Cuckoo

by TwinEnigma

Disclaimer: I do this for fun and skills building, not profit. Also I'm apparently incapable of resisting a good crossover prompt.

Warnings: Spoilers for Doctor Who, YJ: Invasion, etc. Originally done as a fill on YJAM, crossposting because I'd already admitted it was me and why the hell not?


The Batcave

December 25

9:00 AM

"Master Bruce, a word, if you will," Alfred says, stopping him at the bottom of the stairs.

Bruce pauses, looking up from what is very likely his third cup of coffee for the day. He has a feeling he knows what this is going to be about.

Fortunately, Dick is elsewhere, further back in the cave and towards a little-used storage section near the separating wall for the bat habitats. Had he taken two more steps to his left, it would have been impossible to spot Dick. The cave wall here had formed strangely, producing the illusion it was flat, when it actually hid a tight corner into a deeper, older part of the cave system. It was also, fortuitously, far enough away that any sound from their conversation would not reach him.

"It's about the young master," Alfred continues, instantly confirming Bruce's suspicions.

"All right, what is it?" he asks, continuing on towards his workbench. He doesn't particularly want to talk about this, not right now, and he can already feel the start of a headache coming on.

Alfred follows, giving him the same deeply concerned look that Leslie had given him. "I've taken the liberty of reviewing the medical report."

Bruce puts down his coffee on the workbench, his expression slipping into a careful blank. "And?"

"I believe it raises some valid concerns about his field-worthiness," Alfred states seriously. He hesitates then, body radiating clear unease. "Master Bruce, it might be best to pull him from the field until we know more about… what has happened to him."

Bruce rubs his forehead, pushing the coffee mug away from him. His head throbs and suddenly the smell of the coffee is nauseating. "So, you think he's a threat?"

"No, Master Bruce," Alfred says, slightly taken aback by the accusing tone. "That's not it at all. I'm just concerned for him – and you."

Bruce grunts standoffishly, deliberately dropping heavily into his work chair with his arms stubbornly crossed.

Alfred sighs and it's a sigh of weariness, one that makes him sound old. "I talked with Master Dick earlier. Whatever has happened, it's reopened some very old wounds for him. I can't pretend to know the full extent of what they are based on what little he was willing to say, but, Master Bruce, he called himself a refugee. He believes his home – this Gallifrey – is lost to him."

"Gallifrey," Bruce murmurs, frowning as he tries and fails to place it. His headache certainly is not helping either. "It sounds vaguely familiar."

"I thought so as well, sir, so I took it upon myself to do a little digging during your morning exercises," Alfred says, turning towards the computer console on the adjacent workbench. He pulled up a file, continuing: "There was a minor mention of it buried in the Justice Society archives, as the home planet of an extraterrestrial scientist."

With a fluid swipe of his finger on the screen, Alfred sends it to the workbench monitor. "Does he look familiar to you?"

The photos are washed out and grainy, but there is no mistaking the man in them: it's John Grayson, Dick's father. He's standing off to the side, dressed in clothing that wouldn't have looked out of place when Bruce was in high school, and is speaking with the Green Lantern, Alan Scott, about a dismantled device.

"I don't understand," Bruce says, frowning and rubbing his head.

"Apparently, his claims about being a time-traveler from another universe might have had more merit than the JSA suspected," Alfred states, raising his eyebrows in good humor.

Bruce knows better than to argue the existence of parallel universes – their last run-in with a parallel universe hadn't exactly been a pleasant experience for anyone involved – but time travel, on the other hand? While theoretically and evidently very possible in his experience, the very idea of it has always made his head hurt and his stomach turn with anxiety. It's never been a good thing in his eyes. The potential for abuse is completely staggering. It's not a technology anyone on this world should have. He shudders at the very idea of what someone like Lex Luthor could do with access to that kind of technology.

Silence falls, momentarily deafening, and he reflexively reaches for the coffee mug, taking a sip. It does little to soothe his nausea or headache, but the action at least is familiar enough to start calming him down.

"Stop beating around the bush, Alfred," Bruce says at last, closing the file and raising his eyes to meet those of the man who had more or less raised him.

Alfred's expression sobers, now totally serious. "Master Bruce, it stands to reason that perhaps the other things he disclosed about his homeworld are also true, such as the mention of a war - a war with another race bent on their -"

"Extermination, I know," Bruce says, cutting him off. "It's the same old story. We've heard a hundred variations of it before."

They both know he's right: hell, half the alien superheroes he knows have a backstory like that. Not to mention, tragic backgrounds are practically par for the course in their business to begin with, a fact that's almost become a sort of gallows humor joke in and of itself.

"It doesn't change anything," Bruce states simply.

Alfred gives him another very concerned look. "Master Bruce, it changes everything."

The mug in Bruce's hand abruptly shatters in his hand, coffee and ceramic shards going everywhere. His heartbeat is drumming out a staccato that drowns everything except the adrenaline and that awful headache. Numbly, he looks at his empty hand, covered in lukewarm coffee, and the shards of the mug.

"My word, are you all right, Master Bruce?" Alfred asks, closing the distance between them. His face is chalk white.

Bruce blinks slowly. He feels dazed. "I…"

"Perhaps it would be prudent if you got some rest," Alfred says, "You don't seem well."

"I'm fine," he responds automatically. The words are out of his mouth before he even has the time to think them, much less raise his hand to examine it for damage. "I'm fine, really. Stop worrying."

Alfred hesitates, then slowly draws back. The concern on his face has not faded: if anything, it has only deepened.

"Look, I understand, I do," Bruce says, sighing heavily as he rubs his head. "But I'm not pulling him from the field."

Alfred levels him with a somber glare of disapproval. "Master Bruce, sir, due diligence demands I remind you that neither you nor I have any idea how to treat someone of the young master's unique physiology. If something should happen –"

"It won't," Bruce interrupts.

Alfred's lips draw into little more than a tight, thin line and his eyes practically burn with a cold fury. "You are not invulnerable, Master Bruce. I already buried your parents. I refuse to bury their son or help that son bury his child."

Bruce doesn't say anything, but he can't stop the flinch. It's an old argument at heart and, if he is honest with himself, he can't remember how many times they've had it since he started down the path he's on.

"I am worried, Bruce, because you are scaring me," Alfred states, deliberately seeking eye contact. "You don't seem the slightest bit concerned about the situation."

"You're wrong." The words are practically a pained croak and Bruce is hardly aware he's the one who said them. "I am. I'm terrified. He's my son, Alfred. That's why everything needs to look…"

As he trails off, a look of comprehension dawns on Alfred's face and his expression fades slowly into weary acceptance. His mouth opens soundlessly and then clicks shut, any word of further comment quickly slipping behind the mask of a butler's decorum.

"No one must know," Bruce states quietly. "Not the League, not the Green Lanterns – no one. Is that clear?"

"Of course, sir," Alfred answers.

He knows Alfred won't tell a soul.

Dick comes around the corner then, smiling brightly.

"Did you find anything interesting back there?" Bruce asks, looking at him.

"Yep," Dick says, nodding eagerly. He then tilts his head to the side, his grin turning mischievous. "I'll tell you about it later."

Bruce rolls his eyes, his headache already quickly fading. "If this it's got a broken rotor, I'm not sure I want to know."

Dick stills suddenly, leveling him with the strangest look, and then it's gone as he relaxes and laughs. "I didn't touch it – it was already broken when I found it!"

"Like the motorcycle, then?" Bruce quips, smirking at the all-too-familiar exchange.

"It was rust, I tell you, rust," Dick says, in a low, mock-serious tone. "It's not my fault if you never clean this place!"

"I'll assure you, young master, that this place is always tidy," Alfred plays along, pretending to bristle at the slight against his skills.

"And damp," Dick moans theatrically. "Why couldn't we have a warm cave instead?"

"The League did," Bruce says, deadpan. "It was in a volcano. But honestly, it was a little too… secret villainous lair for our tastes. Totally gave the wrong idea about us."

"But it's perfectly okay for kids," Dick fake-whines, "Okay, then."

Bruce clamps a hand on his shoulder, smiling as he leans in. "That's because all children are secretly our evil overlords. All adults know that."

Dick pantomimes a villainous face and laughs, slipping out of his grasp, and the chase is on. It is absurd and normal, all at once, but it is okay. For a moment, they all can forget.

Dick is his son: nothing can change that.

And in the end, that's all that really ever matters.


AN: Bruce struggles to keep it together. Good to know Dick is not the only one pretending nothing is wrong.

Also, really the Batcave. The amount of stuff they break on a routine basis. It's ridiculous, really. Good thing Bruce Wayne is a billionaire.

This is the second chapter I overhauled top to bottom because I didn't think it was strong enough in the original Anon post. The original setting was breakfast, it was originally concurrent to the last chapter, and Bruce kind of loses his temper at Alfred.