Archive of Our Own

“Red Robin, come in.” Nightwing listens for a moment, then curses under his breath when there’s no answer. He speeds up even more, taking the next corner way too fast as the chill night wind whips against his face. Adrenaline sends his heart racing, harrowing possibilities flying through his mind’s eye. “Red Hood.” No answer. Damn it. “Batman, have you reached them yet?”

Nightwing was all the way out in Blüdhaven when Red Robin called for backup almost forty minutes ago. He hadn’t been too worried, considering Red Hood answered the call immediately and was apparently already in the Bowery, not far from the warehouse where Red Robin was pinned down by gunfire.

No, he hadn’t started to really worry until Red Hood failed to check in after entering the warehouse. Batman was just across the Sprang, investigating a potential lead in Coventry. Of course he’d immediately gone to check out the situation. Theoretically, he should already be there helping get everything under control.

So why isn’t anyone answering?

“Oracle?” he asks, not holding out much hope.

“Sorry,” she answers after a moment, clearly multitasking. “I haven’t been able to pull up any useful footage, and I need to get back to guiding Huntress through a tricky floor plan—”

“Thanks anyway. I’ll keep you updated.”

Damn it. Of course this had to happen tonight, when Robin’s benched with a twisted ankle and the Birds of Prey are all busy running an important mission for Oracle. There’s no one he can call for backup. All he can do is speed up a little more, heart hammering as he tries not to wonder what’s happening to his family right now. Whether they’re not answering because they’re busy fighting, or because they can’t.

No. He shakes his head, forcing himself to focus. He can’t think about those possibilities right now, not if he’s going to be any use to them when he gets there.

Finally, finally, the row of warehouses along the north bank of the Sprang come into view, ghostly and ominous through the rising mist. It’s easy to figure out which one the others are pinned down in—raised voices draw him right to it once he parks his motorcycle and approaches the dimly lit, industrial area. It sounds like the gangsters are arguing about what to do with something… or someone.

Nightwing barely manages to suppress a fierce growl. If they’ve injured the others—or worse—he’s not going to have any mercy for them. Searching for an unobserved entry point, he quickly spots a gaping window, the glass likely broken or stolen long ago. Scaling the building exterior, he makes his way up and then looks down on the scene, carefully avoiding shards of glass still clinging to the frame.

The first thing he notices is a group of small children, clutching at one another fearfully. Oh, no. If there were kids involved, no wonder things went sideways. Red Hood’s not capable of keeping his cool in cases where kids are being exploited.

The second thing he notices is the empty uniforms, crumpled on the floor near the children. He’s horrified to recognize Red Hood’s characteristic jeans, body armor and helmet, Red Robin’s bodysuit, and Batman’s boots and gauntlets. His gorge rises as he imagines what could cause this—alien weaponry that can vaporize flesh, one-way portals, molecular shrink rays—the list goes on, and none of it’s good. The only thing that stops him from launching himself into the warehouse with a cry of grief and rage is the realization that those kids look awfully familiar.

All three of the boys have black hair. The biggest one, maybe twelve years old, is wearing most of Batman’s uniform, which is sagging and bunching around his small body. The middle sized boy, who doesn’t look any more than five but is probably older if Nightwing’s growing suspicions are correct, is holding his hand and glaring around them defensively. He’s wearing Red Hood’s leather jacket. The largest boy is holding a toddler protectively against his chest.

The toddler’s wrapped in Red Robin’s cape.

Oh, damn.

Nightwing tenses, preparing to jump down and get them to safety. At that moment, loud voices remind him they aren’t the only ones here. The boys are surrounded by a group of half a dozen rough looking thugs, all of whom are staring at them in a way he really doesn’t like. As he watches, he takes a moment to call the Batmobile, signalling it with a button on his gauntlet. There’s no way he’s trying to transport any of these kids on his bike. “Oracle,” he whispers under his breath, hoping she’s available right now.

“I’ve got eyes on the situation,” she replies. “Get the kids out of there. Black Canary’s finishing up soon, so I can send her over to handle cleanup once you subdue the criminals.”

Thank goodness. He isn’t sure what he would have done if he’d had to deal with sorting out this mess and wrangle three kids all at once. A gruff voice draws his attention back to the unfolding scene below.

“What do we do with ‘em, though? Can’t just let ‘em go, not after they seen all this.” A hulking thug with a mean look in his eye smirks at the kids. “And I bet we can find some customers for them, too.”

Another shakes his head, looking around uneasily. “I dunno, Frank, I think we’re in over our heads. Whatever the hell that gun is you fired at ‘em, I don’t think we shoulda touched it. It’s our job to move this stuff, not use it.”

Frank snorts, clutching at the odd-looking weapon in his hands defiantly. “I think our customers would thank me for protecting the goods against the damn bats.”

The other men grumble their agreement, and begin to press in on the frightened looking children. The biggest kid, Bruce, is clutching a batarang in his free hand, but he’s holding it wrong. Jason looks scared and is eyeing the approaching thugs with a speculative look that might mean he’s considering biting them. The wave of protectiveness, affection, and fear that surges through him at the sight is startling in its intensity.   

Nightwing’s seen enough. These thugs are obviously middlemen, charged with handling magical artifacts—possibly stolen—for their black market customers. As long as he gets hold of whatever gun they’re talking about, he can probably get Zatanna to help him figure out what, exactly, happened to the others, and restore them to their normal states. Which means he’s free to kick ass and bring these guys down.

Smirking, he drops into their midst, wingdings already flying through the air to disarm Frank. Once the magical weapon drops to the ground, he takes them down with his usual flair. The minute he has them all safely bound and unconscious on the floor, he turns to check on the kids.

“Hey guys,” he whispers, only taking a couple of steps closer before he drops to one knee so as not to appear threatening. “Are any of you hurt?”

They all stare at him, huge blue eyes measuring and uncertain. Finally, Bruce clears his throat. “I think he scraped his knee.” He gestures to Timmy, who’s still tucked safely in his arms.

“Alright,” Nightwing says softly, smiling at them encouragingly. “Why don’t we get him back to the Manor, let Alfred take care of that?” As he speaks, he hears the Batmobile roar up outside the warehouse. Perfect timing.

Some of the trepidation on Bruce’s solemn face clears at the mention of Alfred’s name, and he nods. Jason’s still eyeing Nightwing mistrustfully, but he steps forward when Bruce does. His eyes light up when he sees the Batmobile, though, as do Timmy’s. It’s all he can do to keep all three of them from pressing every button on the dash on their way back to Wayne Manor.

“What does this one do?” Timmy asks innocently, reaching for one of the buttons before Nightwing can stop him, then watches with avid interest as the rockets launch and blow up a small embankment along the road. Nightwing winces, eyeing the damage as they drive past. Oops.

“Awesome!” Jason cheers, grinning cheekily. He and Tim are piled on Bruce’s lap in the passenger seat. Bruce is quiet, but seems comfortable enough as long as the younger boys are within reach.

Stifling a curse, Nightwing reaches out and gently stops the kids from pressing that particular button again. “Not that one, okay?”

Hopefully Alfred can help look after them until the Birds of Prey get back to him about whatever magic is powering that gun. Nightwing’s not sure he’s going to have the energy to keep up, otherwise.

“What does this one do?” a little voice says, and he stifles a sigh, smiling despite himself.

Even getting into mischief, they’re awfully cute.

Damian stares at the children before him, unable to quite believe that one of them is meant to be his father. “No,” he says decisively after a moment, attempting to spin on his heel and walk away. He’s foiled by his injured ankle, which prevents him from escaping before Grayson captures him with one of his damnably pleading looks.

“C’mon, Dami, I could really use your help right now,” the man says, practically begging.

“Have some dignity, Grayson.” Damian pauses, then turns to face the assembled children. Small Todd is glaring at the room at large in a pugilant stance, tiny fists clenched at his sides. Small Drake is looking around with an expression of tentative curiosity. And Father—Damian’s mind trips on the word. Small Wayne is staring at the floor, withdrawn.

Damian sighs, feeling very put upon. “Perhaps I can show them Drake’s gaming system,” he allows. If these children are going to destroy anyone’s room at Wayne Manor, he’d prefer it to be Drake’s.

Grayson shoots him a knowing look, clearly deducing his intentions. Damian briefly considers trying for an innocent expression, but quickly dismisses the idea. His former Batman would see through it in a heartbeat.

“Uhhh, not that gaming systems aren’t super cool and everything, but I think I need to call my mom…” Small Todd says. “I mean, thanks for the save and all, but she’s gonna wonder if I’m not home for dinner. Plus. I bet there’s someone out there looking for the little guy.”

Small Todd gestures over at small Drake with a grim, yet knowing expression on his face. Small Drake is toddling around the small brightly lit area of the Cave near the computers. Bright blue eyes take in everything with a very familiar rampant curiosity that Drake seems to clearly have at all ages and in every circumstance.

“I should contact my guardian as well,” Damian’s young father says, clearly trying hard to speak with some measure of calm and authority. “He will be missing me.”

“Yeah…” Grayson drawls slowly. “About that…” He breaks off as small Drake trips his way over to Grayson and looks up at him with an expression of open interest, curiosity, and trust plain on his young face. “God… It has been forever since you looked at me like that, little brother.” Grayson says, pain and regret clear in his voice.

“Wait…” Small Todd says, and then, “the kid’s your little brother?”

Grayson opens his mouth, clearly trying to decide how best to respond, but he’s cut off at the sound of the door at the top of the steps leading from the Manor swinging open. Alfred’s even and precise footsteps tap their way down each stair and he comes into view, carrying a silver tray with a few mugs and a pile of sandwiches.

“I trust all went according to plan, young masters,” Alfred says casually, keeping his eyes on the stairs as he makes his way carefully to the bottom.

“Alfred!” Damian’s young father cries as he rushes over to the staircase.

Damian watches with concern as Alfred comes up short, nearly tripping down the last few stairs, the tray swaying dangerously in his immaculately gloved hands.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred says, his usual tone of equanimity gone. It has been replaced by a hesitant, tremulous cadence Damian has rarely heard from him before.

Grayson moves in swiftly, pulling the tray from Alfred’s hands just as the man falls to his knees in front of Damian’s young father. He places a hand on each of the boy’s shoulders and swallows hard.

“Alfred. I’m glad you’re here. Did they… tell you I would be here?” the child asks hesitantly.

Alfred shakes his head mutely and just looks up at Grayson for an explanation.

“Long story…” Grayson hedges. “That is Bruce, Jason and Tim,” he explains, nodding to each one in turn, “but things got a little weird tonight. How about you take the kids upstairs and get them a snack while Dami and I get changed? We’ll be up in a minute to explain everything.”

“That sounds…” Alfred begins, then pauses to clear his throat before he continues. “That sounds like an excellent idea. Follow me, young masters. I believe I have some hot cocoa that will warm you three up nicely. It is chilly in this damp cave.”

He gets to his feet and the three boys trail up the stairs after him, only small Todd tossing a suspicious look back over his shoulder at Grayson and Damian.

“Are there marshmallows?” Small Drake’s young voice asks, the soft, hesitant words dissipating like mist as they drift out across the darkened expanse of the Cave.

“Oh yes, Master Timothy. I keep the marshmallow jar well stocked.”

Grayson is smiling after them with a fond expression and Damian puffs out a breath. “That could have gone worse, I suppose.”

“They’re with Alfred. It’ll keep Bruce calm for the time being at least,” Grayson says with a shrug, moving off to change back into his civilian clothes. Damian follows after him, hoping the calm will last.

When Dick gets back upstairs after changing, with a reluctant Damian in tow, he finds young Bruce and Jason sitting at the kitchen counter, sipping from big mugs of hot chocolate. There’s a plate of cookies between them which Jason is eyeing with interest.

Tim’s standing next to Alfred in the middle of the kitchen. He apparently insisted he get to pick his own marshmallow from the very large jar. Alfred is patiently holding the jar open for him as Tim reaches his short arm down deep into the jar. He spots Dick just as he grabs three marshmallows.

Toddling over to where his mug rests on the counter, Tim climbs up on his chair, drops one marshmallow into the mug, climbs back down and then rushes over to Dick and Damian. He holds out one small, sticky hand, offering a marshmallow to Dick.

“Thanks, Timbo,” Dick says, smiling down at Tim and taking the marshmallow from his hand. He pops it into his mouth as the small boy smiles back up at him. Then he turns to offer the last marshmallow to Damian.

Damian looks askance at the sticky blob in Tim’s tiny fingers and shakes his head.

“No… Thank you, Drake…”

Tim’s smile melts into a sad, guarded expression and he nods silently as he makes his way slowly back to the counter where Bruce and Jason are sitting.

Dick elbows Damian and gives him a reproving look. Damian lifted his eyebrows in a ‘What?’ sort of expression.

“Can I have it, Timbo?” Jason asks in a kind tone of voice as Tim climbs up next to him. “I always like extra marshmallows in my hot chocolate.”

Jason holds out his mug towards Tim, who gives him a small, approving smile and drops the sticky marshmallow in the mug.

Dick can’t hold back a smile of his own as he watches Jason take an exaggeratedly appreciative sip of his cocoa, then hand Tim a cookie.

Alfred walks over and hands Dick a cup of coffee and Damian another cup of cocoa, then takes his place at the head of the kitchen counter.

“Now…” Alfred begins in a gentle but firm tone of voice. “I think a few explanations are in order.”

Dick explains everything as best he can. Bruce and Jason interrupt him a few times to confirm that they are, in fact, superheroes and that, yes, they do know Superman. Both of them are practically vibrating in their chairs by the time Dick is done talking the three of them, Alfred and Damian through the night’s events. Though, Dick isn’t sure if it’s from the excitement of it all or the extra marshmallows they scored.

“Soooo… I guess that means we don’t go home then, tonight…” Jason says thoughtfully, looking down at his nearly empty mug.

“Nope. Not until we figure out how to get this all reversed,” Dick confirms. “Don’t worry. We’ll work fast. Hopefully you’ll all be back to normal soon.”

“You can stay here, in the manor, until it’s all sorted,” Bruce says, almost hesitant, as if he’s afraid Jason will say he doesn’t want to stay.

Jason turns to Bruce and offers him a big grin.

“Thanks, man,” he says, reaching out a hand and clapping it on Bruce’s shoulder.

Bruce stiffens and flinches a bit at the contact. Jason clearly notices right away and softens the shoulder clap to something closer to a gentle squeeze.

“Is there a place to sleep?” Tim’s voice breaks Dick out his reverie and he turns to look at him.

“Oh yes, young Master Tim. There are rooms for each of you. I’ll change the linens and get everything ready for you all. Master Dick, if you could see to the children?”

“Sure thing, Alfred,” Dick says, and Alfred sweeps efficiently out of the kitchen and up to the wing where their rooms are located.

“Rooms for each of us?” Jason asks, watching Alfred leave.

“Yes, Wayne Manor has many, many rooms. There’s plenty of space,” Bruce assures Jason.

Jason purses his lips and plays with a cookie.

“What about the kid?” Jason asks, nodding to Tim. “Won’t he be scared on his own?”

They all turn to look at Tim, who looks back at them with wide blue eyes.

“Well, Tim. Will you be alright in a room all on your own?” Jason asks him, earnestly.

“I’m always on my own,” Tim says casually, poking at his floating marshmallow with a sticky finger.

“What do you mean, you’re always on your own?” Jason asks, indignant.

“Mom and Dad are busy so I’m on my own,” Tim says, shrugging before looking up at Jason.

Dick feels his heart drop out a little at that. He swallows hard, trying to figure out to say to that. Jason beats him to it.

“That’s… not great.”

Tim shrugs again and reaches for another cookie.

“Even when you sleep?” Jason presses.

“Yes,” Tim says simply.

“We can all…” Bruce begins, hesitantly, “We can all stay together. In one room. Like a—”

“Like a sleep over! Yeah! That’ll be great!” Jason says, sounding excited and relieved.

When Alfred comes back downstairs, Bruce explains the plan to him. Alfred nods and leads them all upstairs to what turns out to be Tim’s old room.

“Alfred…” Bruce pauses as he looks into the room, sounding uncertain. “This isn’t my room…”

“No, Master Bruce. Yours is… not quite the same as you remember it. For now, I think it’s best if you stay here,” Alfred says, shooing the three boys into the room. Jason climbs onto the bed while Tim walks around the room, examining the pictures on the walls. They are all photos Tim took of Gotham City a few years back. Bruce framed them and put them up on the walls in Tim’s room.

Alfred lays out two sleeping bags on the floor as the boys examine the room around them.

“I’ll get them ready for bed. I think you and Master Damian have some work to do,” Alfred says to Dick.

Dick leaves to the sounds of the three of them chattering about who gets to sleep in the bed. He smiles as he makes his way back down to the Cave to get to work.

Alfred sits in the library, sipping his tea and waiting. The boys are all abed—and what a shock that was, seeing them all so young—but he knows his duties for the night are far from over. He eyes the fire, judging its state, and decides against adding another log. It shouldn’t be long now, from what he remembers.

Masters Dick and Damian are finally down for the night, having at last received word regarding the weapon which has wrought so much disarray. Even now, members of the Justice League are working to develop a method of reversing the effects, which were apparently caused by a combination of alien technology and magic.

Master Dick seemed uncertain as to whether the effects could be reversed in a timely fashion, which would cause Alfred considerably greater concern had the lad not prefaced his remarks with an assurance that the effects should wear off naturally within no more than a fortnight.

A quiet step from the hall draws Alfred’s focus back to the present and he rises, setting down his tea cup before moving to the doorway. Glancing into the hall, concern stirring, he searches for his boy.

“Master Bruce,” he murmurs, almost inaudibly, as his gaze settles on the lad. Relief fills him when the boy turns toward him, his expression obviously awake and fully alert.

He’d outgrown the sleepwalking by this age, but Alfred was worried the upsetting, strange circumstances would reactivate it. Smiling faintly with relief, he steps forward to greet the boy. “Doing the rounds?” he asks, slipping back into old habits more easily than he would have believed possible prior to this occurrence.

Over Bruce’s shoulder, he sees masters Dick and Damian both peeking out of the doorways to their rooms, clearly having heard activity and ready to respond if needed. Alfred shakes his head minutely to indicate he has things well in hand, and both nod before retreating into their respective rooms. Neither door quite clicks shut and he suppresses a rueful smile. It seems they will have an audience tonight.

Bruce nods, a determined expression settling on his absurdly youthful face. “There are more people than usual here tonight, Alfred. You’ll have to show me where everyone else is sleeping so I can check and make sure they’re safe.”

Alfred’s throat tightens at the rush of memories which overtake him at the boy’s words. How well he remembers accompanying his young charge on those nightly excursions through the shadowed halls of the Manor. He’s certain those nights marked the beginning of the lad’s urge to patrol which one day expanded to include all of Gotham. What began as an orphaned child sleepwalking to his parents’ room every night in search of comfort evolved over time, once Alfred realized what was happening. From that night on, he had made sure the boy never woke up alone, confused and frightened in an empty, darkened room. Rather, he’d walk at his side, murmuring a quiet stream of reassurances.

In time, the boy stopped sleepwalking, but he continued to experience restless nights. Checking on Alfred, then walking through the Manor to verify all was as it should be, seemed to reassure him.

Bruce is staring at him, brows drawing together in what looks like concern at whatever Alfred is allowing to show on his face. He clears his throat, buttoning down his feelings as best he can so as not to distress him.

“Well, my boy, let’s be off,” Alfred says, placing a hand on his young charge’s shoulder. Bruce leans into it slightly, giving him a small smile. “Master Dick is just down the hall—”

They set off together, murmuring companionably as he tells the boy stories of some of the antics his other young charges have gotten up to over the years. As they move through the east wing, checking the windows in each of the many guest bedrooms, Bruce clears his throat, still smiling at Alfred’s anecdote detailing Dick’s inability to stay off the chandeliers as a boy.

“Did he really use a fishing pole to steal Mrs. Dalrymple’s hat?” Bruce snorts with laughter, then looks startled, possibly not used to such an undignified noise emanating from himself.

Alfred chuckles, shaking his head. “Oh, yes. She had come asking questions about him, you see. When you first took him in as your ward, many thought a different situation would be more suitable.” He frowns. “Or, as in Mrs. Dalrymple’s case, they simply desired a monetary donation to themselves in exchange for not making trouble. Not that she said so in as many words, of course, but young Master Dick understood very well.”

Bruce looks pleased. “I adopted good kids, didn’t I?”

Sorrow and joy fill Alfred’s heart in equal measure as he recalls every triumph, every moment of love and loss over the many years of his service to this wonderful, intensely unique family. “Oh, Master Bruce, you adopted the very best.”

A sniffle, so soft as to be nearly silent, catches his attention only because he was half expecting it. Drawn forward by the inexorable force of his overwhelming love for the lonely child before him, still raw from his loss even four years later—a loss which, he now knows, will still be raw even decades later—Alfred wraps his arms around his boy and holds on. “My dear boy,” he breathes, then can’t go on.

Small arms wrap tentatively around his waist. “I thought I’d be alone forever. I thought—” The slight form shudders as another sniffle slips free. Alfred tightens his arms, wishing for the thousandth time he could take his children’s pain away and bear it for them.

All he can offer is what little comfort he is able to provide, and it never feels like enough.

When he can speak again, he manages, “Never, Bruce. You will never be alone. Our love will be with you. Always.” Glancing over Bruce’s shoulder to where masters Dick and Damian have both crept out to stand awkwardly in their pajamas, expressions worried, he smiles and shakes his head softly. Nodding, they both retreat down the hallway, obviously understanding this is not an emergency requiring their particular talents.

Not a moment too soon, because with one last sniffle, the boy in his arms takes a careful step back, rubbing at his eyes. “Thanks, Alfred, I don’t know what came over me.”

Clearing his throat, Alfred lifts a hand to ruffle young Master Bruce’s hair. “The same thing that overcomes everyone, from time to time, my boy. Life. Fortunately, you have many people who care about you deeply, and stand ready to help.” Eyeing the boy carefully and judging him to be not quite ready to rest yet, he places a hand on his shoulder and begins guiding him back to the library, with its warm, banked fire and waiting teapot and cups. “Now, I think a spot of tea is in order.”

Bruce’s smile is watery, but genuine. “That sounds good, Alfred.”

Damian watches his young father carefully during breakfast, noting various incidents which might have slipped his attention had he not observed the boy’s actions last night. Grayson ruffles all three children’s hair as he walks past, exhausted enough from the previous night’s work that he apparently doesn’t notice the way young Wayne flinches when touched.

As Damian observes the scene, the toast springs up in the toaster with a loud pop, and his young father nearly leaps out of his seat.

Now that he’s looking, it’s impossible to miss. His father is traumatized, showing signs of anxiety and distress most likely attributable to the act of witnessing his parents’ murder at a young age. It isn’t a surprising circumstance, when considered logically. Whenever Robin encounters any child who has experienced anything approaching such a horrific event, of course he always treats them with the utmost level of care and sensitivity.

It just… never occurred to him that his father, who has always seemed an immutable figure of utmost strength and control, was once a vulnerable child just like them.

The toaster springs up a second time. Again, young Wayne flinches minutely in his chair.

Intolerable.

Damian strides forward, lifting the toaster in his arms and jerking the cord from the wall. “I desire toast in my room,” he announces in response to the startled, baffled stares of everyone else in the kitchen. “You will have to make do without it.” He then limps away with as much dignity as his healing ankle allows him.

Retreating toward his room, he pulls out his phone and does a search for silent toasters. Even as he selects an item and places an order for rush delivery, his mind is turning over other potential triggers around the Manor and Cave which should be dealt with to spare the child further psychological harm.

Children, he corrects himself after a moment, pausing in the doorway to his room as he recalls young Todd also twitched when the toaster popped, hand spasming enough to drop the syrup. He doesn’t know very much about the details of Todd’s upbringing, but some of the clues he’s gathered so far seem to point to it having been worse than he ever realized.

As for young Drake, his reactions are entirely different from the older pair, but in some ways just as troubling. Instead of flinching when touched, he freezes, seemingly stunned into motionless silence by what should be a fairly normal act.

Damian resumes moving, then jerks in surprise as a hand descends from above to snag the toast, still protruding from the purloined device he has clutched to his chest. Eyes widening, he lifts his gaze, then rolls his eyes as he spots Grayson above him, clinging to the ceiling and wolfing down toast.

“You took all the toast,” Grayson complains, licking his fingers as he drops to land neatly at his side. The gaze he sweeps over Damian is far too knowing and sympathetic. Damian turns his eyes away as though avoiding it will keep his secrets for him.

No such luck.

“What’s wrong, Little D?”

Damian sighs, still not making eye contact. “Father jumped when the toaster went off.” He sets it down by the door, to be donated later once he has a chance to deal with it.

“This is about what we saw last night, isn’t it?” Grayson’s voice is so sympathetic and kind. He frowns as he looks at the toaster, then raises his brows. “Oh,” he breathes, understanding dawning on his face. “Oh, damn. Loud noises, like a gunshot…” He winces. “Yeah, okay, we can fix this. At least, we can get rid of or adjust anything we think might trigger him while he’s like this.”

As one, the thought occurs to them that they have no way of knowing whether or not loud noises might still be triggering to Father, even when he’s back to normal. The man would never admit such a vulnerability. Damian lifts wide, worried eyes to his brother, and Grayson runs his fingers through his hair and huffs a breath. “You know what? None of us really like loud, sudden noises. Whatever we fix now can just stay like that once everyone changes back.”

Damian nods, satisfied. That sounds like a reasonable plan. They will have to take turns implementing it, since one of them should remain with the children whenever Alfred is unavailable. He frowns. “Grayson,” he says slowly, “who is watching the children?”

They both turn to look back down the hall, then break into a run. A moment later, they both burst into the kitchen, where the only sign of any chaos having occurred in their absence is small Drake, perched on the counter and staring at them guiltily, elbow deep in the marshmallow jar.

Small Todd immediately puts himself in between them and the younger boy, puffing out his chest and raising his fists protectively. “He finished his breakfast, and he was still hungry!” His gaze darts across both of them and to the exits before returning to settle warily on Grayson.

Damian’s estimation of Todd’s childhood experiences ticks down a few more notches. Only a desire to avoid distressing the already frightened child further keeps his reflexive anger in check. If there’s one thing wading through the aftermath of his own lost childhood has taught him, it is that parents are meant to keep children safe.

It seems he is not as alone amidst his siblings as he thought.

“That’s fine,” Grayson says calmly, holding out his hand expectantly. Small Drake eyes it cautiously  and then carefully places a marshmallow in it. “It’s the breakfast of champions.” The fool smiles, cheeks puffed out around the marshmallow, and the younger boys laugh. Even small Wayne appears to be stifling a smile.

An unexpected feeling of protectiveness surges within Damian as he watches them. They’re all so young and innocent, not unlike the puppies and kittens he frequently rescues on patrol. He must do his best to make their stay comfortable and shield them from whatever nightmares dog each of them.

He clears his throat, fighting down his distaste at consuming what amounts to straight sugar so early in the morning. “Young Drake,” he says, attempting a reassuring smile as the child turns to eye him warily, “may I have one as well?”

Accepting his slightly sticky marshmallow, he decides the beaming smile on the young boy’s face more than makes up for having to eat it.

Probably.

A quiet joy fills Alfred’s heart as he watches the children entertaining themselves. Damian is reading to Jason and Tim, who hang enthralled on his every word. It’s a far cry from the awkwardness which marked the teen’s first interactions with his deaged siblings. Now he has an arm draped comfortably around Jason’s shoulder, and young Tim is actually sitting on his lap.

As he watches, Damian’s voice drifts over. “Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.”

Alfred blinks, glancing down at the book in Damian’s hands and then suppressing a fond smile as he shakes his head. The Art of War is certainly not the most common choice of reading material for small children, and yet, it is so very fitting for young master Damian.

He turns from the children on the couch to check on the others. Bruce is giggling, grinning and happy in a way Alfred cannot recall seeing before. Not at this age, not since…

Swallowing, he just stands there, allowing himself this moment to bask in his boy’s joy. A stirring of concern rises only to be pushed aside. Furniture can be pushed back into place, and repaired or replaced if needed. Nothing can replace these precious memories of his children playing together.

“I think we can make it taller,” Bruce says excitedly, stepping back to view the structure he and Dick erected. So far, it includes several bedframes perched on end as structural supports, multiple couches stacked one upon the other for the central load-bearing wall, and a number of mattresses which they seem to intend to use as a sort of flooring.

Dick tilts his head back, raising a dubious eyebrow. “I’m not so sure…”

“Maybe if you use lighter materials for the upper story, like sheets and blankets, and hang them on secure lines attached to those beams on the ceiling.” Young master Tim’s voice pipes up from the couch, where he’s turned and is peering over Damian’s shoulder to view the construction with interest.

“Hey, that’s a good idea, Timmy!” Dick grins at him.

Bruce is already clambering up the edifice, apparently intent on identifying points to secure the next level of construction.

“I shall go retrieve several of the spare grapnels,” Damian says decisively. “We must consider the load bearing potential, of course—”

“Me and Timmy will go get more blankets.” Jason takes the smaller boy’s hand and they trundle forth on their errand.

Alfred simply watches, misty eyed and quietly content.

In a while, he will go and prepare a healthy snack for them to enjoy. For now, though, he’s going to stay, and bask in the smiles and laughter of the children he had a hand in raising.

“I feel weird,” Jason announces in the midst of an epic pillow fight in the gigantic fort they spent the afternoon building that fills the entire family room from floor to ceiling. Dick turns a practiced eye on the eight year old, ready to grab him and run for the bathroom if need be. After all, he realizes guiltily, they’ve been sneaking an awful lot of potentially inadvisable snacks in between the healthy meals Alfred keeps preparing.

It’s entirely possible all those marshmallows are upsetting the kid’s stomach. Or maybe it was the ho hos. Or the hot Cheetos. Actually, it was probably a combination of a number of things. “I’ve got you, Jay, just try to hold it in until I get you to the bathroom—” Dick reaches out to pick his little brother up and starts running, Timmy and Bruce both dodging out of the splash zone, wide eyed.

Dick tries to hurry, but it’s hard. It almost seems like Jason’s… getting… heavier.

Huh.

He stumbles to a halt, staring in shock at the boy—man?—in his arms. He’s definitely growing. His face twists in discomfort, spurring Dick into motion again. “Okay, buddy, I think you’re changing back. Let’s just get your clothes from the bag Alfred has ready…” He changes course, depositing his burden beside the duffel bag of spare clothing the wise butler had insisted they keep near the children at all times, for use in the event of a sudden reversion to form. “Here you go. We’ll all look the other way while you change into these.”

A few moments later, Jason’s deep, adult voice sounds from behind him. “It’s okay, Dickie, you can turn around now. I’m decent.”

Dick spins in place instantly, checking his brother over rapidly for any remaining signs of distress. “How are you feeling? Does anything hurt?”

Jason stretches, then shrugs. “I feel fine.” He glances at the kids, who are staring at him in amazement, eyes wide. “Hey, squirts.” There’s a lopsided grin and a fond expression on his face as he looks at them. He shakes his head a moment later, then starts to stand. “Look, I should probably get on my way, I already spent way longer here than—” He breaks off, looking down to see a tiny hand clutching at his sleeve.

Timmy looks up at him earnestly. “Please don’t go?”

Jason stares at him until he starts to fidget uncomfortably, dropping the sleeve and looking away.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have thought you’d want to stay… not now that you’re big.” Timmy bites his lip, looking down and crossing his arms tight, like he’s hugging himself. He looks tiny, standing there next to Jason’s hulking six-foot-plus frame. Looking up resolutely, he tries to smile. “I know grownups never stay.”

Oh, god. Dick starts forward, physically unable to refrain from hugging the kid when he says something like that, but Jason beats him to it.

“Shi—uh, da—uh, fu—I mean, fudge, kid, you’re breakin’ my heart,” Jason mutters as he carefully gathers the little boy into his arms. “Of course I’ll stay. Jesus.”

Bruce eyes him approvingly and Dick grins. Then hits him with a pillow, because they’re still in a pillow fight.

“Da—uh, dang it, Dickhead!” Jason tries to tuck Timmy protectively under one arm so he can retaliate with the other.

“That’s a bad word,” Bruce says, gravely. The expression on his face matches adult Bruce’s judgemental expression so perfectly, it’s absurd.

Jason grins at him. “Naw it ain’t. His name’s Dick, so his head is automatically a Dick-head. It’s just a statement of fact.”

Bruce blinks, clearly considering that, then smiles. “Dickface,” he says, experimentally.

Oh no. Dick has a bad feeling about this.

Jason’s barely able to talk, he’s laughing so hard. “Fu—uh, fudge yeah, little man, that’s right.” He raises his hand and stares at Bruce expectantly. Bruce eyes it for a long moment before carefully, awkwardly giving him a high five. Jason crows with joy, Timmy giggles, and Bruce actually grins.

It’s cute as well as concerning. Dick considers for a moment, then shrugs. Anything that gets Bruce and Timmy smiling like that is good in his book. Even if it’s a little embarrassing. He smiles, then wallops Jason with a pillow again.

Jason sighs, glancing around the dark, deserted Manor rooftop before sliding a cigarette and lighter out of his pocket. Cupping his hand to shield the cigarette from the breeze, he flicks the lighter and—

“What are you doing?” Bruce’s young voice asks from right beside him.

He jerks in shock and fumbles the lighter. “Jesus fucking Christ!” Catching it in midair, he shoves it back in his pocket. After a mournful moment, the cigarette follows. He’s been thinking about quitting, but the stress and deluge of memories that come with spending so much time in Wayne Manor is doing a number on him. “What are you doing up here, kid?”

At his side, the boy shrugs, studying him intently. “Isn’t smoking supposed to be bad for you?”

Damn it, even as a brat he’s still managing to make Jason feel bad about his lifestyle choices. He bridles, ready to defend himself, when—

“Can I try it?” Bruce’s voice sounds hesitantly hopeful, and he’s looking at Jason like he thinks he’s someone cool, someone to imitate.

Oh, shit.

Grimacing, Jason shakes his head, visions of a disappointed Alfred and Dick, hell, a disappointed everyone flashing through his mind’s eye. “I’m not gonna get you hooked on smoking, kid, you’re twelve.”

“How old were you when you started smoking?” Bruce is looking at him with that same analytical expression he always gets when he’s older and solving a case.

Eleven, Jason thinks. “That’s not important,” he says.

Bruce’s eyes narrow. Even as a brat, he’s way the hell too smart for his own good. “If it’s bad for you, bad enough you don’t want me to try, then why do you do it?” His shoulders square up like he’s bracing for something.

“It’s not important, kid.”

“It is to me. You’re—look, I don’t know exactly how all of this works, but you’re part of my family.” Bruce’s face screws up slightly. “I don’t want to lose any more family,” he finally whispers.

Aw, hell.

Jason has the sudden urge to stub out his cigarette, even though he never managed to light it. “I’m quitting,” he blurts out suddenly, then blinks, not having intended to say that. Huffing a laugh, he rubs the back of his neck and tries not to look at the relieved, happy expression on Bruce’s face. “Been thinkin’ about it for a while, actually.”

And then he feels a weight slam into his side, and Bruce’s arms wrapping fiercely around his waist. “Thanks,” the kid whispers, face buried in his ribs.

Returning the hug, Jason smiles. “No problem, bud.”

Maybe he can manage to spend some more time around the Manor, after all. It’s full of memories, yes, but not all of them hurt in a bad way. And the new ones are all pretty damn good.

His attention is drawn back to Bruce a moment later when the boy tenses, then whispers, “Uh, I don’t feel so good.”

Jason has him scooped up in his arms and is heading back to the window before he even finishes talking. No way is he letting him turn back into an adult while perched precariously on the rooftop. Everyone would be pissed at him if he let their dad slide off the damn roof and break a leg while magically incapacitated. “Dick!” he calls, hoping his brother’s in earshot.

A moment later, two heads pop out of the library window. “Todd?” Damian replies, while Timmy peers curiously up at his side.

Eh, close enough. “Here, help me with him.” Jason carefully hands the stricken boy down, trusting Damian to help him into the house. As he drops in through the window to join them, he sees Timmy dragging the duffel bag across the floor so Bruce can reach it.

“Here you go!” The little boy then turns and trots over to stand with Damian by the fire. Jason joins them after checking Bruce has everything he needs. Might as well give him privacy during the awkward process. Jason empathizes, cringing as he recalls the weird, stretching, awkward feeling of his own recent transformation.

The library door slams open moments later. “Jay? I heard you calling, sorry—I was in the other wing—wait, Bruce?” Dick’s eyes go wide and his mouth drops open as he stares across the room.

Bruce’s customary, deep voice answers calmly. “It’s fine, Dick.” They all turn to look at him, and he eyes them, visibly taking everything in. His lips twitch into a smile. “Well, that was an interesting experience.” He turns to Jason and his smile softens. “Thanks, Jaylad.”

Jason isn’t even sure what he’s being thanked for—offering to quit smoking, saving Bruce from sliding ignominiously off a roof in the midst of his transformation, hell, maybe just being here in the Manor after everything.

All he knows is, he’s smiling back, and it doesn’t hurt at all.

Tim waits until everyone else is crowded up against the counter in the ice cream shop, tasting samples and arguing good naturedly about what they’re going to order.

“I want to try a sample of everything before I choose mine!” Dick laughs as he reaches for the first tiny spoon, loaded with a sample of birthday cake flavored ice cream cheerfully studded with what looks like way too many sprinkles.

Damian looks horrified. “Grayson, that is far too much ice cream to be healthy, even for one with your metabolism!”

Clearing his throat, Bruce nods. “I agree. Additionally, from what I recall, our diet over the past few days has already included rather more unhealthy snacks than is desirable. I think—”

“Naw, quit being a stick in the mud, B! After all, who knows how long we’ll have little Timmy—” Jason breaks off, glancing over at the interested-looking shop assistant, then continues, “—uh, visiting us. Once he, uh, goes home, we won’t have a chance to spoil him like this again.”

Everyone turns to look at Tim, who freezes momentarily under the attention. He’s still not used to people looking at him, wanting to engage and find out his opinion about things. Visibly caring about him. It’s so strange.

“Um, I’d like chocolate, please,” he says after a short pause of careful consideration.

Jason grins down at him, and a moment later an ice cream cone filled with rich, delicious-looking chocolate ice cream appears over the counter. Bruce takes it, passing it to Damian, who hands it to Tim with a gentle reminder not to eat it too fast.

Then they all notice Dick took advantage of their distraction to take seven more ice cream samples, which he’s currently wolfing down, both hands comically bristling with tiny spoons. Damian attempts to confiscate them and Dick dances back, laughing. Jason guffaws and sticks a foot out, running interference to stop Bruce from breaking it up.

It’s the perfect moment to slip away. No one will notice, Tim reasons. After all, his parents never did.

Walking down the street outside the ice cream shop in downtown Gotham, bright afternoon sunlight warming his face, Tim licks his eye cream and looks around curiously. From what he’s been told, it’s been over fifteen years since what he last remembers. He searches the shopfronts avidly, looking for differences. It’s disappointing that all the cars still seem to drive on the ground. Oh wait, maybe the hovercars are in the sky?

He looks up, but all he sees is a blue sky and fleecy white clouds, rare for a city that’s usually shrouded in a blanket of gray. Well, he’ll take it.

Although he was really hoping for hovercars. Or at least hover-skateboards. He bites into his ice cream mutinously, glaring at a nearby parked car as though it is solely responsible for his disappointment.

“You shouldn’t eat your ice cream so quickly, child—you will come to regret it,” a smooth, silky voice says from right behind him, and he spins so fast his ice cream falls off the cone and lands with a sad, disappointing splat at his feet.

All Tim sees is fancy, ornate robes practically filling his field of view. He blinks back tears—that ice cream was good, and Bruce bought it for him—and tilts his head back. And back, until a face finally comes into view.

It isn’t a very nice-looking face.

Tim’s fingers tremble on the empty ice cream cone. A hand closes on his shoulder and he whimpers.

“What are you doing wandering around on these streets alone? It isn’t safe.” The man smiles down at him in a way that’s anything but reassuring. His hand grips Tim’s shoulder tightly as he begins pulling Tim toward himself. “I think I should make sure you get to the right place. After all, there may be unfriendly people about, especially in this day and age.”

Something about that comment strikes Tim as odd, but his heart is pounding away too quickly for him to think it through.

In the corner of his eye, Tim spots movement—two more figures are moving smoothly toward them, their unfriendly eyes fixed on him. He can’t bring himself to pull his gaze away from the man in front of him, though. He has the weirdest sense that this must be what it feels like when a mouse is mesmerized by a snake, right before it gets eaten.

The whimper that slips out of his mouth is entirely involuntary.

The man holding him is still talking. “These are my friends. They will help you get to where you need to be.”

The people converging on them are dressed like ordinary people, a man and a woman who might reasonably be out enjoying their day together. They reach for Tim, smiles sliding over their previously empty faces like masks. If it weren’t for their blank, coldly calculating eyes, they would look friendly.

Tim sucks in a huge breath and then finds he can’t let it out, voice frozen in his throat.

The man holding his shoulder looks annoyed. “Now, young Timothy—”

How does he even know Tim’s name? This is bad. This is really, really bad. He pulls back, but his weak attempts aren’t enough to break free from the man’s cruel grip.

The man’s dark, sculpted brows draw down in a mean-looking frown. “You are being uncooperative, my child. You will soon find that your life from this point onward will proceed far more smoothly if you do not prove recalcitrant. I have much to teach you, after all, and how painful the learning process is will be entirely within your control.”

Okay, so this guy seems pretty evil. Kidnapping a small child and threatening to hurt him is definitely not something a nice guy just trying to get him back to his family would do.

The man and woman are upon them now, both with their hands settling on Tim’s shoulders. They begin to drag him forward between them as the tall man in green ushers them along from behind, moving the group quickly toward a car parked nearby. To his horror, Tim realizes that to anyone passing by, they almost certainly look like a family—a mom and dad out with their kid, enjoying an afternoon walk with a grandparent.

Oh god.

Tim’s tight chest finally relaxes, and he let out the scream that’s been building in his lungs since the moment he heard that silky, strangely threatening voice and dropped his ice cream. “HELP!”

The man scowls and covers Tim’s mouth with his hand, snarling, but it’s too late.

People walking by are starting to turn and look, curious, as Tim begins to actively struggle, trying to escape. The man and woman at his sides move in unison, picking him up and hurrying toward the car.

“My grandson is… fractious,” the man in green says, directing an oily, insincere smile toward the concerned passerby. “Sometimes he requires a firm hand.”

His attempts at reassurance and odd, somewhat frightening appearance only seem to alarm the people further, especially as Tim manages to dislodge the hand over his mouth with a bite and let out a loud, siren-like wail at that moment, one of his kicking feet taking the woman clutching his right arm directly in the face. She swears, scowling viciously, and raises a hand to slap him.

Tim winces, curling into himself and trying to shield his face from the threatened violence.

“Don’t you dare touch my little brother,” a low, threatening voice growls from what feels like right beside him.

Tim opens one eye and peeks hesitantly out, then opens both eyes wide in astonishment at the sight which greets him.

Dick’s standing right beside him, his large hand clutching the woman’s raised wrist in what looks like a painfully tight grip. His normally cheerful face is set in grim, threatening lines, but somehow, Tim doesn’t feel scared at all. He can tell that all of that anger is directed at the people who were trying to hurt him.

A soft grunt from Tim’s other side is his only warning before the man holding his left arm is ripped away, a blunt object colliding with him at high speed and tackling him onto the hard concrete with a painful-sounding thud. The blunt object resolves into Jason, scowling and muttering imprecations as he grapples and punches the fiercely struggling man to keep him down.

“Oh, children,” the man in green sighs, voice pitying. “Do you really think the two of you are enough to stop me from taking him?”

Dick does something with his leg and shoulder, and then suddenly Tim’s safe in his big arms, clasped protectively to his chest in a safe little bundle as the woman who had been holding him before goes flying and crumples against the wall of a nearby building, clutching her knee. Dick turns back to the man in green, raising a brow. “Well, we don’t seem to be doing too badly so far.” He turns to where Jason is gripping the now-unconscious man by one foot and dragging him none too carefully over to where the woman is just beginning to struggle clumsily to her feet.

As the three of them watch in silence, Jason unceremoniously dumps the man on top of the woman, then jumps on top of them himself, elbow first, and pins them down with his own body weight while roughly binding them together using sturdy-looking ties he produced from—somewhere. “Fuckers,” he mutters, giving them both a few extra kicks for good measure.

The few passerby who were still lingering, watching the fight, begin to disperse now that the action seems to be over. Their casual nonchalance at what they’ve just seen is all Gotham.

Apparently, not that much has changed around here.

The man in green clears his throat. “Hmm… perhaps,” he says, begrudgingly. With a discomfiting narrowing of his eyes, the man’s voice goes silky and smooth again, and he gives Dick one of those oily, insincere smiles as he continues. “However, why would you even want to deprive young Timothy of this opportunity? He has a chance to relive his lost childhood, to learn and grow and thrive in ways beyond your limited understanding. How can you think to diminish his vast potential, merely for your own selfish wants?” The man’s eyes slide from Dick to Tim. Even if Tim can’t recall the word describing that kind of look, the meaning is clear and unfriendly. Maybe even possessive. He has to fight against a sudden urge to duck entirely behind Dick, putting him between Tim and… and that.

Dick clutches Tim closer, snorting. “Right, we’re the selfish ones for wanting to protect Tim from being kidnapped and brainwashed by a freaking supervillain.” He glares. “Did you have something to do with this, Ra’s?” he demands. “Was this episode all part of some plot of yours, to get Tim in your power?”

Ra’s shrugs elegantly. “I merely observed a change in the young detective’s patterns of movement, and came to check on him. I did not engineer the situation, but I have never been one to allow such a delicious opportunity to pass me by.” He actually licks his lips, tongue darting out and momentarily increasing his already substantial likeness to a watchful snake. He smirks. “And if you believe I do not have backup, ready and waiting to engage you in battle and end this pointless fight, you are even more of a fool than—”

“Oh, do you mean these, Grandfather?” Damian’s voice interrupts, drawing the group’s attention as he appears in the mouth of the nearest alleyway. He’s dragging what looks like half a dozen people dressed in tightly fitting black clothes. They’re all bound hand and foot and tied together. It doesn’t look like any of them are awake. “Your plans are becoming rather predictable.”

Ra’s narrows his eyes, sharp gaze drifting over the piled henchman, then smirks. He opens his mouth to speak and is cut off by a bark of laughter from Damian.

“Oh, are you looking for the others? Do not worry, Grandfather, they are perfectly well. Oracle is directing Blackbat and Huntress in apprehending the remainder of your paltry forces. Did you truly believe you could manage an incursion into my father’s city with only such a pathetic army behind you?”

Tim blinks, then looks back to Ra’s, eyes wide as the previously terrifying villain sputters angrily, his grand plans collapsing in ruins around him while Dick, Jason, and Damian all direct identical smirks in his direction.

Wow. My brothers are all amazing.

Tim recoils as Ra’s suddenly lunges forward with a snarl, throwing something in Dick’s direction. Dick leaps sideways to dodge what Tim now sees is an array of pointy projectiles, which embed themselves in the wall of the nearest building. As Dick falls, he heaves Tim into the air, away from the fight.

Squeaking in shock, Tim flies through the air, curling into a tight ball and trying to protect his head and neck with his hands. He’s expecting a hard, painful impact, which makes the soft landing as he’s gently plucked out of the air by what feels like gloved hands, and drawn protectively against yet another broad, muscular chest all the more surprising.

“Huh?” Tim leans back, looking up into the face of—

Batman. The tall man lands in a crouch, apparently having leapt into the air to catch Tim. He must’ve had a uniform stashed nearby and changed into it the moment he realized something was wrong.

It should be a ridiculous sight, Batman on the streets of Gotham on a sunny day in full uniform, but somehow, it’s just intimidating. Batman gathers Tim carefully into his arms, allowing his cape to fall forward and shield his small body from his attacker’s greedy, furious gaze.

Batman rises to his feet, somehow looming over Ra’s even though he’s a tall man himself. Tim senses movement to the sides, and peeks around Batman’s broad shoulder to see Dick and Jason, who have somehow moved rapidly and silently to flank them defensively. He can see Damian, crouched and ready behind Ra’s. There are flickers of movement on top of a couple of nearby buildings, and he looks up to see two costumed, scary-looking women staring fiercely down at the scene.

The smaller one inclines her head at him and gives him a little wave. Tim waves back, smiling faintly. Okay, maybe they’re not so scary after all.

In front of him, Ra’s squares his shoulders, drawing in a breath and opening his mouth to pour out more of his oily, poisoned words.

Batman cuts him off before he begins, drawing Tim even closer against his chest and thundering, “GO.”

Amazingly, Ra’s snaps his mouth shut, stares at the assembled defenders a moment longer, and then inclines his head. “Very well,” he says, with obvious reluctance. He directs one last knowing smirk at Tim. “But know this. You will join with me eventually, young detective. Make no mistake, it is merely a matter of time. A resource which I possess in abundance.” His eyes flick back to Batman. The way they seem to glow green for a split second can’t be anything but a trick of the light… Right? “Just as I will eventually possess your charge,” Ra’s purrs, his eyes boring holes into the armored plating of Batman’s suit.

Tim jumps in surprise as Batman and all of his brothers bare their teeth and growl simultaneously. Ra’s seems mildly startled as well, eyeing them mistrustfully and stumbling backward when Jason snaps at him, before slowing down and striding smoothly away in a failed attempt to regain his lost dignity.

“Wow,” Tim whispers, staring as several more black-clad figures appear and begin dragging the piles of henchmen away, following their defeated leader. “What the heck was that?”

“Are you okay, Timmy?” Dick’s worried, dark blue eyes are suddenly right in front of him, his big brother’s hand on his shoulders. Damian and Jason are visible just behind him, looking increasingly concerned when Tim doesn’t answer right away.

“Did those assholes hurt you, Timmy?” Jason’s hands clench and he throws a glance over his shoulder at the retreating villains, looking half-ready to chase after them and beat them up some more. Damian’s already edging after them, a dangerous look in his eyes.

“What’s wrong, Tim? Please. We can’t help you if you don’t tell us how.” Batman’s voice sounds worried.

Tim finally manages to open his mouth, all the stress and terror of the past few minutes welling up and overwhelming him as he bawls out, “They- they made me drop my ice creeeeeaaaaam!” before breaking down into heaving, gusty sobs.

Dick’s face twists into a sympathetic smile and he laughs gently, leaning forward to squish Tim in a hug between his chest and Bruce’s. “Oh, buddy,” he says, dropping a soft kiss on Tim’s hair and rubbing his arm in a reassuring manner. “I’m sorry that happened. We’ll definitely be looking into Ra’s and his interest in you once things are back to normal.” Above Tim’s head, he meets Bruce’s eyes and they nod.

They soothe and comfort him as his sobs slowly quiet and he goes still in their arms, hiccupping and sniffling every few seconds.

“Here ya go, buddy,” Jason’s voice says from behind him. Tim lifts his head and scrubs at his wet eyes, blinking them open to see Jason standing there, a crooked grin on his face, holding out a brand-new ice cream cone. It’s piled high with chocolate ice cream and topped with fluffy white marshmallows.

“We requested extra marshmallows for you,” Damian says from where he slouches behind Jason, hands shoved in his pockets.

Tim breaks into a wobbly smile. “Thanks, everyone.”

Batman transfers him gently to Dick’s waiting arms before disappearing, presumably to go change out of his costume. They all end up back at Wayne Manor, hanging out in the awesome fort they built together the other day, and watching Star Wars to cheer Tim up.

It’s pretty amazing.

He doesn’t even notice when he changes—it happens after he drifts off to sleep, cuddled snug and safe between Dick and Bruce. He wakes up as a teenager again, and thanks God and Alfred for the fact that a change of clothes is waiting just within his reach, saving him the mortification of having to scurry naked past his entire sleeping family.

Dick wakes up anyway, jostled by Tim’s sharp elbows as he finishes pulling his comfy sweats up. “Timmy! You’re back to normal!” The man grins, sitting up in excitement and accidentally knocking a stray pillow onto Jason’s snoring face. Jason sputters, slapping an uncoordinated hand out to defend himself, and ends up jamming a finger in Bruce’s ear.

The chain reaction continues as Bruce snorts loudly and then attempts to leap to his feet, bumping his head on the low ceiling and causing the precariously constructed fort to shudder. One of his feet lands on a miraculously still-sleeping Damian, who curses and dives at Bruce’s ankles, felling him like a tree and incidentally protecting the besieged fort, which slowly stops shuddering.

Everyone blinks at each other in sleepy confusion, then one by one, they all notice Tim. “Welcome back, kiddo,” Jason says, reaching out a hand to tussle his hair. He yawns, stretching.

“Timothy,” Damian says, nodding. Bruce just reaches out and tugs Tim in for a long hug.

Of course, Dick dogpiles on, dragging Jason and Damian along with him. Tim… allows it, this time. Surrounded by his family in the ridiculous fort they all built together, he just sighs and smiles, feeling safe and happier than he’s been in a long time.

He tilts his head, smirking. Maybe he can convince them to watch some more Star Wars after breakfast.

Hey, it’s worth a shot.