Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Tim, say cheese!” 

In the overcast Gotham gloom, a full-powered camera flash is dazzling. It makes Tim wince and rub at his eyes, while the older boy who holds him giggles and tugs him a bit closer. “Aw, you blinked! It’s okay. We’ll do one more shot. Big smile!” 

Tim wipes his eyes again and nods, willing to do anything if it will make the other boy smile. He is four years old, and he has never been held this way. He gets hugs from his parents, sure, and is often carried by his father or the nannies, but this? This is different. This is warm and inviting and somehow so, so familiar. 

He rests his cheek on the older boy’s shoulder, wanting nothing more than to stay there, in this moment, in this embrace, forever. 

But, all too soon, the cameras flash again and the moment passes. The circus boy — Dick, the posters say his name is the Magnificent Flying Dick Grayson — sets Tim on his feet and ruffles his hair. “Watch for my show, okay? I’ll do my best trick, just for you. Be good now.” 

And Tim nods again, unable to speak in his awe. He commits every note of those words to memory. Then he’s handed back to his mother and, in a blink, the boy and his beautiful parents are gone.

“What lovely people,” he hears his mother say. “This will make such a nice souvenir. Come along now. We don’t want to be late.”

They take him into the big tent, which smells awful, but then the show begins and he doesn’t even notice. It’s like magic. There’s a strong-man, and a man who shoots himself out of canons, and all sorts of people in colorful costumes doing tricks with rings and balls on the floor. And above it all, in the center of attention, are the Flying Graysons.

It’s magical, watching them fly. The greatest show in the world.

Right up until it — and they — come crashing down. 

“Horrible.”

Mother is holding him too tight. He can feel her nails through his shirt. When he squirms, she pulls him closer, and one hand moves to cup across his eyes. 

“It’s horrible. We need to leave, we need to get him out of here…”

Tim doesn’t really understand what’s happening. He knows that something went wrong, that Dick’s parents fell, that they’re hurt and not getting up and they might be…no. Could they be dead?

The word doesn’t seem real. Out in the ring, adults are freaking out. People are shouting, running. The crowd is starting to move. But Tim’s eyes are on Dick. Dick, scrambling down the ladder from the high platforms. Reaching the sawdust-strewn earth. Standing there, beside his unmoving parents.

He’s alone. He’s alone, and nobody cares. 

Mother pulls at his shoulders. “Tim, sweetie, come on. There’s been a…an accident, we need to…”

He wrenches away from her and dives between the nearest couple. 

“Tim!”

His father joins in calling his name, but Tim doesn’t stop for him either. Soon their shouts are lost to the crowd. Tim pushes and dodges his way between faceless adults until he finally reaches the front. He catches himself on the steel guard-rail and looks up just in time to see Batman arrive. 

Tim’s jaw drops as the shadow descends from on high, landing solidly among the chaos of the circus ring. Batman spares the broken bodies a glance, but only just, before turning to Dick. A dark hand reaches out to rest on Dick’s shoulder. It turns him away from his parents, a warm shadow that guards against the tragedy. Tim strains his ears and catches snippets of a soft whisper: “Come…There’s nothing…for them now…”

Though fear still grips Tim’s heart, it's lifted somewhat by the knowledge that Dick, at least, is taken care of.

Then the crowd suddenly surges, panic setting in at the proximity of death and darkness. Tim loses his grip and gets swept up by the mob, carried towards the exits without anyone knowing that he’s there. Someone kicks him on accident. He hits the ground and rolls, barely dodging another foot that would have hit his head. 

Someone screams and people start running. Panic takes hold. Tim cover his head with his hands and cries for his mother.

As if in answer, strong hands pluck him up off the ground. Tim finds himself hoisted into the arms of a stranger, who covers his head and tucks him against their chest in a protective embrace. 

“Gotcha,” they whisper. “Just hold on tight now.”

Tim does as he’s told, gripping leather and cotton tight as they’re jostled by the crowd, his protector’s arms guarding him from the worst blows. They elbow their way through the crowd before, eventually, breaking out past the tent’s entrance and away from the mob,  ducking to one side so they’re well clear of the other circus patrons. 

It’s sunset now, the fairgrounds streaked with deep orange and rich red-gold. Tim waits until he’s sure they won’t be jostled again before risking a glance up at his rescuer. As he does, he feels drops hit his hair, then his forehead. The man holding him is young, and handsome, and he’s crying. His face is hard, like he’s trying to keep it all in, but that doesn’t stop the tears from pooling down his cheeks.

Tim wipes his own tears — born of fear and drying already — off on his sleeves before reaching up to rub at the man’s cheeks with his hands. They’re small and soft compared to his smooth skin and sharp cheekbones. At the first touch, the man startles in surprise. But he doesn’t drop Tim, and doesn’t pull away as the little fingers start rubbing the wetness from his cheeks.

“It’s okay, Mister,” Tim sniffles, for once not thinking about what he wants to say. The words bubble up from a place that doesn’t have to make sense, they just have to feel real. “It’s okay to cry. That was really scary, in there. And sad.” He feels his own tears returning and doesn’t try to reign them back in. “So it’s okay. It’s okay to be sad. I…I’m sad too.”

For a moment, the young man only stares. Then his handsome face crumbles, and the tears freely flow. Tim stretches up as far as he can and gives the man a big hug. It’s all he can think of to do. He can’t make it better, but at least he can helped the nice man a little. Nice people don’t deserve to be sad. 

Soon, too soon, he hears his mother and father shouting his name. They emerge from the crowd, and the young man turns Tim around to see them before setting him back on his feet. Tim runs to his mother, who sinks to her knees and ruins her dress in the mud as she scoops him into her arms.

“Don’t you ever, ever scare me like that again!” she scolds through her sobs, clutching him like she’ll never let go. 

Tim has to fight her to squirm around and look for the nice man who saved him. By the time he does, the man is long gone. 

That night, the news reports that Dick Grayson has mysteriously disappeared from police custody.

Chapter Text

Dick comes to like he’s just swum from a sinking ship, bursting to consciousness with a gasp that turns into frantic gulps for air. It burns his lungs. He’s freezing. The surface he’s lying on is so hard, and it’s covered in rocky little pebbles that dig into his hands, legs, the bare skin of his hips…

Holy stark, he’s naked. Naked and lying out on a…is this a roof? It is! The roof of some downtown building in a city he doesn’t know, in the middle of the night, which is freezing, and there’s a huge full moon overhead and snow everywhere and what the hell is going on?!

He shoots to his feet, instinctively trying to get as much of his body as possible away from the hard, uncomfortable blacktop. The gravel digs into his soles. He winces, hands fumbling between trying to cover himself and trying to keep warm. 

The last thing he remembers is dozing off in the back of a squad car. He’d been freezing then, too, but it was a different kind of cold; the cold of shock and grief. The man in the bat costume, he’d wrapped Dick up in a blanket and just sat with him until the tears finally came. Tears because…

A sob bubbles from Dick’s throat as the memory catches up with him. Tears, because his parents are dead. They’re dead, and he’s alone, and he doesn’t know what’s happening to him. The police were supposed to take him somewhere safe. So how did he end up here?

Something heavy hits the roof behind him. He whirls around. Crouched on the other side of the blacktop is a dark figure, one that would blend into the night if it weren’t for the fresh snow. He looks almost like the bat-man, only mask, belt and insignia are all blood-red.

“Dick…”

Dick turns on his bare heels and sprints across the open roof. He only makes it a few feet before his limbs, numb from the cold, get tangled up in one another. He stumbles, but keeps going. Footsteps pound behind him. The Bat is coming.

Gloved hands close on his shoulders, cutting off a scream as he’s yanked back…

Into a warm embrace, the heavy cape falling around them both, like a guard from the frozen wind. Dick catches himself against the armored chest and trembles, unable to force his eyes from the red bat beneath his hands. His feet are off the ground now. He’s been sat on a knee, and he’s completely bare and vulnerable. Anything could happen, and he couldn’t stop it. 

An arm supports him around the waist, carefully touching no lower than the small of his back. Its hand grips the cape, holding it closed and making no move to get closer. The other hand cups the back of his head, holds it to the man’s shoulder, and starts to stroke his hair. 

“Shhhhh,” the man whispers, tilting his head to rest an exposed cheek against Dick’s skull. “It’s okay. You’re okay, Dick. You’re safe now. I won’t hurt you. I’m a friend.”

Dick tries to say something, anything, but only succeeds in nipping his tongue. The voice is not the same as the one that had coaxed him away from his parents’ bodies. Yet, its cadence is familiar. Comforting. It worms through his defenses. Makes him feel covered, if not entirely secure. 

The bat-man tugs his cape a little closer, bundles them both up, and begins to hum. The hum turns to notes, which turns to singing, which slides into a soft lullaby that Dick recognizes with a jolt. It’s his mother’s song, his grandmother’s lullaby, passed down from in-law to in-law. A song of the rails and the road and the traveling kind. His kind. His family. 

That’s what finally breaks him. Dick Grayson sags into the bat-man’s embrace, lays his head against the armored chest, and dissolves into tears.

Once he calms a bit, the bat-man carries Dick down off the roof to an exceedingly fancy car he has parked in the adjacent alley. Waiting in the front seat is a folded track suit, brand-new with matching tennis shoes, all in Dick’s size. The bat-man deposits Dick inside, closes the door, and waits outside until he knocks on the window to signal that he’s fully dressed. Then he gets in behind the wheel and turns over the engine, adding a new wave of warmth to the already heated interior. 

There’s a light blinking on the dashboard. When the bat-man hits it, a woman’s voice comes through a speaker. 

“Oracle to Red Bat. Come in, Red Bat.”

“I’m here, Oracle,” says the man in the bat-suit. As he speaks, he pulls off the black cowl and red mask, letting them hang around the back of his neck. His youth takes Dick by surprise. He’s an adult, sure, but a young one; at least ten years younger than Dick’s parents. And he’s pretty, with soft black hair and wide, pale blue eyes. Nothing like the tough guy that Dick would have imagined. “Our special visitor is secure. I’ll be going in for the night, and taking baby bird back to the nest.”

“Roger that. Black Bat is good to continue her rounds for the rest of the night. We’ll keep you updated if there’s an emergency.”

The bat-man smiles. “We both know there won’t be. Merry Christmas, Babs.”

“Merry Christmas, Tim.”

‘Red Bat’ turns off the radio and turns towards Dick with a sigh, running a hand through his long-ish hair. There’s something familiar about his eyes. They’re pale, almost gray, but with dark rings around the edges. Dick stares at them, trying to puzzle it out, and finds himself thinking of the cute little boy he’d taken a picture with before the show. The kid, he thinks, had the same eyes.

But that’s impossible. The kid couldn’t be older than four.

“How do you feel?” asks the man (Tim?) like they’re making small-talk at a doctor’s office instead of inside the tinted windows of a scary black car. 

Dick, for lack of a stronger urge, shrugs. “Fine.”

Tim raises an eyebrow at him. The silence between them stretches right up to the edge of awkward before Dick amends, “A little queasy.”

At that, Tim relaxes into a soft chuckle. Dick decides that he kind of likes the man’s voice. “That’s normal. How’re the digits?”

Dick stares at him blankly. Tim waggles his gloved fingers before giving an awkward shrug. “Don’t want you getting frostbite. Were you waiting long?”

“No.” Dick narrows his eyes at the car door, but there’s no sign of a latch on his side. Figures. “What is all this? What’s happening to me? Who are you?”

“Like I said: I’m a friend.” Tim wrings his hands through the gloves, with a particular focus on the knuckles of his left hand. “Sorry. I know this seems crazy. But it will all make more sense once you hear it from yourself.”

“You mean, hear it for myself?” 

The man just shakes his head and puts the car into gear. Fear jolts through Dick’s stomach — he’s being kidnapped, goddammit! — but he tamps that down, because Tim seems to have some idea of what’s going on, which is way more than Dick can say. Hadn’t “Oracle” mentioned Christmas? Last he checked, it was July!

Though, Christmas would explain the winter wonderland of snow and lights they speed past. They move too fast for Dick to see clearly, yet he still registers that something is odd about the world outside. Something about the quality of the streetlights, though he can’t quite put his finger on why it seems so strange.

They don’t talk on the drive. Tim doesn’t try and Dick doesn’t ask any questions. He wouldn’t even know where to start. They leave the city, then the suburbs, and then they’re turning off the road altogether and disappearing into what Dick only recognizes as a cave after they’ve passed the entrance.

Inside, they finally pull to a stop atop a lit platform, where Tim puts the car in park and turns off the engine. With a few taps, both doors open, and he swings out as though expecting Dick to follow. Which he does. Not much else he can do.

The place they’ve entered is definitely a cave — it smells wet and he can even hear bats somewhere in the distance — but it’s been retrofitted with a ton of cool stuff, from massive computers and an entire fleet of cars to a row of colorful costumes and what looks like a giant penny. There’s stairs leading everywhere, but Tim takes a set leading down towards the computers. As Dick follows, he realizes that someone has stood up from one of the chairs and is coming to meet them. It’s another man, older than Tim by a few years, lean and broad-shouldered and…

Dick stops dead at the base of the stairs. Tim makes it even with the other man before realizing he’s no longer being followed. The other pats his shoulder before striding past and right up to Dick. He lingers far enough away that if Dick wanted to run, he could. But he can’t. His feet are rooted to the ground.

“You know who I am, don’t you?”

It’s not really a question. It’s a prompt. Gawking, wide-eyed, Dick can only nod.

“Say it.” The older man crosses his arms, the way John Grayson always did when instructing his son on their acts. “Speaking your truth is the first step to making it real. So say it, out loud: who am I?” 

“You’re me.”

A smile — his mother’s smile — splits the worn, handsome face of Dick Grayson, age 38. “That’s right,” he says, offering a hand to his 12-year-old self. “Welcome to your future.”

“It’s called Chrono-Impairment.”

Dick blinks up from the mug of fresh cocoa that had been holding his attention. Once the shock of their meeting had worn off, his future self and Tim — now out of the odd bat-costume and wearing a well-loved sweater — had herded him up from the cave into the fanciest house he’s ever seen. There, the so-called “small” dining room (which was still three times the size of the trailer Dick shared with his parents) had been prepared for their arrival, with a massive fireplace warming a rich hardwood dining table set with over a dozen chairs. Three places had been set with a carafe of hot chocolate and an array of holiday cookies, along with a number of laundry-fresh blankets that Tim insisted Dick use as they settled in.

His older self sits across from him, nursing a mug of his own as he lays out the explanation Dick has been waiting for.

“It’s a genetic disorder. Near as we can tell, it came from Mom’s side of the family, but it’s been dormant long enough that nobody thought to tell her about it. Or her father.” He pauses to crack a cookie in half and dunk it in his cocoa, like his buying time to help gather his thoughts. “The short version is that you’ve come unstuck in time. From now on, sometimes you’ll just…Jump. You can be anywhere, doing anything, and it’ll just…happen. You’ll be making breakfast or in the middle of a workout, and next thing you know you’ll be five years in the past, or three months in the future. And you’re just going to have to deal with it, because it’s a part of your DNA. There’s no cure.”

Dick gulps, the rich chocolate feeling suddenly too warm and too thick as it coats his throat. “How do you know all this?”

“Because I used to be you.” His older self grins, like he thinks he’s funny. “I went forward in time and heard all this from my future self. And then I went back and spent…god, years…doing research and getting people to study me, looking for a way to make it stop. It never happened. But I learned a lot. At least enough to get you started, once you’re on your way.”

His confidence is reassuring. His vagueness and empty platitudes, less so.

“How long has it been, for you?”

“From where you are? Twenty-six years, give or take.”

“And you never learn to control it?”

“Afraid not. Who knows if it’s even possible.” 

Dick stares into the remains of his cocoa and wills himself not to cry. 

“Hey.” His older self reaches across the table, takes his hand, and squeezes. “I know. This is a lot to process. And way more than you should be expected to handle the night your parents died.”

Hearing it out-loud again stabs Dick straight in the heart. The hand holding his own grips even tighter.

“You’re going to get through this. It won’t be easy. You’ve got a rough life ahead, with more than your fair share of hardship. But you’re tough, with a good head and a good heart, and most importantly, you won’t be alone. You’re going to meet so many people who will love and support you. And they’re going to see you through it all, I promise.”

Dick sniffles, searching for something, anything to look at but those eyes that, surrounded by the first faint web of laugh-lines and wrinkles, look far too much like his father’s. He pulls against his older self’s hold and feels something cool and hard against his palm. It’s a ring; white-gold, plain, and thick. A wedding band.

That blows Dick’s mind. An hour ago, he couldn’t even imagine living through the week. Not without his parents. Without them, without the circus, his life should be over. But here is his future self, alive and thriving and married. To an actual person.

He’s startled out of the thought by heavy wooden doors shrieking as one slides open. Tim slips in through the space, looking sheepish about the loud arrival. He’s added reading glasses to his ensemble, which accentuate his eyes and soften his face the same way the over-sized sweater cushions his body. It’s almost hard to believe that he’s the same person as that looming, intimidating black monster from the roof.

He settles in at older-Dick’s left and slides a leather-bound journal across the table. “I’ve been saving this for you.”

Curious, Dick pulls the book to him and flips it open to the page marked by its built-in ribbon. There he finds line after line of black ink written in a neat yet clearly unpracticed hand. Each entry starts with a full, underlined date followed by a location — mostly street addresses, though a few strings of numbers, like you’d punch into a GPS. One of the dates has a star next to it, and another has been crossed out and re-written further down the page. 

A quick flip through the finds at least a dozen more pages, each with five to six entries each, but no explanation. Dick rubs the last of the tears from his cheeks and looks up at the adults in confusion. Both Tim and his older self look fondly amused. 

“Funny thing about the jumps: they tend to take you back to the same well,” says the older him with a chuckle. “It’s a kind of gravity. They tend to circle the people, moments and places that are important to you.”

Dick’s heart leaps into his throat. “You mean, I’ll get to see Mom and Dad again?”

His older self falters. Tim takes his hand.

“…sometimes. Rarely. From a distance.” A gentle squeeze, and his older self is able to re-settle, the hint of a smile returning. “But there’ll be others, too. People you love in other ways, for other reasons. Once you meet them naturally — that is, in your proper time, outside of the jumps — they’ll pull you in, like guiding stars.”

“That’s what this is for.” With his free hand, Tim indicates the book between them. “Think of it as a map. Our every meeting in roughly chronological order. I’ve kept it for you ever since I was little.”

Dick studies those pale blue eyes and comes to a definitive conclusion. “You really are that kid, aren’t you? From the photo-op.” 

Tim’s smile grows a bit wider, a bit warmer, and somehow even more welcoming. “I am. That was our ‘natural’ first meeting. We’ll see a lot of each other from now on.” He leans over and taps the date with the star. “If you memorize the dates and times, you can give me the information when we meet here and I’ll be able to wait for you from then on, like we did tonight. That way you’ll at least have something to wear and eat after the jump.”

“Memorize all this?” Dick balks. There has to be over a hundred entries.

His older self just laughs again, a bellowing tenor that sinks into the Manor's ancient walls. “Sorry, kiddo. You can’t take it with you. Can’t take anything with you. But this’ll make things easier in the long run.”

With no other recourse but to trust himself, Dick spends the rest of the evening sipping cocoa, nibbling cookies, and getting grilled on the dates until he can recite them all by heart. He doesn’t see anyone else in the huge house, but he hears stories — nothing detailed, just names and enough fond reminiscing to know that he won’t be alone here, that there’s a huge family just waiting to meet him somewhere further in time. By the end of the night, he almost believes it.

It’s close to dawn when they finally retire to bed, his older self leading him to a well-loved room that promises to someday be very familiar. As he’s tucked in, the elder Grayson tells him that when he goes back (and he guesses that he must be going back soon) he should keep quiet about where and when he’s been until he meets Bruce Wayne. 

Dick doesn’t know who that is but, as he drifts off, he’s almost excited to find out.