Summary: Dick Grayson receives a blast from his past when an old childhood friend from his days of traveling in Europe with Haley's Circus shows up out of the blue. Dick hasn't heard from or thought about Pietro Maximoff in years, and though he's psyched to see him again, he knows something's up. Pietro's running scared and Dick wants to help him, but how do you save your friend from his dad when his dad's Magneto?

(Set in the Black and Red Universe)

Categories: Cartoon, Young Justice; Cartoon, X-Men Evolution

Main Characters: Dick Grayson, Pietro Maximoff, Wally West, Connor Kent, Jason Todd; Tim Drake

Disclaimer: I do not own any DC or Marvel characters, storylines, etc used in this story. Some characters were maimed in the creative process, but don't worry. Death in comic book land isn't always permanent. (Muhahaha!)

Author's Note: For anybody who followed this story from Black and Red, welcome and thank you, thank you for wanting to read more! To Guest, MV and Inspire, if you made it here, thanks for revewing Black and Red! For anyone who didn't read Black and Red, well, this story can stand on its own, so you'll be okay if you don't read the first story. This story is primarily told in the POV of Ricard Grayson and is a sub plotline to the Black and Red arc told by Jason Todd. It's also... a crossover with X-Men Evolution. If you're not familiar with X-Men, it's okay, you don't have to be. :). Well, enough blab, I hope you enjoy the story!

From Yesterday, it's coming

From Yesterday, the fear

From Yesterday, it calls him

"From Yesterday"—30 Seconds to Mars.

Prologue

Gotham Gazette, November 2, 2015 P.21

RICHARD GRAYSON, 15, leads Gotham Academy's male gymnastics team to victory by placing first in the all-around category at Saturday's district meet. Grayson, adopted son of multi-billionaire Bruce Wayne, is a former circus acrobat and no stranger to performing dangerous gymnastic feats in front of large audiences. Grayson will compete in the regional gymnastics competition being held at Gotham University this weekend, and is predicted to medal once again in all-around and individual medal events.

The boy stuffs the newspaper into his backpack.

The Greyhound station in the middle of nowhere North Carolina isn't busy at 4:13 in the morning. Hell, he's surprised it's open. The last time he was in the middle of nowhere, the bus dropped him off outside a station that had closed two hours before he got there.

He stares up at the board behind the ticket desk. There's a bus to Gotham City that will get him there in about seven hours. He thinks about how much money he has left and if he should waste it on bus fare.

It's not like he really needs to take the bus. He can get himself to Gotham City in no time on his own, but seven hours of sleep without having to stop moving sounds fantastic. He reaches into the pocket of his winter coat and pulls out his wallet. Running a thumb over his cash, he has second thoughts.

He hasn't seen Dick Grayson since they were both seven years old and climbing trees and jumping in lakes. A small smile touches his lips as he thinks about springs and summers in Velingrad and Karatepe picking blueberries and learning to fish and swim. Back when things were easy and nothing was expected of him. They'd had great fun, but it's a lifetime ago. Maybe Dick won't remember him. The thought hurts like needles being jammed into his sides.

God, I just want to talk to some who doesn't want to fuckin' kill me.

A door slams somewhere in the bus station and he jumps, head whipping around as his breathing speeds up and his heart races faster. His eyes scan the small room. There's an old woman in an oversized red parka, and a man with a German Sheppard on a leash. Nobody strange—but that doesn't mean anything. It never means anything. Not when strange can make herself look like anyone she wants. Not when strange can take control of people's minds and make them come after you.

It's happened too many times before.

He has to move again.

He approaches the desk and slaps 60 bucks on the counter. His hands shake and his voice quivers. "One ticket for the 6:00 AM bus to Gotham City. One-way."

The lady behind the counter has to be in her forties with tightly curled hair and suspicious eyes. She looks him up and down, and rasps, "Ain't it late for a kid to be out by himself?"

He shrugs.

The lady takes his money, counting it and punching keys on her computer. She spares him another glance while his ticket is printing. "Family in Gotham?"

He snatches the ticket from her hand. "Yeah. Keep the change."

It's only 15 cents, and Pietro Maximoff prefers not to carry metal.

Chapter 1

I brush my teeth to the sounds of my little brother freaking out behind me. I spit into the sink and look in the mirror to see Jason sitting on the side of the bathtub. He's so into his rant he's telling the story with his hands. I go for the Listerine; then check my China for stains. I grin at myself and give a wink.

Congratulations, Dickie-bird, you're a Crest Kid.

Let's see if I can go for cover model now. I squint at my wet hair and prod it with a finger. Blow-drying it turns it into a frizzy nightmare, but it's too cold out for me to even dream of getting past Alfie with damp hair. Towel… towel… my bathroom linen closet is next to the tub, meaning I must cross Jason's war path.

"You're not listening to me, Dick-head!"

Dick-head, oh that's original.

Jason tries to stand up, but I push him backward into the tub, cackling as he falls over flailing his arms and legs. That's whatcha get, asshat.

I get a towel and rub it over my head. I could be all girly and get one of those standing dryers you put your head in, but I'd never hear the end of that. Not to mention those things take too damn long. I've been timed, outside of a stakeout I can only sit still for 30 seconds. I'm not even still when I sleep. Ask Jason about the times we've had to share.

"Fuck!" Jason finally fights his way out of the tub, and he glares at me as I show him my pearly whites. Jason, Jason, Jason, when will you ever learn that I never listen to you before 7:00? I don't start big brother duty until I've had my happy-face pancakes.

"Jase, tell me all about what terrible thing Tim has done to you after I put some clothes on. What, you getting your jollies on watching me swivel around in this towel toga? Can't say I blame ya, but…" I duck the punch he throws at my head, laughing the whole time.

My little bro's face is hilarious! His cheeks are flaming red and his green eyes are furious. I can read his every move and I dodge his attacks for a minute, before getting him in a headlock. He grunts and struggles and I use the opportunity to give him a lil' hug.

"Aww… if all you wanted was a hug…"

I let him break my hold and catch me in the chest with a jab. I'm laughing too hard to care right now. I'll get him again later. I keep laughing as Jase gives me the finger and storms out of the bathroom muttering under his breath.

I don't think that last one is anatomically possible, Jay-bird.

I would tell him that, but I don't think he'd care. I go back to rubbing my head with a towel and leave the bathroom. The 50-inch flat screen over my dresser is on CNN. I always check to see if Young Justice makes the national news. My masked mug looks good on TV, if I don't say so myself.

Alfred has my school uniform laid out on my made bed and I grimace at it. School uniforms = blah. Khakis and blazers, and slacks and ties all do one thing: constrict movement. It is very hard to do standing back-tucks in starched pants. Though Alfie would say: Then perhaps you should not do standing back-tucks while in your dress clothes, Master Richard.

Whatever you say, Alfie. I get the uniform on, tie and all, and rip the towel off my head. I run a hand through my hair, still kinda damp but it'll air dry okay. Grabbing a comb off my desk I run it through my black tangles.

Hair gel…. Hair gel… it's on the dresser. I squeeze a quarter-sized amount of the green gook into my hand and tilt my head back to stare at the TV.

Mutant Protest Shuts Down High School.

It seems New York's infested with mutants. Let's see, there are mutants who can fly, run faster than speeding bullets, and leap buildings in single bounds. Why, they sound like meta-humans to me. But the meta-gene is a special gene that gives its owner power; the X-gene is a mutation and people who have that could have a power, could be physically deformed, or both. So, public opinion declares metas cool and mutants zits and the government's cooking up an acne cream.

I feel a creeping sensation in my arms and legs, and give a full body shudder to shake it off. Everything about the "mutant crisis" and how the government is "handling" it makes me sick, but at least I'm not alone in wanting to puke. Lots of meta-humans are in mutant rights groups. They have to be thinking that once the government "handles" the mutants, metas will be next on the agenda. I spread my gel-coated fingers and work them through my hair, ignoring the eruption of shouting from across the hall.

"I'm telling!" Tim shouts.

"Go ahead and tell, troll-face!" Jason shouts back.

Geez…it's only 6:46, guys.

I sigh and give my attention to the TV again to see an anorexic news anchor standing in front of a generic looking high school surrounded by picketers. Live from Bayville. That's not near Smallville, is it? I snort and turn off the TV.

"Yaaaargh! Let go of my hair!"

"Not until you give it back!"

I give myself a once-over in the full-length mirror mounted on my door—Yeah, I'll pass today—and step out into the hallway. It's not seven and I haven't had pancakes, but someone's gotta stop the children from killing each other and that someone is always me.

Unless…

"What is the matter with you two?"

… they manage to get on Bruce's nerves.

"He started it!"

"I'm tired of this brat getting into my stuff, Bruce!"

"I was just…"

"Morning, Bruce! Morning Tim! See you downstairs, Jase!" I wave to my angry family as I bypass them to the stairs. I jog down the spiral steps, listening to Bruce do his Batman growl at my brothers. I almost feel sorry for them—"almost" being the operant term there.

Food here I come.

(~*~)

Halfway through my chocolate milk, Jason, Tim and Bruce enter the kitchen, Bruce in a three-piece business suit, Tim in a private school khaki and blazer set, and Jason in a public school wear-whatever-the-hell-I-want jeans and sweatshirt set. Boy, do they look grouchy. Not one of them smiles at me as they take their places. Alfred clears his throat and Jason takes his elbows off the table.

That Jay, such a Neanderthal. I kick him under the table and he sneers at me. Jase has been really moody lately, moodier than usual, and it has a lot to do with Tim joining the family six months ago. Okay, okay, so I was listening to his rant in the bathroom about Tim. Tim's been going through his things.

I'm always pissed when Jase "borrows" my stuff, so I know how he feels. I want to side with him and confront Tim about it, but… I also know why Tim is going through his things. I try to catch Jason's eyes; he scowls at me and stabs at his pancakes, mangling the banana and chocolate chip smiley face on the top pancake.

Mangling. I set my milk down, thinking about Rodney the Rocket's hand after Jason's batarang. I'd ripped a long strip off the screaming man's shirt and used it to wrap up his severed index and middle fingers. I put them on the man's chest after Jason and I tied him up, and I hope a doctor was able to do something with them. If Tim hadn't been with us, Bruce never would have found out about it. Jase said it was an accident; I… I want to believe him, which is more than I can say for Tim… and even Bruce.

"Dick, I need you tonight for patrol, so come straight home after school," Bruce says, reading the newspaper instead of eating, something that never fails to earn a "tut" from Alfred.

He needs me? "It's Jason's night to go out," I say. I look down at my half-eaten pancakes, and they smile up at me. I like leaving the part of the pancake with the smile on it behind. Someone should smile for Alfie after I go to school.

I feel Jason's eyes burning into me, and I won't look at him. I know what he wants. Bruce has been reducing his Falcon hours, and if I don't forfeit some of my Robin hours, he doesn't go out much.

"I need you." Bruce folds the paper and looks dead straight at me and I frown. Bruce hasn't said he needs me in a long time. It stirs a deep feeling within me. He needs me. I like that.

"Wha…" I start.

"No! This is my night and it's my case!" Jason yells. The table rocks as he jumps to his feet and smacks his hands down on the table. The milk from his glass sloshes over the rim and spills onto his breakfast plate.

"Master Jason!" Alfred scolds.

Tim is very focused on his food, ignoring the fact that there is a fight going on and I narrow my eyes at him. What's going on, Timmy?

"Bruce, if Jason's already been working the case with you…" I raise both hands, placating.

"Jason has proved to be a liability in this case, because he cannot detach his personal feelings…"

"Detach my personal feelings? That punk used to deal to my mom. He sells bad drugs and he's dealing to kids in my old neighborhood! He put the girl who used to live downstairs from me in a coma. This is mine!" Another hard smack to the table completely turns the milk glass over and white liquid splashes and runs onto the floor.

Jason's gritting his teeth and glaring at Bruce, green eyes glittering with pent-in rage and I bite my lip. He's about to say something he'll regret.

"Bruce, I have practice today," I say. "The regional meet is this weekend; I can't miss or I'll lose my place on the roster." I keep my eyes on Bruce and keep my voice casual. I even throw in a smile, because someone's gotta do it around here.

The tension in the room is so thick I want to loosen my tie. Tim only has eyes for his plate, Jason only has eyes for Bruce, and Bruce only has eyes for me. He's telling me with his eyes to stop this.

He doesn't want Jason with him, but he doesn't want to say it to him. He wants me to be his excuse. I'm always the excuse. Sorry, Jason, Dick has more training and is better suited to go with me tonight. Sorry, Jason, Dick is better for this job. Not tonight, Jason, Dick is faster than you.

"Stop putting me in the middle," I whisper. I wish I hadn't eaten so much. Every bite of pancake is a brick in my stomach and I do loosen my tie so I can swallow more easily. My Adam's apple feels twice its normal size.

"You always choose him over me!" Jason shouts. "I practice more than him! He's always with Juvenile Justice. He's never here! I am! I'm with you! It's not fair!"

"You need a break!" Bruce finally looks away from me and turns on Jason. He doesn't rise from the table, though Jason's milk is making its way over to his spot. Alfred grabs a towel; he's already gotten Jason's glass and plate off the table. Dabbing at the white mess, Alfred throws nervous glances between my brother and Bruce and then tosses one at me, Do something, his eyes say.

It's always me who has to stop the children.

"Guys, we can work this out…" I try to say.

"Well, Dickie can't go! So, it's either me or you go out alone, because Red Robin there is a bad rookie. Hell, he shouldn't be a 'robin'; I think pigeon better suits him." Jason glares hard at Tim who ducks his head and tries to make himself smaller than he is. I feel a tiny surge of protectiveness for the 12 year old. He's just a kid; his mom and dad's murder was only half a year ago, and he's scared Bruce will get rid of him and he'll have nowhere to go. He's just trying to secure himself a spot on the team.

But Jase is right about him being a rotten little tattletale.

"Leave Tim out of this," Bruce growls. "Jason, you need to cool off. This case is too close to you. Dr. Davis is concerned that you…"

"Dr. Davis isn't supposed to tell you what I tell her!" Jason clenches his fists.

"She has not told me anything you've said, but she is worried about your aggressive behavior when…"

Something comes too close to home? Jason is protective… and he'd kill me if I said this out loud… sentimental as hell. He'll fight tooth and nail if he thinks something might hurt someone he cares about. It's not a bad way to be, but Jase goes too far a lot of the time; more times than I can count and more times than Bruce knows about. Though, with Tim here, Bruce is catching up on those times.

"You said that isn't a problem. You said working cases is an outlet. I've helped you bring in more crooks than Dick has this year! I want this one, Bruce! Please."

Oh God, he's begging. Bruce, let him go with you tonight. Don't make him cry, and don't make me the reason why you break his heart…again.

There's a pause around the table, a moment so quiet and tense I swear I hear heartbeats. Tim's fork scrapes his plate and Jason's hands grip the edge of the table. Bruce is strangling his newspaper in one hand, eyes going from Jason to me. His eyes say to me, Do something.

Jason looks at me, Do something!
I taste chocolate chip pancakes at the back of my throat.

"Dick, tell him you don't want to go!" Jason pleads.

"Dick…"

I shove away from the table and run out of the dining room, barely making it to the guest restroom in time. Bye-bye Smiley Face.

Chocolate tastes a lot better than other things coming back up, but puking still sucks.

Well, at least they're not staring at me anymore.

I spit up a few more chocolate chips, then sit back, catching my breath. With my stomach empty, I feel a lot better. Maybe I should start skipping breakfast, less fighting and less puking that way. But then there's dinner to look forward to, less fighting and more cold silences that make me lose my appetite.

I don't know what Bruce and Jase need to do, but I wish they'd do it somewhere else. Guilt makes me double over the toilet again. I clutch the cool porcelain bowl. I shouldn't think things like that. Bruce and Jason are in trouble, and I wanna help, but what do I know? I shut my eyes and do the only thing I know how: What would you do, Mom?

My mom was good at solving family arguments, but arguments between my Rom family didn't involve maiming people. "Aunts" and "uncles" and "cousins" fought about traditions and the younger generation marrying outsiders. Things ended with two-cheek kisses…and sometimes the occasional spit wad. True there was a lot of yelling and a lot of cussing, but you knew, because people were always telling you how much they loved you, that no one ever meant any of the bad things said.

Bruce and Jase… one day, they're both going to say things they regret to each other, and they'll mean every word of it. Their relationship will never be the same, and I'll always be in the middle playing mediator.

I choke and spit out sour saliva. I swear they're giving me an ulcer.

I grab some toilet paper to blow my nose and stand up, flushing the toilet. In the bathroom mirror, I look a perfect wreck. My eyes are watery and my face is pale. I splash some water on it, and scrounge around in the sink drawer for the pack of guest toothbrushes Alfie keeps in here.

The knock on the restroom door comes as I'm squirting toothpaste on the bristles. "Yeah?" I jam the toothbrush in my mouth, working it around my teeth and gums.

"Are you all right? Can I come in?" Bruce's concerned voice calls through the door.

"I'm fine, just give me a minute," I say, words garbled by toothpaste. I almost tell him 'No, I'm not fine. You're making me sick, Bruce, you and Jason.' But that would be mean. Ever since I got sick last year, just me hinting at being anything other than A-okay has Bruce freaking out and calling Dr. Leslie. I've got a chronic kidney condition that I have to take medicine for, and yeah, last year was scary. I never want to see the inside of an ICU again, but we gotta move on, Bruce.

I sigh, stomach lurching again at the thought of joining Jason and Bruce at the table again. Who would have ever thought that me, Richard John Grayson, would want to pass up a chance to be with people in favor of being alone? I grew up constantly surrounded by people, the kind of people who don't care anything about personal space. Wayne Manor and Gotham elite society used to be alien and terrible compared to what I knew and seven years later, it sometimes still is… but right now, it's not. Now, I want meters of distance and personal space between me and everyone else.

I want to say: Go away Bruce; leave me alone.

But I can't do that. Someone's got to keep the children from killing each other. Someone's gotta stay between Jason and Bruce. Someone's gotta smile.

I drop the used toothbrush in the trash can by the sink and practice my smile.

Congratulations, Dickie-bird, you're a Crest Kid.

Author's Note: Oh yes, I did it. It's a crossover set in the Blak and Red World. I love being complicated, lol. So, what's the verdict? Like it? Hate it? Don't care either way? Well, any way you liked it, let me know. Please review!