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They were hit with something mid-battle. Nightwing and Red Hood had been called in by the Justice League to deal with yet another “uncontainable threat.” At this point, there had been so many that neither of them even bothered to keep track of which one was trying to end the world this time.
Maybe that was why they didn’t notice the magic user aiming straight for them until it was too late.
A blinding flash. A low hum that made the air tremble. Then silence.
When Jason blinked again, he was standing on the cracked streets of Gotham.
At first glance, nothing seemed out of place. The same broken streetlights flickered weakly overhead, buzzing like dying insects. The same buildings slouched against one another, their walls tattooed with graffiti and soaked in grime. But the air was wrong. It pressed heavy against his lungs, thick with the sting of damp metal and rot. Even for Gotham, the smell carried an edge that made his stomach turn.
He turned and saw Dick a few feet away, brushing dirt off his suit with a groan. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Dick muttered, eyeing the smear of filth on his chest. “This thing was just cleaned. Alfie’s gonna kill me.”
Jason huffed a short laugh, the sound echoing hollowly inside his helmet. “You might be banned from his cookies for a week.”
“That’s cruel and unusual punishment.” Dick pointed at him, voice mock-serious. “You better take the blame. You were the one who said we wouldn’t need backup.”
“Yeah, because it was supposed to be a simple magic-user,” Jason said. “Next time I’m bringing a shotgun loaded with salt.”
“Since when do you watch Supernatural?”
“Since you started quoting it every time we deal with a demon.”
That pulled a grin from Dick. He shook his head and adjusted his escrima sticks, the faint hum of the city catching on his laughter. “Well, I guess that’s that. We’re back in Gotham. Home sweet home.”
Jason’s gaze drifted past him, sweeping over the street. Something about it made the back of his neck prickle. The shadows stretched too far, the lights flickered a heartbeat too long, and every sound seemed to echo from nowhere. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Feels a little... off though, doesn’t it?”
Dick shrugged, the easy motion almost convincing. “It’s Gotham. It’s always off.”
They started walking, boots echoing against the wet pavement. The sound carried through the still air, sharp and deliberate, like the city itself was listening. It looked like Gotham, smelled like Gotham, even sounded like Gotham, but something about it wasn’t right.
The streets felt quieter than they should have been. Cars hissed by in the distance, their headlights cutting through the fog, but the sidewalks were nearly empty. The few people who passed moved quickly, shoulders hunched, eyes locked on the ground as if making eye contact might get them killed. It was like the entire city was holding its breath, waiting for something bad to happen.
Jason tilted his head slightly, scanning the faces that flickered past in the dim light. “You seeing this?” he muttered.
“People being weird in alleys?” Dick replied without missing a step. “That’s called Tuesday.”
Jason shook his head. “No, I mean they’re scared. More than usual.”
Dick frowned, his eyes sweeping the street ahead. He didn’t answer right away. The silence between them was broken by the faint hum of neon signs and the rhythmic drip of water from a broken gutter. Gotham’s usual symphony. But underneath it, something pulsed, an unease neither of them could name.
Before Dick could respond, a scream sliced through the night. It was sharp, panicked, and close. Both men froze for a fraction of a second, instincts kicking in almost at the same time.
Without a word, they moved.
The sound led them into a narrow alley, walls slick with grime and the stink of garbage. A single flickering bulb buzzed overhead, throwing weak light over the scene. A man had a knife pressed against a young woman’s throat, her back pinned to the wall. Her purse hung half torn from her shoulder, and she stood frozen, trembling, her breath coming in shallow bursts.
Nightwing dropped down first, landing softly behind the thief. His voice came out calm, almost casual. “Hey, buddy,” he said, his tone light but steady. “How about you put the knife down, and we all go home happy?”
The man jerked around, eyes wide. “What the hell are you supposed to be? Some kind of cosplay freak?”
Before Nightwing could reply, Red Hood stepped out from the shadows, his voice low and rough through the helmet. “Wrong answer.”
The thief’s expression shifted instantly. His gaze flicked between the two of them, then dropped to the red emblem stamped across Jason’s chest. Recognition hit like a punch. His knuckles went white around the knife before he let it clatter to the ground.
“Wait, I- I didn’t do anything,” the man stammered, stumbling back. “I swear, I didn’t hurt her!”
Jason tilted his head, studying him. The man looked like he’d seen a ghost. His hands trembled, his breathing came fast, and his eyes darted toward every dark corner like he expected something worse to crawl out of it.
“What’s your problem?” Jason asked, his voice quiet but sharp enough to cut.
The man’s breathing quickened, sharp and uneven. His eyes flicked between Jason and Dick like he was seeing ghosts in the shadows. “You’re with him, aren’t you?” he whispered, voice trembling. “The Bat. You’re one of his.”
Jason let out a short, amused scoff beneath his helmet. “You’re joking, right? You think I wear this because he’s my hero? The old man’s not the one you should be worrying about right now.”
The man went even paler, his knees wobbling like he might collapse on the spot. A bead of sweat ran down his temple, and his hands twitched at his sides. Then, without another word, he bolted, tripping over the uneven pavement as he scrambled toward the street, eyes wide with blind panic.
Jason watched him go, expression hidden behind the red mask, then turned to Dick. “Okay. That was weird.”
Dick crossed his arms, brow furrowed, eyes scanning the alley with a practiced wariness. “Yeah. Even for Gotham.” His tone carried the faint edge of disbelief, like he was measuring just how far the city had tilted into something unrecognizable.
They both turned their attention to the woman still huddled against the wall, her figure shrinking as she tried to make herself invisible. Her purse had fallen to the ground, forgotten. Her hands trembled, gripping the straps like they might anchor her to some tiny fragment of safety.
When she realized they were looking at her, she curled up tighter, lips quivering. “I’m sorry, please,” she whispered, voice cracking.
Nightwing took a slow, careful step forward, hands raised just enough to show he meant no harm. “Hey, it’s okay. We’re not going to hurt you.”
He offered her one of his signature smiles, the kind that usually worked on civilians and even the jumpiest of cops. For a brief moment, it seemed to do its job. Her shoulders eased, her breathing lengthened slightly, and the panic in her eyes dimmed just enough for him to think she might be safe.
Then her eyes flicked past him, and her face went completely white, the color draining so fast it almost looked unreal.
Dick froze mid-step, a low hiss of alarm escaping him. “What-”
Before he could finish, she bolted, sprinting out of the alley without so much as a backward glance. Her feet slapped the wet pavement, echoing like gunshots against the brick walls.
Jason exhaled through his teeth, a dry, rattling sound. “Well, that went great.”
A new sound rippled through the air behind them, subtle at first, almost mistaken for the wind, then growing sharper, the sudden rush of a cape slicing through it, cutting a path of motion and intent straight toward them.
Both brothers turned at once, dropping into defensive stances. Their boots scraped against the slick pavement, echoing off the alley walls.
At the mouth of the alley stood a figure they recognized instantly, yet something was unmistakably wrong.
Batman. Or at least, someone who looked like him.
The suit was darker, heavier, more like forged armor than fabric. Every inch of it absorbed the dim light, black so deep it seemed to swallow the shadows around him. Across his chest blazed a blood-red bat symbol that pulsed almost as if it had a heartbeat of its own. The air seemed to thicken, charged with anger that pressed down on them, making the space feel smaller, tighter, dangerous.
The expression behind the cowl was nothing like the calm, measured control they knew. It was raw, furious, untamed. Pure rage radiated off him in waves that prickled the skin and set their nerves on edge.
“Batman?” Dick’s voice was cautious now, quieter, as if lowering the volume might prevent disaster. “You okay? You look different.”
Jason tilted his head, studying him from the corner of his eye. “New suit? Gotta say, kind of metal. I like it.”
The figure did not reply. He did not even blink. He simply stared, unmoving, unreadable, like a predator sizing them up.
Dick took a tentative step forward, hands raised slightly in a gesture meant to calm. “Hey, it’s us. Nightwing and Red Hood. We were-”
He didn’t get to finish.
In a blur, Batman moved. His fist shot out, striking Dick’s jaw with brutal precision, sending him sprawling into a stack of crates. Wood splintered beneath the impact, the crash echoing sharp and violent down the alley.
“Holy-” Jason began, but he didn’t get another word out.
A gloved hand shot forward, clamping around his throat, lifting him off the ground. The force was immediate and suffocating, slamming him against the brick wall with a bone-jarring impact. Pain flared at the base of his skull, reverberating through his helmet. His ribs groaned, lungs struggled, and every breath came as a rasping, desperate gasp.
“What the hell?” he choked out, clawing at the wrist that held him, but the grip was unyielding, crushing, a steel vice.
“Who are you?” Batman growled, low and cold, the sound scraping the alley like a blade across stone.
Jason could only stare at him through the dark visor, heart hammering in his chest, mind spinning. Every instinct screamed that this was wrong, that this was not the man they knew.
The figure’s eyes, visible just enough behind the cowl, glimmered with a fire that neither brother had ever seen on their mentor. A fire that promised nothing but violence.
The alley seemed smaller now, walls pressing in, shadows twisting with menace, and both brothers realized in that moment that they were facing something they had never trained for, something far beyond even Gotham’s normal darkness.
Batman’s grip tightened, knuckles white against the reinforced armor of Jason’s chest. “Answer me.”
Jason, being Jason, couldn’t resist. “Kinda hard to talk when you’re choking me.”
That earned him a low, menacing snarl.
He was thrown across the alley, crashing into a dumpster hard enough to make it rattle and send a cloud of rusted debris into the damp air. Jason coughed, tasting metal and wet trash.
Dick groaned, pressing one hand to his jaw as he pushed himself up from the crates he’d hit earlier. “Hood, maybe don’t antagonize the guy trying to kill us.”
The first strike came fast, a blur of black and red. Dick barely caught it with one escrima stick, sparks showering as metal collided with armor. The second knife flashed from below, slicing upward, and he twisted back just in time, feeling the edge scrape against reinforced plating rather than skin.
Jason jumped in, swinging a kick that Batman caught with ease before shoving him backward. “Guess that’s a no on talking it out,” he muttered through gritted teeth.
Batman reached into his belt and drew two knives, real ones, gleaming under the weak glow of the alley lights. Not tranquilizers. Not batarangs. Blades meant to kill.
Dick’s stomach dropped.
Jason staggered upright beside him, fists clenched. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
The first strike came again, fast and precise. Dick blocked it with one escrima stick, sparks flying as the blades collided with a sharp ringing clang. He twisted to counter, but the second knife came from below, slashing with lightning speed. He barely pulled back, feeling the cold metal graze the edge of his armor.
Jason fired two warning shots into the pavement. “Back off!”
Batman didn’t flinch. In the next instant, he was on Jason, wrenching the gun from his hand and slamming him to the ground. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, forcing a gasp. He rolled instinctively, narrowly avoiding a downward stab that drove the knife deep into the concrete where his head had been moments before.
Jason grunted, scrambling upright, but Bruce’s boot caught him in the ribs, sending him skidding across the alley like a ragdoll.
Batman spun, cape flaring like a living shadow, and threw one of the knives. Dick ducked just in time, feeling the rush of air as it sliced past his ear and embedded itself into a wall with a sharp thunk.
“Dick!” Jason yelled, but Bruce was already back on him, movements flawless and relentless. Every strike was precise, trained to incapacitate, disable, destroy.
Jason slammed his forearm plate against a swinging blade, grimacing at the force. “You really, really need therapy!”
Batman’s response was a hard punch to Jason’s helmet that rattled his skull, sending sparks of pain through his jaw and neck. The world tilted for a heartbeat, and the clang of impact echoed off the alley walls.
“Hood!” Dick yelled, darting forward, kicking the knife out of Bruce’s hand with precision. He landed a solid hit to Bruce’s jaw, but before he could follow up, he was grabbed by the throat and slammed against the wall. The bricks bit into his back and shoulders, leaving him gasping for air, vision blurring around the edges.
“B, please,” he wheezed, struggling to stay upright.
Bruce’s voice was colder now, each word clipped and sharp, scraping through the air. “You shouldn’t wear that symbol.”
Jason dragged himself to his knees, every muscle screaming in protest, sweat and blood mingling beneath his armor. “I earned it,” he spat through gritted teeth.
That was all it took.
Bruce turned on him like a predator, tackling Jason hard enough that both of them slammed into the far wall. Jason flailed, throwing punches, trying to find purchase, but Bruce moved with terrifying precision, each strike calculated to incapacitate. Every dodge Jason tried was anticipated; every swing met resistance.
A knife flashed again. Dick barely managed to deflect it with one of his escrima sticks, sparks showering around him. “Stop! Just stop!” he shouted, voice strained with exertion and fear.
But Bruce did not stop.
He caught Dick mid-swing, twisting his arm behind his back, forcing him to the ground with a sickening thud that reverberated through the alley. Jason lunged for his gun, desperation fueling his movements, but Bruce was faster, faster than any human should be. He swept Jason’s legs out from under him, grabbed him by the collar, and slammed him down beside his brother.
“Enough,” Bruce growled, the word rolling through his chest like thunder, vibrating against the pavement and walls.
Jason groaned, trying to push up, vision swimming with dizziness and pain.
Bruce raised his fist, slow and deliberate, the shadow of it stretching over them both. “Sleep.”
The blow landed with a resounding crack, force driving through Jason’s chest and skull. Pain exploded, hot and white, and then everything went dark.
—
The world came back in fragments.
A faint hum. The slow drip of water. The ache blooming behind Jason’s eyes.
He groaned, blinking against the dark. It wasn’t pitch black, but close, the kind of dim where the edges of everything blur and shapes melt into shadow. A few weak lights glowed overhead, pale and cold, their glow barely reaching the stone walls that seemed to breathe in the dark.
His head throbbed with a dull, pulsing pain that spread behind his eyes. He tried to move and felt the sharp tug of something rough binding his wrists behind the chair. Metal bit into his skin. When he flexed, the sound of the cuffs scraping against each other cut through the silence like a whisper of warning.
Jason lifted his gaze, and the sight that met him made his stomach twist. It was the Batcave, or something that should have been.
The place looked hollowed out and stripped to its skeleton. The vast computer rig was gone, replaced by a single flickering monitor that buzzed faintly. Its light was weak and uneven. The platforms and railings were missing, leaving open gaps of exposed rock and fractured concrete. The waterfall still poured somewhere deeper in the cave, but the sound was different now. Empty. Like it was echoing through a tomb.
The glass cases were gone. No suits. No trophies. No trace of the life that had once filled this place. Only darkness, and the damp smell of stone and old air. Jason tugged at the cuffs again, his jaw tight. A low groan came from his left.
“Dick,” he muttered, twisting in his seat.
Dick was slumped in a chair a few feet away, head bowed, wrists tied behind him. His mask was still in place, but there was a thin smear of blood trailing down from his jaw to his collar.
“Dick. Wake up.”
Dick stirred, blinking blearily. “Jay?” His voice was rough, half-lost in the rasp of his throat. “What? where are we?”
Jason looked around again, jaw set. “The cave. I think.”
Dick frowned, squinting into the shadows. “It’s smaller. Colder.”
“Yeah,” Jason said quietly. “Doesn’t feel like home.”
Silence settled between them, thick and heavy. Every noise seemed amplified. The drip of water. The faint hum of the old generator. The hollow echo of their breathing.
Then came the footsteps. Each one hit the stone like the heartbeat of something ancient and angry.
Dick tensed beside him, the muscles in his shoulders tightening. “Jay.”
“I hear him.”
Batman emerged from the darkness, his silhouette sharp and imposing beneath the weak light. His gaze flicked toward them, just long enough to confirm they were still restrained, before turning away.
He moved to the flickering monitor and brought up a grainy video feed. The footage showed the two of them tumbling out of a burst of white light, crashing hard onto the floor. Batman rewound it once, then again, watching in silence.
A low hum escaped him, one of those quiet sounds that could mean a hundred things and none of them good.
Finally, he turned back to face them, “Different dimension, I’m guessing?”
Batman didn’t move right away. His eyes stayed on them, cold and assessing. The monitor behind him buzzed in the dark, throwing thin lines of light across the cave’s rough walls.
Jason shifted, the cuffs biting deeper into his wrists. The silence was starting to grate.
“So,” he muttered, “you’re just going to stare at us all night?”
Batman turned his head slightly, studying him. The movement was slow, deliberate, and familiar in a way that made Jason’s stomach twist. The stance, the quiet control, the precision, all of it was Bruce. But everything else was wrong. The air around this one was colder, emptier, like the warmth had been scraped out of him.
“I don’t know who you are,” Batman said, voice low and measured. “But you know my name.”
Dick straightened in his chair, tired but determined. “I know this sounds insane, but we’re your kids. From the another world.”
Batman’s jaw flexed, but his tone didn’t change. “I don’t have children.”
The words came out without hesitation. “I never wanted them,” he added.
The echo of it hit Dick harder than he expected. The Bruce he knew would never have said that. Bruce, the one who carried too much guilt to ever admit how much he cared, still made space in his life for them. He had loved them all, in his own guarded way. Hearing that same voice say the opposite was like being punched somewhere deep inside.
Jason let out a low, bitter laugh. “Guess that explains why this place feels so dead.”
“Jay,” Dick warned softly, but there wasn’t much strength behind it.
Batman’s eyes flicked between them, unmoved. “If you came here to manipulate me, it won’t work. I don’t fall for sentimental tricks.”
“Tricks?” Jason scoffed. “You think we made this up? You think we want to be tied up in whatever version of your funhouse this is?”
Bruce stepped closer. His cape barely brushed the ground, the movement controlled, almost silent. “You expect me to believe there’s a world where I took responsibility for people like you. That I invited strangers into my life?”
Dick met his gaze, steady despite the exhaustion in his voice. “You did. You didn’t plan it, but it happened anyway. You saved me. You took Jason in. You built something real. A family.”
Batman’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes hardened. “Family is a liability. It gives enemies leverage. It slows you down. I don’t make those kinds of mistakes.”
Jason’s jaw clenched. “You’re not him. Our Bruce is a man who’d walk through hell to protect his kids.”
Dick shot him a glance, but this time he didn’t tell him to stop. Because part of him agreed. The difference between the man in front of them and the one they knew was more than just circumstance.
Their Bruce had built a home out of chaos. This one had built a fortress out of fear.
Batman’s silence stretched long enough to make the cave feel even colder. The drip of water echoed somewhere far off, steady and hollow.
Finally, he spoke. “If that’s true, then you’re saying there’s a version of me who let himself care. Who let himself be weak.”
“Who let himself be human,” Dick said quietly.
Bruce’s expression didn’t soften. “Then he’s a fool.”
Batman turned around, “Though if he cares so much for you, he’ll come. Do you know how long till then?”
The boys look at each other to see if the other has an answer, Finally Dick spoke, "Protocol is 24 hours maybe 48 max. I'm sure another League member saw us get hit so I'm sure they are already searching.”
Bruce nods and moves to untie them, “you’ll stay with me until he arrives, I don't need either of you causing more havoc then you already have. I don't need a rumor that I work with others floating around.
Jason opened his mouth to argue, but thought better of it. Dick simply nodded, still processing the cave and the man before them.
Bruce gestured for them to follow. They ascended the narrow, winding path toward the surface, leaving the hollowed Batcave behind. When they reached the manor, it hit them immediately. Dust lay thick over every surface. Most of the rooms were boarded up or deserted, shadows pooling in corners.
Jason’s eyes widened. “This is the manor?”
Dick frowned, looking around in disbelief. “It’s abandoned.”
Bruce walked past them, boots echoing on the worn floor. “I don’t care about preserving it. It's a shelter, not a museum.”
Dick took in the dust-covered furniture and the peeling wallpaper. “Where’s Alfred? He’s the one who would usually make sure this place, you know, stays intact.”
Bruce’s expression darkened, hardening at the mention of the name. “Alfred left when I was sixteen. Went back to his daughter. I didn’t ask him to stay, so he never returned.”
The weight of it pressed down on them. No Alfred enforcing rules, no quiet presence keeping the house in order. No gentle reminders of what it meant to be a family.
Jason muttered, “Of course that's why you're such an ass.”
He suddenly got an elbow in the ribs from his older brother because of the comment.”
"Seriously, Dick?" Jason hissed, rubbing his side. "You're defending the guy who tried to kill us thirty minutes ago?"
Dick didn't look at him. His gaze was fixed on a dark, unlit portrait of a severe-looking man above a dusty fireplace, which, even in the gloom, looked suspiciously like Thomas Wayne. "I'm not defending him, I'm trying to survive him. And if you keep calling him an ass, we'll be back in those cuffs."
Bruce continued walking, apparently unbothered by their exchange, or simply choosing to ignore it. He led them into a sparse, utilitarian room that seemed to be the only one actively used. It had a small cot, a portable metal desk with a laptop, and a few stacks of ration tins.
"You'll wait here," Bruce said, his voice a low command. He gestured to the cot. "Don't touch anything." He said as he left the room.
Jason immediately walked over to the desk. "Right, 'don't touch anything.' Not my style."
Dick sighed, already running a hand over his face. "Jason, don't."
Jason picked up a small, unadorned metal device from the desk, a kind of sonic emitter and turned it over in his hand. It felt cold, heavy, and purely functional. "See, this is what I mean. Our B has a shark repellent spray. This guy has... a sonic emitter? Where's the flair? Where's the ridiculous, over-the-top, classic Bruce weirdness?"
Jason set down the device, "Did Alfred really make this big of an impact on his life? And also what about us? Where are we in this universe? This Batman is definitely old enough to have all of us by now.”
Dick pushed off the wall and walked towards him, his eyes scanning the empty hallway outside the door. "Alfred was the foundation, Jay. The house rules, the cookies, the constant reminder that he wasn't just a symbol, he was a man who had to come home. Without that anchor, without that guilt-tripping voice reminding him to eat and sleep, this is what you get, a fortress, not a home."
He looked around the barren room. "If he said he never wanted children, then there's no Robin. Never was an orphaned circus kid clinging to his utility belt.”
"So, this guy," Jason waved a hand dismissively at the door, "is the optimal Batman. Efficient. Detached. Alone."
"The most logical conclusion," Dick agreed, a grim expression settling on his face. "This is the Bruce Wayne who never allowed himself to be loved, never allowed himself to be hurt that way again."
The sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate, interrupted them. They both froze, dropping their conversation instantly. The door didn't open immediately, but the low, almost imperceptible sound of a sigh could be heard from the other side. A deep, worn sound that spoke of decades of exhaustion.
When Batman entered, he wasn't carrying tactical gear or weapons. He held a small, insulated container and a bottle of water. He placed them on the desk.
He didn't look at the rations, but he looked at them.
"When Alfred left," Bruce said, his voice flat, emotionless, "the mission became everything. There was no 'home' to return to. Only the headquarters." He paused, and when he spoke again, the words were cold, rehearsed. "His absence confirmed a fundamental truth. Attachment is a weakness."
"He didn't think of me as his child," Bruce stated, the words coming out sharp and precise, a fact filed away decades ago. "He was my father's employee. A butler. He performed his duties to the letter and when his duties ended, he left. And I respected that. I understood the boundary." The way he spoke the word respected was detached, clinical. It didn't mask the deep, sterile wound.
"And these 'children,'" Bruce continued, the word tasting foreign on his tongue. "You are saying that the Bruce Wayne of your reality allowed himself to be encumbered by others."
"Encumbered?" Jason let out a soft, dry laugh. "No. Defined. We are the living proof that he didn't break. That he found a way to take all that darkness and use it to protect others."
Bruce leaned against the wall, his gaze focusing on them with an unnerving clarity.
"I cannot imagine it," he said, his voice low and heavy. "Allowing yourself to feel that responsibility. That vulnerability. If I had children, I would only hurt them. I would make them targets. I would teach them only how to fight, and I would wait, every night, for the sound of their death."
He didn't move, but the sheer weight of his conviction pressed down on them.
"I could not endure that failure," he finished. "I cannot love them. It is illogical."
The words sat heavy in the air. Jason picked at a fraying thread on pants, his jaw tight. It hurt, knowing this version of their mentor saw them as a logical error, a vulnerability too great to risk. Yet, the sharp pain was quickly eclipsed by a surge of grateful relief for their own reality.
Their Bruce was messy. He was distant. He made them furious with his controlling nature. But he loved them. He came back for them. He fought for them. Suddenly, all the small, irritating issues with their actual Bruce seemed insignificant.
Dick looked at the ceiling, then back at Bruce, "You talk about not having children, but what about the one you couldn't control? Your biological son."
Bruce froze. It was a complete, instantaneous stop that spoke of a deep disturbance. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"A what?" Bruce growled, his voice dangerously low.
"Damian," Dick supplied, his eyes steady despite the sudden spike of hostility from their captive. "Talia al Ghul's son. Yours."
The armored figure pushed off the wall and advanced slowly, his presence filling the small space with threat.
"Why should I care about a child," Bruce hissed, the word child laced with contempt, "who came from one of my weakest moments?"
He stopped a few feet from Dick's chair. His voice dropped to a cold, venomous whisper. "Tied down. Drugged. Assaulted. That was not a connection. That was a violation. That 'son' is a remnant of an attack on my mind and my will. If that child exists here, he is a liability to be contained, not a person to be cherished."
The fury in his eyes was blinding, a pure, white-hot rejection. It was the anger of a man who viewed any compromise of his control as an unforgivable sin. The idea that a life could spring from such a loss of autonomy was clearly intolerable to him.
"You should be grateful I didn't know of his existence," Bruce finished, his breathing deep and ragged beneath the cowl, then left the room, slamming the door.
The silence that followed was heavy and cold, thick with the poisonous rejection Bruce had just unleashed.
"He...he views Damian as a piece of evidence," Dick whispered, pacing the small room. "Not a person. Just a violation."
"Yeah," Jason muttered, running a hand over his helmet. "Our issues with him seem pretty small right now, don't they? At least our B is a hypocrite who loves us, instead of a monster who just controls."
Dick nodded slowly, looking at Jason with a shared, uncomfortable understanding. The relief that their own father was not this emotionally sterile machine was immense, overriding all their current frustrations.
Before either of them could say another word, a different sound came from the hallway. Not the heavy, measured tread of the Batman who just left, but a quick, familiar double-knock on the wood of the door.
Then, the door opened. Standing in the doorway was their Batman. Their dad.
His cowl was pushed back, revealing a face etched with exhaustion and worry. The suit he wore had the deep charcoal gray they knew, not the black armor, and the bat symbol across his chest was the soft yellow oval of their universe. He looked rumpled, a little sweaty, and entirely relieved.
He took in the sight of them, standing unharmed in the sparse room, and the tension in his shoulders seemed to snap. His eyes, usually guarded, were open and bright with immediate concern.
"Nightwing. Hood," he breathed out, the names laced with genuine emotion. "Thank God."
He immediately rushed toward them. "Are you hurt?" he demanded, his voice low and urgent, but trembling slightly. "The magic user hit you with something dimensional. The League has been scrambling to find you. I found the energy signature an hour ago, but it took time to lock the coordinates."
Dick didn't hesitate, launching himself forward and into his father's arms.
Bruce held him tight, one hand gripping the back of Dick's neck. "I'm so glad you're okay," he mumbled into his son's shoulder, the worry clear in the rasp of his voice.
He released Dick and immediately turned to Jason.
Jason usually resisted this. He was Red Hood. He had boundaries. But after the chilling conversation with the other Bruce, seeing this man's face, bruised and weary but openly relieved, broke down his defenses. The sight of his own world's Bruce Wayne, his father, meant sanity, meant love.
Before Bruce could speak, Jason stepped into his space.
Bruce’s arms immediately wrapped around him, pulling him close in a fierce, protective squeeze. "Jay," he sighed, the relief in his tone overwhelming. "I was terrified."
Jason let out a shaky breath, burying his face in his father's shoulder. He didn't say anything, but for the first time since landing in this broken world, he felt solid ground. He realized that the messy, imperfect, guilt-ridden love of their Bruce was the most precious thing they had.
"We're fine, B," Jason murmured into the familiar Kevlar. "Just, really glad to see you."
When they finally pulled apart Bruce smiled at the boys, “How about we go home? Alfred was stress baking while you were gone so im sure there will be plenty of treats at the manor.”
The boys returned their fathers smile, “Literally nothing sounds better at the moment.”