Nightwing sat quietly, his back against the alley wall. The Universe had given him the chance to be the hero he had trained to be his whole life, then screwed him over. He didn't even want to open his eyes. There was no point. There would forever be a Batman and Nightwing would forever remain disjointed from his time. Alone and without reason. As he wondered where his next meal would come from he found himself feeling incredibly guilty, but not as before. I'm just sitting here sulking while a seven year old boy tries to cope with the loss of his parents.

Nightwing knew he probably shouldn't have taken Bruce to the circus. Hell, once he knew who he was talking to, Nightwing should've bolted like The Flash. But what harm could it have done to the space-time continuum or whatever Tim would have called it to make a boy happy? He almost smirked. Nightwing could only imagine the sort of lecture Tim would give him if he knew he had interacted with someone from his own future. Always the Sci-Fi nerd. But this wasn't science-fiction, not anymore.

Nightwing pondered over the dilemma he now faced. Should I go to Bruce and risk messing with the time line knowing he will still be Batman or should I let fate run its course? Bruce would probably let the boy be were the situation reversed. He always said what's done is done, but Nightwing found it difficult to leave a seven year old alone in that manor to deal with his grief. Especially knowing how Bruce deals with grief. Nightwing groaned. Just moments before he was ready to completely re-write history, to prevent Batman from ever existing. Now that he had failed however, the thought of confronting Bruce knotted his stomach and made him want to keep time as it was.

Nightwing stood, coming to a conclusion. He took one last look at the crime scene before grappling to the roof of the theatre and retracing his steps along the skyline of Gotham. Nightwing found the clothes Bruce had bought him strewn across the roofs and put them back on and removed his mask, ashamed.

The journey to Wayne manor had been quicker than Dick had anticipated. Or quicker than he had hoped. Sneaking onto the grounds was no problem with only Alfred on watch in the kitchen. He trudged through the flowers on the West side of the manor and smiled, thinking back on how many times he had scaled this wall in his youth to get away from Bruce after one of their arguments. He scanned the moon-lit brick and found the window that would lead into Bruce's room; the very room Bruce had given Dick when he moved into the manor.

Dick swallowed, but his throat was dry as he reached for his grapple. Aiming for the corner of the ledge he knew would hold his weight, he began the ascent slowly. Upon reaching the sill, Dick found the room dark save for the fire crackling in the fireplace. He found Bruce sitting on the hearth, knees tucked under his chin and arms crossed across his legs. Dick frowned and mentally prepared himself for anything. He knew Bruce was volatile when talking about his parents, so Dick expected nothing short of a volcano from the seven-year old. Dick popped out a small knife from his belt and jimmied the window open after loosening screws he knew would give way the easiest.

"They're dead," Bruce said monotone as Dick stepped into the room. He wasn't surprised his presence was detected; he made no effort to keep himself silent.

Dick closed the window and stood by the bed, shoulders slumped. "I know."

Bruce turned his head towards Dick, his eyes were bloodshot and his lips were dry as though he had cried out his body's moisture. Dick took several steps forward and when Bruce made no protest, he took a seat next to him in front of the fire. Bruce starred at Dick silently before turning his attention back to the dancing flames. They sat there in companionable quiet for, to Dick, what seemed like an eternity before Bruce spoke.

"I'm going to kill him," his voice cold and clear. Dick took a deep breath and regarded the boy's solid, unemotional mask. It's already started. "I'm going to hunt down every criminal in Gotham and I'm going to kill every last one."

"So, you can do what? Become a criminal yourself?" Dick questioned quietly, cutting down the childish logic. "You're not going to kill anyone."

Bruce's face contorted with rage, "You don't know what I'm feeling!" He was standing now, his tiny fists clenched so tightly, his knuckles were bright white. "You don't know me! What I'm capable of!" He was breathing heavily, all the anger and pain he was feeling fixated on Dick.

Dick, sitting calmly, met the boy's fiery gaze with empathy and knowing. "I know exactly what you're feeling." Bruce's eyes narrowed dangerously, but he let Dick continue. "You're feeling like every bright light in the world has gone out and that you're walking in a black hall alone with no way out. You're thinking that 'if I had just stepped a little more to the left, that bullet would've hit me instead'. You're thinking that it was your fault that you left the theatre early because you had a headache and your dad suggested you go home. You're thinking that there's nothing in the entire world you want to do more than find that drugged out mugger who stole everything you ever held dear and make him suffer the exact pain you're feeling right now." Bruce's breathing slowed, but his fists were still ready to wail. Dick glanced at them and added, "And just for good measure, you're thinking about how satisfying it would be to break my nose."

Bruce glared at Dick for a moment before allowing his mask to melt away and relaxing his hands to his sides. The raw emotion suddenly displayed on the boy's face was heart-wrenching, but Bruce couldn't see Dick was hurting too. Dick had to be strong now for him.

"Why…" Bruce started, but his voice cracked and his nose began to run. He whipped away the snot on his pajama sleeve and looked pathetically at the floor boards under his bare feet.

Dick didn't know why. He didn't know why anything happened. He didn't know why parents could be ripped away from their children or why he couldn't have been there in time. All he knew was there was a boy, broken and alone, in need of some help. "Come here," Dick beckoned, his arm spread out to welcome the boy. Bruce looked like he wanted to argue away the kind gesture, but his need for human comfort got the better of him and he sat beside Dick, allowing the young man to wrap his arm around him protectively. Dick consciously steadied his breathing as Bruce rested his head on his torso and relaxed.

"What happens now?" Bruce whispered.

Dick cleared his throat and thought about how to answer. "Now you think about all the good memories you have of your parents."

Bruce was quiet and Dick felt hot liquid fall onto his hand at a steady pace and knew Bruce was crying but didn't want Dick to know. "I don't have a family. I'm going to be alone for the rest of my life." Bruce stated in resignation.

Dick shook his head, "No, Bruce. You have a family and you may not see it now but you will never be alone, do you hear me?" Dick moved Bruce so he could lock eyes to reaffirm his sincerity. "You're never alone."

Bruce starred back at Dick but it was obvious the boy didn't believe him. Just the same rhetoric any orphan hears, but he knew better. "Will you be with me?" Bruce asked, more accusingly than questioningly.

Dick starred back, not knowing what to say. "Yes," he answered finally, not willing to say anything else. It's the truth. Not the whole truth, but the truth. Bruce seemed puzzled and looked like he was ready to retort, but took a deep breath instead and said nothing more. Dick shut his eyes willing himself back to his time. Kids were painful enough to deal with, but dealing with a young Bruce was almost more than Dick wanted to handle.

They sat by the fire for a while quietly. Sometimes Bruce would begin to cry, but he never made a sound, just hid behind his already forming mask. Dick didn't want to press the issue and let the kid cry as he pleased and was thankful to some extent that he didn't try to make conversation. After a few hours, Dick noticed Bruce's breathing was slow and deep and that he no longer shuddered from silent sobs. Dick slowly moved his arm under Bruce's legs and cradled his head with his numb arm. Dick stood and lowered him gently into the bed Dick would occupy years from now. The fire was low and harmless, so Dick left it to burn out on its own. He took one last look at the boy before leaving through the window.

"Dad, look!" Zatana rushed happily into the room holding up an old and tattered book.

"What, darling?" Zatara asked absently, concentrating on the hologram. He had had a full night's sleep and was feeling fully refreshed after the previous day's exertion. Zatana waited patiently as her father finished his thought and turned to her, his brow raised curiously.

"I found a spell I think would help," she pointed to a mess of characters Batman couldn't decipher so he turned his attention back to monitoring J'onn's vitals. Zatara read the writing slowly and made several large huffs to express his skepticism. Batman rolled his eyes. "Well, it's not designed for time travel," Zatana began to defend, sensing her father's disapproval. "But, look there," she pointed to a specific passage. "I think it would help pull him forward quicker with less strain."

Zatara rubbed his chin and hummed as he read. Finally, he looked up at his daughter and replied, "It would require a joint effort. This isn't a spell I'm comfortable casting alone."

Zatana nodded and admitted, "I didn't want to do it myself either."

Batman decided to enter the conversation now, "Can you bring him to our time?"

Zatara shook his head. "Not at all. A few years, maybe. But even with this to aid us, there is not the magic available, as I have said before."

Batman sighed internally. "Then what are we waiting for?"