Chapter Text
The streets of Gotham were never quiet. Even at dusk, with the sun setting behind towering skyscrapers, the city hummed with a dangerous energy. People moved quickly, heads down, trying to get home before the real predators emerged from the shadows. Tony Stark walked briskly through the streets, one hand wrapped around Peter Parker's much smaller one, the other firmly gripping Harley Keener's shoulder.
"Keep up, kids," Tony muttered, eyes scanning the dimming streets. At twenty-eight—or at least, in this twenty-eight-year-old body—he felt the weight of responsibility for the two children more acutely than he ever had before.
"My legs are tired," complained Peter, his eight-year-old frame struggling to match Tony's pace.
"We'll be home soon," Stephen Strange assured him from behind, his vigilant gaze never settling in one place for too long. At twenty-seven, Stephen looked younger than Tony had ever seen him, but his eyes held the same ancient wisdom they always had.
They were only a few blocks from their cramped apartment when Peter suddenly stopped, his nose wrinkling as he sniffed the air.
"Tony," Peter said, tugging at his sleeve.
"Not now, kid. We need to get home before dark."
"But Tony, I smell—" Peter paused, his expression tightening. His gaze flickered toward the mouth of an alleyway, shadowed and damp, tucked between two old buildings. He sniffed again. "That's blood."
Tony sighed. He was still getting used to Peter's enhanced senses, which had somehow remained despite their physical regression when they landed in this universe. Gotham wasn't their city, and it sure as hell wasn't their universe. The last thing they needed was to get involved in something they couldn't control.
"Probably just another mugging," Harley said, his nine-year-old face surprisingly grim. "This place is worse than Rose Hill on a bad day."
But Peter was already veering toward the alley.
"Kid—"
"I just wanna check!" Peter called over his shoulder, slipping into the darkness before Tony could stop him.
"Dammit," Tony swore, glancing at Stephen, who merely shrugged.
"I'll watch Harley. You get Peter."
Tony nodded and followed Peter into the alley. It smelled like damp concrete, garbage, and, yeah, Peter was right—blood. A lot of it.
At the far end, slumped against the brick wall, was a man. His clothes were soaked with blood, his breaths shallow. A glint of metal near his hip suggested he'd been shot. His black hair stuck to his forehead, sweat mixing with grime and blood. He barely reacted as Peter approached cautiously.
"Tony," Peter whispered, his brown eyes wide with worry. "He's dying."
The man's gaze flickered toward them, barely focusing.
"You... should go," he rasped, shifting slightly. "Not safe."
Tony knelt beside him, pressing a hand to his shoulder. The guy barely had enough strength to flinch away. "Not safe for who, pal? You?"
Peter's small fingers clenched Tony's sleeve. "We can't leave him."
From the mouth of the alley, Harley called out, "Is it a dead guy?"
"Not yet," Tony replied dryly.
Stephen appeared behind the boys, his expression carefully neutral as he assessed the situation. "This is unwise, Tony."
"I know, I know." Tony sighed, running a hand through his hair. Every survival instinct told him to walk away. They had been in this strange universe for just three weeks, surviving on Stephen's meager earnings as an off-the-books medical consultant and Tony's tech repair side hustle. They couldn't afford complications.
But Peter was looking at him with those damn puppy eyes, and even Harley seemed affected by the man's condition.
"He's going to die if we leave him," Peter insisted, his voice small but determined.
Tony exchanged a look with Stephen, who sighed in resignation.
"Fine," Stephen muttered, kneeling to examine the man. "Single gunshot wound to the lower abdomen. Significant blood loss, but if we can get him somewhere safe..."
Tony turned back to the bleeding man. "You're coming with us."
The man huffed out something between a laugh and a pained grunt. "Bad... idea."
"Yeah, yeah. You're not the first person to tell me that." Tony sighed. "Peter, Harley, help Doc Strange. I'll take most of his weight."
The boys scrambled forward, carefully placing their small hands under the man's shoulders as Tony looped his arms around the stranger's torso. Stephen supported his legs. The stranger groaned as they lifted him, but he didn't fight. Probably because he didn't have the strength.
"We should name him," Harley suggested as they awkwardly maneuvered out of the alley. "How about Bullet Bob?"
"He has a name," Tony said, grunting under the man's weight. "Probably."
"Doesn't everyone?" Peter asked.
"Let's focus on keeping him alive first," Stephen advised, his voice tight with concentration.
---
Their apartment was small—rented under fake names, paid in cash. Just enough to keep them under the radar while they worked on a way home. It wasn't Stark Tower, but it was safe, and that was what mattered.
Tony shouldered the door open, dragging the half-conscious man inside with Stephen's and the boys' help. The apartment was sparsely furnished: a worn couch, a small table with mismatched chairs, and a kitchenette with a hot plate and mini refrigerator. Two doors led to tiny bedrooms—one for the adults, one for the boys.
"Where do we put him?" Harley asked, his face flushed from the effort of helping carry a grown man up three flights of stairs.
"Couch," Stephen directed, already in doctor mode. "Harley, get my medical bag from under the bed. Peter, I need clean towels and hot water."
The boys sprung into action as Tony and Stephen carefully lowered the man onto the couch. The stranger's eyes fluttered open momentarily, unfocused and glazed with pain.
"I'd... ask where I am," he slurred, "but I don't think... it matters."
"Smart man," Tony replied, stepping back to let Stephen work. "You got a name?"
The man's lips twitched in something that might've been amusement. "Jason."
"Alright, Jason," Stephen said, accepting his medical bag from Harley with a nod of thanks. "I'm going to help you, but it's going to hurt."
Jason let out a weak laugh. "What else is new?"
Stephen pulled on a pair of latex gloves and began cutting away the bloody fabric around the wound. "Tony, I need better light."
Tony grabbed their only lamp and positioned it over the couch. Peter returned with towels and a pot of steaming water, his small face serious as he set them down beside Stephen.
"Bullet's still in there," Stephen murmured, examining the wound. "I need to extract it before I can close this up."
Jason tensed. "No hospitals."
"We're not taking you to a hospital," Tony said, crossing his arms. "We're removing the bullet right here in our luxurious penthouse suite."
"What Tony means," Stephen clarified, shooting his friend a look, "is that we understand discretion. I was a surgeon before... before some complications in my life. I can handle this."
Jason's eyes narrowed slightly, assessing them with a sharpness that belied his injured state. "You're not... ordinary people."
"Depends on your definition of ordinary," Tony replied smoothly. "Boys, maybe you should go to your room while the adults handle this."
"But I want to help," Peter protested.
"Me too," Harley added. "I've seen worse on YouTube."
"YouTube isn't real life," Stephen said firmly. "And this isn't going to be pleasant."
Jason's gaze flicked between the boys, then back to Tony and Stephen. "They've... got guts."
"They've got something," Tony muttered. "Fine. Peter, you can hand Doc the tools he asks for. Harley, you're on cleanup duty."
The procedure was messy and painful. Jason, to his credit, remained stoic throughout, only occasionally letting a hiss of pain escape through clenched teeth. Stephen worked with practiced precision, his hands steady as he extracted the bullet and cleaned the wound.
"You're lucky," Stephen said as he began to stitch the entry wound closed. "The bullet missed any major organs. An inch to the left and we'd be having a very different conversation."
"Luck's not... usually my thing," Jason murmured, his voice hoarse.
Tony, who had been watching from the kitchenette, approached with a glass of water. "Here. Small sips."
Jason accepted the water with a shaky hand, eyeing Tony warily. "Why help me?"
Peter, who was carefully organizing Stephen's medical tools, piped up. "Because it's the right thing to do."
Jason's eyes flicked to the boy, something unreadable passing across his face. "Right thing... doesn't happen much in Gotham."
"Maybe not," Tony agreed, taking the glass back. "But we're not exactly from around here."
Stephen shot Tony a warning look, which Tony acknowledged with a slight nod. They had agreed to keep their situation private—their displacement across universes, their physical regressions, and especially their various abilities. Gotham was dangerous enough without painting targets on their backs.
"Where are you from?" Jason asked, his eyes growing heavy as exhaustion and blood loss took their toll.
"Far away," Stephen answered diplomatically. "Rest now. We can talk more when you've recovered."
Jason's lips twitched in what might have been a smile before his eyes closed completely.
Once Stephen was certain their patient was stable, he stood, stretching his back with a wince. "He'll need antibiotics. I can probably get some from Dr. Thompson at the clinic tomorrow."
"Is he gonna die?" Harley asked bluntly, peering at Jason's unconscious form.
"Not if I can help it," Stephen replied. "But he's lost a lot of blood, and infection is still a risk."
Tony ran a hand through his hair, a habit he'd never managed to break no matter what age his body was. "This complicates things."
"The secret lab you're building in the basement was already a complication," Stephen pointed out dryly.
"Workshop," Tony corrected. "And it's barely functional. I can't exactly build an interdimensional portal with spare parts from 1990s computers."
Peter frowned, looking between the adults. "But we're still trying to get home, right?"
Tony's expression softened as he looked at the boy. "Of course we are, Pete. It's just taking longer than expected."
"And now we have a gunshot victim on our couch," Stephen added.
Harley, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, finally spoke up. "Maybe he can help us."
The others turned to look at him.
"What do you mean?" Tony asked.
Harley shrugged. "He lives here, right? He probably knows things. People. Places where we could get better stuff for your workshop."
Tony's eyebrows rose in consideration. "The kid has a point."
"The kid always has a point," Harley said smugly.
Stephen sighed, removing his bloodied gloves. "Let's focus on keeping him alive first. Then we can worry about whether he's an asset or a liability."
---
Jason Todd woke to the smell of cooking food and the sound of childish bickering. His body ached, but the sharp, life-threatening pain had subsided to a dull throb. He kept his eyes closed, assessing his surroundings through his other senses—a habit born of years of training and survival.
"—and that's why the quantum tunnel would be more efficient than trying to recreate the mystical convergence," a young voice was saying.
"But the energy requirements would be astronomical," an older male voice countered. "We'd need at least a nuclear reactor."
"Or we find something that already exists in this universe that could act as a power source," another child's voice suggested.
"Like what, Harley? A magic lamp?" the first kid asked sarcastically.
"No, dummy. Like... I don't know. Whatever powers the Bat's tech."
There was a sudden silence.
"We've talked about this," the older voice said cautiously. "We stay under the radar. No engaging with the locals, especially not the costumed ones."
"But Tony—"
"No buts, Peter. We don't know how things work here. For all we know, the guy in the bat costume could be this world's version of a supervillain."
Jason couldn't help the small snort that escaped him.
Instantly, four pairs of eyes were on him.
"He's awake," announced the smaller of the two boys—Peter, apparently. He looked about eight, with wide brown eyes and an expression of innocent curiosity.
"How perceptive," Jason rasped, wincing at the dryness in his throat.
The older of the two men—Tony—approached with a glass of water. "Welcome back to the land of the living. How're you feeling?"
"Like I've been shot," Jason replied dryly, accepting the water.
"Funny coincidence," said the other boy—Harley—who looked maybe a year older than Peter. "That's exactly what happened to you."
The second man, who Jason recognized as the one who had extracted the bullet, stood off to the side, arms crossed as he observed Jason with clinical detachment. "The wound is clean, but you've lost a significant amount of blood. You should rest for at least a few days."
Jason took a careful sip of water, studying the strange quartet. There was something off about them—something that didn't quite fit with the typical Gotham denizens. "Thanks for the patch job, Doctor...?"
"Strange. Stephen Strange."
"Strange name."
"I've heard that one before," Stephen replied with a faint smile.
Jason turned his attention to Tony. "And you are?"
"Tony Stark. These are our... sons, Peter and Harley." Tony gestured to the boys, who were watching with undisguised curiosity. The hesitation before "sons" was slight but noticeable.
"Quite the family," Jason remarked, not bothering to hide his skepticism.
Tony's smile was sharp. "We make it work."
Jason shifted, testing his mobility. The pain was manageable—he'd certainly endured worse. "Well, thanks for the help, but I should—"
"You're not going anywhere," Stephen interrupted firmly. "Not unless you want to reopen that wound and bleed out in some other alley."
"Doc's right," Tony added. "Besides, we have questions."
"I bet you do," Jason muttered. "But I don't do the Q&A thing."
Peter stepped forward, his small face earnest. "We just want to help."
Jason looked at the child, struck by the sincerity in his eyes. It had been a long time since anyone had offered Jason help without expecting something in return.
"What's your name?" Peter asked simply.
Jason hesitated, then decided there was little harm in it. "Jason. Jason Todd."
If the name meant anything to them, none of them showed it.
"Well, Jason Todd," Tony said, crossing his arms. "Here's the deal. You stay here until Doc Strange says you're well enough to leave. In exchange, you tell us what we need to know about Gotham."
Jason raised an eyebrow. "What do you need to know?"
Tony and Stephen exchanged a brief look.
"We're... new to the city," Stephen explained carefully. "We could use some local insight."
Jason's eyes narrowed. These people were hiding something—something big. But then again, so was he.
"Fine," he agreed finally. "But if you're smart, you'll get out of Gotham as soon as you can. This city eats people like you for breakfast."
Tony's smile held a confidence that seemed both out of place and perfectly natural. "That's the plan, Jason. That's exactly the plan."
Outside, Gotham's night deepened, unaware that within its borders now resided a displaced family of genius—and one former Robin who might just be their key to getting home.