Chapter Text
Bruce had not been expecting his phone to ring. As a matter of fact, he had impressed upon several people the importance of his phone not ringing right before he’d ventured out that night. That his very clear instructions were being ignored either meant something very bad had happened, or something very bad would happen to whomever was flouting his orders right now.
At the moment the phone started buzzing, Brucie Wayne was tipsily flirting with a bouncer at the Iceberg Lounge, pretending to feel up the man’s biceps and asking about how strong he was. In reality, Bruce had been trying to get a tiny bug attached to him without him noticing for the last ten minutes. It was proving harder than he had expected. He’d apparently picked the most stalwart goon in the entire venue to try and seduce.
The attendees for the night’s event were a far cry from the usual socialites and business people his public persona interacted with. There were, of course, still plenty of moneyed folks present; the gathering was one part party and one part silent auction, so a degree of wealth was a requirement for entry. That had struck Matches Malone from the list unfortunately, and Bruce hadn’t had enough time to fabricate a new identity with enough capital to receive an invitation. Instead, he’d been forced to bribe his way onto the list with his real name. He sincerely hoped that no one was paying too much attention as to why Gotham’s resident playboy was so interested in the items of questionable providence on display tonight. He really didn’t need that specific spotlight on him.
On any other day, the information he could expect to gain at the Iceberg Lounge wouldn’t be worth the risk. He’d just as likely achieve the same results by interrogating criminals on patrol, without the hassle and risk of going undercover. But the whispers he’d heard about this particular event had piqued his interest. The word was that a certain newcomer would be in attendance, and even if Bruce had to spend half the night pretending to be interested in taxidermied endangered animals and gold plated weapons, it would be worth it for the information he would glean on the Red Hood.
The man had a lot to answer for. The duffle bag of heads and systematic take over of Crime Alley were more than enough to put him on Bruce’s radar, but between the bullet he’d put in Nightwing’s shoulder and the unsubtle threats made towards Robin, he’d quickly taken over the number one spot on Batman’s Most Wanted list. Bruce was self aware enough to admit that in the grand scheme of things, Red Hood was far from the most dangerous player in Gotham, but his alpha was difficult to keep in check when his pack was threatened or hurt. They were his priority, always, and Red Hood was going to learn what happened to those who endangered them.
Once Hood was in Arkham or Blackgate, Robin could return to patrol. Despite the shame Bruce felt at allowing another child to follow him on his dangerous crusade, at this point he simply couldn’t bear to part with Tim. He'd grown used to working with the quick intellect and quicker wit of his protegee-come-partner, and patrols were not only far more efficient when they worked as a pair, but far more enjoyable as well.
What he wouldn’t give for his children to have a normal life, with normal hobbies and a father that didn’t spend half his time fighting crime in a themed costume. They deserved better than a lifetime stalking the darkened alleyways of Gotham.
Dick and Tim would argue with that of course, the thought that the pack would be better off without the vigilantism. Not one of his three Robins would have hung up the cape had Batman forbidden them from it. They were all too passionate and too stubborn to bend so easily; traits he found both endearing and frustrating as all hell. He’d learnt his lesson after Dick had flown the nest; he couldn’t stop them from being heroes, and if he tried he would only drive them away. Better to fight by their sides, than to set them loose on the world to stand alone. That didn’t mean he didn’t try his best to keep them out of the direct line of fire, however.
Frankly, Bruce was surprised that he’d managed to keep Tim off the streets these last few weeks. The kid had taken his benching surprisingly well, all things considered. Although, he had seemed more fatigued recently, drawn and pale under his domino and bravado. Perhaps he had taken the impromptu break to rest and recover from whatever was plaguing him.
Bruce almost snorted at the thought. Tim wouldn't voluntarily rest even if he was on death’s door. A costumed murderer out for his blood would hardly do the trick.
It had been frustratingly difficult to find out anything about Hood, from his name, to his age to even his second gender. He played his cards extremely close to his chest, and every brief interaction with Batman had been sown with hints about it ‘not being time yet’. The hypothetical countdown made Bruce uneasy; nothing good ever came from that kind of grandstanding. Still, he wasn’t one to play by his enemies rules, so he’d taken it upon himself to hatch his own plot and catch Hood off guard. To do that, he needed intel, and this time, getting that involved a tuxedo and his least favourite kind of mask.
He’d long since perfected the art of maintaining his ditzy air whilst mentally going over a case or planning a patrol, but Bruce still found the buzzing phone stowed in his ankle holster to be testing his skills. It was fanning the flames of his paranoia, the thought of what disasters could be occurring without him sticking to him like glue and making the carefree nature of Brucie Wayne difficult to conjure. Finally, he got the bug to stick on the bouncer’s sleeve and began the arduous process of extricating himself from the situation. It was a good five minutes before he made it to the bathroom and was able to check the burner phone.
By that time, there were three missed calls and a text message from a number he knew to be one of Oracle's. The text was encoded, a precaution if the phone got confiscated, but it was a code Bruce could decipher on the spot.
SOS @ the Cave. Get home NOW.
It was like a bucket of ice being tipped over his head. A part of him had been expecting the message to be trivial, one of the other Bats forgetting his no-contact order was in place or just straight up ignoring it, but he should have known it was serious. Things had been going too well for him lately and the peace never lasted. The anxiety sharpened, the vague fears solidifying in his mind’s eye; Nightwing injured without Batman there to back him up, their identities being compromised, a ransom call going unanswered because Brucie Wayne couldn’t come to the phone. He prayed that Tim at least was safe, tucked up in bed at home and away from Wayne Manor. He shot a confirmation back to Oracle and stashed the phone again.
Technically, no one was supposed to leave the event before its conclusion; a well-attended soiree such as this could attract the wrong kind of attention from law enforcement and Rogues alike, as was evidenced by Bruce’s very presence, so keeping it a secret was essential. Bruce hadn’t even been given a time until barely an hour before the event started. Cobblepot’s paranoia went so far as to having all the chauffeurs, personal assistants and bodyguards remain on site in a side room. Alfred himself was somewhere in the building, presumably playing the part of the long-suffering, overworked butler. The level of security would be overkill in any other city, but regardless of how many guards the Penguin hired, there was not a force on Earth that could keep a Gothamite’s well honed survival instincts in check in the face of an emergency.
It was simple work to find and set off a fire alarm, even with the stipulation of remaining unseen from watchful eyes, both biological and digital. He was Batman, after all. Sirens began to sound throughout the building. Bruce was soaked to the bone in an instant as the overhead sprinklers poured a cascade of freezing water into the crowd, adding to the general chaos.
He joined a throng of shrieking party goers stumbling towards the exit, sidestepping a woman who had decided to use the commotion as cover to snatch an expensive looking pocket watch from its display cushion. A moment later she was tackled by a security guard. Both parties began shouting at each other and normally Bruce would step in to help hustle everyone outside, but there were more important things at stake right now, especially given he knew it was a false alarm.
Two and a half minutes later, he located Alfred in the swell of people outside.
“Master Bruce, are you quite alright?” the beta asked, sharp eyes skipping over his drenched clothes and deciphering whatever expression was currently taking up residence on his face. Bruce took a moment to reinforce his persona.
“Alfieee,” he whined, pouting. “My suit is ruined! I wasn't ready to go home.” He emphasized the last two words with a subtle head tilt towards the back of the building where the car was parked. Alfred took the hint.
“I’m sure there’ll be another event, lad,” he said consolingly. “I’ll go bring the car around.”
God bless Alfred's canny nature. Bruce rarely had to do more than widen his eyes or twitch his head for the butler to pick up on his cues. He bounced on his heels, making a show of wringing out his shirt and commiserating with the other attendees, even as his internal clock counted the seconds since Oracle’s first call. If there was one thing Alfred was, however, it was efficient and the sleek black BMW they had selected for the evening pulled up in a matter of minutes. Bruce threw himself into the backseat and immediately popped open a secret panel behind the centre console, relying on the heavily tinted windows to shield the action. He dug out a spare comm and shoved it in his ear as the car pulled away at a sedate pace. They’d wait until they were a few blocks out before stepping on the gas.
“Oracle,” Batman growled. “Report.”
Barbara responded immediately, voice coming through the line clear and crisp.
“Nightwing requested urgent backup from Batman and Penny-One at the Cave, then went dark before I got any details.”
Bruce tensed. Dick had asked for Alfred? Batman was to be expected, but despite his many skills, Alfred was not the first point of call in an emergency. Serious medical issues went to Dr Thompkins, and anything else was handled by the field active members of the pack or Oracle. Barbara continued to speak whilst he stewed over the request.
“I had to pull up the cameras for more info.”
“And?”
“Fourteen minutes ago, Red Hood Zeta’ed into the cave carrying a severely injured Robin. Nightwing took Robin to the medbay, and Red Hood voluntarily put himself in a containment cell.”
The icy feeling returned.
While he had been schmoozing at an inane party in the vain hope of gaining even a scrap of intel, the very man he had been stalking had been inside his home. And with Hood’s apparent ability to access the Zeta network and Tim’s unknown injuries, it was like all of his paranoid fears had come true at once. The only positive was that Hood was contained, but even that thought inspired further fear, because why on Earth had the man surrendered? He must have an ulterior motive, some angle or plot that Bruce couldn’t seem to find.
“How did this happen?” he demanded.
“I’m working on it,” Barbara replied tersely.
“What's Robin’s status?”
“Unclear.”
“Oracle,” he growled, desperate for more information.
“Nightwing isn't exactly making it easy for me!” she snapped. “Look for yourself, I can only do so much at a time.” A second later his regular phone pinged with a link to the live security feed from the Cave. Bruce quickly dumped the burner back into the secret compartment and grabbed the more advanced WayneTech model.
He pulled up the video, navigating straight to the medbay. To his rising apprehension, it was empty. He flicked through the various feeds, trying to locate his wayward pack members. He finally found them on the camera trained at the containment cell, just barely in frame. He could see the edge of a medbay cot and the outline of a body on top of it, pressed right up to the glass wall. Blood darkened the bed’s paper covered mattress and a black-and-blue clad arm rested protectively on top of the form.
Only slightly placated, Bruce turned his gaze to the captive in the cell. It was a man, tall and solidly built even without his armour; he was too far away from the camera to make out his face. He was pacing back and forth in the small area he had to work with, covering the distance in three large strides before pivoting on his heel. As Bruce watched, he paused and looked towards the bed on the other side of the wall. He dragged his hands across his face, then nodded and moved to sit on the cot.
To Bruce’s horror, the door of the cell opened and Dick pushed the medical bed into it. His eldest son gathered the limp form of what must be Tim into his arms and carefully transferred him into the lap of a known murderer. What the hell was he thinking? Bruce’s mind raced, possibilities rising and being discarded at top speed. Barbara would have said if Dick had indicated that he was compromised, but their code phrase system wasn’t foolproof, especially against unknown variables like meta-abilities and mind control. Red Hood hadn’t shown any hint that he was involved with anything of the sort, but they also hadn’t known he had access to the Zetas.
He needed more data. The camera Bruce was watching through was stationary, in both viewfield and zoom strength, but if he ran the feed through an enhancement software, he might be able to get a closer look at what was happening in that cell. He had a video analysis app on his phone that would do the trick and he hurriedly booted it up, just as Barbara inhaled sharply in his ear.
“Batman, I’ve just accessed the Zeta logs. There's a chance that it’s been tampered with but–”
But the League’s firewalls were the best on the planet, a combination of the work of many geniuses. It was beyond unlikely that someone could compromise them, let alone without leaving a trace that Oracle could observe. Bruce grunted in acknowledgement, loading the feed in the app.
“The Zeta at Titan's Tower was accessed legitimately,” she continued. “With the correct codes and permissions. Two DNA signatures were recorded. One was the current Robin, but B–”
The phone in his hand brightened, the view of the containment cell appearing in the enhancement window. He zoomed in, and the fuzz in the frame began to clear, revealing the faces of Tim and Dick and–
“The other was Robin II.”
Dark copper curls, disrupted with a streak of white. Tanned skin, kind eyes in a tired face. A thin white scar on the bottom lip, exactly where another Robin in another time had cut it on brand new fangs he had never had the chance to grow into.
Jason.
For a moment, Bruce was somewhere else. He could feel the weight of his son’s body in his arms, feel the drying blood and cooling flesh. He could smell the fading rosemary, weighed down with terror and pain, dissipating amongst the smoke and his own pungent grief. He saw the coffin being lowered into the ground through a film of tears, saw his own hands stained with a red he couldn't erase, saw the flowers next to the headstone, Here Lies Jason Todd–
The backseat of the BMW swam back into view, the sharp scent of cedar in the air. Bruce glanced at the rearview mirror and found worried eyes studying him. Alfred’s hands were white knuckled on the steering wheel. He’d also put in a comm at some point, and the number on the speedometer was well above what was legal.
“Check for interference,” Bruce croaked.
Barbara didn't argue.
The rest of the drive passed in a blur, the buildings and smog of downtown Gotham being replaced by the greenery of the suburbs. Bruce didn't argue when Alfred turned down a well hidden track that would take them to the Batcave; the civilian cars were supposed to remain above ground but he couldn't find it in himself to care at that moment.
Alfred sped down the tunnels with a borderline dangerous disregard for safety. The car shot out into the Cave proper, screeching to a stop beside the Batmobile. Bruce was out of the backseat before it fully stopped moving.
He’d never run so fast in civvies in his life. His smart dress shoes slipped on the floor, and he nearly wiped out rounding a corner, but it didn’t matter. The containment cells came into view, appearing out of the gloom of the Cave like a portal to another world.
Bruce saw Dick first, his eldest standing over the cot in the cell. He was still wearing his Nightwing suit, sans mask and gloves. Tear tracks glistened on his cheeks and Bruce's alpha howled at the sight, ready to bundle up his pup and hide him away from the world forever. He clamped down on the instinct, hard; he’d already nearly driven Dick away with that mistake once before. Then the beta shifted slightly, and Bruce saw past him to the pair sitting on the bed.
Tim was next, his little Robin pale and washed out under the harsh fluorescents. A medbay blanket was draped over his lap, already turning red from the blood that was drying on his chest. A line of black stitches dotted a deep gash in the boy’s shoulder. Dick was tying off the last one with a pair of needle-nose pliers. Tim’s eyes were closed, either sedated or unconscious and his head rested on the broad shoulder of the room’s final occupant.
Bruce’s eyes traced the shoulder back, followed the curve of a neck and jawline and landed on brilliant green eyes. Dread and recognition of that specific shade filled him. He inhaled reflexively. Past the thick wall of spicy ginger, underneath the heavy scent of blood and the tang of antiseptic was the rosemary he'd thought he'd never smell again. Something deep in his soul eased, a wound he’d lost hope of ever healing closing over at long last.
And finally, his heart believed it.
“Jason,” he said, voice cracking, arms reaching out for his lost son.
Dick stepped into his line of sight, blocking Jason from view.
“Bruce, you have to help Tim. He’s dropping bad, he needs you.”
“But–”
“Dad.”
The term brought him up short. It wasn't that Dick never called him that, but that he only ever did it when he was scared or upset. Bruce inhaled again, sorting through the muddled pheromones in the room. The scents of his two eldest boys were easily found, but it took him a long, painful moment to uncover Tim’s. It was incredibly faint, and torturously twisted with the unforgiving sour punch of omega-drop.
The alpha Bruce had barely been keeping in check shook free of his control. In seconds, he'd ripped off his scent blockers and scrubbed down his glands with an alcohol wipe to take care of the chemical barrier. The aroma of heavy, rich coffee seeped into the air, carrying his worry and protectiveness to his pack.
The tension immediately began to bleed out of Dick, soothed by the knowledge that his pack alpha was close by. Tim sighed in his sleep, nose twitching. Encouraged, Bruce stepped fully into the cell but was halted by Jason’s reaction. Instead of calming or relaxing like his brothers, he recoiled, fangs bared in warning. A low snarl rumbled in his throat and his eyes began to glow with a sickly green light.
“No,” he growled, Voice heavy. His arms tightened around the omega in his lap. Tim’s brow creased.
“Jason?” Bruce asked warily.
“I said. NO. You don’t get to have him.”
Jason’s scent was oozing rage now, growing fiery and overpowering. The little pulse-ox monitor on Tim's index finger flashed a warning.
“He needs help, Jay,” Dick pleaded.
“He’s MINE.”
Tim’s head lolled, completely boneless and limp. Jason didn't seem to notice. The alpha’s fingers were digging into Tim’s skinny arms, hard enough to bruise and drawing blood under his nails.
“Jaylad, you're hurting him,” Bruce said and tried to move closer, but was again stopped in his tracks by a wall of furious pheromones. His alpha howled, torn between the desperate need to hold and comfort his pack and the instinctual defensiveness brought on by the presence of a feral alpha in his territory.
“You don't deserve him! You can't have him!”
The pulse-ox flashed again. Tim’s chest wasn't moving. Burning rosemary overpowered every other scent in the room. Jason tensed, muscles bunching under his skin like he was preparing to launch himself off the bed. Tim was in danger but the danger was one of their own and Bruce was paralyzed; he wasn’t going to be able to stop whatever this was.
And then Dick lunged forward. With his arms occupied, Jason was too slow to avoid the headlock Dick caught him in, and even as he howled and struggled he was powerless to escape the syringe that appeared in his brother’s hand.
“Get off!” he screamed. “Get off, I’ll kill you!”
“I’m sorry Jay, I'm sorry, I have to.” Dick depressed the plunger, injecting the needle’s contents into Jason’s neck.
“Let me– go!”
The ghastly green glow in Jason's eyes faded slightly, and the rage in his scent abruptly smelled a whole lot more like terror.
“Dick!” he begged. “Please!”
Tears streamed down Dick’s face.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “Just sleep, Little Wing, it’ll be over soon.”
Jason slumped into his brother's arms, fully unconscious.
“Dad,” said Dick. “Help.”
The cry kicked him into action. Bruce hurriedly stepped up to the bed, scooping Tim out of Jason’s slackened grip. The pulse-oximeter was flashing an error message, failing to register a heart beat. He pressed two fingers to Tim’s neck just above his scent gland, praying that the device was malfunctioning, but try as he might he couldn’t locate a pulse.
“Alfred,” he cried, setting Tim on the medbay cot and hitting the emergency release to drop it flat for CPR. Alfred appeared at his shoulder with what looked like half the supplies in the medbay on a rolling cart. He pressed an ambu-bag into Bruce’s hands.
“Master Bruce, you will need to scent him thoroughly and continually, and perform rescue breathing for him. Master Dick, please begin compressions on your brother. I will take care of Master Jason,” he said, calm voice betrayed by the fear in his scent. No one questioned the orders.
Dick traded places with Alfred, and placed his interlaced fingers on Tim’s chest. Bruce pressed his wrists against the pup’s neck, and tried to focus on keeping his scent free of his own fear. Dick’s voice shook as he began to count the compressions out loud. When he reached thirty, Bruce placed the mask of the ambu-bag on Tim’s face and squeezed the balloon, forcing air into his static lungs, once, twice. Dick checked his pulse, and shook his head, immediately resuming compressions.
“Breathe, Tim,” Bruce begged. “Breathe lad, you can do it.”
“–Four, five, six, c’mon Tim, eight, nine–”
Tim looked halfway to a corpse already, with his frighteningly pale skin and purple lips. His scent had all but disappeared under the flood of others in the room. Statistics about the likelihood of brain damage from oxygen deprivation flashed through Bruce's mind and he shoved them away with a vengeance.
“–Twenty eight, twenty nine, thirty.”
Two more breaths.
Dick’s counting was coming harsh and fast as he methodically pumped Tim’s chest. Bruce hadn't heard a rib crack yet, but it was only a matter of time. He’d take a dozen broken ribs over losing another pup in his care, even if it looked like the last one had come home again.
Two more breaths.
Was this the price the world exacted for returning Jason to him? Had he been forced to trade one son for another? It wasn’t fair, Tim didn’t deserve to be caught in the crossfire of his curse to lose everyone close to him. He thought that letting the omega remain with his parent’s pack would spare him, but it seemed like all it had done was risk his life further. He couldn’t let that continue, he wouldn't. Tim would be coming home, he would be a full member of the pack and safe in Bruce’s arms if he would just breathe.
As if fate had heard his promise, Dick’s counting was interrupted by a gasping inhale. Bruce scrambled to press his fingers into Tim’s pulse point again. A tiny thump touched his fingertips, and then another. The heartbeat was thin and thready, but it was there. He raised his head to call for Alfred again, but he was already there, gently nudging Dick out of the way and attaching electrodes to Tim’s chest. A quiet beeping filled the sudden silence in the room, as the portable ECG displayed the rhythm of a fast, but stable heartbeat on the screen. Bruce nearly sobbed in relief, and Dick did, pressing a shaking kiss to the pup’s forehead between his own teary gasps.
“Keep scenting him, Master Bruce,” Alfred warned as he turned back to his other patient. “He’s not completely out of the woods yet.”
If Bruce had his way, none of his sons would ever be free of his coffee scent again. He buried his nose in Tim’s hair. That had been far too close of a call.
It took several minutes of counting his breathing and aggressively scenting Tim for Bruce’s heart rate to return to normal. Dick chose to channel his remaining anxiety into fussing over his brother’s various hurts, and Bruce cataloged them with a sharp eye as they were tended to. None were nearly as worrying as the now-closed stab wound in his shoulder, but they were dressed with the utmost care all the same.
When he ran out of cuts to bandage and bruises to apply cream to, Dick lifted Bruce’s arm and tucked himself under it in a way he hadn't done since his Robin days. He didn't fit as well as he used to, but Bruce held him close all the same. He crossed their wrists to scent him quickly and feeling steadier, chanced a glance at Jason. The man his son had grown into was lying on the cell’s cot. Alfred had draped a blanket over him, and was checking his pulse and breathing. The young alpha’s face was still twisted in distress.
Bruce longed to pull him into a hug, to press his thumb to the line between his brows and ease his suffering. The analytical parts of his mind were churning through the things that needed to be done – DNA tests and cognitive assessments and magical detoxing – but his alpha was just basking in the presence of his entire pack, whole and complete and alive.
Alfred straightened with a small sigh, tucking a piece of Jason’s hair behind his ear.
“He'll be okay,” he said. “No injuries that I can see, and he’s tolerating the sedative well. A bit too well, perhaps. I’m not sure how long it will last.”
Dick untensed a little, reassured. Alfred joined them, laying a hand on his shoulder. Bruce looked up at him, and saw his own wonder reflected in the beta's eyes.
“You should take Master Tim upstairs, lad. Master Dick and I can clean up here.”
Bruce didn't even try to stop the protective growl from slipping out at the thought of dividing the pack.
“We all stay together,” he insisted.
“Master Tim needs a nest, not a medbay cot,” replied Alfred sternly.
Bruce considered that. It was true that the cots were hardly the most comfortable, but part of him feared taking the boy further from the lifesaving medical equipment in the Cave. He glanced at Tim, all frail bones and translucent skin. A halo of purple bruising was beginning to darken his cheekbone. He deserved better than the dreary cave. The most important machines could be moved upstairs, and the rest would only be seconds away. His alpha agreed, convinced that his charge would be safest in a nest with his pack and alpha to protect him.
“We’ll all go,” Bruce conceded. “The mess can wait. I don't want any of you going out of my sight.”
Dick fidgeted with the corner of a blanket, watching Jason with a frown.
“Jay needs to stay here, B,” he said at length.
Bruce growled, subconsciously tightening his hold on his boys.
“I don't like it either! But he's compromised, gave the code and everything. It’s clear his scent affects Tim and it's also clear that he can't control it right now. We have to separate them.”
“Jason has been keeping him stable, removing his scent could be detrimental,” Bruce argued. He hated to play devil’s advocate, but he hated the idea of them splitting up even more.
“He has you to do that now. ‘Could be’ isn't a valid argument and you know it.”
“I’m not taking any chances with Tim.”
“Then perhaps we should consult a medical professional,” Alfred interjected dryly. It was an embarrassingly logical course of action.
“Thank god,” said Barbara in his ear, scaring the crap out of Bruce. “I’ve had Leslie on the line for the last ten minutes.”
Bruce closed his eyes for a moment. He knew better than to let his emotions rule his decision-making, but it was hard to remember that when his alpha was in near full control. His instincts were loud. He pulled out his phone just as Oracle transferred the call to the device and put it on speaker so that Dick and Alfred could hear both sides of the conversation.
“Leslie,” Bruce said.
“Took you long enough,” she grumbled. “Now, tell me what happened.”
The report Bruce gave was frustratingly short on details. The truth was, they didn't know exactly what had happened before Jason and Tim arrived in the Cave. They could make some guesses, based on the security data Oracle had gathered, and the small tidbits Jason had told Dick, but it still amounted to very little. Leslie hummed disapprovingly.
“In most cases, I would recommend keeping the entire pack as close as possible, but it sounds as though Tim’s omega is being overwhelmed by the multitude of scents.”
“Is that normal?” Dick asked.
“In an omega with a stable, healthy pack? It’s practically unheard of. This sort of reaction is almost exclusive to packless, or functionally packless omegas. I suspect Tim is suffering from an extended period of pack neglect, which has both exacerbated the drop and interfered with your attempts to pull him out of it.”
The words pack neglect had been dancing around the edges of Bruce’s mind for months, but to hear it all but confirmed was like a gut punch. How had he let this happen? Tim might not be an official part of his pack, but Bruce still considered him his son. His responsibility for Robin’s wellbeing didn’t end when he took the costume off. Bruce had noticed the fatigue, the paleness of his skin, the dozens of tiny signs that something was amiss and he still hadn't done anything.
“I’m going to send you some resources,” Leslie continued. “And I expect you to read them, Bruce. For now, the best course of action for Tim is to remove him from all extraneous olfactory input. He still needs an alpha close by to counteract the drop, but eliminating all other scents should give him the space he needs to recover.”
“Should I… not have scented him?” Dick asked, voice small. Leslie's tone lost some of its sharpness.
“No, dear. You almost certainly saved his life. But now that he is out of immediate danger, a single, consistent source of pheromones will be less distressing to his omega. He needs to be eased back into being exposed to multiple scents.”
“For how long?”
“Let's start with a week. We can reassess from there.”
“So we can't see him for a whole week?” Dick sounded devastated.
“If you wear those ridiculously strong scent blockers of yours, I see no reason you can't spend time with him. And speaking of scent blockers, do not understand any circumstance, allow Tim to wear any. Not only is his scent the most accurate way for you to gauge the health of his omega at the moment, his glands will be swollen due to the drop. Using any kind of blocker could seriously damage them and cause him to internalise his pheromones and poison himself with them.”
“Other than that, standard post-code protocol applies. Bedrest and monitoring. Keep him hydrated, and if he wakes, try to get some calories into him. I’m tied up at the clinic currently, but I will visit tomorrow to check up on him in person. If anything changes in the meantime, call me.”
The phone beeped, signalling the end of the call. Bruce’s shoulders slumped. He didn't know how he would bear to be away from the rest of the pack, but he wasn't going to go directly against medical advice. He respected (and feared) Leslie too much for that. Dick seemed equally put out by the news he couldn't scent his brother for a week or more. Alfred merely passed Bruce a set of dry clothes to replace his still-damp tuxedo and left to prepare a bag of supplies for them to take upstairs.
It was decided that whilst Jason couldn't be moved to the main manor yet, it should be safe to relocate him to a more comfortable area of the cave. The quarantine room in the medbay with its attached bathroom and full sized bed was the height of luxury compared to the bare containment cell, but still locked securely. Dick changed his own clothes at lightning speed before taking up vigil at his brother’s bedside. Bruce lingered, unable to make himself leave, until Alfred returned and shooed him out. A tablet with the security feed of the quarantine room displayed on it was sitting atop the various monitors in the bag he handed him, and Bruce silently thanked whomever had blessed them with Alfred’s presence in their lives.
From there, he took the elevator up to the above ground portion of the house, Tim resting comfortably in his arms. He longed to bring him to his own room, with his scent layered into the walls from many years of residence, but he feared even the soft traces of Dick and Alfred would be a problem for Tim’s omega.
Instead, he shouldered open the door to Tim’s room. It was exactly as he had seen it last; bare and unpersonalised. The bed, nightstands, desk and dresser were all antique and luxurious, and completely identical to the guest rooms in the Manor. Tim hadn't tacked up any posters, or decorated his desk with any keepsakes. Bruce didn't even think he kept more than one set of clothes in the dresser. He made a mental note to remind Tim that he could do what he pleased with the room; it wasn't like Bruce had any sentimental attachment to Antique Nightstand Number Fourteen.
There was a chest at the foot of the bed that contained spare linens and pillows, which would have to do for nesting materials for now. The rush order of supplies he had placed while loitering in the Cave would be at least another twelve hours coming, and everything he already owned was tied up in the pack nest in the den.
It had been many years since Bruce had built a nest from scratch. With no omegas in his pack or life until Tim, and no pups destroying the pack nest with their shenanigans, his skills had grown rather rusty. As a result, the haphazard circle of pillows and blankets he created could only be called a nest in the very loosest sense of the word. Fortunately, all that mattered right now was that it was comfortable and could begin absorbing his scent. They could rebuild it to Tim’s preferences once he woke.
Bruce was careful to never step away from him throughout the whole process. It made building the nest significantly more difficult, but he didn't mind. Once it was done, he bundled Tim into the centre and tucked himself in beside him. Swaddled in blankets like this, the omega looked smaller than ever.
How was he ever supposed to let this pup go again?
Getting Tim to agree to stay in the Manor would be an uphill battle. He valued his independence more than his health, and he hated being an inconvenience with a passion. It had taken Alfred months to convince him that staying for a late night meal was no trouble, much less that he was wanted at the table. Bruce still had to remind him that he was always welcome to stay the night, and Tim only accepted when he was too injured or exhausted to make the trek home.
But Bruce would accept no other outcome. The Drakes clearly couldn’t be trusted with the wellbeing of their child; they would be lucky to even retain visitation rights by the time Wayne Enterprises’ lawyers were done with them. The recovery from pack neglect was a long road, and Tim would need people around that he felt safe with. Bruce only hoped he hadn't lost that privilege with the boy his heart had claimed as his youngest son.
He had been screwing things up with Tim since the moment he had met him. Between the harsh training and constant cold shoulder Bruce had employed when they first met, it was a wonder that the boy even tolerated being around him at all. Even when the initial frostiness of their meeting wore off, Bruce had held him at arms’ length, afraid of dragging him down into the darkness that was his grief. Tim had given him more grace and second chances than he deserved, and he'd repaid it by letting him isolate himself to the point of illness. He needed to do better, to be better, not just for Tim but for all of his sons.
Time passed slowly. Bruce alternated between watching the tablet showing Jason’s sleeping body in the quarantine room and rehearsing arguments to convince Tim to stay in the Manor. Alfred delivered a tray at around four in the morning with a handful of protein bars, a slab of electrolyte drinks and a bowl of cut fruit. Dick didn’t leave Jason’s side, but texted every thirty minutes to check on Tim.
The grey light of dawn had begun to creep into the room before Tim stirred. Even after hours of rumination, Bruce didn't feel prepared for the coming conversation in the slightest.
“Bruce?”
“Hey chum,” Bruce murmured, carding his fingers through Tim’s hair as bleary eyes opened.
“Wha’ happ’ned?” he mumbled.
“You had a very dangerous omega-drop. You're not quite out of it yet, so I want you to tell me if you feel bad or off at all, okay?”
Tim shuddered in his arms.
“‘m sorry. I’ll get out of your hair soon.”
Bruce frowned.
“You’re not an inconvenience, Tim. You know you're always welcome here, no matter what.”
Tim didn't respond, just buried his head further into Bruce’s chest. His scent was beginning to regain some strength, and Bruce tried to untangle the snarl of emotion he was emitting. Shame and anxiety were present, but also grief, and an aching loneliness.
“Do you remember what happened?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm and level.
Tim pulled back slightly, but couldn't seem to make it further than a few inches. He opened his mouth, then frowned and closed it again. He nodded.
“Can you tell me?”
It took Tim a long time to find his voice, and when he did, his words were halting and strained.
“Was at th’ Tower. There was an intr–intruder. Red Hood.”
Bruce nodded. That lined up with what Oracle had teased out of the Tower’s logs.
“We fought. I nearly got ‘way, I swear, but he Commanded me and– and–”
“And you dropped,” Bruce finished for him.
Tears welled up in Tim’s eyes and Bruce tried not to panic.
“I’m sorry, I’ll do better, I–” Tim stuttered.
"There's nothing to be sorry for, kiddo. You did everything right.”
To his dismay, Tim only cried harder. Objectively, Bruce knew that it wasn't unexpected, that omega-drop caused the body to produce huge amounts of hormones and that emotional instability was a fairly benign side effect, but his heart still wrenched as Tim gasped for air between great heaving sobs. He let his alpha take over, shushing the boy and patting his hair as he whispered mindless platitudes.
A long few minutes passed before Tim settled a bit. Bruce wordlessly handed him one of the bottles Alfred had delivered, and belatedly, a tissue from the box on the bedside table as well. Tim took both and scrubbed at his face roughly.
“I don' even know why I'm crying,” he choked, clearly frustrated, but a little more lucid after the catharsis of the tears. Bruce nudged him to take a drink.
“It's the drop. Your brain chemistry is still recovering, your emotions are going to feel a lot rawer for the next little bit.”
Tim grumbled something Bruce didn't catch and tipped the contents of the bottle into his mouth. As soon as it was empty, he smooshed his face into Bruce’s chest again. Fondness welled up so quickly he didn't have time to censor it, and a burst of pleased coffee filled the air. Thankfully, Tim was kind enough not to comment.
Bruce was reluctant to press the pup on any stressful topics while his emotional state was so fragile, but frankly if he didn't get answers soon he might go feral. Being Commanded explained part of the drop, especially considering the still lingering traces of heat in his scent, but Tim shouldn't have been so vulnerable in the first place. The pamphlets Leslie had emailed him on pack neglect haunted him.
“Tim,” he started carefully. “How long has it been since you've seen your parents?”
Tim squinted up at him, an adorable attempt at his regular suspicious glare.
“A couple months, maybe. Why?”
Bruce inhaled sharply. Months? His boy had been alone, abandoned by his pack and neglected by the ones who should have been providing for him, for months? All while Bruce had dismissed his concerns as just paranoia and jealousy.
“That’s not… Tim, you understand that’s not acceptable, right?”
Tim hunched his shoulders, drawing in on himself.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
Bruce felt like bashing his head against a wall. He wasn't good at this, he never had been. Every time he tried to have an emotionally charged conversation, his words came out as accusations and scoldings. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to soften himself, couldn't remove the armour and embrace the vulnerability. But he owed it to Tim to keep trying.
“It's not you who’s at fault, Tim. You're still a pup. You need the support of a pack, and your parents are neglecting you by leaving you alone for so long.”
“I can take care of myself,” Tim replied.
“You shouldn't have to. Your presentation years are some of the hardest on your body and mind which is why a pack is so important. You need that support to fall back on, to carry you when you're struggling.”
Tim scoffed, and twisted around to face away from Bruce. He didn't try to leave the circle of the alpha’s arms, thankfully, so Bruce let him have the small amount of space to breathe.
“My parents are busy people. I’m not going to go running to them for every little thing like a helpless pup.”
Bruce made a strangled noise.
“Tim, you nearly died today. In fact, clinically, you did. Twice. Leslie said that sort of drop is unheard of in omegas with the support of a healthy pack. This isn’t up for argument, you need a pack.”
“So what, you’re just gonna force me into some foster pack?” Tim snapped. “What happened to respecting my wishes?”
Bruce was too slow to keep the flare of annoyance from entering his scent. Tim was being deliberately obtuse, why would a foster pack ever be part of the picture when Dick had been begging Bruce to adopt Tim since their third meeting?
“That was before I knew how badly your pack is failing you.”
Tim didn’t reply. Bruce scented the air, and cursed when he realised the pine scent was turning sour again. He tucked Tim’s head under his chin, leaving him enough slack to wiggle free if he needed to, and let his scent flare apologetically. Tim remained tense for a few moments before relenting and sinking into the embrace. Bruce picked his next words carefully.
“I don’t want to cage you, Tim. I let you stay with your parents because I didn’t want to overstep, but–” He paused, chewing over the words he longed to blurt out. Was it fair to put something this heavy on an omega recovering from an extreme drop? It wasn't, he knew it wasn't, but it sounded like Tim didn't know and that was something Bruce couldn't tolerate.
“The truth is, I’ve wanted you to join my pack since the moment I met you, even when I was turning you away. I knew you belonged by my side, I was just too afraid of losing anyone else to let you in. I want you here Tim, I always have. And if that's not what you want, we can find another solution but things can't continue the way they have been.”
Fine tremors wracked Tim’s frame, and Bruce held him close and closed his eyes. Their scents mingled, pine vulnerability and coffee protectiveness blending together seamlessly. It was missing the cedar and ginger that Bruce was so accustomed to, but it already smelled like pack to him.
“I’m just the neighbour kid, Bruce,” Tim said quietly. “You only care because I forced my way into your life.”
“And I give thanks for that every day. You’re one of the best things in my life.”
“You don’t have to do this.’
“I want to.”
Tim turned to face him again, curling into his chest once more.
“You’ll get sick of me,” Tim whispered.
“Never,” he promised.
“Okay,” Tim said. “Okay.”
“I’ll stay.”