Chapter Text
Dick wakes with a jerk. Like he had been falling in a dream, and almost reached the ground.
He blinks, disorientated. The ghost of adrenaline still winds in his veins. He’s lying on something soft, warm and he’s— dry?
It had been raining. It had been raining and Jason had just sucker punched him in the head on top of the Gotham Stock Exchange. He hadn’t been fast enough, not quite. Hadn’t dodged in time and his sometimes-almost-brother’s fist had clipped him where his domino met his temple.
He blinks again. Rubs absently at the spot where fist had met brow.
He’s in the Manor, which is weird. Not the Cave. Not in his own room either, which is even weirder, there are no glow in the dark stars stuck to the ceiling in this room. How hard had Jason hit him? He grumbles, pulling himself to sitting, and feels his stomach roll.
“Damn it, Jason.” He mutters. The last thing he needs is a concussion. That’s the last time he does Red Hood any favours. He waits for the nausea to pass, breathes deeply through his nose.
“You getting up any time today?” Tim’s voice comes from the doorway. He’s stood in his pyjamas, laptop under his arm.
Dick tries not to feel too affronted. Like it’s his fault Jason’s an ass. “How long have I been out?” He asks.
Tim raises an eyebrow. “It’s nearly midday.” He says, as though anyone sleeping past 11 in this house was unheard of. “And it snowed.” He adds, suddenly with more than a glint in his eye. “Dad says if you’re not up soon you know what happens.” He gives Dick a smirk and disappears back through the door.
“Dad?” Dick repeats to himself. Since when had Tim ever referred to Bruce as Dad? Out loud, even. Jason must have hit him harder than he thought.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, pleasantly surprised to find some slippers waiting for him, then feels the hairs on the back of his neck go up.
His eyes track the room slowly. Taking in details he’s only just noticing. A faded Haly’s Circus poster, framed on the far wall; medals and trophies and certificates over flow from the bookcase; and there, on the nightstand, a framed photo. It’s of him and Bruce, in a silver frame. It was taken a few years ago from the looks of it. They’re grinning, Bruce’s arm around Dick’s shoulders, the pair of them wrapped in an American flag. And there, clutched in Dick’s hand, is an Olympic gold medal.
“Ah fuck.” Dick sighs, shoulders dropping. Alternate universe. Just what he needs.
“Wake up chum!” A huge voice bellows and the door to the room slams open.
Bruce is suddenly very there, eyes wide, a snowball in each hand, Damian cackling behind him, ducking under his father’s arms with snowballs of his own.
“Think fast, Grayson.” He throws the snowballs just as Dick’s brain starts catching up. He dives from the bed to the floor, hitting the ground with an undignified thud. The frosty projectiles hit the wall with a much more muted one.
“No throwing snowballs in the house, Damian.” Bruce chastises, using a voice Dick hasn’t heard him use in years. It’s all light banter and teasing tones, reminds Dick of when he was fourteen and Batman and Robin were at their peak. It makes something in his chest feel funny.
“Father!” Damian responds, utterly aghast, and Dick takes the opportunity to peek up over the bed.
“Good reflexes, Dickie.” Bruce says with a twinkle in his eye, his own rapidly melting snowballs held aloft out of Damian’s grabby reach. “Want to help us get your brother?” He asks.
Dick is still reeling from Bruce calling him Dickie before realising the problem. He counts off who the potential brother is, and of course is left with only Jason, and when isn’t he a problem?
“Uhh…” He says, pulling himself to his feet. “Why don’t you let me handle him?” He suggests, yanking open the window and scooping some snow off the outside ledge. “Eldest’s privilege an all?”
Bruce grins. “That’s my boy.”
—
Dick tries to make his way through the Manor to Jason’s room as quickly as he can, or at least, where Jason’s room is— was— whatever— back home. Mainly because if Jason was transported to this universe too, then Bruce barging in attacking him with snowballs is going to go down about as well as a bag of hot puke; and partly because he’s pretty sure this Bruce is the type to keep tabs on whether or not Dick actually throws any snowballs at anybody.
It’s difficult though. Not least because he’s still reeling from the alternate universe shenanigans — is Tim calling Bruce Dad worse than Bruce calling him Dickie? To be decided — but because the alternate-ness of this universe is so in his face. Every wall is covered, truly absolutely covered, in photos. Back home the Manor has barely been updated since Thomas and Martha died. Maybe an occasional new picture in Bruce’s study or in the library. Here, there’s a veritable timeline of the last thirty or so years. Which — the detective in Dick is grateful for, let’s not be silly — but it’s incredibly distracting. Not least because that is definitely a wedding picture of Bruce and—
“Dickface.” Jason’s deep baritone hisses at him from a nearby door.
Dick turns and— okay, so that’s weird. No white streak and a lot less scars. But this is definitely Jason. His Jason.
“Throw that at me and you’re dead.” He snarls.
Dick rolls his eyes and deposits what’s left of the snowball into a nearby plant pot. “Get in.” He mutters under his breath, crowding Jason back into the bedroom.
He closes the door behind him, announcing, “Alternate universe.”
Jason snorts, throws a picture frame at him like a frisbee. “No shit.”
Dick looks at the photo. It’s Jason’s high school graduation day, or, a Jason’s at least. He’s holding up his certificate and grinning, mortarboard wonky on his head. Bruce, Dick and Selina are with him, looking just as happy. Dick feels decidedly awkward looking at it.
“So what do we reckon?” He opts to ignore the photo, places it on the nearby desk. “One of the Speedsters got a little overexcited? Magical shenanigans? Lex Luthor fucking around and finding out?”
“You mean Lex fucking around and us finding out?” Jason asks him sardonically.
Dick shrugs. “What do you remember?”
“I remember you being an asshole.” Jason shoots back.
Dick scowls. “How strange, because I vividly remember you deciding to be an asshole first.”
Jason scoffs a harsh laugh. “That’s your best comeback?”
“You sucker punched me in the head.”
“You deserved it.”
“You—” Dick cuts himself off. There’s noise outside the room. “Quick, act like I just threw a snowball at you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Just do—”
“Wakey-wakey, Jay-lad!”
Bruce’s voice booms in time with the door swinging open. He’s not holding any snowballs this time, but Damian skids into the room to take the killer shot. The snowball smacks Jason right in the chest.
Jason’s jaw clenches. He looks down at the impact site silently.
Ah fuck, Dick thinks. Here we go.
~~
Jason wakes to daylight. Wakes to daylight, which— he doesn’t remember going to sleep. Last he remembers, he and Nightwing were fighting on top of the Gotham Stock Exchange, his pulse is still quick with the exertion… Now he’s blinking the morning out of his eyes. Not good.
He’s in a bed; soft sheets and a familiar smell that fills him with dread. The Manor, Alfred still uses the same detergent. He isn’t wearing any socks and he feels… smaller. Not small, not a kid but— His head begins to throb above his left eye. This is not what he needs.
He rolls away from the window to avoid the light, the way it slices through his eyelids, right into his brain. He cracks his eyes open and comes face to face with another unpleasant surprise. There’s a photo on the nightstand. Bruce, Dick and Selina stand arm in arm around— him, around Jason. He’s young, seventeen-eighteen maybe. High school graduation.
Bitterness laces his tongue and he flinches. Alternate universe then. Just what he needs.
He stumbles from the bed, uselessly searches the pockets of the pyjamas he’s wearing. There are no meds, obviously, because when was the last time he caught a break?
His temper flares. Fucking Dick. Can never just mind his own business for five goddamn minutes.
He presses his thumb between his eyebrows, draws in a slow deep breath. Tries to stave off the migraine before it arrives, or at least long enough to search whatever universe this is for an alternative.
He hates taking regular medication, but he’s not an idiot. He can’t function without it. And Crime Alley can’t function without him. Last night had been pushing it as it was. Trying to take down a prescription drug ring, when he's personally invested in the product was never gonna be the smartest move. He should have gone for another shipment, in retrospect, released the bottleneck and got the drugs to the people who need them - himself included. But the chance to take out the entire operation was just there, waiting for him and— and then Dick had shown up.
He begins rifling through the drawers, the wardrobe, the bathroom cabinet in the en-suite— searching for wherever this version of himself might keep any meds. The best he finds is some ibuprofen, gulps them down with a handful of water from the faucet.
The ensuite is fancy. Much nicer than the one he had when he lived at the Manor as a kid. It’s all muted stone, and smooth lines. The entire wall behind the sink a huge circular mirror, back lit with warm light.
An unfamiliar reflection stares back at him.
There are obvious differences; no white streak, fewer scars, a warm tan to his skin. Clearly this Jason doesn’t sleep all day and actually sees sunlight every now and then. None of those changes bother him, he's never felt much affection for the white streak. What does bother him— and he takes a deep breath, tries to draw up his chest, broaden his shoulders, but a horrible swell of dread rolls in his stomach; nothing to do with the imminent migraine.
He’s smaller here. He’s tall, yes. But the weight on him, the physicality of the Red Hood… it’s missing. This kid - because, Christ how old is he here? Twenty-two? - actually looks his age. Not like Jason’s usual reflection, twenty-four going on forty. And sure, he looks like he works out, he’s solid in all the right places, but— he’s small. Too small. Fragile.
He draws in a deep breath, tries to ignore the way it shakes on the inhale. It's not a big deal, he tells himself. This is just temporary. This is not forever.
He can hear shouting down the hall. A voice that sounds horribly like Bruce. Man, he really did not need this today. This week. Ever.
He tries to think back to what he last remembers. Nightwing on the roof, the rain, the smell of smoke - his head is getting worse - and then Dick had said something and he’d swung for him and—
Dick is here. Jason finds him outside in the hallway, with snowballs in his hands. His kind-of-maybe-brother crowds them back into Jason's room.
"Alternate univetse." Dick announces, as though Jason is a moron. Jason flings the photo from the nightstand at him, a smug knot in his stomach at how uncomfortable the picture clearly makes him. Then he's back to bitching as usual, dodging responsibility for screwing up Jason's op when—
“Wakey-wakey, Jay-lad!” Bruce's voice explodes into the bedroom. For a moment Jason is nothing but the noise of it reverberating round his skull. He clenches his jaw, tries to ward off the inevitable, when a snowball hits him square in the chest.
“Ha!” Crows an equally loud voice, cutting straight to Jason's brain. “Victorious again. This is why I am the prodigal son.” Jason looks up to see a scrawny looking Damian take off out the door, cackling to himself down the corridor. He doesn’t look at Bruce.
“You alright, son?” He can see Bruce moving closer, but he can smell burning now, and his head is ringing, and he needs—
He barely makes it to the toilet, stumbles to his knees, flinching as he lands heavily on the tiled floor, then heaves his guts up.
“We err— we might have had a few too many beers last night.” Dick says sheepishly, the lie tripping off his tongue effortlessly. Jason doesn’t catch Bruce’s reply, because he vomits again, but he does hear the bedroom door gently closing.
Fingers crossed Dick has gone as well—
“You okay?”
Typical. Jason rests his forehead against the seat. “What does it look like?” He asks. But he can’t quite get the venom he wants into it.
“Is this dimension travel sickness? Or do you think this Jason is ill?” Dick asks, unhelpfully.
“Please just fuck off.” Jason says, weakly. He can practically hear Dick roll his eyes behind him, but the older man does produce a bottle of water from somewhere, so Jason lets it slide.
"Are you sick?" Dick asks, more seriously this time.
"I'm fine." Jason replies. "Apart from being stuck here."
"Uh huh." Dick says, shortly. "I'm not an idiot, so if we are going to be stuck here for the forseeable let's try and keep the bullshit to a minimum. Is this life threatening?" He sounds so sanctimonious Jason heaves again.
"No." He spits the last of the bile into the toilet, climbs slowly to his feet. He needs a toothbrush.
"Contagious?"
"No."
Jason really wishes this mirror wasn't so enormous. It's hard enough avoiding his own reflection, let alone Dick's.
"Is it a toxin, Joker-serum? Fear-gas?"
"Damn it, Dick, it's just a migraine! Can you fuck off?" Jason snaps, snatching at the finally discovered toothbrush. "I just need to lie in the fucking dark and have some peace and quiet. Can you do that for me?"
Dick's reflection narrows his eyes. He seems to be thinking about his answer. "I'll come and check on you in an hour. Don't go anywhere."
"Where the fuck am I going go, Dick? Disneyland?"
Dick doesn't respond. But he does, thank God, leave.
Jason drags himself back to the bed, yanking the curtains shut as he goes.
Dick's put the graduation photo back on the nightstand. Jason stares at it for a long moment, rolls over and closes his eyes.