Chapter Text
THEN
When Tim Drake first presented as an omega, he wasn’t terribly surprised. Both his parents were betas, yes, but it was well known that even having two beta parents didn’t reduce your chances of presenting as an alpha or omega. He told himself to think about it rationally, logistically. His secondary gender dynamic would have certain needs, of course, but he could handle it.
Even if he had presented a little late statistically. That had an explanation, as medical science knew having no pack bonds, more precisely the chemicals attached to bonds, lead to late presentations as the body needed to do more work to transition into dynamic puberty. Sure, his presentation heat went three days longer than it would have otherwise, as he was alone, but he had known that was likely. The medical textbook he read as the fever began to overtake him said as much. Next time he’d just invite Cassie over. As a demigod, she no longer had anything to do with dynamics and her pack bonds worked differently, but she was his best (living) friend and Tim knew she’d help if he asked. Maybe even Dic-- Nightwing, as the older vigilante usually treated him well, no longer with the cold silence of his first few months as Robin. He’d probably be willing to take a few hours to watch a movie and cuddle; Nightwing liked cuddling!
Everything would be in hand then. It would be fine.
Then Jack Drake woke up from his coma to find his wife dead and his son an omega. That had been… hard, but his father was still doing PT so he was hardly very strong and his stamina wasn’t much. Tim could handle it, even though he hated that he’d disappointed his father. He always hoped… They could spend so much more time together now! That was great!
Tim made sure to keep any of the ‘feral nonsense’ away from his father after that, which definitely made him happy, and that was that. They had their ups-and-downs, like Jack drinking before lashing out, or him finding out that Tim was Robin, angrily taking it away at first before finally giving Tim his blessing. But they had a relationship! For the first time, one of his parents wanted him.
If only he never had to find out what his dad wanted him for.
-----
NOW
Tim groans under his breath as he feels consciousness surface slowly. Awareness comes as a cresting wave, building, building, every deep breath dragging it higher, closer to the shore, before battering down on him in a sudden, violent wipeout. He tenses his muscles to keep from jerking. Something’s wrong. Utilizing his training comes as second nature three years into being Robin, so Tim does his best to keep his breathing the same steady rhythm of sleep. Hopefully, if his … captors? He’s been drugged, it must be captors. Hopefully, they would see the single groan and tension as evidence of a nightmare (this is a nightmare). He, ever the professional, moves on.
What can you feel?
Everything feels a little distant still, a numbness curving along his skin that keeps any sense of cold or heat away from him. Drugs. Who would have drugged me? With what? Not the euphoria of morphine, not the terror of fear gas, or the strange gasping need of Ivy’s pollens, not… anything he has experienced before. Sedative effect, memory gap (who drugged me?), difficulty emerging clear headed, he lists off his subjective experience in his head. Batman is going to want that in the report. Then, obedient to his training, Tim takes an inventory. Without moving, he knows he’s vertical with a lukewarm floor underneath the balls of his feet. Bindings, thick around enough to touch both the bottom edge of his hands and a few inches up his forearms wrap around his wrists. The material squeezes a bit too tight for comfort. Around his chest, below his armpits, is another binding that he thinks might be responsible for his wrists only aching a little rather than being subluxated.
He’s been hung by his wrists before and it hurts. This is by far the gentlest time.
In the neutral temperature of the room, with the fuzziness still clouding his mind as he struggles through the drugs (who drugged him?), it takes him a minute to realize that he’s naked. He fights the urge to tense, to flinch, to do anything but keep breathing slowly and deeply as he hangs. Naked conjures up a set of options that he hates the calculations of, but he pushes it out of his mind for now.
Inventory! Do your inventory!
Another set of restraints circle his low shin to high foot on each side. The final ‘restraints’ wrap around his head at least once, pressing so snugly he knows he won’t be able to open his eyes. The only mercy of that is that a blindfold works as well as a domino for concealing his identity, on the off chance that somehow, someway, this was a kidnapping of Timothy Drake and not Robin.
He indulges himself the tiniest hitch of breath to process his relief before a light current of air brushes the lightest of touches against him. The second time he identifies it as cotton and his brain begins to build backwards. Not naked! The band on his chest confused him, but the kidnapper dressed him in a… Shift? Light dress? It could even be a t-shirt, though one just large enough to reach mid-thigh.
Maybe it’s a fashionable minidress because my kidnapper keeps up on current trends! He bites down on hysterical giggles, pushing them down into his mind ruthlessly. Focus, Drake, you can do this. The more information you have, the better your chances of getting out.
He takes another two of those sleep-deep breaths and moves on.
What can you hear?
A small buzzing? No, not a buzzing. A staticky sound? Layered, but consistent. Constant.
White noise. Grey noise. Pink noise.
Over the binding around his eyes (and ears, a single tight band that wraps around his head like a bandage) must be a set of headphones, piping in the sensory stealing static noise to steal away his sense of sound. He can’t hear a thing besides it.
No sight. No sound. Numbed touch.
I can still taste. I can still smell. I’m not helpless.
He’s still forcing his muscles to fully mimic the laxness of sleep again when a touch pats him on an uncovered part of his thigh. Even through the numbness, he can feel that split second of heat flickering around him no matter how muted it is.
Touch. Three out of five. What do I smell?
As subtle as he can, he breathes in deep through his nose, his mouth parts gently, gently, to uncover his vomeronasal organ. He can’t risk a full Flehmen response, not now, but he tries a reduced version. As with most apes, only some of the population had vomeronasal organs and, even then, it was vestigial in all betas and underdeveloped in pups. Only after Tim presented can he manage a Flehmen response at all and he still needs to learn the nuances of biochemical scents, but as he completes three rounds of scenting while trying to subtly shift his head he picks up many things.
Cologne. Multiple colognes. Some coming from different parts of the room? Plastic, nearby, above and below him. The restraints are probably velcro then, as those always have a mildly unpleasant plasticky goo scent to them. Leather, also from in front of him and old wood, aged enough its scent spread itself around, to his… left! Gun oil and smoke. Not from everywhere, but, to the right of his body and some feet away, something (someone) smelt strongly of the substance. Lust. Nearly naked, thick lust scent, Alpha lust, multiple people. Oh, oh, god. I’m at an underground omega auction. Fuck. What the fuck. Fuck. I wish Kon was alive.
If Kon had still been alive, all Tim would need to do was open his uncovered mouth and call his friend’s name. He’d be rescued in seconds. Instead, he scents the thick blanket of musk coming from the crowd and pushes his analytical thinking forward again.
This is good. I’m here because I’m an omega, not a Robin. I can use this. They’ll underestimate me.
The pungent scent of arousal always proved easier to identify than other human hormonal response and now all Tim can smell was aroused alphas in front of… the stage. I’m on a stage.
He grants himself a few minutes to zone out about this and panic, then ruthlessly pushes it down and makes a game plan. He would be auctioned, he would be underestimated, he would escape to build a case against the asshole who bought him (and anyone else Tim could identity), the asshole would be flipped, he’d wreck the omega trafficking ring, and then he’d have justice. But for the first step -- unless he wants to tie the identity of Tim Drake to a suspicious amount of combat training (and Robin moves), risking exposure of his vigilante role -- he needs to wait until he is alone with his purchaser.
That proves harder than Tim wished and leaves him far too much time to think, as his nose readjusts to the scents in the room and they fade into the background. Even another inhale can’t draw out the distinction of the scents for him and he shudders silently before biting his tongue. I taste the copper penny zing of blood at the tip of my incisors, the burning drag of pain from my fangs digging even deeper. I feel… I feel… I…
After another shudder, he refocuses himself on pre-programming the worm he will use to gather every bit of information these fucking alphas never, ever want revealed. That helps. He programs it and keeps at his deep, slow breaths, and he waits.
Time passes. In silence. Without sight. With only his thoughts swirling, churning, curving -- No.
In scattered bursts, Tim gets through ten handwritten pages of code before the sudden increase in alpha pheromone nearby draws his attention back from the safe place in his mind.
You’re Timothy Drake. Little, clever Timothy, who skipped two grades and still ended up ahead of his peers. Nerdy Timothy. Geeky Timothy. Scared Timothy.
At the first touch of a hand against his face, the pressure of fingers capturing his chin, Tim jerks away, gasping for air. He lets every bit of physical panic that he breathed through, repressed, forced away come back all at once as if figuring his situation out for the first time.
“What’s going on? Where am I?”
His own voice bounces in his chest, louder and bolder than the words felt rolling over his tongue. His heart races, an echoey boom, boom, boom, and he lets himself twist and yank and pull at the restraints with half his strength until the slap lands on the right side of his face, snapping his head to the side. The blow stuns him, and he’s little Tim again with the shouting, red-faced man above him, shaking him after the hit slammed his young body to the ground. He makes a pup whimper in his daze, the slower thinking of the drugs making him forget for a moment too long that pup sounds will only bring more discipline.
No second blow comes. The man’s cologne, a familiar scent somewhere in Tim’s history, withdraws with sudden force, a new smell approaching him instead.
This one smells of gun oil, the thick leather of holsters, and the tinny stink of blood only partially covered by a mild, woody soap scent. Above all, he smells the certain, dominant scent of an alpha that knew he controlled the room. Odds, alright, odds. Undercover police officer (corrupt), undercover police officer (non-corrupt), mobster, Rogues. Those are the options.
He puts Rogues and non-corrupt police officers at the lowest odds, as most Rogues don't smell of guns like this and Gotham… is Gotham. With corrupt officers and mobsters, who were often overlapped, he will be dismissed more if he gives in. Or pretends to. They see submissiveness as weakness, rather than clever or strategic.
“Please, I want to go home,” he says quietly, hopefully only for the man to hear. Please don’t be one of the sellers. It looks like I’m being inspected, so these should be clients, right? Oh, g-- Strategy!
A large, leather-clad hand curves over Tim’s neck for a moment, fingers millimeters from grazing his primary scent gland. The blaring inferno of that touch, even one layer removed by fabric, makes him suddenly very cold. He shivers helplessly. The hand drops and the man’s warmth circles around Tim, settling behind him. A broad hand grabs his forearm firmly enough to act as a warning not to move and Tim decides ‘Timothy’ would heed that warning. He certainly isn’t going to fight being less restrained.
He shifts his feet back after the alpha behind him unhooks both of his arms and gasps in localized agony. His rapid heartbeat throbs in his chest, in his throat, and now, worst of all, in the thump-thump-thump pulsing pain that drags over the sole of his feet in waves. He whimpers, giving himself that much freedom. To his surprise, a hand rubs his back for a few swipes before retaking grips on, now, both of Tim’s arms. Guiding them down, pressing hard to his sides before the alpha gives them three hard squeezes.
A clear signal for ‘leave them there’. He obeys. For now.
The muffler/headphones lifts away first, then comes the blindfold. For that, the tug starts on one temple and across his forehead before the blindfold falls off in waves as someone, surprised, speaks up from the background. “-- something like remove them?”
Oh, this wasn’t part of the plan.
“Easier to get his cooperation if I take ‘em off,” a gruff and slightly mechanical voice says calmly, answering like he’s been asked the date. Even with the mechanical filtering, his solidity comes through and, as Tim carefully blinks open his eyes to see the room, he somehow isn’t surprised that the man’s presence held equal weight. He must be Bruce’s size. More than that, he holds himself with physicality and the build of an athletic man who either did hard labor or hardcore MMA. After a careful catalog of what the man wears and how it can be used for defense, Tim lifts his head to take in the alpha’s face.
The alpha wears a red half-helmet rebreather covering the lower face and a domino with white-outs blanking out the eyes. A thick, leather hood, dyed the same cover as the mask, conceals most of his black hair, with only a few black locks and one white streak escaping it. It’s not the full helmet with white-outs that Tim knows from the Red Hood pictures pinned up on Batman’s detective board, but it is still, obviously, the Red Hood.
“Please, I want to go home,” Tim repeats, letting that plea and a deep whine that follows cover up for the sudden real distress leaking through Tim’s scent.
“Afraid ‘at’s not really an option any longer,” Red Hood tells him back, a (false? It must be false.) sympathy in his voice. Tim looks down and to the side. “You’ll be alright, ya ˁasal.”
Strange. Most of that was pure Gothamite, of the Crime Alley variety, but the last word was Middle Eastern. Farsi, maybe? Arabic? Pashto? The languages, like Romance Languages, share words and sounds with each other. A single word isn’t enough to identify the language with certainty.
Red Hood. What do I know about Red Hood? I know that Batman and Nightwing pushed me away from the case. Bruce and Dick did the same, warning me-as-Robin to stay away from the Red Hood. To use my emergency beacons. The ones I don’t have because I was drugged and-- Who. Drugged. Me.
Tim trawled his recent memories for any explanatory scenes, any justification for how he went from his normal life to this omega auction. The last thing he remembers was… declining Alfred’s dinner offer because his dad planned to take him out for some father-son time. Tim recommended a steakhouse he thought his dad might like… Did I make it to dinner? Has my Dad alerted BruceBatman to my disappearance already? What if no one knows? What if I’m--
No, no, calm down. Red Hood emerged openly three months ago. Some evidence, and common sense given the amount of territory he controls, suggests that he was likely active for up to twice that long before Batman became aware of him. Batman avoids Crime Alley and Robin can only cover so much ground, on top of his other patrol duties, alone. Hood’s first big splash came with 8 heads in a duffle bag delivered to the GCPD precinct that housed Commissioner Gordon. Even O couldn’t recover surveillance video for time of delivery. Hood also made a declaration:
No selling kids, no selling to kids. No unsafe drugs. No roughing up the working girls. No rape.
No rape, no rape. Why is he here then? What does he want? Would Timothy Drake, Bristol baby, know about Red Hood? Yes, yes, okay, yes, he would be the type to follow the news. This would be in the news, right?
“The news said you outlawed selling kids and rape in your territory,” Tim says quietly and slowly with his dry mouth. He hadn’t been gagged, but the fear makes his mouth dry anyway.
“Did it now?” another voice cuts in, a famil-- No, no more lying to myself. My father’s voice. My father’s cologne. My father’s post-coma body, that I helped support for PT and reconditioning so he could walk again, walking up to me right now. “Well, hypocrisy’s not the worst sin, is it, Mr. Hood?” Jack Drake chuckles a bright, practiced chuckle used to signify him as a ‘good ole boy’ to the right circles during galas. Even while he walks towards Tim, his eyes stay firmly on Red Hood, even in the crimelord’s currently relaxed form.
Hood’s arm darts out in a flash so fast Tim misses it. Jack did, too. He runs into it, grunting, and stops a meter away from Tim.
“An omega that did a late presentation last year,” It was only six months! “Ain’t exactly a kid anymore. An’ the chances you don’t go into a stress heat after this are pretty much negligible.”
He stops breathing. His mind keeps moving. What sort of Crime Alley crimelord uses a word like ‘negligible’? He definitely didn’t learn it from Stephanie’s school.
The reminder of Steph brings a sour grief up to his glans’ and the alpha responds with a soothing chuff, reaching to ruffle Tim’s hair gently. The closeness of the alpha’s scent, the way he flattens, arches his palm up to ensure his wrist gland rubs a marking claim as he ruffles, forces Tim to push aside the quips and the distraction. A look up at his father’s impatient, unsympathetic face drags up a fresh welling of grief, more bitter than even his regret over Spoiler dying because his father made him stop being Robin.
“Dad?” Hood’s arm drops, allowing Tim’s dad to step closer. “Why?”
His father snorts. “I can hardly leave Drake Industries to an omega, can I? You still need to be taken care of, however. A Drake does not abandon his duties. This ensures you have an alpha with the means to provide for you. The price I fetched for you will go into bolstering the company, as it’s run into a little bit of trouble. You do want to help your family, don’t you, Timothy? One day, your half-sibling will inherit that company, ensuring another generation of Drakes prosper.
“This was the best option for all of us, Timothy. You’re clever, especially for an omega, so I’m sure you can understand that now that it's been explained.”
“Oh,” Tim gasps out. He sounds like he’s been gut punched. How-- Why-- What! His father is a staunch feminist. It’s one of the few things Tim feels certain about, as Jack always loved and supported Janet. He followed her direction in most things! He has made multiple public statements in support for feminists and the fight for control over their own bodies.
How can you be like this! Dynamikogynism, really? How dare you! I’m not inferior, I’m not. I--I--I need to calm down.
Tim gives himself permission for one whine that Bristol baby Drake probably wouldn’t smother before trying reason. “Dad, he’s a criminal. I, I would understand if you had mated me off to an heir or a pack alpha or a second, but why, why include criminals?”
Jack sneers. Hands still at his side, body still semi-tense where he stands obediently, humiliatingly, on the stage, Tim can’t finish bracing before the tall beta is on him. A hand jerks, hard and familiar, in his hair and the other wraps around his neck, painfully tight but not dangerous. It is a hold, not an attempt to restrict air or do a blood choke. A hold, that’s all. Jack shakes Tim hard once, twice, and snaps, “Isn’t that like you, you spoiled little bitch. I make an effort to take care of you, to ensure that you’ll be provided for. I even have my lawyer write up a rock solid contract all auction participants agreed to sign but, no, that’s not enough for you, is it?”
Hands let go with a shove, slamming Tim down to the wooden floor. His back hits but he tenses his neck to make certain his head doesn’t follow suit, collapsing in a heap as the impact knocks the wind out of him. His back burns from the hit. He feels the hem of the dress-shift-thing fly up, flashing the room, and even as he sucks in air his whole focus goes to that hem and the new air on parts meant to be private. Embarrassment fills him up to choking as he scrambles onto his knees and yanks the shift down.
He gets that far before a low, dangerous growl fills the echoey space and everyone stops. Jack grunts where his arm has been twisted behind his back, Red Hood stood over and behind him, one hand on that arm. The other wraps slowly around the front of Jack’s neck, Hood’s hand broad enough to cover the visible skin as he squeezes. “That no longer belongs to you, Mr. Drake, and you will keep your hands off of my omega or I will break them one bone at a time.” Another short growl and Hood snarls. “Comprende?”
While never as steady or cold as Tim’s mother, Janet, his father keeps his head in even the most chaotic situations, as the regular difficulties with security at galas demonstrated repeatedly to Tim growing up. Instead of cringing or dropping his head, either acceptable ways to show submission to a pissed off alpha, Jack simply says, “He still belongs to me until the paperwork and transfer of funds occurs, Mr. Hood, but as a courtesy I will refrain from touching him again.”
Tim draws in a sticky breath to choke down a laugh. His father is really selling him!
“Timothy,” Jack snaps sharply after release. Tim looks up. Of course he does. He can’t have stopped himself from looking up for anything. “I suggest that you behave properly. I know that you have that in you, son, when you try. You’ll see that this is the best outcome for everyone with time and,” he glances over at Red Hood, who watches the beta’s approach of Tim carefully, “perhaps once you settle in your alpha will allow you to come visit myself and your step-mother.” Red Hood remains a looming, solid wall of thick Alpha scent nearby them. “Ah, let's complete the paperwork then, shall we?”
“Sure. Sounds good.” The alpha approaches again. “Give me your wrists, Timmy.”
Tim considers fighting it, but Timothy wouldn’t. He would wait for Red Hood to take him in public for transportation and run to the authorities.
Omega mating auctions are only legal if the omega is at least sixteen and consents. The legal ones of modern day act as business deals more than anything, with investment-like bids into the prosperity of a union between two families. This contract means nothing if signed by his father. Tim will get out of it. He will.
Reluctantly, Tim presents his wrists without getting off his knees and Red Hood pulls out a velcro strip with a band of blue silk stitched to one side. The length of silk is the precise color of Tim’s eyes. “The blindfold?”
Hood grunts. He wraps the fabric quickly, tying off the end so closely to an eyebolt on the stage floor that Tim can’t, quite, fully straighten like this. With the band wrapped from his wrists to the end of his fingers, he also won’t be able to pick at the knot with his hands. That’s fine. His plan requires him to be alone with the alpha. He’ll pick his time.
“Yeah, that’s good,” Hood praises firmly. Tim wishes he didn’t react to it, that he didn’t have a weakness for praise, but a small part of him perks up from the focused anxiety to preen at the comment. I’m pathetic. Hood only rubs another hand over Tim’s hair and turns back to Jack with a final, “Good boy, baby bird. I’ll be back to collect you in a minute.”
Baby bird.
Baby bird.
Babybirdbabybirdbabybirdbabybirdbabybir-- St-stop.Stop.STOP.
1 … 2 … 4 … 8 … 16 … 32 … 64 … 128 … 256 … 512 … and return … 512 … 256 … 128 … 64 … 32 … 16 … 8 … 4 … 2 … 1.
By the time Tim reaches 1 the fourth time, he almost has both his breathing and trembling hands under control again. He can’t afford to fall apart right now. Red Hood knows he’s Robin. A crimelord-near-Rogue with a vendetta against Batman that the Bat himself is more secretive about than normal knows that Tim Drake is Robin.
What do I know about Red Hood?
He hates Batman. And he may have threatened Robin.
Tim can’t know that with 100% accuracy because Bruce has convinced O to keep him locked out of the Red Hood files. Now, they both all refuse to discuss it with Tim aside from warnings. He still remembers stumbling upon a couple secret conversations, including one where he almost got caught because he thought he might finally get a definitive answer.
“... gets his hands on Robin, I don’t know what I would do.”
“We don’t find out.” Who wants to get his hands on me? Tim inched forward carefully. Dick and Bruce were hiding something from him and clammed up about it whenever they knew Tim was in the room. Right now their voices were barely on the edge of his hearing. He needed to get closer if he wanted to know what they were hiding. “We protect him from this and keep him far away from the--”
“What?” Tim cursed himself. He’d scuffed his shoe against the cave floor and a tiny pebble accidentally went flying.
“I heard something. We’ll discuss this more at a later time, when Tim can’t eavesdrop on our conversation.”
That incident broke down into another argument about how Tim didn’t need their protection like this and he had a right to know if he was being threatened. B, the stubborn, stubborn ass, could not be swayed. Worse, they are also hiding something else about Red Hood, Tim is sure about that. When they worried over the Red Hood files, they only sometimes kept checking in with covert glances that felt blatant with Tim’s training. Other times, they only noticed Tim when he drew attention to himself or approached.
It is strange, though. B never babied Tim, who has more than proven his competence, like this before. Haven’t I? Why doesn’t B trust me to handle this rogue, crimelord, whichever. I’ve soloed Rogues before. I’ve worked so hard to gain their respect. Why doesn’t that mean anything to them? During the first year of being Robin, I was taking care of Bruce more often than not. I’m not a child.
Tim swallows the bitter taste of his pity party down and refocuses.
What do I know about the Red Hood?
He disapproves of: selling kids, selling to kids, cutting drugs with unsafe fillers, assaulting or exploiting sex workers, violating consent. He’s quick to kill when he feels justified. He seems sincere about expanding harm reduction in Crime Alley.
He is an alpha.
He has a bone to pick with Batman. He may have threatened Robin. He knows that I’m Robin.
In four count, hold four count, out four count. In four count, hold four count, out four count. Find the center of your mind and break down the panic, recreate the calm. Breathe deeply and steadily and easily. Your heart rate will reduce in time.
In four count, hold four count, out four count. In four count, hold four count, out four count. Find the center of your mind and break down the panic, recreate the calm. Breathe deeply and steadily and easily. Your heart rate will reduce in time.
In the distance, Tim registers a click of noise outside the rhythms of the room that he is in and pulls his attention back to the present in time to hear. “D’ya wanna say goodbye to your kid?”
“Goodbye, Timothy. Behave well, yeah? I love you.”
Shoulders curved from his wrists being eyebolted to the floor, wearing a flimsy cotton shift as the only concession to his modesty, brought this low by betrayal from his own father, Tim glares up at Jack Drake with wetter eyes than Tim’s shame can take. “Father,” he acknowledges coldly, in a tone that his mother would be proud of.
Jack flinches. He still walks away, leaving his only child at the mercy of a crimelord, but he, not Tim, is the one to flinch.
“Whelp, you’ve got spirit,” Red Hood says with a low, mechanical laugh. “Good. You’re gonna need it.” Tim feels the swoop of gravity dragging at his stomach, a fluttering of nervous panic that he can’t give into. “Annnd, you were also good, weren’t you? Stayed on your knees, didn’t hurt yourself trying to get free. Very nice.”
He bites back on the whimper in his chest. When was the last time Bruce confirmed I was doing a good job? Dick? His eyes track the slow, even, silent steps of an alpha who now has custody of him. Despite his large frame and the heavy combat boots he favors, Hood keeps his footsteps to only the barest tap across the wooden stage. Stealth training. He speaks at least some words of Spanish and a language from the Middle East. He seems to prefer guns despite any training.
“What do you say I get you untied?”
Cooperate until you see an opportunity to disable him, run, or both. Time is on your side.
“Um. Yeah. That would be great,” Tim says softly. I’m a meek little omega right now, too stunned by my circumstances to draw on Robin. “Please?”
“Polite, too. You keep on this way and there’s no reason for you to be hurt, Timmy.” A bared wrist brushes against Tim’s neck, further marking him, and he shivers. “Here.”
In a blink his captor unties his wrists, helps him stand, offers a jacket over for Tim to take. It requires taking off one of Hood’s holsters, but it happens in a slow blink. Oh. Maybe I’m more shocky than I thought. Tim buys himself time to think by slowly, warily reaching out for the brown leather jacket. It serves the cross-purpose of testing Hood’s patience. The volatile man does not lash out. But he’s set himself up well for attack with one hand occupied and the other side disarmed.
If you do not have access to an emergency beacon, the best time to attempt escape from any captor is immediately. The longer they have you, the more opportunity they have to starve you, harm you, emotionally or mentally break you down. You’ll never be stronger than you are when you’re first taken. That’s what Bruce taught Tim.
It gets easier to think. He’s alone with the alpha who bought him. Time to put the next step of his plan in action.
Tim takes the draping body of the leather jacket held out to him and yanks, forcing Hood forward into a stumble while Tim angles himself to dodge the bulk and bring an elbow down on Hood’s back.
The impact jars through him as he brings his knee up, attempting a side strike to Hood’s face. Hood grabs the knee, forcing it straight with a hard slap to the joint that drags a pained grunt from Tim even as the larger man lets himself fall into a roll over Tim’s shin. The expected flip attempt never comes, Hood releasing the leg as he bounces back up on his feet and turns.
“Like I said. Spirit.” He holds his hands up, palms out. “But you can’t win this fight. I’ve got armor, six inches, and at least 40 lbs on you, baby bird.”
I don’t have to win. I only need to get away from you.
“You should let me go. I’ve got it on good authority that I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”
’Honestly, Timothy, why must you be so difficult and pick the most inconvenient times to address matters? It makes it a losing proposition to interact with you.’
“Aw, I like trouble, though. And I’ll enjoy the fight, Timmy.” Hood’s filtered voice still rumbles on ‘enjoy’ and Tim shudders. “I’m giving you the choice to stand down for your sake, but if you wanna bring it, I guess we can start off with a lesson.”
I should have picked a time when he was in civilian attire, but I can’t give him time to weaken me now. Tim launches himself at Red Hood.
Minutes later, Tim heaves in air as he slams to the floor for a second time this night. It hurts his already bruised back much worse than the first. The stingy welts all over his body -- his upper arm, his thigh front and back, one humiliating one directly over his rear -- protest more than the one time Red Hood punched him straight in the pec. Bruises bloom at the edges of the welts, bright splashes of color on his pale skin, matching where Hood drew a single, shallow line on Tim’s throat and another on his thigh. Breathing hurts more as his lungs ache in time with his pittering heartbeat and he can’t roll off of his back. Hood has him pinned. I can’t take him.
Worse, Hood played with him through the fight, drawing a straight dagger he uses to slice, scare, and spank Tim with over the next few minutes. Once on the ground, a knee digs into his stomach. Hood resheathes the blade and lifts, quick, sure hands flipping Tim onto his stomach. No! He scrambles to his feet, to leverage his way forward, but a knee throws itself between his thighs and a heavy, muscled body holds him down with weight alone. No. A weaponless hand wraps around the front of Tim’s neck loosely and he whimpers.
“You lost, birdie. I suppose the little cuckoo in the nest is only mimicking the real thing,” Hood snarls, the distortion from the mask adding an even more threatening edge. “Now.” He smacks Tim’s outer thigh with the flat of his hand, a quick but shallow hit that smarts more than hurts. “I don’t have the time or patience for more of this. We’re in an unsecured location. Stand down.”
They’re both unarmed, for now. Tim tenses despite that and he sees, by the tilt of a head, the moment Hood decides that does not count as ‘standing down’. He reaches up, spreading his hand wide to press on either side of his mask to tug it off. Before Tim gets a good look, though, he realizes the hand on his neck is moving.
It’s sliding up!
He squirms, struggling in earnest, as Hood’s gloved hand slips from a throat hold to cross Tim’s chin and tilt it, forcing it to the side and away from his primary scent gland. He kicks his feet and tries to throw his body weight and attempts bridges and rolls until an arm forces its way across his shoulders and holds, stealing his leverage. A large, hot, burning hot body kneels over him and an unmasked face leans down.
Hot breath runs over the skin of his cheek and he whines. “Please. Don’t. Please, don’t, you don’t need to, I’ll behave.” Teeth fit themselves in place, securing a good bite, and he keens. “I promise I’ll behave. Don’t. You don--”
Teeth dig in, latching down in an alpha’s bite, and Tim’s world explodes in a series of booms.
The alpha fills his head. Boom.
A wave of sticky submission courses through him. Boom.
Their bond clicks into place. Boom.
Scents, emotional scents, throw themselves through the room until he drowns under a wave of protective-possessive-mine he only knows from Bruce’s relationship with Dick and Cass.
Boom.
Or maybe he knows it from the alpha in his head, emotions crashing between them, back and forth, between their bond. Boom. Boom. Boom.
This-- He-- How--
This is what a bond feels like. What it’s like to have a packmate. Overwhelmed tears leak from Tim’s eyes and he can’t stop them. He tries to stop them. He can’t. A spiky surge of anger fills the bond and he flinches. I tried to fight. I did fight. I kept fighting. He was, he was being gentle and I fought and now, now, now…. Hands pull him to his knees roughly, and every ache he collected over this long night throbs, the bite on his shoulder aching most of all. Tim lowers his head, submits-submits-submits, to show I can be good.
He stays silent. He knows how annoying all his talking can be, his needy attention seeking behavior, how clingy he is, and he already made the alpha, my alpha, mad enough.
When Hood curves off Tim’s body, his chest surges full of relief. It won’t last. They need to be in a secure location before the alpha… Before anything further happens.
“Up you get,” Hood says in a much softer tone, helping Tim onto unsteady feet. He tries to steady, to stop being difficult, but the world is full of so much scent, he can smell so much sharper now for some reason. The mystery and sensory input distract him. He can feel the bond thrumming between them with its own little harmony, too, though it feels more like rock music than the symphony he read about.
Wrists rub over his neck and sternum before Hood picks up his dropped jacket and helps Tim into it, one arm at a time. Immediately the world warms and the scent of his alpha, his mate, fills his newly sensitive nose. Other scents filter in, too, but Tim ignores those. He ignores as much as he can, for now. Later, he will need to pay attention, but for now Hood instructs him to keep a hand on the back of the alpha’s shirt and leads him out for transportation.
Enough punishment is coming to him, if his history of disobeying a male authority figure plays out (and why wouldn’t it play out here, with a man who bought him, of all places). Right now he can zone out, so long as he keeps an ear out for orders.