Chapter Text
Bruce didn’t expect to wake up after his death, as it were. Yet here he was, in his bed in the master bedroom of the manor, blinking up at the ceiling in deep confusion.
…Was it all a dream? The kind of vivid, gut-wrenching nightmare born of an unholy amalgamation of his most clandestine fears that would live on only in his psyche, if only to haunt him? Darkseid didn’t exist… did he?
He sat up, blinking around his room, bleary-eyed and disoriented. Almost immediately, things that were wrong began to jump out at him. He jerked out of the bed, nearly getting tangled in his sheets in the rush.
His room no longer looked as he remembered it. Most obviously wrong was his collage of photographs of his kids. It was gone, only a lone picture of Dick as a nine-year-old smiling at him from the wall across from the bed. It was kept company by only one other framed picture, the last known photo of his parents that was taken a few weeks before their death. He could have sworn that he’d moved it to his study years ago.
As he looked around, more details were apparent. The patch of wall where the paint was subtly different in the morning light from when Jason and Dick rough-housed in here as teens was gone. It was as smooth as if Jason’s knobbly, thirteen-year-old knees had never slammed into it. The window latch he distinctly remembered setting up a new trap on a few months ago was undone, unprotected. Even the sheets he had halfway pulled off the bed were wrong. Alfred insisted on replacing them with fancier silk some time ago.
Except none of that had happened. Dick’s ninth birthday was last week, when the photo smiling across the room at Bruce was taken. The boy certainly was not going to be jumping over the rooftops at night with Bruce, regardless of whatever involvement Bruce had allowed him to have during the investigation of the Zucco fiasco. Catwoman had approached him on a rooftop last month, flirtatious, sharp, and very suspicious. He was still giddy. Arkham had a breakout a couple of weeks ago, and he was still looking for his newest rogue, the Joker. On top of all that, Bruce was barely being an okay parent to one child, let alone however many dream-him had acquired.
He slowed his heart down to its usual, calmer rhythm. It was just a deeply unpleasant dream. No need to panic.
Bruce didn’t get any more time to catalogue the differences his investigative brain was noticing before charging footsteps heralded his door slamming open, revealing Dick in all his nine-year-old glory, posing like Superman in his elephant-themed pajamas..
“Morning, B! Alfred is-!… M-making… pancakes…”
Dick stared at him, face falling from his characteristic cheeky grin to horror as his face drained of all color.
“Dick?”
“I remember,” Dick whispered.
Bruce was immediately rooted to the spot with dread, staring wide-eyed at his foster son.
“I died. So did-” Dick’s voice broke, unable to finish the sentence, but forged on ahead. “Darkseid came back from the dead to murder us all. Please, please tell me you remember, Bruce!” The whisper turned to a panicked shout, and Dick grabbed his short hair in distress.
Bruce’s heart skipped a beat at seeing Dick’s too-young, ashen face, then dropped unsteadily to his knees as the realization set in. “The dream… It was real.”
Dick’s nine-year-old body suddenly proved it could not handle the enormity of his emotions as he burst into uncontrollable tears.
Bruce lurched into motion, scooping his boy up into a hug and kneeling on the floor with him in his lap. They clutched each other tightly until Dick’s inconsolable tears ran out. Bruce discreetly wiped away a few tears of his own. Once Dick was reduced to the occasional sniffle, Bruce asked his most burning question.
“Dick, Chum, did Alfred act like he knew?”
“I-I don’t know! I didn’t know either until I saw you. Then I remembered everything all at once.”
“Hm.”
He stood up, lifting Dick easily in his arms. Dick looked up at his face with eyes reddened from crying, still clinging to Bruce’s neck with one arm and rubbing tears from his face with the other. “What if he doesn’t? What if we look crazy?”
Bruce looked Dick in the eye, a brief spark of amusement making him say, “I already hop around on rooftops dressed as a bat to punch bad guys. I guarantee you, he already thinks that. He’ll just be disappointed that I infected you with a new brand of insanity.”
Dick spluttered out a laugh. “Oh, yeah, probably.” His smile faded. “If he remembers too, does that mean the, uh, dream memories are real?”
Bruce frowned but didn’t say anything, carrying his son to breakfast. Dick didn’t bother trying to wiggle down as had been his habit lately, usually accompanied by complaining that he was too big. Dream him, a fully grown man and vigilante, hadn’t been casually picked up by Bruce in years. It was nice.
They reached the doorway to the kitchen, and Bruce paused just as Alfred was flipping the last pancake onto the platter, turning the griddle off and starting the sink to fill one side with hot water before turning around with the stacked pancakes to take them to the table.
“Master Dick, will you be having maple syrup today or strawberry?” He asked before his eyes landed on the two standing grimly on the threshold.
Their fears were realized as Alfred froze, eyes widening slightly in shock. “Oh. I think I need to sit down.”
He dropped the pancake platter on the counter with a loud, uncontrolled clack before taking a half step sideways to drop unceremoniously onto a stool, one that had been brought out to reach a high cabinet and had not yet been put away. He buried his face in his hands.
Bruce let Dick down at the first wriggle, following the boy to kneel next to Alfred, putting a steady hand on the butler’s shoulder. Dick hugged him tightly.
They stayed like that for only a minute, when the steady sound of the sink filling turned to water running over the middle divider. Bruce quickly stood and turned it off. When he turned back around, Alfred was recovering and sat up, taking in their equally somber faces. “How long have you recalled this… this dire future?”
“I just remembered, too, Alfie. Bruce, when did you remember?"
Bruce shook his head. "When I woke up this morning, I recalled everything like it had been a long, strange dream. I was dismissing it as a nightmare until Dick came in and remembered, too."
The small family was silent for a minute, each wrapped up in decades of memories they hadn't lived yet. Finally, Alfred sighed and stood up. "Master Bruce, Master Richard. The pancakes are getting cold. I believe it would be beneficial to have full stomachs while we digest this information.” Alfred raised an eyebrow at Bruce. "It would also be to your advantage to be dressed when you come and sit at the table."
Both Bruce and Dick looked down at themselves. While Dick at least had full pajamas on, Bruce had been walking around in just his black boxers. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Ah, excuse me. I'll be right back."
"Me too! Strawberry syrup, please!" Dick exclaimed and dashed down the hallway without waiting. Bruce followed more sedately, body moving on autopilot as his mind whirled. Everything was set out by the time they returned, including fresh mugs of coffee and hot chocolate. They were surprised to find Alfred setting a place for himself as well, since he rarely joined them at the table during meals.
"Master Richard, I have taken the liberty to excuse you from school for the rest of the week. I cited a family emergency."
"Really? Awesome!" Dick had put on his school clothes, including the obligatory necktie, which had been tied very loosely. Hastily, he yanked it from around his neck, tossing it onto the table beside his plate. Spirits lifted, he eagerly served himself two pancakes and drowned them in the strawberry syrup. It made both Bruce and Alfred smile dimly as Dick began his usual chatter about his friends at school and the upcoming fourth grade graduation.
Unlike the nine-year-old who seemed largely recovered, Bruce wasn't able to even briefly forget. He did his best to talk to Dick and keep track of the conversation, but his mind was plagued with a spiraling mess of questions and research he was going to need to address.
But worst of all was the mistakes that future Bruce made by favoring the mission over his family. By treating them like they were just missions, too. The decisions he made and the reasons for them seemed sound to him, in theory, until he recalled how the kids reacted. How betrayed they were by things that sounded like far-fetched reasons to him, until the reality of it was pointed out. He could easily see himself doing those things unwittingly again. So, how to fix his blindspots before they bit him?
"Bruce?" He blinked and looked up from his pancakes, only to discover both Alfred and Dick looking at him. They had finished eating, and Alfred was already gathering dishes. Bruce had barely even touched his coffee. His stomach rolled at the thought of another bite.
"Yes, Dick?”
"What are we going to do about everyone else? I don't think Damien has even been born yet? Will they remember too, if they see us?”
Bruce shook his head. "I don't know yet, chum." He hesitated and quietly resolved to do better with trusting his children this time around. "We are going to need a plan. Do you want to come down into the cave and help me?”
Dick beamed. "Yes! I don't have to convince you to let me be Robin again, do I? Because I was almost ready to show you my design that I wanted for my first costume."
Bruce would claim the sigh was involuntary. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to wait a while and enjoy your childhood more, could I?”
The stink eye he received from Dick was legendary.
"Then there's no point, since you won that battle once already.”
"Yes!" Dick jumped out of his seat and pumped his fists. "I'll go get my sketches and be right down!" He scampered away back to his room once more.
“Alfred, do you think I can impose a rule that future heroes have to be at least ten to start patrolling?”
"Hm, perhaps a yardstick that says you must be at least three feet tall to be a vigilante.”
Bruce laughed rawly, found his own appetite was restored, and quickly finished his breakfast. He would need the energy to keep up with a nine-year-old Dick Grayson.