,” Bruce admits, a shadow passing over his face.

Jason lets out a low whistle. “See? So he picked the name to be dramatic for no reason.”

“To be fair to him, Jason doesn’t know about Dick’s attempt to take out the Joker.”

Jason is baffled. Flummoxed. Discombobulated. “You’re shitting me.”

“If he does know, then Dick must have told him,” Bruce says. “Otherwise, I haven’t brought it up with him.” He looks like he wants to continue, to confess something else. It honestly makes Jason feel like he's a priest listening to a confessional. But Bruce remains quiet.

Jason glances at Bruce. “Look, even if Dick hadn’t gone after Joker… taking on the Joker’s old name? That’s one wild reaction. Even without knowing about any revenge attempts, picking ‘Red Hood’ of all things…” Jason trails off, a disbelieving shake of his head finishing his thought. What could have happened to make this version of him use ‘Red Hood’ of all mantles? “You should tell him.”

“We're here,” Bruce says, immediately squashing the conversation. They land among the trees, quite a ways from the facility. Jason nods, checking his equipment one more time as the two disembark into the shadowy cover of the nearby woods.

The facility looms in the distance, all sharp angles and unwelcoming steel, its perimeter dotted with cameras and patrolling guards. Jason sticks close to Bruce, letting him take the lead. They move like phantoms, slipping through the trees and underbrush without a sound.

“Camera ahead,” Bruce murmurs through the earpiece, crouching low. Jason follows suit, watching as Bruce angles his gauntlet to project a quick disruption signal to the camera’s feed. The lens sparks, jerking to the side, and Bruce waves Jason forward.

Once inside, Jason can’t help but feel the oppressive atmosphere. The walls are stark white, illuminated by cold, fluorescent lighting that hums faintly overhead. The faint murmur of distant voices adds nothing but an eerie quiet to an already liminal aesthetic that Jason doesn’t really care for.

The duo hug the walls, sticking to the shadows as they navigate the labyrinthine corridors. Bruce’s hand signals are precise, and Jason follows them instinctively, muscle memory kicking in even as he struggles to fully adjust to his larger frame.

There’s a moment of panic when Jason misjudges the width of a doorway, his shoulder brushing against the frame with a faint thunk. He freezes, heart pounding, as Bruce whips his head around to glare at him. Somewhere down the hall, a guard pauses, turning in their direction.

Jason presses himself flat against the wall, holding his breath. Bruce points to a vent above them, signaling for Jason to climb. Jason scowls but obeys, lifting himself into the narrow space with as much quiet as his unfamiliar bulk allows. The guard moves on, oblivious, and Jason exhales in relief.

“Close,” Jason whispers through the earpiece.

“Too close,” Bruce replies, his tone clipped.

They continue forward, weaving around patrolling guards and ducking under the sweep of security cameras. When they encounter a locked door, Bruce deploys a small device from his utility belt, bypassing the lock in seconds. Inside is a smaller hallway, lined with access terminals.

Halfway through, they encounter a guard standing by a control panel. Jason gestures for Bruce to wait, then creeps forward, his steps silent as a shadow. He taps the guard on the shoulder, and when the man turns, Jason expertly strikes a pressure point on his neck. The guard stiffens, his body locking up as if paralyzed, before crumpling silently to the floor.

Jason looks back at Bruce and gives him a thumbs up. Bruce tilts his head slightly, his only acknowledgment, before continuing down the hallway.

They reach a secured room where Bruce sets to work on a terminal. The soft glow of the screen illuminates his face as he downloads dossiers of each department and its ongoing projects. Jason keeps watch at the door, scanning for any signs of approaching danger.

“Security’s been tightened,” Bruce murmurs, his fingers a dancing blur across the keyboard, “but nothing we can’t handle.”

“Find anything good?” Jason asks, his voice low.

“Better than good,” Bruce replies. “The fuel is here. Not much—just enough for a sample. But I’ve got the molecular structure. We can synthesize more.”

“Well, that’s convenient,” Jason mutters, glancing down the hall.

Bruce finishes the download and nods. “Room 3B. It’s in production storage.”

The pair make their way to the storage room, where Bruce quickly locates the sample they need. Jason keeps an eye on the door, his muscles tense as Bruce carefully extracts the container.

“Got it,” Bruce confirms, sealing the sample in a protective case.

“Then let’s get out of here.”

The escape from the facility goes smoother than Jason expects. The pair slip past guards and navigate the halls with silent precision, leaving no trace of their presence. Not a single alarm blares as they make their way out, the fuel sample and the downloaded data safely in hand.

Inside the jet, Jason slumps into his seat, exhaling heavily. “Well, that was fun.”

Bruce doesn’t respond, already piloting them away from the scene. Jason glances at the sample secured in a compartment, a small grin tugging at his lips. They were one step closer in getting him home.

On the way back to base—Batbase?—Jason watches as Bruce begins sifting through the downloaded data on his gauntlet, the light casting a faint glow on his focused expression.

“I’m going to need help going through this,” Bruce finally says, not looking up from the screen. “Tim’s in the city. We might need to bring him in.”

Jason catches the subtle inflection in Bruce’s voice—this wasn’t just information, it was a warning. It clicks almost immediately. This Jason has a problem with Tim. Or maybe it’s the other way around?

Jason leans further back into his seat, crossing his arms. “Sure, whatever,” he replies casually, though his mind is racing.

Bruce glances at him briefly before returning his attention to the data. “I’ll contact him, he might be there once we’re back.”

Jason simply nods. First Damian, then Bruce, now Tim? Even talking with Dick felt strained. Was this Jason harboring resentment for the whole family ever since he got revived, or was it something else entirely?

The sky begins to darken as they get closer to their destination, the sun dipping low, painting streaks of orange purple across the horizon. As the jet begins its descent, Jason’s gaze flickers to the unfamiliar forest below. It’s more sparse than what he’s used to, and he has to remind himself that it’s because this isn’t Wayne Manor.

Pennyworth Manor, he corrects silently.

The aesthetic of the tunnel to the Batbase is similar to the one back home, at least, resulting in Jason absentmindedly watching the small lights fly past them in an otherwise darkened pathway—a small sense of familiarity in all of this chaos. His mind drifts to Alfred. The Manor is named after him, but Jason hasn’t seen him yet—not once since he arrived. A dark thought creeps into his mind, What if Alfred... left them?

The idea sends a cold drop of dread into his stomach. He clamps down on it quickly, deciding not to bring it up. Sometimes, it’s better not to know. The hiss of the hatch opening brings Jason out of his thoughts, looking up just in time to see Bruce jumping out of the jet.

The hangar doors slide open, and Bruce walks ahead, his focus on the data in his gauntlet. “I’ll go over this until Tim gets here,” Bruce says. “If you need anything, help yourself.”

“Sure,” Jason mutters, watching Bruce disappear down the corridor.

Left alone, Jason decides to explore the Manor upstairs. It’s smaller than the sprawling Wayne estate he grew up in, though the place still exudes wealth. He notices signs of recent refurbishment—new paint, updated fixtures, an overall more modern aesthetic—but what strikes him most is what’s missing.

Family photos.

The walls are sparse compared to the ones he’s used to. His brow furrows as he spots a few framed pictures here and there. He can recognize a younger Jason in very few of them, but after a certain point, he vanishes from the snapshots altogether.

He steps closer to a hallway wall, his eyes scanning the images. There’s no recent photo of all of them together. Not one.

Jason’s gaze catches on a picture of Barbara. In one photo, she’s seated in a wheelchair, smiling brightly as she holds a cup of coffee. His brow furrows. Barbara... in a wheelchair?

That hadn’t happened in his world. His Barbara had never been put in one to begin with. His mind spins, trying to piece it together. What could’ve happened to put her there in the first place?

His eyes drift to a more recent photo. In it, Barbara stands beside Dick, her arm linked with his, looking as steady as ever.

And then what? Jason’s thoughts spiral. She just stopped needing it?

He shakes his head, a gnawing curiosity creeping in. There’s a story there, something big. Something that didn’t happen in his world. Jason’s brow furrows as his mind flits to Damian, recalling his brother’s incident when he got shot in the back by that two-bit no-name thug. If not for Dick showing up in time, Damian could have ended up in a wheelchair—if Jason had decided not to call Talia. Could have. But he didn’t.

Jason runs his hand over his jaw, frowning. Is that what happened here? he speculates. The differences between their lives just keep piling up, and he isn’t sure whether to feel intrigued or unsettled.

Probably the latter. There are simply too many jagged edges, too many pieces he didn’t recognize. This place... it feels—it feels wrong. Jason stands still in the hallway, his thoughts swirling as he stares at the walls.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulls him from his ruminations. Bruce stops a few feet away, hands casually at his sides, but his presence is commanding as always.

“Jason,” Bruce starts, his tone almost too neutral—like he’s delivering mission intel. “Tim is on his way. Apparently, today is… date night.”

Jason blinks, confused. “Date night?”

“Yes,” Bruce says, clearing his throat. “He’s bringing Bernard. And I’ve been informed this is non-negotiable.”

Jason’s eyebrows knit together as he rifles through his mental files. “I have no idea who that is.”

Bruce inclines his head. “Right,” he says, clearing his throat. “Bernard is Tim’s boyfriend.”

Jason raises his eyebrows. “Huh. Good for him.”

His thoughts drift to his own Tim—chronically ‘bi himself’, as Damian liked to tease at every opportunity. The memory of his little brother's smug grin and over-the-top delivery shines bright in his mind. Damian had always paused at the end, waiting for everyone’s reaction, despite the ‘joke’ being used in ad nauseam. The corner of Jason’s mouth twitches, and before he can stop it, he’s smiling.

Bruce’s gaze lingers on him, studying his reaction. Jason notices, wishing Bruce would just ask instead of stare. He shakes his head, waving a dismissive hand. “Just remembering an inside joke from back home.” He lets out a small chuckle. “It’s… actually not that funny, but it always got a laugh out of Damian.” He always like to laugh at his own jokes.

“I see...” Bruce says, his voice measured. His head tilts slightly, and Jason finally hears the faint rumbling—an engine of sorts—that must have caught Bruce’s attention. Jason doesn’t recognize the vehicle, but judging by his luck so far...

“It’s Tim,” Bruce says, already heading toward the stairs.

Jason watches him go, thinking to himself, Maybe this is how Bruce knew I was at the door earlier. He hears everything, like a dog or something.

The doorbell rings—a single chime at first. Then it rings again. And again. And again, before it becomes an obnoxious cacophony of overlapping chimes.

Jason follows Bruce to the foyer, just in time to see him unlock the door, only to have Tim push his way in.

“Hey,” Tim mutters, barely looking up. “Where’s the fire?”

Behind him, someone carrying an absurd amount of groceries trudges in without hesitation, making a beeline for the kitchen. Jason narrows his eyes, assuming this is Bernard. Either this guy has balls of steel or Alfred isn’t as territorial about the kitchen here. If Alfred even lives here.

Jason shakes the thought off as Tim finally notices him. Their eyes meet—momentarily shocking Jason with Tim’s piercing blue irises, another reminder he’s not in his own world—and Tim gives him a curt nod. It’s not the coldest greeting Jason’s ever had, but it’s far from warm. Jason nods back, keeping his expression neutral.

Bruce closes the door and steps toward them. “I need your help with the formula for this alien compound.”

“This could have been an email,” Tim says, rolling his eyes. Despite his annoyance, he still walks to a nearby closet, shrugging off his coat.

“Even if it’s Xenoflux?”

That gets Tim’s attention. His body whips around, eyes wide. “Wait, Xenoflux? But that’s highly unstable—the excess energy it emits during use is too high to be sustainable.”

“Which is why I need your help, Tim,” Bruce says. “With both of us, we can figure how to stabilize the compound.”

Tim doesn’t hesitate after that. His pace quickens, all traces of his earlier nonchalance gone, as he heads straight for the Batcellar. Jason lingers for a second, watching Tim disappear down the passageway.

“Wow,” Jason mutters. “The magic words.”

Bruce doesn’t respond, already moving after Tim, leaving Jason to follow. 

In the Batcellar, Tim sits in front of the console, eyes darting back and forth as he scans the data pulled on the screen of the Walmart Batcomputer. Okay, that’s mean. It’s probably just as efficient. Just... different—everything feels more analogue than what he’s used to. Tim is eerily still as he works, save for the occasional flick of a finger to scroll.

Bruce and Jason finally catch up to him, positioning themselves on either side. Jason folds his arms, learning slightly to get a better view.

“What do you think?” Bruce asks.

Tim whistles low, still glued to the screen. “This is... really impressive work. The people creating this definitely knew what they were doing, but they’re missing—” he pauses, muttering something technical under his breath, “—I’ll need a little time, but yeah, I’ll get it done.”

“Thanks Tim,” Jason says, his hand instinctively reaching to ruffle Tim’s hair.

It’s not until his fingers are tangled in the strands and Tim freezes that Jason realizes, oh crap, maybe I shouldn’t be doing this here.

Oh well, too late to back down now. He tousles Tim’s hair anyway, leaving it a mess of spikes sticking in directions. 

Tim blinks slowly, eyes wide in shock. He looks from Jason, to Bruce. “Did he get brain damage?” 

Bruce lets out a low grunt, his face an unreadable mask.

“You didn’t explain it before he got here?” Jason asks, incredulous.

Tim squints at Jason, then looks to Bruce. “Explain what?”

Bruce sighs, his voice steady but weary as he finally says, “He’s not our Jason. He’s from another dimension. Bodyswapped. It’s why we need the Xenoflux, to fuel the device that can reverse the swap.”

Tim’s eyes narrow, flicking between the two of them like he’s waiting for someone to yell gotcha. “You’re joking.”

Jason gestures to himself. “Does this feel like a joke?”

“What about—” Tim starts to question when Bruce shakes his head. 

“Not a clone,” Bruce interrupts. “And nothing in his blood either.” 

Jason’s jaw drops, incredulity filling him. “Hold up, you drew my blood? Without asking?” 

Bruce stares deadpan. Jason presses his right hand to his chest, gripping at the approximate area of his heart. 

“That is a complete invasion of privacy! I cannot believe—wait no, I grew up with Donnie. I can totally believe it. But from you, Bruce? B-man? Dad? My own kidnapper?” 

“Dad?” “Donnie?” Bruce and Tim speak at the same time, incredulous. The former sounds more thrown off than anything, as if he’s unused to the title, whether by the infrequent use, or the lack of use, Jason does not know.

Jason lets out a sigh. “Multiversal difference, it’s way too much to explain right now,” he says, waving them off. On the surface, he’s nonchalant, but Jason inwardly hopes that the two don’t try to ask for specifics.

Tim’s shoulders hunch a bit. “Well, what about the kidnapper thing?”

“Did B not do that here? Because mine brought me to a secondary location after I tried to steal the tires right off the Batmobile.” 

Bruce and Tim sit in silence for a moment before Bruce admits, in a tone that is almost sheepish, “That… did happen.”

“Huh,” Jason hums, “the more things change the more things stay the same…” 

“Can we get back on track?” Bruce asks. 

Tim tilts his head, squinting harder. “Okay. Yeah. Random parallel universe encounter on a random Saturday evening. Sure. Why not? What’s next, multiversal time loop?”

“Well, now you’ve manifested it,” Jason mutters.

Tim’s lips twitch in a smirk. “If one pops up, I’m blaming you.”

“You would,” Jason retorts, crossing his arms. “Though if it’s me dealing with it, I’ll just dump it on my Tim. That’s his department.”

“Your Tim?” Tim echoes, raising an eyebrow. He pats his hair down, suddenly conscious of the state that it’s in. “You’re talking like he deals with multiversal time loops often.”

“Okay, well not specifically. But he deals with the weird shit.”

Tim scoffs. “Yeah, figures. Who’s taller?” And then before Jason can answer, Tim continues, “it’s him, isn’t it?”

Jason snickers. “Honestly? I think it’s you. He’s consumed so much coffee as a kid it probably stunted his growth or something.”

Tim wrinkles his nose. “Coffee?”

“Not a fan?”

“Energy drinks are obviously superior,” Tim huffs. “There’s no way a version of me could make such a wrong choice when it comes to caffeine.

Bruce clears his throat, cutting through their banter. “Tim. Focus.”

“He mixed like 10 shots of espresso with a Red Bull concentrate once,” Jason unhelpfully supplies.

Tim raises an eyebrow in interest. “Oh? How did that go?”

“He’s banned from doing it ever again.”

“Okay, but was it efficient? How well did it work?”

“Tim,” Bruce says once more.

“Fine, fine,” Tim says, turning back to the screen. “But seriously, I want details about this Red Bull espresso later.” He scrolls through the data briskly, eyes darting across the screen. “Wait, hold up. Look at this,” he says, pointing to a highlighted section in the report.

Bruce leans in, scanning the text. “Hmm. That explains the instability,” he mutters.

“Exactly,” Tim replies, the two quickly delving into a heated exchange of theories and potential fixes for the Xenoflux compound... fuel... thing. Words like quantum resonance and energy harmonics fly between them.

Jason stands there for a moment, trying to follow along before deciding he absolutely does not care. Technobabble isn’t his thing. Slowly, he backs away, silently retreating toward the kitchen.

In the kitchen, Jason finds Bernard at the counter, chopping vegetables with precise, practiced movements. On a large plate nearby, there’s a neat pile of sliced carrots and cabbages, while a pot of water is warming on the stove, not yet simmering.

“Hey,” Jason greets.

Bernard glances up and greets him with a smile. It’s a friendly enough smile, albeit more cordial than anything. Neutral. “Hey, Jason.”

Jason nods toward the counter. “Need a hand?”

Bernard chuckles and gestures with his knife. “Got it covered for now. Any idea why Bruce dragged us away from date night?”

Jason hesitates. Unsure how much Bernard knows about the vigilante stuff, he plays it safe. “Work. Big, important work.”

Bernard raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press. Jason’s gaze shifts to the array of ingredients. Aside from the pile of vegetables, there’s enough aromatics to open up a shop; green scallions, garlic, ginger. In the center, there are two bowls of differing protein—one of which is definitely tofu—marinating in a dark sauce.

He gestures toward the spread. “Date nights usually involve cooking for a small village?”

Bernard barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Not usually. I was planning to make beef Wellington before the night got cut short. But hey, I can pivot.” He nods toward the bowl of marinating beef. “At least that tenderloin won’t go to waste.”

Jason feels a twinge of guilt, knowing Bruce pulling Tim away is for a good reason, but still. They need to get Jason back as soon as possible. He needs to get back to his own body, his own family. Without Tim, this whole process might take even longer. Jason’s thoughts suddenly latch onto the possibility of time dilation.

It had happened to Mikey, once. Why not him? What if by the time he gets back home, too much time has passed and he can’t keep up? What if everyone he knows has moved on without him?

Jason shakes the thought off. He’ll deal with that later if it comes to it. For now, he forces himself back to the present.

“Are you sure you don’t need help?” Jason offers once more.

Bernard scans the counter, considering. “Actually... you can peel the ginger.”

Jason nods, heading to the sink to wash his hands. Once clean, he rummages around for a spoon, then starts peeling the ginger with smooth, practiced motions. “So,” he says after a moment, “you really could’ve been making beef Wellington right now, huh? Fancy.”

Bernard grins. “Stir-fry’s still good. Besides, Tim loves it, and it’s quick. You’ve got to adapt, you know?”

Jason smirks. “Yeah. Adapting’s kind of my thing.”

“Yeah, going from two portions to six with no warning is a great way to keep me on my toes.”

Jason pauses mid-peel, his brow furrowing. “Wait. Six?”

Bernard looks up, confused but amused. “Yeah? You, Me, Bruce, Tim, Dick, and Damian.”

Jason blinks. “Right. Six.” He nods, almost forgetting about Dick and Damian entirely. Six, he thinks. It sounds like a lot, but it’s still a few heads shy compared to the crowd he’s used to sitting with during meals back home. It would still be quite uncanny, though—because they were all basically strangers to Jason.

The water in the pot begins to boil aggressively, and Bernard turns around to drop in a few bundles of lo mein, his focus on the bubbling water. Jason watches absentmindedly, but his attention shifts to Bernard himself. Without meaning to, he starts studying Bernard’s features. There’s something familiar about him, like a memory just out of reach.

Then it clicks.

Jason straightens, snapping his fingers. “You’re the Dowd kid!” he exclaims, louder than he intends. “From Timmy’s APUSH class!”

Bernard startles, dropping a bundle of noodles into the pot too quickly, causing the water to splash dangerously close to his hand. He jerks back, glaring at Jason. “Uh... yeah?” he says, more confused than annoyed.

Jason quickly raises his hands in apology. “Sorry! You just looked familiar, and it was bugging me.”

Bernard gives him an odd look but shrugs. “Fair. But I didn’t know you knew me. You weren’t... around back then.”

Jason hesitates. He isn’t sure how to explain this discrepancy without sounding like a total weirdo. Finally, he lands on the least awkward answer he can manage.

“Uh... surprise?” he says, voice as unsure as the word itself.

Jason winces as the door is thrown open, the sound echoing through the quiet manor. Two sets of footsteps echo into the house—one light and frantic, moving quickly, the other fast but more restrained.

It doesn’t take long for the smaller set to arrive at the kitchen door, and Jason is greeted by Damian’s scowling face, his piercing eyes practically glowing with suspicion. “Todd,” Damian’s voice scatters through the house. “Or whatever the imposter's name is, I don’t care.”

Jason raises an eyebrow, setting down the peeled ginger. “Excuse me?” he replies, his tone deliberately calm.

“I know your ploy,” Damian announces, pointing an accusatory finger at Jason. “You might have fooled my naive and overly trusting brother—”

“ Hey!” Dick’s voice protests from the hallway, just out of sight.

“—with your pathetic excuse of ‘amnesia’, but I see through your lies!” Damian’s voice is low, practically growling.

Jason glances at Bernard, who’s watching the exchange with a raised brow and slightly widened eyes, clearly unsure whether to intervene. Jason just shrugs, feigning indifference. If Damian is saying this outright in front of Bernard, the blond must at least know the basics.

“Enlighten me, then,” Jason says, folding his arms and leaning casually against the counter.

Damian doesn’t miss a beat. “Honestly, if you are going to pretend to be somebody else, at least try to act like the person you’re trying to impersonate,” he starts. “Your first mistake is your initial attempt at cordial and civil conversation.” His lip curls with derision as he says it.

Jason resists the urge to roll his eyes. “That’s what you’re starting with?”

“Silence!” Damian snaps, then continues. “There is also the case of your sudden proficiency in equine handling.”

Jason blinks. Equine?

“And this!” Damian slaps his sketchbook onto the counter, open to the last page, filled with Jason’s earlier cowboy doodles. “Suddenly... artistic talents?” His voice drops to a near hiss. “Far above the skill of a novice, no less. You are not Jason Todd. You are an imposter. A body snatcher.”

Oh. Oh, that’s precious. He... he’s not... wrong, but he’s not right either. It’s honestly super endearing, in a rabid chihuahua kind of way. Jason is just about to answer, but Damian is already barreling forward.

“In the best interest of diplomacy—though you deserve none, for you have lied to my family and invaded my home—I demand that you relinquish Todd’s body immediately. If you do not…” His eyes flash, narrowing into slits. “…you will face the consequences.”

The kitchen falls into silence, save for the soft bubbling of water on the stove. Bernard glances between them, looking like he’s caught in the middle of a bizarre soap opera. Jason lets the quiet hang for a beat before chuckling, shaking his head.

“Honestly? My Damian would’ve come to the same conclusion.”

Damian stiffens, but he hides his shock with expert precision, narrowing his eyes instead. “Your Damian?” he repeats slowly, his tone sharp and probing. Jason can practically see the gears turning in his head, attempting to piece together the implications.

“Wow!” Bernard suddenly interjects, his voice cutting through the tension. Everyone turns to him as he flashes a wide, too-bright smile—one that reminds Jason of a Stepford wife on the edge of losing it. “Bat-stuff, huh? How interesting!”

His smile vanishes in an instant, replaced by a deadpan glare as he points toward the hallway. “Get. Out.”

Dick lets out an awkward laugh, grabbing Damian firmly by the shoulders. “Yeah, alright. It’s best we... have this conversation elsewhere, anyway,” he says, steering his brother toward the door.

“You too, skinwalker,” Bernard adds, leveling an unimpressed look at Jason.

Jason raises his hands defensively. “I’m not a skinwalker!” he protests, taking a step back.

“Out!” Bernard barks, refusing to entertain any further argument.

Jason sighs in defeat, muttering, “Man, no respect,” as he follows Dick and Damian out of the kitchen.

Jason steps into the hallway, his boots clicking faintly against the hardwood. He spots Dick, leaning against the archway that leads into the living room.

“He’s waiting for you,” Dick says, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Jason rolls his eyes, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Do I have a choice?”

Dick shrugs. “Not unless you want to be chased by a sword.”

“Yeah, I’d rather not,” Jason mutters, brushing past him. “Let’s get this over with.”

As Jason steps into the living room, he’s greeted by the sight of Damian seated in the largest armchair, fingers steepled under his chin. His piercing green eyes glare at Jason with calculated intensity, and his small frame radiates a sense of authority well beyond his years. The only thing missing from the image is a white cat to stroke ominously, Jason muses to himself.

Jason sits himself on the sofa across from the armrest, shifting in his seat in an attempt to get somewhat comfortable.

“Well,” Jason drawls, tilting his head. “This is cozy.”

Damian leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers still steepled. His eyes narrow slightly as if measuring his next words. Finally, he sighs.

“I may have... miscalculated the situation,” he admits, the words sounding as though they physically pain him to say.

Jason raises an eyebrow, waiting silently. He doesn’t even bother hiding the amused smirk creeping onto his face. Damian’s sigh deepens, clearly unimpressed by Jason’s reaction.

“After further observation,” Damian begins, his voice slow and deliberate, “and reevaluating the available data, I have arrived at a new conclusion. Perhaps... you are not an imposter in the traditional sense.” He pauses, his sharp gaze meeting Jason’s. “Instead, it is likely that you hail from an alternate reality. One that is both similar to and distinct from this one.”

Jason blinks, the smirk slipping slightly as he absorbs Damian's words. “An alternate reality, huh?” he finally says, leaning back slightly. “That’s the best you’ve got?”

Damian’s expression remains impassive, but there’s a flicker of pride in his tone as he continues. “It is the only logical explanation. Your behavior, your knowledge, and your unfamiliarity with certain elements of this world align with the idea of dimensional divergence. The biggest indication, however, was your recent admission of possessing a version of a ‘Damian’—” He pauses, scowling faintly at the phrasing, “—referring to him like he is an alternate version of me. All of this evidence points to displacement, not deceit.”

Jason nods slowly, doing his best to keep a straight face. “Well, I’ve gotta hand it to you, Damian. You pieced it together faster than most people would.”

Damian narrows his eyes. “Naturally. I am a genius, after all.”

“Right,” Jason drawls, clear amusement in his voice.

Damian leans back in the chair, his calculating expression returning. “That still doesn’t answer the more pressing question,” he says, voice clipped. “Why are you here in the first place? Surely you are aware of how disruptive this... switch is.”

Jason exhales sharply, biting back an annoyed retort. Of course someone would make it sound like this is all his fault—it being actually Damian of all people is a surprise to him, but he reminds himself that their worlds are just that different. He schools his temper, forcing his voice to remain steady.

“Look, I didn’t exactly choose to end up here,” Jason says, gesturing broadly. “It happened because your Jason and Bruce went on a mission. Something went sideways, and I got yanked here instead.”

Damian’s expression doesn’t change immediately, but there’s a flicker of something—concern, maybe—in his eyes. He sits still for a long moment, contemplating Jason’s answer. Finally, he asks, “Is he... safe?” His voice is measured, calculated, as though carefully stripped of emotion.

Jason catches the subtlety, though. The way Damian’s fingers tighten just slightly over the armrest, the too-casual phrasing. It’s all an effort to appear indifferent. Jason feels an internal smirk forming. What a little tsundere, he thinks with amusement.

“Far as I know,” Jason replies, tilting his head. “Your Jason’s fine. Probably grouchy about being stuck in my world, but he’s safe.”

Damian nods once, but there’s a hint of relief in the way his posture softens slightly. “Good,” he says, curtly. “That is... acceptable.”

Jason hides his grin. Kid can’t even admit he’s worried. He then leans back slightly, crossing his arms as he regards Damian. “The family will keep him safe. Unless, of course, he tries to go off on his own and gets into trouble.”

Damian’s brow furrows, his expression deepening with thought. From the doorway, Dick, still leaning casually against the frame, muses, “That does sound like something Jason would do.”

Jason snorts. “Well, he is me.”

Dick’s chuckle takes on a worried edge, but he nods in agreement. “Fair point.”

“But because he is me, he’ll be fine.” Probably.

“Also fair.”

Damian narrows his eyes slightly, clearly weighing his next question. “I would like to inquire about the differences. Between you and him.” He pauses, his tone softening, though he tries to mask his curiosity. “Where, for example, did your... interest in art come from? It is not something my—our Jason has ever exhibited any inclination toward.”

Jason catches the effort Damian is making to sound nonchalant. It’s obvious this Damian wants to talk about something that interests him. It’s oddly adorable, Jason muses.

He shrugs, playing it casual. “Honestly? I don’t know how to answer that. It’s just always been something I liked doing before—” He stops himself abruptly, before he could make a reference to Raphael. He clears his throat and quickly pivots. “Before I met Bruce.”

Damian nods thoughtfully. “Interesting,” he says, the word slow and deliberate, but there’s a spark of something else in his eyes—maybe appreciation, maybe understanding. Jason’s not quite sure, but it’s enough to make him feel just a bit more at ease.

“From what I can tell,” Jason begins, “you’re kind of different from my Damian too.”

Damian’s interest piques immediately, though he tries to hide it, his head tilting slightly. “In what way?”

“Well,” Jason says, rubbing the back of his neck, “my Damian likes to draw too, but he only dabbles now and then. His real passion is food—gastronomy experiments, mostly.”

Damian’s brow raises, curiosity flickering in his expression. Jason’s about to elaborate, to mention how his Damian and Alfred spend hours in the kitchen together, but he hesitates. Alfred’s probably a sensitive subject here, he thinks, quickly steering the conversation elsewhere.

“Anyway,” Jason continues, “he also spends a lot of time teaching Jellybean absurd tricks.”

Damian blinks. “Jellybean?”

“Yeah, his dog,” Jason says, waving a hand like it’s obvious. “Your dog?”

There’s a pause, then Damian’s brows knit together. “What about Titus?”

Jason tilts his head. “Titus? Unless he’s keeping Titus a secret, Damian only has Jellybean, the smartest Great Dane I’ve ever met.”

“Ah,” Damian says after a beat, his expression carefully neutral as he processes this. “Perhaps Jellybean and Titus are the same dog, merely named differently.”

Jason shrugs, nodding at the possibility. “Could be.”

Damian narrows his eyes slightly, pressing on. “And what about the others?”

Jason frowns. “Others?”

Damian’s face falls, just slightly. “Jerry? Goliath? Wiggles? Bat-Cow? Alfred?”

Jason blinks, his mind scrambling. Alfred? Is... is Alfred a pet in this world? That’s... that’s too weird. Out loud, he says slowly, “My Damian only has Jellybean.”

Damian’s expression turns crestfallen, his shoulders sinking. The disappointment is palpable, even as he tries to mask it. “Not even Ace?”

“…No?”

“Surely your Richard has Haley.”

Jason shakes his head and Damian’s hands form into tight fists.

“Hey, they’re all smart animals,” Dick offers. “They would’ve survived somehow.”

Damian nods mutely, though the sentiment doesn’t seem to fully land. Jason studies him, feeling an odd pang of sympathy. It’s clear these animals mean a lot to him. 

Jason offers a small smile, trying to lift Damian's spirits. “Hey, why don’t you introduce them to me then? I’d like to get to know them.”

Damian straightens slightly, but the faint flicker of melancholy doesn’t leave his eyes. “They are not here,” he explains, tone clipped, though there’s a touch of resignation to it. “This residence doesn’t have the necessary space to house them, and without Alfred…” His voice falters for a fraction of a second before he continues. “I would not have time to care for them properly. They currently reside with Krypto on the Kent farm—aside from Haley, who of course, lives with Richard and Gordon in Blüdhaven.”

“Ah,” Jason says, nodding slowly. Inside, though, he’s more confused than ever. Wait… so is Alfred a pet? Or is he still talking about the same Alfred who raised all of us? Did Damian name a pet after him? The thought makes Jason chuckle internally. That’s kind of adorable, actually.

Still, the mystery of where this world’s Alfred is lingers at the edge of his mind. Better not bring it up and risk making things awkward, Jason decides.

Also, why is Dick living with Barbara?

Before the silence can stretch, Bernard’s voice booms from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready!”

Dick perks up from his spot by the archway. “I’ll get Bruce and Tim. Or, you know… try to.” He pushes off the arch’s frame with a stretch before heading toward the Batcellar.

Jason barely registers Dick’s surprised, “Tim?!” before the younger man steps into view, a wild gleam in his eyes—one that Jason recognizes way too often on his own brother.

“Don’t move, Jason!” Tim commands. His voice is sharp, eyes fixed on him like a predator cornering prey.

Before Jason can even utter a single word, Tim fires off a device in his hand.

A sudden wave of nausea crashes over him, making the room spin. It can only be described as a miracle that Jason is able to recognize that Tim was aiming the raygun from before. Jason’s legs give out beneath him as he stammers, “Tim, what the… fuu—” His words slur into incoherence, and darkness takes over before he even hits the ground.

Jason wakes with the same nauseating throb pounding in his head as before, feeling like he’s been clocked by a crowbar. The sight of his bedroom greets him, everything in its proper place—the old band posters, the faint smell of leather and acrylic paint. Even the corkboard that he keeps telling himself he was going to hang up again but always forgetting to rests on the wall across from him.

For a moment, he wonders if it’s all been a dream. But as he sits up, the memory of Tim’s crazed expression and that damn raygun comes rushing back.

He’s home.

Without hesitation, he bolts out of his room, shouting as he searches for someone, anyone to celebrate his return with. “I’m back! I’m back, guys!” His enthusiasm takes a small hit when he realizes the manor is eerily quiet. He finally stumbles into Alfred in the kitchen, who’s giving Jellybean his evening treat.

“Master Jason,” Alfred greets, his voice as calm as ever, though his eyebrows lift in faint surprise.

Jason doesn’t bother with words, pulling Alfred into a bear hug that catches the butler completely off guard. “Missed you, Alfred,” Jason mumbles into the starched lapel of Alfred’s vest. It’s felt like a lifetime since he’s hugged his grandfather.

“Welcome back, my boy,” Alfred says, voice full of warmth. There is a lingering in his voice, as if he wants to ask Jason a question, but he doesn’t. Instead, he simply lets Jason hug him, even as his arms are pinned to his sides.

Jason finally releases Alfred, silently promising to get back to Alfred later—when he finally gets down from the exhilarating high of making it back. He crouches down to hug Jellybean, who responds with a delighted bark and an enthusiastic lick to his nose.

“Where’s everyone else?” Jason asks, rubbing Jellybean’s ears as the dog thumps his tail against the floor.

“On patrol, as you might expect,” Alfred replies, adjusting his cuffs. “Master Tim is managing communications downstairs if you wish to inform him of your return.”

Jason’s already halfway down the hall before Alfred finishes his sentence, his socks sliding against the polished floor as he makes a sharp turn toward the Batcave. Barrelling down the stairs, Jason spots Tim at the Batcomputer, typing away with a focused expression.

“I’m back!” Jason announces dramatically, arms wide.

Tim doesn’t even look up. “Uh-huh. Thought you were sleeping upstairs?”

Jason points an accusatory finger. “You zapped me, you little maniac!”

Tim finally glances up, confusion written all over his face. “What? I didn’t zap you.”

Jason waves him off. “Not you. Your counterpart.” He then lets out a small hum. “Huh, but I guess I can’t be that mad at him since I’m back.”

Tim stares at him for a long moment, then switches to Japanese. “What kind of mutant was Master Splinter?”

Jason groans, rolling his eyes. In Japanese, he answers, “He was a rat.” Then, in English, he adds, “It’s really me, you dork.”

Tim sighs, his shoulders relaxing. “Noted.” He taps his earpiece. “Jason’s back. All’s good. He’s being a little hyper, though.”

Jason chooses to ignore that jab. Instead, he steps closer towards the monitors, letting the sights, sounds, and familiar air of the Batcave wash over him. Everything feels normal again. He really is home.

But he can’t resist teasing. “By the way, your counterpart? Has a boyfriend.”

Tim blinks, processing the statement. His lips twitch before he mutters, almost to himself, “Oh, right. I knew I forgot something.”

Jason stares at him, his mind screeching to a halt. “What?” he manages, his voice an octave higher than usual.

He then snatches the headset off Tim’s head, ignoring his brother’s immediate shout of protest. He clears his throat before announcing dramatically, “Attention, everyone. Breaking news: Timothy Drake-Wayne has been hiding a secret boyfriend!”

The comms explode into chaos, loud enough to be heard from the headset without needing to put them on.

“What?!” Dick’s voice comes first, shrill with shock.

“Wait— what?” Stephanie echoes, her tone veering between delight and betrayal.

“Donnie!” Damian’s voice cuts in, sharp with indignation. In a quieter intonation, he adds, “You kept this from me?”

“The horror! The betrayal!” Jason bemoans.

Tim lunges for the headset. “Jason! Stop making a big deal out of this!”

Jason cackles, ducking out of Tim’s reach. “Oh, this is definitely a big deal!”

“You didn’t even tell me?” Cass chimes in next, sounding genuinely hurt.

“Yeah, not even Cass?” Jason questions.

“I just forgot!” Tim splutters, blushing red.

“This isn’t something you ‘forget’!” Dick informs him. “How long has this been going on? Who is he? Do I know him? Where does he live?”

In the chaos, Jason doesn’t notice Tim repositioning until it’s too late. Tim elbows him—hard—right in the ribs. Jason stumbles back, wheezing, but keeps his grip on the headset like it’s a lifeline.

“Give it back!” Tim growls, diving for him. The two wrestle, both trying to gain control of the headset, with Jason laughing so hard he can barely breathe. Tim finally manages to shove Jason off, yanking the headset back and shoving it over his ears. “Guys—okay, I get it, I get it, I’m sorry. Wait, what am I even sorry for? This isn’t any of your business!”

Jason remains on the floor, sprawled out like a starfish with a huge grin on his face, a soreness in his cheeks and stomach from laughing too hard. He thinks the hit on his ribs is going to bruise but he doesn’t care about that in the least bit. He’s home, and that’s all that matters.