Chasing a Feeling

by JpegDotJpeg

Summary:

When Tim ends up on the business end of some forced-mating sorcery, there is no way anyone could have predicted who it would lead him to. A little bit of blood magic and Tim changes irrevocably, finds a new pack, travels halfway across the world, defeats all expectations, and somehow - despite everything that goes wrong - finds his way back to who he was. With a lot of help.

Notes:

Welcome to the foam cube pit that is my AU. There is a Lot of context that will be slowly fed to you throughout the course of this story (which is still being written as of 6/24/25) and I may come back to provide establishing information in the notes. For now though, just enjoy and feel free to ask for clarification.

Chapter 1

It doesn't hurt quite the way Tim expected. For all his planning and research and idle musings, the actual, physical sensation comes as a surprise. The gentle bubbling of the waters had indicated heat. Tim had assumed a feeling like boiling alive.

 

In reality, his nerves interpret the input as cold - freezing, really. An ice coating his skin that, funny enough, does burn. Like warm air on frostbite.

 

The cold sticks to the surface, though. No shivers, no seizing, no lethargy. The waters hit the last defense his body has, and adapt the moment they pass his dermis. His body violently rejects the invasion of it into his sinuses, his throat, his stomach and lungs. The massive swallow of it does not prevent him from noticing it creep into his ear canals and under his fingernails, and all the other crevices it should not be in.

 

For all of that, the physiological effect is superficial. Where it really hits is his brain.

 

Never before has Tim understood both the unequivocal difference between mind and body, and the irrevocable interconnectedness between the two.

 

It washes his brain like acid over steel, eating the dirt and rust and grime until all that remains is flawless, gleaming metal. Pure adrenaline rockets through nothing but his neural pathways. It feels the way a dental cleaning does, all the plaque scraped away so your teeth feel like they're in high definition. His lobes feel minty fresh.

 

The world is the same as it was moments ago, but now Tim is reading it as a detailed manual and not as a collection of road signs. The highest echelons of government and industry wish they had a super computer that processes data the way Tim's mind does.

 

His wires and chips have higher RAM, better graphics, more storage. All the resource hogs -  like irrational emotions - have been uninstalled.

 

Even as he rips himself gasping and retching from the pool, he notices things that hid in plain sight before.

 

The rim of the basin is rough, unhewn stone in an imperfect, organic shape. The ceiling and walls are similarly untouched, likely to avoid contaminating the natural state of the waters. The handheld lamps do hold fire to provide light, but they burn on some strange, smokeless fuel. The shadows they cast fail to cloak the details they did before. Remnants of the ritual that ended with Tim in the pit litter a small dais; ashes, runes, blood.

 

Then, of course, there are the ninja.

 

Their presence is familiar, though Tim's recollection of the immediate Before is foggy enough that he doesn't bother wasting the brainpower on trying to parse it out. He can figure out what he needs to as he goes.

 

Approximately 12 of them line the walls, each in identical black robes, though they vary in build and possess a range of weapons. Each receives a subfolder laden with the information he gleans in a hair's-width of a second. That one favors power in the lower half of the body, this one has longer arms that will give their mace even more of a considerable range.

 

Most of them, save for a couple betas, are omegan. Every single one has a living mate.

 

The last fact merits additional examination, because Tim did not gather it from extraneous clues. No, the knowledge is innate, instinctive. There is something Other that feeds it to him, that tugs incessantly at his attentions, but Tim shoves it aside for the time being.

 

Even as he kneels on the hard ground, heaving up the last of the liquid and blinking through the emerald film on his retinas, Tim analyzes the catalyst of his current situation.

 

The alpha.

 

His scent pervades the room like a thick fog, enhanced and spread through a myriad of tricks that make Tim's nose itch. It is meant to entice, Tim's sure. It fails.

 

Tim will have to search elsewhere.

 

None of the ninja move or outwardly react to his presence, but he can feel their undivided attention. They might expect him to go feral, to attack them as perceived reproductive threats, even jump straight into a mating with their commander.

 

None of those things will happen, but their hesitance is to his benefit. He is an object of great value, and no follower will act upon him without explicit instruction.

 

Tim's breath steadies. His hair is plastered to his face and neck. The air is still in the underground, but Tim doesn't need a breeze to feel the wetness coating every inch of his naked body.

 

No armor, no weapon - except for the most valuable one: his own mind.

 

Tim isn't worried. The waters linger in his pores, expanding his stamina, speed, strength, flexibility- and annihilating his doubt. Every move he needs to make is crystal clear.

 

The Something Other makes itself known again, nosing at his side, curling around his arms. It is insistent. It tells him to hunt.

 

Tim's limbs do not falter as he rises to his feet. The alpha croons something that Tim files away in the recesses of his brain, but mostly he doesn't care.

 

Tim knows this alpha. Tim has heard the rumors of how he treats his existing lineage. His greed and ego will prevent him from being an adequate partner. His narcissism and cruelty will prevent him from being an adequate parent. Tim will not bear his pups, no matter how strongly the alpha seems to believe he already owns him.

 

He is a fool, besides. The kind of self-obsessed fool who thinks he can force a bond by manipulating forces he can't hope to understand.

 

It is those forces that have Tim tipping his head, sniffing at the air.

 

The alpha makes a pleased noise. Tim won't let on just how rancid his smell is; as long as the alpha hopes, Tim has the element of surprise.

 

He takes slow steps around the space, openly examining the guards. He can tell their scents have been masked; the wafts of linen are stronger than any individual person. There isn't a lot of room to maneuver and certainly nowhere to hide. Tall, ornate, brass doors he must have been brought through take up most of one wall. Even if they aren't locked and barricaded, they'll be too heavy to pry open before the others are on him. He could take any one of them in a fight with confidence, but not all of them at once, not in the face of their unwavering commitment.

 

But he doesn't have the time to trick his way out of this like he usually would either. The Something Other is too efficient for that. Escape is the priority.

 

The hunt is on. Timothy Drake will find a mate today. That is a fact.

 

Tim turns in a slow circle and- there. A hidden passageway in the stone behind one line of servants. The Other urges him to see what lies beyond.

 

Timothy Drake's mate is not in this room. That is a fact.

 

He cases the perimeter of the area like he is securing territory. He lurks around the other omegas like he is sizing them up. He trails his fingertips along the wall until a nail catches on a seam and the entire mechanism appears to him in startling clarity. The passageway that was once invisible to him is now laughably obvious. The alpha did not prepare as well as he should have. More evidence he would be a subpar sire.

 

Tim glances at the alpha through his lashes. There is so much unearned pride in his expression, and Tim doesn't even care enough to pity him for it.

 

Magic is an ocean, Tim understands now. Neither benevolent nor malicious. It can be utilized, but not leashed. Magic does not care that this alpha has coaxed it forth or that he intends to use it for his own gain. Magic does not care who Tim is or where he came from. This small wisp of the greater intangible fabric seeks to tie two marginally consequential humans together, and that is all.

 

His hand finds the catch in the wall and, without second guessing, Tim throws it open and pitches himself into the dark beyond.

 

There is a shout behind him but no immediate flurry. The arrogant alpha likely interprets this as an invitation for a courting chase, thinking his control of the tides is so infallible.

 

The tunnel is pitch black, but Tim doesn't need light to see. He sees with his palms and breaths and the echo of footsteps that would be inaudible to anyone else. Full steam ahead, he barrels on, vague memories of twists and turns convalescing into a vivid map behind his eyelids. Pieces of the Before come back to him as he needs them.

 

He does something he never has and trusts his gut implicitly to guide him.

 

The maze is never-ending, its roots spiraling off into various halls and rooms that Tim passes by. Were it not for the purpose curling in his gut, Tim would take the next available exit. As it is, his first stop is the botanical gardens.

 

The waters have done him a favor in dampening his scent, but physical exertion will draw it out again and leave a trail. Among the rows of aromatic herbs and ripening fruit, he should at least be able to dizzy his pursuer.

 

Then, of course, the gardens connect directly to the kitchens: the single most trafficked area of the underground. If there is a scent to follow, he will find it there.

 

He has enough of a headstart that the path behind him is empty. He catches glimpses of other inhabitants darting to and fro as they go about their duties, but they pay him little mind and are therefore of little consequence.

 

The gardens are bursting with hiding places that he darts between. Members of the League are not so interconnected or long-lasting that they will identify him as an intruder on sight, but his nakedness will surely draw the eye. Tim can only hope that the Demons' Head chooses not to raise an alarm for his wayward captive.

 

An outer layer of robes, discarded in the humidity of the greenhouse, sits unattended a couple freshly-tilled rows away from its owner. In 4 well-timed leaps, the robe is clinging to his shoulders as he flicks the hood up. It carries a dense combination of body odor, lemon balm, and cloying compost.

 

It's perfect.

 

After that, he becomes nothing more than another pulse in the throng.

 

Figures clot as he ventures closer to the heart of the underground. At the joint where food storage meets meal prep, Tim tucks himself into an alcove and just - stops.

 

He closes his eyes against the creeping light. Against his better judgement, he closes off every sense except one.

 

Then he breathes.

 

The magic races towards his sinuses like a wild animal. It tingles in his teeth and jaw. There are a billion microscopic particles in the air that his olfactory neurons fight to sort through. It is an overwhelming collection of wheat and cinnamon, seed oil and iron, smoke and eucalyptus. Dozens of people have left echoes of themselves and their habits in passing. Tim smells young adults, healing injuries, fear, passion, lye soap-

 

Rich vegetable curry simmering in a massive pot next to steaming jasmine rice. Fuck, Tim is hungry.

 

That can wait.

 

He slips around heavy shelves and marble countertops to get closer to the source. A river of lives threatens to sweep him up in its current, but the magic doubles down.

 

Tim focuses. Filters out the extraneous data. Closes down all the unnecessary programs running in the background. His body doesn't matter. His feelings don't matter. The unusual circumstances surrounding this hunt don't matter. The only thing that matters is the mate he hasn't found yet.

 

The river slows to a gentle churn. Everything else drops like a heavy fog to the ground.

 

There.

 

A golden filament, visible only to him, tumbles through the air.

 

There and there and there, it traces a path taken not too long ago. It blurs and crosses over itself where steps have been retraced. That scent cuts past the miscellanea like a breeze in smothering heat. Every fiber of his being is primed to sense barest wisps of it and seek out more.

 

Tim’s pupils dilate. Hairs raise on his arms and the back of his neck. He sucks in a breath through his teeth and tastes a promise.

 

His prey awaits.

Chapter 2

Summary:

The hunt continues.

In the weeks Before, Tim learned a lot about the League; hierarchy, social order, short- and long-term goals, global network, membership requirements, recruitment, and a hundred other tiny things that had felt inconsequential in the face of his own mission.

 

Now, Tim is dissatisfied with his Before self for not prioritizing the information. Of course, there was a dramatic shifting of priorities during the ritual - the details of which are still frustratingly elusive - so it’s unrealistic to expect much else of his past self.

 

The blanks are being filled in anyway as he enacts the next phase of his new objective, like a paint by numbers of all the data he gathers traversing the underground. The League’s primary base and home of the Demon’s Head is a sprawling collection of rooms, tunnels, and entire buildings - both subterranean and above ground - that Tim was never allowed to explore alone before. His desperate search for answers and miracle cures had made him docile, all too willing to ignore the dark core of what happens at the base.

 

His grief had made him weak. His hope had made him weaker. Those vulnerabilities had fed the alpha’s fantasies of a perfect partner and carrier of new heirs.

 

His past designs are irrelevant now. Tim has a new purpose now, one that drags him by the gut across the vipers’ nest.

 

He follows his nose through the dining area, resolutely ignoring his stomach’s demands for sustenance as he is assaulted by wafts of fresh bread, pungent herbs, ripe fruit, and steaming stews. Food is low on his list of priorities, but Tim must consider that almost a quarter of all caloric intake is devoted solely to the operations of the human brain, and his own might occupy a higher percentage than average now.

 

Stop trying to justify a snack break. Focus. 

 

His hunt takes him to the second most trafficked area of the underground: the training facility.

 

The smells that fill the fighting pits are less complex than in the kitchens, but no less intense. Catching the sharp tang of his soon-to-be mate’s physical exertion makes his fangs ache. It speaks to strength and self-assurance, to conviction in the face of pain. His mate must be a capable warrior to survive- nay, succeed here.

 

There are always classes and tests and duels keeping the training facility busy. It is one area Tim is well familiar with. The Demon’s Head had insisted on his participation in their drills during his stay.

 

It is impossible to remain unseen, so he must alter body language, measuring his steps and school his facial expression to be not just someone who belongs there, but someone who will not be looked at twice. 

 

His arrival in the beginning had been of some intrigue, mostly owing to the alpha’s personal interest in him, so Tim has to be wary of his own recognizability. Fortunately - or not, there are pros and cons - his mate’s trail indicates only a past occupation of the training facility. The source lies elsewhere.

 

At the least, Tim is able to requisition a set of dirty garments destined for the laundry. They sit heavy with blood and sweat, and though the contradiction to his mate’s scent is unpleasant, it makes a convenient replacement for his current robes.

 

After changing, Tim ends up doubling back towards the sections dedicated to the more valuable and sacred aspects of the League. Most residents sleep in a large, communal space, but some particular or higher-up individuals are provided private quarters near the gem of the base: the pit.

 

It is where the Demon’s Head retires, in the most opulent wing. Lieutenants, specialists, and Head Pack are kept nearby. Tim is intrigued that his mate falls amongst these.

 

Of course, his intended could just be a servant tasked with maintaining the rooms. But Tim has a feeling.

 

Sure enough, the empty halls around the private quarters carry the trail to a particular bedroom. There are no labels or signs, so it is difficult to tell exactly the type of person it could belong to.

 

It’s laughably easy to sneak through a tendril of secret passages to get inside the room. Tim wonders if privacy means anything in the League.

 

The room is devoid of people - of his mate - but still contains a trove of information. The scent is thickest here, converging around a bed. The bed is one of two, a pair of separate, single-serve mattresses on opposite walls. Each has the standard storage units plus a small collection of personal items tagged about.

 

The bed belonging to his mate draws Tim like a magnet. It is neatly made, but not with the tight tucks and hard creases standard of the housekeeping servants. Above it, there are several papers tacked to the wall: some notes in a shorthand that Tim can’t decipher yet, a couple postcards he can’t read the backs of without removing, and a small collection of drawings carefully pinned up. They’re mostly of plants from the gardens or locations around the League, but one is the spitting image of the very bed it hangs above, a figure swaddled in the sheets, their back to the artist. It must have been drawn by someone on the other bed while this bed’s occupant was still asleep.

 

The pencil drawing isn’t detailed enough to tell much about the model, but Tim can tell it is an adult body filling the mattress, one with short hair and broad shoulders.

 

Tim memorizes every image and note, and files them away in his mind before proceeding.

 

He kneels next to the bed and can’t quite resist the urge to bury his face in the pillow and inhale. He tells himself it's an effective way to glean information, but the truth is that his primal instincts have as much sway right now as his objective reasoning. It is a new experience to balance the two without having typical, reactive emotions between.

 

Tim sucks in a breath and it jolts forward an old memory with unexpected clarity. A breath of that scent is like the first lungful of open Earth air after days on a spacecraft sucking down recycled oxygen. The memory reminds Tim of why he came to the League in the first place.

 

That thought is pushed aside by the omega in him purring to build a proper nest, to surround himself with the mate’s scent and prepare a place for them upon return. It occurs to Tim then that such close contact will leave a trace of his own scent on the pillow, which is a liability.

 

His mate will be found soon, he reasons, and after that it won’t matter much.

 

He spots a knife wedged between the bed and the wall and takes it. It feels good both to have a weapon in hand and to possess something belonging to his mate. A cursory search through the storage bins reveals some hygiene products and several sets of standard black clothes. They’re larger than what would fit on Tim. Not quite the size of the alpha, but comparable. Sturdy. The seams around the chest, arms, and thighs carry the most wear.

 

That examination done, Tim turns to the other side of the room. The wall above the other bed is blank, except for a few loose smudges of charcoal and lead. There are a couple empty hooks he assumes usually hold the owner’s chosen weapon. The scent of his mate had held his attention before, but now Tim focuses on the accompanying milkiness of a pup. Not an infant, obviously, but clearly adolescent, and under the care of his mate based on the shared accommodation.

 

The magic residing still within his ribcage whispers of a pack bond. One more variable to account for.

 

Whoever is pack to his mate is pack to Tim. 

 

Suddenly, there is a voice in Tim’s head other than his own, an unbidden memory of his brother saying, When you marry someone, you marry their family, too. He shakes the words away.

 

The storage bins beneath the bed confirm the residence of a pup, containing a number of outfits in a child’s size - elementary aged, presumably. The outfits are of a greater variety than his mate’s, including a couple sets of ceremonial dress. Not surprising given that one must be of importance to room so close to the Demon’s Head, but unusual that the caretaker/pack member does not possess similar clothes

 

New information in tow, Tim rises to his feet, intent on continuing the hunt. Experiencing such a concentration of his mate’s scent has sent the mystical force within him pacing. His very being demands the bond. There is no what will happen if the bond isn’t made soon? because the bond will be made soon. That is not in question.

 

The soft filament of a route leads out of the room via secret passage. It guides him closer to the esoteric heart of the League’s legends. His body can sense when he is close to the chamber he woke up in not too long ago and the hairs of his arms stand on end. Much to his relief, the path then travels away from it and he doesn’t have to risk returning to the Lion’s Den.

 

The filament spirals along downward sloping halls and descending staircases into the bowels of the settlement. Down-down-down through tunnels that must be ancient from their method of excavation. Once again, he must rely on the navigation of his skin and ears. It becomes the kind of black where your own hand is unseeable an inch from your nose. The kind of dark only achievable deep in the earth.

 

He ends up in what must be one of the deepest parts of the entire underground. 

 

The tunnel opens into a large cavern, thick with the smell of dust, stone, and paper. It is a maze of massive shelves, cabinets, pallets, boxes, pedestals, preservation equipment-

 

An archive, Tim realizes.

 

Recordkeeper is a position with the League that is honorable, but not coveted. The type of people who join the League crave more action than books can provide. Archives are traditionally managed by the elderly in an organization, but Tim had not detected the musk of old age in his mate’s bed. Curious creature.

 

Tim sees mountains of documents and scrolls, stone tablets and cassettes, leather-bound volumes, photo albums, antiques, a shiny, new copying machine. Rows and rows of history.

 

It is obviously not a collection of personal importance to a man who holds his own recollection of the past several centuries in singular regard. But traces of his mate, reverent and comfortable, rest feather-light all over the stacks.

 

Tim’s ears twitch, picking up the faint scratch of a pen in the distance. That becomes the blinking point on his radar, the center of gravity he works towards in a wide arc. It’s chilly so far down, especially with his bare feet on the cold rock floor, but that allows him to keep his approach soundless.

 

The scratching starts and stops at regular intervals, interspersed with rapid clicking and the occasional soft sigh. It hits him then, just how close Tim is to the person he will spend the rest of his life connected to.

 

A light appears in the gaps between shelves. Artificial light that strikes him as odd after all the torches and skylights. He sees the source of it first: an LED lamp atop a large wooden table. There’s a cluster of tables, actually, much like a library.

 

Tim creeps closer and his heart pounds. The lamp casts sharp shadows for him to hide in as he dances from corner to corner.

 

The lamp is half hidden by a pile of books in varying states, but the figure it illuminates appears in perfect clarity. And when Tim lays eyes upon the person his own body and the inexplicable forces of beyond have led him to, everything changes. Everything he thought he knew changes. His plans for the immediate future change. His plans for forever change.

 

Tim sees his future mate and a cacophony of information overloads his mind, grinding every other running program to a shrill halt so this new data can be examined.

 

He never could have anticipated this. Maybe in some far off dream, some ridiculous, technically-nonzero, alternate universe type of miracle, but never as something to plan for. Tim finds his answer and it brings nothing but more questions.

 

Because, somehow, he knows exactly who that person is.

Notes:

Tune in next time for the first meeting!

Chapter 3

Notes:

In an ideal world, I would be posting new chapters every week. Alas,

The math isn’t quite adding up.

 

Finding Jason Todd - living, breathing, transcribing records - in the archives of the League is an unprecedented turn of events. Still, the dots aren’t too far apart to connect, given the League’s possession of resurrection pools and Batman’s history with the group. The second Robin, presumed dead, would be a valuable asset to any adversary or ally of the Bat.

 

What Tim hasn’t figured out yet is why this revelation has evaded him for so long. He’s been with the League for weeks now. Months? He wasn’t so good at keeping track Before.

 

Anyway, it’s been long enough that he should have heard something. A rumor, a glimpse, hell, an all out confrontation between predecessor and replacement. So was his mate warned to stay away? Or is his invisible act deliberate?

 

The thought grates on his animal instincts. Sure, Jason Todd has no way to know of their fated bonding, but that’s no excuse for neglecting his omega.

 

Tim brushes the irrational indignation aside. He’ll be able to gather all the missing data later.

 

More pressing is the beast in his belly howling and hissing to leap from the underbrush and snatch his prey. Jason Todd is a magnificent specimen; Tim can tell, even in the low light with half his body hidden by the table. Like the drawing above his bed, his shoulders are broad and sturdy. His hair, dark but for a shock of white at the forehead, is thick and lustrous. His features are symmetrical, conventionally attractive, and further enhanced by the presence of several pale scars.

 

Tim is not so picky when it comes to appearance, but his omega preens at having one more thing to flaunt about his mate.

 

Our children are likely to be exceedingly beautiful, Tim thinks idly.

 

His mate rhythmically alternates between clicking a tape recorder on and off, scribbling in a notebook, and tapping away at the laptop in front of him. The task is awarded nothing less than his complete focus, face soft in single-mindedness.

 

An intellectual, his omega purrs. One who respects both history and the written word.

 

As satisfying as it is to simply stare at such a fine figure, the clock ticks. Tim can sense his spatial awareness shrinking, caution and comprehension suffocating under the still-present magic boiling in his veins. It couples with his omega, curdling into an amalgamation of lust and ruthless intuition. If the bonding is not complete soon, Tim fears it will overcome his faculties entirely. He can not afford to be at anything less than his best so deep in the vipers’ pit.

 

He stalks the inner fence of shelves, deliberating the best way to proceed. Jason Todd does not appear under the influence of the same forces Tim is. It would not do to startle or harass him, though the thought of a more active hunt does make his skin tingle.

 

Later, his omega promises.

 

Tim thinks of the matings his long-fossilized ancestors would have engaged in. The dances, the gifts, the brawls. Loud claims and quiet vows. This part goes beyond explanation; it is the glue of the fiber of his being. Tim is the result of countless generations who only survived to reproduce because they were born knowing how to love. Criss-crossing chains of polynucleotides form the genes that have his thyroid burning calories to alter the levels of various hormones in his body, hormones that change the way he smells, sweats, sees, burns, leans.

 

Tim feels the phantom weight of wings left folded in his guest chambers. One gray dove circles another on a glistening patch of asphalt in Gotham City, New Jersey. His tongue curls in the wet cavern of his mouth, shaping the breath that opens his throat like the first shrill cry at his birth. He purses his lips and out comes the squeaky call of a blue jay.

 

Instantly, Jason Todd is pulling off his headphones and turning his ear to a sound in what should be an otherwise empty room. His body goes stone-still. His eyes dart between the shadows, but don’t find Tim.

 

Again, Tim whistles the tone one jay would use to summon another. He throws his voice into the dark, letting it echo off the stone ceiling even as he moves, concealing the source.

 

Jason’s head twists, searching. “Who’s there?” he asks, and Tim takes in his voice like a shot of tequila that burns all the way down. When no answer comes, Jason slides from his chair onto his feet without a sound.

 

His omega takes issue with the way his brain diverts to analyze body language, calculate which side he favors and by how much, which of his senses are the strongest, how he balances, how he tenses, what kind of fighter that makes him, what kind of combat he performs best at, when his body will-

 

What matters, his omega and the magic hiss, is keeping his attention.

 

“Talia, if that’s you, I’m not in the mood for games.”

 

Yet another intriguing relationship to factor in; his mate is on a first name basis with the daughter of the Demon’s Head.

 

Tim switches gears. This is a game, and Tim doesn’t want to play it alone. They win together, or not at all.

 

He clicks his tongue against his teeth in a facsimile of chittering bats. In the archives, it sounds similar to the way the colony in Bruce’s cave does.

 

The connection is not lost on Jason, whose eyes narrow. He tiptoes around the table, managing to catch Tim’s trail.

 

Jason sends back a trio of hoots that Tim places as an imitation of a barn owl – a natural predator to bats.

 

Tim almost laughs.

 

Jason circles the perimeter of his work station, drawing closer. Tim keeps moving, just not fast enough to lose him entirely. Wafts of that fresh air scent make his head spin and his glands throb. He wants to bury himself in it. He wants to maul Jason like a bear. He wants all this incessant feeling to be done so Tim can go back to the safe harbor of emotionless logic.

 

Instead, he plays a card he can’t be sure of the reaction to. He relaxes his jaw, draws in a breath, and sends out the soft chirrup-chirrup of an American robin.

 

It’s an old sound, and a familiar one. A way for Batman and Robin to communicate in plain sight. A call he learned from his mentor years ago. Just as the man a few feet away did before him. The pattern of it strays from what a wild animal would use, but the meaning is universal.

 

Come find me.

 

Jason stops moving. “Who are you?” he demands, hands drifting towards where some weapon must be hidden in the folds of his robes.

 

This time, when Tim takes another step, he lets the ball of his foot drag on the floor, just enough of a scruff for Jason to turn in his direction. He inches forward until his figure takes shape in the dark. He moves slow, trying to project not a threat in the scalpel-sharp home of his person.

 

Jason doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t finish grabbing his weapon either, which is a productive turn of events.

 

Tim’s brain prepares for every possible outcome, so he isn’t surprised when he steps into the light and Jason’s eyes widen with recognition. “Oh,” Jason says, like knowing who Tim is makes anything about their situation apparent. He takes a step forward and Tim suppresses the irrational urge to keep space between them. “I was wondering when you’d find out about me.”

 

A curious sentence, rife with implication that Tim doesn’t care much to pick apart.

 

Then Jason looks into his eyes and whatever he finds there must be of some interest because he looks shocked and says, “Oh shit.” He takes another step forward, hand half raised to Tim’s face. “When- how long ago did you come out of the pit?”

 

Ah. Something in his eyes must reveal his recent permutation. Yes, in the minuscule reflection in Jason’s cornea, he can catch a glimmer of acid green, just like the pool he crawled from. Jason’s irises bear a similar tint, though not nearly as vivid, so Tim can’t say for sure whether it’s a coincidence.

 

By this point, his animal instincts are whipped into a frenzy. Everything he needs is so close, but he can’t get careless. He can feel the magic in him the way you can tell when you’re about to pass out.

 

Tim condenses the space between them. His fingers twitch, ready to snatch.

 

Jason’s nostrils flare – he must be catching Tim’s scent finally. His pupils contract, his throat bobs, and his eyelashes flutter.

 

There it is. The magic feeds into Tim’s pheromones and descends in a haze. It’s spreading now, the inevitability sinking in like a virus. They don’t know each other yet, but they will, and when they do Tim will love Jason desperately. Already, his devotion is cemented. They will bond and socialize and copulate and become inseparable, as fate has decreed.

 

“What’s- what are-” Tim watches Jason struggle to string a sentence together, both of them growing drunk on each other’s scents. Tim slinks right up into Jason’s space, hushing him gently.

 

He lets his fingertips brush the side of Jason’s hand, and when that tiny bit of sensory input scrambles Jason’s attention, confuses his already overwhelmed synapses, Tim sees his chance, and doesn’t hesitate to take it.

 

Tim snaps forward and sinks his teeth into Jason’s neck.

Chapter 4

Tim feels Jason’s gasp before anything else. The rush of air up his trachea reverberates through Tim’s lips on his throat. The pressure against his gums is a delicious scratch on the itch that’s been plaguing him. Blood – though there isn’t much of it – floods his sense with iron and victory.

 

Jason spasms, twitching in Tim’s hold like he can’t decide whether or not to wrench himself away. Not that he could if he tried; Tim is never letting him go now.

 

Establishing the bond is like being drugged in reverse: the world steadies and rights itself, his awareness comes back to him, everything pushed to the wayside is allowed back on the priority list again. Tim’s brain regains control while he’s still root deep in Jason’s neck.

 

It takes some effort, but he manages to unhinge his jaw and retract his fangs. He licks the smudged blood from his lips along with a trace of gland oils. Beta, he idly catalogs. Not that it makes much of a difference to him, but the alpha will be irrationally upset at that reveal. Tim doesn’t intend to stick around long enough to see that, though.

 

“Where is your pup?” Tim asks, gripping his mate’s biceps. What he gets in return is a hazy, baffled look. Where the bite has brought Tim clarity, it has done the opposite for his mate, who is obviously riding out the high of a successful claiming. Tim’s body craves requital, but he can’t risk having his senses further compromised by the subsequent hormone recalibration. A complete bonding could even trigger a heat, which is the last thing Tim needs.

 

“What?” Jason asks, teetering on unsteady legs.

 

“Your pup,” Tim repeats, enunciating sharply. “We need to collect your pup and get as far away from here as possible.”

 

“What the hell just happened?” Jason murmurs, not processing Tim’s instructions at all.

 

Tim huffs a frustrated breath out his nose. “When the Demon’s Head learns I’ve claimed you, he’s going to try to kill you,” he says, hoping that will penetrate the oxytocin fog. Try being the operative word, because Tim won’t let that happen, not if he has to scruff his doped up mate half way across the continent.

 

“You bit me,” Jason observes. Tim could scream.

 

He plants his hands on Jason’s shoulders and give a good, firm shake, hoping to knock a few brain cells loose. Fortunately, a bit of lucidity returns to his face. “We need to go.” He grabs his mate’s wrist and makes to tug him back the way Tim came, but Jason is immovable as a stone statue.

 

“Woah, woah, woah.” Jason gives his head a shake, fighting for focus. His free hand grabs onto Tim’s forearm, pulling him back. “Okay. Hold on a second. I need you to explain what the hell is going on. And why you just claimed me.” He brushes his fingertips over the open wound at his throat with something like awe.

 

“I’ll explain later,” Tim promises. Why can’t he just do what I say? Isn’t that what mates are supposed to do? “What you need to know right now is that I’m being hunted by Ra’s al Ghul and probably the rest of the League at this point, and if we’re caught, he’ll kill you and take me prisoner.” It’s possible the alpha will just kill Tim too out of incandescent rage, but Tim thinks it more likely he’ll be held captive, tortured, and brainwashed. Ra’s is the possessive type.

 

Unfortunately for him, Tim is too.

 

“Shit. Okay. I need to find Talia. She can help.” He pulls on Tim’s arm, guiding him to the opposite side of the archives, but Tim plants his feet.

 

“We can’t take that risk,” he hisses. His mate must be either insane or downright stupid to seek the Demon Head’s daughter for help against the Demon’s Head.

 

“She’ll help,” Jason insists. “Trust me.”

 

And damn him, but Tim does. He can’t help it.

 

Tim sighs. “Fine. But we need to stay out of sight.”

 

Jason tugs on his arm again and this time Tim follows. “There are passages back this way that no one uses.”

 

Despite his compulsion for control, Tim lets his mate lead the way from there. They weave through the shelves, hand in hand, to pitch black corners dusty with disuse. Channels and ladders you’d have to already know to find take them straight up to a network of ducts. The whole way Jason keeps hissing questions that Tim gives only the most basic answers to.

 

What does Ra’s want with you anyway? He wants to bond with me.

 

What are you doing here in the first place? Research.

 

Are you always this annoying? The answer to that is subjective.

 

Tim stays on Jason’s heels, on high alert for any whiff of peons come to catch him or report back his movements to their master. The archive’s secondary passages eventually connect to parts that connect to different parts that connect to areas he has vague knowledge of, but Jason keeps them on the peripheries. Crossing another soul here or there is unavoidable, but Tim isn’t given any reason to think they’re paying close attention to the pair. Any time so much as a shadow flickers nearby, Jason slips between it and Tim, hiding him with the bulk of his body.

 

Our differing physicalities make an advantageous combination, Tim thinks.

 

When they come to a crossroads too trafficked to remain hidden, Jason hesitates. Tim wants to hiss at him for his lack of foresight. I told you so. He has to remind himself that other people don’t have the cognitive advantages he does, not even his exceptional mate.

 

Jason turns to Tim. “Nobody knows you’ve claimed me yet, right?”

 

“Correct.”

 

“So no one has any reason to think we’re involved.”

 

Something unpleasant curdles in Tim’s gut. “In theory.”

 

“Okay.” Jason lets out a breath. “I know a place you can hide while I go figure things out for us.”

 

Tim bares his teeth at that idea. It’s a reasonable suggestion, he knows – without Tim, Jason can traverse the League without rousing suspicion, perhaps secure an escape. Still, his instincts rally against the thought of separating from his newly claimed mate. It is his biological obligation to look after his partner. He can’t protect Jason if they aren’t together.

 

“I know,” Jason responds to his obvious displeasure. “But you’ll be safe while I get help.”

 

Tim grits his teeth. If it were just the two of them, he’d refuse and drag his mate out the nearest air vent. But he can’t very well suggest they split when his mate’s pup – Tim’s pup now – is still in the League’s grasp. “Fine,” he agrees after a long moment.

 

Jason guides him back down the way they came and to an adjacent storage area. Inside a wine cellar, under the floor, and past a minor rock fall, Jason secures him inside a crawl space just large enough to Tim to stand on his knees. The wafting aroma of cedar and fermentation muddles their trail.

 

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Jason assures him, brushing debris aside for Tim’s comfort. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

 

Tim bites back his automatic response that, of the two of them, Jason is far more likely to make a moronic misstep. Instead, he says, “You smell like me.” A warning.

 

Jason presses at the bite mark again like he’d forgotten it was there. He draws a cowl from inside his robes and wraps it over his head, around his neck, covering Tim’s brand.

 

Just before he steps away, Tim grabs a fistful of his shirt, stopping Jason in his tracks. “Be smart,” he instructs his mate, “Be quiet. Be fast.”

 

Their eyes lock onto one another. Tim gets the urge to do something. Kiss him, scent him, make a promise. He doesn’t. Jason nods and Tim releases his shirt. Then the opening to his hole is being sealed shut and Tim is alone.

 

Tim feels the separation immediately and acutely. He can’t quite recall the exact feeling of losing his packmates in the past, but he knows the grief was immense, the longing unbearable. It was what drew him to the League in the first place. Having a mate now, Tim isn’t sure he’d survive the loss of him. It’s a strange contradiction to be both devoid of love as an emotion and to know his love is great enough to destroy him.

 

They’re an irregularity, the pair of them. Two birds who shouldn’t be alive, let alone in the same place at the same time, and yet…

 

And yet they defy the odds. For Jason’s body to have accepted his claim at all is a statistical anomaly. It’s the same reason Ra’s never attempted to force a claim on Tim: if it had been rejected (almost certainly) the offended omega would maul the perpetrator. And even if Ra’s had survived that confrontation – or, more likely, been brought back from it – Tim’s body would remember the slight. His thyroid would start producing a rejection hormone to exude the foulest, most hostile scent to ward away the unwanted suitor. The offending party’s presence would prevent Tim from going into heat for years, if not forever.

 

For Jason to take the claim, without issue, from a stranger with no preexisting emotional connection, no preparation, and an unfamiliar scent is one in a billion. An outsider would call it miraculous. Tim doesn’t because it isn’t, of course. He knows exactly how it happened.

 

Tim rubs at his neck, at his throbbing scent gland, then reprimands himself for giving into the primal urge to stimulate his scent production. His body knows he’s made a claim, but can’t understand why it hasn’t been returned if the claiming was successful. There will be symptoms, he’s sure. It’s just too early to tell what they’ll be.

 

He’ll have Jason complete the bonding later. At a better time. When they aren’t being hunted for sport.

 

Tim doesn’t get any actual rest inside his hidey-hole, but he does manage to meditate for a while, going over contingencies in his head while he waits. Part of him is always watching, always on alert for whoever comes to fetch him, ready to skewer anyone who would try to drag him back to the alpha.

 

That’s how he has a blade against the throat of the woman who unseals his tomb before she’s even caught sight of him.

 

Tim’s foot is braced against the wall behind him, readied to propel his entire body weight into the kill. His mate’s dagger feels good in his hand, like a seal of protection. His eyes adjust quickly, cataloging the sway of long, dark hair, a keen, black gaze, the body of a warrior with the stance of someone unfailingly self-assured.

 

The only reason his knife hasn’t severed her carotid and larynx in one clean stroke is because he recognizes her, if only vaguely. Her robes are different from the ones the average assassin wears, but of course they would be – she’s the daughter of the Demon’s Head.

 

Talia, his brain supplies, and it’s in Jason’s voice. Not for the first time, Tim wonders at his mate’s connection to her.

 

“Timothy,” she greets coolly.

 

Tim cuts straight to, “Where’s Jason?”

 

“He’s waiting for you,” Talia says.

 

“That’s not what I asked.”

 

The woman lets out a slow breath through her nose, examining his tense form from head to toe. She’s still hunched over the entrance and has made no move towards or away from him. “He’s at one of the south exits waiting to flee with you, and every moment we wait, his risk of discovery grows. Would you like to ask more questions or would you like to be reunited with your mate?”

 

For a long moment, Tim just stares at her. He doesn’t trust her, for enough reasons to fill a book. Trust me, Jason had said. At the very least, Tim trusts his mate isn’t a fool.

 

He doesn’t say anything, but he does lower the dagger, which speaks more than words could.

 

Talia doesn’t comment on it, or even seem relieved to no longer be at knife point. She just straightens, turns, and starts walking, not bothering to confirm that Tim follows. Turning her unprotected back to him would be a show of camaraderie if there wasn’t the very real possibility of him being led into a trap. Even if it is a trap, Tim reasons, he needs to be where his mate is, captured or not.

 

“Cover your face,” Talia instructs. Tim rearranges the loose fabric around his collar, tucking it up over his nose, and pulls his hood further down.

 

Talia doesn’t bother to avoid notice like Tim and Jason had. On their way out, most of the individuals they pass bow their heads in deference. Tim follows half a step behind and to the right, hidden in plain sight by the unflinching presence of Talia al Ghul. Passersby pay more attention to the dagger visible in his hand than his face.

 

At one point, Tim spots a familiar figure: one of the omegas who had lined the ritual chamber. He keeps his eyes averted, not wanting to catch their eye, but his concern is unnecessary. Talia does not stop and the guard does not pause in their whispering to a shadow that is no doubt being informed of Tim’s own obstinance.

 

There’s a tension dogging at his heels, reminding him of what exactly is at stake. He keeps his movements steady, but the animal instinct to break into a flat out sprint grows stronger. The beast in him knows he is outnumbered in enemy territory. In this wild, he is prey. Any moment, the Demon’s Head could lose patience and order the facility on high alert.

 

But to Tim’s mild surprise, they make it out without issue. Still, he watches Talia closely, prepared at any moment to catch her double-crossing him.

 

Beyond the structures and caves, they blow through rough shrubbery down a steep, rocky terrain. In the Before, all the loose gravel and grasping branches would have slowed him down. Or sped him up in an unfortunate succumbing-to-gravity situation. But out of the waters, Tim’s body travels as though on a separate plane. His pulse doesn’t even speed up.

 

Talia slows when they approach the edge of a cliff, peering down into the black, churning waters of a lake. Perhaps she has led him here simply to kill him and dispose of his body.

 

Tim thinks he could take her, if he had to.

 

But instead of conspiring to throw him over the edge, Talia moves along the ridge until she crouches by a hole in the ground, one that, at first glance, seems like little more than a foxhole, but closer examination reveals a gap large enough for an adult and a heavy rope dropping into the abyss. Talia doesn’t bother to speak, but she catches his eye before slithering into the gap.

 

Tim kneels where she’s disappeared, stretching his ears for the murmur of a dozen breaths, the displacement of air around bodies waiting to seize him, the clink of weapons, the shuffle of bloodthirst. There’s a whisper of fabric on jute then a tiny splash where Talia must touch down. Forty-five to fifty feet straight down.

 

Tim waits, holding his breath for any other auditory clues, until Talia snaps, “Stop wasting time!” up the stone tunnel. He drops in feet first and descends.

 

At the end of the rope, Tim’s toes find a couple inches of water over slick rock – a partially flooded cave on the perimeter of the lake. Talia waits just long enough to see him following before the ends of her hair are whipping past the mouth of the cave, vanishing from view.

 

Once more, Tim follows.

 

The cave spits him out a few feet into the tide. He still doesn’t have any shoes, and his feet protest the cold water and jagged shore. He ignores the complaints of his body.

 

Down a ways, Tim can make out three figures in the dark next to a boat. It’s hard to keep track of time underground, but a pale orb overhead shows them to be wandering in the youngest hours of the morning. Tim is sure it’s no coincidence that his magical entanglement took place on the night of a full moon.

 

Tim makes short work of the distance between him and his mate. Jason doesn’t rush to meet him, but he’s visibly relieved at Tim’s approach, his hand falling from the shoulder of the child next to him.

 

“Hey,” Jason greets when he’s in range. “Any trouble?”

 

Tim shakes his head. He looks at Talia, knelt in front of the child, face hidden by the curtain of her hair. He watches her press a small, ceramic folding knife into his palm, the kind easy to sneak past most security.

 

Once she stands, he can see her face again and the resemblance between her and the child is striking. Same complexion and hair texture, same round lips and pointed chins, same tiny ears. Her son, Tim realizes. Who else would warrant such tenderness?

 

“Cross the lake,” Talia instructs. “You’ll find a river that runs east. The border is about two-hundred-thirty kilometers directly south of here. Get as far as you can as fast as you can, then start making your way home.”

 

“You aren’t coming with us?” Jason asks, shifting on his feet.

 

“I can do more to ensure your safety here,” Talia replies.

 

“Well, you can meet us in one-”

 

Talia raises a hand and cuts Jason off. “It’s best if I don’t know where you are.”

 

Tim agrees. What someone doesn’t know can’t be tortured out of them.

 

“I’ll stay with you,” the little boy offers, stepping towards the form of his mother. His childlike craving for familiarity piques Tim’s animal instinct to soothe. The pup can’t be more than eight or nine. A baby raised in a vipers’ nest with nothing but a deadly weapon of a mother for support.

 

The child is strong, Tim can tell. One would have to be to survive in such a place. He holds himself with naive courage and singular loyalty. Tim catalogs every word and gesture between them, trying to make sense of this relationship and what the hell it has to do with Jason.

 

“No, ya omri.” Talia cups the boy’s cheek in her palm. “I won’t risk your grandfather turning his attention to you now that his plans have been foiled.”

 

The boy’s eyes flicker to Tim.

 

“You’ll complete your training with your father,” Talia continues. “It’s time for you to meet him. He’ll protect you.”

 

That last part she directs at her child and Jason both, and Tim instantly clocks Jason’s discomfort with the idea. His curiosity thickens.

 

Jason opens his mouth to protest, “What if-”

 

“Your father will protect you,” Talia insists. Then softer, “It’s time, ghali.” She raises her other hand and frames Jason’s face with it. “Take care of your brother.”

 

Those words have dots stringing together in his brain faster than human hands could tie them off. Because there is zero physical resemblance between Jason and the pup or their alleged mother, and the timeline doesn’t match up until Tim remembers that Bruce Wayne is Jason’s adoptive father, so if he and Talia-

 

Hm. That…..explains a lot actually.

 

And then Talia turns the full force of her attention on Tim. Her stare is intense and cold and a little bit threatening, which is probably the closest she allows herself to vulnerability. For a long second she just scrutinizes him.

 

“I hope the things I’ve heard about you are true, Timothy,” she finally says. “It’s your responsibility now to protect my children.”

 

And for two steady heartbeats, Tim looks at someone he has a feeling he has not seen for the last time. He nods his head, unblinking, and promises, “With my life.”

 

Talia steels herself, every scrap of emotion vanishing from her body. She leaves them without another word, running down the shore. She doesn’t look back. In sixteen seconds, Talia al Ghul is gone.

 

“Okay,” Jason says on a heavy exhale when they’ve been standing in silence long enough to remember what brought them there. “No time to waste.”

 

When Tim turns to the boat, he catches the pup staring at him, expression wary and nervous and just a touch resentful, but when Jason says, “Damian, hop in and we’ll push ‘er into the water,” he obeys.

 

Jason catches Tim’s eye and nods his head toward the boat. Together, they shove it into the lake until they’re soaked to the thigh, then Tim hops in and counterbalances Jason’s weight so the whole thing doesn’t tip when their last passenger heaves himself onto the back.

 

Jason yanks the starter cord and it only takes one pull for it to purr to life. With his mate at the tiller, they fly across the black surface of the lake into the uncertain future. The wind tears his hood and cowl back, baring his cheeks to the brisk air.

 

“I know where we can get a car a few miles down the river,” Jason calls over the roar. “If we can make it over the range to Kathmandu, there’s a place we can hunker down at.”

 

“No,” Tim says, staring ahead into the void. He can make out the shape of the horizon where black shapes cover the stars. “We need to head east. I have a contact we’ll want with us before we get to America.”

 

Tim looks over his shoulder at the pup on the center bench and his mate at the rear. Two people he’s known for less than an hour that he’ll die for if need be. He wasn’t being facetious when he made that promise to Talia. It doesn’t matter anymore why he left home to begin with or the bridges he burnt with his family.

 

Tim looks each of his brand-new packmates in the eye, caring for nothing except what’s best for them.

 

“We’re going to Hong Kong.”

Notes:

Translations: In this fic, I have Talia speaking Egyptian Arabic, a version of which is the standard language of the League. I am by no means an expert in this, so if you are feel free to let me know how it comes across.

Ya omri - My life; in a more nuanced sense, it is a way for someone to say, 'My life started when you became a part of it.'

Ghali - Precious

Notes:

As always, comments and suggestions are welcome. If you catch any typos or think I should add a tag, please let me know. Thanks for the read!

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Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of JayTim Week 2025