Chapter Text
[Tim] urgent
[Tim] urgent
[Tim] urgent
[Cass] ?
[Cass] What happened?
[Tim] ok not THAT urgent
[Tim] in a board meeting with mom, and everyone's looking at him. this is so weird
[Cass] Oh no…
[Tim] all your fault BTW. fix this!!!
Bruce was never one to force company duties onto his children. He wouldn't ask for any of his pups to follow in his footsteps as CEO, though he would definitely reach out a helping hand if they showed interest.
Tim has no interest in being CEO. Tim likes skateboarding and solving mysteries. He enjoys bothering his siblings and hanging out with his friends. He spends his days as an above-average middle school student and his nights as Robin. Well, not really. Robin and Batgirl haven't been easy subjects to talk about, not since the last one. Tim doesn't like to think about Jason. Neither does Bruce.
Today, everyone he knows is preoccupied, summer vacation has left him without anything to keep him busy, and Robin is still an off-limits work in progress, leaving Tim senselessly bored at home. It's too silent at home when it gets like this—there's a faint smell of something lacking in the air, like there's something missing, and everyone knows what it is but won't talk about it. When Bruce had said he was leaving for WE, Tim took the opportunity to get out of their haunted house and tagged along.
Ignoring overwhelming feelings is pretty easy when you tack on responsibility after responsibility until work is the only thing you can think about. It's not a good answer, but it's one nonetheless. Tim and his mother know this dance quite well, and because of that, they sometimes have to look out for each other. They're the only omegas in the family, after all. Bruce always said that Tim reminds him most of himself, which is why a scent of pride surrounds him whenever Tim asks about the company. He's secretly elated at the thought of passing down one of America's biggest brand names to an omegan successor, but he'll never admit it. He doesn't have to—Tim knows.
That same pride circulates around the two of them as Bruce drives, a minuscule smile on his face that's still too bright for such an early morning. It's not that Tim wants to be CEO, but he also doesn't want to disappoint his mother, especially when there's not much that makes him smile these days. The meetings might bore him to insanity, but his mere presence will keep his mom's spirits up. He'll lean into his actual penchant for improving programs that help Gotham from the inside out and crunching numbers like a sudoku puzzle. It's the only way he'd be able to tough it out.
The look on Bruce's face makes Tim smile, too. He looks so different when he's happy.
Bruce preens over him the second he parks, fixing Tim's hair with gentle hands and patting smooth any pleats in his haphazardly worn button-up. He even licks his thumb before rubbing away some impurity he found on Tim's face, to which Tim swats his hands away. He will let his mom fret over him for as long as he'd like, but that's where he draws the line, even if Bruce pouts at the rejection. He's fourteen now! Almost in high school, meaning he's not a pup anymore! If there's something on his face, he'll take care of it like a grown-up.
As he steps out of the car, he realizes the hidden motive behind Bruce's primping. The smell of loving, omegan mom completely envelops him, a sweet fragrance of fresh berries and coffee mixed with the undeniable scent of fondness. Bruce, a conniving and evil mother, if anyone were to ask Tim, doesn't even look ashamed. In fact, he looks proud of himself as he sticks on his own cervical scent blockers, openly refusing to offer Tim any because he wants the world to smell that his pup has been well cared for. Tim sighs and resigns. He's already here, so there isn't much turning back. Of course, he could always have Alfred pick him up—he could even call a cab or take the bus if he pleased—but he won't. A happy mom makes the rest of the pack bond beam, even when one thread is so blatantly missing.
This content demeanor doesn't fade as they walk through the parking garage and into the building. It doesn't disappear after they get into the elevator, and it's definitely still there when they reach the meeting room. Throughout it all, something is amiss. The man who held the door for them seemed breathless. Bruce's secretary stumbled over her words when she saw them. An intern who walked past was too busy looking their direction to notice that he was heading straight towards a wall. Everyone is staring at them—not them, just Bruce. Tim feels countless pairs of eyes turn to look in his direction, but upon inspection, none are trained on him. Not one board member even acknowledged him when they entered the room, their attention fixed on their boss.
"Guess this is typical for you," Tim whispers to his mom as they get settled in their seats at the head of the table. He hasn't spent much time in the office, but he can assume his mom gets many looks daily simply because of his position in the company.
"What do you mean?" Bruce whispers back, raising an eyebrow and turning to look at him. It's only then that Tim gets a good look at his mother's face. He has to do a double-take before it fully processes. There's a very clear reason why he felt as if the entire enterprise had been staring down his mother, and it's not just because he owns it.
Bruce is wearing makeup.
Not enough to be immediately noticeable, but definitely enough to accentuate what was already a natural beauty, leaving his employees stunned when they met him face-to-face. A simple rouge tint to his lips sits under a thin layer of gloss. His blue eyes contrast well with the dark mascara coating his lashes and the eyeliner tracing his waterline. Everything else is lost on Tim, however. Is that blush, or does Bruce's face normally redden in such a perfect way? Is he wearing highlighter, or is the light from the floor-to-ceiling windows hitting his face just right? He's even styled his hair, using product that gives it a tousled, intentionally wavy look. Bruce looks like a god, and if Tim didn't know better, he would think his mother is trying to impress someone at work.
Tim does know better, though. For starters, no cut-and-dry dullard in this room is deserving of even an afterthought from his mother, much less his time and attention. More importantly, this isn't the first time he's seen Bruce like this. Tim isn't sure exactly what happened that day, but it's easy enough to deduce that Cass is at fault. She probably complimented him on the look after doing his makeup, and Bruce had taken it to heart. Of course, he would've. Anyone with eyes can see that enhancing his features like this only brought him from a ten out of ten to a twenty out of ten. Bruce was already gorgeous before! Tim sends a quick text to Cass in complaint—because, how dare she do this to her favorite little brother?—before assessing the effect Bruce has on the room.
Had he known that walking in on his sister doing Bruce's eyeshadow a week ago would turn into this, Tim would've done something then to stop it. He didn't, so now he has to sit through a grueling experience of thirty people checking out his mother every time they think no one is looking. A tall man sitting with his back to the windows looks as if he's falling in love with how his mouth won't close—any more staring and he'll begin drooling onto the table. A woman with short, brown hair sits on the other side of Bruce, and her nearness only makes it easier to spot the way she steals glances at him. The only person Tim recognizes is the one closest in age to him, a young man named Andrew Hoffman, who stutters whenever he looks up to see Bruce making eye contact. He spends most of the meeting looking down at his papers. Tim is glad scent blockers are standard in the workplace; otherwise, he fears the room would stink of attraction from people of all genders.
As long as that's all that there is: attraction. It's the nerves people get around someone they find pretty. It's the second look they take when someone looks almost otherworldly. It's the puppy crush on their boss, who is not as mean and useless as they thought he'd be. It's a simple attraction. Most Gothamites, and outsiders as well, have come to learn that Bruce Wayne is everyone's type, whether they like it or not. Tim can't fault people who think his mom looks good, despite how much he wants to, but at least he knows how to distinguish between that and a lustful gaze. Across the long table, he catches it. He's a short, stout old man—a beta—whose receding hairline serves as proof of the time he's spent in the office, and he looks as if he's two minutes away from humping the table leg. His eyes would have hearts in them if this were a cartoon, but they don't convey innocence or admiration. Instead, they're down-turned and staring darkly at his CEO. On top of that, he's licked his lips on an average of five times for each minute Bruce speaks—that is, when he's not biting them to high hell—and his breathing is heavier than it should be for someone who's simply sitting down.
This man sits directly across from Bruce. If Tim can deduce that his behavior is far from appropriate, it's certain that his mom has as well.
But Tim knows his mom.
Bruce most likely figured all of this out as soon as he stepped into the room, way before Tim had even noticed he was wearing makeup today, yet he won't speak on it. Had the gaze been directed toward Tim, Bruce would've shut it down instantly, maybe even fired Lawson on the spot, but because it's happening to him, he won't do anything about it. This is a recurring issue, one that all of their pack-mates have encountered or fought with Bruce about at one point or another—Dick still swears to this day that nearly every member of the Justice League would mate with Bruce without hesitation. Still, Bruce doesn't see an issue with it. Any harassment or unwanted advances that come his way are never refused. The reporters and bloggers claim that it's because Bruce enjoys the attention it brings. His kids know it's because he thinks it's not a big deal and that he's not worth defending. Bruce always plans to just tough it out because he knows he can. It doesn't mean he should.
Tim whines, a quiet and pupish sound, only able to be heard by his mother, who quickly diverts his attention to the call of a pup in need. He makes a slight head motion, discreetly pointing it towards the offender. Bruce glances towards him and mouths his name, assuming that's what Tim was asking. "Walter Hoffman." The name sounds familiar, now that he has it in his head. Although his ascent to such a prominent position was partly due to his connections in high society, no one doubts that Hoffman knows his way around company management. He could use a little more empathy, given that he tends to question and veto most projects aimed at helping the people of Gotham rather than the company exclusively. He hasn't been doing much this meeting, though, seeing as he's dedicated a large amount of allotted company time to eye-fuck Tim's mother.
Disgusting. Tim sneers and pokes his mother's thigh to get Bruce to look over again. His brows are furrowed in a silent question, a determined look in his face, pleading with Bruce to do something about it. Bruce softly shakes his head and smiles at Tim, like he's assuring him everything's okay. He turns back to the current speaker after making sure Tim didn't need anything from him. Tim quietly huffs in irritation. Bruce ignores it.
An aggravating issue, really. One side consists of an entire pack begging Bruce to stand up for himself when not in the cowl, and the other side has an omega who is convinced that he doesn't need to, saying he's faced worse. God, Bruce could be so stubborn sometimes.
If his mom refuses to help himself, then Tim will just have to do it for him.
Hoffman is in the middle of discussing his plan to expand WE's product line when Tim loudly clears his throat. He doesn't think before he speaks, "Sorry to interrupt, Sir, but I just have to ask. Mr. Lawson, are you masturbating?" A crass string of words, Tim thinks, especially for the workplace, but he can't find it in himself to feel any regret.
Thirty pairs of eyes that were once trained on his mother have now gone wide at Tim's disturbance—Bruce included. "Don't do this," his mom murmurs.
Tim decides to do this. "It just looked like that to me—y'know, from how hard you were staring at my mom. Or maybe you were trying to commit his face to your spank bank?"
Lawson's prior revolting appearance fades into horrified shock at being called out. It quickly turns into anger. "How dare you accuse me of such a vile thing!" He sputters out, cheeks going red from either the embarrassment or the volume at which he's yelling.
"No, how dare you perv on my mom for the last hour instead of listening to your fellow board members. I thought you cared about this company, but I guess not." Tim has to suppress his smile to keep a straight face. He can't deny that he finds this hilarious. It's only a matter of time before Lawson gets agitated enough to say something that warrants reprimand. Even if he doesn't, Tim will take the simple joy of humiliating him in front of his peers.
Lawson suddenly stands up from his seat, knocking the chair backwards, but he squirms in place at the sight of everyone in the room eyeing him. Thirty people judging him could never compare to how he was staring at Bruce, so Tim doesn't feel bad. "Mr. Wayne, I suggest you get your pup under control before I—"
"Before you what, Lawson?" Bruce's voice is domineering and loud, but he doesn't shout. Tim admires the way his mom can control a room like that. Well, he supposes he did just control the room, but his way was different—and way less cool, unfortunately. Bruce commandeered the conversation like a king while Tim did it like a jester. Most of the bystanders in the room have now opted to stare at the table or their laps, anywhere but at the showdown happening in front of them. "I suggest you take the rest of the day off. Human resources will speak to you once you return," he leaves no room for refusal.
The meeting room is still as Lawson's mouth opens and closes in what would be defiance if he weren't speaking to the most important man in Gotham. Eventually, he gathers his things and stomps out of the room. Tim thinks everyone could hear him blink, given how quiet it got.
"Talk to Lucius about that expansion idea, Andrew. It sounded promising," Bruce gently says, a drastic difference from how he sounded mere seconds ago. "Let's call it for now," he concludes, "Meeting dismissed."
Tim doesn't force his smile away this time. He looks rather prideful, tipping his chair back in a repeated motion with his arms crossed across his chest as the men and women of the board filter out of the room.
Bruce pushes the chair upright with one hand, "Tim."
Tim jolts at the sudden stop before turning to face Bruce, "Mom." His smile doesn't leave his face.
"Why did you do that, dear?" He doesn't sound angry, but he doesn't sound all that pleased, either.
"Because you weren't going to," Tim answers plainly.
"I didn't need to."
"That's what you always say," Tim groans. "Think about the example you're setting for a young omega like me. Would you want me allowing a man to stare at me like that, like a pervert?" He puts on a faux saddened look.
"Of course not. I would never permit that, not in a million years."
"Then why is it okay when it's you?"
"It's different, Tim. I'm older. I can handle it. You—you're my pup. You can always count on me to protect you."
Tim's fake pained look isn't all that fake anymore. A keen escapes from the back of his throat, "I want you to count on me, too."
Bruce is silent for a moment, and Tim hopes that he's miraculously gotten through to his mom. He ultimately drops it and sighs, "There was no need to make a scene. If you were bored, you could've just asked to leave."
Tim doesn't roll his eyes, but he wants to. His mother is sometimes very obtuse about certain things—like sticking up for himself or why someone who cares about him might do it instead. "On the contrary, Mother. I think I'll come to every board meeting from now on. Dick protects you from your coworkers, but someone needs to protect you from your employees," he says resolutely.
That earns a little grin and an incredulous shake of the head from his mom. "I think I've had my fill of the office for today, actually. Let's go home." Bruce kisses the top of his head and stays for a moment to inhale the smell of Mama all over his pup.
Tim calls this operation a success.
He figures he'll come to regret his promise to attend every meeting. Still, someone must take on the responsibility, and he won't let anything dissuade him from his mission (Bruce made him wear an actual suit. He's still peeved about it).
Cass doesn't bother knocking on the tall, wooden door before busting it open. Her eyes locate the target immediately. He's still wearing the evidence.
"Mom, we have a problem."
"What's wrong, sweetheart?"
Everything's wrong, Cass wants to say, but she doesn't. One week ago, Bruce had happily indulged her with hours worth of a makeover session. He was never one to shy away from the more feminine parts of raising a young girl, like doing her hair every school morning when she was a child or getting her ears pierced. Cass wouldn't cry when Bruce brushed her hair back to gather it into a ponytail, partly because it hardly hurt compared to everything else she's been through, but also because he was always so gentle.
The first time she tried doing her nails on her own, she was eleven and still relatively new to being a normal girl. It was a huge mess. The color had stained her desk and little fingers, and no matter how hard she scrubbed, it wouldn't come off of either thing. She had confessed to her mom shortly after she nearly cried at her stupid mistake—she didn't, because she was trained not to, but Bruce has been trying to drill into her head that bad emotions are good, too—with not-so-perfect English and heaving breaths. Cass will never forget the warm embrace that found her, the sweet smell of kindness that insisted there was nothing wrong, and that no, Puppy, no one was angry.
Bruce assured her the polish would come off her hands easily with some acetone, but he couldn't say the same for the desk. After seeing her deflate again, he quickly thought of something to cheer her up. He told Cass that the desk could always be replaced, but there's no reason to get rid of it when it's already dirtied enough to be used for practice. They made a thing out of it—of Cass asking Mommy to paint her nails, then laughing together when Bruce eventually fails. He wasn't perfect at first, far from it, but every attempt only made Cass feel more and more like she belonged, like she was worth learning for.
Leaning into her feminine side was hard. She always felt like she was doing it wrong, like she wasn't supposed to enjoy these things. Those feelings were only exacerbated when she presented as an alpha. She was proud to be naturally strong and confident, but she worried that her second gender discredited all the hard work she'd put into being soft and sweet. It felt as if she was always meant to be a weapon. Bruce was there, though, to show her that he himself is a prime example of someone who regularly breaks out of his life's mold but also manages to tune into it—how Batman was the most feared alpha in Gotham, but Bruce Wayne was known for maternal excellence. He showed her how one can achieve both.
Things were hard. They were difficult and gritty and filled with insecurities that ate Cass up whole. Things were hard, but Mama made it better.
Now, Bruce's braids are perfected, with not a hair out of place, and his nail painting skills are second nature, despite Cass having learned to do them on her own ages ago. She knew that it made Bruce sad, just the slightest bit, every time she did her hair or painted her nails without needing help. There are things that Bruce never even got to teach her, for by the time she wanted to learn, she thought herself too old to be taught by him, like doing her makeup. She wouldn't say she seldom wears it, but she wouldn't claim she wears it daily either. It's fun to do, and she enjoys taking pride in the finished product. Besides, being raised alongside only boys made simple things quite memorable for Cass, like Steph sharing her eyelash curler with her for the first time.
When Bruce walked in on Cass sitting in front of her mirror with a bag full of products, inviting him to join was really the only logical thing to do. Cass could tell how pleased he was at the offer, not only by reading his body language, but by simply scent alone. He sat impossibly close, making sure to get it all over her. She learned that he was a quick learner when it came to the harder parts of a makeup routine—especially the eyeliner, of all things. Seriously, is there anything Batman can't do?
"My beautiful girl," he cooed at the finished look. There was nothing else Cass could add to her face, but she didn't want to send Bruce to the Batcave so soon. They were having so much fun.
"Your turn?" she tried.
Bruce didn't take even a second to think it over. He nodded and shut his eyes, giving Cass free rein of his face for the time being. She made sure to do her absolute best.
One week ago, Cass wanted to spend more time with her mother, so she offered to do his makeup for fun. One hour ago, Cass received a text from Tim warning her about the impact she's had on the people of Gotham. She always dreamed it would be a news headline: "Crime in Gotham drops to 0%!" It was far worse.
Bruce, taking an interest in the art, wore makeup to the office.
He hasn't taken it off even now as he sits at his home office catching up on the paperwork he missed out on today. In any other situation, she wouldn't have thought twice about it. In fact, she would've applauded her mother for being so comfortable in his own skin and for the clear talent he has. She can actually show restraint, unlike her sometimes impulsive brothers, and avoid diving headfirst into fixing something that doesn't need fixing. Yet when Tim's messages included a detailed description of exactly what happened today, she began to understand Dick's propensity to be rash. Cass may have reached an equilibrium when it comes to her identity, but at the end of the day, she's still an alpha. Protection, assertiveness, social dominance, and whatnot.
"You can't wear makeup anymore. At least, not outside," Cass insists. She decides that this is one thing she will put her foot down on when it comes to her mom.
Bruce's face falls. Cass rethinks her prior decision—lessens the pressure of said foot. Quickly, she reads him. His brows are furrowed, upwards not down, meaning he isn't angry but rather sad, and his lips are in an almost indiscernible pout. His shoulders, tense and tight from sitting at a desk for so long, have slumped. His pen hangs loosely in his hands, so the paperwork has been pushed to the back of his mind. In the small amount of time Cass takes to figure out what's wrong through body language, Bruce's eyes dart over to a small desk mirror. He rakes over his own expression in a second flat before he looks back to Cass.
Her eyes widen at the realization of what she's done, but Bruce beats her to the reveal.
"I thought you said I looked nice."
Sad Mama. Mama is sad because he thinks Cass called him ugly. Mama is sad, and it's her fault. The smell of Sad Mama slowly floats over to where Cass stands, and it's horrible. Unripe blackberries that are too sour and burnt espresso that's too bitter. This is not what an alpha does. Alphas don't make the pack omega sad. That is Alpha 101—the first-rate class she took with Dick as the professor. She thinks back to what Dick told her, how good alphas cheer up the pack omega quickly before everyone in the pack bond will soon feel it in their souls. No one is happy when the pack omega is unhappy—when Bruce hurts, all of them do. The pain was unimaginable when Jason's bond was forcibly severed, and Cass never wants to experience something like that again.
"Yes, you did. You looked wonderful, Mama." Cass isn't lying to save her own hide. Bruce looked absolutely ethereal. It's a shame that looking like beauty incarnate only brings out the worst and most vile parts of people. The thought of Bruce being cat-called on the street burns a type of primal rage through Cass ' veins, but the thought of Bruce thinking he's ugly, of all things, because of what she's said, hurts her more. After struggling with her own insecurities regarding femininity, she would never want to burden someone with the same feelings she had. Her soft voice rings true into the space between them, "I just… I don't want someone bothering you over it."
Bruce's smile is back, and the former scent fades away into something happier at Cass's concern. "Did Tim say something to you?" She nods in answer. Bruce breathes a small laugh through his nose, body returning to somewhat relaxed, "You know it'll take more than that to affect me. There's no need to worry, Cass."
"We worry because we love you."
"I love you too, sweet girl, but the roles should be reversed, no?"
Cass wants to argue, but she fears it would be fruitless. She's heard this song and dance many times, from Bruce himself and from her brothers in the stories they tell. Her mother prides himself on being the pack's omega, the sole protector of all his children, and how he carries everything on his shoulders so everyone else holds as little as possible. He always insists he's fine, but what if Cass wants him to be more than fine? She wants her mom to not have to merely tolerate these things. She wants her mom to stand up for himself, like he stands up for others—as Bruce Wayne and Batman. Even when others offer to do it for him, he treats it as a frivolous and unneeded task. Bruce doesn't understand that, for Cass, it's one of the most important duties she could take on.
She doesn't want to upset him again, so she lets it go.
"When I'm done here, I'd like for you to do my nails today." Perhaps doing makeup truly spoke to Bruce, but Cass knows the nails are simply a ploy to have another Mother-Daughter date. She won't call him out on it, though, because all she wants right now is to have Bruce safe and sound in her room. She'll paint his nails fifty times over if needed—that stained desk they still use has seen better days, but it could take it.
Cass smiles at the offer, "What color?"
"Do we still have black?"
She raises her hands, showing the backs of them as an apology. "Used the last of it. Sorry."
Bruce sighs with fake exasperation, "I guess pink will have to do."
Cass silently giggles her way out of her mom's office. She sets out to find her brightest, most eye-straining shade of hot pink nail polish she has.