Full Synopsis: Gotham is not a stranger to tragedy, but the newest murder seems to be a haunting echo of its most notorious crime. The GCPD struggles to get ahead while experiencing interference from on high, and is forced to turn to Batman and his extended family to see justice served for a little boy and his murdered parents.
At the same time, the vigilante family's new order is tested by their patriarch yet again. Will this highly personal case be the original Batman's last?

This was my first multichaptered fic published for the Batfam and I'm still really attached to it. I interwove a lot of various continuities and built a world I'm still rather proud of as a result and really got to do something fun and engaging with the characters I love.

Batman and related characters © DC Comics
story © RenaRoo

Fathers and Sons
Chapter One: The More Things Change

The boy leapt onto the sidewalk from the archway of the theater doors. The high action and heroics of the film were still loudly sounding in his head. He was eight, and his mother and father did not bother to chide him for enthusiasm. They watched, arm in arm, as he jumped and shouted and flailed frantic arms.

It had been a good night, a fun film.

"Did you enjoy the movie, Son?" his father questioned, amused.

"Duh!" was retorted as the boy held the hero's weapon in his hands, eyes narrowed down the invisible sights. The BADDA BADDA BADDA almost seemed to come from somewhere besides the boy's own mouth.

His mother laughed, a light, airy sound that was both gentle and earnest. It was the boy's favorite sound in the world. "You know, the Gray Ghost used to be a TV show from when your father and I were kids."

He misstepped on that note, twirling around on one foot to round back on his parents before his balance was ever fully regained. In his excitement, he had barely noticed they had gotten so close to the parking garage. "No … way-"

The sound of cheer was quickly drained from the air. The boy's face dropped from excitement and joy to confusion. He looked beyond his parents' shoulders with wide blue eyes.

"Honey?" his mother began, concern in her voice, before she turned for herself. Her hand slipped from her husband's grasp and over the bulge of her dress.

Both parents looked on in horror as the thick fog, unnatural even by the standards of Gotham, poured from the alleyway behind them. It darkened the street and sidewalk alike, shrouding everything in darkness but the visage of a blank skull with soulless eyes. They were suddenly all three aware of how utterly alone they were despite being less than a minute's walk from the happy theater.

"Oh, my god!" the boy's mother screamed, reaching for her son, too stunned to move on his own.

"Keep away from us!" his father shouted at the shadows and smoke. It gave no answer. "Take the boy and run!" he ordered to his family just before there was a haunting flash of light and spraying of blood.

The boy's eyes widened. His numb body felt alive only under the tingle of splatter on his face. "Dad…"

"No! God, no!" his mother screamed before a second flash dwarfed her voice then smothered it.

She landed at her son's feet. The boy watched as her last breath hung in the chilled Gotham air. It was swallowed by the thick fog before the boy could even process what it was.

The skeletal face sank back into the darkness, eyes gazing only at the boy as it retreated. He looked back at it, his own breath stuck in his chest.

"Why?" he asked, voice cracking as he sank to his knees, kneeling between the only two people in his entire world.

He was alone and without answers.


Robin carried the momentum of his pivot into the quick strike. The would-be assailant was thrown back at a force great enough to break the exhibit table he landed on. Glass shattered everywhere, but the man landed on the floor unconscious.

The vigilante thought about how stupid the ski masks looked and would have made a quip if someone far more notorious for such remarks hadn't been present to make them.

"I think," Batman grinned beneath his cowl, each punch and kick from the unfortunate robbers not even approaching his body, "you're all a bit out of touch."

Putting his hands on his hips, Robin sneered. "Tt. Really, Batman?"

The elder crime fighter caught the fists of both attackers at once and easily flipped them onto their backs. He sighed, hiding his yawn from all but his protege. Both robbers landed harshly on their backs, stunned and done. Robin reached for one's ankle and swiftly drug him over to his spot, quickly zip tying and securing him before the man could think to resist. Batman was already done with his own.

"You were a bit harsh on your guy, Robin," Batman said, looking to his partner. His head tilted as he smirked. "Is the Teen Wonder still upset over Nightwing's partner?"

Robin's eyes narrowed. "Batgirl is a menace. If Nightwing is going to such lengths to keep her trainee's identity a secret from us the least she could do is see to it that the girl can handle her own and not waste valuable time on childish antics," he snarled. "How many resources were wasted - and precious time, Batman - so that she could pretend to return the Batarangs she pilfered from me to begin with just so they would explode into 'goop' upon inspection!?"

Beneath the cowl, Batman raised a brow. "It was a little bit funny. And perhaps I should be concentrating more on the fact that Batman's partner didn't see that one coming." When Robin looked ready to break another display case, the elder quickly changed tactics. "I'll talk to Nightwing about it."

Sirens sounded in the distance and the two casually made their exit through the back exit, reaching for their grapples as they did so. "Will you? I am not entirely certain our Eggplant Terror of the Night is not still the source of this… direct attack on my dignity."

"Sound theory, chum," Batman admitted as they ascended to the rooftops. "And you used to say you weren't interested in detective work."

The look Robin gave his mentor spoke volumes of the sorts of nasty retorts he was choosing from just before a familiar ping sounded across their communicators.

With a knowing smirk, Batman reached to answer the comm built in his cowl. "Playing Oracle tonight, Red?"

"Who said anything about playing?" Red Robin answered briskly.

"Red Robin," Robin answered haughtily, a sense of formality in the address.

"Robin," their brother returned without missing a beat. "I saw that the police responded to the break-in. Everything run smoothly?"

"It was fine," Batman assured him. "Do you have anything else on the grid that needs our attention?"

The channel was filled with Red Robin's signature hum and the fierce typing of the technological Bat's fingers. "Silent night by Gotham standards. The GCPD is on top of their calls, and nothing much coming in all things considering. Probably helps that Hood has the cartel's on the ropes. They've not been making next to any noise after he blew that freighter."

"You mean after you both took out that freighter," Batman corrected.

"Because I was present and negligent of what Hood planned on doing with those charges doesn't mean I was an accessory," he said easily, the smile in his voice almost visible. "Necessarily."

"This is why father encourages you to be locked away with a laptop permanently," Robin huffed.

"Don't take it to heart, Lil' Brother," Batman offered with an easy smile. "Someone's having Batgirl troubles."

The cough Red Robin gave almost covered his snort. Almost.

"There would be no problem if our supposedly gifted Technical Analyst could discern her identity," the teen growled.

"I know her identity."

"Then what is it and how did you find it!?"

"Can't divulge personal information, Demon. And what do you mean how? I figured out Batman's identity."

Rolling his eyes, Batman sighed. "Alright, enough. Someone has an early morning shift and if the other patrols are still out and the city is being uncharacteristically tame, then I'm going to be a good example for my little bat brethren and turn in early on a night we can." He looked pointedly to Robin. "Especially if someone has school in the morning."

"As if my academic performance is ever a concern," he grumbled in return before turning in the direction they had left the R-Cycle. "Nights I'm home early always end with a game of twenty questions. It's not as if I'm going to bed any earlier."

"Night, Robin," Batman said as he turned to face the West Side and the apartment of a very exhausted Dick Grayson. "Don't suppose I'm inspiring any other successors to turn in for a good night's rest today, am I?"

"If you really want me to, I can put Hood on three way. I'm sure he'd love to answer that for you," Red Robin responded cheekily. "Also, to make you feel somewhat better, she might not be a former Robin, but I have a BlackBat sleeping like a log on my couch. She turned in about twenty minutes ago."

"A little bit better," Batman admitted, gliding to the next rooftop. "Don't forget to sleep, Lil' Brother."

"No promises."

*

There were few things Dick Grayson found more comforting than returning to his loft with the prospect of a full four hours' sleep.

It was easy enough to sleep on the cot in his bunker under the building, but as much as he had worn down the cot the idea of an actual mattress for once was just too tantalizing. He stripped down from the cape and cowl in record time, signed off all his frequencies to let certain computer-attached family members know of his safe arrival, and padded his way to the hidden entrance to his room.

For nearly a full second he contemplated the idea of setting out his uniform for his other job before landing promptly on his bed, sprawled out and nearly boneless. He was barely in enough of a state of mind to glance at the clock and be sure its alarm was set for work before his eyelids slid shut, having enough of his meandering wakefulness.

Just as Dick rested in the gentle restfulness of almost sleeping, his duty phone went off - blaring Bad Boys as obnoxiously as possible because Jason thinks he's funny.

After a moment of opening his eyes dully and staring at the clock, completely bemused by the fact only fifteen minutes had passed, he rolled onto his back and reached with his nearest hand to grab the phone from the nightstand.

"Grayson," he croaked into the phone.

"Dick," the commissioner's voice rang across the phone, fully waking Dick up and prompting him to sit on the bed. "Are you in uniform?"

He glanced cautiously to his civilian closet. "I can be, Boss."

"We need you at the station." There was a pregnant pause before, "Officer Grayson, this case needs… your unique sensibilities."

Frowning, Dick was already on his feet and reaching for the first pressed uniform in his wardrobe. "I don't like the sound of that. I'll be right there."

He hung up and sighed, leaning his forehead against the frame of his closet just long enough to wiggle into his pants. Already he was growing concerned with what sensibilities the GCPD would need from him instead of Batman.

If he was completely honest, however, knowing the commissioner, she probably meant them both.


His back brace clinked against the computer's chair softly. To any normal person, the noise would be nearly indiscernible from the whine of the chair's metal or the creak of leather that came along with it. But he was no normal person, and its sound was a violent distraction from the solidarity of the cave and the hum of the multiple screens before him.

At his feet, Titus huffed and kicked out his legs. The dog slept easier than any of the other bats.

Batman leered at the screens before him, noting the long passage of time since the files were left alone in light of more important cases at the GCPD and his current access.

It was always uncomfortable to know how a city with so many crimes could so easily forget some of her most brutal.

When a corner screen signaled that the southern gate had been entered and the hum of the R-Cycle filtered through the tunnel, Bruce glanced casually to the clock. It was just past 2:30.

Unusual, to say the least.

Titus stirred, head lifted and tail cautiously wagging until the light of the bike was visible. The dog whined, crawling on his belly before quickly getting to his feet and bounding to the park, nails clicking against the cave floor.

Bruce swiveled his chair to face his returning son more directly. He observed as Damian stopped, kicked down the stand, and removed his helmet.

There were no injuries visible.

Satisfied, the original Dark Knight turned once more to his screens and searched for the sentence he had left off at. Titus barked until his master calmed him - the dog was spoiled like that.

"You're early," Batman's voice seeped through as Bruce leaned forward and clicked to enlarge the crime scene photos in question.

"There was an usual calm in the city," Damian returned calmly, walking up to the computer dock. "Grayson works the morning shift this week."

He grimaced. Bruce already knew when Dick worked - cold case files weren't the only things on the GCPD's network available to him. "I don't like him working there period. It's risky."

"I somehow believe he knows that already," the teen returned, his biting sarcasm as thick as ever. "We stopped a robbery. Everything went fine. There's nothing else from tonight of note." The boy paused, his face growing the ugly sneer it did when he was addressing something he found particularly foul. "The new Batgirl requires my full attention. I'm more determined than ever to cause her to desist. Her pranks distinctly smell of Brown, though. So, perhaps, I'll devise a way to force them both into retirement."

Knowingly, Bruce smirked. He looked expectantly at his youngest. "Good luck with that."

Damian waved his hand as if the cynicism was a fly to be swatted. "It shall just be another area in which I surpass you all." He then leveled a glare in his father's direction. "The last report is of the upmost importance. Drake is an annoying prat. And if everyone is insistent on allowing him to take over for Gordon's position as technical mind, then he should be required to be forthright with any and all information at his disposal. It could be life or death."

"I won't make him give you Batgirl's identity," Bruce headed off before the thought could be continued. His eyes settled on the cold cases again. "We're detectives first, Damian. Perhaps he's allowing you to test your deductive skills."

His son had no response but the boy did carry a scowl.

"There was nothing tonight?" Bruce prompted as the boy removed his domino.

"No, Father," the teen responded, practiced and bored. "Drake is still on communications and he indicated that Brown, Todd, and Batgirl were at his disposal. Cain is sleeping, apparently."

"Where?"

"Drake's couch."

"Hnn," Bruce brought a hand to his chin. "Tomorrow, since the city is so quiet, I may have you reexamine a witness for me."

His youngest nodded, looking to the files for himself. "How old is this one?"

Bruce frowned. "Ten years. I never got to it. At the time I was working a case for the League. It was cold by the time I could refocus on Gotham." He looked to Damian. "And you have several college applications to finish from what Alfred tells me. When were you planning on doing those?"

The teen rolled his eyes. "As if it's a question on whether or not I shall get in."

"Not the point, Damian."

"Tomorrow then," the boy groaned, turning to the showers. "I hope you plan on sleeping tonight, Father. I do not wish to live through another Thompkins and Pennyworth intervention. They're most unpleasant for all involved!"

The detective ignored his son and placed all focus on the cases once more. Since his "tentative" benching he had solved nearly thirty cold cases for the GCPD. He gripped tightly to his armrest and couldn't help but feel it still wasn't enough.


Commissioner Gordon ran a tight ship, making every officer and detective around her perform with speed and efficiency most generals would aspire to. She was dedicated to completing and upholding the mission her father had dedicated his life to: protecting and serving Gotham by clearing up her protectors and creating a well oiled machine.

It was understandable, then, that everyone was a bit haunted to see an unexpected repeat of the very case that had began to the GCPD's infamous dark descent.

Many of the older officers on the force, those retired or nearing retirement, warned the youth about the demoralizing the entire force experienced in the wake of the Wayne family double homicide. It was something the city thought it would never recover from until the former Commissioner Gordon stepped up.

Barbara was not a fan of restarting at square one.

"Get Cohen and Kasinsky in my office the second they're back from the scene," she demanded as she looked to the reporting officer - Allen, a second generation officer most likely going to make it to detective in a short amount of time.

"Yes, Ma'am-" the young man hesitated, looking spooked as he stared over the commissioner's shoulder into her office. The expression gave way to relief after a moment of panic and he returned his attention to the commissioner. "Right away."

Allen left, Barbara turned to see Dick, in uniform, by her desk.

"You summoned me?" he said, his teeth showing through his smile.

"Don't make a scene," she chided before rolling her chair in through the door and slamming it behind her. "I half expected you in your other uniform."

"Half awake, I'm still pretty good at discerning who you're calling for," he responded with a hum, watching as she stopped behind her desk. "Any reason I've been called in to M.C.U.?"

She looked expectantly at him.

When she had retired from Oracle and turned her attention instead to a career in Gotham's police force, it had partially been to thicken the line between the two forms of crime fighting, and partially to take her father's place in the most important role between Gotham's two protectors.

A year later, Dick, for what she was sure were his own reasons, had joined the force. She tried very hard to pretend it didn't still bother her.

They made an arrangement, a slippery slope of rules about how to engage each other in any situation - Officer Grayson and Commissioner Gordon, Batman and Commissioner Gordon, Dick Grayson and Barbara Gordon, and so on. One of those rules was that Dick could not work with Major Crimes, especially involving any of the numerous rogues. Not as Dick Grayson, at least.

"We have a copy cat," she admitted darkly. "One that you need to know about before it hits the presses."

Dick made a face that would have been unreadable to almost anyone else. Barbara wasn't anyone else. "Not Zsasz," he said, too dark to be hopeful.

"No, not Zsasz this time," she said, removing her glasses so that she could gingerly rub at her tired eyes. They had had three cases of copy cats of Victor Zsasz since the two of them took to the force. None ended pleasantly. "No, this one hits a little closer to home, Dick."

He began to move toward the desk, closer to her, but hesitated. He stopped short instead, brow furrowing in concern. "Closer to home for who?"

She looked at him before reaching for the file on her desk, handing it to him. He accepted.

"Tonight a family of three were leaving a movie, The Gray Ghost Strikes Again, when an assailant in what we're assuming was a skull mask stepped out of the alley and killed the father and mother. The son is eight years old," she says clinically, trying her best to mask how disturbed she really was.

He looked at the files, face drawn tight, disbelieving. His features were becoming colder the more he read. "It's not exact," he said softly. "But it can't be ignored." Dick looked up from the file and at her. "This isn't in the system yet, is it?"

Barbara scowled. "He's in our recent files, too?" she asked critically.

"You never know with him," Dick responded before looking at the file, deflating. He looked honestly devastated. "How sure are we that it's a copy cat? I know it's Gotham and there are never coincidences but… why now?"

"I can feel it, Dick, the whole force can," she responded tiredly. She looked at him. "But you, Officer Grayson, are not working this. I called you in for something else entirely."

The man looked at her, brow raised.

She maintained a calculated facade, only hating herself a little for putting the worst burden on her oldest and dearest friend. "His name's Terry. He's in the first exam room. Something funky is going on with child services and they can't get here for a while. We can't get him to eat or talk."

Dick's expression softened considerably. "I'll sit with him."


He was cold and numb. One of the officers, a nice lady who arrived after what seemed like endless hours on the pavement, had wiped his face clean with her sleeve. As if removing the blood of his parents from his face was going to erase the horror of what he had seen.

His clothes were the too-large sweats of an officer, his own sweater, shoes, and pants taken by the people who bagged his only family.

They let him keep his socks, and there was something almost funny about that notion that he would remember for the rest of his life.

Even in the police station, with fresh clothes, though, Terry couldn't feel his extremities. It was an exhaustion without possibility of sleep.

It was that complete drainage at fault for why he did not hear or sense the officer until the man was wrapping a standard issue coat around his shoulders.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Terry found the strength to look up at one of the officers.

The man swallowed a bit, like something about Terry's face had caught him off guard, but it was quickly hidden by a sad smile. The officer squatted in front of Terry and the bench, his own hands on his knees.

"Hi, Terry," the man said softly. "My name's Dick Grayson. You can call me 'Dick,' okay?"

The other officers had been nice to Terry, but there was something different about Dick. He could smile at Terry without it feeling fake or clueless. He knew what Terry was feeling somehow. He somehow made it okay to cry.

Tears fell down the newly orphaned boy's face and he sniffed the best he could to croak out, "Hi, Dick."

Dick's face drew together, just a little sadder, but his soft smile kept. "I know you've been through a lot, Kiddo. Believe me, I know. But I want to be your friend, okay? And friends know when to let their friends cry. And they know when to give hugs." He shifted a little closer, rested a warm hand on Terry's knee. "Do you need a hug, Terry?"

With that, Terry found himself choking on a sob he never knew was being held down. He nodded fiercely, coughing with the quake of his shoulders. His vision blurred, watery and so tired all of the sudden.

He couldn't move on his own, but warmth washed over his petrified body as he felt strong arms encircle him. He buried his head into the collar of the pressed shirt as the officer lifted him up and onto Dick's lap. It felt like his crying had only begun as he was gently rocked and felt his hair stroked.

"It's okay to cry," Dick murmured in his ear, a gentle mantra.

Dick never lied and said only it's okay. And somehow, more than any of the police he had endlessly been paraded around so so far, that was a surprising comfort.

It was not okay. But it was okay to cry, to feel.

And that for Terry, was more than enough for that moment.