#pt8

He’d done everything. Flicked through the channels on Jason's ancient, boxy TV—soap operas, grim news reports,  cooking shows. He’d tried to count the spots on the popcorn ceiling. He tried to lay down on the floor and take a nap, but then he noticed how filthy it was under the couch and felt icky, so he cleaned. Meticulously. The counters in the small kitchen gleamed, the few dishes were put away, the floors seemed like there never was a drop of blood on them, and the blanket on the couch returned to its baby blue color that was obscured by stains that Danny didn't want to think about.

It was satisfying… for about twenty minutes. Then the restless energy returned, buzzing in his core like a trapped wasp.

Bored out of his mind once again, he turned to just look around and see if he missed anything he could distract himself with. It was this way that his eyes landed on the bookshelf. It was a spartan thing, metal and cheap laminate, tucked in a corner. It held maybe two dozen books, their spines a motley collection of faded colors and cracked lettering; it looked like the shelf came with the safehouse and the books were just put there without much care. Danny drifted over, trailing his fingers along the spines. Survival manuals, a history of firearms, a dense, depressing-looking Russian novel. Then, his finger stopped.

To Kill a Mockingbird.

He pulled it out. The cover was worn soft at the edges, the iconic image of the knot in the tree faint. A sudden, visceral punch of nostalgia hit him square in the chest, stealing his breath.

He read this book before, back when he still tried to maintain his grades somewhat decent, and he had the time to hang out with Sam and Tuck. He could still picture it so clearly that it made his eyes prick.

Mr. Lancer’s classroom, smelling of chalk dust and old paper and everyone's groan at having to read the book. Sam, already arguing about the systemic injustices and getting so worked up that Mr. Lancer had to pull her out of the classroom to wind down. Tucker groaning about the page count, then secretly getting invested in the courtroom drama. Jazz, at home, asking him thoughtful questions about Boo Radley over takeout food, using it as a stealth-psychology lesson. Himself, complaining loudly about the "old-timey language," then staying up late, flashlight under the covers, heart aching for Scout and Jem.

A whole different dimension, one that he stumbled upon just by chance and luck. One that felt so similar, but had so many differences. They had the same stars and fast food and capitalism, sure. But a book? A specific story, word for word, existing here too? It felt surreal, a piece of home sitting unassumingly in this Gotham bolt-hole. The coincidence was too small, too intimate, to feel like a cosmic constant. It felt like a message, or a cruel joke.

But, despite all that, a sudden curiosity bloomed shyly in his chest. Would it be the same? How much could it have changed from his own dimension’s version? Wanting to find out, he curled into his now-customary spot on the couch, blanket over his legs, and opened to the first page.

“When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow…”

He was pulled in instantly. Not just by the story, but by the act of recognition. He was searching for differences, for cracks in the mirror. A changed name, an altered turn of phrase. He found none. It was exactly the same. Every word felt like being back in his sophomore year.

He could almost hear Tucker’s snort at Scout’s antics, feel Sam’s impatient tap on her desk during the quieter passages, waiting to talk about ‘the societal rot’ and remember the highlighter lines where Jazz had marked passages about “understanding others’ perspectives.”

Then, he reached the trial. The first time he read it, he got a weird heavy feeling in his chest that almost made him quit reading. Atticus’s quiet, doomed integrity and willingness to stand up even when he knew he’ll lose triggered that, the protecting people who don’t even know they need it, or worse, don’t want you to... It wasn't just a book anymore.

He was so engrossed in the story that didn’t hear the key in the lock. He didn’t hear the heavy tread of boots being toed off. He was in Maycomb, feeling the oppressive heat, watching Atticus Finch walk out of the courthouse.

“You planning to become a lawyer, kid?”

Danny jerked, the book flying from his hands and landing on the floor with a soft thump. Jason stood by the door, helmet under his arm, looking more weary than hostile. There was a new tear in his jacket, and the smell of Gotham night—ozone, garbage, and something metallic—clung to him.

“Sorry,” Danny rasped, his voice thick. He bent to pick up the book, fumbling. “Didn’t hear you.”

Jason’s sharp eyes focussed on the too-careful way Danny handled the book and the suspicious brightness in his eyes..

“All good?” Jason grunted, moving to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. Not asking directly about the obvious was a habit he’d developed back in his Robin days. Dick used to get too agitated if someone pointed out when he was hurt or  being moody. It still made no sense to Jason why Bruce or Dick would get mad at him for not being more direct., when they literally got angry at him for doing just that. 

“Yeah. Fine.” Danny winced at how transparent it sounded even to his own ears. He placed the book back on the arm of the couch, gently. “Just… reading. Found this on your shelf.”

Jason glanced at the title as he drank. “‘To Kill a Mockingbird.’ Heavy stuff for a boring Tuesday.”

“I’ve read it before,” Danny said softly, the words escaping before he could filter them. He stared at the cover. “Back home. For school.”

Jason stilled. Home was a word Danny never used. Home was a landmine they’d both been carefully avoiding. He leaned against the counter, his posture deliberately casual. “Yeah? What’d you think of it?”

And that simple question got Danny to huff and dramatically drop himself on the couch.

“I hated the assignment,” Danny started, “Complained for a whole week straight.” A faint, fond smile touched his lips as he rolled his eyes. “My friend Sam was already launching into the social commentary, like, immediately. And Tucker just kept wondering if you could actually make a functional ham costume.” A quiet laugh escaped him, but it faded quickly, leaving his face still and distant. “My sister… she’d use it to psychoanalyze me over dinner. Asked if I saw myself more in Scout, trying to make sense of a world that didn’t, or in Boo Radley. Always watching from the shadows.”

He fell silent, the memory playing out in vivid, painful color. The noise of their kitchen. The warmth. The belonging.

“It’s stupid,” Danny whispered, “It’s just a book. But… it’s the same book. Out of everything in the whole stupid multiverse, this one story is exactly the same. And it… it was ours. It was us reading it and joking and having fun. But now they’re not here to… to argue about it. They probably don’t even remember arguing about it.”

He curled into himself, making his body a small, tight knot. He’d given up everything to keep them safe, and he’d do it again. It was fine. It had to be fine. They were safe; they were free. They were worrying about college and careers instead of ectoplasm and shadows. But the sight of the book, the exact same font, the same yellowed edges, stung in a way he wasn't prepared for. Because, even if he knew they were safe… he wasn't with them anymore. _____________________________________________

The word —multiverse— hit Jason. Not like a bucket of cold water, but like a vibro-blade to the ribs: a sudden, silent jolt that left his nerves screaming. A sharp, cold clarity went through him, the detective part of his brain snapping to attention like a guard dog.

His eyes narrowed minutely behind the casual slump of his posture. Every bizarre piece of this kid—the impossible healing, the chilling baseline vitals, the cheerful defiance of mortal pain—suddenly twisted and re-aligned around that one, ludicrous word. It was a key that didn't just unlock a door; it suggested the house was built on entirely different physics.

For a split second, the question was on his tongue. What the hell do you mean, ‘dimension’?

This… This was a big piece. A huge one. But he looked at Danny, the way his shoulders shook with silent, contained grief, and he bit it back. Hard. Now was not the time. 

He had been a lost, angry kid on the streets of Gotham too. He wasn’t going to be the one to kick this kid when he was already down. ‘Ok... we are filing whatever…that was under 'Later'. And under 'What the Actual Fuck'.’

He forced the tension out of his frame, put the glass down with a quiet clink, and moved toward the couch picking up the book. 

“It’s not stupid,” Jason said, his voice low, almost rough. He didn’t move closer, “Some things… they stick because they mattered. Even when everything else changes.”

Danny finally looked at him, his eyes too bright, too old. “Yeah,” he breathed. “They mattered.”

He looked from the book to Danny, who was watching him with wary, shiny eyes. Jason didn’t know the story. Not the real one. He knew that the kid was a hell of a fighter against the odds, that he used silly puns to not go mad, and now, that he was apparently from a whole ass different dimension. The puzzle just got a thousand times weirder, but the only one holding the pieces was hurting.

“And some stories stick with you,” Jason continued, his gaze dropping back to the cover. “Not always ’cause they’re happy. Sometimes it’s ’cause they show you a hurt that’s already there.” He finally looked back at Danny, his expression unreadable but not unkind. “Makes it real.”

He placed the book back on the couch cushion, not forcing it into Danny’s hands, just putting it within reach.

“I had to read this too,” Jason said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet safehouse. “My… father made me. And Alfred, the man that's basically my grandfather, quizzed me on it over tea. I thought it was boring as hell at first. All that southern Gothic crap.” He tapped the cover with a blunt finger. “Then I got to the trial. To Atticus walking out, and the balcony… and the damn ham costume.”

He put the book back down, not looking at Danny, looking at his own past. “I got it then. It’s not about the mystery. It’s about the people watching. The ones in the shadows, seeing the injustice, feeling helpless. And the one guy who steps into the light anyway, even when he knows he’s gonna lose.” He finally met Danny’s wet, surprised eyes. “You’re not Boo Radley, kid. And you’re not just watching from the balcony either.”

Danny let out a shuddering breath, the tightness in his chest loosening just a fraction. “What am I, then?”

A ghost of Jason’s own, rare smirk appeared. “Currently? You’re the weirdo in my safehouse getting emotional over Harper Lee.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “Come on. I’m making hot chocolate. The disgustingly sugary kind. And you’re gonna tell me if this ‘Sam’ person had a point about the Ewells, or if she was just being dramatic.”

“She was always dramatic,” Danny said, his voice still thick but a real smile trying to form. “But… she was also usually right.”

“Great,” Jason deadpanned, pulling out a saucepan. “A dramatic know-it-all. You attract the best people, Kid.”

Danny stayed on the couch for a beat longer, his fingers lingering on the worn fabric of the book's spine. It still hurt, the grief was a cold weight in his stomach that wasn't going anywhere, but the sharp, jagged edges were just a tiny bit duller now. He stood up slowly, the baby-blue blanket sliding off his lap in a heap, and padded into the kitchen.

“The chocolate better have marshmallows,” Danny said, leaning his hip against the counter, just far enough to not get in the way, but close enough to feel the heat from the burner.

“Would I commit the travesty of marshmallow-less cocoa?” Jason retorted. He didn't look up, focused instead on the rhythmic whisking of the milk. “Sit down. I'm not serving a guest who's hovering like he's ready to bolt through the wall.”

Danny sat, pulling a stool up to the small, scratched-up island. He watched the steam curl into the air, the smell of chocolate slowly flooding the tiny space. The silence that settled between them wasn't the strange silence from before. It was just... quiet.

The book was still in the other room, but as Jason shoved a mug overflowing with white, puffy marshmallows toward him, the "here and now" felt just solid enough to hold onto.

“Sam would have hated this much sugar,” Danny murmured, blowing on the steam.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m the one making it,” Jason grunted, taking a seat across from him. “Now, start from the beginning. Why was this Bob Ewell guy such a piece of work?”

Danny took a sip, the sugar hitting his system like a warm hug, and began to talk.

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Heyyy, long time no see.... yeah... Sorry bout that, I'm not exaggerating when I said it was damn busy, more than even I expected, but I finally got some free time and started reading again to have some enrichment between all the chaos, and i gotta be honest, I haven't read a dpxdc since I wrote last part. I got obsessed wit a DC fic (Jason and Damian centered) called across the sands (i think) and the a couple more... that's to say i lost my touch with dp, so it was really hard for me to get to write this story, especially cuz i already had established that this part was gonna be Danny's pov, so you can imagine how fucking blocked i was starting this, but I think I got it.