Archive of Our Own ^beta

The explosion was bright, green, and deeply magical.

Tim barely had time to shout “Wait—!” before the artefact pulsed, cracked, and shattered in a burst of light that knocked all of them backwards.

When the smoke cleared, there was no blood. No injuries.

Just silence.

And then a very tiny, very high-pitched voice said, “Uh-oh.”

Jason groaned from the ground, one hand over his face. “If that’s Grayson, I’m walking into traffic.”

Tim pulled himself up, coughing once and waving the dust from his face. “Please tell me that wasn’t—”

He stopped.

In front of them, standing amid the rubble, were two toddlers.

One had a shock of black hair that curled just slightly at the ends, bright blue eyes, and a smile that could only be described as pure chaos. He was wearing what had once been a Nightwing suit, now hilariously oversized and dragging like a cape behind him.

The other was smaller, sharper, and already glaring like he wanted to bite someone. His League tunic had shrunk with him, unfortunately, and he held a tiny wooden sword that had clearly been a table leg two seconds ago.

“Oh my god,” Tim whispered. “It is them.”

“Tell me that’s not mini Grayson and baby demon.”

Tiny Dick looked up at them, eyes wide. “Jason?” he chirped.

Jason stared at him.

Dick broke into a huge grin and immediately ran toward him, tripping twice on the hem of his own shirt and launching himself into Jason’s legs with all the force of a clingy toddler missile.

Jason blinked. “What the—nope. I don’t do this. I don’t do tiny people.”

Tim stepped forward cautiously. “Dick? Can you tell me how old you are?”

Dick held up four fingers.

Next to him, Damian rolled his eyes. “Todd, he cannot count. He is three,” he muttered.

Jason squinted. “Did… did he still call me ‘Todd’ at that age?”

“No,” Tim said, stunned. “That was affectionate.”

Dick giggled and clung harder.

Jason looked like he was about to combust.

“You’re absolutely sure this isn’t a clone situation?” Bruce asked, pacing like the floor personally offended him.

“No DNA anomalies,” Tim said. “No duplicated cells. Zatanna confirmed it’s a magical reversion. Their bodies and minds have been rewound. They’re biologically children.”

“Perfect,” Jason muttered, deadpan. “Can’t wait for the murder baby to learn how to murder again.”

Alfred entered the room with two small cups of juice and the kind of serene calm only someone who’d raised Bruce Wayne could fake.

“I believe Master Richard and Master Damian have bonded with you two,” he said, placing one cup into Tim’s hand and the other into Jason’s.

Jason stared at the cartoon shark on his sippy cup. “What?”

Bruce turned to them with his best CEO-in-crisis face. “We’re doing everything we can to get Zatanna back here immediately. But until she can reverse this—”

“No,” Jason said flatly. “Absolutely not.”

“You want me to babysit this?” He pointed at Damian, who was currently in the corner attempting to sharpen a crayon against the wall.

Tim raised his hand. “Counterpoint—he already likes Jason. Sort of. I think he sees him as a fellow agent of chaos.”

Jason narrowed his eyes. “You’re volunteering me because he doesn’t like you, aren’t you?”

“He tried to throw a chair at me earlier.”

“…Respect.”

Bruce sighed. “Tim. Jason. You’re the only two they’re responding to. Please. Just keep them alive. Keep them safe.”

Jason looked at Tim. Tim looked at Jason.

Then Jason muttered, “If I end up emotionally attached to these goblins, I’m blaming you.”

Jason had Damian in a headlock. Tim had Dick on his shoulders like a koala.

Damian kicked Jason in the ribs, yelled “UNHAND ME, KNAVE!” and threw a sippy cup at Dick, who retaliated by blowing a raspberry and dumping goldfish crackers in his own hair.

“I take it back,” Jason grunted. “Clones would’ve been easier.”

Tim sighed. “This is our life now.”

Jason looked over at him—and despite the bruises, the crumbs, the juice stains on both of them—Tim was smiling. Just a little.

Jason blinked.

Tim caught him looking and raised a brow. “What?”

“Nothing,” Jason muttered. “Just… figuring out how the hell we survive this.”

Tim looked down at Dick, now softly humming the Teen Titans theme into his ear. Then he looked at Damian, currently headbutting Jason’s shoulder in protest of bedtime.

He smiled again. “Together?”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Unfortunately.”

“Divide and conquer,” Jason muttered, watching toddler Damian sharpen a pretzel stick on the coffee table. “And by that I mean, you take one, I take the other, and maybe we survive.”

“I volunteer for Dick,” Tim said instantly.

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Not even pretending to be fair.”

“Damian already bit me once. I’m not eager for a sequel.”

“That was a warning nibble,” Damian growled. “You attempted to take my blade.”

“That was a spoon.”

“It was pointed.”

Jason sighed and crouched beside the tiny assassin. “Alright, mini murder machine. You’re with me.”

Damian stared at him. “If you treat me like a child—”

“You are a child.”

“I will end you in your sleep.”

Jason grinned. “There’s the little nightmare I know and tolerate.”

Tim hadn’t carried anyone on his back in years, but Dick had leapt into his arms the second Jason took Damian, and now refused to detach.

“I’m part of you now,” he announced from Tim’s shoulder. “You’re soft and smell like library.”

“That’s… deeply concerning.”

“Do you have cookies?”

“No.”

Dick gasped. “Why not?!”

“I wasn’t expecting to get hit with a de-ageing spell today, okay?”

Tim gently lowered Dick onto the couch, where he immediately began trying to somersault over the cushions.

“Dick,” Tim said warningly. “No flips inside.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll break something.”

Dick grinned. “Like what?”

“Like you.”

“…Cool.”

Tim facepalmed.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Jason watched Damian reject every snack offered like he was on a royal tasting panel.

“Graham crackers?” Jason asked.

“No.”

“Apple slices.”

“They’re wet.”

“…Cheese stick?”

“I’m not a peasant.”

Jason leaned on the counter. “You ate bugs in the desert, kid.”

“That was tactical.”

Jason pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay, no food. You wanna colour?”

“I only draw tactical schematics.”

“Sure. Great. Here.” Jason handed him a pencil and a pad.

Damian immediately began sketching what looked suspiciously like a trebuchet.

Jason nodded. “Yup. Therapy’s gonna be fun for you later.”

Ten minutes later, Dick was covered in marker ink and singing off-key, Damian was trying to launch grapes from a spoon, Tim looked like he was solving quantum equations with his brain, and Jason had grape juice on his shirt and murder in his eyes.

They passed each other in the hallway like exhausted interns on their third night shift.

Tim raised a hand in silent greeting.

Jason mirrored it.

“You holding up?” Tim asked, one eye twitching.

“He called me a ‘lesser Bat’ and declared war over the TV remote.”

“Dick tried to convince me he was legally allowed to drive.”

Jason snorted.

They stood there for a second longer—sweaty, stained, and barely hanging on.

Then Jason said, “You want to trade for twenty minutes?”

Tim blinked. “Seriously?”

Jason shrugged. “You look like you need a nap. Or a drink. Or possibly divine intervention.”

Tim smiled weakly. “I’ll take the demon for a bit.”

Jason passed him Damian like a tired soldier handing off a live grenade.

“Good luck.”

They reconvened in the living room after both boys passed out, one in a pile of couch cushions (Dick) and the other inside a makeshift cardboard tank (Damian).

Jason sat on the floor, leaning back against the couch. Tim flopped beside him, head falling back with a sigh.

“You know what’s weird?” Jason said after a long pause.

Tim cracked an eye open. “You mean besides all of this?”

“You’re good at this.”

Tim blinked. “You are, too.”

Jason looked away. “Didn’t think I would be. Thought I’d screw it up.”

“You didn’t.”

“Neither did you.”

Tim let out a quiet breath. “That’s a first.”

Jason glanced over. “Yeah?”

Tim didn’t look at him. Just said, “No one ever taught me how to do this. How to take care of people. I just… remember what it felt like not to be taken care of.”

Jason stared at him.

“…Same.”

They sat in the quiet, the only sounds the soft snores of their tiny brothers, the flicker of the TV left on low, and something unspoken shifting between them.

It started, as most disasters did in Wayne Manor, with a suspicious silence.

Tim was in the study reviewing mission reports, feeling almost relaxed. The toddlers were… somewhere. Jason had eyes on them. Probably.

Until Tim heard Jason shout:

“OH HELL NO!”

Tim sprinted toward the voice.

He found Jason in the hallway, holding up a familiar white wall canvas now covered in looping purple scribbles.

Crayon scribbles.

Giant. Chaotic. Very deliberate.

At the end of the hall, Damian was crouched behind a decorative plant with the remaining crayons clutched in his fist like a bundle of tiny knives.

“I was improving the space,” Damian growled. “This hallway lacked dominance.”

Jason turned slowly. “He drew a sword fight between himself and a T-Rex. On the wall.”

Tim blinked. “Was he winning?”

“Obviously,” Damian muttered.

Jason held up the drawing. “With blood, Tim. Red crayon blood.”

Tim made a sound like he was choking on a laugh.

“I need everyone’s crayons,” Jason said, walking into the living room like a warden on lockdown.

Dick immediately froze mid-colour.

He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, tongue sticking out in concentration, drawing a very uneven Batmobile.

“Why?” he asked, wide-eyed.

“Because your brother just Picasso’d a murder scene on the hallway wall.”

Dick’s mouth formed a perfect O. Then he slowly, dramatically, covered his drawing with his whole body.

“Noooooo…”

Tim crouched beside him. “We’re not banning crayons forever, just until the war crimes stop.”

Dick blinked. “What’s a war crime?”

Jason from the hallway: “DAMI-AN.”

Dick winced. “Oh.”

With their art supplies confiscated and their chaos energy at maximum capacity, the toddlers pivoted to warfare.

Dick turned the living room into a fortress made of couch cushions and couch rules. Damian countered with a highly structured pillow-based defence system under the dining table, complete with cardboard traps and a single smoke bomb he somehow smuggled from the Batcave.

“This is your fault,” Tim whispered as they surveyed the battle lines from the hallway.

“My fault?” Jason hissed. “You gave them snacks after 3 p.m. You broke the cardinal rule.”

“You let Damian watch Braveheart.”

Jason winced. “Okay, maybe that one’s on me.”

Suddenly, Dick popped up from behind the couch like a whack-a-mole, screamed, “FREEDOM!” and launched a plastic batarang that hit Tim in the forehead.

Jason wheezed.

Tim narrowed his eyes. “We have to end this.”

Jason ducked into the kitchen while Tim distracted the boys with fake surrender signals.

He emerged five minutes later with a plate of marshmallow-topped apple slices, two superhero juice boxes and white flag drawn on a napkin that said “TRUCE?” in Tim’s handwriting

Together, they approached the war zone.

“Grayson. Wayne,” Jason announced. “We bring gifts.”

Dick peeked out first, followed by Damian, who narrowed his eyes like a general considering terms of peace.

Tim knelt and held up the tray. “We only ask for a ceasefire and your complete disarmament.”

“Counteroffer,” Damian said. “Full immunity for past crimes and five additional minutes of screen time.”

Jason crossed his arms. “Two minutes and we don’t tell Bruce you tried to build a catapult with my grappling hook.”

“…Deal.”

Once the boys were placated with snacks and parked in front of the TV, Tim and Jason collapsed on opposite ends of the couch like survivors of a long war.

Jason groaned. “If I ever have kids, remind me never to let them team up.”

Tim rubbed his eyes. “If I ever have kids, remind me to baby-proof the entire planet.”

They sat there in silence, breathing in the aftermath of toddler warfare.

Then Jason said, without looking over, “We’re kinda terrifying together.”

Tim blinked. “How so?”

“You think two steps ahead, and I just tackle the problem. It works. Weirdly well.”

Tim smiled, small and tired. “We’re both trained to spot danger.”

Jason glanced over, eyes soft. “Yeah. And somehow, we didn’t treat them like danger.”

Tim didn’t answer right away.

But he reached over, and nudged Jason’s leg gently with his foot.

“I think we might be okay at this,” Tim said.

Jason’s voice was quiet. “Yeah. Me too.”

The manor was finally quiet.

The kind of quiet that only came after battle—sticky fingers washed, blankets tucked, stories read, and two chaotic toddlers passed out in their makeshift nests of couch cushions and stolen plushies.

Tim didn’t sleep.

He lay on the floor in the living room with one arm under his head and his body angled just enough so he could still see Dick. The little guy was curled into a tight ball beneath his Nightwing-patterned blanket, one thumb stuck in his mouth, the other hand clutching Tim’s sleeve.

Jason had gone upstairs to crash for an hour. Damian was passed out in a box. Literally—a linen box from Alfred’s closet. Jason had found him there with a juice box in hand, declared it "fine," and draped a throw blanket over the top like a lid.

Tim had laughed.

Now, he felt too still.

The old weight was creeping back in—the one that told him if you don’t stay awake, something bad will happen.

That was how it had always been.

As a kid, the silence of the house meant his parents were out. Or away. Or had simply forgotten again.

No doors opened. No voices called his name. No one came to tuck him in, even after he’d made dinner himself. Even after he’d left a light on in the hallway. Just in case.

Tim blinked at the ceiling and tried not to count the cracks in the plaster.

A soft cry pulled him out of the fog.

“Tim…?”

It was quiet. Muffled. Frantic.

Dick was sitting up now, eyes glassy and rimmed with tears. His breathing was short, fast, the kind of panic that didn’t always come with words. The kind Tim knew intimately.

“I’m here,” Tim said quickly, scooting over and wrapping an arm around him.

Dick clung to him immediately, fists tight in Tim’s t-shirt.

“Bad dream,” he whispered.

“I know. You’re okay.”

Dick sniffled and pressed his face into Tim’s chest.

“I was falling. And no one caught me.”

Tim shut his eyes. Swallowed hard.

“You’re not falling,” he said. “You’re here. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

His fingers carded gently through Dick’s hair, slow and steady. He rocked slightly, instinctively, like he’d seen Alfred do once when Bruce came back broken after a mission.

And he stayed there—because no one had stayed for him.

Jason found them like that twenty minutes later.

He was halfway down the stairs when he caught sight of Tim’s silhouette in the flickering TV light—seated on the floor, arms full of a quietly dozing toddler, one hand stroking Dick’s hair, the other curled protectively over his back.

Jason didn’t speak at first.

Just watched.

Tim looked so still, but not empty. Not quite. More like… fragile. Like if someone reached out, the surface might crack.

Jason stepped quietly into the room and crouched beside him.

“You okay?”

Tim blinked. “Yeah.”

“You’re not.”

Tim hesitated. Then, softly, “I just didn’t want him to wake up alone.”

Jason watched him for a long moment.

Then he sat down fully, legs stretched out in front of him, shoulder brushing Tim’s.

“My old man used to leave me alone when he passed out drunk,” Jason said after a pause. “I used to sit by the door and wait for the doorknob to turn. Even if it meant yelling. Even if it meant he came home mad. At least I’d know I wasn’t invisible.”

Tim’s breath hitched, just barely.

“I used to leave my light on,” he murmured. “Just in case someone came home. Just in case someone remembered.”

Jason turned his head. “No one ever came, huh?”

Tim shook his head.

Jason looked down at Dick, now fast asleep between them.

Then he whispered, “We don’t let that happen now. Not on our watch.”

Tim didn’t respond with words.

But after a moment, he leaned—barely—but enough that their shoulders touched again. And neither of them pulled away.

Tim was not a morning person.

He could function in the mornings—barely—but that was thanks to years of conditioning, coffee, and more trauma than any one human should reasonably endure before 9 a.m.

So when he woke to a small body standing on his chest yelling “WAKE UP IT’S PANCAKE DAY!” in Dick Grayson’s high-pitched morning voice, he accepted his fate with the dead-eyed resignation of a soldier in a trench.

Jason, on the other hand, woke up because Damian threw a pillow at his head and declared, “I demand waffles shaped like katanas or I will scream.”

Jason responded by launching the pillow back at him and muttering, “Cool. I’ll scream first.”

The kitchen was a warzone before they even found the griddle.

Dick bounced between the fridge and counter like a sugar-fueled pinball, dragging pancake mix, milk, eggs, and chocolate chips behind him.

Damian sat atop a stool like a tiny, scowling king, arms crossed, watching the proceedings with open contempt.

“You’ve cracked that egg wrong,” he informed Tim.

Tim glared at him. “You’re four.”

“Three and a half,” Damian corrected, “and still more competent.”

Jason was laughing in the corner, cracking eggs one-handed like a showoff.

Tim side-eyed him. “What, you suddenly went to culinary school?”

“Worked at a diner for a summer,” Jason said. “Back when I needed to keep my head down. Made a mean short stack.”

Tim blinked. “You’re actually full of useful skills. That’s disturbing.”

“You’re welcome.”

Dick wanted Smiley-face pancakes.

Damian wanted waffle “blades” and refused syrup unless it came in a separate dipping container. (It didn’t.)

The final outcome was three slightly burnt smiley pancakes (with weirdly pointy noses), one misshapen waffle with a toothpick stuck in it like a handle, and syrup everywhere.

Everywhere.

The counter. The floor. Jason’s shirt.

Tim’s hair.

“Do not lick me,” Tim warned Dick, who was watching the syrup drip with suspicious interest.

Dick giggled. “You smell like breakfast now!”

“I always smell like misery,” Tim muttered.

Jason was no help. He was laughing so hard he dropped the spatula.

Somehow, miraculously, they made it to the table.

Jason poured more juice while Damian dissected his waffle with surgical precision. Dick hummed between bites, toes swinging under the table.

Tim sat across from Jason, leaning his chin in one hand, watching as Jason flicked syrup off his fingers and scolded Damian for “violating pancake structure.”

“You’re good at this,” Tim said quietly.

Jason looked up.

“So are you.”

Tim smiled, just a little. “I think we make a good team.”

Jason blinked. “Like... co-parenting?”

Tim didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

The image sat between them—quiet, warm, and terrifying.

When the kids were occupied—Dick distracted by rearranging blueberries into constellations and Damian deeply focused on turning his napkin into a grappling device—Jason reached across the table and nudged Tim’s knuckles with his own.

It was small. Subtle.

But Tim looked up.

Jason didn’t say anything.

Neither did Tim.

But their hands stayed close. Closer than before. Just barely touching.

And maybe that was the softest kind of promise.

After breakfast, the sugar crash hit hard.

Dick fell asleep mid-sentence while explaining the plot of Teen Titans Go, face squished into Tim’s thigh. Damian insisted he was only resting his eyes in the linen closet again—and then promptly passed out with a juice box balanced on his chest like an offering to the gods of toddler defiance.

Jason lowered the lights in the living room. Tim grabbed the softest blanket he could find and draped it over Dick, who curled up like a cat and sighed.

The TV played low. Something animated. Bright colours, happy voices, no conflict. Exactly what they all needed.

Jason flopped onto the couch with a dramatic groan.

Tim didn’t sit on the other end. He sat close—not touching, but just near enough to feel the warmth of him.

“I feel like we’ve aged thirty years,” Tim murmured.

Jason rubbed at his eyes. “My knees hurt. My back hurts. I haven’t slept in two days, and I had syrup in my ear this morning.”

“But we kept them alive.”

Jason looked over. “And... they’re happy.”

Tim’s voice was quiet. “Yeah. They are.”

For the first time in thirty-six hours, the house felt still.

Not like the brittle, heavy stillness of an empty home. Not the kind Jason remembered from late nights waiting for his dad to pass out. Not the kind Tim remembered from the long, echoing silences of a mansion that forgot he existed.

This was... soft.

It was blankets and cartoons and the sound of small breaths. It was peace that wasn’t earned with fists or gadgets. Just... being.

Jason stretched his legs out and sighed. “You know the weird part?”

Tim turned his head. “What?”

“I don’t hate it.”

Tim smiled. “Me either.”

Jason glanced over, eyes shadowed but open. “You ever imagine this?”

“Sometimes,” Tim said. “Not like this, exactly. But... something close. The quiet. The safety. Not having to be on edge all the time.”

Jason’s jaw tightened slightly. “Yeah. I used to make up stories when I was a kid. Pretend Batman would show up and take me away. Thought that was the best I could hope for.”

Tim didn’t say anything. Just reached over, slowly, and laid his hand over Jason’s where it rested on the couch.

Jason froze for half a second.

Then he turned his palm over and laced their fingers together.

A soft, sleepy voice mumbled, “Tiiiim...”

Dick blinked up at them from the blanket pile, hair sticking up like a dandelion.

Tim shifted automatically. “Hey, you okay?”

Dick nodded. “Had a weird dream. But it’s better now.”

“Want to stay here?”

Dick nodded again and crawled into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jason watched, something warm and aching behind his eyes.

“You’re good at that,” he said.

Tim looked down at the tiny body curling into him. “I just remember what it was like when no one was.”

Jason nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Damian appeared from the hallway, still scowling, blanket around his shoulders like a cloak.

He looked at Tim, then at Jason, and finally at the empty spot on the couch.

Wordlessly, he climbed up next to Jason and tucked himself under his arm.

Jason blinked down at him. “...You okay?”

“I am resting,” Damian said, voice muffled.

Jason smirked. “Yeah. Okay.”

With Dick dozing on Tim’s chest and Damian wedged against Jason’s side, they looked like a weird, tired, makeshift little family.

Tim whispered, “Do you think they’ll remember any of this?”

Jason shook his head. “Probably not.”

Tim’s fingers curled gently in Dick’s hair.

“I hope we do,” he said.

Jason’s gaze lingered on him, soft and unreadable.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”

The kids were out cold.

Dick had flopped fully onto Tim somewhere between reruns of Bluey and a debate about the ethics of bat-themed branding. Damian remained curled beside Jason, a tiny furnace of righteous exhaustion, still wrapped in his blanket like a small burrito of vengeance.

The house was still.

Tim stood slowly, shifting Dick into a pillow nest with practised care. Jason followed suit, laying Damian down on the couch and tossing a second blanket over him like it was muscle memory.

They stared at the peaceful chaos for a moment—goldfish crumbs, crayon drawings, abandoned juice boxes, a paper bat-mask that had somehow been taped to the lamp.

Then they turned to each other.

“I’ll take the living room,” Tim said.

“I’ve got the kitchen,” Jason replied.

They nodded. Split. And began to clean.

Tim gathered crayons into their box, smoothing out scribbled pages that included: a horrifyingly accurate stick-figure version of Bruce, a drawing of “Timothy” with wings and sad eyes, and something that might’ve been Jason riding a T-Rex into battle.

He stared at that last one for a beat too long.

Meanwhile, Jason stood in the kitchen running a sponge over the counter, rinsing sippy cups in the sink with a strange, steady rhythm. The mess didn’t bother him.

What got to him were the small things.

The way Damian had leaned into him while sleeping. The way Tim had held Dick like he meant it. The way this place—this weird little moment—felt more like home than anything had in years.

They reconvened at the kitchen table, collapsing into chairs like war veterans.

“You realise,” Jason said, cracking open a can of soda, “that we just pulled an all-nighter with two tiny chaos goblins and didn’t totally fail.”

Tim accepted the second soda Jason slid across the table. “I’d say we did more than not fail.”

Jason nodded slowly. “They were okay with us.”

“Yeah,” Tim murmured. “Because we were okay with them.”

A pause.

Jason stared at the table. “It’s weird, right? How easy it is. Like… we just fell into it.”

Tim gave a tired smile. “Trauma makes you hyper-capable in high-stress domestic environments, apparently.”

Jason laughed. A real one.

Tim looked at him, soft. “You were good with Damian.”

Jason shrugged. “I was a pissed off kid, too. Doesn’t take much to recognise the signs.”

“You didn’t flinch when he lashed out. You didn’t punish him. You just… saw him.”

Jason looked up. “So did you. With Dick.”

Tim’s smile faded. “I couldn’t let him feel alone. Not even once.”

Jason leaned back in his chair, watching Tim quietly.

“You know,” he said, “I thought you were cold when we first met. Too clinical. Too put together.”

Tim raised a brow. “Thanks?”

“But now I get it,” Jason added. “It’s not armour. It’s scaffolding. You’re holding everything together so nothing falls.”

Tim didn’t answer right away.

Then: “You thought I was cold. I thought you were angry.”

Jason smirked. “I was angry.”

“But now I see it,” Tim said, voice quieter. “You’re just... scared of being disposable.”

Jason stilled.

Tim held his gaze.

“And for the record,” Tim said, “you’re not.”

Jason stood. Stepped close.

Tim didn’t move.

They stood there, just inches apart in the kitchen, the air warm and buzzing. Somewhere in the other room, a cartoon jingle played softly under toddler snores.

Jason reached out. Brushed a bit of syrup out of Tim’s hair.

“You missed a spot,” he murmured.

Tim swallowed. “Thanks.”

Jason hesitated. His hand lingered.

And then, softly, he said, “This doesn’t have to end when they go back.”

Tim looked up, surprised.

Jason’s voice was lower. Vulnerable. “We’re good at this. At... being. Maybe not perfect. But not bad.”

Tim whispered, “Not bad at all.”

They didn’t kiss. Not yet.

But Jason’s hand dropped to Tim’s wrist, and Tim stepped just slightly closer.

It was almost something.

It would be.

Eventually.

The knock on the front door echoed through the Manor like divine intervention.

Tim didn’t look up from where he was carefully wrapping Dick in a blanket cocoon on the couch.

Jason was in the hallway, trying to coax Damian to eat half a banana. Damian refused on principle.

“Stop hovering,” the toddler growled. “I can hear the footsteps. The magic ones.”

Jason blinked. “How do you know they’re magic?”

Damian just sniffed and said, “You smell like insecurity.”

“Okay,” Jason muttered, “we’re doing a time-out again after this.”

Zatanna swept into the foyer in a black coat and combat boots, smelling faintly of cold air and incense, like she’d come straight from battle. Her eyes fell on the two sleeping toddlers—and then the two men who looked like they'd aged a decade in forty-eight hours.

“Let me guess,” she said. “You touched the cursed object, ignored three warning glyphs, and got hit with a backfiring time-lock enchantment.”

Jason raised a hand. “In our defence, we thought it was a paperweight.”

Tim muttered, “And we weren’t told it could age-revert humans.”

Zatanna rolled her eyes. “It’s literally called the Cradle Sigil.”

Jason blinked. “...Oh.”

She softened slightly when she looked at the boys.

“They won’t remember,” she said. “Not exactly. Maybe bits and pieces. Shadows. Emotions. But the spell resets the mind as well as the body.”

Tim’s face was unreadable. Jason’s jaw clenched.

Zatanna gave them a gentler smile. “You’ll remember for them.”

She knelt by the couch, whispered a word backwards, and tapped each boy lightly on the forehead.

Light unfurled like a ribbon—bright, gold, and clean. It shimmered through the room, brushing over toys and drawings, melting the syrup stains on the table and the goldfish crumbs in the carpet. Magic that tidied more than mess.

It cleared the slate.

When the light faded, the room held its breath.

And then—

“...Did I fall asleep?” Dick muttered, rubbing at his eyes.

Damian blinked next to him, now back in his full League attire, older and already annoyed. “Why am I holding a juice box?”

Jason stepped back. Tim didn’t move.

Dick sat up fully. “Whoa. Did you guys… grow younger?”

Jason blinked. “Do you remember anything?”

Dick tilted his head. “Just... a warm dream. I think you made pancakes.”

Jason swallowed.

Damian stood. “I dreamt I had power over the living room. And Drake cried over crayons.”

Tim choked. Jason snorted.

“Nope,” Jason said. “That was real.”

After Zatanna left—after Bruce gave an exhausted nod of thanks, and Alfred ushered the boys away for debrief and dinner—it was quiet again.

The kind of quiet that felt... empty.

Not peaceful.

Not full.

Just silence.

Tim stood in the living room, surrounded by the remains of their time: a half-crushed fort, a folded drawing of Jason riding a pterodactyl, and a plastic fork taped to the wall with the label “SWORD.”

Jason wandered in behind him.

“You okay?” he asked.

Tim nodded. But his eyes stayed on the drawing.

“They won’t remember,” he said.

Jason stepped closer. “We will.”

Tim finally looked at him. “And this? What we built in the middle of all that?”

Jason didn’t hesitate. “I remember everything.”

A long pause.

Then Tim murmured, “You said it didn’t have to end.”

Jason nodded once.

“It doesn’t.”

Later that night, Dick walked past Tim in the hallway, gave him a suspicious squint, and said, “You smell like syrup and emotional closure.”

Tim just smiled.

Damian passed Jason on the way to the training room and said, “You’re less annoying than usual.”

Jason blinked. “...Thanks?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

In the cave, Bruce reviewed the footage from the last two days and frowned.

Then he found a note tucked into the Batcomputer, scribbled in crayon:
“Jay and Tim are the best dads. Don’t be mad.”

Bruce sighed.

And maybe... smiled.

Three days after the spell broke, the house had mostly returned to normal.

Damian was back to training like he’d never fallen asleep on Jason’s chest. Dick was back to acrobatics and group chats full of emojis and unsolicited selfies.

Zatanna had declared the Cradle Sigil inert and tucked it into a vault "where no one would get cursed or de-aged or emotionally devastated by unexpected domestic bonding, thank you very much."

But Jason hadn’t stopped thinking about it.

Neither had Tim.

Tim found himself standing in the grocery store, hand hovering over a box of juice pouches he didn’t need. He’d reached for them without thinking.

He blinked at the label.

Apple-flavored.

The kind Damian had crushed against his chest and called “acceptable.”

Tim exhaled slowly and put them in the cart anyway.

At home, he found himself folding a blanket neatly over the couch and smoothing the cushions the way he had when Dick was napping there.

He caught himself humming the Teen Titans theme under his breath. He didn’t stop.

That night, when his phone buzzed and Jason’s name lit up the screen, he answered on the first ring.

“Hey,” Tim said.

“You remember that drawing?” Jason asked, voice rough with sleep. “The one of me riding a dinosaur?”

Tim smiled. “You mean the accurate portrait of your power fantasy?”

“I think I want to get it framed.”

Tim laughed, quietly. “Do it. Put it over your bed.”

Jason’s voice dipped lower. “I was thinking… your apartment.”

Tim paused. His pulse stuttered. Then—

“I’d like that.”

Jason walked past a toy store on the east side and doubled back, staring at a stuffed Nightwing doll in the display.

It looked just like the one toddler Dick had dragged around like a talisman.

He stared at it too long.

Later, when he was patching up a safehouse leak, he caught himself putting little cushions in the corner of the room—remembering the way Damian had curled up in small spaces, seeking cover. Seeking quiet.

He still had the crayon drawing. Folded, tucked into his jacket pocket.

He hadn’t told anyone he’d started keeping a toothbrush in Tim’s apartment. Not even Tim.

Yet.

Tim came by the garage on a Wednesday under the pretence of “checking his bike.”

Jason handed him a soda without asking.

“You ever think about that day?” Jason asked.

Tim glanced over. “Which one?”

Jason didn’t smile. “You know which one.”

Tim’s expression softened.

“Every day.”

Jason sat beside him on the hood of a car, close enough that their knees touched. He said nothing for a long moment.

Then: “I keep waking up expecting to hear Dick singing. Or Damian threatening me with a cereal spoon.”

Tim’s lips twitched. “I keep making enough coffee for four.”

Jason tilted his head. “Think that means anything?”

Tim leaned in, just enough. “I think it means we liked it.”

Jason looked at him—really looked at him.

“I think it means I want more.”

Tim’s breath caught.

Then he whispered, “So do I.”

Dick wandered into the living room mid-evening, holding a juice pouch.

He found Damian sitting at the table, sketching silently.

“Hey,” Dick said. “Weird question. Do you remember anything from that spell?”

Damian didn’t look up. “Flashes. Warmth. A feeling of being safe.”

Dick sat down across from him. “I keep thinking about pancakes.”

Damian’s mouth twitched. “And syrup. And... Jason. Laughing.”

Dick blinked. “He laughs?”

Damian nodded once.

“And Tim. Holding me like...” He trailed off.

Dick finished softly, “Like it mattered.”

They sat in silence for a long moment.

Then Damian said, “I think we were loved.”

Dick smiled. “Yeah. I think we still are.”

The city was quiet.

For once, Gotham didn’t scream. It whispered—just the hum of traffic, the distant flap of wings above rooftops, and the rustle of wind through old stone.

Tim stood on his balcony, coffee in hand, hoodie pulled tight around his shoulders. He wasn’t on patrol. Not tonight.

He was waiting.

He didn’t wait for people. Not usually. But Jason… Jason had become the exception to a lot of rules.

At 10:17 p.m. exactly, Jason knocked once and let himself in.

Tim turned as the door slid open.

Jason leaned against the frame with a grin so casual it had to be practised. “You always leave the door unlocked?”

Tim shrugged. “Only for emotionally reformed vigilantes.”

Jason stepped inside. No helmet. No weapons. Just him. Raw and soft around the edges.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” Tim answered.

They stood there for a second, like they had too much to say and no idea where to start.

Tim gestured to the couch. “Want to sit?”

Jason didn’t hesitate.

They both did, side by side, shoulders brushing. The TV wasn’t on. The lights were low. The coffee table still had a crayon drawing on it that neither had been able to throw away.

The one where Dick had drawn them all as a family.

Stick figures, yes—but labelled carefully: “ME,” “DAMY,” “JAY,” and “TIM.” All of them smiling. All of them holding hands.

Jason stared at it now.

“Feels like a memory from another life,” he said quietly.

Tim’s voice was softer. “I think it’s the first time I didn’t feel alone.”

Jason turned to him.

“I’m not good at this,” he said. “Relationships. Talking. Wanting things.”

Tim looked back. “Neither am I.”

Jason laughed once, low and a little sad. “We’re a mess.”

“But we’re good at this,” Tim said. “Whatever this is.”

Jason hesitated.

Then he reached into his jacket and pulled something out—a slightly crumpled crayon drawing.

The one of Jason riding a T-Rex, roaring, with “TIM” drawn on the dinosaur’s back, holding a flag that said “SAFE.”

Tim stared at it.

Jason’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I don’t want this to be just a weird memory. I want to keep it.”

Tim looked at him—really looked at him—and reached over to take his hand.

“Then stay,” Tim said. “Not just tonight. Stay in it. With me.”

Jason blinked.

And then he smiled.

“Yeah,” he said, squeezing Tim’s hand. “I can do that.”

They didn’t kiss right away.

They sat on the couch, legs tangled, sharing silence like a blanket. Eventually, Jason leaned his head on Tim’s shoulder.

Tim let him.

And when Jason whispered, “We’d make good parents,” Tim just laughed.

“God, no,” he said. “But maybe we’d make good people. Together.”

Jason closed his eyes.

“I think we already are.”

Dick found the drawing on the fridge a week later.

Stick figures again.

This time labelled: “ME,” “DAMY,” “JAY,” “TIM,” and a new one, drawn smaller in the corner: “FUTURE.”

He didn’t say anything. Just smiled.

And when Damian found him smiling and asked why, Dick simply said:

“Because some things stay, even when the magic wears off.”