Chapter Text
The other Duke gave him those few minutes.
He stood several paces back, just beyond the reach of the garden's low lantern light, letting the silence stretch. The night air was thick with damp earth and cut grass, the moon swollen and pale above them. Duke shifted his weight once, then again, jaw tight—not impatient, but bracing himself.
When he finally moved, it was slow and deliberate.
[M/N] sensed it before he heard it. He rolled clumsily to the side, a sharp breath tearing out of him as pain flared through his ribs and spine. He hit the ground hard, mud soaking through his clothes, his heart hammering erratically against his chest like it wanted out. His body lagged, sluggish and heavy, the first memory burning out of him at last. Exhaustion set in deep, bone-deep.
He was so, so tired.
"Sorry," Duke said quietly. His voice was rough, worn thin, like he'd been holding himself together for too long. "I have to do this." With a sharp gesture, Duke pulled his hand back—and the ground answered.
Vines tore free from the soil with a wet, violent sound, roots snapping, earth upheaving. They coiled and lashed at Duke's command, alive with light that pulsed faintly through their veins. Not Ivy's green, not poison-dark or hungry. Duke's light was different. It always had been.
[M/N] pushed himself upright onto his knees, shaking so badly he had to brace a hand against the ground. Mud smeared his palms, his fingers trembling as he looked up at Duke.
It struck him, dimly, how strange it was that Pamela Isley had never tried harder to claim Duke for herself. Plants needed light as much as they needed water, after all. And Duke Thomas was light; raw, stubborn, defiant light. His power bent toward growth, not decay. Toward protection, not control.
Even back then, when [M/N] had still been strong enough to stand without help, Duke's abilities had felt... different. Not alien, not monstrous. Unfamiliar like a mother's hug, the sun dousing you of it's warm existence Like something that belonged.
Duke had come to the manor young. Too young to have already lost everything.
Bruce hadn't wanted him swallowed by the system, hadn't wanted another kid broken by Gotham's cruelty. Duke had lost his parents, his home, the life he'd been building without ever knowing it would be taken from him. And yet, somehow, he had stayed brave. Openly courageous. The kind of courage that endured.
It reminded [M/N] of Bruce. Duke had learned how to be a Wayne with a grace that surprised everyone. The cameras, the questions, the polite smiles and invasive curiosity of Gotham's elite and he took it all without bitterness. By day, he stood in the light. By night, he stepped willingly into the dark, knowing exactly what it would cost him.
And through it all, he stayed warm.
He had always been kind to [M/N]. Always lingering in doorways, asking careful questions, listening and really listening. Duke never looked at him like he was fragile or expendable. When Duke was around, the manor felt less suffocating. Like fresh air had been let in.
Not that [M/N] didn't love the others. He did. Fiercely. Even with their sharp edges and cold tempers, their brooding, their inherited stubbornness from their father, by blood or not.
But Duke was different.
Duke reminded him of himself, once. Before the years took their toll. Before love became something painful and complicated. He had been full of life back then. Kind without calculation. Open in a way Gotham had slowly beaten out of him. How his family slowly beat it out of him after taken blow after blow in his life.
Orphaned, neglected and restricted to his emotions.
"Hold still." Duke hissed as he moved his hands, the vines coming up and thrusting forwards like tendrils at [M/N] that rolled around them and slides beside the broken fountain that didn't pour out water around its body. [M/N]'s body throbs painfully, like any more injury would cause his entire body to collapse and [M/N], God he wanted it.
But he had kids to get home and a man to save.
"There you are," Duke said softly as he moved.
This time he didn't rely only on the vines. He came in with his whole body, light threading through the tendrils as they lashed forward. Stone cracked as the vines shattered against the fountain's edge, splintering into damp fragments before reforming midair and snapping toward [M/N]'s torso.
[M/N] rolled again, barely fast enough. He collided hard with a cluster of wilted potted plants near the garden wall—for decoration or something that the Beldam had planned? Ceramic shattered. Dead leaves and soil exploded around him.
Pain rippled through his body in brutal waves. He lay there for a moment, stunned, trying to draw breath that wouldn't come cleanly. When he attempted to push himself up, his bones screamed in protest. His ankle refused to bear weight entirely. Somewhere beneath the layers of soaked fabric and hurried bandages, blood was seeping freely now.
His hands shook as he pressed them into the mud, fingers slipping, useless. A strangled gasp tore out of him before he could stop it. He licked his lips without thinking, expecting dust and dryness—only to taste iron. Blood. He must have split it open on stone when he fell. The realization barely registered before exhaustion dragged at him again.
[M/N] tried to rise once more and his footing slipped. His back hit the ground with a dull, hollow thud that knocked the air from his lungs. He lay there, chest heaving, vision swimming as footsteps approached.
Duke stopped a few feet away and looked down at him. Up close, [M/N] could see him clearly now. Not the hero. Not the light-bearer standing against the dark. Just his son. Duke's button eyes reflect the moonlight, reflective and steady, watching every breath [M/N] took, every tremor that betrayed how close he was to the edge. There was no cruelty in that gaze. No triumph.
Only concern and hope.
"Are you done fighting?" Duke asked quietly.
Hope slipped into his voice despite everything. He knelt and reached out a hand, palm open, lowering himself as [M/N] rolled onto his stomach with a pained groan. Mud smeared his face and hair, clinging to his skin. He looked up through it, blinking against the sting in his eyes.
He must have looked terrible. Broken. Filthy. Reduced to something feral and undignified.
"Come on, Dad," Duke said gently. "You're finished. You lost."
The words echoed across the garden, bouncing off stone and hedges. [M/N] flinched despite himself. His gaze slid past Duke's outstretched hand, drifting upward to the moon. It was nearly full now. Only a thin bite of shadow remained along its edge, creeping steadily away.
Time was running out.
He felt it in his bones. In the way his strength refused to return. In the weight pressing down on his chest like a closing door.
The Beldam knew it.
Duke knew it.
"No," [M/N] said at last, voice raw as gravel.
He stared at the offered hand for a long moment before slapping it weakly aside. Duke let it fall without protest, straightening slowly as he stepped back. With a strained, humorless laugh, [M/N] dragged himself upright. He wobbled but stayed standing, swiping blood from his mouth with the sleeve of his already ruined clothes.
"I can still play," he muttered, the words dragged out through pain and stubbornness. He set his feet as best he could, favoring one leg, raising his hands into a simple, instinctive stance. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't strong. But it was defiant.
"Don't do this," Duke said.
There was no pleading in his tone. No manipulation. Just honesty. "I don't want to hurt you."
"I don't want to hurt you either," [M/N] answered, breath hitching as he spoke. "But I will if I have to—"
Duke moved.
Fast. Too fast.
[M/N] barely had time to brace before Duke closed the distance, light flaring as the vines surged again. Instinct took over where strength failed. He raised his arms and blocked, teeth clenched, body screaming as impact rattled through him.
His body didn't respond the way his mind demanded it to.
[M/N] staggered backward, heel catching on a broken lip of the fountain. For a split second he windmilled, eyes widening in alarm and then he went down hard. Stone met his spine with a sickening impact that rattled through his bones.
Duke was already there. Instinct saved him where strength failed. [M/N] caught Duke's fist mid-swing, fingers locking around his wrist with what little force he had left. He shoved it aside and lashed out with his foot, connecting solidly with Duke's chest. The blow knocked the air from him and sent him flipping over [M/N]'s shoulder.
Duke rolled as he landed, just as Bruce had drilled into them all, the mimicking was in detail and came up on his feet in one smooth motion.
He didn't hesitate.
[M/N] scrambled back, breath ragged, arms lifting to block as Duke advanced again. Their movements blurred together—block, parry, retreat. Every strike Duke threw was precise, controlled. Every defense [M/N] managed was slower than the last. His mind raced, desperate for a solution. This wasn't just a fight. It was a memory trying to close around him, tighten, force an ending he didn't want. He needed to stop it. Needed to stop Duke.
But he couldn't outthink it. And he couldn't overpower it.
[M/N]'s relationship with Duke had never been like the others. There had been tension with some of the kids, scars that never quite healed—but not with Duke. Duke had been different. Raised differently. He'd had a life before Gotham swallowed him whole. A family. A warmth that hadn't been carved away in childhood by blood and loss.
It hadn't been perfect, but it had been something-
Oh.
"Duke—please," [M/N] said, panting as he barely managed to block a high kick. His boots skidded through dirt and grass, arms screaming as he braced. "Calm down. I'm sorry—"
"You never did anything wrong to me," Duke snapped. Light flared faintly along his skin, heat blooming where it touched the air. His brow furrowed as he pressed forward, voice sharp but not cruel. "Don't lie to me. I'm not like the others."
[M/N] caught Duke's next kick and shoved it aside, nearly throwing him off balance. His chest heaved as he forced the words out. "You're right. You're not. And sometimes I forget—not all of Gotham is broken."
Duke didn't answer.
The ground answered for him.
Vines erupted from the soil, thick and fast, ripping through the narrow gaps of the garden gate. They coiled around [M/N]'s arms, his torso, his legs, yanking him backward with brutal force. He slammed into the iron bars, pain exploding through his shoulders as the vines tightened.
He fought them, teeth clenched, but Duke only lifted his hand and the vines obeyed.
"You're finished," Duke said quietly, shaking his head. "You lost the game."
"Listen to me," [M/N] begged.
The vines jerked again, snapping his head back against the metal gate. White-hot pain burst behind his eyes as his limbs were pinned tighter, blood seeping anew from reopened wounds. His breathing turned shallow, panicked.
He lifted his head just enough to see it.
Duke's palm, glowing with the brightest manifestation of his power yet. Light and heat coiled together, unbearable in its intensity, moving closer to his face. [M/N] didn't pull away.
He couldn't.
Not when one of his children was hurting. Fear didn't matter now. Pain didn't matter. This—this was what he had always believed he was meant to do, on this Earth or any other. Be there.
"Duke," he said hoarsely, eyes burning as much as his body. "I'm sorry I didn't see how lonely you were becoming. I'm sorry I didn't notice." His voice cracked, words tumbling out despite the pressure building in his skull. "You lost your family. You were thrown into a life that wasn't yours. I should have been there more. I should have—"
A sob broke free.
It cut off abruptly as Duke's palm pressed over his mouth.
The heat was immediate and searing. Duke's hand covered his cheeks, part of his nose, light burning into his skin. [M/N] jerked violently, muscles spasming as the vines tightened further, holding him in place while the pain tore through him.
He wanted to leave. Wanted it to end.
But he stayed, tears streamed from his eyes, soaking his lashes, trailing down his face as his vision blurred. His eyes squeezed shut, body trembling uncontrollably.
Still, he leaned forward into the burn. A soft, broken sound escaped him, muffled against Duke's palm.
He stayed present.
For Duke.
I'm here Duke, I'm here my sun. I'm with you and I'm not leaving you anymore.
“Stop doing that.”
Duke’s voice dropped to a whisper as the light in his palm flickered out. He froze when he felt [M/N] lean into his hand, not recoiling, not fighting, but yielding. Like prey accepting the bite.
“Why are you like this?”
He pulled his hand away abruptly and let out a short, breathless laugh. It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t cruel. It was disbelief—raw and unsettled.
Cold air rushed over [M/N]’s face, stinging where the burn still radiated heat. He made a broken sound when he tried to part his lips. Pain flared sharply; the skin there had been burned so badly it felt fused, torn open when he moved. Copper flooded his mouth. He blinked hard, tears blurring his vision as Duke stepped back. The vines still held him fast.
“You were willing to let me burn your face off,” Duke said, shaking his head slowly. His hand dragged through his short hair, then dropped to his neck, fingers curling there as he exhaled hard. The gesture was achingly familiar; something the real Duke did when he was overwhelmed, when he didn’t know what to do with the weight in his chest.
“And you still didn’t want me to be alone,” Duke continued. “You didn’t want me to be lonely.” He scoffed softly, more at himself than at [M/N]. “How pathetic are you to convince yourself of that? I’m not alone.”
The vines loosened.
They fell away from [M/N]’s limbs all at once, dropping him heavily to his knees. He barely managed to catch himself, a choked whimper slipping free as his arms shook beneath him. Another quiet sob followed before he could stop it.
Duke watched him closely, those dark button eyes unreadable as he stepped nearer. His hand went to the back of his neck again, rubbing at the skin there like he was trying to ground himself.
The mission was simple. It had always been simple, stop [M/N]. Keep him from reaching the last ghost eye. That was what the Beldam wanted.
Duke had seen everything; every memory, every habit, every inflection of the real Duke Thomas. He had studied them, absorbed them, refined them. He had taken those traits and sharpened them into something more controlled, more precise. Something the real Duke could never be, not without losing what made him himself.
In this world, the Duke shaped by the Beldam was stronger. More efficient. More dangerous.
And he hated that.
He hated the real Duke Thomas for it. For having what he never could. A name. A history. A place that didn’t disappear after a few days. The Beldam hunted patiently. Years, if necessary. Clyde’s heart had been drained dry, the girl from the nineties consumed like a quick snack but [M/N] had always been the true endgame.
Duke had been many things before this. A mother. A father. A sibling. Even a family pet, once. Those roles never lasted. A few days. A week, if he was lucky.
But this—this had been different. With [M/N], the part had taken root. Duke wasn’t just playing a role; he had lived it. A metahuman with light in his veins. A home filled with warmth. Purpose threaded through ordinary days into weeks. It had taken weeks to push [M/N] to the edge, to make him doubt which world he belonged in.
For a while, Duke had a life.
Mirrored after the real one but with something dangerously close to identity. He had been someone’s child. He had been [M/N]’s son. Duke swallowed, jaw tightening as he looked down at the man on his knees in the dirt, shaking and bleeding and still trying to be there for him.
“I don’t want to fight you,” he said quietly.
The words slipped out before he could stop them as the Beldam’s will pressed back in, tightening its grip.
“I know,” [M/N] breathed, the sound rough and torn from his chest. Pain rippled through him as the last of the adrenaline kept him upright, kept his body moving when it wanted to fold in on itself. His eyes stayed on Duke, unfocused but intent. “I know. I’m not trying to fight you either.”
He exhaled shakily. His lips trembled as he tried to steady them, tears clinging to his lashes. “And I’m glad,” he added quietly. “I’m glad I’m here with you.”
“You shouldn’t be,” Duke said. His voice was low, strained, as he watched [M/N] shake where he knelt. “You should be screaming at me. At the Beldam.” A short, brittle laugh escaped him as he shook his head. “You should at least be crawling away.”
“I can’t,” [M/N] said, and a weak laugh slipped out despite the pain it caused. He winced, shaking his head. “I don’t think my body has much left. I might not even see my family again after this.”
The thought hurt more than any wound, but it felt honest. Final.
“And I don’t even want to,” he whispered. “I want to stay. I want to be here with you.”
“Even after what I did to you?” Duke’s voice cracked, just slightly. He didn’t look away. “I’m not your real son. I never was.”
“I know,” [M/N] said simply.
With effort, his shaking hand lifted. Slowly, carefully, he reached for Duke’s palm and closed his fingers around it, thumb brushing over his skin. His eyes—tired, aching, still kind—met Duke’s.
“And I’m glad you’re not,” he said gently.
Duke’s fingers curled around his hand without thinking, the tension in his grip easing. Around them, the garden began to fail. Flowers dulled to ash, vines stiffened and crumbled, statues cracked down their middles. The world seemed to be pulling itself apart, like it no longer knew how to hold its shape.
“And I’m glad I met you,” [M/N] continued, his voice wavering as the ground vibrated beneath them. “I got to meet the young man your parents raised. And the one they’ll keep raising, once they heal.” He smiled faintly. “That was a gift.”
A fracture split the air behind them. [M/N] glanced up at the sky. The moon was nearly swallowed now, the button’s shadow creeping across its surface.
If this was the end, then Duke needed to hear it.
“You’re my family,” [M/N] said softly. “No matter what the Beldam decided. No matter what anyone else says.”
“I know,” Duke whispered.
He moved before the world could take him. Carefully, he lifted [M/N] into his arms. [M/N] hissed at the jolt of pain but didn’t pull away. Duke carried him toward the manor steps, grit set in his jaw as the grey crept up his legs, his back, trying to drag him down.
“Do you…?” [M/N] started weakly as the steps came into view.
“Alfred’s in the library,” Duke said through clenched teeth. “He’s waiting. And he’ll do whatever it takes to keep you here—even if it means breaking the rules.”
He set [M/N] down on the steps just as his own knees gave out, crumbling into dust beneath him.
“And this,” Duke said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out something small, resting it in his palm. A seed. Dark and faintly luminous.
The last ghost eye.
Duke’s body was fading now, turning grey, breaking apart. He extended his hand toward [M/N], who smiled and reached for it—A violent rush of air cut between them.
A massive black bat shrieked as it tore through the space, far larger than any [M/N] had ever seen. Its claws snatched the seed in a flash, wings beating hard as it vanished into the sky.
“No—!” [M/N] cried out, lunging forward. Duke did the same, but it was already gone. “No, no—!”
[M/N] collapsed back onto the steps as the garden vanished entirely, Duke dissolving into ash before his eyes. The moon was fully consumed now, the button’s shadow sealing the sky shut.
“I… I lost,” [M/N] whispered, his voice breaking as the world went still.
The silence pressed down on him.
[M/N] lay there with his cheek against the cold stone steps, the world so quiet it rang in his ears. His shoulders shook as the sobs tore out of him, raw and unrestrained. He squeezed his eyes shut, breath hitching again and again, his body feeling impossibly heavy—like he’d been dragged under deep water, lungs burning, limbs too dense to move.
Pain radiated everywhere. Old injuries screamed, new ones flared, and beneath it all was the deeper ache, the kind that hollowed him out from the inside.
He wouldn’t see them again.
The thought landed with brutal clarity. The divorce would go through. Bruce would move on—he always did, because Bruce survived things by moving forward whether he wanted to or not. He would marry someone else, or maybe he wouldn’t, but either way life would keep going without [M/N].
The kids would grow up. They would keep training, keep fighting, keep becoming who they were meant to be. They’d graduate. They’d fall in love. They’d build lives that no longer had room for him in the day-to-day.
He would be a missing person. A cold case. A name carved into a milk carton. If they bury a fake casket, maybe they’d visit once. Maybe twice. On anniversaries. On days that hurt.
His chest seized as the thought twisted deeper.
He wouldn’t be there for graduations. For the awkward introductions to future partners. For weddings. He’d never hold a grandchild. Pretend he wasn’t crying.
Worst of all—And Bruce.
That thought cut sharper than anything else.
“I lost,” [M/N] whispered again, the words breaking apart as they left his mouth. He dragged in a shuddering breath and lifted his head, wiping his face with the heel of his hand. His vision swam as he looked up at the sky.
The moon was nearly gone now, the button’s shadow poised to slide into place.
Then it didn’t.
[M/N] froze.
His breath caught as he stared, confusion cutting through the grief. The shadow stopped and hesitated then shifted. His eyes followed the movement instinctively, tracking where the bat had disappeared earlier.
Something landed heavily on the steps beside him.
[M/N] flinched.
Jerry.
The turkey shook himself once, feathers ruffling, then leaned forward and hacked violently. Something dark and solid clattered against the stone, rolling until it pressed against [M/N]’s trembling fingers.
The seed. The ghost eye.
[M/N] stared at it, then at Jerry, his mouth opening soundlessly.
“How…?” he rasped.
Jerry puffed up slightly, clearly pleased with himself. “Let’s just say birds are a lot better than bats,” he said dryly. Then his gaze sharpened as he looked back at [M/N]. “How far do you think you can go?”
[M/N] swallowed and planted his hands on the railing. His muscles screamed in protest as he forced himself upright, every movement slow and unsteady. His fingers tightened until his knuckles went white, his breath shallow and uneven.
“I can…” He paused, swallowing again. “I can manage a bit more.”
Jerry watched him carefully as they moved toward the back entrance, slipping through the doggy door into the manor. [M/N] fumbled with the door, his strength failing just enough that it slammed open harder than he intended, echoing through the empty room before swinging uselessly on its hinges.
“You’re dying,” Jerry said bluntly as he followed. “You do realize that, right?”
“I know,” [M/N] whispered, his voice barely there. He kept moving anyway, dragging himself forward step by step, the seed clenched tightly in his hand.
Jerry’s feet clicked softly against the floor as he followed behind [M/N]. Each step felt heavier than the last. His body trembled uncontrollably now, adrenaline finally thinning out, pain rushing back in waves that made his vision blur. Everything hurt. His ankle throbbed in time with his pulse, his bandages felt soaked and sticky, and his face burned where Duke’s hand had scorched him, the skin felt tight and angry with every breath he took.
His body wanted to shut down. He didn’t.
They reached the library doors, tall and familiar, the carved wood looming in front of him. Jerry hopped once, then twice, feathers rustling as he settled near [M/N]’s shoe.
“Do you even know what you’re gonna do?” Jerry asked, head tilting as his sharp eyes tracked [M/N]’s unsteady posture. “You look half-dead.”
[M/N] huffed out something that might have been a laugh if it didn’t hurt so much. His hand closed around the brass doorknob, fingers stiff, knuckles trembling. He twisted it but didn’t push yet.
“I know,” he said quietly. His voice wavered, raw and thin, his throat dry and aching. “I just… need to finish it. Then I’ll get Alfred home.”
The words felt fragile, like they might collapse if he pressed too hard on them. Jerry puffed up slightly, feathers ruffling before he settled again. “Yeah,” he said more softly. “I figured.”
Then, with a small hop closer, he added, “I’ll be with you.”
[M/N] didn’t argue. He didn’t have the strength. He only nodded once, shallow breath hitching, and pushed the door open.
The lights were already on.
The sight hit him like a blow to the chest. They were there. All of them.
His family sat on the couches, bound and bruised, shoulders slumped, heads tilted at unnatural angles from exhaustion. Thick fabric was wrapped around their mouths, gagging them. Their suits were torn, faces marked with old and new injuries. Dick’s posture was rigid even restrained. Jason’s eyes burned with fury despite the bindings. Tim looked pale and tired. Damian was still, too still, jaw clenched hard. Cassandra’s gaze was sharp, tracking everything. Stephanie’s eyes were wide. Duke—his real Duke—sat tense, shoulders drawn tight, light flickering faintly under his skin.
His husband, his Bruce sat in the most comfortable chair in the library, his eyes narrowed then relaxed. [M/N] saw his body relaxed once Bruce saw him, still tense at the situation but relief hit Bruce like a train.
[M/N]’s knees nearly buckled at the sight.
The moon outside was fully consumed now, the button shadow locked into place, casting a warped glow through the glass. The figure turned slowly, movement wrong in a way that made [M/N]’s stomach twist.
The body had stretched unnaturally. Skin split in fine cracks along the arms and neck, as though something underneath was forcing its way out. Hands that once felt familiar—steady, strong—were gone. In their place were sewing needles, dozens of them, emerging from where fingers should have been, threaded into the flesh of his forearms and torso like grotesque jewelry. His clothes strained over the distorted frame, seams pulling tight, fabric threatening to tear. The other Bruce's eyes, the buttons seem to be darker than the dark blue buttons that were there.
The Beldam lifted a wineglass to his lips and took an unhurried sip, eyes never leaving [M/N].
“Hello, dear,” he said pleasantly, head tilting as his gaze swept over [M/N] from head to toe. His smile widened, sharp and fond all at once.
“You look so fucking beautiful.”