"Red Robin, checking in," Tim said, scanning the alleyway below him. "Sector Five is clear."

"Sector Three, clear as well," Steph said into her communicator, her smile audible. He could hear her panting slightly, indicating that she'd just been in a tangle of sorts. He quickly glanced at the electronic readout of her suit, trying to see if he could tell if she was injured. The suits readings appeared to be normal, so she was probably just winded.

"Sector Four," Cass said softly, her voice almost lyrical as she spoke into the comms. "Clear." He heard the faint rush of wind that indicated travel by grappling hook.

"Sector Two," this was Dick, his voice gravel and razor blades and sandpaper, but still velvet and puppies and feathers compared to that of Bruce's Batman, "Clear."

"Sector Seven," Selina's whip could be heard in the background, along with the faint yelp of her unfortunate victims. "Is… clear." There was the faintest thump of flesh hitting concrete.

"Sector One is clear," Bruce's growl was unmistakable. Tim knew how he'd be standing; dramatically crouched on a gargoyle, the wind blowing just so in order to make his cape billow out around him. He could picture the way that the cowled eyes would scan the streets below, daring a cowardly criminal to come out of hiding so the big bad Bat could dramatically pounce on him (or her) from above. Bruce was the master of dramatic winds in a way that Dick never was. If Bruce had a superpower, Tim suspected it would be ambiance control. He had that effect on things.

Tim bit back a comment about how quiet the night was. He could tell that some of the others were as well. No one wanted to tempt Fate, who not only had a sense of humor worthy of the Joker, but also seemed to enjoy lobbing out the unexpected, unexplainable, and just plain weird at their family. In his mind, Tim pictured Fate as a child, playing with a ball, which happened to control the normalness-level in Gotham City. Normally, it was pretty consistent, but on occasion, she dropped the ball and it rolled into the sewer, where it became the plaything of mutant alligators. The allegory really would explain a lot about Gotham, even if it was a bit colorful.

Tim switched the lenses in his camera over to infared, checking to see if all was as quiet as it seemed. It seemed to be, but Tim was a bit suspicious.

It was a cool, cloudy night. A small patch of clouds glowed faintly, indicating the presence of a moon behind them. A gust of wind hit Tim in the face and he shivered, grateful for the extra padding that Alfred had included in his suit.

The night was quiet, with only the occasional car passing by breaking the heavy silence. The windows in the nearby buildings were all dark, with a mere handful of flickering lights indicating televisions or computers being used. The people of Gotham seemed to want sleep tonight.

"Anything happening, Oracle?" Steph asked, sounding mildly bored. He pictured her sitting on the edge of a rooftop, squinting at the road below, her hair flowing freely in the wind. Knowing her, she might try to buy something to eat in a little while, in full costume. She'd pose for a picture with the person who sold it to her as well, and it would get a few thousand likes on Instagram and Twitter, and give Bruce an aneurysm (which, to be honest, was probably why Steph did it all the time).

"Not that I can see," Babs replied. Tim could hear the click-clack of the keys, and the gentle whir of her computers. He could imagine her, basking in the light of her screens, the mighty Oracle controlling the world of information with a press of a button. He probably should go see her soon. His tech needed an update, and she was the best for that, there was simply no denying it.

The entire family was out tonight, and everything felt perfect. Damian growled something under his breath over the comms as he followed Dick over the rooftops of Gotham. Alfred, voice mild as ever, reminded Bruce that tomorrow he had an appointment with Vicki Vale.

Wendy Harris asked Steph a question about homework, prompting a reprimand from Bruce about using the public channels. Steph laughed, answered the question, and then proved Tim's prediction right by going to a Burger King in full costume.

"Get me a milkshake?" Cass asked. She probably was wearing that puppy-dog look on her face.

"Chocolate or vanilla?" Steph asked promptly, the whoosh of the door being pushed open coming over the comms.

"Chocolate. Duh."

"Right, sorry. Oh hey! Yes, I'm Batgirl. Can I have a Number Five, no pickle, and a chocolate milkshake please? To go, thanks. Yes, I know Batman. Oh, can I get fries with that? Yes, Nightwing does have a great ass. Do you have ketchup packets? Oh that's great! Sure, I don't mind having my picture taken at all!"

Bruce's sigh could be heard by all of them. Tim bit down on a laugh, spreading his arms out in order to take flight. The feathers of his glider fell into place, flaring out like a great red-and-black peacock.

He leapt off the edge of the building, allowing his glider to catch the air currents and carry him forward. The wind was cool in his face, but Tim allowed himself a smile. It wasn't like anyone would be able to see him.

He spotted a small girl, about ten years old, with tiny braids pulled into ponytails and a wide smile, staring up at him. He recognized Steph's biggest fan, Nell Little, and hid his grin. It looked like Nell might be a little bit like him as well as Steph, if she was taking to searching out the heroes on patrol. He made a mental note to mention this to Steph later, see if she would want to switch patrol sectors later to allow Nell to see her.

He landed on the next roof, and began to scan again for intruders. In his ear, he could hear Damian and Dick snarking again, and he ignored that old stab of jealousy that flared up every now and then. A part of him still hated Damian for taking away his costume and name, hated him for taking his place in Dick's life, resented him for taking Bruce and Dick's affection so carelessly, and winning it without even trying, when Tim had to fight tooth and nail to even get a little recognition. But Tim tried to ignore that part of him, no matter how raw and large it was. Damian was Robin now. He had to remember that. He had to make peace with that.

A gunshot broke the silence of the night, ripping through the night air and destroying the semblance of tranquility.

Tim leapt into action, activating his sonar in order to track down the location of the shot.

Another shot rang out, followed by the sound of electricity crackling. Tim sped up, ignoring Oracle's demands for him to tell her what was going on. People could be dying. He could distantly hear the rest of his family shouting over the channel, but he didn't pay attention. His focus was as precise as everything about him was-there was simply no room for anything else.

He skittered to a stop on top of an apartment building rooftop. The building was decrepit, but still occupied, several windows broken and the roof in disrepair. The source of the commotion appeared to be a portal that hovered a foot above the rooftop. Five feet in diameter, it glowed a pulsing red light. It threw shadows of things that weren't there; gunmen and a darting, dashing figure in a cape. Tim quickly used the scanner in his cowl to analyze it, hoping it was something nice and harmless and non-lethal.

There was a crack like a whip, and the smell of ozone filled Tim's nose. He threw his arms up in front of his face, hoping that the thick material of his cape could protect him from whatever was about to happen. The portal flashed bright green, and then a small figure tumbled through. The portal expanded to ten feet, and then snapped close with a mighty crash, faster than Tim could blink (probably faster than Bart could blink.)

The figure was a small boy, barely older than Damian. He was crouched on the roof, ready for a fight. He was breathing hard, his shoulders shaking slightly. His hair was thick and wavy, ink black in the minimal light provided by the streetlamps, sticking up in an out of control, but slightly adorable mess.

The boy staggered to his feet, which were clad in familiar pixie boots. His domino mask was black with white lenses, which were wide with confusion as the youth scanned the night around his for any sign of danger. A yellow cape fell over his shoulders, barely making it to his waist. His legs were bare, unprotected, clad only in a pair of fishscale panties that were an eyesore to behold.

Tim knew the costume, knew the boy who wore it too. He'd spent far too many nights stalking him, taking pictures and daydreaming of what it would be like to be him.

Jason Todd, age twelve, straightened out of his crouch. His eyes landed on Tim, where the older boy was hidden in the shadows, and bristled, batarangs materializing in his hands as the boy prepared for a fight.

"Robin!" Tim said, feeling like that ball of normality had just entered the digestive tract of the sewer alligator. He stepped into the light, raising his hands in a way that would hopefully communicate to the second Robin that he didn't mean to attack. The boy didn't make a move, eyes focused on Tim.

"Who are you?" Jason demanded, voice high, barely even a hint of a scratch to indicate that he would one day emerge from puberty (or did he manage to skip that, what with his death, resurrection, and mentally damaged time and all?) as a six-foot-something, heavily muscled bass.

"My name's Red Robin. I'm a friend," he said, inching closer. Jason looked so young. He had baby fat, like Damian, although his was starting to fade slightly. He was skinny underneath the Kevlar tunic, his legs lightly tanned sticks. He had freckles scattered across his face, and an adorable scowl.

"Never heard of you," Jason said, baring his teeth in what was supposed to be an intimidating gesture. But Tim had seen the same expression on the older, more violently insane Jason, and after that, the younger's Jason's version was a half-hearted mockery.

"Jason," Tim said, taking a risk. The boy froze, eyes zooming in on Tim's face, trying to identify him despite the cowl.

"Doctor… Mid-night?" Jason said slowly, squinting. "Is that you?"

Tim wanted to rip his hair out. Not that name again. "No. Red Robin."

Jason stared at him. "What kinda name is that?"

"Jason," Tim said slowly, approaching the boy. "Jason, what happened?"

"Magic user," Jason said, reluctantly allowing Tim to impeach upon his personal space. He lowered the batarangs. "With a gun. Is that even allowed? I hate magic. Magic sucks. I hate magic."

Tim thought about Jason crawling out of his coffin, ripping his way out of his grave, onto the streets. He thought about the Lazarus Pits, bubbling and sinister and green.

"I suppose you do," he said neutrally. "Jason, I think we should get back to the Batcave."

"Why?" Jason was up in arms instantly, on the alert. "Who are you even? How do you know my name?"

"I'm a friend of Nightwing's—" Tim tried, hoping that Jason hadn't had his stint with the Titans yet.

"Bullshit!" Jason snapped, stepping back.

"Jason… where were you before the portal?"

"Crime Alley!" The boy snarled, wielding his batarangs again.

"Jason, you didn't just travel through space," Tim said, hoping to break it gently. "You travelled in time."

Jason stared at Tim as if he'd gone insane. Then he looked around, taking stock of the Gotham City around him.

"Did things just get shittier?" Jason demanded, throwing his arms up in the air. (Thankfully, without the Batarangs.)

Tim refrained from answering, although he was sorely tempted. Instead, he gestured behind him with a sweeping wave of his arm. "Shall we?"

Jason didn't understand what was happening as he followed the guy in black and red. He probably shouldn't have followed the man... boy... teenager... person, should have ran off and found Bruce on his own, but... well...

The portal had made him kinda woozy. It was all Jason could do to remain upright, despite the fact that his internal organs felt like they'd just been through the wringer, not to mention the pounding in his head.

Red Robin (and what kind of stupid name was that, Jason wanted to know) muttered something softly into his communicator, too quiet for Jason to hear. He didn't really care though. All he wanted to do was to get back to Bruce and Alfred, and maybe his nice soft bed.

Oh wait, his future self was probably using it. Damn.

Or maybe not. Dick didn't use his old room very often, after all. But he didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to think of that, in a few years, he might not be Robin, and be fighting with Bruce, and never come back to the Manor, like Dick did.

He wanted to ask about his future self, but he decided it probably wouldn't be a good idea. He wasn't a hundred percent sure that he could even open his mouth without puking.

Red Robin's cape looked a little weird. It didn't hang quite right, not like Bruce's or his own. Not even like Superman's. It looked bulkier, somehow, like there was something hidden in it.

Jason couldn't really get a grasp on the guy's age. He was clearly older than Jason, but a bit younger than Dick. But seeing as Dick was eighteen, and Jason was twelve, there was still a bit of leeway. He stood at about five-foot-seven, more lean muscle than bulk, similar to Dick in that regard. His skin was pale, his features looked ridiculously delicate, as if they were made of Alfred's fancy china instead of bone like a normal person. His hair was hidden by a weird cowl-thing that he wore, which vaguely reminded Jason of a condom.

Red Robin had a motorcycle, which was really cool. Bruce hadn't let Jason have his own motorcycle yet, but Jason took careful note of the design, because when Bruce let him, he was going to try to get it to look a little like this.

It was sleek and red, with black highlights and a symbol that was probably Red Robin's insignia, since he wore it on his chest, on the headlights. Jason thought it was a thousand times cooler than Dickface's motorcycle. Red Robin didn't wear a helmet, which Alfred probably nagged him over, and he didn't have a spare, so Jason couldn't either. But he slid in behind Red Robin, wrapped his arms around the other boy's waist, and didn't say anything.

The two of them raced off into the night.

By the time Tim and Jason arrived at the Batcave, everybody except for Bruce and Steph (a mugger and a D-List villain whose name Steph couldn't remember were the causes for their respective delays) has gathered in the cave.

Jason seemed nonplussed by the added security measures, although Tim noticed the young Robin was looking a little pale and sweaty; side-effects, no doubt, from his unintentional magical time-hop. It was probably minor, but Alfred and Leslie could check it over later, confirm that it wasn't anything serious.

Damian was lurking in the shadows, apparently sulking because Cass had beaten him to his favored spot of Bruce's chair. Cass was sitting cross legged, facing them. She had cut her hair again, a short pixie cut with bangs that was oddly adorable, despite being windswept and sticking out at all angles, completely out of control. Babs wasn't there, still secure in her Clock Tower with Wendy Harris, but she could be seen on the screen, talking quietly with Dick, who was still wearing the Batman costume. Dick's back was to them, and suddenly Tim's gut twisted, as if he realized that this was not going to be good.

By Tim's reckoning, this Jason was three years younger than he had been before his fatal encounter with the Joker. This Jason was so young, it was ridiculous. This was the Robin that Tim had idolized for so long, the one he always spoke to when he addressed the glass memorial case. It had been so long since Tim had thought of him like that, young and cheerful, his pain buried and lesser than the pain that was so all-consuming in the Red Hood. It was hard to see the Red Hood in this kid, who ran forward, grinning broadly, as he yelled, "Bruce!" His face was lit up, all suspicion and wariness gone. Sometimes, honestly, Tim forgot just how important Bruce had been to Jason.

Dick turned around, the cape flaring slightly. Jason stumbled, his feet (too large for the rest of his body) catching on each other, and he froze in the middle of the room, halfway to Dick. The Boy Wonder stared up at Dick, all color faded from his face, making his freckles stand out as if they'd been made with permanent marker instead of sun exposure.

"You're not Bruce," Jason whispered in the choked voice of someone who is about to start crying.

"Jason-" Dick started, clearly realizing what was going on through Jason's head.

Dick was wearing the Batsuit. Bruce wasn't in the Cave. Jason thought...

"He's not dead!" Jason yelled, his face twisting into anger. His cheeks flushed, his eyes were shining brightly with unshed tears. "He can't be! How could you, you bastard!" He flung himself forward, clearly intending to take a swing or fifty at Dick. Cass and Tim leaped forward at the same time, catching him before he could actually hurt the oldest Batchild.

"Jason, please listen!" Tim pleaded, grabbing onto the boy's flailing arms. Jason's clenched fist nearly hit him in the nose.

Cass said nothing, merely held him back. Her face was twisted in pain and sympathy.

Jason collapsed instead of listening, tears pouring down his face as he sobbed helplessly. Cass knelt down, wrapping her arms around him carefully, her cape falling over the two of them, sheltering Jason from the sight of Dick in the Batsuit. "Shhhh," she cooed, her melodic voice gentle. "Shhhhhh. It's alright. Alright. All alright. Shhhh."

Jason let out another sob and buried his face against her stomach, fingers clinging to the fabric of her cape.

"Jason?" The voice wasn't Batman's. It was Bruce, through and through. There was pain, and confusion, and fear, and apprehension, and hope, and a thousand other emotions contained in that voice. It was a father seeing his son again, it was a man seeing a ghost of his past, it was a general seeing a lost soldier, it was Bruce seeing everything he'd lost and everything he'd mourned for, curled up in a small crying ball in his daughter's arms.

Bruce's voice seemed to break through Jason's hysteria in a way that none of them had been able to. His head snapped up, and Cass's arms released him immediately.

Bruce went to his second son, slowly, as if afraid that if he actually touched him Jason would fade into nothing. Carefully, treating the Robin as if he was made of glass and was about to shatter into a thousand pieces, he reached out. Jason threw himself forward, so relieved that Bruce was alive that he didn't care about anything else.

"I've got you," Bruce whispered, voice hoarse and broken in a way that seemed so wrong. The others shifted where they stood, feeling as if they shouldn't be seeing this. It was too raw, too real, too private. "I've got you Jason."

They stayed like that for ages, much to Tim's discomfort. He glanced at Cass, who was whispering with Steph, so low that he couldn't hear them. Dick was trying to pay attention to a case file on the screen, but Damian was staring at his father and Jason, scowling possessively.

This, Tim thought grimly, was probably going to be trouble.

Alfred showed Jason into his old room, where he would be staying until the whole time-travel issue could be solved. He asked if his future (present?) self would mind, a bit curious to learn if he still lived there. Tim (Red Robin's real name, apparently) had told him that he couldn't meet his future self, or the space-time-continuum would do a thingy and collapse or implode or explode or possibly just turn into gelatin. (Jason hadn't really been too much attention, to be honest.)

His room didn't look too much different than he remembered it being back home. The oak of shelves were jam packed full of books, some library, some stolen from the Manor, some his own. A guitar was propped in the corner, and there was a stand with some sheet music arranged on it. There was a bulletin board with pictures of a few musicians, a movie star or two, a Batman postcard, and his Superman autograph, hanging over his desk, which was covered in notebooks, pencils, lists, and more books. Jason sifted through them curiously, noting the titles and subject.

He pushed back the thick red curtains, grinning as he saw his favorite tree was still there, now leafless and covered in snow. Bruce's old swing still hung from the lowest hanging branch, although it seemed to be in better repair. He must have gotten around to fixing it, like he had been meaning too. He grinned at the thought of that.

Jason threw himself onto the bed, grateful for the familiar feel of his scarlet quilt. He burrowed under the sheets and covers, breathing in the familiar scent of Alfred's detergent. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, which was still decorated with the phosphorus stars and moons that he had stuck up there after his first Christmas at the Manor. With Bruce's help, he'd managed to map out the constellations on his ceiling, and now they were still there, glowing faintly down on him. He smiled to himself, then rolled onto his side and tried to sleep.

The Cave was hauntingly silent.

"The Red Hood is still in Arkham Asylum," Babs said, finally. Her voice was quiet. "He took his medication last night, so he'll be quiet. Low chance of nightmares, and he'll be lethargic tomorrow. He usually only takes them after a rough day, which judging by the medical report filed at noon, it probably was."

Tim saw Bruce flinch, at the reminder that the young, happy Jason who'd cried in Bruce's arms wasn't the only Jason anymore. That the boy had been warped by the Joker and Talia al Ghul and countless others into... well, the Red Hood.

Dick had removed his costume, and was now wearing a pair of black spandex short shorts and a white tank top. He leaned against the consol of the Bat Computer, taking great care not to cover Babs' view of the world. Tim was still in his costume, although he'd removed his cowl, his hair sticking up in all directions in a spikey mess. Cass, dressed in baggy sweats and a raggedy Wonder Woman t-shirt, leaned against him. Steph sat cross-legged on the floor, wearing jeans and a purple shirt with a bulky black jacket and yellow scarf, as if she expected Bruce to throw her out and not permit her to stay the night after everything that had happened.

Actually, knowing Steph's experience with Bruce, it wasn't too far fetched.

Bruce was also cowl-less but costumed, sitting in his chair without a single expression on his face. He wasn't facing Babs or the computer but instead gazed over Tim and Cass's heads, his eyes leveled at the glass memorial case behind them. His hands lay on the armrests, gripping them tightly. Tim was certain that if he removed Bruce's gauntlets, the knuckles would be white, and the hands might even be shaking.

Jason had come back a long time ago, back from the dead as an unstable killer. One day the Red Hood could be almost friendly, willing to share information or even team up, the next day there might be blood shed. The Battle for the Cowl was fresh in Tim's mind, and he knew it was in his brothers' minds as well, judging from Damian's dark glower.

Damian was the only one still in full costume. He'd sceeded ownership of the chair to Bruce, but he paced back and forth, almost foaming at the mouth. Tim was personally very surprised that the youngest child was still silent, instead of ranting and raging like he clearly wanted to. Perhaps even Damian could tell that Bruce was not in the mood to listen to paranoid commentary.

This Jason was the one that Bruce had lost, pure and simple. The one that Bruce had struggled to find in the Red Hood, and only rarely managed. The boy who'd been lost to the streets and grit of Gotham, to the burn of the Lazarus Pit, as well as the cold clutches of death. This was the Jason that Tim had admired, that Steph had grown up with, that Dick had doted on and abhorred in turn.

And they could all feel it weighing down on them, the knowledge that the young boy would grow into a man who would kill a criminal just as quickly as capture one.

"Do we tell him?" Steph asked quietly, tucking her chin over her knees. Her bangs fell into her eyes, and she stared at the concrete floor, as if ashamed that she had voiced what the entire family was thinking.

"How can we?" Tim asked, feeling oddly hollow. He stared blankly ahead, trying to re-memorize the nooks and crannies of the Batcave's walls. "How do we just tell someone that he's going to die, dig his way out of his grave-"

"And then come back as a psychopath?" Damian sneered, finally drawn out of his silence.

Bruce flinched imperceptibly.

Babs frowned at Damian. "Jason isn't a psychopath," she said sternly. "He has severe PTSD, coupled with Lazarus Syndrome." Which the doctors at Arkham didn't know about. Lazarus Syndrome wasn't exactly well known.

Damian huffed angrily, mouth set bitterly. "He still is untrustworthy and dangerous."

Tim shook his head, despite the fact that Jason was one of the few subjects on which he and Damian normally could agree on. "Not this Jason."

"We need to get him home," Steph said tiredly, closing her eyes. "His family..." His Bruce, she didn't need to add. Tim remembered very well how well Bruce had taken Jason dying. He tried to imagine how Bruce would have taken Jason randomly disappearing. He'd probably declare war on magic and make bad life choices for an extended amount of time. Or both.

He nodded instead of voicing those thoughts.

Damian glared at Todd over his bacon and eggs breakfast, half wishing that he would develop Kryptonian heat vision and drill a hole in the other boy's head. The (older) boy's hair was a disaster, his waves and curls sticking straight up, defying gravity in a way that only bedhead really can. Todd was eating some of Grayson's sugary, colorful cereal, chatting with Brown cheerfully about something asinine that Damian didn't really understand, but it seemed to involve a lot of people whose names he didn't know and acronyms. Brown had (of course) whipped up a batch of waffles, which she was eating as she broke from their discussion to tell a ludicrous tale about Dracula and Supergirl, which involved multiple phrases like "Buffy" "ganked" "went all Xena on their asses".

Cain was watching the waffle iron and the conversation, a smile on her face as she watched them. The waffle iron dinged and she carefully flipped it. Pennyworth was keeping a cautious eye on her as he made more bacon and eggs. Pennyworth wasn't smiling, but he had that self-satisfied aura around him that indicated that he was rather pleased with the whole situation. (Pennyworth had that aura far too often.)

Drake was perusing the Daily Planet, absent-mindedly eating his own bacon as he worriedly examined the stock report. Drake was wearing sweats and a t-shirt with the crest of the House of El on it, probably a gift from Kent., Tim's ridiculously frequently visiting best friend. Drake was intending to go in for a Wayne Enterprises board meeting today. Damian hated that Drake had taken over his father's company, but so far Grayson and Father had stopped his injunctions from actually going through. So for now, Drake maintained the empire, a duty which ought to be Damian's.

Cain nudged him, frowning. Her dark eyes, which always seemed to be able to see through every barrier he put up (curse David Cain and his training), were glaring at him. She didn't like it when he seethed. She added more bacon to his plate though, which probably meant that she didn't mind too much.

She then offered some to Todd, who beamed up at her and accepted.

Father had not emerged from his room yet, along with Grayson. Damian stabbed his eggs with his fork, imagining that it was Todd's face.

It wasn't right, that Todd was here. The sorry excuse of a Robin belonged in Arkham, where deranged lunatics who shot people belonged. The scars that Todd had inflicted upon him itched under his polo shirt.

This Todd was no more trustworthy than the one in Arkham. It was probably a trick. Before this horrid affair was over, he would doubtlessly stab them all in the backs. The others were being foolish and sentimental, allowing Todd's youthful face and shameful tears to lead them astray. They believed he was innocent and harmless, and were already accepting him into the family with open arms. It was up to Damian to guard against the inevitable betrayal.

"Don't you have classes, Brown?" He grumbled darkly. Father had given Brown a ridiculously large scholarship from the Wayne foundation so she could continue her studies in medicine and English Literature, of all things. She was planning on being a doctor, and had even outlined a few vague plans on working with Doctor Thompkins in her clinic.

"Not on a Saturday!" Brown laughed, dolloping whipped cream on top of her second helping of waffles. She flipped her hair dramatically, smirking at Damian. Todd laughed as well, his laugh annoying and grating on Damian's nerves. Damian wondered if Father would allow him to spar with Todd. It would be excellent to put the boy in his place.

Damian ate his eggs and bacon and imagined punching Todd in the face.

Bruce woke up late.

This was nothing unusual, especially after a night as long as the one he'd had. He'd stayed awake until nearly six in the morning, doing his best to analyze the energy readings from the portal that had brought Jason to this world.

Jason. Bruce ran his hands through his hair. The weight on his chest was heavier than it had been in years.

His son was back, alive and healthy and happier than Bruce could ever dream. He was smiling and laughing and getting along with his siblings, and it hurt Bruce like nothing but something related to Jason could, because every inch of Bruce insisted that it should always be like that.

This carefree Jason was painful just to look at, knowing that the boy had a different home, but at the same time, being unable to disrupt the timestream.

"You can't tell him, Bruce," Zatanna looked pained and sympathetic. "Look, I know this is hard... but telling Jason information like that? It could disrupt the entire timestream. You don't know if he's from our universe or an alternate universe. If he's from ours, and you tell him..."

"Everything falls apart," he muttered, bowing his head and closing his eyes.

"We learned that the hard way," Zatanna said, rubbing her temples with her fishnet-gloved hands. "Changing time to avoid deaths... the consequences are severe."

"I know."

And he did know. Logically, he knew. Telling Jason about his mother, about the Joker, about his death, could destroy everything. The effect on the timeline would be catastrophic, to say the least.

Bruce wanted to do it more than anything. He wanted to save his son, wanted to spare him that pain and suffering. He wanted to make sure that he never had to bury his son.

But he couldn't.

There was a knock on his door. Sighing, Bruce got to his feet, glancing at himself in the mirror. He had a lunch-conference thing at Wayne Enterprises today, and Tim, Alfred, and Lucius had all told him, explicitly and clearly, that he needed to be there, so he was dressed in his classic tuxedo.

He pulled open the door to his room, expecting to see Alfred, ready with a reprimand and a snarky remark.

Jason grinned up at him, still blissfully cheerful and thirteen. "Hey B! Steph said that I needed to see this new movie, and Cass said you liked it a lot, so I should see if you wanted to join us?"

Jason had never gotten to meet Cass or Steph. Jason had never met Tim or Damian, or Wendy or Tam Fox, or any of the hundreds of super heroes who had emerged since his death. Those opportunities, those relationships, those friendships, had been stolen away from him by the Joker.

But here he was, wearing Steph's yellow scarf around his neck, and beaming ear to ear. It was painful to look at. This is what should have been.

Bruce couldn't look at him. "Sorry, uh, I have a meeting," he managed, hating the past, hating the present, hating himself. He closed the door in his son's face.

The future was so weird, Jason decided, watching Cassandra and Tim. Tim was stretching, preparing for a fight. Cass, on the other hand, was standing on her hands, looking bored. Steph was sprawled out on the floor of the cave, staring at pictures of internal organs and eating popcorn.

Jason bounced on the balls of his feet, curious. He wanted to see these newbies (who'd probably been in the field longer than he had) in action. He'd seen the scars on Cass's legs and Tim's arms, but he wanted to see them really move. (He wondered if future-him had helped train them, like Babs helped Bruce train him. He wondered who was his favorite, who was the one he confided in, which was the one he patrolled with when they needed to partner up.)

Jason had gotten to talk to Babs briefly this morning, when Steph had "Skyped" her. She'd cut her hair, Jason had noticed, and started to straighten it, so it fell into a neat bob. She'd switched out her contacts for thick rimmed glasses, which made her look a whole lot like a librarian, which, he supposed, was accurate enough. She'd been happy to talk to him, but like the others, had been very unhelpful about future-Jason's location.

"When do I get to meet you?" He asked Steph, glancing down at the blonde. He hoped it was soon. Steph seemed fun; she fought vampires and made waffles and knew about baseball. And it would be nice to have someone closer to his age out in the field. Or... at least Jason assumed she was closer to his age. He didn't actually know how old Steph was, or future-Jason. He tucked that piece of information away to ask about later.

Steph looked like... well, like a street rat caught stealing the tires off the Batmobile. "Uh... um... well, not for a while," she said, twirling her pencil between her fingers. "We... we only met recently."

Jason felt his stomach plunge in disappointment. "Oh." He hadn't realized Steph was so new to the business. Then he remembered the way that her arms and hands were scarred. She couldn't be that new. "Why?" He slipped into Bruce's chair, feeling safe in the familiar space. He glanced, curiously at the class case with the old version of the Robin costume contained within it. He wondered if there was one for the Discowing suit as well, or if Alfred had finally followed through with his threat and burned that monstrosity.

Steph shrugged, clearly uncomfortable about... something. Jason's brow furrowed in confusion, watching the way that the blonde shifted under his gaze. "I don't really know," she said carefully, as trepid as if she was walking through a boobytrapped hallway. "Our areas.. I guess they just didn't overlap."

"You're not from Gotham?" Jason blurted unthinkingly. He stopped afterwards, angry with himself for failing to actually think. He could hear Crime Alley in her voice, grating her "r"s and drawing out her "o"s. Jason spoke like that too, although Alfred's influence was starting to soften it. Batman had it too, although the deep growl made it hard to tell.

"Oh no!" Steph laughed, "No, Gotham Girl born and bred. We just... patrolled different areas."

There was something very wrong with that. He found it hard to believe that separate patrol areas could keep him from meeting her, especially if Bruce trusted her enough to let her into the Cave... unless that was a recent thing? He frowned, confused. The future was an enigma, and not even the kind like the Riddler liked to throw around, the fun, easy to solve kind.

His attention was drawn away by Cass lunging at Tim. The Asian girl was a blur of movement, attacking with beautiful precision. Jason boggled as the girl, who was almost as small as he was, send Tim flying across the room.

"Again?" She asked innocently, smirking.

"Yeah yeah," Tim muttered, getting up. "You're lucky you're my sister."

Cass grinned. "Thirty seconds?" She offered, her smile mischievous.

Jason decided that if Cass wasn't future-his favorite, future-him was an idiot.

Cass liked small-Jason. She'd had very little experience with big-Jason, but she knew enough of the stories to know that he wasn't very nice, or very trust worthy.

But this Jason... this was the boy that Bruce had told her about. Who liked chilidogs and neapolitan ice cream and baseball and was earnest and sweet and scared and good.

And who had nightmares.

Nightmares were not uncommon in the house of the Bats. They all had them, and they all had their own ways of dealing with them.

Dick dreamed of falling, of losing the ones he loved, unable to save them, of dark nights on rooftops when he couldn't move, and of burying his family. He dreamed of rows of graves and broken trapezes, of blood and screams and tears. He had stuffed animals which he clung to, although Cass officially didn't know about that.

Tim dreamed of failure, of causing the deaths of his family and friends. He dreamed of failing the Mission, of sending his friends off to die. Tim tossed and turned and sweated, but he never ever cried out, and he dealt with it using coffee and silence. He was like Bruce there.

Steph dreamed of the Black Mask, of failing, of not being good enough. She dreamed of a Batcave closed to her, of turned backs, of incompetence. She came to life at night, screaming and crying. Her light would be on early in the morning, reading or watching TV or training desperately and frantically, not willing to fail again.

Damian's dreams were unknown to Cass, but she knew the boy had them. She could hear him crying out in night, a simple, heartbreaking plea. "Father..." He would go to Dick after that, although both of them pretended he didn't.

Cass dreamed of her kills. Each one, in perfect, excruciating detail. Bullets, blades, fists; drug induced and not. Each sin replayed, night after night.

She had thought she was the only one who dealt with it like this.

But Jason Todd, caught with his hands in the freezer and a guilty expression on his face, clearly also felt that ice cream was the answer to nightmares.

Clearly, he expected to be reprimanded, but Cass just looked at him and asked. "Is there chocolate left?"

He blinked, nodded, and handed over the carton. Cass smiled, and sat down next to him at the kitchen table, the two of them and their tubs of ice cream.

"Bad dreams?" She asked.

He stabbed his ice cream with his spoon, mouth twisted slightly. "Yes."

Cass considered asking him what they were about, but decided against it. Not only did she not want the question returned, but she wasn't sure if Jason would trust her enough to tell her. She wondered what a boy his age would have nightmares about. She actually knew very little about Jason's life before Bruce, beyond the vague stories that involved tires and the streets... and maybe drug dealers? She was a little unclear on that.

The faint light of the moon creeping in through the window threw Alfred's kitchen into perfect shadows, but it wasn't enough to hide the dark circles under Jason's eyes, nor the puffiness, nor the redness of his nose. He'd been crying.

Cass wished she was good in situations like this, but she was hardly acclimated to having to deal with things like upset time travelling kids, so she thought that her idea of patting him on the back, ruffling his hair, and then trying to steal a spoonful of his ice cream was a pretty good idea.

Jason knew snobs. He saw them all the time at Gotham Academy. Rich brats with numbers fastened to their names and trust funds and net values and designer sneakers that could feed a Crime Alley family for a month.

Jason knew snobs. He knew harmless snobs and snooty snobs and well meaning snobs and pseudo-altruistic "give me attention for pretending to be a decent human being" snobs. And Damian was, undoubtedly, a snob. Not as bad as some of the others, but he still was a ball of rage and superiority. And, more importantly, was still a snob. He wasn't soft, far from it. He knew how to fight, he knew that the world was a dangerous place, which Jason could respect. But...

He was a stick in the mud. Robin was not supposed to be a stick in the mud.

Someone needed to teach the kid to lighten up.

"What's up?" He asked, leaning back in the chair, smiling his most annoying grin.

That ought to do it.

Tim walked into the Cave, and then froze, staring blankly at the scene in front of him.

Jason and Damian were rolling around the floor of the Cave, punching and pinching and yelling and hair pulling and generally screaming insults that ranged of shrieks of 'peon' and 'insufferable imbecile' (Damian) to 'your mother was a hamster and your father smelled of elderberries' (Jason).

"Do I want to know?" Tim finally asked, just as Jason put Damian into headlock and began to aggressively noogie him.

"Probably not!" Jason said over Damian's indignant grunts and furious protests.

Tim debated separating them as Damian threw Jason over his head. The second Robin hit the ground with a rather spectacular thud, then tackled Damian's legs, sending the boy crashing to the floor himself. Tim sighed, making up his mind. They probably were going to damage the Cave at the rate they were going. He grabbed Jason, dragging him away from Damian. Jason was nursing cuts, scrapes and bruises, but the grin he shot up at Tim was eager and cheerful. Tim's stomach twisted as he remembered capturing that smile on camera, and how long it had been since he'd seen it.

"Damian, you should go talk to Alfred," Tim said, hoping that Damian wouldn't simply just attack the two of them. Damian was in about the same shape as Jason, although the older boy had deliberately targeted Damian's expensive shirt-it was now missing a sleeve. Damian fixed a glare on both of them, but stomped upstairs nevertheless, muttering rude words in Arabic.

"What happened?" Tim asked, trying to be stern with Jason. He went and grabbed Alfred's medical kit, knowing that they'd probably be needing Bandaids at the very least.

Jason flashed his widest shit-eating grin. "I told him he needed to lighten up!"

Somehow, Tim doubted that was the whole story. But in the meantime, he settled for trying to fix up Jason a little bit before Bruce (or, more likely, Alfred) laid down the law.

"How old were you?" Jason asked, breaking Tim out of his thoughts.

"What?" Tim blinked, staring down at the Superman bandaid he was in the process of placing on one of the nastier cuts on Jason's cheek (never let it be said that Alfred had no sense of humor). "Sorry, what was that?"

Jason shrugged, looking slightly shrunken in Tim's clothes (the boy had been too big for Damian's clothes, but Tim had some old ones that still could fit Jason. Tim had never been very large, but the clothes still dwarfed Jason.) "I just wondered how old you were when you started working with B."

Tim's throat tightened slightly. "Ah, I was about your age." Please don't ask, please don't ask...

"How old was I?"

Tim froze up. "Ah, I'm not entirely sure," he said vaguely. "It was... ah... you know, I'm not sure."

Jason squinted at him, his mouth twisting downwards, as if he had an unpleasant thought. "How... how old am I-the other me, not me me, I know how old me me is-how old is he?"

The words that Tim thought next were unprintable, or at the very least needed to be replaced with colorful symbols.

Jason's age was indeterminate at best, since, well, he'd died. The Lazarus Pit also had the potential for throwing off aging estimates, and no one actually knew when he'd come back to life. Unless Bruce had known all along, but hadn't told anyone. Which was possible. But the files on Jason Todd still listed his resurrection as a mystery, much to Tim's ire. He'd figure it out one day. But in the meantime, he had a thirteen year old version of one of his least favorite people on the planet looking at him with something that wasn't quite suspicion, but was dangerously close to it.

"Twenty, I think," Tim said. Jason Todd had been born then, at least, although it didn't take into account everything else. But it was a truthful answer.

But Jason's mouth stayed put, and his eyes didn't blink as he stared at Tim's face. He nodded though. Slowly.

Tim's stomach gave a slight twinge. This probably wasn't going to be good.

Jason crept into the Batcave, sliding into the computer seat as stealthily as he could. The others were all out in the field, except Alfred, of course. But Alfred's show was on tonight, so he'd told Alfred he'd be in bed (which usually meant that he'd be in the library), and Alfred had nodded and told him goodnight. He felt guilty, lying to Alfred, but...

They were hiding something from him. All of them.

Look, Jason's not the brightest. His grades are, while not awful for a Crime Alley Kid, still pretty sub-standard. He's not smart like Babs, or Bruce, not even above average like Dick. He's overheard Babs and Bruce talking back home often enough to know that while he might be just as good as Dick in some areas (never better, of course. Can't beat what's perfect), he's not up to Bruce's standards for detective work. But that doesn't mean he's stupid. They all stare at him like he's a ghost, like he's going to vanish if they blink. They dance around his questions, all of them conspiring to distract him, hoping that his questions just stop. He's not even sure if they're aware they're all doing it. They won't tell him where he is, or what his code name is, or what the future Jason is even like.

Something is very wrong about the future, and Jason is going to find out what it is.

He presses on the keyboard, and the computer screen flares to life. It requires a password, since Bruce locked it before he left.

Now Jason wasn't a hacker. Not at all. But he knew that each member of the family had a passcode, and if he could guess future his...

Well, first, let's see how lazy he was.

supermanrox

INCORRECT blazed across the screen in big red letters, since subtlety was for the weak.

Well, okay, so future him wasn't still using the same password eight years later. Hmmm...

tirejackerboy

thenewandimprovedrobin

prideandprejudice

Jason sighed. He only had a guess left, before he got locked out and Bruce would see it, and he'd know Jason had been snooping, and Jason wouldn't even have anything to show from it...

He sighed. In for a penny, right?

chilidogs

The screen changed, opening up to the familiar layout, even if it had been slightly changed. He grinned, and went right to the search bar.

Jason Todd

The file was huge. Jason frowned, but clicked it nevertheless. He knew Bruce was paranoid, and he kept everything. That was probably it.

The picture featured was that of a tall, muscular man. His hair was black, with a single white streak falling into his face. He wore a read domino mask, and seemed to have a red helmet tucked under one arm. He wore a leather jacket, with some sort of dark undershirt beneath it. He... didn't look very happy. Jason tore his eyes away from the picture to look at the information accompanying it.

Jason Peter Todd

Current Alias: The Red Hood, John Doe

Past Aliases: Robin, Nightwing, Red Robin, Batman

Threat Level: Extremely High (Knowledge of Secret Identities and Locations, Advanced Combat and Weapons Training, Mental Instability, Connections to Talia al Ghul, Lazarus Syndrome [see history for details])

Designation: Enemy

Current Location: Arkham Asylum, Patient 35719083, Security Level 10 [cell video feed available]

Below that was another picture-a mug shot. A mug shot of a scarred, angry man, with cruel blue-green eyes and a dark smile. His hair was buzzed short, bright red-even though the dark roots were visible when one looked closely. He was muscled, dressed in an orange prison jumpsuit, and looked right at the camera, as if mocking the person looking at him. He held the plate with his prison number proudly, his hands scarred. He looked like...

He looked like Willis Todd.

He scrolled down, hoping to see something that would contradict what he was seeing. (Arkham Asylum Cell 635 he was in Arkham). There was a criminal record. (Connections to Talia al Ghul-the League of Assassins he was a killer). A training history (he'd killed all his trainers he was a murderer). A trial transcript. (He'd laughed during the trial what was wrong with him?) There was a kill count. (He was a villain, he was a villain, he was supposed to be the hero, he was supposed to save people). Arkham Asylum. The Red Hood. A picture of a gravestone, with his name on it. An analysis of a casket, a detailed analysis of the Lazarus Pit... He didn't understand. He didn't understand. There was a long and detailed description of medications and treatments, and a long list of doctors who had tried to treat... him.

Arkham. Jason wanted to wake up. He had to be having a nightmare, he had to be having a nightmare. He wanted to wake up and go find Bruce-his Bruce, not this strange Bruce with a houseful of kids, his Bruce, and his Alfred-he wanted this not to be real. It couldn't be real, because... he wouldn't... he'd never... that's why he was Robin. Robin couldn't be bad, Robin was good... that's why he'd become Robin, so he would never have to be like that!

Jason realized that he was crying.

If even being Robin couldn't save him...

No wonder Bruce couldn't look at him. No wonder Damian didn't trust him. No wonder Steph didn't know him, and Tim didn't want to talk to him and why...

He was bad. he was a failure. He was just like... just like his father, just like Willis.

He was crying hard now, knees pulled up against his chest as he screamed into the fabric of his jeans. No no no no no no no no no no no no no no

Bruce had tried so hard to make him good, to help him, but he'd failed. No wonder Dick, back home, hated him. He'd known, somehow, that Jason was going to screw up, turn evil kill people.

Jason squeezed his eyes shut, hoping Alfred didn't come down. He'd...

God, what would Alfred think?

Jason stared at the screen unable to focus properly because of the water in his eyes.

He spun the chair around, staring at the glass case of the Robin costume-his Robin costume.

He needed to know.

He needed to understand.