Chapter Text
Gotham City, Present day
Chaos.
Pure chaos.
Downtown Gotham City had gone to hell. The place was an absolute mess — in fact, calling it a mess was an understatement. Gotham shimmered like it had gone mad: cars levitated inches too high; graffiti shifted when no one looked; even the shadows seemed to dance. Chaos grinned in every windowpane. And behind it lurked an interdimensional imp — a creature with obscene power, far too much for anyone’s good — spreading madness as a result of trying to fanboy over his favourite hero. Every spark of chaos was one of his well-meant ideas let loose.
“Nightwing!” Tim barked at his comms eyes locked on Gotham — alive, wild, awake. It was wrong. The city wasn’t supposed to move like this. Oh man, we are so fucked… he thought to himself.
Bat-mite just had to show up during Batman’s absence — he just had to come and cause mass disruption in the Bat’s beloved city. It was a miracle that Bruce had even agreed to rest and leave patrol to the others. It's known how stubborn and self-neglectful he can be, but Clark had insisted. Stern, steady, and quietly relentless, he’d made Bruce promise to stay home and recover. So Bruce stayed, reluctantly, while his husband tended to him and he left his city to the hands of people he trusted the most.
Guilt twisted in Tim’s gut, and his chest tightened with the weight of failure from not protecting Gotham. He didn’t want to let Bruce down or be unworthy in his eyes. Oracle’s voice crackled through his earpiece.
“Hood will be there in a minute. Nightwing is currently handling a crowd of agitated and vexed residents.”
Great.
Tim grappled and stood atop a rooftop overlooking Bat-mite’s current location, he waited impatiently for Hood’s arrival.
“What took you so long!?” Tim said in an irritated whisper voice, “I have been calling for back up for like 5 minutes and nobody was answering!”
“I was elbow-deep in magical nonsense, thanks to our pint-sized menace, but I'm here now aren’t I?” Jason huffed as he observed Tim' s rigid posture, unfocused eyes, biting his lip like he was already running fifty contingency plans.
“We need to wait for Dick, Steph, Damian and Cass before we do anything” Tim muttered, voice clipped
“Hey. Ya good?” Jason frowned. Concern crept into his voice — rare, but real. He knew that this whole mess was taking a toll on his brother, he knew how much Tim carried — the pressure, the fear of failing Bruce.
Dick, along with the others arrived and behind them stood a familiar dark haired, gorgeous woman — The one and only iconic Zatanna Zatara.
“I brought along some help to level the playing field” Dick smirked with a subtle hint of pride as he was pleased he thought of this.
Tim didn’t look up.
“You never answered to me through the comms when i was calling for you” Tim muttered under his breath with slight anger
“Bat-Mite’s rewriting physics and you’re whining about response time?” Dick chuckled. Tim’s boots scraped against the gravel as he shifted, eyes locked on the chaos below — cars hovering, lights flickering, reality bending at the edges.
“This is bad..Really bad” Steph voiced out his thoughts as she stood next to him.
Wayne Manor, Present Day
The air hung thick and irritated, much like Bruce’s husband after the fifth, “I’m fine.” Wayne Manor was as still as a tomb — appropriate, considering Bruce was apparently trying to join one — Bruce was determined to prove medical science wrong again. — Two broken ribs? Child’s play. Torn ligament? Minor inconvenience. His husband begged him to rest; Bruce’s version of “rest” apparently meant brooding in a suit of Kevlar and launching himself off buildings in the middle of the night. His husband had tried reason, pleading, and even bribery. Bruce, naturally, decided stubbornness was the superior medical treatment.
Clark rolled up the sleeves to his white crisp button-up shirt and crossed his arms as he planted himself at the foot of their shared bed — immovable, unimpressed.
“Sweetheart. Please.” Clark's patience was seriously running thin; the boy scout may just have been about to reach his limit, which would be rare because Clark’s patience was famously endless.
“Clark.” Bruce paused and sat upright in bed so briskly, he let out a silent groan which had Clark beside him in less than a heartbeat, hands already reaching, eyes scanning for damage.
“Are you not seeing what’s going on out there?” He tapped at his iPad screen, which Babs had given as a peace offering to keep him home and mildly informed.
Clark glanced at the screen. Gotham was, predictably, on fire. Metaphorically. Mostly.
“I know, honey,” he said, gently prying the device from Bruce’s hands like one might take a toy from a stubborn toddler. “But the others have it handled. I’m sure they do.”
Bruce reached for the iPad again. Clark held it just out of reach, stifling a laugh as his fully grown, battle-hardened husband swiped at the screen like a grumpy child denied his cartoons.
“Im going out.” Bruce mutters as he shifts and gets out of the layers of warm blankets piled up on him. Clark stiffens, the air shifts in the room and Clark narrowed his eyes,
“Out? Out where Bruce?” Clark asks warily as he watches Bruce struggle to balance himself, he knew what Bruce meant by going ‘out’, he meant patrol.
“I can’t just sit here whilst Bat-mite ruins my city. I can’t.”
“Bruce, you’re injured,” Clark responds, stating the obviou,s which makes Bruce's head snap, and Clark could see the look in his eyes, the one that he knew was pure determination and stubbornness.
“I worked through worse,” Bruce muttered, clutching his left side, which only made Clark more worried.
“Thats not something to be proud of.” Bruce didn’t respond. He tapped the screen again, watching the chaos unfold in real time. Clark stepped forward, voice low but firm.
“You promised me you would rest. You promised me you would try”
“I am trying. This is me trying”
"No, Bruce. This is you pretending. Pretending that pain doesn’t matter. That you don’t matter."
Bruce finally looked up, eyes sharp.
“I’m going out there, Clark, it's my decision to make, not yours. I matter to Gotham. That’s enough."
Clark’s breath caught. He stared at Bruce like he didn’t recognize him.
"You matter to me. Isn’t that enough?"
Bruce looked away.
"I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know how to be still."
"Then let me help you. Let me hold you until you remember how."
Bruce shook his head, jaw clenched.
"I don’t need to be held. I need to be useful."
"You think love makes you useless?"
Silence.
“I’m not answering that,” Bruce said as he walked down to the batcave. Clark had observed Bruce the whole evening; he was exhausted: shoulders slumped, legs heavy, eyes drooping, about to close — yet he still wanted to go out.
Bruce descended into the cave, each step heavier than the last. The silence followed him, but so did Clark’s voice — not the words, but the tone. That soft, steady ache. The way he said “You matter to me.” Like it was the simplest truth in the world. Clark never got mad at him. Not really. Not like others did. He didn’t yell, didn’t storm out, didn’t throw ultimatums. He just stood there — patient, hurting, waiting. Always waiting.
Bruce hated that.
Not Clark. Never Clark.
Affection came easily to Clark. Warmth, reassurance, touch — it was second nature to him. Bruce had seen it in the way Clark held people, spoke to them, looked at them like they were worth saving. And when it came to Bruce, he gave even more. More patience. More grace. More love.
He didn’t know how to say “I’m scared.” He didn’t know how to say “I need you.” He didn’t know how to say “I’m tired.”
So he said, “I’m fine.” He said, “I’m going out.” He said “I matter to Gotham.”
And so, Bruce Wayne put on the cowl and hopped into the Batmobile, into the night. Every movement was deliberate, slow — not out of caution, but pain. His ribs protested with each breath, his shoulder burned from strain, but he didn’t flinch. He’d learned long ago that flinching gave pain power. So he didn’t. He climbed into the Batmobile, jaw clenched, hands steady despite the tremor in his bones. The engine roared to life, drowning out everything else — the ache in his chest, the guilt in his gut, the love he didn’t know how to express.
Clark knew that he couldn’t get Bruce back, so he alerted Babs; at least then, the others would know and hopefully wouldn’t be shocked when he randomly appears.
Gotham City, Present day
“Listen, Bat-mite, he's not evil, he’s a fanboy with reality-warping powers. He’s causing chaos, not out of malice, but because he wants to see his favorite hero in action. He’s disappointed Bruce isn’t out, so he’s doing all this shit” Tim paces back and forth on the rooftop as the others listen in.
“Dick, you and Zatanna — approach Bat-Mite directly. Keep him talking, keep him distracted. He’s not hostile, just... theatrical. Play into it. Cass, Jason — you’re our precision. Flank him from both sides. If he lashes out, you’re the ones who can dodge reality-warping nonsense shit and still land a hit.”
The four set out as Tim then turns and faces Steph
“Steph, I need you on crowd control. Keep the civilians back, keep the panic low. Make it look like we’ve got this — even if we don’t.”
Stephanie nodded and jumped down into the crowd. Now, on the other hand, Damian might be hard to get him to do something and follow the plan; he looked like he doubted Tim, and he had a history of ditching the plan and jumping headfirst into things, believing he didn’t need a team and he could do everything by himself.
“What are you going to have me do, Drake?”
“Damian, stay high. Eyes on the perimeter. If anything else warps into existence, I want to know before it breathes.”
Damian didn’t look too pleased with the role he was assigned. He was about to open his mouth to argue that he was trained by the League of Assassins since birth, that he should be out with Cass and Jason, but he saw the state Tim was in, and he left it. For
“He’s not here to destroy — he’s here to perform.” Oracle chirped through to everyone as they listened in.
Tim watched as the team dispersed like clockwork, he joined Dick and Zatanna in facing Bat-mite when, suddenly, Babs came through the comms once more. Everyone thought she was about to warn them about some unexpected trick bat-mite has, but no, what she said was just plain confusing.
“Clark’s just sent me an alert, Bruce is out on patrol, he was so stubborn and seeing everything made him put on the suit, he’s on his way her.e”
Tim froze.
The words hit harder than they should’ve. Bruce is out on patrol. His stomach dropped. His breath caught. His fingers curled into fists before he even realized it.
He saw the chaos. He saw me fail.
Tim didn’t know why Bruce was coming — not really. But his mind filled in the blanks with sharp, unforgiving certainty. Bruce had seen the mess. The floating cars. The panicked crowds. The Bats, scrambling to hold the city together. And now he was suiting up, because Tim hadn’t been enough.
His chest tightened. The rooftop felt colder. Louder. Every siren below sounded like a judgment.
I should’ve handled it. I should’ve stopped Bat-Mite before it got this bad. I should’ve been better.
He didn’t say any of it out loud. He just stood there, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the skyline like it might offer absolution.
Bruce wasn’t coming to help. He was coming to clean up Tim’s mess.
Tim didn’t speak. He just stood there, staring at the skyline like it had betrayed him. Bruce was coming. That meant he’d failed. That meant Gotham wasn’t safe in his hands.
Jason stepped up beside him, silent for a beat. He didn’t look at Tim — just watched the chaos below, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Then, casually:
“Y’know, if Bruce was really disappointed, he wouldn’t be suiting up. He’d be lecturing you from the cave with a cup of tea and that ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’ face.”
Tim didn’t respond, but he did nod his head to show Jason that he heard him and is thinking about what he said.
Jason glanced at him, then bumped his shoulder — just enough to jostle, not enough to annoy.
“He’s coming because he cares, and also because he’s a stubborn asshole who won't lay in bed and get pampered by his worried and caring husband.”
Another pause.
“And for the record? You didn’t screw up.”
Jason didn’t wait for a reply. He just turned and walked off, muttering:
“Now quit sulking and get your head back in the game, Drake.”
Downtown was unrecognizable. Streetlights blinked in unnatural colors. Cars floated sideways, spinning lazily in midair — and buildings leaned at impossible angles, like the city itself was caught in a fever dream.
Dear God, Bruce said to himself, The words weren’t dramatic. Just tired. Heavy. A quiet exhale of disbelief.
Barbara’s voice crackled through the comms, steady as ever. “I tried to talk you down. Figured I’d lose.” She didn’t sound angry, just resigned. “Bat-Mite wants to see you. Might as well use that.”
As she spoke, she filled him in — the chaos, the team’s positions, the plan Tim had pulled together on the fly. Bruce listened in silence, eyes scanning the warping skyline, hands steady on the wheel.
When she finished, there was a beat of quiet.
“He’s doing well,” Barbara added. “Tim. He’s holding it together.”
Bruce didn’t respond right away. But something in his jaw eased. Just slightly.
He was impressed. Of course he was. Tim had taken command, made the hard calls, and kept the city from tipping into full collapse. Bruce had trained him for this — and Tim had risen to it.
Zatanna and Bat-mite were in some sort of magical duel. It worked well, like fighting fire with fire. He wanted to see Batman, his hero; he was so insistent to see the bat that he brought in another Batman, from the past, from a couple of years ago, and he was so giddy and pleased that he could see his idol. Zatanna groaned heavily. She was tired of his bullshit; she had to send this Batman back to his timeline, otherwise it would just cause more trouble, meaning more work. Zatanna ducked as a bolt of glittering chaos shot past her head, exploding into a flock of bats. She spun, countered with a sharp flick of her wrist and a muttered spell — the bats vanished in a puff of smoke.
Bat-Mite hovered midair, beaming like a kid at a theme park. “You’re really good at this!”
Zatanna groaned, sweat slicking her brow. “You summoned a Batman from over 20 years ago you lunatic. Do you have any idea what kind of damage you are doing?”
Bat-Mite clapped his hands, eyes wide. “But he’s peak brooding! The cape swirl, the gravel voice — mwah! Chef’s kiss!”
“Whoa, is that..?” Dick said as he faced a very confused Batman from maybe over 2 decades ago, he recognised the other man, who was his Batman, from when he was Robin. Dick looked stunned. Had it really been that long? It didn’t feel that long ago, but looking at the other Batman, Dick was hit with a strong wave of nostalgia.
“I have to send him back!” Zatanna said as she tried to figure out how to send him back into his time and keep Bat-Mite from spawning in more unnecessary shit.
Bruce leapt from the Batmobile, boots hitting the warped pavement with a thud that barely registered over the chaos. Gotham shimmered around him — buildings bent at odd angles, streetlights pulsing like heartbeats, and reality itself rippling at the edges.
Bat-Mite spotted him instantly.
“BATMAN!” he squealed, arms flailing with glee. “You came! You actually came!”
Bruce didn’t respond. His eyes locked on something — someone — standing across the plaza.
Him.
A younger version. Sharper jawline, colder and more stoic, cleaner suit, posture like a blade, this was when he was still figuring things out with Clark, when he had a massive crush on the Boy Scout but was too frightened to express his love. The past, summoned and standing in the present. Both Batmen stared at each other through the white lenses of their cowls, silent, unreadable.
Zatanna’s voice cut through the tension.
“Batman, move!” she shouted, a spell already forming in her hands — glowing, and precise.
Both Batmen moved — Of course they did.
Bat-Mite’s grin faltered. “Wait, wait, no! Not that one!”
Too late.
Zatanna’s spell collided with Bat-Mite’s retaliatory burst — a chaotic surge of magic and fanboy frustration. The plaza lit up in a blinding flash as both Batmen were hit. Zatanna soon realised she hadn’t set the time back to the correct timeline when she saw that the wrong Batman quickly dodged at the very, very last split second, so their Batman was now in some other timeline.
Fuck.
The light faded.
The plaza settled into a warped hush — floating cars dropped gently to the ground, the sky stopped flickering, and Bat-Mite hovered with a pout, arms crossed like a child.
But Bruce was gone.
Tim stepped forward, eyes wide, voice tight.
“Zatanna… what just happened?”
Zatanna didn’t answer right away. She stared at the spot where Bruce had stood, her spellbook still glowing faintly in her hands. Her jaw clenched.
“I—” she started, then sighed, rubbing her temple. “Okay. So. Tiny hiccup.”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘hiccup.’”
Zatanna turned to the group, voice clipped. “I was trying to send the wrong Batman back to his timeline, but Bat-Mite’s spell hit at the same time as mine, and it scrambled the destination coordinates.”
Tim’s stomach dropped. “Scrambled?”
“As in… I didn’t send our Bruce back to the cave. I sent him somewhere else. Somewhen else if that makes sense.”
Steph blinked. “You lost him?”
Zatanna groaned. “I didn’t lose him. I just… misplaced him. Temporarily. In the multiverse.”
Damian stepped forward, eyes blazing. “You sent Father into a random timeline?”
“Not random,” Zatanna said quickly. “Just… unconfirmed. I’m working on it.”
Bat-Mite giggled. “Ooooh, plot twist! I love it!”
Zatanna shot him a glare that could melt steel. “You are not helping.”
Tim’s hands trembled slightly. He looked at the younger Bruce — stoic, unreadable, still processing — and then back at Zatanna.
“So what do we do now?”
Zatanna exhaled. “We find him. I’ll need time, focus, and probably a favor from Constantine I’ll regret. But I’ll get him back.”
Jason muttered under his breath. “Better hope it’s not the timeline where Bruce’s parents are alive. He’ll never want to leave.”
No one laughed, not even a single giggle. Right, so maybe not the time for jokes. Jason thought to himself and then spoke up once again, turning to his brothers,
“How are we explainin’ this to Clark?"
“Fuck. I forgot about Clark," Dick muttered, running a hand across his face
Tim stood still.
This is bad…really bad. He thought to himself.
Tim’s heart thudded in his chest, too loud, too fast. His mind raced through every possible version of Clark’s reaction: the worry, the quiet devastation, the way his voice would go soft when he asked, “Where is he?” And Tim wouldn’t have an answer. Not a real one.
“He’s going to lose it,” Steph said quietly, eyes wide. “Not in the yelling way. In the… Clark way.”
Jason nodded grimly. “Yeah. The ‘I’m not mad, just emotionally wrecked’ way. Honestly, I’d prefer yelling.”
Zatanna was already flipping through her spellbook, muttering under her breath, fingers glowing faintly as she tried to trace the magical residue. “I can track the signature. Eventually. But it’s like trying to find one ripple in an ocean.”
“We need to tell him,” Tim said, voice barely above a whisper.
Damian scoffed. “You mean you need to tell him.” Dick stepped in, voice calm but firm. “Enough. This isn’t on Tim. Bruce made his own call. And Clark’s not going to blame any of us — he’s going to want solutions.”
Jason snorted. “Solutions? We’ve got a brooding young Bruce, a missing current Bruce, and a chaos imp who thinks this is all just some funny joke.
Zatanna didn’t even look up Tim took a shaky breath and pulled out his comm. His fingers hovered over the call button for Clark. He stared at it like it might explode.
“He deserves to know,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.
Dick placed a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll tell him together.”
Tim nodded, but the guilt didn’t ease. Somewhere out there, Bruce was alone — in a timeline none of them could see, none of them could reach. And Clark, the one person who could always find him, was about to learn he couldn’t.