Chapter Text
“Tell me, Master Bruce. Does my alternate decorate better than I do?”
Bruce looked up from checking the signal strength on the dimensional gateway and examined the room. Clearly the parlor, but the walls were painted rust red and its white furniture stood out like shattered bones. In any flight of fancy where he'd imagined an alternate world with its own Wayne Manor he'd never pictured anything so alien. “I’m not sure you have an alternate, Alfred.”
He could be wrong. That was why he was in an uncomfortably stiff dress shirt and slacks instead of his much more comfortable other suit, but there’d been no Alfred at tea with his double yesterday. No one else either.
The other Bruce hadn’t had children but it sounded like he’d been interested in the idea. He’d asked about Dick, how old he was, what he looked like. Only Dick, because Bruce hadn't been able to stomach saying he'd had two sons. Past tense. Maybe his alternate would bring on a ward soon and this manor wouldn’t feel so much like a tomb. Bruce’s footsteps echoed in the hall and he ducked into the study.
“I’m one of a kind I suppose. A sobering thought. Do be careful sir.”
“I’m always careful.”
So careful he’d put a backdoor access into the other Bruce's security system and opened a rift once he'd left the manor. There were papers and graphs on the study wall denoting strange machinery. A wide wooden desk covered in papers, electrical fuses, and coffee rings. His alternate seemed to have a thing for tech. They shared a similarity other than their face after all.
“Remember you’re in an entirely new world," Alfred said. “There may be threats you haven’t even dreamed of.”
“I’m aware, Alfred.”
“And I’m aware you may not be thinking clearly. This is dangerous, Master Bruce. I understand you wish to keep busy but…”
“This has nothing to do with him.”
They both knew who he was talking about so he didn’t have to say his name. Using it still made the breath catch in Bruce's throat. Made pain slice into his chest like it meant to carve out his ribs. It would fade eventually. It had to.
Bruce started downloading the contents of the study's computer onto a flash drive and looked up at the portrait over the desk. Alternate Bruce on the wall with his parents. Thomas Wayne was clean shaven. Martha was blond. This wasn’t about keeping busy. His alternate had left his tea invitation in the parlor of Wayne manor.
Showing off, inviting him to help demonstrate the capabilities of his new dimensional cutter. The other Bruce had been friendly but disturbing. Every smile had looked like the rictus of a skull. Bruce couldn't tell if his distaste was real or simply his own body's instinctive outraged response to its own double.
The download completed with a whirr and Bruce pulled the flash drive free. Now just to get it home, reverse engineer the technology, and put a lock on it coming through the manor. No one was allowed to simply waltz into his house like that. Not even himself. He left the study.
“Heading back.”
“Very good, sir. I’ve taken the liberty of getting lunch ready. A pasta dish from France, the cheese is aged…”
Bruce stepped into the kitchen and came to a dead stop.
A boy was looking at him. Staring stricken from his spot at the counter where he'd just opened a cabinet door. Slim, about thirteen or fourteen. Broad shoulders that showed he might be big enough to be imposing one day. Short black hair, green eyes, and hard edges on fine, striking features. The rush of blood in Bruce's ears rose to a roar that drowned out Alfred’s words.
Jason’s eyes widened and Bruce saw his son’s fingers tighten on the cabinet door until the blood leached from his knuckles. “What are you doing here?”
***
What the fuck are you doing here was how Jason asked it in his head. Bruce was at a conference. A six hour conference so the manor was supposed to be safe. Jason was wearing his favorite ratty t-shirt and looking for cereal that he’d planned to eat straight out of the box because who the hell cared about germs when you were living with a freak like Bruce Wayne?
There was no reply. Bruce looked like he’d seen a ghost. Stock still and staring. The strangeness of it made Jason’s blood run cold, and then Bruce whispered his name and went for him. Jason saw him coming and recoiled, but everything was too fucking weird and he didn’t move quick enough to keep Bruce from throwing his arms around him.
No. No. Jason was supposed to be safe. Bruce was supposed to be gone, not wrapped around him like some gut sucking spider. His body was pressed against him, hard muscle of his chest jutting into his and Jason didn't remember Bruce being so damn big, he could snap him in half, he probably would at some point. Bruce's hands shifted, pulling him closer and they were about to go under Jason's shirt, force him over the counter. He couldn't fucking take it right now. He broke, shoving him away.
Bruce released him, letting go far too easily and Jason skittered backwards, forcing a gap, but not running. Bruce was like a dog. If Jason ran he'd get chased. He had to play this carefully. Be nice. Put on a customer service voice like they did at the burger joint when someone was drunk, armed, and wanted chicken nuggets.
“You're supposed to be at a conference.” State the problem. Paste on a smile. Not too big, or he'd think it was a come on. “Did you forget something?”
“I…” It looked like Bruce was trying to remember how to speak. Probably drunk even though it was barely noon. Wouldn’t be the first time. “I forgot my wallet.”
“I’ll help you find it. Don’t want to be late, right?” Late meant he’d cancel. Canceling meant six hours were freed up. Jason’s teeth were trying to chatter. Bruce was so much bigger than he was and right now he was drawn to his full height, broad shoulders back, some weird light source in the kitchen giving his gray eyes a blue tint. Even his hair seemed darker. Was this how he looked at parties? Powerful and dangerous. No wonder no one ever came to his house and found the kid he was keeping as a plaything.
“I found it,” Bruce said simply. He was standing there, staring at him like he was the only thing in the room. Targeted. Jason’s stomach twisted into a helpless knot of fury and dread.
“What do you want?” he asked quietly. The words were thick in his throat, stubborn like molasses. Do it quick, and he might still leave. Just a few nauseating minutes instead of six hours.
Bruce’s brow furrowed. “I don't want anything.”
The fury grew, thrashing against Jason's ribs like a snake. Like hell. Bruce was playing with him. Looking all confused and innocent. A game. Jason wouldn't play it. He felt his mouth curve into a half crazed smile, threatening to crack at the edges like thin glass. “Liar.”
Bruce didn't respond to his goading. “Where did you get that bruise?”
The one on his cheekbone? From Bruce’s stupid ring he always wore after Jason had kicked him in the dick. It had been worth it. Bruce hadn't been able to get it up afterwards. What the hell was this question? “Are you drunk?”
“Tell me.”
“You gave it to me.” Deliberately Jason bit down on his tongue, just hard enough to draw blood and watched Bruce through hooded eyes, waiting for the inevitable violent snap. “But I got you better.”
“I hit you?” Bruce looked him up and down, slow and Jason’s stomach clenched when his eyes focused on the thin scar down the middle of his wrist. His eyes narrowed. “What about that scar?”
This must have been a lead up to a punishment. Like some horrific perversion of a chiding dad. Tell me what you did wrong. I’m very disappointed in you chum, you’ll have to make it up to me. Jason's skin broke out in a cold sweat, muscles tensing in helpless sick fear. He didn't let the emotion show. If he was going to be punished he'd earn it.
"I did that one. Kitchen knife." Jason held up his other hand. Show them all. I'm not scared of you. "Your shaving razor." He tapped the old circular scar on his neck. “Screwdriver.”
“Why?”
“Because fuck you, that’s why.”
Bruce shifted quietly, head cocking like he was listening to something. Probably the devil on his shoulder telling him to break Jason’s fingers again.
“Have I told you about alternate realities?”
"What the hell are you..." Even being drunk wasn't an excuse for this kind of conversation. Jason took a step back, shifting his weight, weighing how easy it would be to make a break for it. Stay calm. Be nice. “Yeah. Yeah, you met yourself yesterday. Opened up a gateway with your tech. You're a fucking genius, good for you."
As a matter of fact, Bruce had been acting weird since that meeting. Jason had been hiding under the bed because Bruce had made a joke that he and his alter might come to his room and play with him together. Luckily when Bruce had dragged him out by the hair later he'd been alone, but he'd gripped Jason by the jaw and asked if he’d prefer the name Dick. Had said it a few times, thoughtful.
Then the name had clearly make him think of other shit and he'd unbuckled his belt and Jason hadn't been able to answer for a while. Jason fought the sudden urge to spit on the floor. He'd brushed his teeth. Swished half a bottle of Listerine. His mouth was fucking sanitized.
Bruce was still staring and his expression was unnerving. So much softer than it ever was. It was confusing as shit, nothing was making sense, and then Jason took in his eyes and felt a falling sensation in his stomach when he realized it wasn't weird kitchen lighting. Bruce's eyes were blue. Ice blue. “I'm not your Bruce,” he said, and Jason bolted.
Bruce caught him before he'd even gotten a full step in, hand darting out quick as lightning to grab his arm. Jason struggled, punching and kicking. “Let go of me. Let go!”
“I'm not going to hurt you. Listen to me. Alfred, I know, I'll be there in a minute.” He was holding Jason’s arms, keeping him in place, expertly twisted so his legs couldn't make contact with Bruce’s shins and Jason was going to start screaming in a minute and he wouldn't be able to stop.
“Let go of me," he gasped out. This one wanted him too? Was he fucking Wayne catnip or something? There was a version of him in that world too wasn't there? “You have your own fucking Jason, let me go!”
A spasm of pain went over Bruce’s face but his voice remained level. “Jason. I won't hurt you. If my alter is hurting you, I'll take you with me.”
“Fuck you, you're lying!” The other one had said that too. When he'd grabbed him off the street and told him he'd keep him safe and warm. Later that night when Jason had been bleeding and choking on tears and vomit Bruce had reminded him that he should have asked how he'd be paying for the kindness.
Bruce wasn't talking to him. “Alfred, I am thinking clearly. He’s malnourished. There's bruising. I can't leave him like this.”
“You’re crazy, who's Alfred?”
“My butler.” Bruce said it like it was perfectly normal to be talking to your butler through an earpiece. There was no butler in Wayne manor. What kind of weird…
Jason froze. Stopped struggling so quickly that Bruce probably thought he'd fainted. There was an Alfred in that world when there wasn't one here. There was someone else too.
The other Bruce was obsessed with Batman. Followed his progress across a whole dimension. Said he reminded him of a dream he’d had in his childhood. His obsession left the manor littered with news articles so Jason knew about him too. Read everything he could get his hands on. There was a real superhero in Gotham, just a dimension over.
If Batman was in this world Bruce would never have been able to even touch him. He could save him. Could throw this Bruce Wayne in jail, use one of his fancy gadgets to come through dimensions and beat the hell out of the one here too. Before he could grab another kid like he'd threatened. He could do it. He could do anything.
Jason clutched onto Bruce’s arm, desperate, trying not to hurt him. “Take me with you,” he said. Breathed it, utter terror flooding through his body at the thought that Bruce would take his invitation back because he'd been difficult. “I was… I was scared.” He swallowed hard. “I won't fight you anymore.”
Those blue eyes were even paler than the gray ones, but they seemed warmer. Like the ice could melt. Slowly Bruce released him, helping him balance before he let go.
“We have to move. The rift won't stay open much longer. Anything you need from the house, get it now.”
Jason was suddenly glad he'd worn his thin, frayed T-shirt. It was the only thing he liked. Museum memorabilia with a dinosaur on it. His mom had bought it before she'd passed away. He'd been wearing it when Bruce brought him home, and everything else in his backpack had been burned. “There's nothing. We can go now.”
The rift was in the parlor and the sight of it made the hair rise on the back of Jason's neck. A gash in the air, pulsing red like a wound. Bruce fiddled with something and it tore wider. It looked like a red mouth. Jason suppressed a shiver. Bruce turned to him. “Take my hand.”
The fingers gaped like a steel trap. Jason took it, fighting back a cringe when Bruce's fingers closed around his. He was tugged forward and didn't resist, shoulders tight, legs feeling like jelly.
“The rift is unstable,” Bruce said, bringing him up alongside him. “Don't let go. We step together on the count of three. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
The rift opened wider, and then Jason could see a room through it, glittering with a red sheen. It looked like the parlor in Wayne manor. Chills were running up his spine. Bruce’s hand tightened around his and he focused on his voice, listening to the count. He could do this, he wasn't some toddler.
“Three.”
They stepped together, Jason watching Bruce’s step to make sure he was matching it. Last thing he needed was to get lost between dimensions and turned into spaghetti. Tingling washed over his body, pins and needles, frost and heat, and then they were through and he was gasping in a breath.
They really were in the parlor but it was different. The space felt more open, light walls and cream couches. A coffee table that looked like it cost as much as a sports car. Jason yanked his hand out of Bruce's grip and came face to face with a thin older man in a suit, gray hair and a mustache.
“Master Bruce…” The man said, but Bruce interrupted.
“I made the right call, Alfred.” Low, authoritative. Jason flinched at the sound because this skinny little butler was about to get his ass whipped but Alfred didn't seem frightened. His mouth pursed and then to Jason's disbelief he put a hand on Bruce’s shoulder.
“I understand, sir.”
Bruce stared at him and for a split second Jason saw something fragile in his pale blue eyes. Then Bruce pulled his phone out of his pocket and started checking something on it. Alfred's attention turned to Jason. His expression was tight. Carefully controlled.
“Master Jason. Wonderful to make your acquaintance. Welcome to Wayne manor.”
That wasn't the way he'd expected Bruce Wayne's butler to speak to him. Jason blinked, shifting his weight, and tried his hand at being polite too. His mom didn't raise a barbarian. “Thank you, sir.”
“Just Alfred will suffice.”
Bruce pressed something on his phone and the rift closed with a snap. He'd probably turned the dimensional array into an app. Rich people were fucking crazy. He turned on Jason. “Do you need medical attention?”
Those eyes were looking him over again, crawling over his body. Like hell was he going to get naked for some medical exam. “I'm fine. Nothing wrong with me.”
“If you're uncomfortable…”
“I'm fine.” Jason tamped down on growing hysteria. Maybe this Bruce liked to play doctor. Other Bruce did, occasionally. He'd tested a serum on him once. Paralyzed anything below the puncture point, but you could still feel everything. Cobbled it together himself so he could put it in a ring with a needle that he wore on his finger like some edgelord supervillain. The helplessness had been sheer hell. It wasn't happening again.
“In that case, perhaps lunch,” Alfred said hopefully. Bruce shook his head.
“I need to analyze the data. Should be done in a few hours. Show Jason around, please.”
Another glance was shot his way and then Bruce walked off like Jason was barely worth his interest. That was better than he could have imagined. Jason released a shaking breath. Now he just had to play nice for Alfred. The butler's back was ramrod straight and Jason tried surreptitiously to pull his shoulders back to match the man's posture.
“Well then, Master Jason, lunch requires approximately fifteen more minutes," Alfred gestured for him to follow and turned on a heel. "Let me give you a tour. I presume our manor differs from yours somewhat.”
Cold air blew over Jason’s shoulders, cutting through his t-shirt. They had the air conditioning down to arctic levels. Jason didn’t need a tour. Every room in the house got familiar when you hadn't set foot outside in a year. The parlor's couch caught his eye as he went by. Different color, same location. Bruce had screwed him on it a few months ago. Had fucked him in most of the rooms by now. Jason thought he had a checklist going. He shoved his hands in his jean pockets and followed after Alfred.
“Here's the kitchen. Feel free to go through the cupboards and help yourself to anything you find.” Alfred showed him the tile kitchen, huge with its island and fancy fridge. Jason's mind helpfully started its own checklist and supplied the location for that room too. By the fridge. On his knees. He took a breath and shoved the thought away.
This whole place was different. The bones of it were the same, he could see the ghost of the other Wayne manor everywhere he looked, but the colors and furniture and pictures were different. It even smelled different. Clean and fresh. A butler made a hell of a difference. Alfred took him down a hallway.
“And through here is a bathroom.” Alfred leaned through the doorway and flicked on the light, illuminating gleaming porcelain and a mirror. Jason's brain checked off another box. That one was easy. Shower. Was his brain playing a fucking joke? It felt like he could see it happening. See Bruce leaning over him, shoving him against the tile wall while he choked and sputtered on water. His heart was beating fast, there was a miserable sick feeling in his gut.
“Master Jason?” Alfred asked quietly and he had the painful thought that he didn’t want the butler to watch what his brain was playing out for him. It felt real. He could hear the water running. Taste it in his mouth mixed with the whiskey Bruce had been drinking. His face flushed.
“I know the house. I don't need a tour.” Pathetic. Pleading. He was shaking like a leaf and nothing was even happening. Alfred’s face softened.
“Of course. You must be exhausted. Forgive me, I thought you might be curious to see how our manor differs from yours. I'll take you to your room, Master Jason.”
He walked him down the hall. There were portraits. Different from the pictures of Bruce’s face or the rare work in the other manor. This one had pictures of his family. Old people Jason assumed were Bruce's grandparents. A couple he recognized roughly as Thomas and Martha Wayne. A few of a black haired kid with bright blue eyes that made Jason’s stomach twist. Another portrait went by and he stopped dead.
His own face was staring back at him. The boy was a bit bigger, with some muscle on his frame and shorter hair. Dressed in a red shirt and a white button up and giving a cocky grin to the camera. Jason’s mouth went dry. His ears were ringing. Alfred came up next to him.
“Master Jason Todd. Master Bruce’s son.” Alfred had his hands behind his back, clasped politely. “I’m afraid he passed away recently. We are all still grieving. I’m… terribly sorry.”
This world’s Jason was dead? Fucking dead? This Bruce had gotten his claws in him and now he was six feet below ground and Bruce had got himself a new model. Jason dimly realized he wasn’t breathing. That didn’t seem like much of a problem compared to seeing his own dead face. His head swam, mounting nausea threatening to make him retch. Alfred saw his face and held up a hand.
“Master Jason died in an accident. A… kidnapping gone wrong. Are you all right?”
“I…” No he wasn’t all right. Nothing was all right. Morbid curiosity reared its head, mixed with a curious protective feeling towards the boy in the picture. He looked good. Better than he did. He swallowed and managed to suck in enough air to speak. “Did he suffer? Do you know?”
A flash of pain went over Alfred’s face. A break in the sophisticated persona that almost made Jason embarrassed he’d seen it. It took far too long for him to answer and the silence settled on Jason’s shoulders like a weight. He didn’t need the answer. He knew it already. “I dearly hope he did not.”
Maybe Jason was going to be sick. All over the hall floor. It wouldn’t be too bad. He hadn’t eaten, there’d be nothing more objectionable than bile since Bruce hadn’t made him suck him off today. He had a headache. “Where’s my room?”
“Just here.” Alfred showed him into a bedroom at the end of the hall. A guest bedroom in his world. Bruce had given him a bedroom right next to his for easy access and that one was further down the hall. “Master Jason’s old room. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll bring some lunch for you in a moment, so don’t be alarmed by a knock.”
He left and Jason let himself look around. The bedroom was huge, with a king sized bed in the middle of the room made with red blankets. A few black and white posters for plays adorned the walls. Gone with the Wind, The Phantom of the Opera. He liked plays, his mom had taken him to a few when he was a little kid. There was a desk with one of those green lamps Jason saw in libraries, a collection of notebooks and pens. Jason walked slowly around the bed and ran his fingers over a glass designer case of knives, wickedly sharp and lethal.
He tried to open it but it was locked. Knives were cool, it would make him feel safer to carry one. A lump grew in his throat when he pulled open the dressers and saw a bunch of clothes, some of them folded neatly and others just stuffed into the drawers. Like their owner was coming back in just a second. Was this what Jason would be like if Bruce Wayne had actually meant what he’d said back then? A picture by the nightstand caught his eye and he picked it up.
His mom stared back at him. Hair longer than the pixie cut she’d favored, but the smile was the same. The face was the same. A raw wound split open his ribs and he forced in breaths through his swelling throat. Mom. The only picture he’d ever had of her had been burned and her face had been going fuzzy at the edges. Carefully he touched the glass, covering her long hair with his thumb.
A knock at the door made him jump and he dropped the picture, barely catching it before it hit the ground and shattered the glass. He fumbled it back onto the table and ran back across the room to open the door.