Chapter Text
“He saw his own ghost?” It, frankly, would not have been the oddest thing to hear tumble out of Master Timothy’s mouth. What with the recent time he swore up and down Master Bruce had been alive whilst presumed dead just years prior and his recollection just last month about watching Saint Nick himself get blown to bits by a meteor in his youth while between consciousness and unconscious from a particularly nasty stab wound.
But a lad seeing his own ghost while heading back from questioning Mrs. Quinn? It almost got an eyebrow raise, but making sure the inner padding of his helmet safeguarded any concussions while getting him on the cot was more pertinent than judging the developments of the week. Going through the various removals of security guards to avoid the headwear deciding to either electrocute him or explode while still attached to Master Jason’s body, never mind how many times he and Bruce told him to not default to these specific pieces of headwear for the most simple outings.
The facial plate came off without a hitch or the warning beeping of a countdown as Masters Tim and Duke deposited him onto the cot, Timothy making a ‘Poser ’ comment to seeing the secondary red domino mask as he took his leave to change into less leathery clothing. He removed the rest of the helmet and mask to turn the man’s head around for any signs of injury, “Simple fall off the bike?”
“Yup,” Tims voice echoed through the cave, spooking a few bats into a chirpy flutter away from the noise. He walked past, heading for the elevator. “Heading up.”
Duke blew a disgruntled breath from his nose, settling himself in a seat by Jason. “Bad daylight patrol?” Alfred mused, “Other than Dames it's been a chill few days.” The yellow-cladden hero shrugged.
He hummed, and Duke carried on. “But then we get back here, back home and it's like all the craziness got all clogged here.” He looked to him now, taking off his own helmet. “I'm not just blowing hot air when I say it's weird, right? That the lot of us are getting more done on Marvel's case than B did in like, what now, six? Seven years?”
“Just about six years now,” Jason would be fine, simply passed out. “But I don't doubt the whole of you will have a solved case to wave over Master Bruce's head after a simple six days.” Duke smiled.
“My money’s on Tim this around, honestly.” That managed a grin, “I’ll take a gander in assuming he told you of some lead?”
Duke waved his hand, the lead quite possibly a loose one. “Something about his face, rang some bell before and it’s nagging him more now.” There’s a realization, some idea that– considering the young man’s powers– it would be entirely appropriate for a little bulb of light to pop up over his head. Moving out of the med-bay and for a beeline to the computer.
“Lead of your own?”
“Fawcett is really messy with time, people who should've been long dead still kicking like the old Squadron, right?” Alfred smiled, the lad would have Bruce's six year case done in six hours. “So let’s see what faces from the last century and a half match up with the Captain.” He spoke more to himself, starting up the search with the Captain’s face, lifted from his photo on file.
The scan began its runs, faces blinking in and out of sight until it came to a decently close enough comparison for a more hands-on look over. Duke snapped his fingers and made a whoop of delight, and Alfred made his ascension back to the manor– figuring that a characteristically taken care of home and his assurance the house hadn't burned down between his appearances would be a nice segway into Master Duke's future good news.
— — —
“Oh, hey.” Tim really wouldn't have expected Marvel to be an avid reader, between all his odd degrees of separation from the real world and events that spanned anywhere outside his own city coupled with the fact he’d stated on more than one occasion that divine knowledge was one of his fancy powers. He didn't seem at all the type to enjoy it or even need to read anything other than to understand a League report. But he was here, in the library, with a scant few pages left of Jason's collection of Edgar Allan Poe short stories.
“Hey Tim!” The man unfolded himself from around the book, posture gone to hell and brought back the minute he’d greeted him. He pointed to the book, like he wouldn't have already clocked its origin from the blank back of it and the sacrilegiously dog-eared pages. “Wonder how many villains read the pit and the pendulum, or didn't with how much they still leave the lot of us alone, huh?”
Tim made an aborted laugh, shuffling off to one of his unofficially claimed shelves for the book he had in mind.
It felt like a long shot, but his memory hadnt failed him yet in figuring out the unexplainable or the impossible. Cap may be impossible, still cracking some commentary on the poet's collected tales like Tim hasn't gone cold on him earlier, but that was just how the man is. It's how he was too, if he and the nagging voice in the back of his head was right.
He knew it was best to build on the facts first.
Fact 1; Important people, or people who would become important, had trouble staying dead. They came back by any number of miracles or hands of god-like entities deciding to change a course time took, some more like themselves than others depending on the method.
Fact 2; He knew Marvel. He saw him once and had a weird gut feeling that told him it wasn't his first, and he wasn't alone in that, Cassie had too. He told her Marvel looked familiar and she agreed, saying she had that feeling too. He’d gone over everyone they could've possibly known, finding no good contenders with even six degrees of separation in mind. He chalked it up to Marvel having one of those faces, he certainly could pull off a Superman with how many people made the Magic Super jokes.
Fact 3; When people came back, it was with something missing. Be it their literal soul, the time they missed age wise, mental faculties, body parts, or what powers they had before their death. All of that, and memories. Because Marvel talked to him like a stranger after learning his real name, and Tim could remember clearly then that there was no recollection in his eyes. There was nothing about his body language that said they’d ever met before, at least to his memory.
Marvel was still talking, getting a few quick but friendly responses from him as he scanned for his book. “Ever been in a P&P situation Tim?”
“Sure, but I didn't need rats to chew through my bonds.” He retorted, pulling at the older and more worn spines of books he couldn't read in the C section, hoping he actually organized by title. Marvel laughed, “Last time Sivana had me in one I had to convince one of his henchmen to rip the bonds off. Big ol’ gator guy who got sick of being a lackey and had a penchant for the stage.” He said, ever so dramatic in his retelling.
“Hermiker is doing great, last I checked, he was a new entertainer at the zoo and has been eating up all the good attention he gets between his feeding times.” He flipped to a new page, still talking to Tim, but his eyes were firmly on the pages. “He’s even got a stunt gig coming up for this Indiana Jones reboot,” Found it.
“Which, ugh, those things are so–” “Insulting to the profession between its drawn out action scenes and crap writing.” He finished for him, and Charles looked at him, blinking wildly at his words.
“Yeah… How did–?” Tim flipped to the dedication page of his book, The Collected Myths and Legends of Khandaq . The spine faded to hell and back, cracked from a hundred too many revisits to that one page, dedicating the text to all those ‘ Who venture for the tales of this world past; To being able to tell these tales to our children and all those who follow .' It was a sweet sentiment, printed below a picture of an excavation group, locals mixed with American archeologists. To the right side was the leading couple, the dad holding his son with a small lantern on his shoulder with one arm while the other was held around his wife by his side for the photo.
Charles blinked a few more times, squinting his eyes. It was then Tim realized that, without the Bat-cowl, Bruce might have vision problems he's not the most vocal about, so he steps forward and thrusts the book into his hands. Taking the one prior and leaving the man with proof of a life he had to have forgotten, or not , with how he could see his blood run cold.
He had met Marvel, twice, when he came over with his small family to talk with his parents. He hadn't wanted to remember the meetings because of their kid, who his parents insisted he could keep an eye on while they talked with the Batsons, that their perfectly responsible and capable only child could babysit for a short catchup with old friends. Stuck for the bulk of that afternoon keeping an eye on a kid no older than five, which solidly showed Tim an example of just how much a few years difference could make in trying to relate to someone.
The first meeting was short lived, merely getting a handshake and exchange of names before only finding some common ground with their kid by talking about Batman and Robin. Charles had joked afterwards that the three of them went as the group each year, Billy and him as the duo while Marilynn stayed home to pass out candy as one of his villains. Apparently, she had discovered a hay allergy after stuffing her costumes’ sleeves and pants full of the material and the holiday was cut short to rush her to a hospital. It was something they laughed over, and their son, Billy, had proudly proclaimed he didn’t have the same allergy ‘cause the doctor checked the next month.
The second one was cut short, this time visiting them at their home just a month later with Billy being at a playdate with some other kid his own age, leaving Tim free to mill around what he expected to be a mini-museum like his family home. Finding only pictures of things they found over mementos and artifacts like the ones his parents collected, recalling the golden scepter his dad showed him after taking it out of a golf club bag. It was all pictures on the walls and fake trinkets fit for a museum gift shop rather than the actual displays, Charles had called him down from his exploring, inviting him to join the conversation about a recent dig after his parents had mentioned his interest in some similar topic.
He’d given him a copy of a book based on the trip, full of stories they were able to dictate after interviewing locals and consulting a resident expert they’d known from college. There was Billy, the same dumb kid he'd met just a month prior who wouldn't remember a thing about his childhood like Tim could, he could remember from when he was his age while Billy probably couldn't remember his own breakfast that morning. Billy was in the photo, carrying a lantern while Marilynn gushed about how excited Billy was to help everyone see and doodle down the inscriptions in his little clipboard.
It was after that the memory of what they talked about got fuzzy, even his own responses, as he envied another boy. The kid who got to join on the adventures, even if it probably wasn't the best for him with the effects of air travel and on sleep schedules and jet lag and every other logical reason his own parents had for keeping him home. Billy got to go, he got to be part of it instead of with a babysitter or nanny the whole time. Tim just remembered how the meet-up ended, his mom and Mrs. Batson moved their part of the conversation out into the backyard while they chatted under a canopy, taking him with them until his dad told them they were leaving with a tissue covering a bloody nose.
He hadn't remembered it, or been there for the more heated part of it before his mom and Mrs. Batson ushered him away, but apparently they’d gotten into a fight about the difference of their homes. Mr. Batson getting up in arms about putting items he’d collected around his house instead of in museums to keep people educated about history or back with the people who could make claims of it belonging where it had been found, a strong moral he stuck to about what did or didn't follow him to Fawcett’s own museum. The verbal scuffle started, he was taken away from it, it got louder, and Charles had stuck his father and called off some planned trip.
His dad was quietly upset during the ride home, his mom disappointed in having to change plans. Tim still had the book in hand, looking at that photo of another kid who got to jump head first into an adventure, as mundane as his was, with his family. It wasn't a memory he held onto like when he met Dick, or much of an emotion he went back to, but he did come back to the picture a few dozen times. As understanding as he was of his parents' logic, he wanted that time, those memories attached to what his parents always brought home like what the Batsons had with their photos.
Charles had those memories, he could see it in the sickly pale complexion Bruce's face fell into when he really absorbed what was in front of him. He may not have everything, but he can tell his own face in the snapshot.
“I–” He cut himself short, voice breathless and dry as he tried to find the words, grasping at straws to explain whatever it was that brought a man Tim knew was dead from the grapevine of his parents' conversations at the table. His eyes found his, scared, pained. And that told Tim that he knew enough about the life he had to feel guilt for the ones left from the old one. “How did you–” He didn't finish, cutting himself off again at the cold indiffernce painted on his face. Tim turned and left, Charles hung his head low over the dedication page, thumbing over the image as Tim headed down to the cave to tear off the bandaid and wait for Bruce to report in to hear the news.
Charles' face was on the Bat-computer, green lines of comparison and facial analysis finding a 92.57% match between the photos of Captain Marvels ID and Clarence Charles Batsons last drivers license. Duke turned to him in the chair, expectant for a shocked expression that Tim didn't have. “Oh, come on!” Duke threw his hands up as he spun back to the screen, “You knew already?!”
— — —
Passing Tim, the young lad looked… disappointed would be the wrong word, too steeped in a sense of fury too similar to Bruce’s titular scowl beneath his cowl. He made no comment, assured that whatever was bothering him would, like all other issues, simmer until the pot overflowed or someone exploded in some grand display of righteous fury to whatever enraged him. Timothy had only begun to simmer, so he’d prepare for that bomb of piled up emotions when the boy was ready to properly verbalize it, or break his bō staff over a criminal’s skull. It would be then Alfred, or someone else, would step in and force the lad through his emotions until he could be constructive with it.
He saw his face, prepared for the inevitable crash and fallout that would come to the house as it always did, and poked his head into the next room. Still not having found the Captain, he closed the door to the room and moved to the next.
Something odd had happened once he stayed the night, the animals refused to stay in the house. Titus and Ace had lost their appetite sometime in the second day of the Captain’s arrival, as did Alfred— the cat bearing his namesake had refused any food like it had fallen suddenly ill within the house's walls. Just the other day they had made a more permanent exodus, camping out together in the barn with Jeffery, Bat-Cow, and Goliath.
Of those three already outside, Bat-Cow had collapsed that afternoon and had not eaten since breakfast the day before. It was only under a cold glare the dogs and Alfred had eaten their last meal, albeit sluggishly and with Titus getting sick soon after with puke to Alfred’s shoes just as he made his leave.
There was a pattern he assumed had something to do with the Captain and his more divine ties to magic, his sudden arrival causing ill-feelings among the more mundane but respected animals of the manor. There’s not many pieces of religious iconography he can remember with things like a turkey or a Demon-Bat, but cattle with dogs and cats are fairly common to his memory.
He reaches the library, calling out for the man. “Captain?” He doesn’t hear anything, so he steps in to make entirely sure. “Captain Marvel, I’d like your aid if you can spare it.”
There was a beat of silence, then scattered footsteps from further into the room before finding the man down the space between shelves in front of him. “Hey, hi, I was just-” The man wet his lips, catching his breath as he righted his mind to speak clearly, clearing his throat once he collected himself. “So, helping. I can still do that.”
“I’d like your input on an issue with the animals and some help bringing their food out, if you may.” The man wordlessly nodded, following the butler in a stiff walk and following his instruction to pull along a wheeled tray with some smaller bowls and a very large covered one. The larger being for Goliath, the black hole of consumption the beast was, while the smaller were for the rest. He himself grabbed the large bale of perennial ryegrass for Bat-cow and sack of mixed grains for Jeffrey, carrying the sack at his side and the bale thrown over his shoulder in a carry.
The Captain offered his help at the sight of the bale, offering a trade, but Alfred reassured him that “I am not as frail as my age would leave you to believe.” Which he takes in stride and accepts in their leave to the barn, hearing Bat-Cow mooing long before they see her. The poor creature on her side in her stable as Goliath worriedly petting the miserable bovine to give some form of comfort, the rest of the animal gang curled up to her to ease whatever pain she’s found herself inexplicably in.
“Oh,” Marvel remarks, face twisted in worry for the animal.
“Oh indeed.” Luging the feed in, he laid out the fresh meals in replacement of their uneaten feed with the Captains help. “She’s been under the weather for some days now and I’d grown worried it had been due to you.” He wasted no time in explaining, passing off the massive bowl of meat cutlets and fruit salad Goliath had grown very fond of as the Demon-Bat tore into his helping. None of the other animals followed, ignoring their meals without second thought and cuddling closer to Bat-Cow, who mooed pitifully as she lolled her head away from the ryegrass placed before her.
The Captain kneeled before her, petting her head in lack of Goliath's previous comfort, a gesture she leaned into that quieted her down. “Poor thing, what’s got you in a tizzy?” Voice soft, he looked her over and brought her head to rest on his lap as a faint glow came from the palm of his hand, which he began to pet her with again.
He grimaced in discomfort, “Someone been bothering you?” Alfred cleared his throat, repeating his guess as to who was incidentally harming the bovine. The man made a face, like he’d said something overwhelmingly obvious to a burnt out scholar, or detective on his fourth night straight with no sleep while working on a case with the face he was currently bearing.
“If my magic of divine origin was the issue,” he pointed to Goliath. “Then he’d be trying to claw me to death.” He turned his regards back to the animals. “It’s something from the Rock, it’s probably why they aren’t going inside anymore. Magic can move like a fog and some probably let itself out when me and…” he trailed off, eyes going foggy until Alfred jostled his shoulder to snap him out of it.
His head snapped to look him in the eye, one of his tearing up and beginning to cry when he wiped the stray tear away to inform him. “Just keep them out of the house and if she doesn’t start eating soon you might want to ask someone for an exorcism or cleaning spell.” He mumbled an apology and left, rushing out of the barn and back to the house.
Sighing, he finished laying out the meals in the stable all the animals had gathered in and took Goliath’s now empty bowl to clean with the other dirty dishes he collects before leaving. He gives Bat-Cow a hug and a wish to get better, making a mental note to update Bruce when he arrives within the hour that he’ll need to ask some member of Justice League: Dark for some assistance.