Unus
An Unexpected Dinner
"I hate you!" Jason yelled, so loud that Alfred could probably hear all the way up in the manor. "I'm sick of this stupid cave, I'm sick of your asinine rules, and I'm sick of you!"
"You know darn well that if we'd stayed any longer," Bruce started, "we would have been sucked into the vortex along with everyone else."
"If I could interject here," Dick coughed.
"No!" Both Bruce and Jason snarled. Dick took a step back.
"Look, what matters is we got the device, and all of you are safe," said Bruce, trying to highlight something positive.
"And speaking of which, I'm gonna go start running some tests," said Tim, making for the furthest platform from the yelling pair.
"Tim! Don't mess with that thing!" Bruce called after him, fearing what it was capable of.
"Relax, Bruce, I said 'run some tests' not 'press every button randomly.' Jeez," he hollered back, and disappeared with the metal box of wires.
Bruce held his forehead in his hand as he fought to hold back an oncoming migraine. "And where are you going?" He asked as Jason started for the door.
"I don't owe you anything, least of all an explanation." When the doors slammed shut behind him, it shook the wall and startled a family of bats overheard.
"Good riddance," said Damian with a huff.
"You're not off the hook either, Damian. You deliberately went against orders."
"No offence, Father, but your plan wasn't very logical. Clearly the best option was to—"
"I don't want to hear it!" Bruce snapped. "Being a team means following orders, regardless of what you happen to think of them."
"And yet we still got back in one piece—"
"Damian!"
Father and son stood at odds, waiting to see who would flinch first. With a muted sigh, it was Damian who eventually broke eye contact. "Whatever," he mumbled, and sulked off in the same direction Tim had gone, his cape flapping angrily behind him.
Bruce fell into the nearest chair, feeling the weight of his sore limbs and mental stress pressing into him.
"Can I get you anything? Espresso? Margarita? Bourbon? Aspirin?" Dick asked, leaning against one of the computer consoles.
"I'm fine," he lied, still rubbing his temples. "I just… I wish I knew what to do with them. You'd think that after all this time it'd get easier."
"Well," said Dick thoughtfully, "In their defence, I'd say you had it pretty easy your first go around. Comparatively, anyway."
"You still had your rough spots, too," he smiled, thinking back.
"True, but, you know… at least I wasn't trying to stab anyone with a katana or anything."
Bruce smirked and folded his arms. "Not that you'd ever brag about it of course."
"Of course." Dick hid his sheepish smile and folded his arms as well.
It had been a while since their last mission together, let alone the last mission where all four of them were present, and despite all the headaches these sorts of reunions tended to bring with them, Bruce still found himself looking back fondly at a few moments. If only there were a way to stretch those moments out a little longer.
A glint of red on a nearby table caught Bruce's attention and suddenly the doors at the other end of the room swung open again. A very sullen Jason came trudging back in, beelining for the table and the red helmet sitting on it.
ZZZAP!
"What did you do!?"
"I didn't do anything!"
Bruce was on his feet the instant he heard Damian's voice. If Tim had gone and done something stupid—he swore, these kids would be the death of him. He heard two sets of footsteps behind him as he rounded the corner and saw Tim still holding the device. Damian was giving him a wide berth, but everything seemed normal.
"What happened?" He asked, narrowing his eyes.
Tim scrutinised the unmoving box. "Nothing… I think."
Right as Jason was about to roll his eyes and stomp out again, a sudden spark of electricity shot out from the device. Then another, and another, all arcing haphazardly through the air.
"Put it down!" Bruce ordered, and if Tim didn't listen, he was going over there and ripping the box out of his hands himself. Luckily for both of them, Tim dropped it onto a table right as the sparks seemed to be at their wildest.
"I swear I didn't—!" But Tim never got to finish. He was cut off by the sound of another vortex opening, its pearly white energy swirling uncontrollably. Already they could feel it starting to pull them toward it, Tim chief among them, as he was standing the closest.
"Tim!" Bruce cried, reaching for his arm, only for his feet to start sliding against the smooth surface of the floor. Darn it, did Alfred recently wax it or was the vortex just that strong?
"Bruce!" Dick cried next, and both he and Damian grabbed onto him, holding them all steady for a little while. "Jason! Do something!" He yelled, looking back at him.
"Alright!" He said, pulling out a pistol and aiming it at the box.
Bruce heard its familiar click and he turned around as much as he could. "Don't! We can't risk destroying it!"
"Well what do you want me to do!?" Jason shot back.
Tim was inching dangerously close to the vortex now, his feet getting swept up into it. Both his hands were now firmly clasped onto Bruce's arm.
"Use your grappling hook!" Tim shouted, his hair whipping straight back.
Jason had it out in an instant and shot it straight at the device, only for him to realise that he'd made a critical error. The gravity well of the vortex pulled the hook away from its intended target and straight at Tim's face.
"That's not what I meant!" He cried, moments before getting socked in the face and losing his grip on Bruce.
"NO!" Bruce went barrelling after him, straight into the portal, with Dick and Damian getting pulled along for the ride.
"I hate you!" Damian called back at Jason.
With nothing else to do, and nothing else to lose, Jason muttered, "Screw it," and dove in after them.
The blinding light only lasted for a second, but it was long enough to leave them all seeing spots.
Rain pelted down on them, soaking their hair and making their suits stick to their skin. There was barely any light, save for the occasional flashes of lightning buried deep within the clouds.
"Is everyone here? Everyone okay?" Bruce asked, looking around.
"I'm here," Tim groaned nearby. "The welt in my face included."
"Tell your face to suck it up," Jason called.
"Still got all my limbs," said Dick, getting to his feet and wiping away some mud.
"Where are we?" Damian asked, straining to see any detail of their surroundings.
"The device," Bruce suddenly remembered. "Where's the device?"
"Here! It's here," said Tim, groping for it in the dark. "Still intact—" it gave a loud HISSS, "—mostly. It'd probably be a good idea to get it out of the rain."
"Great idea brainiac, don't suppose you know where to find some shelter?" Jason asked in a snide tone and raising his arms toward the open sky.
"What's that?" Asked Dick. "Just there. Do you see it?"
All eyes turned toward a spot of warm light, floating in the distance. Lighting flashed, revealing an ancient stone staircase leading up to it. Beyond that, like a great mountain, a castle loomed, silhouetted black against the thundering sky.
"Oh, great. Yeah, we should definitely go toward the giant murder castle," Jason wisecracked.
"Too bad your mouth isn't big enough to keep us all dry," said Damian flatly.
"It's our only option. Come on," Bruce said, leading them toward the front door.
The rain was coming down in sheets now, leaving the group dripping wet as they slowly ascended the stairs. The front entrance was large enough to fit a double-decker bus and was flanked by two enormous torches.
"Who goes there!"
A well dressed man seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, watching them all very sternly. He was wearing a long black coat and tie similar to the ones Bruce's socialite friends would often wear to fancy galas.
As the group stepped into the light of the open doorway, Bruce had intended to introduce himself and ask where they were, when the man suddenly froze, a look of terror upon his face.
"Forgive me, your Lordship! I did not recognise you," he said quickly, bowing until his body was at a perfect ninety degree angle. "Your guests are waiting for you inside."
"Um," Bruce stammered. "There must be some sort of misunderstanding."
"Please, My Lords, allow us to take your cloaks."
"Us?" Dick echoed, only to turn and see at least five other men, all dressed in the same black suits, appear all around them, ushering them into the castle. There wasn't much to look at here, just a long hallway lined with candles and ornate decorations. One of the men took Damian's hood and cape, one tried to take Jason's jacket but was unsuccessful, while the others quickly brought clean towels for everyone.
"Okay, anyone else getting a little creeped out or is it just me?" Tim asked, cautiously taking one of the towels from a rather old-looking man with a terrible combover.
"Eight-point-five on the weirdness scale," said Dick, eyeing one of the men, who could only be servants, as he gave Bruce his towel. He noticed that his hands were shaking.
"Excuse me, but who owns this castle?" Bruce asked as he dried his hair.
"You do, My Lord," the servant replied timidly.
This was another parallel universe, he realised. Well, it was nice to know that the device still worked at least.
"I'm afraid that is not the case," Bruce said evenly. "Thank you for your hospitality, but your master is most likely still inside."
The servants turned to look at each other, confusion passing between them.
"Tim," he said, turning to him. "Get that device working again as soon as you can. I don't want to cause any more trouble."
"Already on it," said Tim, tinkering with the thing. "This'd be a lot easier if I had a screwdriver." At once, one of the servants produced just such a tool. "Oh, hey, thanks," he said, taking it.
"Of course, Lord Timothy," the servant replied, bowing.
"Lord Timothy?" He repeated, looking up with wide eyes. "Did you guys hear that?"
"We're in another dimension, idiot. He doesn't mean you, he means this dimension's version of you," Damian snarked. Again, more confused looks passed between the staff.
Bruce gave a slight cough. "Damian, maybe you should keep those observations to yourself."
Tim had set the device down on a nearby decorative table and was adjusting some of the wiring inside when he suddenly shocked himself. "AH! Shoot!"
"What is it now?" Jason grumbled.
"Water got inside. It's gonna take at least a couple of hours before I can work on it safely," he replied, starting to screw the small panel back on.
"So what now?" Dick asked, turning to Bruce.
Before he could even start to think of an answer, an echoey sound suddenly came from the other end of the long hall, announcing the arrival of a stranger through the set of double doors. His skin was white, like sheet paper, and he wore a long black cloak, fastened tightly around his shoulders by a silver clasp. From a distance, he appeared like a ghost, wrapped in blackest shadow.
"A good night to you, sir," he said in a gravely tone that was all too familiar. The closer he came, the clearer the resemblance. That jet black hair, the chiseled jaw, those weathered eyes and patent frown—how could it be anyone else besides Bruce Wayne himself? When he saw the group at his front door up close, he seemed to falter, his eyebrows getting dangerously low. "I… do not believe we are acquainted. To whom do I owe this sudden and unexpected visit?"
"Dude, do you see it?" Tim whispered in Dick's ear. He couldn't take his eyes off of the black cloak and greased hair.
"I see it," Dick whispered back, eyeing the silver cravat and… were those pointed ears? His eyes were also an unsettling shade of yellow.
"Please, forgive our intrusion," said Bruce in his most polite voice. "We didn't mean to cause trouble. We were actually just about to leave."
The Other Bruce scrutinised him further, then looked over his shoulder at the four boys. "Tell me," he started, raising his posture slightly. "What would a group of oddly dressed men such as yourselves be doing out in the rain, slinking around my castle, this late into the night?"
"Uh, the door was open?" Jason deadpanned.
As suddenly as the words were out of his mouth, the Other Bruce's eyes were locked onto him, twisted into a tight glare. "I beg your pardon, but this door remains open for my guests, which none of you appear to be."
"Again, I humbly apologise," said Bruce.
"Who are you?" The Other Bruce asked, stepping closer.
Bruce glanced back at Tim, still holding the water-logged device, who simply shrugged.
"This may come as a bit of a shock," Bruce sighed. "But… I am you." Other Bruce's face twisted into a frown. "You could say that I am your doppelgänger."
Other Bruce leaned back a bit, looking again at the four boys. "And them?" He asked.
"Doppelgängers as well," Bruce nodded.
"That's quite the coincidence." Other Bruce's eyebrow floated up.
"Not exactly," said Bruce.
Other Bruce seemed to have a thought. "I don't suppose you all happen to come from a place very similar to this one? A… doppelgänger world, so to say."
"Yes. Exactly," said Bruce, and Other Bruce smiled at his surprise. "How did you—"
"I have seen many things. Some… not of this world." Other Bruce relaxed his shoulders finally and gave a curt smile. "Lord Bruce Wayne, I presume?"
"Mister Bruce Wayne, actually." They briefly shook hands.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance."
"Likewise."
"I am the Marquis of this castle. And these are your sons?" Other Bruce asked, raising his eyebrow again.
He turned around. "Yes. Dick, Damian, Jason and Tim."
Other Bruce nodded respectfully to each of them. With a sharp intake of breath, he added, "Is there anything I can help you with, Mister Wayne?"
Again he glanced back at the boys and noted the device in Tim's hands. "Well… if you'd be willing, we do need a place to wait out this storm before we can go home."
Other Bruce closed his yellow eyes for a moment. "Very well. My table is waiting. Come. Dine with me this fine night."
"You can't be serious," Jason started, only for Bruce to hold up a warning hand at him.
"We would be honoured to accept the Marquis' invitation," he said pointedly. "Thank you for your hospitality."
Without another word, Other Bruce turned on the spot and seemingly glided back down the hall, his long cape billowing at his heels.
"Uh, Bruce? Are we sure this is a good idea?" Tim whispered urgently. "He wants us to dine with him?"
"Tim's got a point, he's giving me very strong vampire vibes," Dick added.
"Shh!" Bruce hissed. "Whatever the case, don't you think it best not to offend him?" The boys all side-eyed each other. "Just… keep your eyes open."
The Marquis led them through the main foyer, and what a grand sight it was to behold. Several crystal chandeliers hung above them, reflecting glints of light onto the walls, while gold sconces held thick, yellow candles dripping wax. The floors were marble, as were the columns, and the ceiling was decorated with more curled mouldings than one could possibly count. The whole place seemed straight out of an old movie, or, more than likely, the distant past.
Beyond the foyer, another hallway, where they suddenly stopped. The Marquis, refined and agreeable, turned to them and said, "I'm afraid that in this world, we have a certain… social etiquette regarding wardrobe. I do hope not to offend you, but I would ask, if it wouldn't be so much trouble, that you please accept this change of dry clothes."
Instantly, five more servants appeared, each carrying a neat stack of dress shirts, dress pants, suit jackets and glossy shoes.
"There is a powder room just here, for your convenience."
"Thank you, Lord Wayne," said Bruce, nodding his head respectfully.
However, as Bruce approached the powder room, change of clothes in hand, he caught sight of a particularly disgruntled Jason, glaring daggers at the pile of formal attire still outstretched to him.
"Jason," Bruce whisper-hissed.
"Polite pass," he grumbled, and Other Bruce simply took a measured breath.
"Very well."
Bruce couldn't really be surprised, but would it kill him to learn a few manners? It's not like wearing a suit would be the end of the world.
In the powder room, when Bruce, Dick, Tim, and Damian were alone and changing, they finally felt a bit more at ease to discuss the situation freely.
"The guy literally wears a Dracula cape, and we're waltzing into his dining room," Tim was saying as he buttoned up his dress shirt.
"I would also like to point out that it is very unlikely for a nineteenth century gentleman to know about the multiverse," Damian added, taking off his mask and stowing it with the rest of his uniform.
"Well, like I said, keep your eyes open. But if they really intended to… well… drink our blood, don't you think they'd have done it by now?" Bruce pointed out. "Dick, could you, um…?" He gestured to his tie, dangling around his neck.
"I gotta say, it's weird seeing another you walking around. And that other you looking like Bela Lugosi," said Dick. "Hm, this is different," he added, squinting at the tie. It wasn't like the ones back home, it was more like a scarf that one ties around the neck.
"So how long until the device dries out?" Bruce asked.
"Like I said, a couple of hours, maybe four?" Tim answered as he slipped the black suit jacket on. There was a mirror hanging on one of the walls which he used to examine himself. "Not bad."
"But why would they have a mirror if they're vampires?" Damian wondered, scratching his chin.
"Maybe they aren't," said Bruce, stiffening his high collar. "Just, please, be on your best behaviour. The quicker we get through this, the quicker we go home. Damian?"
He rolled his eyes. "Yes, Father."
Outside, the servants were waiting to take their things for them, and when Tim handed his suit over, the servant noticed the device he was still carrying. "If you would like," he said, "I could put that away for you."
"Um, thanks, but, I think I'll hold onto it," he said slowly. The servant nodded and then left with the others.
The Marquis was waiting for them at the end of the hall, seemingly as far away from where Jason had been standing as possible.
"Come," he said when they were close. "The night is waning."
A pair of servants opened the next set of doors for them, and even as they approached, the sound of idle chatter came to their ears. Dozens of ladies and gentlemen stood around a massive dinner table with just as many seats, perhaps more, all set with an extensive array of fine silverware, crystal chalices, and porcelain dinner plates and bowls. Along the table were trays of fruit and blood red candles, illuminating the glossy ebony wood which it sat upon, while firelight from the three gargantuan fireplaces at the head of the room blazed madly against the cold of the night. Everything looked intimidatingly expensive, as though a single wrong move would cause something to shatter.
The people themselves were a whole other sight to behold. The ladies wore long, flowing gowns of various, luscious fabrics, some adorned with pearls or choker necklaces, others with large brooches, but they all had their hair done up in some elaborate shape or form. The men wore high collars, long coats, and many of them had lace cuffs on their sleeves. The most unsettling observation, however, was the distinct paleness in everyone's skin. Upon even closer inspection, one would see that they all possessed some shade of yellow eyes as well, and those eyes were now set upon Bruce Wayne and his entourage as they entered.
"Bruce," Tim whispered through his teeth.
All he had time to do was give a reassuring glance before the Marquis addressed them. "Perhaps you would be pleased to meet my sons?" As he spoke, the boys' attention was suddenly drawn to four figures weaving their way through the crowd. "My eldest. Lord Richard."
"How do you do, sir?" As with Bruce, the resemblance was uncanny. The same nose, similar face structure, the same hair (styled a bit more tidy), although his complexion was noticeably softer, his eyebrows more angular, his jawline more defined, and his eyes bright yellow. He was dressed in a lavish coat of such a deep blue that it almost looked black, with a glinting red brooch pinned at the centre of his navy lace jabot, spilling out from underneath his extremely high coat collar.
Lord Richard nodded respectfully in Bruce's direction, caught a glance of Dick, and then moved out of the way of his oncoming brothers with an almost bored sort of countenance.
"My second eldest, Lord Jason," the Marquis went on.
"Sir."
Jason bristled somewhat as he watched his counterpart approach, what with his neatly combed hair, bronze coloured, silk damask coat, and deep red undershirt, fastened tightly at the neck with a black metal pin not unlike his father's. He had perfect posture, perfect manners, and perfect… well, everything. It made Jason's skin crawl. The two men locked eyes for far longer than Richard and Dick had, seemingly measuring the other up. It was difficult to tell what he might be thinking with such a strong poker-face, but if they were anything alike, Jason had some idea.
"My third child, Lord Timothy."
"Pleased to meet you, sir."
Timothy was the first of the brothers who actually smiled, albeit in what felt like a forced, trite grin. His bangs fell softly in the front, while his long black hair was tucked away neatly in the back. His coat was a rich shade of red, while his lapels were stark black, the upper folded around his neck, just up to his chin, the lower splayed out boldly across his chest so as to compliment his black, silk waistcoat. Tied around his neck, an expensive cravat, the same as his father's, but in gold rather than silver. His keen eyes seemed to scan over them all, the gears in his head silently turning.
"And finally, my youngest, Lord Damien."
The shortest of the brothers said nothing and bowed regally with one hand behind his back. His green coat was decorated with intricate lace all along his lapels and collar, while his silver waistcoat shimmered every time he moved. His tie was the simplest—a black knot, altogether very similar to the one Bruce was currently wearing—and his hair was by far the slickest and glossiest of all the boys.
Each Wayne brother also wore a signature black cape which hung loosely from their shoulders.
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance," said Bruce respectfully.
It would seem, however, that Lord Damien had failed to hear him, as he was too busy locked in non-verbal combat with Damian. The two made eye contact at once and had not blinked since.
"Damien."
"Damian," the two Bruces said in unison.
Both boys suddenly looked to their fathers, watching them expectantly, then turned back to each other. Lord Damien curtly held out his hand and Damian shook it. It was then, after being prompted by a signature Damian glare, that the Other Damien smiled wide enough to reveal a set of slender fangs.
"Do you have trouble with your youngest as well?" Asked the Marquis to Bruce as they started moving toward the table.
"Well… he's presented his own challenges."
The boys were then left with their doppelgängers, uneasy and unsure of what to say.
"Good morning," said Richard in a dull tone, his eyes on Dick. "I hope the rain didn't cause you any trouble."
"Uh, no, not much," Dick replied, his own eyes bouncing somewhat from person to person.
"Have you come far?" Asked the Other Jason.
"That's one way to put it," said Tim.
"And what, may I ask, would be another way of putting it?" Timothy asked, raising an eyebrow in a similar fashion to that of his father.
"Well, you could say—" Tim started with a grin, but Damian quickly cut him off with a finger in his face.
"Don't try to be funny. Please. For all our sakes."
Other Damien's eyes followed his hand with intense interest, as if he'd never seen such an act before.
There suddenly came a clinking sound, like that of glass, and then the Marquis was addressing the crowd. "My dear friends, I apologise for any delay in our activities this evening. Let us now enjoy our feast."
The crowd gradually flowed toward the empty seats, making the candlelight dance and flicker with the sudden gust of movement.
"Do come sit with us," said Richard, gesturing a pale hand toward the table.
After the women had been seated, the four boys slowly followed where they were directed, which, as it turned out, was not far from the foot of the table where their fathers now sat, the Marquis at the foot proper, and Bruce on his right side. Dick, in particular, noticed that every other seat at the table had a name card placed in front of it, save for his, Jason's, Tim's, and Damian's.
When the team of cooks came out from some hidden door, any fears of blood-sucking were suddenly cast from the boys' minds, as there seemed to be plenty of normal-looking food to be had. The first such dish was what appeared to be a creamy soup, ladled in perfect unison by the staff, as if they were performing a dance around the long table. As swiftly as they came, they disappeared into the corners of the room, awaiting instruction.
There was, however, one thing missing. Tim took notice of an empty seat at the head of the table.
"Where is Mother?" Lord Timothy muttered next to him, as though voicing Tim's own thought.
"Mother?" Damian repeated.
No sooner had the question been asked when the dining room doors were opened and a tall, imposing figure stepped in. She was dressed in deep emerald silk with black lace dripping down from her shoulder-revealing neckline. Though her skin was warm, it too seemed pale in the candlelight, and her calculating eyes were locked onto the Marquis' chair.
"My dear Lord Wayne," she said when she was by his side. "Forgive me for being late." She leaned in close and offered her hand, which His Lordship gently took, placing a lingering kiss on its back.
"All is forgiven, my love," he said in a deep, quiet voice.
She wavered somewhat before departing, having suddenly seen the other Bruce Wayne, but regained her composer so quickly that one had to be paying very close attention to see that she had lost it all.
The Marquis leaned ever so slightly closer to Bruce and whispered, "My wife, Lady Talia Wayne."
Damian wasn't the only one staring as the Lady came walking by. The realisation that not only was Bruce their father in this dimension, but Talia their mother, made the boys look at their counterparts in an entirely different way. As she passed Richard and Dick, she discreetly let her fingers trace the nape of Richard's neck, making Dick feel suddenly very uncomfortable.
"Good evening, boys," she crooned.
All the men at the table suddenly rose to their feet, welcoming the illustrious lady. Only when she had assumed her seat at the head of the table, and only when all members had taken their napkins, laying them delicately across their laps, and only when both Lord and Lady had begun to eat, did the rest of the table follow suit.
Rain pattered against the thin window panes, but the dinner guests could barely hear it, drowned out by the sound of clinking silver and idle chatter. Thankfully, for all of the boys' sakes, there were only two spoons to be found in the entire cacophony of their diner places, and it didn't take a mastermind to determine between the small, dainty spoon and the wide, full-sized spoon, which one ought to be used for soup. It was the eating portion of the meal that seemed to be posing the real challenge. Especially in Jason's case, as he had taken an enormous spoonful and shoved the entire thing into his mouth. Several eyes turned in his direction, most noticeably, the Marquis'.
Other Jason gently nudged him underneath the table. Jason responded with a grunt.
"Watch me," Other Jason mouthed, and then gracefully sent his spoon down into his bowl, moving away from his body, and only catching enough soup to lightly coat it, before carefully bringing it to his mouth and swallowing gently.
But Jason, being Jason, only scowled and continued on eating the way he preferred, hardly caring if anyone stared. And kept staring. He was hungry.
At the foot of the table, Bruce and the Marquis were still making small talk when several servers came around carrying large porcelain water jugs. But when they poured their contents into the crystal chalices, it came out thick and red. Such was the same with Lord Wayne's chalice, prompting Bruce to politely refuse a beverage before anything could be poured.
"Don't worry," said the Marquis. "I was well aware of your human bloodline from the moment we met. I've since made special arrangements." A smaller, less elaborate jug came into view, pouring a glass if nice, cold water into Bruce's cup.
"Thank you, sir," he said, relieved. "But… how do I put this… if you knew this whole time, then why—"
"Why have I not done away with you?" Lord Wayne finished with a small smirk. "Come now, is such an archaic view of our species still prominent in your world?"
Bruce gave a nervous chuckle. "I'm afraid so. I hope you don't mind my asking."
"Not at all, if it helps to throw off some misconceptions. It's true that we vampires were once known as blood-sucking, vulgar creatures, but that was centuries ago, back when humans still existed. This here is horse blood. From my personal collection."
Bruce nodded, feigning interest in the subject in spite of the fact that he may have just lost his appetite.
Further down the table, Damian could feel the Other Damien watching him periodically, but whenever he looked over, the Lord's eyes were down on his soup.
"What?" He finally asked, getting tired of feeling like a goldfish.
Other Damien shrunk somewhat, glancing around at the table before eventually eking out the words, "Are you allowed to interrupt your brothers? Like you did before?"
Damian frowned. "Obviously."
"And you don't ever get scolded?"
"I don't see why I should," Damian went on, grabbing his water cup idly. Other Damien, however, looked as though his entire world had been altered.
"Do you say what you want as well?" He asked, leaning a little closer.
"Do you always talk this much?" Damian whispered back.
"No," Other Damien sniffed. "Usually I'm not allowed. I'm still in training, you see." A spoonful of soup later, he asked, "Is it nice in your world? What are the vampires there like?"
Damian made a scoffing noise with his throat. "Not like you. They tend to want to murder you and suck the blood out of your body until you're nothing but a deflated meat sack." He suddenly became very aware of how quiet his portion of the table had become. With a slight cough, he added, "I mean, or so I've heard. But aside from a few things, it is… nice there."
Just a little further up, the Tims were chatting.
"So your family doesn't let you tell jokes either?" Asked Timothy, taking a sip from his chalice and leaving a red stain on his lips, which he politely mopped up with his red napkin.
"Well," sighed Tim, "They sure don't make it easy. Apparently they think I'm 'not funny.'"
"I certainly know the feeling," Timothy replied, chalice in one hand, eyes drifting off in thought.
"But what do they know, right? I think I'm funny, and really, that's the only opinion that matters."
Timothy watched him as he spoke, swirling the contents of his glass carefully. "…Right…"
All at once, the soup bowls were whisked way, replaced by roasted, sliced potatoes and decadent cuts of what appeared to be raw meat, marinaded in its own blood. Fortunately, further special arrangements had been made, and several cuts of cooked meat were presented to the human visitors.
As Dick took up his meat fork and meat knife and began cutting into his food, he was suddenly very grateful for those etiquette lessons Alfred had given him all those years ago. He kept his bites small, his posture straight, and his elbows off the table. Briefly, he wondered if the Other Dick had taken notice.
Well, he had noticed something alright. Richard glanced at Dick's plate with his bored expression and simply went, "Hm."
"I'm sorry?" Dick asked politely.
"Oh, nothing," he said casually. "I'm just supremely fascinated by your species' need for such… processed foods."
"Well," said Dick, trying not to look at his neighbour's bloody plate, "To each their own, I suppose."
"So what brings you and your family here, Mister Wayne?"
"Oh, uh, well, it's actually Grayson," he started, and then realised that he was probably only going to confuse him. "But Wayne is also fine. Anyway, we, uh, there was a mishap back home, and we accidentally got teleported here. We're working on getting back, but it's going to take a few hours, so that's why your father graciously invited us to dinner, which, you know, was very nice of him. But we should only be here a few hours, so we'll be out of your hair pretty soon."
Richard looked up at him with disinterested eyes as he cut into his meat. "Fascinating."
"Richard," the Marquis called just then. Dick noticed that Richard sat up a little straighter.
"Yes, Father?"
"I do hope you're showing our guests a pleasant time?"
"Of course, Father."
The tone and tenor of the conversation sounded, to Dick at least, as though it had been rehearsed and spoken aloud at least a hundred times, to the point that not a single note of emotion now shone through it. Come to think of it, most of the conversation at the table felt rehearsed. Even the laughter near Lady Talia's end of the table felt strangely forced and unnaturally docile.
"I suppose you're no stranger to parties," Richard went on in the same uninterested tone. "Are they as elaborate there as they are here?"
"Actually, I rarely ever attend something like a dinner," Dick admitted.
"Really?" Richard raised an eyebrow, the first sign of genuine emotion over the course of the meal thus far. It also seemed to be a shared family trait.
"It's really Bruce—I mean, Mister Wayne, who attends the galas and dinners and things," said Dick, taking another small bite of meat. "I haven't even lived at Wayne Manor in years now."
"You've struck out on your own?" Richard asked, his eyebrow still raised. "So then you've left the family estate and your father's inheritance to Mister Jason?"
Dick grimaced. "Well, you see, it's a little complicated. Jason, Tim and I are—were—kind of… adopted."
Now both of Richard's eyebrows went up. "Adopted?" And then they came back down. "You're not related by blood? Not even distantly?"
"Nope. Damian, see, he's the…" he smirked, "the 'blood son' as it were. I mean, it's not like Bru—Mister Wayne—probably won't leave us each something, but… yeah, I can't imagine the estate going to me any time soon. I've got my own life to live."
Richard placed both hands in his lap and stared across the room at the far wall. "Fascinating."
The third course came not long after that; a nice, refreshing salad of dark purple leaves with slices of red turnips and a side of seared asparagus. It was at this juncture that the silverware etiquette began to break down somewhat. Jason and Tim went right on ahead using the same fork they had used for the meat, while Damian at least was aware that some change was being made at the table and began trying to decide which of the two remaining forks was considered the proper utensil for salad.
Once again, it was the Others who helped them through it in as discreet a manner as possible. The salad fork was located on the outside—the smallest of the forks—and was to be used in conjunction with (if necessary) the salad knife, located on the equal opposite side of the plate. Not that any of this information made its way to Jason, who was still boldly using his meat knife and fork as though he were eating at an Olive Garden.
From the foot of the table, Timothy could hear Mister Wayne politely asking one of the servants for more water, and he turned to his counterpart. "Your father seems very agreeable."
Tim debated whether or not to correct him—after all, they were only going to be here a few hours, he needn't complicate things—but he still felt strange about letting that particular vernacular hang in the air. "He's a good guy," was all he eventually said in reply. "A bit curmudgeony from time to time though, if you ask me."
"And your mother?" Timothy went on.
Tim's glass hovered at his lip.
"Forgive me. I did not mean to pry," said Timothy quickly.
"You're fine."
With the lack of anything more to say, Tim's eyes drifted across the table, absentmindedly taking in the sights and faces. He paused just then, his eyes set on one face in particular.
"Hey. Who's that?" He whispered, gesturing toward a lovely young woman with golden hair sitting several rows up from them. Her dress did not seem as ornate as the others', but she still somehow managed to appear just as regal and elegant.
"I would kindly like to inform you never to point at the table," said Timothy, gently guiding Tim's hand down out of sight. "And if you must know, that is Miss Brown. My beloved. Though surely you could have guessed as much. Do you not also have a Miss Brown in your world?"
Tim watched her for a long moment, smiling daintily and laughing congenially with the other dinner guests, her lips dark with colour and neck adorned with pearls.
"I would also like to inform you that staring is considered rude as well," Timothy leaned in and whispered.
"Right, sorry," Tim said quickly, and he took another bite of asparagus, suddenly aware that he had briefly caught the attention of Lady Wayne all the way at the head of the table.
But now he set about trying to identify others seated around him (without staring, of course.) From what he could see, there was a Commissioner Gordon, pasty and balding, a red-lipped Kate Kane, a Mayor Daniel Danforth Dickerson III happily conversing with a weary David Cain, and seated next to him was a very quiet Cassandra. Then his eyes nearly jumped out of his head. Was that Penguin and Lex Luthor down there, swapping stories with the police commissioner? He kept himself from leaning forward and staring too much, but it was difficult work. If he had a neck long enough to look around at the whole table, he was sure he would recognise many more.
Their plates were cleaned again, and yet another course was presented to them. Jason fought back the urge to groan loudly. How long was this going to take? At least now it looked like they were getting close to the end. This time, the staff had brought out little bowls of what looked like homemade whipped cream or something of the sort.
He picked up the remaining small spoon and served himself a rather large scoop, paying little attention to the alarmed look the Other Jason was giving him.
If only he'd been more prudent.
Moments after the cream had entered his mouth, he suddenly found his tongue burning from the sheer coldness of it. Forget ice cream, this was more like dried ice cream. He made several subdued coughs as he tried to keep himself from spitting it out onto the spoon again, knowing that in a stuffy place like this, he'd probably get himself excused from the table or some other nonsense. That only left him one option, though, and that was to ride out the oncoming brain freeze and ignore the attention he was bringing to himself.
Next to him, Other Jason clenched his teeth and begrudgingly also took a large scoop of ice cream, and each of his brothers did the same. Soon, that entire end of the table was fighting back the urge to cry out from the pain their mouths were in.
Dick, Tim, Jason, and Damian however, looked on, quite confused and startled. Tim was left wondering if the ice cream was even safe to eat at all.
"What are you doing?" Jason muttered to his counterpart.
"What you were doing," he replied, taking a breath.
"Why?"
"You see, in this world, there is such a thing as being polite," Other Jason said in, probably, his idea of a miffed tone.
Jason made a small scoffing noise and went back to his ice cream, this time taking a much smaller portion.
"Well, that's one way to add some excitement into the evening," Richard was saying to himself, dabbing the corners of his mouth with his napkin.
The small dollops of lemon-flavoured ice did not remain at the table long, and soon after, dinner rolls and sweet cream butter were served. Damian couldn't fathom what all the adults at the table could be talking about that would last them throughout this unbearably long meal, let alone what they could all be laughing about. The dinner rolls did look good, though. They were laid on little plates up in the top right corner of the place settings, next to where the water cups were sitting, and so he took up the plate as he searched for the butter.
All at once, and quite unexpectedly, the entire table started moving. Each and every bread plate was taken from the right, and placed at the left-hand side of the person's respective dinner plate.
"What did I do?" Damian whispered to Lord Damien.
"Your bread plate goes on the left-hand side," he replied, and Damian now noticed that since all the plates were moved, there was now a space on the left for him to put the bread plate he had mistakenly plucked from his neighbour's place. Sheepishly, he set it down. All of this social etiquette stuff was really starting to put him off.
"Please, pardon my son," Bruce was saying to the Marquis. "I haven't yet properly taught him about dinner etiquette."
"Quite understandable," the Marquis replied. "I am an oddity on that account. I began Damien's training much earlier than most."
Bruce nodded politely. "They're all very well behaved."
"Thank you. As sons of the Marquis of Gotham, naturally they are held to the highest of standards and expectations. Anything less than that would be… well, quite frankly, a disgrace."
Bruce thought for a moment. "If you don't mind my asking… how did you manage it?"
"It's quite simple really." He took another sip of blood from his chalice. "A father must be respected. And to be respected, one must be indisputable."
Just then, the two Tims started chuckling together, apparently enjoying a joke, when Timothy's nose accidentally made the tiniest snort.
"Timothy," Lord Wayne said, barely raising his tone.
As though he had changed into another person, Timothy's smile vanished and he stared down at his plate. "Sorry, Father." The other boys' faces also seemed to turn away slightly from the foot of the table, as if pretending not to have noticed.
Bruce watched the exchange contemplatively.
At last came the cakes. Tall cakes, stout cakes, large and small cakes, cakes topped with violets, cherries, and cream, cakes of purple, red, yellow, and pink, and many different kinds of preserved fruits, set before them in a grand display.
"So," Lord Damien began as a servant cut a slice of cake for him. "You are leaving tonight?"
"That is the plan," said Damian, eyeing a large pink cake with cherries and cream.
"Do you know if your family would ever come to visit again?"
"Not likely." This time Damian watched which fork everyone else was using before going ahead and making another mistake.
"Has tonight not been to your liking?"
"I'm not exactly what you'd call… the social type," Damian droned, taking a bite of his vanilla cake with raspberry filling. Or, at least, he hoped it was raspberry.
Lord Damien looked away sullenly. "Truth be told… neither am I. Most other boys our age wouldn't even be allowed to eat at dinner with the adults."
"Then how come you're here?"
Lord Damien looked as though he wanted to bite his lip, though he obviously could not do so without potentially pricking himself with his fangs. "Well, it… has to do with…" His face suddenly grew a touch redder. "…my betrothal."
"You're betrothed?" Damian repeated, feeling his eyebrows rise.
Lord Damien nodded glumly, cheeks still flushed. "Do you see that girl over there? With the dark hair and pearl headpiece?" Damian turned and instantly spotted the girl in question, and nearly dropped his dessert fork. "That is Her Royal Highness, the Crown Princess Raven Rachel Roth, of Azarath. Our fathers arranged it." Lord Damien suddenly shivered. "King Trigon is most intimidating."
"You can't be serious," Damian said, looking back at him.
"It's true. We're to be married when I turn twenty and one years of age. Our fathers… thought it best to advance my education… seeing as how one day I am to be King."
"King? Of Azarath?"
"King consort, mind you. She's the true heir to the throne in all of this. I… I will only be there to elevate Her Royal Highness." Again, his cheeks flushed. "It's most unfair. I feel no affection for her whatsoever."
Damian looked her up and down. Her face was even more wooden than Lord Richard's, if it were possible, and whenever she spoke, it seemed to be in quick, one word answers. Her black lips never once even hinted at a smile, and her eyes, equally as black, stared ahead, half closed. It was clear to all the world that this was the very last place she wanted to be.
"She's painfully dull. I've had more interesting conversations with corpses," Lord Damien moaned.
"Damien," the Marquis suddenly called, and the young Lord's shoulders shot to his ears. "Come here."
Head hung low, eyes wide, Lord Damien excused himself from the table and walked to his father's side. His Lordship did not appear angry or otherwise upset, and yet Damien's posture was failing him as he shrunk back ever so slightly. They were too far away to hear, but Damian could see Lord Wayne gently hold his son's chin for a moment, and after he nodded, he was allowed to come sit down again.
"What—"
"Please forgive my uncivilised behaviour. Let us discuss something else," Lord Damien said quickly, not making eye contact.
Damian frowned and took another bite of cake.
A short while later, five clear chimes sounded from inside an elaborate, silver grandfather clock, and all the food, plates, and cutlery were at once taken away. It was then that Lady Wayne politely stood.
"Would you all be so kind as to join my husband and I in the ballroom?" She asked, smiling thinly.
And just like that, dinner was over; the table deserted.
"If you'll excuse us," said Lord Richard. He and his brothers left together and, for a moment, disappeared into the crowd of Gothamites.
"Enjoying yourselves?"
Dick turned to see Bruce approaching them, looking amused. "Oh, it's a real party alright," he chuckled. "Blood soaked venison and all."
"Can we go now?" Jason asked curtly.
"Tim?"
Tim produced the device and the screwdriver from earlier. It had been at least an hour, quite possibly two, since they'd first arrived (Jason had somehow managed not to keel over from boredom during that time), so there was a chance it had dried out some, but Tim wasn't exactly very hopeful.
The crowd was headed out the door, Lord Wayne at the front, some very important lady on his arm, while his sons followed, also escorting several well-dressed women. The humans of the group hung in the rear, not wanting to draw any more attention to themselves, and they took a turn toward yet another set of impressive doors.
"Okay, so it's definitely looking better," Tim was saying as they went inside, "Buuuuut, it's still not totally there. I'd say at least another hour." He looked up, but nobody seemed to be listening to him. "Guys? What are you…" He turned and saw for himself. Instantly the sight of the ballroom left him speechless. The elaborate, golden chandeliers boasted more candles than what you'd need to light the entire bat cave, which was absolutely needed to light the impossibly humungous space that was the ballroom. Red velvet curtains were draped over the forty foot tall windows, a whole other room's worth of space existed in the rotunda in the ceiling, painted with all the detail and vibrancy of the Sistine Chapel. The corners of the room were overtaken by exotic, lush plants that bloomed with every manner of flower, and an entire orchestra sat ready and waiting on a small platform at the opposite end of the room. It was easy to feel impossibly small in a place like this. A place that felt as though it had been made for giants.
Bruce and the boys were currently standing at the top of a double staircase, overlooking everyone as they spread out across the floor, and all Tim could think to do was give a whistle of appreciation. "How come the manor back home isn't this swanky?"
"Probably because back home, I'm not a Marquis," said Bruce, and he led them forward, not wanting to appear rude by just standing there.
Jason, however, gave another sigh. "How long are we gonna stand around doing nothing?"
"What, you mean you don't want to dance?" Bruce smirked.
"Don't even joke," Jason glared at him.
"Yes, Tim's bad enough at it already," Damian added, very matter-of-fact.
"Am I just gonna be the running gag of the evening or what?" Time asked, waving his arms up and down.
"It's the only kind of joke you're good at," said Damian.
While Dick tried to stifle his laughter, Bruce noticed the Marquis making his way over to them again, accompanied by a familiar woman.
"Mister Wayne," he said politely. "Allow me the honour of introducing you to Lady Zatara."
"Mister Wayne," she said with a curtsy.
"Lady Zatara," he reciprocated with a bow.
As with all the other doppelgängers, it was strange to see a face so familiar, yet so other worldly. Although, her day-to-day appearance back in their world did lend itself scarily well to the vampire aesthetic.
"I was quite intrigued to hear of your arrival here tonight," she continued softly. "As were many of the others. I am a well known sorceress you see, and typically I would have sensed a powerful spell such as the one you might have used to conjure yourself here."
"Well, our magic is quite different from yours, I assure you," Bruce smiled.
"It was through Lady Zatara's enchantments that we were able to discover the existence of far and away places," the Marquis explained.
"Do you mean you can travel between worlds?" Bruce asked, and suddenly Jason had become very interested in the conversation.
"Unfortunately, no," Zatanna lamented. "Though I can see far, my magic is limited. To step into another world would require powers that no sorcerer I know of yet possesses."
"That's quite a shame."
"However, I do wonder if I still could be of some assistance? Would you please show me the means by which you came here?"
Bruce nodded and gestured for Tim to come over. The box seemed overall unremarkable to Bruce, but to Zatanna, it may as well have been a three-thousand carat diamond. She inspected the tiny buttons, the blinking lights, the coloured levers, and strange wires.
"Quite a wonder," she murmured. With a wave of her hand, a pink glow suddenly wrapped itself around the device. "Strange magic indeed."
Movement on the ballroom floor drew Bruce's attention away for a moment. Couples of every age were arranging themselves in equal distance, preparing for the first dance, and much to Dick and Jason's surprise, their doppelgängers were in the centre of the crowd, hands holding tight to a Koriand'r and Artemis.
Kori's lavender dress was soft and beautiful, but what truly drew the eye was the way her fiery hair cascaded down from her ornate bun in thick ringlets. Even done up, it reached all the way to her waist. And Artemis' black and red gown perfectly complimented Other Jason's ensemble, though despite her refined demeanour, her severe expression alone gave off the impression that she could easily tear any one of the boys in half.
Also on the floor, Tim noticed Timothy holding Stephanie's hand, and Damien holding Raven's, still flushed somewhat.
With a flick of the conductor's baton, the orchestra sprang to life, playing a haunting melody that resounded in a heavenly way around the cathedral-esque ballroom, and with it came the swish of skirts and click of polished heels as the men and women began their perfectly synchronised dance. Twirling, gliding, waltzing, all in time to a score so passionate yet incredibly eerie as flashes of lightning splashed through the massive windows.
The Wayne brothers were unmistakably the centre of attention, especially Richard and Damien as they swung their royal partners around and led them into a dip so low, their hair nearly touched the floor. The crowd murmured their approval, positively gushing over the sight of them, especially the older guests.
"What good matches."
"They've done quite well for themselves."
"How droll."
"Magnificent dancers, each and every one of them."
However pleased the crowd may of been, their pleasure did not seem to be reciprocated by the brothers. Not a single one of them smiled, and instead they remained as slate-faced as they had been at dinner, as though they were still half asleep.
"Is it just me or does this feel…" Dick started, watching them carefully.
"Creepy? Yes." Said Jason, grimacing at the way his counterpart stepped and swayed in time to the music.
"Kinda nice, though," Tim added, his eyes on Miss Stephanie Brown.
Zatanna, meanwhile, had finished looking over the device. "I believe it should work now," she said, handing it back to Bruce. "I sense that everything is as it should be."
"Thank you very much," Bruce bowed.
"It was my pleasure."
"Naturally, I would invite you to partake in a few dances," said the Marquis, "but I suspect that you all are eager to return home?"
"I'm afraid so," said Bruce kindly. "We have much unfinished business there that needs attending to."
"Of course. It was a delight, our chance meeting," Lord Wayne said, lowering his head.
"Likewise. Lady Zatara."
"Mister Wayne."
After a brief kerfuffle in which Bruce attempted to get all four boys to bow respectfully to the host (namely Jason) they sought out the hostess, Lady Wayne, and bid her farewell (again, practically forcing Jason to say a proper thank you for the evening.)
Finally, after all of this, after what had turned out to be nearly two and a half hours, and after all the pleasantries were dealt with, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, and Damian Wayne took their leave and headed for one of the empty sitting rooms, the sound of violins and harpsichords still echoing in the ballroom. They, of course, made a stop by the powder room to change and received their suits back from the servants, in perhaps better shape than when they he'd left them.
"Alright, take us home, Tim," Dick yawned.
"What time even is it?" Asked Tim.
"Just push the button," Jason moaned.
"Alright, alright."
The swirling, white vortex opened up, swallowing them quite suddenly, and in the blink of an eye, the sitting room was empty and the bat cave quite full.
After a night in with gothic vampires, the cave looked downright drab by comparison. But still, the comforts of home brought them all a sense of safety.
"Well that was the weirdest thing that's happened this week," said Damian, stretching his back.
"Indeed. Most unusual," Tim nodded thoughtfully.
"Oh, don't even," said Jason, looking for the helmet he'd dropped. "I've had enough 'frilly dialogue' to last me a lifetime."
"Are you heading out?" Bruce asked him and Dick as they moved toward the exit.
Jason sighed. "Yeah. See ya, Bats."
"If everything's good here, I've got work in the morning. But feel free to call if you happen to get sucked into another dimension," said Dick.
"Alright. Good night."
"'Night."
"Now what to do about this thing?" Tim asked, setting the device down on the table.
"No more tinkering tonight," Bruce said firmly, and he snatched up the thing and put it somewhere safe where it couldn't accidentally teleport them across the multiverse again. "You both need your rest. Why don't you hit the hay early tonight?"
"I was practically asleep at the table," Damian muttered to himself as they left Bruce alone in the cave to finish working. "I'm surprised you managed not to nod off yourself."
"Are you kidding? Being surrounded by a horde of blood-sucking vampires? Not exactly what I'd call relaxing," Tim replied, stifling a yawn.
"—Tt—like we couldn't have handled ourselves if the situation turned sour."
"Really?" Tim eyed him sceptically.
"Alright, everyone except you could have handled themselves."
"Wow. Really feeling the love again."
And so, each man and boy set about their nightly routines, still vaguely reflecting on the events of the evening, though not thinking much of it overall. Tomorrow would present enough of its own challenges, and at the moment, sleep was their top priority.
So into slumber Wayne Manor fell, blanketed in the pale light of a waning moon.