Chapter Text
Bruce took a deep calming breath and looked once again at the recent files on his computer that his eldest once named ‘the Batcomputer’. The same eldest that wasn’t currently really talking to him and staying under his roof only due to the unfortunate circumstances they had at hand.
Bruce was certain that his eldest would have already been back to Bludhaven the second Bruce was back if not for his youngest siblings that Dick was ‘guarding’ from Bruce, while firmly keeping his sight on little Tim especially. Dick also made it very clear that if Bruce were to tell Jason anything lecture-like at all about him murdering Joker for the safety of his brothers, Bruce would never see nor his eldest, nor Damian. And wasn’t all this a wakeup call the size of an old European city bell.
People around him had been trying to convince Bruce repeatedly that Batman was taking too much place of his personality, while the majority of it should have stayed a civilian parent that was good to his children, since he decided to take kids in in the first place. At the time it seemed insufficient, yet now, after what felt like eternity being stuck in the veil of time, not knowing where or when he was, not knowing if he ever saw his family, not knowing if his family was even alive— only to come back and see that his legacy as both a father and a vigilante had backfired spectacularly in a way that would have destroyed both his city and people dear to him if not for his children. His wonderful, brave and smart children that either hated or were afraid of him. If not both.
It was hard to accept.
He could only find solace in knowing that maybe he could still do something to remedy his mistakes and heal the wounds that they caused.
But for now he was left to be but a mere spectator on his family life — he could watch, yet had no right to interfere — as Dick tried to make little Tim friends with Damian but so far without much progress. There seemed to be extra issue that they weren't telling him about.
One of many .
He came back to his eldest taking his mantle and his youngest taking Robin from Tim. He came back to know that he was only here and well thanks to the son that was driven from home and had been witnessed dead. He came back to the finishing process of a clean up after Arkham biggest break with the mental institution itself being blown up, his eldest nearly dying at the hands of the Rogues, Alfred being hospitalised because of a heart condition, Damian willing to sacrifice himself for Dick, and Jaylad ruthlessly killing the man who caused their family so much grief. He came back to his second youngest simultaneously missing and being here, several years younger than he remembered with no recollection of the last years’ events, which meant that he was either from the past or an alternative dimension.
All this was the reason why Bruce was stuck on the computer, catching up with all the news like a madman. Reports, video feeds from masks, saved recordings from comms. He was checking through everything he could find, feeling only worse with each proof of how badly had he failed his family.
Perhaps, he was trying to tune it all down to something resembling his usual detective work so that he didn’t have to think about the part of issues that he had to solve now.
Like the fact that little Timothy was constantly terrified. The young boy for a long time had hidden behind Dick from both Damian and Jason. From Damian - subtly, from Jason - not so much.
The boy had constant nightmares to the point that his eldest refused to let the child be alone at nights, choosing to temporarily move to the guest room that was established for their little guest. A horrible thing was that all his nightmares that he had always included Jason, who was in some form tormenting the child, which in its turn lead to Jason not only not coming to Manor, but not so much as setting his foot in the Bristol area, even if his open cases requested that.
The boy was scared of Bruce too, though.
Hell, he was wary of Alfred.
At first Bruce was shocked at the skittish of the little child, but it lasted only so long, as he remembered his days after Jason's death. And "training" for the child that he never wanted to become a Robin (he never wanted anyone to ever die in the once hope-giving colours of Grayson family).
Bruce was unfair then. Too demanding. Too brute. Too uncaring. To a point that would hurt even an adult established hero, not to say a timid and neglected child. Genius child, yes, yet a child nonetheless.
And Alfred, being proper English man the way that he was, never put a stop to that unfairness. Maybe that was the reason why the child didn’t trust him the way both Dick and Jason did, seeing in the old man rather a Batman’s loyal servant than a grandfather.
It was all behind him and Tim, but this little Tim didn’t know that (Bruce tried to ignore the stinging feeling whispering that his Tim might not have known that either, much in the same manner all his children doubted his love, assuming that they had to run themselves down for any ounce of their father’s affection).
This was all so regretful.
Bruce closed line of messages from the Flash, turned computer down and stood up, picking the cane he used while healing up after his misadventures in the time stream. He thought briefly about putting on his Batman suit, but talked himself out of it. With his aim in mind, that would be counterproductive.
Unfortunately, he had no choice but to use the Batmobile, since only this car had the autopilot feature and it was the only way for him to get where he wanted. He himself was in no shape to drive for a long time, Alfred was still recovering, his children were either too young to sit in the front sit or too pissed at him to help without asking him where he was going or, worse, demanding to come with him.
The car left the cave swiftly, and the ride was uneventful. It was rather nice to see his city again. Soon Crime Alley in all its glory appeared behind the toned glass. Bruce narrowed his eyes, preparing himself. There was someone somewhere here that he wanted to meet. Bruce had a hunch that this person wouldn't run if it were just him, Bruce Wayne, coming here alone.
The car stopped. Bruce climbed awkwardly out and made a few steps before stopping in hesitance and looking up, on the broken plate announcing a film that hadn’t been shown in decades.
Bruce closed his eyes and stood in front of the old cinema perhaps a tad bit too long, but it was to be expected. This was the place where he lost his parents. This was the place where Jason found him. Bruce takes a discreet calming breath and went inside.
Some brief searching, aided with the plans that he finally managed to discovered only hours prior. A ding of an elevator. The minutes taking the machine to bring him down to a secret base feeling like forever.
Another ding, and he was finally in the place his second youngest called ‘the Nest’. And his home, since, apparently wasn’t one for him anymore.
The place wasn’t empty. There was a man in the rolling chair in front of the wall of lit up monitors, which light was highlighting garbage and unnecessary items cramping the cavern. The man had a lean, well-build tall figure with messy and rather dirty long dark hair. He was wearing tight jeans and a black T-shirt. He was looking right at Batman in his lair with his stark blue gaze.
“Hello, Bruce.”
He was older, about forty, less life in the eyes. Yet, undeniably, it was Tim Drake.
“I thought so that you would figure it out. Though I calculated you to be faster than you did, but, I guess, it can be excused with your leave of absence and other problems — he indicated the cane, which Bruce struggled to not hold tighter subconsciously. He wasn’t really used to showing his weaknesses and felt uneasy.
Yet he understood that there was no other way to deal with all this if he wanted to once again see all his family, in one dimension, safe and happy. He had to change. And he was trying, so he showed up to a different version of his son that had information about what was happening lately. Showed up unarmed and vulnerable, willing to talk. And listen.
The other Tim was sitting there, still and quiet, yet in no way in hell would Bruce mistake that for the man being calm.
Bruce tried to find right words — something that he always struggled with. The man was patiently waiting as Bruce’s attention left him to roam around the place, automatically noting how even if Bruce could say that his Tim wasn’t the tidiest person in the world, he still was a rather practical young man and would never abandon his living space to the point where it was not possible to quickly find your way around things and get necessarily items in a timely manner.
The other Tim kept being silent, and Bruce finally managed a curt, report-like. “You are Tim Drake from the other dimension, yet this a base of Tim from this dimension. The boy is lost in some other dimension and you know something about it. You also helped my sons and revived one more Tim not of this reality.”
The man nodded in confirmation to Bruce’s conclusions, unamused in his observing of Bruce’s struggles not to change his behaviour and voice to one of Batman’s interrogating ones.
This was unfairly harder than talking to your son (even from a different universe) should ever be. But Bruce was still trying.
Bruce’s gaze fell on the helmet the others saw the man wearing. The thing probably was a prototype of their Tim that the man just took for his purposes.
“The other me can share,” said acerbically the man, as if reading Bruce’s thoughts and not being impressed by them.
Bruce exhaled audibly. Now or never. “I did not come here to fight or lecture. I want to help, help my lost son, the little one in my home. And you too.”
The man gave him a long, heavy look. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. I want to help you, as well as I want to help the Tim—”
“All those other mes in one place make life confusing,” huffed the man. “Let’s say, the bird boy for your Tim, the little bird for the uncut throat one, and I think it's fine to call me Escobar. Like in the Escobar axiom!” The last phrase was said with a smug cheer.
Bruce didn’t think ‘bird boy’ and ‘little bird’ were the names that helped much with avoiding confusing, but this Tim probably knew best what his other selves would be more comfortable with. What did attract Btaman’s attention was that he was aware of all the major scientific discoveries and basics, yet he possessed no knowledge of said Escobar’s Axiom, therefore not understanding the reference. It looked like Tim (Escobar?) noticed that, with the man still possessing same fine observation as his counterparts.
"It's an Internet meme, chill, Bruce."
Bruce blinked, still confused.
“It means ‘no matter what you choose, it's all gonna end up in shit’. And that's what exactly created me in the way you see now,” added Escobar.
“What do you mean by that?” asked Bruce, his voice not showing the worry that churned in his guts. “Created?”
“Bruce”, said Escobar suddenly serious. “How old do you think am I?”
“Hn. I would assume about forty,” said Bruce, suspicion rising at the question.
Tim giggled nervously. “Add a few hundred years and you'll be correct. While you're at it, add that I can't die from external sources.”
Bruce was taken aback, but Batman's whole identity was about constantly analysing everything, so that he did, remembering all that he knew about the man.
The briefly flicked clone idea was not possible if this Tim Drake was older than few years old, so, alternative dimension it was. He looked different, had also specific differences in his behaviour and values. He could use advanced magic. He didn't look like he had support of other people for a long time. He didn't look like he cared about things happening around him — not in a way like it was all beneath him, but more in the way that implied he found it all pointless.
Yet he initiated a play fight with Dick, a fight that didn't leave any battle marks on his opponent. As far as Bruce deducted, he was the one who revived little Tim that was taken from his death at the Titan's Tower by reversing his time. He helped Jaylad find Tim. He didn't do any harm to Jason while his boy was in too much of a shock to properly react to his surroundings. He did not hurt Damian. He did not initiate any apocalyptic scenario for his entertainment, instead choosing to haul up in his counterpart’s home and spend all his time getting acquainted with obscure Internet culture.
He couldn't die nor age.
“Was your world destroyed?” asked Bruce, already knowing the answer.
Escobar cocked his head in a way similar to a bird and nodded, closing his eyes.
“Are you your world's Vandal Savage at the same time as the last man on Earth without any access to space or high-tech technology?”
Tim who called himself Escobar opened his eyes. “Yes”, whispered he so quietly that Bruce understood only from his lips, but not his mouth.
“My condolences,” said Bruce mournfully. Another tragedy, another broken human.
Escobar shrugged, suddenly starkly gibing of a feeling of being old enough as his real age.
“You look tired,” said Bruce carefully.
“I believe the proper term is ‘to have the eyes of the dead fish’. This one's from Gintama, by the way. It's an anime. You gonna so hate it.”
Bruce didn’t smile, still lost in dread.
Escobar huffed. “Oh, don’t give me that look. Are you actually trying to play a parent to me? I am older than you, you know?” squinted the older Tim.
“And yet I'm still your father”, said Bruce kindly, a sad shine in his eyes.
Escobar blinked at that confusingly. Something vulnerable in his arctic blue eyes.
“Wow. Bruce Wayne actually processing an emotion. That’s a first.” The words could have been called mocking if not for the chocked voice that said them. A voice of someone who didn’t get to have his father do exactly that. “Don’t you want to ask me anything? Knowing who I am and what I can do and all?” tried Escobar to hide his fragility.
Bruce considered it. This man could revive people that had been dead for years. Bruce’s whole life was built over the death of two most important people of his life. He could—He could, selfishly, ask for that. He would lie if he said he wasn’t tempted.
But it was past. And him living in the past, metaphorically and quite literally, was what led to the disaster they were now sporting at hand. Life showed him again and again with death and misery that hiding from darkness in illusions and nostalgia didn’t do any good. It was only but a spiral, drowning him lower and lower down, dragging everybody around him with him under merciless waves of his self-loathing and hatred.
Bruce ought to do better. There was one thing, though. Bruce had to ask that question. Ask and pray.
“Will you come with me?” said Bruce.
Escobar in one swift motion left the computer chair rolling and came so close Bruce could see each little hair of the stumble on his face. "Sure."
Bruce’s chest felt lighter, even if he realised that now he was about to have the joy of having all his conflicted family in one place while heavily trying his best so that, as Jaylad would have put it, ‘shit wouldn’t hit the fan’.
“You’re trying”, said Escobar with surprise.
“My Tim was actually trying to introduce me to the non-work-related wonders of the world wide net,” started from afar Bruce, smiling lightly. “Couldn’t say it was all that successful, yet there was a thing on that twitter website that I found rather peculiar. It was a phrase that said: The Batman that cannot comfort a crying child is no better than those he puts behind bars. I often forgot that. But I want to live by these words now.”
He felt his smile changing into something sadder. Yet softer.
Something filled with hope.