Chapter Text
It didn’t hurt at first.
That was the strangest part.
They were running roof to roof, the city stretched open beneath them, the traffickers already ziptied and screaming below. Dick felt good. Loose. Wired. Like adrenaline had soaked straight into his bones.
Then the heat hit.Not like exertion. Not like fear.
It bloomed under his skin, sudden and wrong, like someone had poured warm water down his spine. His vision blurred at the edges. Cold air scraped his lungs, but it didn’t help.
“Robin?” Bruce’s voice cut through the night. “Your pace just dropped.”
“I’m fine,” Dick said automatically.He wasn’t.
The smell came next too many scents at once. Old brick, burning oil, sweat, blood, ozone. His stomach flipped.
He stumbled.Bruce caught him instantly, one arm around his ribs, anchoring him against the ledge.
“Easy,” Bruce said, already scanning. “Breathe.”
Dick’s teeth chattered. “I … I don’t feel”
Bruce froze.
Not visibly. Not to anyone else.
But Dick felt it the way Bruce’s body went rigid, the way his grip tightened just enough to steady him without caging him.
Bruce could smell it. The change.It was subtle. It always was. A shift in the air. A sickly sweetness that didn’t belong on Gotham rooftops.
Omega.
Bruce’s heart dropped so hard it felt physical.
No. Not now. Not here.
Calculations snapped into place instantly distance to the cave, patrol routes, who might be watching, how fast he could move Dick without drawing attention.
But Dick was shaking.
Bruce forced his voice steady. “You’re safe,” he said quietly. “Nothing is wrong.”
Dick’s eyes were too bright. “Am I” He swallowed. “Am I in trouble?”
The question gutted him.
Bruce crouched so they were eye level. He didn’t touch Dick’s neck yet. Didn’t claim. Didn’t mark. Just presence.
“No,” he said firmly. “You’re not in trouble. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Dick’s breath hitched. “You’re not gonna make me stop being Robin?”
Bruce felt something crack in his chest.
“We’ll talk,” he said carefully. “Later. When you’re stable. But listen to me this does not erase who you are.”
Dick nodded too fast. “Okay. Okay.”
Bruce removed his cape and wrapped it around Dick’s shoulders, shielding him, scenting him deliberately not dominance, Reassurance. Home.
“We’re going back,” Bruce said. “Together.”
Sixteen The Fight
“Reckless.”
One word. Calm. Precise.
Dick’s shoulders went tight anyway.
“I had it handled,” he said, sharper than he meant to be. He tossed his cape onto the worktable. It clattered too loudly. “The guy almost noticed it because you hesitated.”
Bruce’s eyes lifted slowly.”I hesitated,” Bruce said, “because I was recalculating your scent dispersion radius.”
Dick scoffed. “Jesus Christ.”
“That man noticed something was off,” Bruce continued. “And instead of disengaging, you pushed.”
“Because backing off would’ve made it worse!”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” Dick snapped. “I was there.”
Bruce turned fully toward him now. “And that’s exactly the problem.”
The words landed like a slap. Dick laughed, brittle. “Oh, here we go.”
“You let your blocker degrade,” Bruce said. “Again.”
Dick bristled. “It was fine.”
“It wasn’t.”
“I replaced it last week!”
“And Gotham humidity degrades them faster,” Bruce shot back. “You know this. You train on this.”
Dick dragged a hand through his hair. “I can’t micromanage my own body every second I’m out there.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. “You have to.”
Silence.Dick felt it rise in his chest that familiar, awful pressure. Like being . Twelve . Like being small.
“So that’s it?” he said. “That’s what I am to you now? A liability?”
Bruce closed his eyes for half a second.
“No,” he said quietly. “You’re a child .”
Dick flinched anyway.
Bruce He shouldn’t have said it like that.
Bruce knew better. He always knew better timing, phrasing, distance. Strategy was easy. Parenting was not.
Dick’s scent had spiked anger, hurt, something sour underneath. Bruce fought the instinct to step closer, to steady him, to fix it.
Instead, he stayed where he was.
“This isn’t about control,” Bruce said. “It’s about survival.”
Dick’s laugh was sharp, humorless. “You say that like they’re different things.”
Bruce exhaled slowly through his nose.
“You almost got exposed tonight,” he said. “Not as Robin. As an omega.”
Dick’s eyes flashed. “So?”
“So,” Bruce said carefully, “people would use that.”
“I know.”
“They would hunt you.”
“I know.”
“They would corner you and…”
“I know!” Dick snapped. “You think I don’t know that?”
Bruce stepped forward before he could stop himself. “Then why do you keep pushing like this?”
“Because I don’t get to be afraid every second I’m alive!”
The words echoed through the cave.
Dick’s chest heaved. His hands were shaking now not panic, not presentation, just raw emotion.
“I already gave up so much,” Dick said, voice cracking despite himself. “I gave up privacy. Choice. Normal. I’m not giving up this too.”
Bruce stopped.
He saw it then the grief under the anger. The same grief Dick had carried since eight years old. The same one Bruce carried himself.
“You’re not giving up being Robin,” Bruce said softly.
Dick stared at him. “Then why does it always feel like you’re waiting for a reason to take it away?”
Bruce didn’t answer right away.That hurt more than anything else.
“You don’t trust me,” Dick said quietly.
“That’s not true.”
“You don’t trust my judgment.”
Bruce hesitated.
Dick swallowed hard. “There it is.”
“I trust your heart,” Bruce said. “I trust your instincts. I do not trust the world with you I don’t trust alphas we encounter every night.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is when the consequences are permanent.”
Dick turned away, pacing. “I’m not glass.”
“I know.”
“I’m not weak.”
“I know.”
“I’m not”
“You’re sixteen,” Bruce said suddenly, the control finally slipping. “And you are walking through a city that would tear you apart if .. take it if they knew.”
Dick spun back. “So what? I’m supposed to wait until I’m eighteen? Twenty-five? Until you decide I’m allowed to exist without supervision?”
Bruce recoiled like he’d been struck. “That’s not”
“You scent me every time I leave,” Dick continued, voice shaking now. “Every time. Like I don’t notice. Like I don’t know why.”
Bruce’s throat went tight.
“It keeps you safe,” he said.
“It makes me feel owned.”
The word hung there. Ugly. Unfair. True.
Bruce forced himself not to raise his voice. “I would never”
“I know you wouldn’t mean it that way…..,” Dick said. “That’s what makes it worse.”
Silence stretched again.Bruce looked suddenly tired. Older.
“Do you want to go to the cemetery tonight?” he asked quietly.
The shift was abrupt. Defensive. Dick noticed.
“I’m fine,” he said.
Bruce nodded, once. “We can go together later.”
“I want to go alone.”
Bruce’s mouth tightened. “Dick”
“I need space,” Dick said. “Just for tonight.”
Bruce studied him the set of his shoulders, the anger barely holding together.
“…All right,” he said.
He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, and scented him anyway grounding, familiar, safe. He stepped forward and scented Dick instinctively wood, smoke, safety.
Dick leaned into it lifting his neck before he could stop himself.Then pulled back, annoyed at himself.
“I’ll wear the blocker,” Dick muttered.
“I know,” Bruce said.
Dick grabbed the wine without bruce knowledge and left before either of them could say something worse.
Bruce stood alone in the cave long after Dick was gone.
He replayed the argument on loop, cataloging mistakes like crime scene evidence.Too sharp. Too rigid. Too afraid.
He scrubbed a hand over his face.
Sixteen.
Too young to be this tired. Too young to carry this much risk.
Bruce stared at the empty platform where Dick usually stood and felt the familiar, suffocating fear settle back into his chest.
Please come home, he thought.
The rain comes down steady, not dramatic just enough to soak through fabric and make everything heavier.
Dick lands on the mausoleum roof instead of the ground.
He doesn’t sit by their headstones. He can’t. Not like this. Not in the suit. Not when grief still feels like something feral that might claw its way out if he lets it.
He uncorks the bottle with his teeth, grimaces when wine sloshes over his glove.
“Happy anniversary,” he mutters to no one.
The first swallow burns. The second doesn’t.
Bruce’s scent is still on him grounding, woody and iron and control and it makes his chest ache in a way that’s almost worse than the argument itself. He scrubs at his neck where the blocker hums faintly against his skin.
I’m not owned, he tells himself, again.
The rain masks the sound at first.
Footsteps.Not light. Not hurried.
Heavy. Measured. Military.
Dick doesn’t move. Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t bait.
He already knows.
“Thought that color scheme was illegal in Gotham,” a voice says behind him, dry and faintly amused. “Hurts the eyes.”
Dick takes another drink.
“You’re trespassing,” he says flatly. “Even for a psychopath.”
Slade
Robin doesn’t turn.
Interesting. Slade noticed the bottle immediately. The posture second. Loose where it shouldn’t be. Tense where it should relax.
Grief does that. Alcohol too. “Relax,” Slade says. “I’m finished here.”
Robin snorts. “What, you kill someone between the crypts and call it ambiance?”
“No one died,” Slade replies. “Bodyguard work. Boring.”
Robin finally looks at him then eyes sharp, mouth pulled thin.
“Funny,” the kid says. “You don’t usually take boring jobs.”
Slade shrugs. “Pays well.”
The rain slicks down his armor. He stays a careful distance away. Close enough to talk. Not close enough to escalate.
Robin lifts the bottle in a lazy salute.
Slade arches a brow. “You old enough to drink that?”
“I fight armed criminals at night,” Robin says. “I think I’m past ID laws.”
Slade huffs a short laugh despite himself.
“What are you doing out here,” he asks, “alone, in the rain, without your bat?”
Robin’s gaze flicks toward the rows of stone below them. “….Visiting,” he says.
Slade follows the look. Sees the dates. The names.
Ah.
He grunts once. Respectful. Doesn’t say sorry. Doesn’t pretend surprise.
They stand in silence for a moment, rain threading between them.
Dick
Slade doesn’t crowd him.
That’s new.
Most adults do. Even Bruce sometimes unconsciously, instinctively, like the world might snatch Dick away if he loosens his grip.
Slade just stands there, solid as the stone beneath them.
Dick drinks again. He’s buzzing now not drunk, but loose enough that his thoughts don’t scrape as sharply.
“You smell like metal,” he says suddenly.
Slade blinks. “What?”
“Like… rain on steel,” Dick adds, frowning. “And trees. Old ones.”
Slade exhales through his nose. “You’re drunk.”
“Little,” Dick admits.
Slade’s gaze drifts, clinical now. He notices the faint hum at Robin’s neck. A blocker. Odd.
“You shouldn’t be drinking with that on,” Slade says.
Dick bristles. “Didn’t ask.”
“No,” Slade agrees. “You didn’t.”
Robin holds the bottle out suddenly. “You want some or are you gonna keep hovering like a gargoyle?”
Slade pauses.Then, to his own mild surprise, steps forward and takes it.
The wine is sweet. Expensive. Fruit forward. He recognizes old expensive cellar quality immediately.
“Tastes stolen,” Slade says.
Dick grins, crooked. “Everything good is.”
They sit not touching at opposite ends of the mausoleum edge.
Slade
Up close, the kid smells wrong.
Not bad. Just… muted. Smothered.
Slade files it away.
Robin talks when he drinks. Not loudly. Just enough to bleed truth. “I don’t get it,” the kid mutters, staring at the rain smeared sky. “Why omegas get treated like glass.”
Slade watches him carefully. “You know why.”
“Because people suck,” Robin says.
“Because people fear what they can exploit,” Slade corrects.
Robin hums. “Same thing.”
Slade hands the bottle back. “You presented yet?”
The kid stiffens.Just for a second.
“No,” Robin says too quickly. “Late bloomer.”
Slade studies his face. The scent blocker. The posture.
Doesn’t call him on it.
“My eldest was late too,” Slade says instead. “Happens.”
Robin exhales like he’s been let off a ledge.
Slade nods toward the blocker. “Then why wear one?”
Robin shrugs. “Batman.”
Of course. Slade snorts. “Figures.”
“What,” Robin says, defensive. “You think he’d let me out if I wasn’t… capable?”
“No,” Slade says. “I think he assumes you’ll present alpha.”
Robin’s mouth twists. “Yeah.”
Slade means it as observation. Robin hears something else.
Dick
Alpha. The word sits wrong in his mouth.
He doesn’t hate being omega. He hates what the world does with it.
He lifts the bottle again, finds it empty.
“There’s fruit in there,” he says, suddenly bright. “Apricot .”
Slade watches as he fishes it out with gloved fingers, juice dripping down his wrist.
“Got a knife?” Dick asks.
Slade produces one without comment, slices cleanly through glass and fruit alike.
Dick watches, impressed despite himself. “Showoff.”
Slade hands him the fruit.
Dick bites into it messily, juice running down his chin.
“It tastes like summer,” he says, reverent and slurred. “And bad decisions.”
He holds the last piece up, grin soft and unguarded.mouth messy with fruit juice
“Here. Try.”
Slade hesitates.
Then leans in and takes it from his fingers.
“You’re drunk,” he says.
Dick laughs and flops back onto the stone, staring at the cloud choked sky.
The laugh fades. His eyes flutter.
Slade
The kid passes out fast.
Slade sits there longer than necessary, rain soaking through his armor, eyes on the polluted sky.
When he looks back at Robin, something itches at the back of his mind.
The blocker.
He reaches out slow, deliberate and peels it away.
The scent hits him instantly.
Sweet overly . Warm. and ozone and youth.
Omega.
Slade stills.Not disgust. Not anger.Something colder. Heavier.
Batman sent an omega into Gotham every night
Alone.sixteen.
Slade replaces the blocker carefully.
His jaw tightens. This isn’t his problem. And yet.
He stays until the rain lightens.Then leaves without waking the boy.
Dick wakes up with his skull splitting clean down the middle.
Light too bright, too white bleeds through the Batmobile motorcycle as it glides into the cave. His mouth tastes like metal and sugar and regret.
God, he thinks. That was stupid.
He pushes himself upright too fast and immediately regrets that too. His stomach rolls. His neck feels… exposed. Cold.
The blocker is still there. He touches it automatically, fingers fumbling, relief coming late and thin.
He doesn’t remember falling asleep.
He remembers rain. Stone. Peach juice on his glove.
And Slade’s eyes on him That thought sobers him faster than the headache.
The lift hums upward. Manor air replaces cave damp. Clean. Controlled. Bruce.
Dick straightens his suit as best he can, scrubs his face in the reflection of the elevator doors. He looks young a mess .sixteen . He hates that.
Alfred is nowhere in sight.
Bruce is.Standing at the edge of the study, sleeves rolled, tie gone, coffee untouched. Awake. Waiting.
Dick freezes.
Bruce’s eyes rake over him in one sweep the suit, the dirt at the hem of his cape, the stiffness in his posture.
Then Bruce steps closer. And frowns.
Bruce
The scent is wrong.
Bruce knows Dick’s scent the way he knows the cadence of his breathing. It’s muscle memory. Instinct layered with love.
This is… thin. Patchy. The blocker humming off-rhythm, struggling.
And beneath it
Bruce stills.There is something else. Faint. Metallic. Not his.
Alpha.
Bruce’s jaw tightens before Dick even opens his mouth.
“Where were you,” Bruce says quietly.controlled
Dick swallows. “Cemetery.”
“In the rain.”
“Yes.”
“In costume.”
“Yes.”
Bruce takes another step closer without meaning to.
His instincts flare protective, territorial, furious and he clamps down on them hard.
“Your scent blocker is compromised,” Bruce says. “Do you understand how dangerous that is?”
Dick winces, rubbing his temple. “Bruce, I…”
“Who was with you.”
The question lands like a blade.
Dick stiffens. “No one,” he says too fast. “I mean …I fell asleep. I guess I was more tired than I thought.”
Bruce’s eyes narrow.
“Dick.”
Dick exhales sharply. “Don’t.”
Dick
His head is pounding. His chest is tight. Bruce smells like disappointment and fear and something sharp underneath.possessiveness
“I didn’t do anything reckless,” Dick snaps. “I didn’t fight. I didn’t”
“You drank,” Bruce cuts in.
Dick blinks. “…You can smell that?”
“Yes.”
“Great.”
Bruce’s voice stays even. That’s worse.
“You’re sixteen. An omega. Alone. Grieving. Drinking in public.”
“I wasn’t in public.”
“You were exposed.”
Dick laughs, brittle. “Oh my god, you sound like”
“Like someone trying to keep you alive?”
That lands.Dick’s shoulders slump, anger flickering into something raw and ugly.
“I needed space,” he says. “I told you that.”
“And I gave it to you.”
“You lectured me for an hour first!”
“Because you nearly compromised your dynamic on patrol.”
“I handled it.”
“You got lucky.”
Dick steps forward despite himself. “You don’t trust me.”
Bruce’s hands curl at his sides.
“I trust you with my life,” Bruce says. “I do not trust the world with yours . Or With you.”
Dick shakes his head. “You don’t get it.”
“Then explain it to me.”
Dick hesitates.
The image flashes unbidden Slade sitting beside him, calm, unafraid. The peach. The knife.
The scent.
Bruce sees the hesitation.
His voice drops. “Who,” Bruce repeats, “was with you.”
Dick opens his mouth.Closes it. “…..Someone,” he admits. “Briefly.”
Bruce goes very still. “Define briefly.”
“We talked,” Dick says. “That’s it.”
Bruce steps closer again before he can stop himself.
“And this someone,” he says carefully, “was an alpha.”
Dick’s eyes snap up.
Bruce doesn’t wait for the answer. “Who,” he says, low and dangerous, “was it.”
Dick’s pulse pounds in his ears.
“…Slade.”
Silence crashes down between them.
Bruce
Everything inside Bruce goes cold. Slade Wilson.
Mercenary. Strategist. Alpha.
A man who would notice. Who would test. Who would exploit.Bruce’s breathing stays controlled. His thoughts do not.
“You were alone,” Bruce says, voice dangerously calm, “with Slade Wilson.”
“He didn’t touch me,” Dick says immediately. “Not like that.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“He didn’t know,” Dick insists. “He thinks I’m ..he thinks I haven’t presented.”
Bruce closes his eyes for half a second.
When he opens them, there is something cracked there.
“And you believed that,” he says quietly.
Dick falters. “I..”
Bruce steps back.
“Your blocker was removed,” Bruce says. “Briefly.”
Dick’s blood runs cold.
“…What?”
Bruce watches the realization hit. The horror.
“I can smell it,” Bruce says. “He knows.”
Dick’s stomach drops. “No,” he whispers. “He wouldn’t”
“He would,” Bruce says. “And he did.”
Dick presses his hands into his hair, pacing.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “I didn’t feel it. I was drunk”
“That,” Bruce snaps, “is the problem.”
Dick spins. “Stop talking to me like I’m a mistake!”
Bruce flinches.
The silence that follows is heavy, brittle.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce says finally. “That was not”
“But that’s what you’re thinking,” Dick says hoarsely. “That I fucked up. That I proved you right.”
Bruce looks at him really looks at the grief still clinging to him, the exhaustion, the teenager buried under responsibility.
“I am thinking,” Bruce says, “that someone dangerous now has information about you that I cannot take back.”
Dick’s voice breaks despite himself.
“I just wanted one night where I wasn’t Robin,” he says. “Or an omega. Or your responsibility.”
Bruce steps forward and places a hand on his shoulder.
Instinctively scenting
“You are my..son,” Bruce says. “That will never stop being my responsibility.”
Dick nods, swallowing hard. “I know,” he says. “I just wish it didn’t feel like a cage.”
Bruce doesn’t answer.
Because he doesn’t know how to argue with that.
Dick
It doesn’t hit him right away.That’s the worst part.
Dick finishes the shower on autopilot, scrubs rain and wine and graveyard dirt off his skin until it’s raw. He changes. He eats half a protein bar and abandons it. He answers Alfred with something polite and empty.
He lies on his bed and stares at the ceiling.
And then He let me go. The thought slips in sideways.
Slade could have done something. That’s the problem. That’s the rot at the center of it.Dick sits up sharply, breath hitching.
Slade noticed the blocker. Slade smelled something off. Slade’s not stupid not careless, not sentimental. A man like that doesn’t miss details. He catalogues them.
Which means
“He knew,” Dick whispers to the empty room.
Or at least suspected enough to test it.
And still let him sleep. Still put the blocker back.
Didn’t take adva…..Still walked away.
Dick presses his palms into his eyes until he sees sparks.That’s worse than violence.
Because violence, he understands. Violence has rules. Violence means enemy.
This was mercy. Or restraint Or calculation.
And Dick hates all three.
His chest tightens, something sharp and furious crawling up his spine.
Was I a liability, he thinks. Or a child.
Neither answer sits right.
If Slade had seen him as prey, something fragile and omegasoft, Dick would’ve felt it. He knows what that feels like. The way some alphas’ attention slides, sticky and possessive.Take.
Slade hadn’t done that.Which means Slade had made a decision.
Dick swings his legs off the bed and paces.
“Would you treat me different now?” he mutters. “Is that it?”
That’s the part that makes his stomach churn.
Not fear ..resentment. He doesn’t want to be spared.
He doesn’t want to be handled gently, classified differently, filed under don’t touch.
He wants to be dangerous.
Equal.Untouchable.
And the idea that Slade Wilson of all people might now see him as something that needs managing makes Dick’s skin crawl.
He stops pacing, jaw clenched.
You don’t get to decide who I am, he thinks viciously. Not you. Not Bruce. Not anyone.
But the doubt lingers anyway, quiet and relentless.
Because Slade didn’t act.
And that means next time, he might.
Slade
The safehouse door seals behind him with a soft mechanical click.
Slade removes his gloves first. Habit. Then the jacket. Then the weapons, laid out with methodical precision on the steel table.
Everything is exactly where it should be.
Except his thoughts.
Robin is a problem.
That’s the conclusion he arrives at after fifteen minutes of silence and a glass of water he doesn’t drink.
Not because the kid is weak. Because he isn’t.
Slade leans back against the counter, eyes unfocused.
Omega.
The realization still sits wrong in his chest.
Not disappointing that implies expectation.
Inconvenient.
Robin doesn’t fit the pattern. Too fast. Too reckless. Too stubbornly competent. An omega surviving Gotham at night under Batman’s watch should be impossible.
And yet.
Batman wouldn’t let him out if
Slade exhales through his nose. Except Batman did.
Which means Batman is either a fool
or Robin is protected to a degree Slade hadn’t fully accounted for.
Either way, it complicates things.Slade replays the night clinically.
The wine. The slurred words. The way Robin talked about omegas defensive without realizing it. The blocker humming too loud, trying too hard.
And then the scent.
Sweet. Sticky.Young.
Slade’s jaw tightens.He hadn’t taken advantage.
Not because of morality.Because of escalation.
Touching an omega under Batman’s protection isn’t a personal risk it’s a strategic one. It changes the board. Forces responses. Invites obsession.
Slade doesn’t need that.
What unsettles him is the flicker of instinct he’d shut down instead the alpha reflex to shield, to remove danger, to stay.
That, he doesn’t like at all.
Robin as an unknown variable had been manageable. Irritating, even amusing.
Robin as an omega is leverage.
For others. And therefore a liability for Slade.
He straightens, already adjusting the mental file.
No unnecessary proximity.
No scent exposure.
No physical contact unless unavoidable.
And yet Slade pauses, fingers tightening briefly against the counter.
The kid hadn’t asked for protection. Hadn’t begged. Hadn’t frozen. Had trusted him not to do anything.
That kind of trust is dangerous.
Slade doesn’t deal in things that invite attachment not anymore.
He finishes securing the safehouse, lights dimming automatically.
Robin is still an enemy. But now he’s an enemy Slade has to account for differently.
And Slade Wilson hates variables he didn’t choose. Bruce
Bruce doesn’t sleep.
He stands in the Cave long before dawn, cowl off, staring at a tactical display he isn’t really seeing.
Robin.
Slade Wilson.
Gotham Cemetery.
A scent discrepancy that shouldn’t exist.
He replays it again, slower this time.
Grayson had trusted Slade not to do anything.
Bruce’s jaw tightens.
Trust is leverage. Trust is exposure. Trust is how people get hurt.
And the worst part .He was drunk. He couldve done ..
Bruce closes his eyes briefly, forcing the thought down before it metastasizes.
No. Spiral later. Act now.
He brings up Robin’s patrol logs, cross references Slade’s known movement patterns. Contracts Adjusts overlap probabilities. Red lines certain sectors. Alters call-response windows by seconds not enough for Dick to notice, enough to matter.
New protocol drafts quietly populate the system.
No solo patrols in cemetery districts after midnight.
No prolonged stationary downtime in unsecured locations.Mandatory blocker integrity checks every four hours.Automatic recall if Wilson is detected within five blocks.
Bruce doesn’t label them because of Slade.
He never does.
That would invite questions.
Still, the image won’t leave him: dick asleep in the rain, trusting the wrong man to walk away.
Bruce exhales slowly through his nose.
Never again, he thinks not as a vow, but as an operational necessity.
Footsteps echo on the stairs.Bruce doesn’t turn.
He already knows it’s Dick.
Dick
The Cave hits him like cold water.
Not literally scent wise.
Bruce is restless. Dick knows the difference. Anger is sharp, metallic. This is tighter. Coiled. Controlled too hard.
Guilt curls low in Dick’s stomach.
He messed up. He knows that. Knows it in the way Bruce won’t say out loud.
Dick approaches anyway, boots light against stone.
“I’m heading out,” he says, voice steady. “Wally texted. Titans have an incident in Keystone.”
Bruce finally looks over his shoulder.
“Where are you going?”
Dick blinks. Not because of the question but the tone. Flat. Neutral. Too neutral.
“With the Titans,” he repeats. “Just”
Bruce exhales, running a hand through his hair. The motion looks tired. Older than usual.
“…….Go,” Bruce says. “But check your blocker first.”
Dick stiffens. “I did.”
“Check it again.”
There it is. The quiet edge.Dick swallows. “Bruce”
“No,” Bruce cuts in, harshly. Final. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”
That almost makes it worse.
Dick stands there, unsure what to do with his hands, his weight shifting.
Silence stretches.
Bruce remains seated, staring at a screen Dick can’t see.
“I’ll… head out,” Dick says finally.
Bruce rises.Dick feels it before he sees it the decision settling.
He doesn’t resist.
He tilts his head, exposes his neck without being asked.
Bruce steps close.The scenting is firm, deliberate. Longer than usual.
Grounding. Claiming. Checking.
Dick exhales despite himself, irritation threading through the comfort.
“You’re scenting me more than usual,” he mutters.
Bruce grunts softly, not denying it.
“Things change,” Bruce says. “I adjust.”
That’s all.No explanation. No accusation.
Just facts.
Bruce runs his callused hand through dick hair to his neck . Bruce steps back, already turning away.
Dick stands there for a second longer, chest tight, then pulls his mask back on.
As he launches toward the exit, one thought gnaws at him harder than the guilt:
Bruce knows Slade knows.And whatever that means
Bruce has already moved three steps ahead.
Dick
The Cave always smells like oil, stone, ozone.
Tonight, there’s something wrong with it.
Dick knows before he even lands.
It hits the back of his throat first faint, metallic, forestcold. Not old. Not lingering the way memories linger.
Recent.Another alpha.His stomach twists.
He drops from the ledge without a sound, boots hitting concrete, eyes already tracking the Batcomputer. Bruce is there, exactly where he always is, shoulders squared, posture neutral the picture of control.
But the air around him is wrong.
Slade.
Dick’s ears burn. Heat crawls up his neck, sharp and humiliating.
Did he meet him?
Did he tell him to back off?
Did he think he had to fight my fight for me?
The thought lands like a slap.He’s not a child. He hasn’t been for a long time.Bruce doesn’t turn. He doesn’t need to.
Dick feels it Bruce notes his scent the same instant he arrived. Sweet, yes, but threaded with anger, sharp as cracked glass. Displeasure. Hurt.
“You met him,” Dick says.
Not a question.Bruce’s fingers still on the keyboard.
“Yes.”
That single word detonates.
Dick laughs once ugly, incredulous. “Unbelievable.”
Bruce turns then, slowly, measured.
“He was already here.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is,” Bruce says calmly. Too calmly. “Because it means I didn’t seek him out.”
“You still talked to him.”
“I set boundaries.”
Dick steps forward. “You don’t get to do that for me.”
Bruce’s jaw tightens. His scent shifts not aggressive, but strained, reins pulled too tight.
“You were drunk,” Bruce says. “In costume. With an enemy.”
Dick’s hands clench. “I handled it.”
“You fell asleep.”
“So what?” Dick snaps. “I was grieving.”
“A vulnerable omega “
There it is.
That word.
Dick feels it like a cage slamming shut.
“I don’t need you deciding when I’m vulnerable.”
Bruce’s voice stays even, but there’s steel under it now. “You don’t get to decide when the world exploits it.”
They’re close enough now that Dick can feel Bruce’s alpha presence pushing without touching not dominance, not quite. Instinct restrained by discipline.
It makes Dick want to scream.
“You think I don’t know the risks?” Dick says. “You think I don’t live them every day?”
Bruce doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, it’s quieter. “I think you underestimate how fast they compound.”
Dick shakes his head. “No. I think you underestimate me.”
Bruce exhales slowly. His scent sharpens displeased, controlled, heavy with something dangerously close to fear.
“I had to take responsibility” Bruce says.
Dick freezes.
“What?”
“You’re under me ” Bruce clarifies. “ I’m your alpha whether you agree with it or not ”
That does it.
“So you confronted him,” Dick says. “Not me. Him.”
“Yes.”
“You went behind my back.”
“I went in front of a problem.”
“I am not a problem,” Dick snaps. “And I am not your responsibility .”
Bruce steps closer. The Cave feels smaller.
“You are my responsibility.”
Dick laughs again, bitter this time. “Funny. Because when it comes to my body, my future, suddenly I don’t get a vote.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?” Dick demands. “Because it feels like you don’t trust me.”
Bruce’s eyes darken. “I don’t trust him.”
“That’s convenient.”
Silence stretches, brittle.
Dick’s chest rises fast. The words come out before he can stop them sharp, reckless, honest.
“One day,” he says, voice hard, “I’m going to be with an alpha. Maybe more than one. And you don’t get to decide they’re unfit for me just because they scare you.”
The air changes instantly.
Bruce’s scent flares displeasure, ironhard restraint. Alpha instinct , possessive snapping tight like a locked jaw.
Dick’s own scent answers without permission anger, defiance, something wounded underneath.
Bruce’s voice drops.
“This isn’t about preference.”
“It’s about control,” Dick fires back. “You don’t like that I won’t stay where you put me.”
Bruce steps back not retreating, recalibrating.
“You’re sixteen teen,” Bruce says. “And the world doesn’t care how capable you are.”
“And you don’t care how suffocating you are,” Dick says.
That one lands.Bruce goes still. Too still.
For a second, Dick thinks he’s gone too far.
Then Bruce speaks low, measured, dangerous in its calm.
“You think this is about ownership,” Bruce says. “It’s about survival.”
Dick swallows. His voice shakes despite himself.
“I don’t want to survive in a cage.”
Their scents clash displeasure, grief, fear, love warped into sharp edges.
Bruce turns back to the console.
The argument doesn’t resolve. It never does.
“Get some rest,” Bruce says. “We’ll revisit patrol parameters tomorrow.”
Dick stares at him, chest tight, throat burning.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “You always do.”
He turns away before Bruce can scent him again.
Bruce (after)
Bruce stands alone in the Cave long after Dick leaves.
Slade’s scent is gone now burned out by time and recalculation but the damage lingers.
He trusts him, Bruce thinks grimly.
That’s the dangerous part.
Bruce runs a hand through his hair, jaw clenched.
Dick is right about one thing.
He can’t be controlled.
And Bruce doesn’t know whether that terrifies him more or the fact that someday, someone else will know it too.
The alley stinks.
Gun oil, blood that’s already going cold, cheap cologne, rain soaked trash. Dick’s knee presses into the spine of the second mob lieutenant as he cinches the zip tie tight.
“Don’t move,” he mutters automatically, though the man’s already unconscious.
His hands are steady. His breathing isn’t.
They finally cracked the case months of shell companies, trafficking routes, payoffs. Gotham doesn’t often give you clean endings, but this is as close as it gets.
Batman stands a few feet away, cape settling like a shadow that refuses to lift.
They wait.Sirens bleed into the night. Red and blue paint the alley walls.
Gordon arrives with half a dozen cops, trench coat already damp, cigarette unlit between his fingers.
“Hell of a mess,” Gordon says. “But it’s over.”
“For them,” Batman replies.
Dick steps back, scans the perimeter, habit more than instruction. He listens as Gordon and Batman go over details charges, evidence, the DA already salivating.
He hears it all.
What he feels is something else.
Heat. Sticky .a damp wet spot in his-…
Not the slow, internal kind. This is sharp crawling up the back of his neck, pooling under his hairline. His skin prickles like it’s warning him before his mind catches up.
Not now, he thinks. Please not now.
He rolls his shoulders subtly, tries to ignore it.
One of the cops finishes cuffing the mob bosses and laughs. “These two won’t see daylight again after what they pulled.”
Another cop younger, sharpereyed pauses mid step.
He inhales.
Dick’s stomach drops.
“you smell that?” the cop says.
Gordon frowns. “Smell what?”
The cop tilts his head, confused. “Is there uh. Is there an omega around?”
Silence snaps tight.
“Huh?” another officer says. “It’s just us.”
Dick freezes.He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
Across the alley, Batman’s head turns.Just a fraction.
Enough.Bruce’s eyes lock onto Dick’s neck.
Bruce
There.
The faint curl of sticky sweetness doesn’t belong in this alley.
Bruce feels it hit him a half second before the cop voices it that instinctive, visceral flare that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with protection. Possession.
His gaze drops to Dick’s collar.
The scent blocker is peeling. His skin is glistening
Not fully. Not obvious.But enough.
Goddammit.batman grits his teeth
Anger simmers not explosive, not wild. The kind that goes cold and sharp, honed by repetition.
How many times have I told him.
Bruce steps forward immediately, body angling just enough to place himself between Dick and the officers without it looking intentional. As he lets his own scent pool out overpowering dick stickly sweet scent
“There isn’t,” Batman says evenly. “Residual from a previous site.”
The cop hesitates. “You sure? I could’ve sworn”
“Yes,” Batman cuts in.
Firm. Final.
Gordon watches him carefully now.
Bruce reaches out casual, controlled and grips Robin’s shoulder.
“On the roof,” Batman murmurs, low enough only Dick can hear.Dick nods once.
Too stiff.too euphoric
They move.
Dick
The second they hit the rooftop, Bruce releases him then immediately pulls him back in, hand firm at the base of Dick’s neck.
a scenting. A check.
Bruce’s fingers brush the edge of the blocker. Feel the adhesive failing.the sweat on his neck
Dick’s face burns.breathe hitches leaning into bruce large hand
“I checked it before patrol,” Dick says defensively breathless
“Clearly not well enough,” Bruce replies quietly
His voice isn’t loud.That’s worse.
Dick shrugs out of his grip. “It’s fine. It barely”
“A cop noticed,” Bruce snaps quietly. “That means it’s not fine.”
“I handled it.”
“ I’ve handled it” Bruce says.
That lands wrong.
Dick turns, jaw tight. “I didn’t ask you to.”
Bruce exhales through his nose, controlled but edged.
“This isn’t about asking. This is about containment.”
Dick scoffs. “You say that like I’m a breach.”
“You are,” Bruce says bluntly. “When you’re leaking .”
Dick’s heat spikes anger, humiliation, something bitter under it.
“I am not,” Dick says. “I fought a mob war tonight.”
“And you did it brilliantly,” Bruce counters. “That doesn’t negate the risk.” As he garbs robins neck more harder
Gordon’s voice carries faintly from below, shouting orders.
Dick lowers his voice. “You embarrassed me.”
Bruce stiffens. “I protected you.”
“You made it obvious,” Dick shoots back. “You stepped in like…like…”. “Like what?”
“Like I’m a child ,” Dick says. “Like I can’t stand in a room without you shielding me.”
Bruce’s eyes darken. “You can’t,” he says quietly. “Not without precautions.” “ not smelling like ..like this and you know it “
Dick laughs once, sharp and humorless. “God. You sound just like them.”
“That’s unfair.”
“Is it?” Dick demands. “Because every time someone smells me, suddenly I’m a liability instead of a partner.”
Bruce’s jaw tightens. His scent shifts displeased, restrained, threaded with fear he refuses to let surface.
“You are both,” Bruce says. “And pretending otherwise gets you hurt.”
Dick steps back, chest tight. And try’s to get out of bruce’s grip but by doing that he leans in more
“You don’t trust me.”
Bruce’s voice drops. “I don’t trust the others.”
Silence stretches between them, loud with unsaid things.Bruce finally reaches into his belt and tosses Dick a fresh blocker.
“Change it,” he says sternly . “Now.”
Dick catches it shakily,fingers curling tight around the small device.
He doesn’t put it on immediately.
Instead, he looks at Bruce really looks at him and says, quietly but sharply
“One day, you’re not going to be there to step in.”
Bruce doesn’t answer.
Because they both know that’s the truth that keeps him awake.
Dick applies the blocker, the familiar numbness settling over his skin.
The roof smells like nothing again.
Which somehow feels worse.
(Two weeks later)
Bruce
Bruce does not replay the night out of guilt.
He replays it because pattern recognition saves lives.
The alley: angle of light, humidity level, how the scent bloomed wrong too early, too strong . The cop’s pause. The inhale. The question.
One second longer and it wouldn’t have mattered how calm Bruce sounded.
One second longer and it would have been a report. A rumor. A problem that metastasizes.
People use information. Gotham eats weakness and calls it justice.
Bruce’s hands rest flat on the Batcomputer console. He hasn’t moved in several minutes.
Behind him, footsteps.
Lighter now. No armor. No boots.
Dick.
Bruce doesn’t turn. He already knows the cadence.
“I’m heading over to Donna’s,” Dick says casually, already halfway down the stairs. “I’ll be back late.”
“No,” Bruce says.
The word lands heavier than he intends.
Dick stops.Turns slowly.
“…we need to talk,” Bruce adds.
Dick exhales, long and theatrical, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Jesus. How many times have we had this talk?”
“As many as it takes,” Bruce replies.
Dick laughs once, incredulous. “That’s not an answer.”
Bruce turns now. Takes him in properly. No suit. Damp hair. Tension sitting sharp in his shoulders.
“You were seconds away,” Bruce says. “Seconds.”
“And nothing happened,” Dick fires back. “You handled it.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It kind of is,” Dick snaps. “You stepped in. You always do.”
Bruce stiffens. “You’re missing the danger.”
“No, I’m not,” Dick says. “I just refuse to pretend it’s the end of the world.”
Bruce steps closer. “If the wrong person finds out”
“They won’t,” Dick interrupts. “And even if they do, so what? I’m still me. I still fight. I still”
“You don’t mean that,” Bruce says quietly.
Dick falters.Just for a beat.
“…I don’t,” he admits, softer. “But it’s exhausting pretending like I’m made of glass.”
Silence stretches between them, thick and fragile.
Dick shifts his weight. “Can I go to Donna’s?”
Bruce studies him. The heat in his scent has settled, but the anger hasn’t. Neither has the need to flee.
They stare at each other.
Finally, Bruce says, “Be careful.”
Dick nods once.Then pauses.
“You always scent me,” Dick says suddenly.
Bruce stills.
“Donna’s pointed it out,” Dick continues. “Roy too. I basically smell like you.”
Bruce says nothing. “They want to smell me,” Dick says. “They’re my friends.”
Bruce’s jaw tightens. “I used to think you liked it.”
Dick scoffs. “Yeah. When I was twelve.”
Bruce’s voice is immediate. “No. When you were fourteen a year ago .”
That lands.Dick’s ears flush red instantly. He looks away.
“That was a year ago,” Dick mutters.
Bruce steps closer. “And it mattered.”
“Things change,” Dick says.
Bruce frowns. “Do they?”
Dick looks back at him then really looks. Sees the line between Bruce’s brows, the restraint coiled tight under his skin.
For a moment, guilt flickers through him.
“…I didn’t mean it like that,” Dick says. “I just”
“You want space,” Bruce finishes.
“Yes,” Dick says. “And I don’t want it to feel like I’m betraying you when I take it.”
Bruce exhales slowly.
He understands that feeling too well.
Dick reaches up and peels off his scent blocker, tossing it onto the console with a soft clatter.
He sighs, dramatic but tired. “Fine. Go ahead. Drown me in your scent.”
Bruce’s mouth tightens. “I don’t drown you.”
Dick smirks faintly. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Bruce steps into him anyway.Not aggressive. Not claiming.
Just close.prominent
He scents Dick carefully controlled,heavy , the way he always does. A grounding touch. A quiet promise.
Dick closes his eyes despite himself leans in breaths in bruce own scent
“…you know,” Dick says, voice softer now, “sometimes it feels like you’re trying to keep me small so nothing can touch me.”
Bruce pulls back just enough to look at him.
“I’m trying to keep you alive,” he says.
Dick opens his eyes. “I am alive,” he replies.
They stand there, scent mingling, neither winning, neither willing to let go first.
Eventually, Dick steps back.
“I’ll text when I get there,” he says.
Bruce nods.
Dick hesitates at the stairs, then adds, quieter, “I don’t hate that you care.”
Bruce doesn’t answer.
Because caring has never been the problem.
Dick barely makes it through the door before Donna notices it.
Not the argument he always argues with Bruce.
It’s the after.
He drops his boots by the door harder than necessary, shoulders tight, jaw set like he’s bracing for impact that never came. His scent is unsettled Bruce’s grounding still clinging to him, but frayed at the edges.
Donna doesn’t say anything at first. She just locks the door behind him and leans against it, arms crossed.
“You argued with him?” she asks calmly.
Dick tosses his jacket over a chair. “We always fight.”
Donna hums. “Yeah. But this was the kind where you pretend you’re fine and then drink three glasses of alcohol like it’s going to fix something.”
He shoots her a look. “I did not”
“You did,” she says. “I can smell it.”
He groans and flops onto her couch, sprawling dramatically. “God, I hate you all.”
Donna smiles faintly and moves to the kitchen, grabbing him a glass anyway. She hands it over, then sits across from him, one knee tucked under her.
“So,” she says. “What was it this time?”
Dick stares at the ceiling. “He thinks I’m reckless.”
Donna snorts. “Shocking.”
“He thinks I’m going to get myself exposed,” Dick continues. “Like I’m some walking liability.”
“And?” she prompts.
“And I’m tired,” he snaps. “I’m tired of being treated like I don’t know my own limits.”
Donna studies him. “Did your scent blocker slip again?”
Dick hesitates.Just a fraction too long.
Donna sighs. “Dick.”
“Yes,” he mutters. “But nothing happened like always.
“Something almost happened,” she corrects gently. “And that’s what he’s reacting to.”
Dick sits up, frustrated. “You always take his side.”
“I don’t,” Donna says. “I just don’t take only yours.”
He scoffs. “He scents me like I’m twelve . Like I’m still his responsibility.”
Donna gestures vaguely at herself. “Roy. Wally. Me.”
He blinks. “What?”
“We scent you constantly when you’re with us,” she says plainly.
“That’s different,” Dick says automatically.
Donna raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”
He opens his mouth then closes it.
She leans forward slightly. “You think just because we’re younger , it doesn’t come from the same place?”
Dick frowns. “You make it sound…”
“Uncomfortable?” she supplies.
He exhales. “Yeah.”
“It’s not,” Donna says. “It’s instinct. Protection. Territorial nonsense we pretend we’ve mastered but haven’t.”
She softens, her voice quieter. “We’re alphas, Dick. We don’t turn that off just because we’re your friends.”
Dick runs a hand through his hair. “You don’t do it like he does.”
Donna tilts her head. “Because Bruce doesn’t pretend.”
That lands heavier than Dick expects.
She continues, “He doesn’t dress it up. Doesn’t laugh it off. He feels it and acts accordingly.”
Dick looks away. “That doesn’t make it fair.”
“No,” Donna agrees. “It makes it honest.”
She pauses, then adds, “You remember Santa Prisca?”
Dick grimaces. “Why would you bring that up?”
“The mission where your blocker almost failed,” she says. “When Roy scented you so thoroughly Wally complained you smelled like a bonfire for two days.”
Dick groans, face in his hands. “That was one time.”
“It was enough,” Donna replies. “Roy didn’t even realize he was doing it until I shoved him.”
“And Wally?” Dick mutters.
“Followed suit,” she says dryly. “Speedster instincts. Overkill.”
Dick peeks at her. “You didn’t say anything.”
“I didn’t need to,” Donna says. “You were already embarrassed. And they were already horrified once they realized.”
She studies him carefully. “Bruce just doesn’t get to be horrified after the fact. He lives there.”
Dick’s voice drops. “He met Slade.”
Donna stiffens instantly. “What?”
“He didn’t tell me,” Dick says. “I smelled it.”
Her expression sharpens. “And you’re mad at him?”
“I’m mad at everything,” Dick snaps. “I’m mad that Slade knows. I’m mad that Bruce thinks he has to fix it alone. I’m mad that no matter what I do, I’m still someone people feel entitled to protect.”
Donna reaches out and grips his wrist, grounding.
She squeezes once, then lets go.
“You’re allowed to want autonomy,” she says. “And Bruce is allowed to be afraid.”
Dick laughs bitterly. “He’s always afraid.”
“Yeah,” Donna says quietly. “Because losing you would destroy him.”
Dick falls silent.
His scent eases, just a little.
“…I wish instincts came with an off switch,” he mutters.
Donna smiles sadly. “If they did, none of us would be heroes.”
She stands and gestures down the hall. “Guest room’s made up. Stay as long as you need.”
Dick nods. “Thanks.”
As he passes her, she adds softly, “For what it’s worth? Bruce isn’t trying to cage you.”
He pauses.
“He’s just terrified someone else will.”
Dick swallows.
And for the first time that night, he doesn’t have a comeback.
The knock comes an hour later.Not polite. Not hesitant.
Familiar.
Donna doesn’t even look surprised when she opens the door. Roy Harper is already halfway inside before she can say anything, rain jacket half zipped, bag careless over one shoulder. Wally follows, damp hair sticking up in places, eyes sharp despite the grin he’s trying to wear.
“There you are,” Roy says, zeroing in on Dick instantly. “You vanished.”
Wally tilts his head, already scenting. “You okay?”
Dick barely has time to answer before it happens.
Roy steps closer, claps a hand on Dick’s shoulder firm, grounding. Wally crowds in on the other side, presence warm and familiar. Their scents roll over him without conscious thought: Roy’s sharp and sun-warmed, like cedar and bow oil; Wally’s bright and electric, ozone cider
Pack.
Automatic. Comforting.
Dick exhales before he realizes he’s been holding his breath.
And then he stiffens.Because he feels it now.
Not just comfort. Not just familiarity.
Coverage.
Donna watches from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, saying nothing.
Roy squints. “You smell… off.”
Wally frowns. “Did Bruce scent you again?”
Dick laughs, short and humorless. “Yeah. He always does.”
Roy’s mouth twists. “Figures.”
“That’s not” Dick starts, then stops himself.
He pulls back, just enough to breathe without being bracketed by them.
Both alphas immediately react.
Roy’s brows knit. “What’s wrong?”
Wally’s scent shifts concern sharpening into something tighter. “Did something happen?”
Dick hesitates.
Donna steps in calmly. “Sit down.”
They do. All three of them, clustered around the living room like it’s a debrief instead of an emotional minefield.
Dick stares at the floor for a long moment.
Then: “Slade knows.”
Silence.Not shock. Danger.
Roy’s scent spikes first anger, hot and unkempt . “Knows what.”
Wally goes very still scent unpleasant . “Knows how.”
Dick swallows. “A month ago. Cemetery. I was” He exhales. “I drank. I shouldn’t have. I know that. He found me after a contract.”
Roy snaps, “You were alone?”
“Yes,” Dick says sharply. “And no, nothing happened.”
Wally leans forward. “Then how”
“He figured it out,” Dick says. “My scent blocker peeled while I was asleep.”
Roy’s chair scrapes back an inch. “And you didn’t wake up?”
Dick’s jaw tightens. “I was exhausted.”
“That’s not an answer,” Roy says, too fast.
Donna’s eyes flick to him.
Wally’s voice is quieter, but worse. “Did he touch you.”
Dick looks up, eyes flashing. “No… no of course not..”
Roy exhales hard through his nose. “Why would you let your guard down around him.”
Something ugly coils in Dick’s chest.
“I didn’t let him,” he snaps. “I didn’t even know he was still there.”
Wally’s scent surges protective, sharp. “You shouldn’t have been drinking.”
Roy nods immediately. “Yeah. That was stupid.”
Donna straightens. “Careful.”
But it’s already tipping.
Dick feels it the shift from concern to control, instinct overriding empathy.
“He’s Slade Wilson,” Roy continues, pacing now. “You don’t get casual around someone like that.”
Dick stands abruptly. “I know who he is.”
“Then act like it,” Roy fires back.
Wally adds, “Bruce would’ve killed him.”
The room goes very still.
Dick laughs once. “Bruce didn’t even know until later.”
Roy freezes. “What.”
“He smelled it on me,” Dick says. “After.” Wally’s eyes widen. “And you didn’t tell him?”
“I didn’t have to,” Dick snaps. “He already knew.”
Roy’s scent turns heavy, oppressive. “That’s worse.”
Donna cuts in. “Roy—”
“No,” Roy says, voice tight. “That’s dangerous.”
Dick rounds on him. “You don’t get to say that like I don’t already know.”
Roy steps closer without thinking.
Wally mirrors him.
Two alphas. Closing distance. Blocking exits.
Dick feels it then not comfort. Pressure.
His pulse spikes. “Back off.”
Neither of them realizes they haven’t moved.
Donna’s voice cracks like a whip. “Both of you. Now.”
They stop.
Roy blinks, looking down like he’s just realized where his feet are. “I—”
Wally swallows. “Shit.”
Dick’s hands are clenched at his sides. His scent flares distress threaded with anger.
“You hear yourselves?” Dick says quietly. “You sound just like him.”
Roy’s face twists. “We’re not trying to”
“I know,” Dick says. “That’s the problem.”
He gestures between them. “You don’t mean to. Neither does Bruce.”
Donna steps closer to Dick, placing herself deliberately at his side. “This is what I was telling you.”
Roy drags a hand down his face. “We’re just worried.”
“And that makes it okay?” Dick asks. “To decide what I should’ve done. What I’m allowed to survive.”
Wally looks sick. “We’re sixteen,” he says weakly. “We don’t know how to..”
“Control it,” Dick finishes. “Yeah. I know.”
Silence stretches.
Roy’s voice drops. “Did Slade threaten you.”
Dick shakes his head. “No.”
“Then why are you this upset,” Roy asks carefully.
Dick exhales. “Because he didn’t.”
That lands.
“He let me go,” Dick continues. “Didn’t use it. Didn’t say a word.”
Wally whispers, “That’s worse.”
“Exactly,” Dick says. “Because now I don’t know what it means.”
Donna watches him, something like pride and worry tangled together her scent pooling around dick protectively
Roy steps back this time conscious, deliberate. “We shouldn’t have crowded you.”
Wally nods. “Yeah…Sorry.”
Dick’s shoulders sag slightly. “I’m not mad you care.”
He looks at them. “I’m mad that caring keeps turning into control.”
Roy meets his eyes. “We’ll do better.”
Donna adds quietly, “You have to practice not acting on instinct.” Wally grimaces. “Great. Homework.”
Dick almost smiles.
Almost. But the unease doesn’t leave.Because now he knows.
Bruce isn’t the only one who would cage him if fear got loud enough.
And Slade
Slade didn’t.
Which somehow feels the most dangerous of all…
Bruce
The manor is awake before the sun fully clears the treeline.
Bruce has been in his study for hours. He slept for a few hours hasn’t truly slept since dick finally presented since the scent on Dick’s neck had gone thin at exactly the wrong moment. He’s reread case files he already knows by heart. Adjusted patrol algorithms that don’t need adjusting. Rewritten protocols he knows Dick will resent if he ever notices.
The grandfather clock ticks.
Control is discipline. Discipline is survival.
He smells dick before he sees him light steps on marble, familiar cadence, a rhythm Bruce has catalogued since the boy was eight years old and pretending not to limp after training.
The doorframe fills.
“Morning,” Dick says.Too casual.
Bruce looks up slowly.
“Morning,” he answers.
And then it hits him. Not Dick’s scent not at first.
Others.
Roy’s sharp, sun-dry presence, restless and blunt. Wally’s electric trace, donna heavy lilac scent softer but threaded through the same space. Fresh. Not masked. Not diluted.
Dick smells like a pack.
Bruce’s jaw tightens before he can stop it.
He schools his expression immediately, but his instincts have already reacted alpha reflex, old and brutal, a spike of possessive irritation he buries under layers of training and reason.
Friends, he reminds himself. Teenagers. Alphas with poor control and too much affection.
Still
“You slept at Donna’s,” Bruce says.
Dick blinks. “Yeah.”
Not defensive. Not hiding.
Bruce nods once. “How is she.”
“Fine,” Dick says, then hesitates. “Worried. Like always.” Bruce hums in acknowledgment, eyes returning briefly to the computer more to give himself time
The scent lingers.
He doesn’t comment on it. He never has.
He remembers being sixteen and smelling like a dozen different people because no one had taught him restraint yet. Because no one had cared enough to.
That thought stills something sharp in his chest.
“You eat?” Bruce asks.
Dick shrugs. “Kinda.”
Bruce exhales quietly. “Alfred made eggs.”
“I’ll grab some in a minute.”
Bruce nods again.Silence settles but not comfortably.
The room feels smaller with Dick standing there, smelling like other alphas, like reassurance Bruce didn’t authorize but understands anyway.
He forces himself to ask, evenly, “Did anything happen last night.”
Dick stiffens. Bruce catches it instantly.
“No,” Dick says, too quickly. Then sighs. “I mean ..no. Nothing bad.”
Bruce turns fully now, chair creaking faintly. “That wasn’t the question.”
Dick runs a hand through his hair. “Roy freaked out a little. Wally too. Donna was the only sensible one.”
Bruce’s mouth tightens despite himself.
“About.”
Dick meets his eyes. Holds them. “Me.”
Of course.Bruce leans back, steepling his fingers. “And how did that make you feel.”
Dick snorts softly. “Like I was twelve again.”
The words land heavier than Dick probably intends.
Bruce looks away for half a second.
“I’m sorry,” he says not reflexively, not defensively. Just honest.
Dick blinks. “Huh.”
Bruce continues, voice measured. “They care. That doesn’t excuse poor control.”
Dick nods. “Donna said the same thing.”
“She would.” Another pause.
Bruce debates scenting him. His instincts itch at the thought Dick’s neck bare, unguarded after a night steeped in other alphas’ presence. The urge is there, heavy and grounding and wrong to indulge without consent.
He doesn’t move.
Instead, he says, “You smell like them.”
Dick grimaces. “Yeah. Donna pointed that out too.”
Bruce studies him. “Does it bother you.”
Dick hesitates. “Not usually.”
“But today.”
Dick shrugs. “Today it just… made me think.”
About cages. About lines. About how protection and possession can wear the same face.
Bruce nods slowly. “Thinking is good.”
Dick huffs a laugh. “You say that until I think too much.”
Bruce allows himself the ghost of a smile.
“Breakfast,” he says again, softer this time.
Dick nods. “Yeah. Okay.”
He turns to leave, then stops in the doorway.
“Bruce?”
“Yes.”
Dick hesitates, then says, “I know you worry because you love me.”
Bruce’s chest tightens.
“I just..”Dick exhales. “Sometimes it feels like everyone does. And I don’t know where to put that.”
Bruce considers him for a long moment.
Then: “You don’t have to put it anywhere today.”
Dick nods once, grateful and frustrated all at once.
As he leaves, Bruce sits back in his chair.
The scents linger.
And for the first time, Bruce realizes truly realizes that he isn’t the only alpha shaping Dick’s world anymore.
That should be a relief.
Instead, it feels like another variable he can’t fully control.
And Bruce Wayne has never liked losing control.