Chapter Text
“Hello, Jason,” Bruce said absently, shucking the cowl and cape as he headed for the shower. Jason was waiting patiently near the Batcomputer, curled up on the small mound of cushions that Alfred had pretended to not notice Bruce pilfering from various rooms in the Manor.
It had been three weeks since he’d found Jason stealing the tires off his Batmobile—three weeks into an investigation of Gotham’s pack foster system, kickstarted by Jason’s furious comments when Batman had tried to take him to an orphanage, and three weeks into taking care of a wolf cub, because Jason had responded to the news that Batman was dropping him off into Bruce’s custody by shifting and refusing to turn back.
It had taken him nearly a whole week to coax Jason out from his series of small, enclosed hiding places, and Bruce had only managed to get that far by revealing that he was Batman, and he hadn’t abandoned Jason at some random rich guy’s house.
That had clearly surprised the wolf cub, and he’d finally come out to have a proper meal and accept a few head scratches before retreating again.
Bruce enjoyed Jason’s presence in the Cave—it was too silent with Dick gone, not that he’d ever admit that, and little huffs and curious looks as Bruce was working helped settle some of the shadows that had crept in when Dick had stormed out, not to mention Jason’s rapt attention whenever Bruce told him any stories about Batman and Robin.
Bruce had to swallow the urge to call Dick nearly a dozen times—he wanted to hear his son’s voice and soothe the part of him that wanted to gather his pack close, but Dick had made it achingly clear that he wanted space.
Bruce stumbled out of the shower, yawning. “Ready for bed, Jay?” Bruce smiled as the wolf padded closer. Jason always insisted on waiting for him to come back before he’d go up to his room.
But this time, Jason hesitated. Bruce paused, crouching down to be able to look the small wolf cub in the eyes. “Is everything okay?”
The wolf stared at the ground, clearly stressed, before he gave a tense little shake and looked back up.
“Are you hurt?” Bruce asked, concern swiftly rising into fear, “Are you hungry—did something happen while I was gone—”
Bruce cut off as Jason blurred. There was a twelve-year-old boy standing in the ragged clothes Bruce had last seen in an alley, shifting from foot to foot in clear anxiety.
“Jason?” Bruce blinked, taken aback. It was the first time Jason had ever shifted in front of him. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Jason mumbled, his gaze fixed below Bruce’s jaw, “I—I just—” He fell silent and instead crooked a finger in the collar of his worn red hoodie, tugging it down enough to bare his neck as he tilted his head to one side.
Bruce froze.
“Are you sure?” he asked, straining to keep his voice level. When he’d brought Jason home, he’d intended the custody to be temporary, a short stay while Bruce fixed the mess the gangs and traffickers had made of pack fostering, but that excuse had flown out the window the first time Jason had decided to curl up in his lap to bask in the afternoon sunlight.
Bruce’s heart had ached so badly to bundle the kid up and claim him and bring him under the pack’s protection, but he knew that Jason was still wary of unknown packs and any decision to join the Wayne pack had to come from him.
And here he was. Asking.
“Yes,” Jason said softly, “Yes, I want to—if you want—” Jason’s gaze swiveled back to Bruce, abruptly scared, “If you don’t—I’m sorry—”
Bruce cut off his apologies by stepping close and gripping his shoulders. “It would be an honor to welcome you to my pack,” Bruce said gently. Some of the tension left Jason’s thin frame, but not all of it.
Bruce led Jason back to the pile of cushions—Jason was trembling, but knelt on the cushions, his neck still bared, and Bruce curled an arm around his shoulders before leaning forward and carefully, delicately biting the junction of neck and shoulder.
It would hurt like a strong pinch, and there would be a bruise for a couple of days before it faded to a light impression, but nothing compared to the bond that snapped into place, filling Bruce’s heart with the warm presence of his second son, his little wolf.
Jason went limp the moment Bruce’s teeth touched his neck and Bruce waited patiently for him to come back—Bruce remembered only the haze of warmth and love as a small child, but Alfred had told him it felt like the world suddenly shifted on its axis, and Dick described it as the sun growing inside of him and filling him with light.
Jason stirred weakly in his arms and Bruce let him shift upright. To his surprise, Jason’s face was twisted in a scowl. “You don’t have to treat me like I’m made of glass,” Jason snarled, “I can take it.”
“Take what?” Bruce blinked, confused.
“The claim,” Jason snapped, “I’m not a baby, I can handle it, you didn’t need to stop.” And then his expression abruptly went shadowed, “Unless you changed your mind about having a Crime Alley brat in your—”
“Jason,” Bruce cut him off, “I am thrilled to have you in my pack. Why are you upset?”
“Then claim me,” Jason shouted, his voice cracking, “I can take the pain, I’m not a—”
“Jason,” Bruce said, bewildered but not liking the direction this was going, “I did claim you.”
“No,” Jason shook his head, “I know what it feels like, you barely even touched me, you didn’t—”
“Can’t you feel the pack?” Bruce asked, because he could feel Alfred and Dick and Jason, all warm and safe, though Jason’s bond was ticking slowly into distress.
Jason froze, his eyes going wide as he stared into the distance. He slowly reached out a hand, splaying it over Bruce’s heart, like he was searching for physical evidence of the bond.
“No,” Jason whispered, beginning to tremble, “No, that’s not what a claiming bite feels like. You didn’t—that isn’t—” He abruptly yanked down the collar of his hoodie all the way, feeling along his neck like he was expecting to find a large wound instead of small, swollen red mark.
Bruce’s gaze, however, was caught by the silvery scars that decorated Jason’s throat, arranged in half-circles and testament to deep wounds. “Who did this to you?” Bruce asked, his voice going flat as he reached out a hand to trace over a scar. Jason flinched violently and Bruce tugged his hand back, fighting the instincts to wrap his arms around Jason and make sure no one ever dared to hurt him again.
“My—my old pack,” Jason said, his gaze still fixed in the distance as he stared down at trembling fingers.
Jason thought—he thought that was what a claiming bite was supposed to look like. He’d been prepared for Bruce to practically maul his neck. He had—had he wanted to be part of the pack at all? Did he think that Bruce was going to turn him back out on the streets if he didn’t agree to it? Bruce had jumped at the chance to welcome Jason into his pack and hadn’t even bothered to check if that was what Jason truly wanted, if he—
Jason burst into tears. Bruce froze—his instincts were telling him that a pack member was in distress, to comfort them, to soothe them, but Jason only liked touch when he was the one initiating it and Bruce didn’t know what to do—
Jason lunged at him, and Bruce’s dilemma was solved as he enveloped his son—his son, he could feel the bright starburst of the bond in his heart—in a warm embrace, tucking the crying child in his chest and stroking his hair as he made quiet murmurs to soothe Jason’s distress.
“It’s okay,” Bruce hummed, rocking Jason back and forth—even after three weeks of Alfred-sourced meals, the kid was dangerously thin—and rubbing his back, “You’re safe. You’re pack, and no one will ever hurt you like that again. You’re safe. You’re home.”
Jason let out another sob, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it, but he burrowed further into Bruce’s embrace, clinging tightly enough that it would take a crowbar to pry the kid free.
If Bruce ever intended on letting go.
Dick alternated between tapping the steering wheel and fidgeting with his free leg, eager to get back to the Manor. Home, despite all of his arguments with Bruce. Family, safety, warmth. And a new pack member to look forward to.
He still can’t believe Bruce didn’t tell him. That Dick had to find out by waking up in the middle of the night to a sudden burning instinct and the solid certainty that the pack had grown. But Bruce’s impulsiveness really didn’t surprise him by now.
He wondered what the new kid was. Bruce had only told him the scarce details after Dick called him, heart still racing—boy, twelve, Jason Todd, picked him up from Crime Alley where the boy had the audacity to steal the tires off the Batmobile, Dick liked him already—and Dick had made the executive decision to return home to see his new little brother.
Maybe he was another bird. Dick loved to fly, and Bruce never wanted to join him, and Alfred couldn’t join him, and it would be so much fun with another little chick, soaring through the Cave.
He managed a haphazard parking job in the garage, danced past Alfred’s disapproving look with a promise to come up for lunch, and headed for the Cave. Two voices echoed in tandem—Bruce’s gentle, patient tone and a younger, brasher voice—as Dick crept down the stairs.
The first person he saw was Bruce, the feeling of solid, safe, family despite their last raging argument, and then Dick spotted the kid. Dark hair, blue eyes—wow, Bruce certainly had a type there—and he was wearing a familiar costume—
Dick had to swallow down the first comment that came to mind—this was a kid, he didn’t need to hear the choice words that Dick intended for Bruce, because that was his costume, and his mother’s name, and his pack’s colors—and forced a smile on his face. “Good morning,” he called out.
Bruce turned towards him, surprised, and the kid yelped and shifted.
Dick stared blankly at the spot where the kid had been.
Where the wolf was.
Black as night. Fangs bared in a growl, hackles raised, eyes narrowed and burning.
“Dick—”
“How could you.” The words felt like poison in his mouth. The world was roaring around him as something cracked and tore in his heart. The wolf wearing his name. The wolf wearing his colors. The wolf.
“Dick, you need to—”
“How dare you,” Dick spat out, whirling on Bruce. If he closed his eyes, he could still see it—see the dust brown wolf with a wide, malicious smile and two dead birds hanging from its mouth. “How dare you give Robin to a wolf?”
“Dick,” Bruce growled, straightening, and Dick didn’t care that he was challenging the pack leader, he didn’t care that this was going to end badly.
“The last thing I have of my pack,” Dick hissed, “The very last thing. And you handed it over to one of them.”
It wasn’t rational. He knew that a large portion of shifters in Gotham were wolves. But knowing did nothing to the memory of his parents’ broken bodies, nothing to the wolfish grin on Zucco’s face, nothing to the bared-teeth snarl of the predator that was stealing Dick’s name.
“Dick,” Bruce snapped, “Enough. Jason is a member of this pack and—”
“I will not,” Dick snarled, “Be in a pack with a wolf.”
He turned on his heel and stormed out, calling behind him, “You killed the last thing I had of my parents, Bruce. I hope you’re happy.”
Dick hadn’t ever intended to come back after that—made it exceedingly clear that as long as Jason wore Robin, Batman and his partner would not be welcome in Bludhaven or the Teen Titans, because both of those were Dick’s and his pack leader couldn’t make him bow down from a different city—but Alfred had asked.
Politely.
And Dick had felt the weight of his disapproval through the phone and ducked his head and shuffled back to the Manor for a quick meet-up. Alfred had promised that Bruce wasn’t in town and so Dick had let down his guard, stepping into the Manor—into his home—and making it almost all the way to the kitchen before he realized that the Manor wasn’t empty.
Dick had assumed that Bruce had taken Jason with him on his trip—there had been one heated phone call after Dick had stormed out, with Bruce biting out a story about the kid being pack-less, and more comfortable shifted than not, and still insecure on his place in the pack, and Dick had ignored the call as the guilt trip it was. He didn’t think that Bruce would’ve left Jason alone after all that, but there was a wolf glaring at him in the corridor and Dick froze.
A blur of movement, and the boy was standing where the wolf had been. “Hey, Dickhead,” Jason sneered.
Dick’s teeth ground together audibly. The kid had the nerve to smirk.
“Thought you weren’t coming back,” Jason scowled, crossing his arms and barring the way in an unsubtle display of territoriality, “Said you weren’t part of the pack.”
Dick had said that, but he hadn’t actually broken the ties, and the sight of the younger boy blocking off his home and challenging him was enough to break the frayed knots on Dick’s temper.
“You’re not part of this pack,” Dick hissed, “Get out of my way.”
“Or what?” the kid sneered.
That was it.
Dick lunged—the kid skittered back a step, eyes widening in surprise, before Robin training took over and he blocked Dick’s attack, twisting around him. He was good—fierce, with the dirty fighting pressed into every street kid, and he’d clearly taken to Bruce’s training well—but Dick had about a foot and a half, several pounds, and years of vigilantism on him, it was a matter of seconds before he had the kid on the floor.
It was instinctive, a pack challenge, a younger shifter trying to claw up the pecking order, and Dick responded automatically—a hand clamping down on the back of the kid’s neck, fingers squeezing, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to trigger surrender.
“Stay down.”
The kid went limp.
Dick dragged in a breath and exhaled slowly, until some of the haze had cleared from his eyes, the rage banking down to a simmer. Something inside of him soothed at defending his home, at meeting the challenge and ensuring that his place in the pack was no longer under threat, and Dick sighed as he rolled off of Jason.
He could’ve handled that better. He’d been angry and frustrated and itching for an excuse, but cocky or not, the kid was twelve and Dick should’ve known he wasn’t a threat.
“Don’t challenge me again,” Dick snapped, straightening from his crouch. Alfred wasn’t going to be happy about this and Dick huffed out an irritated breath at his tea time being ruined. He shouldn’t have come back to the Manor. He shouldn’t have—
The kid wasn’t moving.
Dick froze. “Jason?” he called out, something stirring inside of him, screaming about pack in danger, and Dick hastily scrambled back to the younger boy’s side.
He had been careful not to hurt him, he’d used a simple takedown, he hadn’t let Jason’s head hit the floor, why was the kid not moving—
“Jason?” Dick repeated quietly—the kid was shivering but he was still limp, and he made no resistance as Dick gently flipped him over onto his back.
Dick’s breath caught in his throat.
The kid was pale, eyes glassy as they stared at the ceiling, tears dripping silently off his face. Violent shudders wracked his frame as Jason tipped his face to one side, baring his throat, and made a sound too broken to be a whine.
Along his collarbones, silvery scars stood out. Teeth marks. There was absolutely no reason to bite a member of the pack after the initial claiming, not unless you were trying to make a point.
Oh no. What the hell had he done?
“Jason?” Dick wavered, unsure of what to do. A hand on the back of the neck triggered surrender, signaled the end of a challenge fight, was supposed to mean ‘no, this fight is over and you lost’. It wasn’t supposed to force submission.
Would hugging the kid make it worse? Should he call Alfred? Should he call Bruce?
Bruce had warned him—street kid, pack-less, and no wonder, if that was the sort of pack he’d been in before, and more comfortable in wolf form than human—
That was it. “Jason?” Dick said tremulously, “Jason, can you shift?”
Jason made no indication that he’d heard Dick. He’d retreated somewhere Dick couldn’t follow, lost and vulnerable and helpless at someone else’s mercy. Dick was pack, but that probably meant nothing to him if he’d been hurt by pack before. Jason needed to feel secure again, which meant he had to shift.
Dick didn’t want to do this, but he didn’t see another choice. “Jason,” Dick said, his voice slipping to something more authoritative, and his little brother flinched. “Shift,” he ordered, his words laced with command even as his stomach churned violently.
In an instant, there was a wolf cub where the boy had been—fur stretched thin and ragged over bones, so small, still shivering, still limp, neck bared. He wasn’t looking at Dick, and tears leaked into black fur.
Dick swallowed, and did the only thing that might make Jason feel safe.
It didn’t matter that Dick was five years older than Jason, and taller and bigger. Jason was a wolf, and even a wolf cub was bigger than a nearly adult bird.
He hopped forward, wings fluttering, his heart thrumming so loudly the whole house could probably hear. It’s not Zucco, Dick mentally chanted to himself. This was his little brother. It was okay. It was going to be fine.
He nudged closer, and closer, until he was a couple of inches away from one of Jason’s paws. It was okay. This was pack. It was—
Dick had never been so close to a wolf while he was shifted. They were so much bigger when he was looking up from a bird’s eyes.
But he had to do this. Jason was vulnerable and terrified and he had to be convinced that Dick wasn’t a threat, and Dick could never do that in human form.
Dick couldn’t entirely suppress the soft chirp of fear as he leaned forward and tucked his head under a paw.
Claws, very close to fragile bird bones and an easily crunchable neck and Dick could see his parents’ bodies, burst open like fallen birds, and Zucco’s wolf snarl and—the paw was moving and Dick was trembling, a soft squeak—
The paw was…gentle. There were no claws. There was a soft, questing sound, almost like a rumble. Dick couldn’t force himself to relax, his heart still thundering, but he kept breathing, eyes squeezed shut as fur dragged slowly over his feathers.
The wolf moved and Dick stayed where he was—he couldn’t see them, couldn’t move, couldn’t—
Human fingers curled around his talons and Dick opened his eyes with a squawk. Jason was staring at him—the kid was still trembling, but he was holding Dick carefully, looking him in the eyes, and the tears were gone even if the evidence lingered.
“You know,” Jason said hoarsely, “I thought you’d be a robin.”
Dick chirped, leaning forward to nip at Jason’s nose. The kid yelped and held Dick at arm’s distance. Dick fluttered his wings and took off at a glide, careful not to slice the kid’s hands open with his talons.
Once he was back on the ground and a few steps away, Dick shifted back, watching as Jason’s expression settled into wariness.
“I’m sorry,” Dick said softly, “I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to—”
“Forget it,” Jason shrugged, his gaze pivoting to the floor, “Bruce told me about your old pack. I understand.”
“But you did nothing wrong,” Dick said, his voice level, “And I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I’m sorry, Little Wing.”
Jason’s gaze snapped up to his face with a scowl. “Little Wing?” he repeated.
Dick grinned, “Well, you’re certainly little.”
“In case you didn’t notice, wolves don’t have wings,” Jason said, crossing his arms.
“I don’t care if you’re a wolf,” Dick said softly, “You’re my little brother, so that means you’re an honorary bird.”
Bruce didn’t need wings to fly. Dick didn’t need wings to fly. And he could teach Jason how to fly without them.
The kid turned red, the scowl still on his face, but Dick didn’t mind. Even annoying little brothers were a part of pack.
The situation with Dick…could’ve been handled a whole lot better. Dick had been happy to have a new pack member, and had shown no antipathy to wolves before, but bursting in on a wolf dressed in the Flying Grayson colors had clearly been a shock.
In Bruce’s defense, he had no idea that Dick was coming back home and Jason’s mischievous smile was even harder to resist than his wolf pout, if Bruce had been inclined to deny him anything, which he certainly hadn’t been.
Of course, it was one step forward and two steps back—Dick had stormed out with an ultimatum that had chilled Bruce, and picked up only one of Bruce’s many calls before ignoring him entirely, and Bruce’s attention was split by his new son, who had seemed to take the situation with Dick as evidence that Bruce was going to kick him out. An explanation of what had happened to Dick’s old pack was enough to soothe a few of Jason’s fears, but Bruce dreaded waking up to feel that one of his pack bonds was broken forever.
He hadn’t expected to return home from a trip to find his eldest son back in the Manor.
“Dick,” Bruce said, pretty sure he was gaping, “Jason.” They weren’t sitting on the same couch, but they were clearly watching the same movie and even sharing a popcorn bowl. There was no evidence of bloodshed in sight.
“How was New York?” Jason asked, bouncing up, “Did you bring me anything?”
Dick smirked, “He probably got you that shirt that says ‘at least it’s better than Gotham’ on it.” And he wasn’t wrong, but Bruce was still stuck on the fact that his sons were in the same room and not at each other’s throats.
“Dick,” Bruce repeated, “You’re back.” He was trying to calculate all the possible reasons that Dick would have for returning home—hurt? Some mission, either in Bludhaven or with the Teen Titans, that necessitated a trip to Gotham? Or was Dick back to finish what he’d said he’d do, waiting to look Bruce in the face before tearing his ties to the pack?
Dick’s smile slipped off his face as he stood up. He crossed to stand in front of Bruce, his hands twitching into fists before slowly, deliberately loosening, and Bruce stayed perfectly still as Dick met his gaze with a blank expression.
Dick exhaled shakily, and tipped his head up and to the right, baring his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
Bruce abruptly remembered how to breathe again.
“I was angry and I shouldn’t have said the things I said,” Dick said, his voice cracking, “I didn’t mean it. I still want to be part of the pack.”
Bruce didn’t waste a second before gathering Dick into a hug. “Oh, chum, you’ll always be part of the pack,” Bruce whispered, pressing a kiss to his son’s forehead, “I’m so glad you came home.”
Dick returned the hug, burying his head in Bruce’s shoulder and making a suspiciously wet sniffle. Bruce held tightly onto his son and let him cry.
Jason watched from his armchair, his default scowl on his face, but he ducked his head when Bruce glanced at him, turning back to the TV with exaggerated nonchalance but no surprise. Alfred had paused in the hallway beyond the door, watching them, and Bruce took the moment to mouth ‘thank you’.
His pack was home and safe and together under one roof, and Bruce was content.
Terror screaming through the bond, and Bruce urged the bike faster, he had to get there, he had to—
Fear dimmed and Bruce cursed as he began to run, the warehouse was right there, his son was screaming for help and he was so close, it was right there—
“Robin!”
The warehouse exploded.
The bond was still there, his son was still alive, he had to find him, he had to get to him, Jason was calling out for help and Bruce was so close—
The wolf was lying on its side, dark fur stained and gleaming red in the light, chest moving jagged and wrong. A gauntleted hand sank into dark fur as Bruce opened his mouth, ready to voice a command, to order Jason to shift back to human, to drag him to a hospital, to—
Gasps, wet and weak and smoke-strained. Blood pooling on the ground. Broken bones shifting with every last, desperate breath.
And Bruce couldn’t do it. Couldn’t take these last few seconds of comfort from Jason. “No,” he breathed out, stroking the dark fur, “Oh, Jay, I love you so much.” Please don’t leave me.
A choked, dying rattle.
The wolf blurred and something cracked and shattered in Bruce’s heart, the body in his arms shifting back to a human corpse as one of his pack bonds snapped.
“No,” Bruce whispered again, quiet and soft, as tears dripped onto his son’s slack—bruised, burned, bloody—face.
There was no pain in the world that could compare to the agony of a pack bond breaking.