laroyena writing stuffs

“What the hell is yourproblem!” Dick shouted when Wally firmly locked the door behind him. “You’vebeen off mission all day—”

“Dick, just because you had theguy’s baby doesn’t mean you need to stay with him,” Wally said, because theirtime here was limited and he needed to use every second of it. “If you’reworried about being on your own, there’s me, there’s Clark—you’re not trappedwith Bats, no matter what he says.”

“Jesus, Wall. You think I’mwith Bruce because I feel like I have to?”Dick’s eyes shone bright with anger. “When the fuck have I ever done anything Idon’t want to do?”

“Don’t pull that on me!” Wallyshouted at him. “I watched you cry becauseyou thought of disappointing Batman. You don’t think I know the lengths you’llgo just to get a scrap of approval from the bastard?”

“And you think spreading mylegs counts as… what? My payment to ensure Batman approves of me as a hero?What kind of monster do you think he is?”

“I don’t know!” Wally threw uphis hands. The fighting was growing louder outside; their time was running out.“I don’t know, Dick. He fucking raised you since you were nine and then turnedaround and got you pregnant. Nothingabout that is right. It’s not right,and you’re my friend, and I worry.”

Dick turned slightly, face castdark in profile. He took a breath. Then, he said in a far more even tone thanWally had expected: “There’s nothing right about a kid having to watch hisparents fall to his death. There’s nothing right about one putting themselvesthrough scientific horrors just to earn the approval of their idol. There’snothing right about a lot of things in our line of work, Wall, so I focus onwhat I want instead. And I want him. He’s mine.And I need you to trust me when I say I came back to him of my ownvolition. I stayed in Italy for two entire years by myself, you don’t think Icould’ve kept that up indefinitely?”

Wally pursed his lips. Ifanyone knew anything about a Robin, it was that they were resourceful.

“Wally,” Dick said. It may havesounded like a statement, but it was a question. Wally hated it. He hated it, because even before h’delocked them in this closet he knew what he’d have to do.

It was the same conundrum he’dfound himself in when they were kids, thirteen and bratty, when Dick woulddisappear mid-mission and hold back secrets from the team and generally actlike the dysfunctional teenager he was. How angry Wally would get over Robinrisking the team, for not understanding that his behavior wasn’t normal. Especially for an omega, fromall Wally had heard about them.

But Robin wasn’t normal. Hedidn’t try to be, in direct contrast to Wally’s pathological desire to fit in, andperhaps that was the reason they quickly became friends. Best friends,actually, and Wally had had to learn to trust the kid wouldn’t slip and fallwhen he decided to do handstands on the light fixtures above. Clearly, he’dhave to learn this too.

“Fine,” Wally said. He pulledDick into a one-armed hug and pressed his nose into the omega’s soft hair. “ButI’m not happy about it.”

“Clearly,” Dick sighed, butthere was little bite behind his words. “Now can we please go and disable the laser cannon now?”

Wally tilted his head inacknowledgment… and they were off.

–

[Bruce and Dick get married in this verse; the drabble about it can be found HERE]

–

The wedding was a disaster. Wallyhadn’t expected anything less, considering the media spectacle surrounding thewhole thing, but it had still been pretty bad even by his worst estimates.

“I’m still not happy,” he toldDick, who was bouncing a sullen Damian in his lap on one of the many couches ofWayne manor. The bite on the omega’s neck stood out against his tan skin,undoubtedly reopened from his wedding night. Wally glared at it. “I don’t evenknow why, I’m just not.”

“Well, you can join Damian inthat club,” Dick said in a light tone, but there was steel behind his words.Wally’s skin crawled. Betas weren’t as attuned to pheromone shifts as otherdynamics, but one thing they were always aware of was danger. There was nothingmore dangerous than an angry omega next to their baby, not even an angry alpha.And Dick was the scariest fucking omega Wally knew.

Scarier than Hawkwoman, even,and everyone in their community’s witnessed the sheer rage she’s gone into onthe battlefield.

Dick wouldn’t actually hurtWally, he knew, but he found himself acquiescing anyway just in case. He’d seenDick wrangle Batman into acquiescing more than once. It wasn’t embarrassing forhim to do the same.

(And if there was one silverlining to the whole fiasco, it was the fact that Dick had more power over hisalpha than what it looked like on paper. Wally had suspected it peripherallybefore the Damian incident; but it was now confirmed after watching Dick like ahawk in the years since his return. When he called Bats out, he called him out, and while Wally stillhad mixed feelings about the guy it was viscerally satisfying to see himdressed down.)

“Dick,” Bruce Wayne appearedfrom the hallway, and speak of the devil. Wally forced his face into a neutralexpression. If Robin had been a dysfunctional teenager, Batman was an enigmawrapped in dysfunction wrapped in a Bat-shaped condom. He was a hero without adoubt, but was he a good person? Not even Uncle Barry was sure, especially notwith the whole thing with Dick.

But Barry had provided a tinybit of insight onto the alpha and omega thing.

“It’s hard for us to understandsince betas run in our families,” Barry had said after frowning at Bats’ short,awkward message inviting the League to his impromptu wedding. “We get theluxury of choosing who we love without the burden of hormones. But it doesn’tmean their relationships aren’t real.Sometimes pheromones sync up for a reason, and a compatible couple can be justas happy as us, you know?”

Which was his uncle’sroundabout way of saying how despite their less than ideal meeting and theireven less ideal relationship, Bruce and Dick were clearly hormonally tied. Andfor an alpha and omega couple, that was sometimes all they needed to be happy.

The ethics of hormonal versusintellectual matchmaking and its effect on consent had been impossible forWally to wrap his head around. Because despite the way pheromones affectedalphas and omegas, he’d laugh at anyone who dared say Dick Grayson had nocontrol over what he was doing. In all matters except Bats, Dick always knewwhat he was doing.

Like he’d said, in the fuckedup world they lived in, all he could sometimes count on was knowing what hewanted.

And Dick clearly did wantBruce, since he lit up at the sight of his alpha.

“’Sup, B,” he said, a beautifulwhite smile gracing his face. Bruce, in a move that surprised Wally in a goodway for once, ignored him in favor of cupping Dick’s cheek and pressing hismouth to his head. It was a strong, unabashed gesture, and if Dick was glowingbefore he was positively shining now.

“Wallace,” Bruce acknowledgedonce he pulled back. “Thank you for agreeing to babysit Damian while we goout.”

“Dick made me,” Wally said, andyelped when Dick elbowed him. “I mean, uh. Sure. It’s cool.”

Bruce regarded him with darkblue eyes. Wally resisted the urge to squirm. If he’d imagined blue eyes beingless intimidating than the glassy white of the Bat’s cowl, he’d be dead wrong.They were just as unfathomable.

Finally, he said, “I’m gladDick has a friend like you.”

Wally, flabbergasted at thepraise, couldn’t help but blurt out, “Huh, ‘cause the first thing I told him todo was to leave you.”

Oh shit.

Rather than immediately dieunder the intensity of a BatGlare, however, Bruce surprised him the second timein ten minutes by… by cracking a smile.

Wally wasn’t sure it was anyless horrifying.

“Exactly,” Bruce said like itexplained everything. He nodded at Dick, and Dick carefully unlatched Damianfrom his chest and handed him off to Wally.

The screaming started literallythe second the last chubby finger left his mother’s grip, but what was new.Between Lian and Damian, there was a reason everyone preferred babysittingLian.

But Wally had gotten it in hishead to prove to Dick he could be a Supportive and Good friend, and the mostglaring rift between them was his choice in life partner.

Taking care of their brat whilethey go out to dinner to celebrate Alfred’s birthday was the least he could do.

–

By the time Wally held Helenain his arms for the first time, he’d decided to let it go.

Not that he regretted hisearlier behavior, but whatever disapproving feelings he had weren’t worthlosing Dick’s friendship over. And Dick was happy. He was happy, and Wally didn’t even have to hear Dick say it to know it was true.

Wally had watched Dick’steenage angst fluctuate during their years together on the Teen Titans. He’dwatched the absolute train wreck of Dick and Bruce’s sexual relationship, onehe hadn’t even seen the worst of until Dick returned with a baby in tow. He’dspent more than one night wondering why the hell Dick and Roy hadn’t justgotten together, instead of one sleeping with a super-villain and the other getting knocked up by his guardian.

The first time may have been amistake, but the keeping the second one definitely wasn’t.

Wally would always keep an eyeout, but Dick was his friend and this was his family.

So he let it go.

“Let’s hope this one is morelike you,” he told Dick conversationally, nodding at Damian possessively curledup around his mother’s arm. Dick just rolled his eyes. “It’s hard enoughsplitting your attention with two bats, much less three.”

“Aw, Wall,” Dick smiled fondly,tired but happy. That’s all that mattered in the end, because it’s what Wallyhad always wanted for him.

Lian snorted. “I’ve seen you pantless since you wet your bed on my sixth birthday—”

“I was five!”

“—and trust me, I know you’re nothing special.”

Damian growled at her, especially when she went back to the game and kicked his character off a cliff. He threw his controller at her. She threw it back. Their virtual fight quickly continued in the real world, until Damian remembered Mom threatening to take away his XBox if he caught him and Lian roughhousing again.

He bit Lian’s arm until she let go with a curse, and scrambled a safe distance away to glare at her. Still, Damian Wayne was not one to so easily admit defeat.

He raised his chin and declared, “Prove it.”

Lian stopped laughing. “What?”

“Prove it’s bigger.”

“My cock isn’t going to just pop out ‘cause you say so,” Lian’s shock quickly morphed into defiant annoyance. “It only does that if I get a hard-on.”

“Then get a hard-on.”

“You do it,” Lian dared him, because when had she backed away from anything? She leaned back and spread her legs in challenge. “If you want to compare so much.”

Damian glanced at her jean shorts—under a dress top, and who wore pants and a dress?—and then back at her face. He hated losing to the older alpha. Hated it, and some tiny part of him was curious at how the other half of the gender divide lived. He knew what alpha guy’s cocks were like—never mind he had his own, there were plenty of family members he’d shared showers with at one point—but an alpha girl? Girls were scarce in their family, and Helena hadn’t even presented yet.

Lian’s eyes went big as saucers when Damian actually crawled towards her and tugged open her pants.

“Whoa,” she said when the boy yanked her shorts down to her knees. Grabbed her panties and slid those down too. He pressed his palms against her thighs because if he was doing this, he was going to get a real good look. Lian’s voice rose a pitch: “Seriously, Dami?”

Dami hadn’t seen Lian naked since they were kids, and especially not after she’d presented. Her cleft definitely looked a bit different: the round nub in the front was gone, swallowed up by lips that seemed far closer to the front than an unpresented girl. Lian yelped when he trailed a finger down past the opening of her sheath, to the sealed line of her perineum and back towards her ass.

Her sheath heaved outwards, and Damian blinked up at her.

Lian was flushed red, looking bewildered and breathless. It was such a foreign look on her face, Damian had the urge to laugh. He let his mouth spread into a wry smile instead, and crowed inwardly when Lian’s eyes narrowed.

“You caught me by surprise,” she insisted, like Damian couldn’t see the blunt shape of her cockhead peeking out from between her sheath lips. “I—”

He leaned in and licked the barely-visible tip of her penis. Wrinkled his nose at how Lian smelled; not bad, exactly, but definitely alpha. Sharp and acrid, and growing sharper with arousal.

“Dami,” Lian gasped, bending nearly in half when Damian pressed closer. She let out a little whine-moan when he pressed confident, curious fingers beside his tongue and stroked the buried side of her cock. “W-wait, I’m gonna—”

Her cock unsheathed with a slick pop—smacking Damian right in the nose.

He made an indignant noise and jerked back, “What the hell, Li!”

“I told you to stop!” Lian shouted back, cheeks so red they were almost on fire. She crossed her arm over her breasts and looked away, like her erect cock wasn’t fully bared to the world. Damian huffed at the sight of it. In general shape and size, it was similar enough to his own. But was it bigger? “But no, you never listen— what are you doing!”

“You got a hard-on,” Damian said baldly. He licked a bit of Lian’s slick from his lips and raised a brow when her gaze zeroed in on him. He liked having a bit of power over this alpha who’d tormented him his entire childhood; liked it enough that it was turning him on. He unbuckled his belt and let his own erection out. “So we can compare.”

“Oh my god,” Lian laughed, half mortified and half—half interested? Her scent was undeniably interested. “Only you’d take a dong-measuring contest literally—oof! Hey!”

Damian crawled over her, using surprise to his advantage. Lined them up just to see and oh. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. He’d pressed their cocks together and found, with definitive proof, that his own was bigger by a bit. Which was victory, except he hadn’t realized how good it’d feel to rub his cock against someone else’s. How good the sharp scent of alpha filled the space between them, even if this was Lian’s alpha scent and Lian was evil. It felt good enough for him to grind again.

“D-Dami,” Lian squirmed. She was red all the way down to her chest, and her cock twitched as he rocked against her. “God—that feels really good.” She yanked his hips closer, pressing them tighter together, and made an approving noise when Damian hooked a leg around her hip for leverage. “But we—probably shouldn’t do this?”

“You pulled me closer first,” Damian growled, finally hitting the perfect rhythm. Hooking a leg really pressed them fully cock-to-cock, and he felt like he had to keep grinding or else he’d die. “Ugh—mine’s bigger—by the way—”

“Oh my god,” Lian said, incredulous—and then flipped Damian over so he was on his back. He hissed at her. Damian didn’t get on his back for anyone. Still, Lian was older and stronger, and she climbed on top of him and spread his legs with minimal issue. Damian bit her hand. She smacked him back and fiercely thrust her cock against Damian’s. Over and over, hard and hot and so slick Damian wondered if he was going to combust. He wrapped his hands around both of them and let his eyes flutter closed at much better it felt.

He didn’t even fight it when Lian bracketed his head with her hands, fucking into his grip with alpha savagery. She was twitching hard and—oh fuck—

“Dammit,” she gasped, and came all over his shirt. He should have snapped at her, but the titillating twitch of her cockhead against his was enough to send him over the edge too. He had enough mind left to aim at Lian’s dress in revenge, and smirked with satisfaction at how the white stood out on that dark pink.

It took the alpha girl too long to notice. She just growled and climbed off of the younger alpha, and Damian winced at how sore his legs were for being spread for so long. He made a face at his ruined shirt and began to unbutton it. Tossed it into his laundry bin and tucked his cock back into his pants.

By the time he turned around, Lian’s cock had retracted and the girl was naked but for her bra and underwear. She shook her come-stained dress at him. “You brat!”

“You came on me first,” Damian said, going for a bored tone.

“On your white shirt.”

“You think Mom’s gonna be able to not smell it on me?” Dami yelled back. “Forget it!”

“God, I can’t believe we just did that,” Lian muttered angrily. She went into his closet and wrestled on a t-shirt. “I hate you.”

“Don’t you touch my elephant pants,” Damian said, just as she grabbed the pants in question and slung them on. “I said don’t touch it!”

“I’ve borrowed these a million times.”

“And every time they come back smelling funny!” Damian paused. His brain whirred. And then his eyes widened and he bolted up with an indignant squawk, “Do you masturbate in my pants?”

“Don’t make it sound like you’re special! I jerk off in all my pants.”

“Ugh! Gross!” Damian ran at her and tried tugging the pants off himself. Lian kicked him away, and they fell into a brawling mess. “Lian, come on!”

“You’re such a weirdo,” Lian wriggled away. “Seriously, who takes ‘my dick’s bigger than yours’ and—and—“ her cheeks turned red. “Did what we just did?”

“It’s biology,” Damian said, his own cheeks burning. “Tactile sensation—and our hormones are out of whack—”

“Don’t lie to me, Dami, you enjoyed being pinned down.”

“I do not!” Damian hollered. “You’re making stuff up!”

“Totally liked it,” Lian taunted. “Liked my alpha scent too. You’re totally gay for me, Dami.”

“Fuck off!” Damian shoved her out of his room, cheeks burning. He slammed the door shut and ignored Lian’s indignant raging from the other side. Stomping to his personal bathroom, Damian shucked off the rest of his clothes and stepped into the shower.

It took a very cold shower for him to get his heartbeat under control again. Because as much as he enjoyed overpowering Lian, her alpha scent and weight on top of him reminded him of someone else entirely.

It reminded him of the last patrol he and Colin had had together, wherein a huge building collapsed on top of the motortrike. He’d come to with Abuse’s large body pressed above him, shielding him from the fall.

“You alright?” Colin had asked, and Damian—Damian felt his cock twitch with interest. It had surprised him enough to leave him gaping, because he’d—he’d known he liked Colin’s sweet omega scent well enough, but Abuse? He was big and heavy and alpha, and they’d always been teammates out on patrol.

It hadn’t occurred to him that he could ever like Abuse too. Not with his aggressively alpha exterior.

Except Damian liked how alpha he was.

He shivered under the water’s spray and shut it off.

It’d been alright when Dick was still taking watch at the monitor duty,  spry despite being in his seventies. But he’d graciously retired half a year before and Jason was done. Without Bruce and Dick, there wasn’t a point. The kids were still around, of course, but he’d never dyed his hair for them. Even if Damian had given him a narrow-eyed look at the sudden red locks, he’d had the tact not to mention it.

“Tim thinks he’s being subtle about it, but Father told him about the Clone Initiative he set up in the basement,” the demon brat told him, not that he was much of a brat anymore. His kids were brats, however, and if Terry so much as whined in his direction one more time Jason was going to string the teenager up by his toes. He wasn’t sure how Damian’s no-nonsense attitude hadn’t beaten the sass out of his son by now. Colin’s influence, maybe. Or Dick’s, for spoiling him. “Something about it needing human confirmation every so often so it won’t start up and begin pumping out Batman clones. Do keep an eye on it, will you? If Father’s legacy is tarnished by something as gauche as a Batman clone invasion, he’d roll over in his grave.”

“You think I can stop a horde of Batman clones?”

“Of course,” and Jason actually found himself touched at the certainty in Damian’s voice. He’d mellowed a bit with age. More willing to show his pride, to speak his feelings, if only to make sure his loved ones knew exactly how much they mattered to him.

They all knew Bruce had loved them all, of course, but his death had just made it clear there were still so many things left unsaid. And Damian, who hadn’t retired yet and didn’t seem intent on it any time soon, had enough experience with mortality to know his own demise could happen any day.

Which just made Jason feel all kinds of feelings he hated, because this was his baby brother. The youngest of them. The tiny brat dressed in all white that had practically stamped his feet when Bruce refused to acknowledge him. That eight-year-old was now nearing sixty, and Jason.

Jason was the same as he ever was.

Bruce’s death may have been the beginning of all of this, but Damian’s was going to be the end. Jason had buried a lot of friends over the years, some taken before their time and some not, but this. This was personal. He hated feeling about it, which was why he tried his very hardest not to.

“It gets easier,” Artemis told him one day while hunkering down in their home base. She was cleaning her weaponry by the fire like she’d been doing for years, and of all things this place had stayed just as frozen in time as he was. It made him feel a bit better, to know Artemis and Bizarro would stay by him as their mortal friends died. That he had company in this loneliness, company he could actually stand to be around because Diana was awesome but she was Wonder Woman.

Jason had proven himself a hero a hundred times over, but some part of him couldn’t help but feel ashamed under the golden glow of her tiara.

“Didn’t say it was hard,” Jason replied. He was checking over the Watchtower monitor sightings from a hacking system he’d stolen from Tim. There was unrest happening in Canada, of all places. Canada? What, were there wild moose on the loose or something? “Just that Baby Bat needs to whip that kid of his into shape, is all. Can’t pick up the mantle with that attitude.”

“Corporeal punishment has been outlawed for decades.”

“Not literally. I’m just saying, Terry’s pretty much the kid I hated growing up. Some edgy white kid running around the streets with us, lashing out against authority because it’s cool, not because he actually needs to. Like having a juvie record somehow makes him one of us when he gets to go home to his manor at the end of the day and have a warm meal with his folks.”

“Children rebel. Experience teaches them as well as a rod. And I’m sure Colin would do something about it if you actually told him Terry was sneaking out at night.”

Jason scowled at her. She was supposed to be on his side, not the demon brat’s. He didn’t snitch on Terry’s nighttime activities the same way he didn’t snitch on Tim back when Bruce had had his head so far up his ass it was a miracle he could see Damian at all. Tim had all kinds of questionable plans back then, and Jason, recognizing rebellion and appreciating the solidarity, had been more than happy to help.

Terry Wayne may be pissing him the hell off, but that didn’t mean Jason was going to rat him out. He had better ways of getting revenge than that, and if he needed to loop Matt in on the plan…

“There are Wendigo in Canada,” Artemis sheathed her sword back into her hilt. “Come, Jason. A good fight will alleviate your… as you say, your ‘jitters.’”

No, Damian would gut him with the good katana if he so much as hinted at encouraging his youngest son into mischief. It was ironic given how similar Matt was to shit-starting orphan Colin, and how Damian couldn’t see that telling Matt to keep his nose clean was going to have the same effect on him as it did on Colin.

In short, encourage him to jump feet first into the first sign of trouble, with or without Jason’s “bad influence.”

“Okay, fine,” Jason holstered a few guns and went to pop the hood over his head. “We taking Biz or…?”

“He is spending the day with the Superman. We can handle these monsters on our own.”

“Hey, not saying we can’t. Just wanted to see if I gotta share some of my kill with that big oaf. Get to take my sweet time this way.”

“Wendigos were once human,” Artemis said, despite knowing how much Jason hated being reminded of Bats’ age-old no-kill rule.

“Yeah, but there’s no way to reverse it, right? That’s fair game under the zombie clause. Now come on. I wanna shoot some yetis tonight.”

And Artemis, bless her, just nodded and fired up the jet. Decades working together and this was the best part about running about with a no-nonsense Amazonian and a well-meaning Kryptonian clone. They were immovable. Unchangeable. They were a constant Jason could rely on, even as everything around him changed with time.

--

“Nice hair,” Jonathan Kent said from where he was beating Terry’s skinny ass at Mario Kart—or the future’s equivalent of it, whatever it was called these days. He shot out a red shell and grinned wickedly as his cousin howled in rage. Matt, sprawled across the back of the couch, had popped himself a literal bag of popcorn and was munching away. Jason grabbed the kid up by the belly and caught some popcorn in his mouth when Matt tried throwing them into his face as a distraction.

“Lemme go!” Damian’s youngest hollered, face growing red as Jason continued holding him upside-down.

“No can do,” Jason said, raising a brow when Terry finished fuming and picked up the controller with newfound zeal. Jon shrugged and picked up his own controller, and there they went. Round ten thousand, as far as Jason could tell, because Jon’d been kicking the shit out of Terry at this game since they were six. Terry’s inability to accept defeat for so long just smacked of Damian; Jon’s refusal to take pity on him and stop this competition altogether was purely Tim. It would’ve been hilarious if it didn’t remind Jason of his brothers’ pending mortality. He told his squirming captive, “You’re gonna grow real big like these idiots, Matty, and then I can’t do this anymore. Gotta make the most of your skinny tush now.”

“My butt’s not skinny!” Matt insisted, like that was the most offensive thing Jason had ever said. “You made me spill my popcorn!”

“Excuse you, you threw your popcorn at me. My hands are clean.”

“Guys, shut up!” Terry hollered from in front of the tv. “I need to concentrate!”

“He’s never beaten Jon at this game in his entire life,” Matt rolled his eyes. The little shit earned enough sass points for Jason to finally let him down, and he quickly scurried back to his vantage point on the couch. “’Cause you never use the blue shell when you’re supposed to, Terry—”

“Shush!”

“Dad mentioned you were a redhead,” Jonathan spoke over the brothers like they were background noise. “But you’ve been a brunet so long most people don’t remember.”

“Thought about making a change,” Jason said, voice casual. Terry groaned again as Jonathan broke through the finish line at first, and Matt tossed a stray popcorn onto his brother’s head. “’Sides, it’ll distract the papers enough. Make it seem less crazy I’m looking just as good as I did when your parents were younger than you.”

“You can always talk to Grandpa Clark,” Jon turned and gave Jason a steady look. It was all careful consideration and earnestness rolled up into one, a Kent look through and through. Jonathan had always resembled Kon more so than Tim; hell, he resembled Clark more than Kon did sometimes. They used to joke about it when they were young, how Clark’s genes skipped a generation. “Grandpa Lex drew up some contingencies for him before he died. Everything he needed to create a new identity whenever it got too weird that Clark Kent’s not aging. Y’know, if you want to live a mortal life alongside a superhero one.”

Jason didn’t say anything at first. Sure, a younger him may have rankled at his own nephew trying to give him pity, but Jason was old enough to realize the Supers didn’t do pity. It wasn’t in their nature, and it was pointless taking offense over it.

Also, all Supers had a guilty savior complex more than anyone he’d ever met. The kids felt helpless in the face of Jason’s immortality. They didn’t know how to deal with it, so they did their best to help.

Jason couldn’t fault them for that. Even he didn’t know how to deal with it.

“Sure,” he said instead. “Thanks, kid.”

“Oh, Dad’s in the foyer,” Jon finally acknowledged Jason’s reason for stopping by the manor to begin with. “He and Uncle Damian were shouting for a long time. I think Uncle Dick went to hide.”

“Joy,” Jason sighed, because yeah, if he listened closely, he could hear Damian’s growls coming from somewhere deep in the manor.

“Again!” Terry demanded from the couch, and Jason rolled his eyes and made his escape before he did something stupid. Like bang Terry upside the head for being so uselessly stubborn. Nope. Damian would kick him out and Jason was going to be damned if he didn’t eat some of Marie’s little teacakes before he left.

--

Dick had made it a tradition to gather them all together at least once a year, every year. He’d been wrangling them all here like this since Bruce had been put into the ground and he’d spent an entire ten months skulking about the manor like a ghost.

“So basically in every alternate universe or future timeline we’ve traveled to, Gotham’s fallen apart because we’ve fallen apart,” Dick had whapped Jason over the head with a folded up print-out. Jason had thrown up his hands at that, because who used actual print outs these days? Old coots, that’s who. Dick had ignored him in favor of rounding on the kids. “Bruce would’ve hated seeing that. So we’re going to stick together. Keep each other updated. Speak to each other like a normal family— stop making that face, Damian.”

“Grayson, when was the last time you slept,” Damian batted the paper away when Dick leaned over to whap him too. “You look ridiculous. Go to bed.”

“Every year,” Dick insisted, even when Tim and Jason grabbed him under his arms and dragged him up towards the master bedroom. “We need to do this. Promise me.”

“Sure, yeah,” Jason had settled Dick onto the too-large bed. Tim’s expression crumpled just a bit, the taste of Bruce’s death still fresh on his mind, and Jason inwardly cursed. God-fucking-dammit, Dick, this wasn’t fair. Trust him to leave Jason to deal with this mess. He not-too-gently shoved Tim out of the room and knew what it meant when Tim just let him. He shut the door and took a deep breath.

Ever since his talk with Bruce, he’d known this was coming. But it wasn’t any easier being alone here, where the kids weren’t up to the task and Dick was a step away from crazy town.

“Jay?” Dick mumbled as Jason folded the sheets over him. He didn’t look old. He never really did, not even with the white sprinkled along his temples, because there was something about Dick Grayson that just overflowed with energy. He looked tired, though. “Can you pick Damian up from school today?”

“Damian is a grown-ass man who’s going to order a whole boatload of tests if he hears you talking like that,” Jason told him. “We both know you talk crazy talk when you’re about to crash, but the brat’s been paranoid since…”

Since Bruce’s cancer had been detected too late.

Dick sighed.

“Sleep,” Jason said, voice gentler than he’d meant. Sometimes when it was just him and Dick alone, he was pulled back to days long past. It had been just the two of them at one point, dancing across rooftops and buses together. All without Bruce’s knowledge, of course. Or so they thought. “I’ll make sure the kids stay put for the night. We’ll have our heart-to-heart tomorrow, hold hands and sing kumbaya and all that shit. I’ll even ask Marie to bring you tea and biscuits if it’ll convince you to stay put.”

“I love Marie’s biscuits,” Dick said wistfully. “Not as good as Alfie’s, but close.”

That was true.

Jason headed downstairs and pretty much bullied Tim and Damian into their respective guest rooms, because he might have to play the adult in the situation but that didn’t mean he had to be nice about it. The strain of holding everyone together was excruciating, and Jason had only bore the burden for a few hours. How Bruce had done it for years… how Dick had done it in the years in-between was mind-boggling.

Jason had spent so long as a comfortable middle child, he wasn’t even sure if he could play patriarch at all. Of the three younger Robins, it was Damian that was ironically most suited for the role. If only he curbed his bloodlust. Even at thirty-five, Jason still suspected Damian would have no qualms setting the city on fire if it got him what he wanted.

Morning brought with it a few disgruntled significant others—Kon more confused and Colin just annoyed that Damian hadn’t even called—and a far more put-together Dick after a good night’s rest. It had meant a lot seeing Dick with a purpose again.

Bruce may have hinted at Dick moving on to Barbara or Kory or whoever the hell Bruce imagined Dick deserved to spend a lifetime together with—but Jason knew it wasn’t going to happen.

If Bruce died when Dick was in his thirties, maybe. But Dick held his emotions tight, good and bad, and he’d built enough of a life here with Bruce that tossing it away was unfathomable.

And that was how their yearly meetings started.

Sure, they met throughout the year too, but it was usually one or two of their families at once. Having all four of them together? That was a feat only Dick could pull off.

Which meant once golden boy finally flitted off into the afterlife, there was no telling what would happen to their get-togethers. It’d be Tim versus Damian over heading the family. He’d put his money on Damian decades ago and he still did; he just wasn’t sure how hard Tim would fight him over it. Damian already had the mantle, but he wasn’t the head of the family. Not yet.

--

Jason stopped dyeing his hair twenty years after Bruce died—really stopped dyeing it as opposed to occasionally being too lazy to pick up a bottle at the salon—because fate was a bitch and it wouldn’t leave his family alone.

--

“You’re fucking shitting me,” Jason said.

Tim put up his hands. “You guys are missing the point.”

“I’m missing the point? You’re building a time machine, Tim. You know the rules about time travel!”

“When have you cared about rules, Jay?”

“Since time shenanigans bit me in the ass one too many times, that’s what. I know what you’re thinking, and I’m gonna say it right now—you’re not bringing Bruce back. Don’t even think about it.”

“First—first of all, I’m not planning to, what kind of idiot do you take me for? I’m not sending anyone back, I’m just trying to get in touch with people who have died—” and Tim had that glint in his eye, the genius I-have-analyzed-everything-and-had-ten-cups-of-coffee glint. Conner was going to be so pissed if he heard about this. Tim’s blood pressure was high enough as it was. “And barring magical means, time displacement tech is the only way to do it.”

“Tim,” Dick’s voice was quiet. “Any interaction with the past can change everything in the here and now. Think about Jonathan. Terry. Matt. Who can guarantee the boys would still be here if you go back?”

“That’s not going to happen. Bruce is more than capable of treating future information with care. Look at all the times we’ve encountered—”

“Stop,” Damian suddenly interrupted him. He’d been standing silently behind Dick’s chair, arms crossed and jaw clenched in Batman-ly fashion. He’d refused to discuss his and Tim’s previous argument before Tim had whipped the cloth off the machine in the Bat Cave. Jason had almost thought he’d been all yelled-out. “We’ve had time manipulation technology for years but you haven’t brought up speaking to Father—or anyone who has perished—until now. What are you not telling us, Timothy? What has changed?”

“Why don’t you guys just appreciate the technological advancement this is,” Tim muttered. Jason wanted to grab him by the neck and shake him, but Tim was no match under Damian’s and Dick’s boring stares. He put a hand onto his abominable invention and slumped, defeat heavy on his shoulders.

“Oh god,” Dick said. “Tim…”

“Is someone dying,” Jason said flatly. “Someone’s dying, aren’t they?”

He wanted so badly for Tim to shoot the idea down, but his silence was just as damning. Jason cursed and ran a hand through his red hair. Goddammit all, it was always because someone was dying.

“What is it this time? Radiation poisoning? Rare genetic mutation? Caffeine overdose? What’s killing you, Tim?”

“It’s Jon,” Tim blurted out, and it was like time stood still.

Oh fuck no.

Jon was what, fifteen, sixteen? He was a goddamn kid. Same age as Jason when he—well. Everyone knew that story. And seeing that crazy glint in Tim’s eyes brought Jason right back to Jon’s early years.

Tim had nearly gone crazy with worry, following his toddler around like his DNA was going to fall apart every time Jon tripped. Conner had had to hide his travel testing kit just to stop him from constantly prodding Jon with needles. Something about making their kid feel like a lab rat, and Conner had enough experience with that to say it sucked.

It had taken years for Tim to back off enough to let Jon go to his school dances or, god forbid, tentative meetings with this generation’s Teen Titans up at the Watchtower. His son’s premature death was pretty much his worst nightmare come to life.

“It’s Jon,” Tim repeated. The way he pressed against the time machine, it was like him clinging to his last hope. “I need to talk to Bruce. Luthor. Someone. This is my son, Dick. I won’t let you stop me.”

“Hey,” and Dick, despite the fact that they were all over fifty now and too old for sentiment, sank easily into the Big Brother role by gathering Tim up in a hug. The kid’s slim shoulders had only grown slimmer after crossing fifty, but he might as well have been twelve again with how he slumped into Dick’s arms. “Tim, we’ll work through this. We will.”

“We can’t,” Tim gasped into his chest. “Not by ourselves. We can’t.”

--

Jason wasn’t as science-minded as Tim or Bruce or Damian—Dick could have been, once, if he hadn’t paid more attention to his acrobatics—but even he could tell Tim’s plan to video chat a past-Bruce was doomed to fail. First of all, because WiFi just didn’t work like that.

Second, because Tim was desperate. And one of Bruce’s first rules of scientific invention was to never be desperate. It led to mistakes, which led to further disaster, which could possibly lead to the end of the world. Just look at Flash.

Well, it wasn’t like Bruce was one to talk. Because he was dead.

“Luthor did his best merging Kon’s and my DNA, and things were fine when he was younger,” Tim had calmed down enough to begin going over the reasons behind his madness. Damian had even gone to fetch some of Marie’s cookies, because no one had a better resting bitch face and the kids would have definitely known something was up. ”But since hitting puberty, there’s been some… unstable elements cropping up. Specifically regarding his solar flare ability, and if he can’t control it like Kon or Clark. If he can’t, he’ll explode, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Timmy,” Dick whispered, and Tim squeezed his eyes shut.

“Luthor took a lot of his research with him to the grave. Too proud and too paranoid to leave it around for anyone to find and use against Clark. I’ve got what I managed to salvage, but there’s still so much data missing. And Bruce was just as bad. He gave me a lot of data on Conner, which helps, but Jon’s case is so unique and. And Bruce is dead. They’re both dead, and I need them to not be dead so I can fix it.”

“There are other ways,” Dick said, voice firm. “I’ll get into contact with Clark. See if he knows if Luthor’s squirreled his research away anywhere. We’ll take Jon to the Watchtower and have the best medics there scan him. Bruce and Luthor might be gone, but there are always great minds in the world. We don’t have to solve this alone.”

Tim didn’t say anything. Jason and Damian exchanged glances behind Dick’s back.

Tim was one of those “great minds” Dick had mentioned. If he thought his only hope in saving his son lay in trying to shake secrets out of Bruce’s mouth a decade after his death, he was probably right.

Still, Dick wouldn’t be Dick if he didn’t try. It just meant the others had to think of quiet methods around inevitable failure and hope Tim didn’t go mad with obsession along the way.

--

“No,” he said before Tim could even open his mouth.

“Jason,” Tim said, voice cracking. “I’m begging you.”

“Dick would flay you alive if he knew what you were asking me to do,” Jason said. “It’s not just me. It’s Bruce. Damian. The kids. Everything. No, look at me. You’ve been a cape for how long? You understand what it means to tamper with the fabric of the universe.”

“Fuck you,” Tim’s eyes flashed. “If you think the Jon dying is somehow fate, you’ve spent too long with the Amazons. We can fix this. You can fix this.”

“No,” Jason refused to back down. Dick and Damian were going to come down any minute to call them up for dinner, and Tim needed to get his poker face in gear. They didn’t have time for this. “Don’t ask me again.”

--

The good news was, their annual family dinner resulted in the usual squabbling, overthrown dinner plates and wheedling gossip; but that was just par for the course. The bad news was, despite the adult’s firm decision to not mention The Time Travel Thing, the kids seemed to sense something was off.

Terry was even more obnoxious and rebellious than usual, until even Colin had turned and rapped his son’s hand with a spoon.

“That’s child abuse!” the teenager whined, but cowered when his Pop just frowned at him. Damian’s may be the kids’ main disciplinarian, but both Terry and Matt knew they were in real trouble whenever Colin broke out the glares.

Jonathan acted as cheery and earnestly adorable as ever, contrasting Terry’s surliness so much his cousin nearly started a fight over dessert. But now that he was looking for it, Jason could see a sober acceptance behind his blue eyes.

He knew. Of course he did. Even if Tim tried to pull his age-old Need To Know trick, Kon would’ve blurted it out the moment he found out.

“You want to play a game, let’s play Monopoly,” Jon told Terry when he tried bringing up Mario Kart again, and Terry looked so horrified he and Matt scurried away without further comment. Smart. It gave the kid enough space to hide in Tim’s old bedroom and sulk without anyone watching.

Terry was the Trouble Child. Jon was the Darling. But Jon was also a teenager, and teenagers sulked. Jason would know. Jason even understood what it was like to feel impending death. To balance eerie acceptance over his fate with a desperate wish for someone to come save him. It sucked.

It might also be why Jonathan had decided to let his Uncle Jason keep him company as the rest of the family bickered over coffee downstairs. Too tired to play the role of Healthy Role Model for his Uncles Damian and Dick; to put on a brave face for Tim who was clearly Not Handling It Well; to smile under Kon’s somewhat guilty look, because it was his part-Kryptonian blood that was responsible for this in the first place.

“Dad’s going to tear the world apart if you don’t stop him,” Jon told Jason without preamble. He was sitting with his legs drawn up to his chest against the headboard of Tim’s old bed.

“There’s no universe where Tim’s gonna stop searching, kid,” Jason told his eldest nephew. Jon wrapped his arms around his knees and pressed his cheek against his worn jeans. “He’s always been like that. He’ll research something to death and if he can’t fix it, it’s his fault.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want him to hurt anyone,” Jon said. “Pa’s too nice to keep him in line, sometimes. He really only listens to you and Uncle Dick if you yell at him enough.”

Not Damian, of course, because the day Tim listened to Damian was the day pigs fly.

“Kid,” Jason said.

“It doesn’t feel real,” Jon whispered, voice low. He stared at his hand and bit his lip. “Nothing’s even happened yet, you know? It’s all theoretical—based off of a blood test Dad did and then freaked out over. He says I’m going to explode. I don’t feel explode-y. What if Dad’s wrong?”

Jason looked down at him. Jon may be old enough to get awkward boners in the morning and appreciative looks from Suzy down the block at high school, but he still remembered the peppy five-year-old that used to run around in nothing but his Mickey Mouse underwear. Contrary to what Tim had accused him of, he knew Jon had done nothing to deserve this. That they needed to find a cure as quickly as they  could.

Just not the way Tim suggested. Jason wasn’t even sure he could pull it off if he tried.

“Your dad’s rarely wrong,” Jason finally said. He wasn’t going to sugarcoat it, not even when Jon curled up even tighter into himself. “But that mean he’s probably right if he thinks your Gramps—the evil one—might be able to help.”

“Does it,” Jon stumbled over his words. He looked hesitant, like he was unsure if Jason would handle the question well. “Does it hurt? Exploding?”

Jason opened his mouth. He’d just agreed not to sugarcoat things, but this was his nephew. And kids didn’t need to worry about this shit, not when he couldn’t do anything about it.

“Nah,” he lied. “It’s over fast. The real pain’s in what you leave behind.”

Jon sniffed.

“Your parents love you. With a capitol ‘L.’ Now, you wanna go downstairs and kick Terry’s ass again at that stupid game, or you want me to play gatekeeper if anyone tries to wake you up?”

“Don’t wanna go downstairs,” Jon said, and Jason ruffled his hair in response. Gatekeeper it was, then.

A more difficult task than it sounded in a house full of nosey, mannerless Robins, but that’s why Jay was so goddamn good at it.

--

“Jay,” Dick said. “You can’t.”

“Can’t what, Dickie?”

“Cut the bullshit. I know Tim asked you.”

“Then you know I told him to fuck off. Go ask Booster or Rip or something. They’re better at time travel anyway.”

Dick didn’t say anything. Jason stubbed out his cigarette and squinted at the man frowning out the window. Seventy-something and still looking good. Not as good as Jason, of course, but no normal human did.

“A time traveler would have some of the tachyons necessary,” Dick finally allowed him. “But the machine can’t run on residual tachyons alone.”

“I know,” Jason said. “That kind of power, he’ll need something completely displaced from time. Can’t fuck up the time stream too much with something that’s been knocked out of it completely.”

“You can’t let him burn you up like that, Jay,” Dick said. “Remember what you promised me.”

“I already told him no,” Jason wanted to lose his temper, show how annoyed he was at Dick’s old man nagging. But he wasn’t angry. Just tired and conflicted, and it was like Bruce’s death all over again. Everyone nagging him and talking his ear off, until he wanted to holler at them to shut up and give him peace.

Dick seemed to sense the conflict innately. He just stared at Jason hard and god. Sometimes he fucking hated that look of his, like the golden boy was judging him and finding him wanting.

--

When Terry and Matt finally, finally found out what’s gotten into their collective family’s butts, Terry did the one thing he was good at: getting arrested.

“Terry McGinnis Wayne,” Colin had snapped at his son from the other side of the jail cell. Terry, pressing an ice pack to his eye and huddled in a corner by a few local drunks, just hunched over and refused to look his Pop in the eye. “What were you thinking, running into that Jokerz gang? If you’d punched that kid just a little harder, we’d be fishing his body out of the harbor. Is that what you want? To become a killer?”

“You used to fight gangs,” Terry snapped back, bristling. “And Dad used to kill all the time—they deserved it—”

“No one deserves that. I thought we did a good job teaching you kids the sanctity of life, but I see I was wrong,” and wow, Jason didn’t even know Colin’s voice could go so cold. “I need to go file the paperwork for this whole debacle, but I hope you’ll spend your night in the can thinking if this is how Batman would’ve wanted his grandson to act.”

“You’re leaving me here?” Alarm finally flashed across Terry’s face. “Pop, you’re joking. Pop?”

Colin just turned and stalked back into the police office, and Terry stared out the cell with such a lost, puppy-dog look even Jason felt sorry for him.

The truth was, Jason wasn’t even supposed to be here. He and the Outlaws had been assisting the League on some suicide mission in space and had managed to survive by the skin of their teeth. Their celebration over Amazonian wine was interrupted when Jason picked up news from Gotham’s Police radio.

He’d come down to kick Terry’s ass himself if Damian let him off scot-free as usual. Now, however, it was clear Colin had already beat him to it.

One of the drunkards pawed at Terry’s pants after half an hour had passed. Before Terry could deck him, Jason shot the bastard in the shoulder with a tranquilizer.

He went down like a sack of bricks. His nephew glanced over at his hidey-hole, and Jason dropped down onto the floor so he was in full view. He even waved hi at the security camera. Didn’t pay to be rude to Damian’s missus, especially if he was in enough of a mood to ground his kid in a jail cell for the night.

“You gonna yell at me too,” Terry slumped back onto the bench.

“How about ‘you’re welcome.’”

“Didn’t ask for your help. Could’ve handled him myself.”

“Yeah, and then Colin’s gonna have to write you up on assault charges too. Give your Pop a break. We’ve got enough to deal with without bailing your ass out of jail.”

Terry actually teared up, of all things, and Jason was uncomfortably reminded of an equally teary Damian at thirteen. For all their brash asshole tendencies, they were kids. Of course, seeing tears always made Jason madder, not nicer, and he decided he might as well keep going.

“So how about you stop making a nuisance of yourself on the streets and go annoy Jonathan instead. Hell, at your age I was helping your gramps out on his missions. Why don’t you do the same?”

“Because there’s nothing I can do!” Terry snapped back at him. “Uncle Tim can’t even figure out how to get the time communicator to work; Dad won’t let me help him on patrol; and every time I bitch to Uncle Dick he tries to feed me a cookie!”

“Oh, poor baby,” Jason was unsympathetic. “No one’s giving you the time of day. Better go out and beat up some kid, is that it?”

“He and his friends nearly killed Pop last week in a stand off!”

“Hmm, I see. So you think, ‘hey, I’ll get some revenge, that’ll make me feel big and strong.’ You wanna hear a story, Terry?”

“No.”

“Well tough. That kid you nearly drowned? He grew up homeless in Crime Alley. Got caught pickpocketing several times before he was even ten. Went through two foster homes before saying fuck it and went solo. The Jokerz are asshats, but they promised him three square meals a day and a roof over his head. And, best of all, none of them threatened to beat his ass if he didn’t get down on his knees. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Terry had gone pale the longer Jason had talked. “I… I didn’t…”

“Didn’t know? How would that change anything if the kid split his head open?” Jason folded his arms. “I got all that just doing basic recon on the web and in person. You ever wondered why the Bats have such a hard line killing, this is it. Know what the fuck you’re selling your soul for before you pull the trigger.”

“You killed people.”

“Didn’t say I had a soul left. But I made the choice with my eyes wide open, kid. You better do the same.”

Terry sniffed again. Wiped his face and good grief, he looked like a kicked puppy.

“Now if you’re done feeling sorry for yourself, you want me to break you out of there?”

“No,” Terry mumbled, surprising Jason just a bit. He curled in on himself just like Jonathan had all those months ago. It was freaky how similar the cousins could be despite not sharing an ounce of DNA between them. “Pop’s mad enough as it is. He’ll be after both our heads if you spring me from a grounding.”

“So you are responsible sometimes,” Jason said, and Terry proved he was still Terry by throwing his ice pack at him through the bars. Jason just rolled his eyes and jumped back up the way he came. Colin was probably going to come in to drag the drunken pervert out for daring to touch his darling son, and Jason would rather not be in the vicinity when that happened.

--

Jason stole Tim’s notes. Of course he did. It was practically a given, the Bat Boys hacking each other just for the shits and giggles, but Jason’s intelligence gathering was less for annoying Tim and more for the steady realization that he had to do something.

Especially when Jon lost his temper at Terry over—over whatever kids fought about nowadays, probably some drama over some superhero girl, Jason had no idea—and the first solar flare erupted from his core.

Two entire rooms of the manor were complete toast, but Tim had been alternatively relieved and terrified to find a still-breathing Jon at its epicenter.

“It’s starting,” Tim muttered to himself, bags under his eyes and a pencil stuck behind his ear. People didn’t use pencils anymore; Tim just had one to chew on when the stress got to be too much and Conner wouldn’t let him make more coffee. “It’s like a seismic wave—small at first but it’ll grow bigger—”

Their search for a cure was hitting dead-ends on every corner. A full-body brace Conner had been quietly working on in the background of his husband’s madness was the most promising, but would take far too long to complete. Jon didn’t have the time.

Two weeks later, a second flare. Jon, having recognized the signs this time, flew himself into an empty field and practically razed the earth he stood on. They found him comatose amidst the flames, and while he woke up two days later it was still terrifying.

Jason stared at Tim’s cursed time machine.

The notes were sound on paper, but he could read Tim Drake’s intentions like a book. Especially the date he’d chosen for his hypothetical trip. A perfect, uneventful day with no crises, no family drama, and Bruce relatively alone even until patrol. Damian had been tagging with the Teen Titans then, and so Batman had patrolled alone. It was perfect.

It was also not going to work.

Bruce was brilliant, but Lex Luthor had made Jon. Trying to figure out a cure to the problem was a waste of energy if they could get to the root of it.

Jason sat down next to an old-school printer—that used paper! Artemis still had sheets of it, a concession she made once parchment became too expensive to acquire—and watched it carefully spit out Tim’s detailed notes on Jon’s DNA sequencing. He folded it up, stuffed it in his jacket’s inside pocket, and took a deep breath.

This was. This was a cornerstone moment. The exact opposite of Tim’s careful no-event day. Because Jason had known from the second Tim had confessed Jon’s condition that saving him. Saving him would affect history. There was no easy way out; no solution without a price.

Jason placed the time machine helmet on his head, and if that wasn’t an eerie parallel to his usual red helmet. Tim probably didn’t do it on purpose, but the subconscious could be a bitch.

The timestream would be affected, but he hoped his own sacrifice was enough of a price to pay.

He didn’t leave any notes, say goodbye, give any indication of what was about to happen. To be honest, he wasn’t sure if it would matter anyway.

--

Bruce Wayne died two weeks ago. Kryptonite cancer. Aggressive and still so confounding, though as medically revolutionary as ever. Seeing how it interacted with human DNA could even allow him to finally gift Kon the present he always wanted. A son.

Okay, maybe not always. Lex was relatively sure a sixteen-year-old Kon had wanted a racecar for his birthday, but that wasn’t important.

He was beginning to sketch the idea on a whiteboard, laying out notes and formulas when the air around him… rippled. His skin prickled, and Lex turned sharply in anticipation for an attack.

Nothing. No one.

Wait.

There was a pile of papers on his desk. Lex frowned and, after deciding that paranoia was unbecoming a man his age and paper-shaped bombs just weren’t feasible in the modern day, began flipping through them. They were—his potential grandson’s biological information, as impossible as that was. And his deterioration at puberty?

Lex frowned and looked at the data closer. Oh. Oh! He hadn’t considered—a grievous error, one that wouldn’t be caught until too late. Where he was when this data was being jotted down, he certainly wasn’t alive. He would have already begun hypothesizing workarounds, though nothing would truly fix this issue at this stage of development.

It would be far easier for Lex to create a grandson without the problem to begin with.

Hm.

Bold, risky but also logical. Whoever this mysterious time traveler was, it wasn’t his son or his son-in-law. No one on Tim’s side was ever this brash, not even the fickle Nightwing. Lex’s head ached. That wasn’t right. There was someone, but his name…

His name was slipping away like water through a sieve. He shook his head. It was going to bother him later, but right now he had more important things to worry about.

Lex went back to his whiteboard and began crossing sequences out.

Some may call it sentiment that had him working late into the night on his son’s birthday gift. Lex called it perfectionism. The idea that one of his creations would malfunction in less than twenty years? Well.

That was just unacceptable. Lex Luthor didn’t make mistakes.

--

If Jon beat him one more time at Mario Kart, Terry was going to strangle him.

“I am going to strangle you!” Terry shouted at his cousin on cue, and Jon snorted.  Like he’d actually be able to break through Kryptonian skin with willpower alone. Terry’s girlfriend Dana rolled her eyes and jabbed him in the side. Terry insisted: “I am! Dad has Kryptonite!”

“I thought he outgrew this in high school,” Dana told Jon conversationally. “Has he ever actually won?”

“Nope,” Jon said. He put down the controller and stretched, ignoring Terry’s insistence on a rematch with weary ease. Not even college could soften that competitive streak of his, and while Jon usually found it amusing, today he felt… tired.

Matt hadn’t been able to hang out because of a football game he had to cheer for. Jon’s just-a-friend Kathy had decided to stay at university to study. The parents were off on a much needed vacation; Pa had even confiscated Dad’s cellphone to keep him from obsessively checking on Wayne Enterprises every five seconds. Terry’s parents were on a “vacation” too, but everyone knew it was actually some mission in Europe Uncle Damian refused to talk about. League of Shadows stuff, then. He’d left Terry in charge of Gotham in the meantime, like the new capeless, ass-shaking Batman was in any way ready for that kind of responsibility.

Gotham was quiet, though. Possibly because Damian had put fear into its heart the day before he left, because if anyone touched a hair on his son’s head...

Uncle Dick was off in space in the Watchtower, having decided last year that he preferred the lower gravity there than the pains and aches that hounded him on earth. Also, because it gave him unlimited access to futuristic tech, which he used to alternatively assist and prank the resident heroes with unrestrained glee.

Of course, no one there had found out it was Dick’s doing, but Jon knew his uncle. That incident with the soda and the transporter had Dick Grayson written all over it.

Still, something felt like it was missing. It niggled at Jon as he got ready for an early bed time: while he brushed his teeth, changed his clothes, lay under the covers. It niggled at him as he tried closing his eyes and willing sleep to come, because something was missing. Someone was missing.

Right when he was just about to fall asleep, it happened. The feeling of a hand brushing his hair back; a weight on the edge of his bed; the unfamiliar smell of leather and Kevlar and gunpowder.

“Told ‘im I’d go out like a goddamn hero,” a voice that wasn’t Uncle Dick’s or Uncle Damian’s said. It should’ve terrified him, snapped him awake, because if it wasn’t his uncles than who was talking. But no, he felt safe. Drowsy, but safe.

“Sure did, Uncle Jay,” Jon found himself mumbling before leaning into his touch.

“Clarkcould have said something,” Dick whispered furiously to a stone-faced Brucelater in the car. “He has x-ray vision, it wouldn’t have been hard—“

“Hewouldn’t have seen anything.”

“…youtold me you scrapped the lead-thread fabric.”

“Itell you a lot of things that aren’t true.”

Dickcursed colorfully, hand pressed to his mouth, and Bruce closed his eyes. Therewere a lot of things he kept from Dick and the rest of the family. Like how hecontinued to carry Kryptonite on his person even when he swore he wouldn’t, notafter Lex Luthor lost his hand to Kryptonite-induced cancer a decade ago.Luthor had an accelerated healing factor that predisposed him to cancer anyway,and Clark was not the only Kryptonian to keep an eye on.

Hedidn’t tell Dick that he’d suspected something nearly a year ago, when hisscans showed an anomaly in his gut that he was planning to a biopsy when he hadthe time.

Butthen Damian had moved his wedding date up because Talia had insisted sheattend, and then Tim was hospitalized after yet another bout of stress-relatedself destruction. After all of that, the current League had alerted all activeheroes another cosmic event was at their doorstep, and while Bruce was nolonger active on the field, he could still contribute his mind.

He’dforgotten the biopsy because there was imminent destruction elsewhere, and nowhe was paying for it.

Alfredwould have reminded him, once upon a time, but Alfred was dead and buried.Heart attack. Damian had found him sitting in an armchair like he was sleeping;he’d called Dick in a calm, even voice and then sat stock-still beside Alfred’sbody until Dick rushed back from work. He’d folded into Dick’s arms, and itdidn’t take a detective to tell from Dick’s voice that he’d wished he’d foundAlfred instead.

“Whatare we going to tell the others,” Dick finally broke the silence. He pulledinto the manor garage with practiced ease. Bruce wanted to say it was becausehis leg was broken, but the truth was Bruce had been banned from driving formonths. Something about bad joints. He’d been working on a hand-controlledbrake system, something that would be infinitely useful given the leg. It wouldhave been even more useful as the years passed, but…

“Wedon’t have to say anything.”

“Bruce.”

“There’snothing they can do.”

“Doesn’tmatter,” Dick went and pulled out the wheelchair, and Bruce rapped his hand.“Hey!”

“I’mnot too old to use crutches,” Bruce told him, and the man had the gall to justroll his eyes.

“I’mcalling Damian,” Dick said, tackling the biggest bomb first. “And then Babs.We’ll get through this, B. We’ve gotten through worse.” A pause. “Bruce, didyou….”

“No,”Bruce said, no hesitation as the half-lie fell from his tongue. “I didn’t.”

“Okay,”Dick said. He reached over and squeezed Bruce’s hand, and Bruce allowed himselfenough vulnerability to squeeze back.

—

Batmanwas only human, and humans tended to age. Still, it was sobering to realizeBruce was starting to falter. Not his mind, thank god, but his body. First, hiseyesight. He had to ask Damian to read the text on a shipment of illegalpharmaceuticals once, and his son had paused long enough to realize what that meant.

“I’veadjusted the cowl lenses,” Damian had told him the next day. “You can togglethem as needed for better sight.”

Whichwas Damian’s roundabout way of saying he installed reading glassesinto the cowl, augmenting it’s already long-distance range. Which wassurprisingly helpful of him, and considerate. The last thing Bruce needed wasDick finding out and talking about him retiring again.

Butit was only a temporary solution to the bigger problem of Bruce aging, and soonhe had to face the inevitable.

“Damian,”he said, watching his youngest toggling with the newest batsuit in the garage.“Damian.”

“Iasked Drake to send me the blueprints three days ago, and the fact that hehasn’t has just proven the clone has addled his mind,” Damian didn’t evenpause. “Tch. I can sort it out myself. Father, hand me that screwdriver.”

“Damian,”Bruce repeated once more.

“You’rebarely sixty,” Damian smashed his hand into the work table. His shoulders werehunched. “Grandfather kept spry into his hundreds, and he didn’t have thetechnology we have now. Stop acting as if your time is up.”

“I’msixty-two,” Bruce pointed out. “And R’as artificially prolonged his own lifewith the pit, as you know. As hard as it is to admit, understanding your own limitsis essential for any tactician. Not even this suit can fully make up for mydeficits in the field.”

Damianglared at him.

“Haven’tyou always wanted to take up the cowl,” Bruce tried a different tactic, andknew he misstepped when Damian squeezed his eyes shut. Tears. “It’s belonged toyou for years, if only you insisted.”

“Goaway,” Damian finally managed. “I need to work on the suit.”

Dickwas always better at getting through to Damian. Bruce accepted that. Still,Bruce couldn’t help but feel like he’d failed Damian until Dick came into hisbedroom and wrapped his arms around Bruce’s shoulders.

Hepressed a kiss to his temple. “Mortality terrifies him, Bruce. Especially thatof those he loves.”

“Tobe human is to be mortal,” Bruce said.

Dickpulled back and considered him carefully. He looked good for near-fifty; hebarely had any white in his hair, after all. Still, his age meant heunderstood the test of time better than someone like Damian, who was at thepeak of his physical fitness. “You’re scared too.”

Brucedidn’t bother acknowledging him.

“That’sokay, B,” Dick’s voice was gentle. “It’s okay.”

“Everynight could be our last. We stare mortality in the face every day.”

Butbeing killed in battle was different from the slow inevitability that came withage. Bruce would know. One allowed only a fleeting moment of facing the end;the other gave him years of worry.

“Damianneeds time,” Dick said. “In the meantime, I can take up the cowl…”

“No.”

“I’mnot too old for it,” Dick laughed. “You were still handsome at my age.”

Bruceglowered at him, feeling petulant but unable to stop himself. Dick sighed andnudged him over onto his side. He wrapped his arms around his waist and pressedhis face into his neck, the same kind of gesture he’d used since childhood.Even as a kid, Dick had always wanted to protect him. Like the great Batmanneeded comfort.

Hedid, but he never liked anyone acknowledging it.

“You’rehandsome now, too,” Dick said.

“Old.”

“Sure,you’ve got a bit more belly, but it’s cute.” A vicious kick. “What! I said youwere cute.”

“Dick,”Bruce snapped.

“Can’tI be glad you’re still here to be teased?” Dick’s voice took on a more serioustone. “How fucking miraculous it is?”

“You’renot putting on the cowl.”

“Goto sleep, B,” Dick sighed, and that was that.

—

Theone who was most furious at the news wasn’t Damian, as feared.

 It was Tim.

“Howcould you be so fucking reckless!” he screamed, slamming his hand down onto thereadings Bruce had ordered to be sent over from the hospital. “You knewKryptonite is a carcinogen—we went over Luthor’s case together, it’s aggressiveand pervasive and builds over time—“

“Therisk was worth it.”

“How?When was the last time we fought a Kryptonian? And no, Kryptonite isn’t theonly solution. We have red solar power and sun-absorbers, and if nothing elseClark or Conner could beat them halfway to Sunday.”

“Ifthey were compromised…”

“Bruce,”Tim put a hand to his head. “Bruce, it’s still not worth it. This waspreventable. If I had known…”

Ifhe had known, Tim could have built him a device that neutralized Kryptonite’sunwanted effects. His intelligence was unquestionable, and unlike Damian hecould easily get access to Luthor’s private files for full research potential.Or he could get his husband to access them. Either way, Tim could have helpedhim feed his paranoia in a safer way… which was why Bruce had never asked.

Therewas a chance he’d still succumb to cancer anyway due to his exposure in hisearly days, and in that case. In that case, Tim would blame himself until hedied.

Brucewasn’t the best parent, but he knew enough to keep that kind of blame tohimself. Even if it incurred Tim’s wrath.

“Luthoris even somewhat immune to Kryptonite. He has a healing factor. And he stillneeded to get the hand amputated.” Tim put his head in his hands. “This…Bruce, I don’t know if we can fight this. The way it’s spreading…”

Brucejust stared at him impassively. He knew what the charts said.

Becauseit was true. Despite the doctors and Dick and Damian’s attempt to earn a degreein medicine in two weeks, Bruce knew what Kryptonite-induced cancer was like. Itwas aggressive. It was inhumanly hard to eradicate.

Itwas pretty much a death sentence, and everyone’s attempts to fight against itwas futile.

“Tim,”he said, voice heavy. Tim turned his head away. “Tim, I need to show yousomething.”

“Whatis this,” Tim’s eyes went big and wide while Bruce rolled his wheelchair downthe walkway into one of his secret labs. Dick allowed him three secret labsafter the Satellite fiasco, down from the original ten. He pretended he didn’troutinely hack into each of them every month, and Bruce pretended he didn’tencrypt his more important files in retaliation.

(BarryAllen had once declared them an absolutely dysfunctional couple because ofit—not to mention their shifting dynamic between partners to mentor-mentee and back again—but Bruce had been called dysfunctional foryears.

Dickwas far less obvious about it, but as Jason liked to occasionally shout to theworld, he was just as fucking crazy as the Bat. Maybe more. Because he could haveintegrated himself into “normal” society if he’d wanted to, but he hadn’t.

Dickused to joke that a childhood in the circus gave him an aversion to all things“normal.” Barbara, if she was drunk and in a mood, used to inform Bruce it wasjust an unwillingness to let Bruce go. It would’ve been more judgmental fromanyone else, but from Babs it was just a fact. )

“It’sthe same as a device I created decades ago. My memories and body traininguploaded into a formula that can recreate myself at the peak of my career,”Bruce gestured at the empty tube system beside the machine. “Given the rightmaterials, of course”

“Acloning lab? You created a cloning lab? Holy shit, does Dick know about this?”

“No.He thinks I’m using this lab to study half-Kryptonian dna.”

Timpaused his gob smacking to give him a look. “You told me you stopped dissectingConner’s DNA.”

“Ilied.”

“Ofcourse you did. And you must know Dick’s going to blow a gasket if he finds outabout this.”

“It’sa last resort scenario, Tim. If, for some reason, none of us are left toprotect Gotham. If human confirmation isn’t given every five years, the machinewill automatically fire up.”

Timlooked at him even harder.

“WhenI go, you’ll need to take over the confirmation,” Bruce said.

“Bruce.”

“It’snecessary. You’re the only one who would understand.”

“That’strue. But it isn’t any more fair.”

“I’llforward you the research I have done on Conner.” Bruce allowed. “Whateverthat’s worth.”

A pause. “It’sworth a lot. Thank you.”

“Tim,”Bruce wanted to put his hand on his arm, but knew better than to do so when Timstill looked ready to sock him one. If Bruce hadn’t liked showingvulnerability, Tim was absolutely allergic to it. “I’m sorry.”

Timbreathed out through his nose. He didn’t respond, but Bruce didn’t expect himtoo. They made their way back up to the main level, Bruce rolling in hiswheelchair and Tim following silently behind him.

–

Jasonarrived at the manor doorstep a few mornings later.

Insteadof storming up the stairs to yell at Bruce as expected, he spent a surprisinglylong time talking with Dick in hushed tones in the kitchen. Bruce was parked bythe window in his study, watching Damian tear through all his books with deadlyprecision. He and Colin had unilaterally decided to stay over at the Manor forthe unforeseeable future, and Damian was spending nearly all his free timeabsorbing textbook after textbook on biology, cancer, and mutagenics.

Colinwas making better use of his time by helping the maid tidy up the manor. A remnantfrom his orphanage days, and an absurd sight given that none of the Bat boyshad ever had to do chores.

“’Sup,Trenchcoat,” Jason nodded at the redhead when he finally came out of thekitchen in search of Bruce. Colin nodded back and then, without prompting, wentto wrangle Damian out of the room. Damian was predictably unhappy, but it tookonly a few glares and some hushed arguing for him to gather up his books andstorm out.

Whenthey were alone, Jason came by the window and sat in the armchair across fromhim.

“Dick’sreal upset, you know,” he started without preamble. “Never really seen him getthis worked up. Not even when you died the first time. Or the second.”

“Ifit wasn’t this, it’d be something else,” Bruce said. “Aging is a perfectly naturalprocess.”

“Gee,thanks,” Jason snorted, and lounged back in his chair with the same grace he’dhad in his twenties. Probably because he still looked twenty, with the dark hair and smooth skin and nimble,well-oiled limbs. His eyes betrayed his real age, though, in a way Bruce oncerecognized in R’as’s. “Thought it would’ve been fun seeing you go all crabby,but it’s just kind of sad. If the Batman went out, you’d think it’d be to savethe world.”

“Wouldit be easier if it was?”

“No,”Jason’s voice was sharp. “Don’t even think about it. Dick needs you to fight,Bruce. You’re not taking that time away from him.”

“Dickis still young,” Bruce said slowly, the words leaden on his lips. He’d beenthinking about it since his diagnosis, and if there was ever a person he couldconfess this to, it was Jason. Tim was, for as absurd as it sounded, too young to understand this. Too stubbornlyset in his perception of what their family was. “He has time to find Barbaraagain, once I’m gone.”

Jasonjust stared at him. “You better hope to god he doesn’t hear you talking likethat. He’ll kill you himself.”

“I’mserious.”

“AndI’m serious. You really think he’sgoing to just jump into her arms once you’re in the ground? Like he wouldn’t befucked up over all of this long after you go? How long did it take for you tolet me go?”

“Jason.”

“Hey,I have the unfortunate joy of seeing you all pass like this,” Jason gestured athimself. “Weird reality-bending lazarus-pitting body here. I’m going to have towatch you all go through this over and over, and I’ll be damned if you’re goingto start setting the example by being a giant ass.”

“Youcan still die from mortal wounds,” Bruce narrowed his eyes at him. “Perhapssaving the world yourself, one day.”

“Sure,it could happen. Every day could be my last. But that’s why I appreciate everyday I do have. You need to hold onevery day you can, B. They won’t accept anything less.”

Bruceconsidered him for a long moment.

Thetruth was, Jason was never as good at hiding his own fear as he thought he was.When it became clear decades ago that Jason wasn’taging, the resulting panic had nearly torn their relationship apart. Again.

(He’dthought Jason might’ve been glad about the extended lifespan, not angry. It wasthat lack of understanding that had nearly broken them.

“I’msorry, Jay,” he overheard Dick saying one night, when he thought he’d gone tosleep already and was talking with Jason on the balcony. “If I knew a way toget you back your normal body…”

“Whatdo you have to be sorry for? I’m going to look young forever,” Jason laughed.It sounded hollow. “Generations of heroes will look to me as a well of wisdom.I’ll be standing by Wonder Woman when the sun explodes.”

“You’regoing to have to watch us die,” Dick said.

Jasonwas silent for a very long time. Then: “I watched my mother do it once. I survivedit then, I can survive it now.”

“Aslong as you survive.”

“Youthink I’ll just end it all myself, Dickie?”

“Idon’t know, but I don’t want you to. You have to fight, Jay. Keep going. Youneed to hold on to every day you have, because if you blow your head off I’mgoing to knife you in the afterlife.”

“Likeyou have the balls,” Jason had said, but had sounded… calmer for it. Oh, Dick.He was always so much better at talking than Bruce, even if his ownrelationship with Jason had had its own ups and downs.

Now,hearing the same words repeated to him through Jason’s lips, it felt even morereal.)

Jasonmay have had decades to come to terms with this reality, but it didn’t changethe fact that Bruce was going to be the first to actually test that resolve. Toactually prove the power of something as uncontrollable as time.

“Ido plan to fight,” Bruce said. His kept his voice neutral. “But I know howit’ll end all the same.”

Jasonrubbed his hands on his jeans. Not because he was sweating, but out of habit.“Yeah. But I’d still keep the whole Barbara-Dick thing on the down low.”

“Heneeds to know.”

“Yeah,which is why I’ll tell him if it evercomes up. But you’re going to keep your damned trap shut. You don’t want tomake these next few months any worse.” His gaze flickered up to Bruce’s face.“You gotta give him time to grieve.”

Brucesighed. He sighed again when Jason took out a cigarette and lit it up right inthe damned study, like Alfred wasn’t about to rise from the grave to snatch itout of his hands. It wasn’t like Bruce’s situation could get any worse.

Helet Jason have his smoke, and Jason let Bruce keep pretending he was lookingout the window.

Itsaid a lot about Bruce that this was how things with his boys always went.Unspoken words hiding in deep silences. Leaving things unsaid, because sayingthem out loud never failed to spark an argument.

Hewas tired of arguing.

Andafter so many years, Jason seemed tired of it too.

–

Heknew it was going to get bad. That cancer stripped away the dignity of even theproudest leader; it reduced even the strongest mind to lethargic acceptanceeventually.

Heknew it was going to get bad, but he owed the boys a fight all the same.

“Damian,”he said from the bed. He wasn’t completely bed-ridden yet, but some days wereworse than others. Today was one of them.

Damian,who’d been reading yet another textbook on cancer-related immunology, glancedup with a raised brow. “Yes, Father?”

“It’stime.”

Damian’sexpression changed from slight interest to alarm. “Father, you don’t mean—”

Bruceresisted the urge to roll his eyes. The Batman, even lying in bed and hooked upto a machine, didn’t roll his eyes.“I mean it’s time for you to go on patrol, Damian.”

Damiansettled back down. “…it’s only three.”

Bruceleveled him a look.

“No,”Damian said.

“It’stime.”

“Itis not.”

“Batmanhasn’t patrolled the city in weeks. Dick isn’t in the right mind for it.”

“Andyou think I am?” Damian’s cheeksflushed red with indignation. “I can still find a way—”

“Damian.”

Theboy—man, he was a man, thirty-five andold enough to be married—turned away.It was hard, but it was necessary. He’d extracted promises from all but Dickand Damian: Dick, because he knew the whole situation was hard enough on him asit was; and Damian, because Damian was the most stubborn. But the time to pushhim was past.

“Thecowl,” Bruce enunciated slowly. “It’s still in the case downstairs.”

Damiancracked a wet eye open and stared at him.

“Youdon’t have to make me proud. I’m already proud of you, Damian. Always rememberthat.” Bruce said, and let Damian turn to wipe his eyes without comment.

Thatnight, he watched news anchors excitedly bring up sightings of the Batmanpatrolling the streets once again. Because Batman was more than a man. He was alegend. A myth. And he would live on even after Bruce passed.

Withthat, Bruce had retrieved all the promises he needed; from his boys to hisgirls, from the League to his colleagues. Even Luthor, who regarded hissituation with unreadable eyes, had agreed to take on the responsibility ofresearching this kind of cancer after his passing.

“Formedical advancement, of course,” the villain had felt compelled to add, as ifClark would have accepted from him any answer other than yes.

(Clarkhad been so horrifically guilty when he’d found out. It had been the hardestpart about dealing with the League, never mind the fact that Clark was going toeventually outlive all of them anyway.)

Itwas a good day when Dick came into his bedroom, looking so clean-cut and healthy Bruce nearly cracked a smile.Didn’t, because Dick wasn’t smiling. He’d try, sometimes, when he thought Bruceneeded him to put on a brave face, but Bruce had made it clear he didn’t needDick to hide.

Sohe didn’t.

Instead,he crawled into bed with him without a word and wrapped his arms around hiswaist.

Evennow trying to protect him, when it was clearly Dick who needed the protectingthis time around.

“Thankyou,” Dick said into the soft, white curls of Bruce’s hair.  

Forholding on for longer than he’d once hoped. For living when anyone who knewBruce would know he hated the indignity of vulnerability.

Brucehad never asked Dick for a promise, because Dick had given him everything hecould have and more. Bruce had owed Dicka promise.

Dick was volatile and grabby and was always moving, and had the tendency to just begin grooming a flockmate without warning because he was raised with the manners of a monkey. He routinely barged into Bruce’s clearly labeled Territory, Enter at Your Own Risk, to drag out the disgruntled patriarch after yet another period of skulking about in the dark. That’s just what Dick did.

Jason liked pretending he never came home, even if he constantly shed red feathers all over the furniture. He was as grounded as Dick was flighty—until he took to the air after an inevitable argument. He could fly for days without stopping, that was how crazy it was, and if he collapsed one day into the ocean and drowned, it would surprise absolutely no one.

(Jason was overall okay, though. He tended to leave Tim alone—unlike a certain chick whose life goal seemed to turn everyone’s world into a living hell.)

Damian may claim to be more dinosaur than chicken, but he was totally a fucking chicken. He was a tiny, anal-retentive dinosaur-chicken armed with teeth, and he was a menace. He made meticulously arranged pillow nests on the floor, guarded his territory with actual booby-traps, and had the annoying habit of clicking his tongue and flicking his wings just so.

Of all the people with things in this house, Damian’s case was the most unfair.

Because Tim wasn’t sure why everyone else got to have their thing and he couldn’t. Sure, Dick’s grabbiness didn’t really hurt anyone except for his dignity, and territorial behavior was considered relatively normal for guys. Jason falling into an ocean would just be Darwinian Evolution at its finest, though someone would probably just fish his body out and toss it into a Lazarus Pit again for shits and giggles.

The point was, no one got on their cases for their crazy. Which seemed unfair given how much flak Tim had always gotten—has always gotten, from his earliest memories to now, for his own coping mechanisms.

“Destructive tendencies,” Alfred had sighed the third time the school had called in, mere weeks after Tim had been accepted into the Wayne Family flock and Gotham Academy finally had someone to yell at over a phone. Jane and Jack Drake had always been out of the country—out of reach, out of mind. “There are more… productive ways to express yourself, Master Timothy.”

Tim scowled down at his bloody fingernail. He wasn’t dumb. There were acceptable and unacceptable behaviors, and for some reason society had decided that tearing out his own feathers until his skin bled or digging a hole through his wooden desk with a fingernail wasn’t acceptable. Fine, whatever. These were things he could control.

But then there were things he couldn’t control, and there was nothing worse than getting yelled at for that.

That’s theft, some people would say.

That’s obsessive, others would add. You need help.

And yeah, it was the wing-equivalent of biting one’s nails until they bled, but Tim couldn’t fucking help it. It was written in his genes and behavior and stopping it was like telling someone to stop breathing, and it wasn’t fair.

His mother had been a magpie, and he was a magpie, and he couldn’t help it.

Dick and Bruce and Alfred and Jason knew, he was sure, and Damian definitely knew given the amount of times he’s snarked about it until Tim had quite literally tried to murder him. Well. Not literally. He’d only meant to murder him a little, but Dick had of course saved the day and whisked the dinosaur-chicken off somewhere he couldn’t antagonize Tim into fratricide.

Because Dick himself had brought it up exactly once when Tim first moved into the manor—and had quickly learned to back off at whatever he saw on Tim’s face.

Hiding was the first thing his mother had taught him. If he had to rip out a thousand feathers and tear off a bunch of feathers to obscure the truth he would.

Magpies’ hoards were carefully guarded treasures. Tim kept his collection under his bed and pretended no one knew where it was—everyone knew, because if Bruce’s rooms were Do Not Enter than Tim’s hoard was I WILL KNIFE YOU—and when he felt stressed or worried or just a bit off, he’d open it his box.

Some unfortunate souls collected t-shirts and used condoms.

Tim, like his mother, collected rocks.

Stones, gems, rocks that glittered. No personal connection was needed for a shiny stone to catch his eye, which was a bit of a departure from the typical magpie stereotype.

(Not that he left other’s belongings completely alone—that was a slightly more controllable extension of his magpieing, collecting people’s trash and playing with it to be discarded at his fancy. It was like chewing the end of a pencil when what he really wanted to do was bite his nails. And he knew he was going to bite them eventually.)

For his true hoard, he collected stones that fascinated him.

That was easy enough to hide. Hell, he was so sure he could’ve gone his whole life hiding the magpie-ing, just as his mother had spent her life hiding her habits—even from his father. Her husband. Easy enough to quietly squirrel away rocks belonging to your own husband when one shared a house.

Except Tim didn’t share a house with the person who suddenly peaked his interest.

And not in a, oh, let me just steal your notes from the trashcan kind of interest. More of a I want to steal the stone lodged in your shoe kind of interest.

And that was very, very bad news indeed.

It all started when he was ten-years-old and still bright-eyed from being declared a Robin. When his mother and father had still been alive and the collection of stones under his bed wasn’t quite so big.

He’d torn open the back of some villain’s getaway van one day and pulled out a shaky boy with large, fledgling wings from its confines. He was dressed in preppy, well-tailored clothes and had an inhibitor collar clasped around his neck.

“Who are you?” the boy asked, sooty face already shifting from surprise to calculating. Smart, this one.

“Conner Luthor?” Tim had shot back, wanting to confirm the victim before fluttering back to Batman. Conner nodded in agreement. Smart, but a bit sheltered. Rich boys tended to be like that. Tim would know.

Except knowing the boy now, Tim couldn’t believe he’d ever once viewed Conner as a damsel in distress. The guy was nigh unshakable. He was the Superman to Tim’s Batman; his best friend in a world of much older heroes constantly underestimating them for their youth.

Conner was the first indication his magpie-ing ran deeper than he’d thought—because Conner.

Conner was a fucking crazy person.

--

Tim Drake was just an awkward middle-schooler who sometimes put on spandex and flew about the city beating up criminals when he should’ve been in bed.

Conner Luthor, on the other hand, was eleven-years-old and clearly the product of both of his parents.

He just didn’t understand things. Normal, obvious things like girls fluttering their wings meaning they like liked him; or when people raised their wings menacingly when he flew too close and Conner kept flying anyway; or when he caught Tim staring at a beautiful amethyst at a local gift shop and, instead of giving Tim a weird look for his weird, magpie habits, had offered to buy it for him.

“I can afford it,” the words just dropped from his mouth, even as he felt his cheeks flush red at being caught. Tim had spent so much energy keeping his collecting a secret, he couldn’t believe he’d slipped up like this in front of someone else. But Conner didn’t seem to notice anything amiss, which was somehow worse because he wouldn’t leave the subject alone.

“Yeah, but you weren’t going to buy it, right?” Conner reached over and picked up the stone in his hand. “Come on, our dads hung out all day without killing each other. Let’s memorialize the occasion.”

Tim stared. Just the sight of the stone rolling around in the other fledgling’s palm had Tim’s own feathers shivering involuntarily—and then straight-out fluttering when Conner lightly punched his arm and headed for the gift shop counter.

Tim had once thought nothing could beat the warm feeling of his mother coming home from a trip and secretly slipping a souvenir stone into his hands. It made up for months of loneliness. Reminded him that she loved him.

(He ached for that feeling in his worst moments, when he found himself crying into his pillow after yet another useless visit to his father’s hospital room just to watch him breathe through a tube. Sometimes, Dick would slip in and curl his wings around him. Sometimes, it was Alfred who came in and left behind a tray of hot tea and cookies.

Sometimes, very rarely, it was Bruce himself who would come in and stand awkwardly at Tim’s bedside. He’d place a large hand on Tim’s head and keep vigil, and the pain would slowly fade away to sleep.)

But none of that beat the thrill Tim felt when Conner came back, receipt tucked into the back of his designer jeans, and placed the stone into his hands. It was warm and smooth and was somehow even better than before, because Conner had given it to him.

Tim should probably refuse out of courtesy, but the idea of parting with this precious thing once it was in his grasp was sacrilege.

“Thanks,” he said shyly. Conner smiled, big and bright and earnest, and Tim wanted to reach over and sink his hands into his feathers. It was a strange urge, one that left him tingly from head to toe.

“Timmy, Kon, you guys in here?” Dick’s voice called out from the front of the gift shop, and Tim startled at the reminder that yes, they were in public. Thank god the gift store was otherwise abandoned except for the two of them.

He placed the stone in his pocket and, feeling bold, reached out and grabbed Conner’s hand. Conner, being the handsy fledgling he was, didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. He simply perked up and tugged Tim out the shop, like holding hands with his best friend past the age of five was the most normal thing ever.

He began bouncing on his toes the closer they got, he was so excited, and Tim had to crane his head up to see what the fuss was about. His older flockmate was leaning against an honestly ridiculous statue of Superman raising his wings protectively over a miniature model of Metropolis.

It was massive.

“I keep telling Bruce it’s not a contest,” Dick rolled his eyes and gestured up at the statue. He glanced down at their joined hands before taking a long sip from his water bottle. “Like he couldn’t get some museum in Gotham to build a statue of Batman if he wanted to.”

“Dad just wanted to piss him off,” Conner said happily, and Dick choked on his water. “He was like, ‘The bigger the better!’ and when the museum started complaining he just threw money at them. Isn’t it cool? They just set it up, like, a week ago, and Pa finally thought it was time to see it in person and it’s humongous!”

“You’re too young to say ‘pissed off’,” Dick honed in on the clearest issue in that tirade. “You’re like, five.”

“Twelve,” Conner stressed.

“I thought you were eleven,” Tim said, and Conner shot him a betrayed look. “What?”

“Eleven and three quarters,” Conner sulked darkly, and the whole situation only grew more surreal when Bruce himself emerged from the bathroom and spent an entire moment glaring at the Superman statue.

“There is little educational value in this museum,” he told Dick, who just rolled his eyes and twitched a gray wing. It flicked a nearby dust mote off of Tim’s shoes, and Tim flared his own in annoyance. He wasn’t a baby. Bruce ignored both of them with practiced weariness. “Tell me Clark made reservations for lunch.”

“Clark? Make reservations?”

“…tell me Lex made reservations for Clark for lunch.”

“The unkempt bathroom’s thrown you off that much, huh?” Dick said sympathetically. “It’s like a nuclear blast zone in there. Maybe you should have held it in until we got back to the hotel.”

And Tim honestly wondered how Bruce hadn’t strangled Dick yet. It was nearly a game how embarrassing Dick could be with the right incentive. Unaffected by the truly withering Batglare he received for his—his undignified comment, Dick just put his water bottle back into his messenger bag and nudged Tim’s side with a wing.

Oh. He flushed. He and Conner were still holding hands, which wasn’t a problem with Dick but might be a problem with Bruce, and Conner seemed oblivious as always. Until Tim tried to extract his hand and found it as immovable as being caught in a concrete slab.

“I can show you a great pita place down the street, Mr. Wayne,” Conner addressed Bruce without pause, and oh, he was good. Tim always forgot how Conner used his spaciness as a weapon sometimes; how his forgetfulness was less laziness and more a tactic to throw his enemies for a loop.

(Not that Tim was an enemy, but even he knew how stubborn and evasive he was sometimes. Dick had once described forcing Tim to do something like pulling teeth; the only reliable way to succeed was to trick him into it.)

Conner’s hand was only lightly callused. Warm. Tim’s wings fluttered just a bit, and wow, Dick was definitely giving them a shit-eating grin now. Tim blushed harder. He liked Conner. It was hard not to like Conner, even if it was hard to tell if the boy actually liked anyone back.

“No reservations needed there,” Conner was saying matter-of-factly, unashamed of his blasé tone despite addressing The Batman. “Metropolis is my home town, you know, and since Pa’s busy with an incident…”

“Incident?” Bruce’s voice was sharp.

Conner made a dismissive gesture with his free hand. “Yeah? I mean, he promised he’d come look at the statue with us, but then of course they had to be playing the news in one of the rooms and you know Pa. He left, like, an hour ago. Didn’t you notice?”

Bruce’s nostrils flared. Anyone with any sense of self preservation would know better than to question the ever-vigilant Batman, but Conner had the blissful ignorance of an invulnerable child who didn’t really understand pain.

(Because Lex Luthor would eviscerate anyone suicidal enough to bring Kryptonite into the same building as his son, much less the same room—and if Luthor didn’t rain down financial ruin fast enough, Clark Kent was more than capable of guilting criminals into submission with his Disappointed Pout of Doom.)

“Too busy trying to keep his butt from touching the toilet seat,” Dick faux-whispered to Conner, and yelped when Bruce not-so-gently grabbed his closest wing elbow and twisted his feathers. “Ow! Oh come on, this is Metropolis. We’re on vacation. Just leave it alone for one day, will you?”

“Let’s go to the pita place,” Tim quickly said before Bruce could beat Dick over the head with his bag. Thankfully, Bruce nodded, and Conner puffed out his chest. He was so proud of playing tour guide now that Clark was off, like, saving kittens or whatever—and Tim couldn’t help but flutter his wings yet again because Conner was still holding his hand.

“Are you holding hands,” he heard Bruce start, and then stop with a glower when Dick jabbed him in the side with an elbow. He amended in a slightly less accusatory tone. “Tim, we’re in public. Propriety.”

“Bruce, five words: Harvest Gala and Jennifer Trough,” Tim shot back.

Conner whipped his head around. “Jennifer Trough? Wait, wait, you were the one that ‘tripped’ and put your hand on—”

“Oh my god,” Dick burst out laughing, and Bruce growled low in his throat.

--

They arrived home a few days later.

Despite Bruce’s grumbling, even Tim could see how they had all needed that break. Metropolis had been good for them, even if it was a bit too optimistic for the Bat’s tastes, because Tim had been going stir-crazy in Gotham and Conner was just so… Conner.

When Tim finished unpacking his clothes, he took out the smooth amethyst that had been burning in his pocket for days.

He opened his magpie box to place Conner’s stone inside—and paused. He stared down at the array of stones that his mother had given him; that he’d picked up from the side of street or saw glittering in a jewelry store on his way to Gotham Academy. He reached out with a free hand and ran his fingers across the various surfaces of his collection. Smooth, sharp, chalky. It used to soothe him, and it still did—but this was different.

He couldn’t put Conner’s stone in here.

Tim shut the box and pushed it back under the bed. Carefully, still, because this was his hoard, but Conner’s stone didn’t belong there. He slipped the amethyst back into his pocket and squeezed his eyes shut.

After a calculating moment, he migrated to his desk and wrote a note to Alfred.

Then, he spread his wings.

It felt like he spent hours flying about Gotham, navigating the air ways while businessmen flew to and from the skyscraper offices without paying any heed to little fledglings weaving through traffic. He flew past billboards sticking out too far into the channels to be legal just so he could peer through the window displays below.

He finally found what he was looking for in an near-forgotten boutique he remembered visiting in his youth. Just the thought hurt his chest. It was a rare day for the Drake family to venture out together, and that had been the day his mother had first pulled him aside and told him to keep their magpie-ing a secret.

“It’s a disgraceful habit,” she’d said quietly while Jack Drake was too busy discussing business with a friend across the street. “We may not be able to stop it, but we must never let anyone else discover it.”

“Not even Dad?” Tim had said, confused, and flinched back at the sudden steel in his mother’s eyes.

“Especially not your father,” she’d said.

And that had been that.

It was almost ironic how he found the perfect box right in that alley, so close to where the Drake family had visited before it had shattered. It was lying in a dumpster. Tim fished it out with a hook and dusted it off. Small, wooden, and clearly meant to house jewelry. It looked like something that he would have found on his mother’s vanity.

“A new box, Timmy?” Dick commented when he caught Tim meticulously wiping the wooden box with a cloth that night. “You starting another collection?”

Tim blew the spare scrapings off the corner.

“Don’t laugh,” he said quietly.

“I’m not laughing,” Dick frowned. He plopped down beside the fledgling and pressed his soft gray feathers up against Tim’s side. “Magpie-ing is just as natural as wing flutters, you know. Or having blond hair. You’re born with it, and as long as you’re being safe with your collecting…”

“Stop,” Tim said, just barely keeping the snap out of his voice. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“Hm,” Dick said in a neutral tone. He ran a hand down Tim’s ruffled wings, absently tidying crooked feathers and pulling out old ones caught in Tim’s disheveled coverts. After Tim’s feathers finally smoothed out again, he said, “Want me to get you something for it?”

“No,” Tim said.

“No?”

“This isn’t your collection,” Tim said, just a bit too coldly. He took the warm amethyst stone from his pocket and carefully laid it in the middle of the wooden box. He amended: “But I still love you, Dick.”

“Aw, Timmy,” Dick laughed without missing a beat, and this was the roll-with-the-punches side of Dick that Tim cherished so much. “You do care!”

Tim flicked him backwards with a wing and yelped when Dick shoved him back. They quickly dissolved into play-fighting and wrestling, until Tim nearly knocked over a lamp and the two of them got yelled at by Alfred.

Tim didn’t realize it until later, but he’d left the wooden box in plain sight on his desk. He couldn’t put words to it, but there was no sense of panic when he realized it.

Tim may have hid the keepsakes of his mother for years, but this was Conner’s box. The boy barely understood the concept of shame as it was; ergo, Tim refused to feel shame either.

New box. New collection. New rules.