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Tim wakes with his lower back feeling like someone took a baseball bat to it. In the normal course of business this would most likely be because someone had literally beaten him with a baseball bat, but patrols have actually been pretty quiet the last few nights. He and Steph have cut off a few of Penguin’s goons on their supply runs, and Tim’s done a little basic neighborhood policing of muggings and petty crimes, but nothing too taxing.
No, Tim knows what this is and what it portends. He can probably take one last round of cycle-reducers and a scent suppressor and function through to tomorrow morning, but after that, he’s going to have to go to ground.
Fucking hormones.
*
Either Tim miscalculates—possible, but unlikely—or the fact that he’s forced his body to skip four heats in a row has caught up to him. All four had come at times when he absolutely couldn’t disappear. But he knows from experience pushing it off this long comes at a price.
He really should have nearly eight hours left before any of the symptoms kick in, but should or should not, he’s been throwing up in full gear on top of a random roof for the last ten minutes on and off. It’ll probably help the migraine, but it’s still going to suck having to get himself to his safe house, the one he keeps for this express purpose.
He knows the scent suppressors aren’t working at the strength he needs them to, and his internal temperature is already causing him to feel like he’s baking in the suit. He finally manages to stop vomiting and just stays there, bent over, his eyes closed, riding the waves of pain in his abdomen and head.
His senses are dialed up to eleven, the way they always are during a heat, so he smells Jason before hearing him land. Motorcycle oil and coffee ice cream. Alpha. Tim swallows a scream. He opens his mouth to tell Jason to get the fuck away from him. Instead he says, “I want your ice cream.”
“Wha—oh. Um. I finished that carton. But there’s a bodega a couple of blocks over, we can get you whatever flavors you want.”
Tim grits his teeth. “If you’re suddenly being nice because you know my secret, I will find every single one of yours, every dirty, humiliating element of your entire sordid existence, and release a highlights reel on social media platforms so far and wide there won’t be a hole in the ground you can find where they won’t know to laugh at you.”
There’s a long silence. The only reason Tim knows Jason hasn’t up and left is because Tim can still smell him. He should probably apologize. Tim can be brutal in heat. Well, more brutal than in the normal course of things. But fuck Jason and his fucking genetic lottery win and his stupid ability to be right where Tim least wants him to be, seeing Tim at his absolute worst, seeing the thing Tim’s parents were so disappointed to have been burdened with.
Quietly, Jason says, “I’m being nice because you’re on a roof in the Narrows puking out half your body weight, and I’m not a psychopath, whatever B believes.”
Yeah. Tim really should apologize. And let it be known he’s all-too-aware Jason’s not a psychopath. Also, maybe mention that B doesn’t think that, as much as maybe the man wishes he did. Instead Tim just says, “I guess that’s acceptable.”
Jason laughs. “Uh. Good? Listen, I can’t just leave you here. Want me to, like, call someone? Spoiler? B?”
It’s bad enough Jason knows, and that means sooner or later all of them will know. Shit, O probably has some idea what’s going on as he’s sitting there. But that’s a problem for future!Tim. Present!Tim is miserable and needs to go somewhere safe. It’s a problem, because realistically, he can’t get himself to his heat house. And no way is he letting anyone else know the location. He will die on this forsaken roof top before that happens.
“Red?”
Tim forces himself to come up with a solution. He doesn’t love it when it comes, but desperate times and all that. “You have a safe house you can lock me in? Somewhere with water and enough food that doesn’t need to be cooked to get me through three to four days?”
“That’s—omegas have died that way. I’m not—”
“I’ll be fine,” Tim cuts him off. “It’s how I’ve always done it.”
“Always.” It’s not a question. It’s a short, pissed statement of understanding.
Tim wonders, for a quick moment, if boiling from the inside out would be the absolute worst way to go. Because at the moment, it feels like between that and expiring of the humiliation he’s experiencing, the former might be preferable. “Yeah. So fucking listen to me and let me do this the way I want to. Or is that too revolutionary for your alpha brain?”
“That is too much bullshit for my human brain, is what that is,” Jason says. “I’m taking you to one of my places. It has a room where you can be comfortable and lock yourself in. But I’m staying and checking in.”
“If you think for a second—”
“Don’t finish that sentence. Don’t you fucking dare.”
And yeah, okay, that was low. Tim knows how Jason feels about rapists. Everyone in the world knows how Jason feels about rapists. It’s just…it’s not really seen as rape, legally or societally, if the omega is in heat. But from the tenor of Jason’s response, he clearly knows damn well it is.
Somewhat out of options, Tim nods shakily. “Okay. But you’re buying me all the ice cream.”
*
Jason buys six gallons of Breyers, two pints of Haagen-Dazs, and a box of Magnum bars. He is in and out of the bodega within three minutes, because as much as he knows it’s his hindbrain going haywire, leaving Tim to fend for himself right now is causing Jason to lose it.
Tim is an omega. It’s like an intrusive thought, almost, it seems so untrue and out of context. Except it’s a fact. Right.
As is that Tim has hidden it for a reason, despite B clearly having no issues with omegas. There are a number on the League, and B is a douche for all kinds of reasons, but showing any prejudice in that area is not one of them.
He climbs back on his bike, Tim latching on to him, as is necessary. It feels a little bit like being wrapped in fire, but somehow good. Right.
Jason’s going to have to abandon this safe house after this, which sucks. He’s worked on this one a long time, has it exactly how he wants. But it will be torture enough having Tim smell like every wet dream Jason has ever had for the duration of his heat. Jason’s not keeping a place where he is never going to be able to get that smell completely out.
Jason is completely willing to admit he’s a walking dumpster fire of trauma, but he’s not an emotional masochist. Pining quietly for the guy who replaced him and did an objectively better job is one thing. Living in an apartment with traces of said guy everywhere like some kind of animal who’s lost its mate is beyond the pale.
Jason will blow up that bridge while he’s swinging over it, though. For the moment, he needs to get Tim somewhere safe, where he can take some fever reducers, indulge in as many cold showers as he wants, use a few toys, drink fluids, and generally take care of himself without having to worry about interruptions. Jason’s not particularly used to having what someone else needs. It’s nicer than he wants to admit.
Or maybe that’s just because he has what Tim needs. Whatever.
*
By the time Tim makes it into Jason’s safe house, which is the top floor apartment over a consignment shop in one of the areas largely defined by affordable housing and community initiatives, he might be crying from general misery. He’s got his domino on, there’s no evidence. But Christ it really does feel like his brain is going to explode while every organ in his abdomen and lower back is in full revolt, trying to eat its way out like in Alien. Not to mention he’s being baked alive to the point where it’s hard to breathe and he’s pretty sure any liquid his body once supported has evaporated right away.
He doesn’t remember just melting into a puddle right inside the apartment’s front door, but that seems to be where he is. And the thought of moving… No. And no.
It smells nice, though. Mild notes of laundry detergent, bergamot, maybe from tea, wood that’s been stained a few times, but not recently. The floor beneath Tim is parquet, old fashioned, but well-maintained. If his head weren’t hurting so damn much, he’d be dying of curiosity about the rest of the place. Other than Jason’s old room at the Manor, as far as Tim knows, none of them have ever seen one of Jason’s living spaces.
Figures this would happen when Tim’s basic setting as Cat-Who-Will-Be-Killed-By-His-Curiosity is overridden by the fact that he’s self-immolating.
Time must skip a bit because there’s something cold against his lips, heavenly, and then Jason is saying, “C’mon, Tim, drink.”
Oh, right. Water. Yes. Tim gladly drains the glass, and another, and then swallows the pills Jason hands him with some more. Jason takes the pills out of their containers in front of him, which Tim realizes is so he’ll know what he’s taking—extra strength Excedrin, Advil, Dramamine, and a couple of electrolyte capsules—an action Tim finds unaccountably considerate.
Jason says, “I’m gonna run a cool bath, change the sheets, and find you something to change into. You can stay here, or do whatever you need to get comfortable, okay?”
Tim nods. Jason scurries off and Tim forces himself to focus. Jason had said he’d be able to lock himself in the room. Good. And not just because privacy is a must. He’s a little concerned about his ability not to beg Jason to screw him senseless. It’s just because he’s an alpha and he’s near. That’s it, that’s the only reason.
Now to make sure he has supplies. Tim drags himself to his feet, divesting himself of everything outside of the base layer of the suit as he makes his way toward the kitchen. It takes a few minutes of rustling through cabinets—there’s a decent amount of storage for a fairly small kitchen, and Jason has put in all kinds of storage organizers in to maximize it—but he finds the non-perishables that can be eaten directly from the can or jar. He also locates a can opener, and a palette of bottled water.
It takes a few trips, but he gets everything into the single bedroom in the place, tucking the cans and jars in spaces that aren’t great hiding spots, but won’t be noticed by Jason at first glance. Tim doesn’t think Jason will deny him food if he comes out of the room and asks, not given Jason’s reaction to Tim’s earlier profession of practice handling his heats. Still, no reason to chance it.
There had been more than one or two heats in his parents’ house, locked in the basement with little food, never enough to last him, hidden like the most shameful of secrets, where Tim had come pretty close to dying. He’ll restock Jason’s cupboards afterward. Maybe get him a gift card to the Italian grocer in town. Alfred loves that place, and Alfred’s always talking about how Jason is the only one of them who properly appreciates a good grocery store.
Tim’s stripping down to his skin, unable to stand the touch of his armor a second longer, when Jason calls, “Bath’s ready.”
Tim slips past him, pretending he lets people (he finds stupidly attractive) see him nude all the time. No big. Then he’s getting into the tub and not thinking about anything except how good the coolness of the water feels against his skin.
*
Jason throws open the windows in the kitchen and living areas of the apartment and thanks whomever might be listening that spring has clung on for a bit and it’s not the dead heat that late May can sometimes bring. He gulps in air that is at least diluted—Tim getting into the water has helped a bit, too—and smacks himself in head, hard, four times.
It does the trick.
Once he can think about options that aren’t cutting his own dick off or fleeing the scene, he gets to work. He catalogs what he has in his kitchen. It doesn’t pass his notice that basically all of his canned goods are missing, which makes him pause for a moment as sheer rage works its way through him.
Jason grew up in a “food insecure” household. Shit, neighborhood. He knows the signs of being afraid of going without food. B and Alf had—
Jason shakes off that memory. Tim. Someone had starved Tim. During his heats. (Tim is an omega, his brain supplies again, like that has become new or currently useful information in the last few minutes. Jason might need some processing time.)
Taking stock of what dry goods Tim hasn’t squirreled away, Jason gets on his phone and starts Googling for any type of muffin or cookie that is useful during a heat. Thankfully, the internet comes through in spades. Basically, Jason needs nuts, dried fruits, molasses, and staple baking ingredients. The last two he’s good on. Tim has found all of his nuts and dried fruit snacks, though.
It’s fine. Marena who runs the diner on the other side of the block will be willing to have her youngest run him some. He picks up his phone and makes the call. He’s got this. Everything is totally fine.
*
The bath cools Tim down enough that the edge of delirium burns off and his body is ready. He drains the tub, turns on the shower to a nice level just a tad warmer than frigid, and brings himself off twice. It’s early, his body is still cooperative, and not desperate.
He dries off with the stupidly soft towel Jason has left him. Either Jason knows how sensitive everything gets during heat and keeps these towels around in case of…random omega emergencies? Or is a fucking hedonist. Or both. Tim can’t decide which one he finds more amusing.
In the bedroom, the ceiling fan is twirling at a middle speed, and Jason has turned the air down to mid-sixties. It’s deliciously cool. The bed has a thin jersey sheet over it, with a pile of sheets and blankets folded neatly at the foot, presumably just in case Tim wants them. Next to the pile is a plastic storage bin. Tim peers at the note on the top.
They’ve all been through the dishwasher and soaked in disinfectant. Also, there’s condoms, if you want.
Tim blinks. He sets the towel aside and prizes open the box. “Holy shit.”
They aren’t omega-specific toys. There aren’t the tell-tale knots at the bottom. But it’s a damn nice assortment of glass and silicon dildos, with a few different types of water-based lube. Tim’s not going to need the latter. The thought is kind of sweet, though.
He wonders if he could sneak one of the glass ones into the freezer. Probably not without Jason noticing. He picks one of the silicon ones out and crawls onto the bed. He’s more than wet enough that it’s easy to sink down onto the toy, which has a nice flat base. It allows him to fuck himself on it at his own pace.
He takes the edge off again, and again, until all he really has the energy to do is drink the two bottles of water Jason set by the bed and drift into a semi-restful state.
*
Tim wakes up to the apartment smelling really good. (And not just because it has Jason in it. Christ, Tim hates his fucking omega brain.)
He deliberates. He wants whatever that is. But he has food. He has all the food he needs. He just has to get up and grab one of the cans or bags or bottles that he supplied himself with. It just…it smells of cinnamon and that particular scent of risen dough and—
There’s a knock at the door. Soft, as if being careful not to disturb him. Jason’s voice queries, “Tim?”
Tim grabs the sheet from the pile at the edge of the bed and wraps it around himself. He makes a face at the touch of anything against his skin, but he’s not answering the door naked. He undoes the lock and peers out of a crack in the door. Jason’s standing a couple of feet back from it. He says, “Uh. I made some stuff. And frozen hot chocolate. My neighbor’s kid said that’s her favorite. She only gets pre-heats right now, though, so I dunno if that’s accurate, but I figured—”
Tim is looking past Jason at the spread of things on the kitchen island. “Holy fuck, you’re a stress baker.”
“My therapist calls it productively channeling my discomfort with situations.”
So much is going on in that sentence that even if Tim’s whole brain was working and he wasn’t using a good two-thirds of it to keep himself from jumping (Jason) alpha cock, he’d have a hard time knowing where to start. What comes out of his mouth is, “Therapist?”
Jason shrugs. “Roy and I have a deal. He stays in the program, I face my shit.”
Tim turns that over in his head as best he can, decides he’s not in a fit mental state to process it and instead asks, “So, wait, all that’s for me?”
Jason follows his gaze. “I mean, uh, I kept a couple from each batch for myself, but if you really want, sure, I guess. The Omega 101 site that’s run by the NIH says your metabolism is running at about three times the rate it normally would, so, you might need it.”
Tim’s fingers tighten around the doorknob, instinctive panic about leaving the room, which has been safe and comfortable, warring with his desire to devour everything in sight. Jason’s been reading NIH pages and asking for omega tips from his neighbor’s kid. He forces his fingers to loosen and makes a beeline toward the island, where, dignity be damned, he sets in on the plunder with the rapacity of a starving vulture.
*
Watching Tim stuff muffins in his face like a three-year-old set loose in a bakery should not make Jason want to take a cold shower. In fairness: pheromones. Also, you know, the genetic, bone-deep satisfaction of feeding a hungry omega. “Want some of the ice cream?”
Tim shakes his head, chewing. When he’s swallowed, he asks, almost shyly, “You have any more ibuprofen?”
Jason grabs the bottle and puts it in front of him. “Keep it in the room with you. I’ll put the other meds in there, too. Take as you need.”
Tim gives him a tight smile. “Thanks.”
Jason shakes his head. He has no interest in being thanked for basic human decency.
*
Tim’s had two types of heats: the ones in his parents’ house, locked in the room adjacent to the wine cellar, provided a bucket, a box of water bottles, and about a day’s worth of snacks, usually dry cereals and canned fruit, nothing with much nutrient value, needing to be rationed over the four days he would be left there.
That was where he learned that if he could hurt himself badly enough, he might pass out for most of it. A dislocated shoulder had once done the trick. He’d managed a concussion another time. The walls were concrete. He couldn’t always get there, though, and then it was just a matter of surviving while time seemed to stretch, burning through him. One time he screamed so much he ruptured a vocal chord.
Then there were the heats after becoming Robin and going to live with B. The heats in the carefully, secretly purchased garden apartment, which he’d soundproofed, fitted with extra locks, bought a few toys for, and set up a kitchen with a refrigerator filled entirely with water, sports drinks, fresh fruit, and a cupboard with nuts, chocolate, and other easy-to-eat things that satisfied either cravings or a need for iron and protein.
Those had been relatively heavenly. He could put himself in a cold shower, be naked against a bed with cool sateen sheets, set the temperature as low as he wanted, and generally take care of himself. He made it through those heats dehydrated—he would get to a point where he forgot to drink, or just couldn’t drag himself to the fridge for more water—and wrung out, but uninjured and not completely starved.
It’s never occurred to Tim that heat could be something other than an experience to be suffered through at some level.
But for the next two days, Tim stumbles in and out of the bedroom, not even bothering to lock the door at a certain point, and there is always food and water waiting for him, Jason’s alpha scent pervading the air, calming Tim. He’d always thought that shit was just a myth but evidently not.
Jason cleans and changes the sheets while Tim is eating, runs him cold baths, and when Tim starts sliding into the wrecked exhaustion of the third day, Jason knocks on the door and says, “Hey, can I bring you something? Water? OJ?”
Which is how Tim, sore, miserably overheated, still aching to be pushed down and fucked within an inch of his life, and so tired he wants to cry, ends up being fed frozen grapes—his new favorite thing, for the record, why he’s never thought of it is beyond him—apricot walnut muffins, coffee ice cream, blood orange gazpacho, and whatever the hell else he even thinks about asking for in bed.
And in the early hours of the fourth day, when his temperature drops back down and leaves him freezing, Jason takes one look at him, pushes the temperature in the apartment up to a balmy seventy-two, gives him a pair of sweats, and puts the blankets on the bed. He says, “Sleep.”
*
Tim sleeps for nearly fifteen hours. Jason almost tries to wake him at one point, except he’s pretty sure Tim slept less than a couple hours each in the preceding three days, and even with all the water he was drinking, lost about thirty percent of his body fluids.
When he finally wakes up, he shuffles into the main area, hair bedraggled, Jason’s sweats large on him, and his expression uncertain in a way that makes him appear heartbreakingly young. Then again, Jason’s barely twenty-one, which puts Tim at an ancient nineteen, so. Yeah, that checks out.
Jason says, “Uh. Does a burger sound good? It always does to me after my…thing. But I know it’s different.”
Tim nods. “Tater tots?”
“Willing to settle for potato pancakes? I can never get the tot shape just right.”
Tim’s eyes widen. “I figured we were ordering.”
“It’s like everyone forgets that I was partly raised by Alfred.”
Tim seems to consider this for a moment. “You realize you’re the only one of us who inherited his cooking skills, right?”
“I have faith in the child-barbarian, just you wait.”
“He’s a vegetarian.”
“I take it back, I’m all Alfred’s going to have in his old age.”
Tim snorts and moves toward one of the stools Jason has at the island. Jason follows him into the kitchen, pulling out the ingredients he needs, setting the griddle piece atop two of the burners on the stove. He keeps his back to Tim as he says, “So. Omega.”
“No,” Tim says, “the last four days were just a fever dream. On your part.”
“Okay, smartass. You, uh. You get that B doesn’t care, right?”
“I get that omegas are a weakness in the field for the exact reason that was displayed by me the other night. I get that omegas are genetically bred for one thing and—”
“Would you say this shit about Ollie? Guy? Zatanna? Behind their backs let alone to their faces?”
Jason turns around to grate some onions and potatoes for the pancakes and finds Tim looking at him. “Lemme guess, you’ve never really thought about that. Too busy hearing whatever poison your parents poured directly down your throat.”
“Um,” Tim says.
“Yeah,” Jason agrees.
Tim frowns down at the surface of the island. “I was stuck on the rooftop.”
“Sure, because you didn’t trust anyone to come and help you. Tim, Jesus, you of all people know we all need help sometimes. You went and got B back when he was dead.”
“Well, he wasn’t technically dead. Not—not you-type dead.”
“Has a hard time sticking around here.”
Tim’s lips quirk up.
Jason says, “You get my point.”
Tim glances at him. “You know how you can know something here,” he taps at his head, “but be nowhere close to accepting it here?” a tap to his heart.
“Why do you think I’m in therapy?”
“Honestly, I kind of assumed it was your anger issues. Probably a good chunk of PTSD.”
Jason rolls his eyes. “And where do you think those come from, boy genius? The anger issues. I think we all know where the PTSD comes from.”
Despite the warmth of the apartment, and the sweats he’s wearing, Tim rubs at his arms. Jason asks, “Coffee?”
Tim makes grabby hands at him. Jason goes to pull the beans from the freezer. Tim says, “Don’t suppose you could make a recommendation? Of someone to talk to?”
Jason keeps his movements steady as he picks out a filter and starts to grind the beans. When he’s pouring them into the basket he says, “I’d need to do some asking, but yeah, I can find some names for you.”
Quietly, Tim tells him. “I’m not ready. To, you know, to tell the others.”
“Okay,” Jason says. “Not my secret to tell.”
“But. But maybe when I am—maybe you could be there?”
Jason presses the button for the coffee to brew. He turns to look at Tim. “If you want that, yes.”
Tim’s smile is an uncertain, fledgling little thing. “Thanks.”
Jason almost says, “don’t mention it,” or “no problem,” or even “anytime,” which are his go to responses. They seem reductive at this moment, though, so instead he says, “You’re welcome.”