It was burning. All of it. The entire house was in flames, and Jason had only one thought as he raced down the hall, one hand cupped around his nose and mouth to at least somehow filter out the fumes. He had to get to Damian, get the boy out. Luckily the door to his room was flying open just as Jason reached it, and the child came stumbling into the hallway clearly a little disoriented from what he hoped was sleep and not smoke inhalation.

"Damian!"

He looked up in his direction, and Jason was there in less than a heartbeat, scooping him up and moving away just in time before the door fell on its hinges. There was no time to make sure he was alright. Jason ran for the staircase but stopped when he saw there was no way he was simply going to walk down. The carpet that covered most of every step was alight. Franticly looking for some way out, Jason finally spotted the railing, miraculously still intact.

"Hang on to me," he told Damian, and the boy warped his arms tighter around his neck. Easy, Jason thought, positioning himself on the edge of the railing. Just like back at the manor.

It was exactly like that, if one could get past the flames and imbalance that holding Damian created. He did make it down to the ground floor with only minor singes that were quickly put out. Jason only had a split-second to glance around. Everything was burning; the furniture had begun to crumble, plaster was pealing, and in the living area a shelf of hundred-year-old tomes had been eaten away by the flames. The massive wooden front doors had collapsed, the path now a ring of ever-growing flames with a small window through which he could see the night outside.

"Close your eyes very tight," he instructed, placing a hand on Damian's back. "And don't open them till I tell you to."

He felt more than saw the boy nod. Backing up as much as the fire behind him allowed, Jason took off towards the opening and propelled his body into a running jump at the last moment. He cleared the doorway just as the last of the hinges broke behind him. Stumbling and feeling himself loose balance, he somehow ensured that he fell on his side in order not to crush Damian under his weight. He hit the grass hard but recovered quickly and finally allowed himself to take a deep breath.

The air hadn't tasted so sweet since his resurrection.

Jason was on his feet in a moment and looked back. If it was possible, the destruction was even more evident on the outside with each and every window spouting flames like a many-headed fire breathing dragon. Damian was still clutching to him, but he felt the boy raise his head a little and twist slightly to have a look.

"Mother!"

Now he was struggling in earnest, but Jason held him tightly. For once he was grateful for the year and a half he's spent in captivity because he had gotten stronger otherwise he doubted he would have been able to hold the boy. Damian screamed, pushing and kicking against him, but Jason just held him tighter.

"My mother... We have to go back!"

"There's nothing you can do!" Jason said firmly.

The thrashing turned to shaking then sobs, and something inside Jason contracted painfully. Hadn't he been here? Years ago but what felt like only months. He'd been in a place like this, knowing his mother – his betrayer, but still his mother – was going to die and unable to do anything about it. His own demise didn't seem important then.

Damian was still crying a full fifteen minutes later, but the burst of energy from the trauma had abandoned him until all he has the strength to do is let the tears run with the silence only interrupted by small irregular hiccups. Jason, who had recovered from the shock quickly, held him. He wasn't sure how to comfort a distressed child so he fell on instinct, rubbing the boy's back in broad soothing circles.

"We have to go," he whispered after a long moment.

"Go?" Damian hiccupped again. "Where?"

"Away from here." The answer was on the tip of Jason's tongue but he didn't dare say it. He barely dared think it. Gotham… Bruce…

The boy sniffed again and unconsciously whipped his nose on the shoulder of Jason's jacket. "My grandfather… I never met him, but…"

"No!"

Startled Damian quickly closed his mouth, and Jason sighed, finally placing the child on the ground. He didn't know how to explain why they couldn't go to Ra's. From Damian's perspective it must have made sense; his mother was probably dead and so the closest relative he could think of was his grandfather. Nevermind that he was an international terrorist. Eight-year-olds didn't think like that. He had to give him a reason to listen.

"Look, here's the plan:" Jason knelt and placed both hands on the boy's shoulders. "We're gonna go and find some civilization and then we're gonna find a phone and then we'll get in touch with Dad in Gotham then we're gonna go home."

It sounded so good, simple. He was almost giddy with the idea, and why not? Ra's might think we both got barbequed in the fire, Jason thought, momentarily glancing back at the still-burning mansion. No one was going to look for them. It was so perfect.

Too perfect, a voice inside his head cautioned. Be careful. Things are never as simple as they appear.

Damian didn't look too convinced either. "Father doesn't know about me."

"Well, he knows about me," at least he did, "I'll put in a good word for you. Come on."

He rose, and the boy also took a few reluctant steps before suddenly letting out a sharp yelp and stopping. Grasping Jason's pant leg for balance, he examined his right foot. There wasn't anything there that Jason could see, but he must have stepped on something. In his haste to get both of them out of the burning mansion, he'd neglected to grab any other clothes for Damian, even shoes.

"Okay, up." As much as he didn't look forward to caring the boy however many miles it was to the nearest town, Jason want to deal with infections from cuts even less.

He might have fought against it, but Damian was too exhausted not to sleep. His head was settled into the crook of Jason's neck within a half hour. The young man huffed, shifting the child into a different position in his arms, but kept walking. It wasn't Damian's fault, but the exhaustion from interrupted sleep was beginning to get to Jason as well and the weight of his charge didn't help much. His arms were going numb.

Still, he couldn't stop. People would come to investigate the fire, Jason knew. If not local authority – he still wasn't quite sure what country or even continent they were on – than surely the League of Assassins, possibly Ra's al Ghoul himself would come to see what had happened to Talia. As much as he hoped for it, Jason didn't think the immortal would simply assume that his daughter and grandson perished in the fire. He would look for them for a while at least, and he and Damian had to be well away by then.

He'd always assumed the mansion was remote but it wasn't as far as Jason had initially assumed. They came across what looked like a regularly used road in under two hours, and by mid-morning he could see the outline of a village less than a mile away. Damian was just stirring awake, and Jason stopped momentarily.

"We need a game plan," he told the boy who was furiously rubbing at his eyes. "If anyone asks, we were camping and a wild animal got to our stuff. We didn't see what it was; it was too dark, but now we need to find a phone to call our Dad and ask for a lift. Got it?"

"Why can't we tell them about the fire?" Damian protested. "Even in a small village they must have something to deal with things like that. Maybe if they get up to the mansion they could find traces of…"

"There'll be too many questions," Jason shook his head. And probably attract attention from your grandpa. "They might think we started the fire or something. The less people ask, the better. We're not gonna hang around here for long. Find a phone. Make a call. That's it."

His hopes of making the whole process as quick as possible were dashed as they got closer to the town. For a moment Jason wondered if he'd somehow stepped through a time warp, because the village looked like something from the middle ages. A few unpaved roads crossed between brick buildings no more than three stories high. Every now and then he saw a rusted car but none of them look like they'd been touched in a while. Still there was smoke rising from more than a few chimneys, so the lack of technology didn't mean an absence of people.

They didn't have far to walk. The second building they passed had a wooden sign with faded letters that Jason couldn't quite read. It looked like Greek or Cyrillic which made him think they were somewhere in Eastern Europe. It could have been better – he was holding out a little hope that they were still in the United States – but it could have been a lot worse. Whatever the sign read, he hoped it meant the house was a place of business and open to the public. Jason shifted Damian again and tried the knob which turned without protest.

"Stick to the plan," he whispered to the boy before entering. "Hello?"

The lobby was small and a little dusty with no one in site, but Jason spotted an umbrella and a few patches on the table where the dust had been disturbed. A staircase to the right led upstairs and there was another closed door to the left. He took a few steps towards the table, setting Damian down on the floor, and tapped the brass bell. Jason wondered if it was some kind of inn.

"Hello? Anyone here?"

Footsteps rushed down the stairs, and a moment later a small plump woman emerged, wiping her hands on a stained towel that must have been white at some point. She frowned a little when she saw them and uttered something in a Slavic language Jason couldn't quite place.

"Ah..." He hesitated. "Do you speak English?"

"Yes, yes, little." Her voice came out heavily accented.

"Okay, good. I'm hoping you can help us." He recited the planned story and was pleased to see the woman's face go from suspicious to sympathetic. "So if you have a phone, I'd really appreciate if you'd let me borrow it to call."

"Your father... he in America?" The woman checked.

"Yeah, sorry it'll be international and I can't pay you, but it'll be quick," Jason promised. No long-winded explanations, he told himself. Save it for when Bruce gets here.

"Not problem." The woman waved her hand dismissively. "But it take days to come here, yes? You have no clothes, no food..."

"We'll manage." Jason assured her.

"Not problem," she repeated and pointed through the closed door. "Phone in back kitchen. You make call. I bring shoes for your brother. My grandson's."

"Thanks." He was touched. "Say 'thank you', Damian."

The expression on the boy's face made it clear to Jason that the words were completely foreign to him. He nudged the boy and finally, looking properly chastised, Damian nodded a thanks to the woman. She smiled and took him by the hand leading the child up the stairs while Jason went into the kitchen.

The phone that hung on the wall was an ancient rotary, but he was just happy to hear the dial tone. Trying to get any Batman-related line was out of the question. Not that he thought anyone in the small town might bother with a trace, but Jason had been taught never to even consider taking those kinds of risks. Besides he didn't think he would be able to get past any of Bruce's encryptions with just the dialing pad, and the pass codes had been regularly changed before his death. Jason had no reason to think they were still the same.

The number for the main line in Wayne Manor had been ingrained into his head. He just prayed that hadn't changed too. Jason held his breath as the land line made the long connection overseas. Finally the phone on the other end began to ring and after four rings it was finally picked up.

"Hello?"

Jason's heart stopped. Not Bruce... Not Alfred... Not even Dick! The voice on the other end was completely foreign, belonging to a boy... maybe a young teenager... It was no one Jason recognized. His chest contracted painfully, and he had to fight back the urge to cry.

"Sorry," he managed before hanging up. "Wrong number."

A continent and an ocean away, Tim Drake frowned at the receiver that just went dead. He'd just come up from the cave when he heard the phone, and Alfred must have not been close to one because it rang four times before he finally decided to pick it up. He probably should have said something polite like "Wayne Residence. Tim speaking," but it almost never fell to him to answer the phone so he didn't think of it.

The man on the other end was obviously more than a little startled before muttering an apology and hanging up. Tim's frown deepened. Not that there was anything particularly unusual about a misdial, but the way that voice sounded… Tim's developing detective skills and razor-sharp memory insisted he pay attention. He could have almost sworn he'd heard that voice before. Maybe not recently, maybe from very far away, but there was something familiar about it.

Tim chewed on his lip for a moment then checked his watch. He'd completed all his homework and Robin-related exercises for the day, and Bruce was at away on Wayne Enterprises business and wouldn't be back till it was time to patrol which was still hours away. Plenty of time to check if Dick was up for visitors over in Bludhaven.