Archive of Our Own ^beta

Bruce stepped through the portal, his heart pounding. Two months of agony, of searching and hypothesizing and building and failing. Eight weeks of not knowing whether Nightwing was dead or alive.

It had to have worked. Through a combination of magic and tech, built with the input of the entire Justice League, plus several magic users who owed him favors, the portal was supposed to lock onto his world’s Dick Grayson’s specific energy. It couldn’t be tricked, Zatanna had promised. It would lead him as close to Dick as possible. Dick, or his body.

That last part had been tacked on with a pointed look that he had ignored. He knew several of his friends, and even some of Dick’s, had been trying to gently prepare him for the worst, as the weeks turned into months and their hopes seemed to diminish with every dead end. Two months was a long time for someone to be in captivity, he knew the statistics as well as anyone, but he also knew Dick. There was no one more level headed and skilled in a bad situation, no one he trusted more to make it home.

Still, it was with a prickle of unease that he stepped out into the long, dark wood walled hall of Wayne Manor.

Bruce hesitated for a long moment. He had activated the portal in the Cave; what were the chances that it could have transported him several stories up? But then, on closer look, it wasn’t Wayne Manor. At least, not his version of Wayne Manor. The doors were all in the right place, but the photos on the walls were different; gone was the family portrait Dick had convinced them all to take several years ago and the art pieces that Damian had selected from the family vault. The hallway was unchanged, actually, from the way it had looked thirty years ago, down to the vase that he’d broken in fit of anger when he was 15 years old.

It was all completely unchanged from the night his parents had died, except that every door had a massive deadbolt, locked in place from the outside.

The pieces were falling into place, both about what had happened to Dick and who was behind it. Bruce went to the first room, a guest suite in his home. It didn’t look like there was anything different between it and a normal door, none of the wiring or electronic signals that would have lit up around the same door in his home. It was just…locked. From the outside.

He pulled back the deadbolt, and went inside.

Inside, the room was dark and cold. The excess furniture had been removed, leaving the heavy oak beds that had been installed by his great-grandfather and a solid table in the corner. There was no chair; the only place to sit was the floor, or on the bed. There was enough light through the uncovered window that his cowl could easily see the person-shaped lump laying down over the covers. Silently, he approached, reaching out a hand to shape them awake.

Before he could connect, his hand was batted away as the person leapt up in a flurry of motion. They were incredibly skilled, whoever they were, and Bruce was immediately put on the defensive, blocking strike after strike. Despite being a similar size and body shape, this fighter had none of the sense of grace or joy that embodied each of Dick’s movements; each hit was delivered with the precision of a machine. Bruce’s only advantage was the sheer size difference; like the rest of him, his arms were considerably longer. The hit he landed, forcing his attacker back, was only possible through sheer reach.

The figure stumbled backwards, and Bruce got a glimpse of their face; it was Dick’s handsome features, his upturned nose and perfect cupid’s bow, but in a paper-white face, yellow eyes piercing in the moonlight. His mouth was curled into a snarl. There was no hint of recognition or hesitation in his expression.

Bruce could have pressed his advantage. Instead, he turned and hurried back into the hall, letting the door slam and cutting off a strangled howl of fury behind him.

With the door closed and bolted, the hallway was as silent as it had ever been. Sound proofing, he realized as he caught his breath, far better than had ever been installed in his version of the Manor. He wasn’t going to be able to check any of the other doors before opening them. The feeling of unease intensified. He’d assumed, seeing the locks, that his version of Dick wasn’t the only prisoner; though it was unsettling, he’d thought he was prepared for versions that looked and acted different from what he knew so well.

Somehow, though, being actively attacked by one had unnerved him.

It was with far more caution that he opened the next door. This one was almost the same as the first, but the darkness was interrupted by a soft, yellow glow. There was a small elephant-shaped nightlight, plugged into the wall by the bed. The hairs on the back of Bruce’s neck rose.

“Thom’s?”

The shape that sat up from the bed was far too small. Something heavy settled into Bruce’s gut as a small face peered off the edge of the bed, the dim light illuminating a face that was supposed to live only in photos and his fondest memories. This Dick couldn’t be more than ten years old.

“Batman?”

He couldn’t resist a flinch. Dick hadn’t looked that shocked to see him in a long, long time, and the accompanying expression was heartbreaking. Where was this boy’s Batman? At that age, his Dick had never looked so surprised at rescue.

“No,” he said gruffly. “Or at least, not yours. I’m a different one. But I’m going to stop him. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

He was already turning back, determined to get this boy somewhere safe, even if it delayed his own search. Dick would understand. The portal could only be opened once more, but perhaps there was somewhere else, a hiding place—

“I can’t.” The words were a sob. Bruce froze, then turned back slowly.

Dick was attempting to paste something like a smile on his face, but his shoulders were hitching as tears streamed down his cheeks. He’d pulled back his covers to reveal a leg encased in a thick cast from thigh to toes.

“You haven’t stopped him, yet, right?” he asked, his voice gentle like he knew the blow his words would take to Bruce’s heart. “I’m no good in a fight like this. I won’t even be able to hide if he came looking. Better—better for me to stay here, until you do.”

His lips curved up, like he was trying to be reassuring, and Bruce cursed every power he could think of. He stood stock still, mind racing as he tried to think of any alternative, but the boy was right. There was no way he could keep up on a leg like that, and no way for Bruce to protect him while he was searching.

“I’ll be right back.” He forced the words out as he moved to the door. They scraped up his throat like knives.

“You promise, right?” Dick called behind him, something panicked entering that small voice. Bruce looked back at him, giving a curt nod.

“I promise.” 

He put as much as he could into the word. The tiny child nodded, his smile still in place even as he bowed his head, his thin shoulders shaking even harder as Bruce closed the door.

It felt like he had been stuck in this hallway for decades, even though it couldn’t have been more than an hour. He felt drained, like the last eight weeks were catching up with him all at once, and yet he didn’t have any time to rest. He needed to find his version of Dick. If he knew anything, it would be that Dick would have information about the situation, might even have his own escape plan. Bruce would need his help to get these other versions out of here.

Steeling himself, he opened the next door.

It was empty.

Perplexed, Bruce took a step inside. The lights were on, the window draping pulled back and the bed mussed. Had the occupant just left? Why would Owlman—it had to be him, the so called Thomas Wayne Jr, the young Dick had all but confirmed it—why would he lock an empty room?

He got his answer a second later, when a hard knee crashed into his spine, sending them both crashing to the ground. Somehow, someone had lodged themselves into the small patch of wall above the door, impossibly using the half inch of frame to keep themselves in the air. Bruce could feel a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, even as he felt his assailant pull back for a blow that would undoubtedly leave him incapacitated in some way.

“Dick.”

He could feel the person straddling him freeze. Bruce pushed himself over, rolling until he was on his back, feeling the legs over tense, rising up enough to allow the movement but not enough to lose its positioning.

There, staring down at him and haloed in the room’s center light, was Dick Grayson. Hair a little longer and dark smudges under his eyes, but it was Dick, his face more familiar to Bruce than his own. There was that small cut above his lip from a fight with Two Face, a scar in his naked shoulder from when he got shot by the Joker, even the faded burn he’d gotten from the last fight with Firefly before he’d disappeared, healed into a scar on his arm.

“Bruce?” 

His eyes were wide, his fist still raised. At any other time, Bruce probably would have probably made some kind of comment, the kind of tease that only Dick would appreciate, but that small figure in the last bedroom was still too present in his mind. Something like an apology tugged at his lips—Dick should never look like that at a rescue—but all that came out was a low, “I found you.”

“Bruce!”

The weight on his chest moved back, letting him sit up, but no sooner had he completed the motion that hands wrapped themselves around his jaw, and warm, soft lips pressed themselves to him.

Everything seemed to go silent, every thought flying from Bruce’s mind. Dick was kissing him. Dick was kissing him. This was Dick, this warm, familiar weight, settled in his lap, those strong, familiar hands against his face, those pink, plush lips that he’d seen so often, pressed against his lips—

Dick pulled back. He’s warm, so warm, his weight perfect in Bruce’s lap, his smile crooked and real. The only thing separating them, Bruce realized fuzzily, was the Batsuit and a pair of soft grey sweat pants.

It was way, way too much.

“You okay there, Bossman?” Dick asked gently, a slightly flush coloring his cheeks. “Sorry for the surprise—know how much you like those—but I couldn’t help it. I really missed you.”

His eyes were trained down like he was looking at Bruce’s lips, and a second later he was leaning forward again—the draw of those lips was electric, like the world’s strongest magnet—

Bruce caught him by the shoulders. Gently pushed him back with hands that only slightly trembled. That heavy feeling was back stronger than ever, and he could finally put a name to it; disappointment. Shame. Want.

“I’m not your Bruce,” he said, getting to his feet. “I need to find my version of Dick. But things will go much faster with your help, and we’ll be able to open a portal that will get everyone back where they belong—”

“You aren’t—Bruce!” The doppelganger sounded so much like the real thing Bruce almost flinched. Now that was a familiar sound, that mix of fond exasperation. It had been two months since he’d last heard it, and it was only now that he realized how much he ached for it.

“Come on, let’s check the next room.”

But a strong hand caught him by the arm.

“Bruce, it’s me. We’re from the same place, I know it. I’ve met the rest of them, and none of us are alike enough for you to be anyone else’s, and besides, I know you, okay? I can tell, you’re my Bruce.”

My Bruce. The words were ringing in his ears. Bruce stared past the other man, studying the far wall. He couldn’t bring himself to meet those blue, blue eyes.

“My Dick Grayson…we don’t have the kind of relationship you seem to have with your Bruce Wayne.”

Dick groaned, slapping a hand across Bruce’s chest and leaning his head against the Bat symbol. 

“Damnit, I knew that kiss was a bad idea. I told myself not to but—I’ve just been stuck in here for so—look, I know we don’t have that kind of relationship. I was hoping we could start one but this is something we can talk about at home. Because we are going back to the same universe, whether you believe it right now or not.”

Dick’s face was just inches below his own, his eyes fierce as he stared up. Bruce couldn’t stop staring at that familiar expression, that exasperated tone and the annoyed quirk that he knew so well on those beautiful lips—

“My dear, I didn’t know we had a guest.”

Bruce’s head snapped up, cursing himself for his inattention. There, in the doorway, was his so-called older brother, the man who, in another life, he’d almost kill for. His murderer, in another life, who’d already pointed a gun like the one in his hand at a Bruce Wayne and pulled the trigger.

“Thomas.” Dick’s voice was light, even though his body had gone tight with tension. His eyes flickered to Bruce’s, and he subtly shifted so more of his body was between them. 

“None of that, Richard, you come over here,” Thomas snapped, gesturing slightly with his gun. “It looks like I’m going to have to keep a much better eye on you.”

“You’re not going to shoot him,” Bruce said, when Dick didn’t move and Thomas cocked the gun. “You need him, need all of them, for something.”

Thomas shrugged, not denying nor lowing his weapon.

“It’s true. Each one is a beacon, directing my search. But I need his soul, not his legs,” he said carelessly. He didn’t even seem to be aiming, his gun held lightly in his hand, when he pulled the trigger.

There was no time to think, no chance to actually assess. Bruce barreled into Dick, sending his half naked, pajama pants clad ass flying towards the wall. The bullet caught Bruce as he was falling, a burst of fire at his hip; he hit the ground harder than he meant to, a grunt of pain escaping as the air was knocked from his lungs. Across the room, Thomas was staring at him with something like surprise in his eyes.

“BRUCE.”

The word was more a scream than a shout, and Bruce looked over at Dick just in time to see him launch himself forward, a vicious snarl painted across his mouth. He moved with stunning speed towards Thomas. For once, Owlman was too slow to respond, and Dick’s fist smashed into his face a moment before he could get the gun into position. A kick later, and he was flying backwards, the gun soaring into the air and somehow, impossibly, landing in Dick’s outstretched hand.

The breath Bruce was struggling to regain caught in his throat. For a split second, Dick seemed suspended in time, his hand wrapped around the grip and his finger slotting over the trigger and his eyes staring down the barrel towards the man who had held him captive for months. For that one instance, Dick seemed as distant as a stranger, foreign and unknowable. 

Then the moment was broken, and it was the gun itself flying through the air. It struck Thomas Wayne Jr with force directly between the eyes and knocked him out with a single blow.

A heartbeat later and a hand was at Bruce’s shoulder, helping him sit up.

“Are you alright?” Dick asked, his eyes wide and concerned. He looked positively angelic from this angle.

Bruce was fine. He could move fine on his own. He let his former ward fuss over him anyway. It seemed impossible to imagine such a person had just been handling a gun with such ease. “The suit caught most of the impact. You know that.”

Dick coughed lightly, a slight blush coloring his temple. “I…do know that. I think, in the moment, I just—I forgot, for a second.”

His eyes slid to the side. Bruce followed his gaze to Thomas, laying crumpled in the hall.

“For a second—“ Bruce started, then stopped, unsure how to say it. Unsure if it was a betrayal, to even admit to thinking it.

Dick seemed to startle, but as always, he understood what Bruce meant instantly.

“Oh no, I couldn’t—”

“He did have you for a long time.” Bruce forced the words out. A gun didn’t mean a killing blow. There were few he trusted to handle one non-lethally more than Dick Grayson. 

“Yeah, but,” Dick began, then stopped, scratching his increasingly red cheeks. He wasn’t meeting Bruce’s eyes. “I mean, he’s kind of like your brother, you know?”

Bruce didn’t know what to say to that, but Dick didn’t wait for an answer. Almost brusquely, he stood, pulling Bruce along with him. 

“Come on, Bruce,” he said, shooting a grin over his shoulder, a showman’s cadence effortless on his tongue. “Owlman won’t be out forever, and I want to get this party started. I bet you haven’t met all of the versions of me either.”

“You had a plan to get them back to their own universes, I presume?”

“Yup!” Dick said cheerfully, dragging Thomas’ body into his cell and locking the door. “Been working on it for weeks before you showed up and ruined everything. Anyway, you’re gonna love the old man version of me. Oh, and mini me! Actually, he’ll definitely be your favorite. You better not try to take him home instead of me—”

He cut off, eyes wide as Bruce grabbed him by the arm and spun him around.

“Never.” The word was a growl, but Bruce couldn’t help it. His heart was pounding suddenly, so loud he could barely hear anything else. Nothing had ever felt more vitally important to make clear. 

“Hey, I was just joking—”

“Never.”

Dick cut off as Bruce’s glare intensified. Something in his eyes softened, and he let his body curl forward against Bruce’s armored chest. So soft and unprotected in comparison.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Let’s get this done, so that we can go home.”

Bruce’s heart jumped in his chest. His hand was still around Dick’s arm, and he couldn’t help the way his grip tightened, just for a moment. Dick’s lips were so perfect, his eyes so bright.

“Yes,” Bruce murmured, forcing himself to let go, just for now. “Let’s go home.”