Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

So. Tim’s parents aren’t coming home this weekend.

That’s fine. It would have been nice if they hadn’t cancelled literally the night before they were supposed to fly in, after Tim had already gone home and told Bruce he was going to be with them for the next three days.

But it’s fine.

He burrows deeper down into the covers of his nest. He wishes he’d known he was going to be alone before he’d left the manor.

He’s not proud of it, but it’s become a habit to slip some small item from Dick’s room before weekends like this. A shirt, a jacket, a light blanket. He always returns it as soon as he comes back, of course, right where he took it from, but he just - it aches, when he’s away from the manor.

He doesn’t know why. He’s had years of days spent in a house that smells like no one but himself, of nothing in his nest but stale-smelling clothes that smell more of his mother’s perfume than his parents’ actual scent.

The Waynes aren’t his pack. There shouldn’t be such a hollow in his chest when he’s away from them, and the fact that he slips their scent into his nest is a secret he plans to take to his grave.

Well. Dick’s scent. Tim’s not stupid enough to think he could get away with stealing anything from Bruce.

But as it is, he doesn’t have anything with him. He hadn’t wanted to risk either of his parents catching the scent of another alpha in his nest.

Not that it probably would have even mattered. It’s not like they ever spend any time in his nest even when they are here.

He’s lied to Bruce about his parents being home plenty of times before, but he probably wouldn’t have this time if they’d cancelled sooner.

He knows Bruce was on edge about letting him leave, with Red Hood’s recent activities. He wouldn’t have allowed it at all if he’d known Tim would be alone in the manor.

Tim chews on a thumbnail, staring at the text from his parents.

It’s late, but he knows Bruce will still be awake. He could call him, say his parent’s flight got cancelled and they couldn’t get another one this weekend. It’s not an unreasonable thing to have happen.

The chances of Hood posing any actual threat to him here at home is low, but he knows if Bruce finds out he lied to him, even by omission, he’ll be furious.

But if he does call, Bruce will insist on driving over to pick him up so he doesn’t have to walk across the grounds at night. He won’t complain, of course, he’s too nice for that, but deep down he’ll be annoyed at the inconvenience.

Tim isn’t his pup, after all.

He’ll just walk over in the morning, he decides. No need to bother him tonight. He can say they waited to call because they were trying to get another flight.

One night alone isn’t going to kill him.

***

Batman really never learns, huh?

Jason stubs out his cigarette against the rain-damp tree trunk he’s leaning against before dropping it into a pouch on his belt. He’s not going to be stupid enough to leave behind that kind of forensic evidence, even if at this point he’s wondering whether Batman would even bother to find it, in the face of the lack of effort he seems to be putting towards protecting his new little traffic-light brat.

He scents the air one last time out of habit before he puts his helmet back on. Nothing but rain and mud, faint car fumes, and the last lingering whiff of cigarette smoke. His pace is leisurely as he makes his way towards the house. The light in the upper bedroom went out an hour ago, and nothing has stirred since.

An empty house, minimal security?

It’s like he’s asking for someone to come after his new pup.

He doesn’t even bother picking the lock, just kicks the door in, enjoying the way the fancy wood splinters around the latch. His boots are loud on the hardwood, but he doesn’t hear a peep from upstairs.

Green curls in his vision at how easy it is.

This is why he chose to strike here, to scuff his muddy feet on expensive rugs in home territory instead of going after him somewhere less personal.

Because maybe that’s what Jason’s murder failed to teach him.

Because it never fucking occurs to Batman to think of them outside the costume, to remember that that’s a pup he’s dressing up and throwing out as bait.

And it clearly hasn’t occurred to the Replacement either, that the danger doesn’t just go away as soon as he takes off the mask for the night. The arrogance, in assuming that he doesn’t have to be on guard in his own territory, that he’s safe when he’s not Robin.

It wasn’t just Robin that died when Joker left him broken on the floor in that warehouse.

Someone needs to remind Batman of that.

His helmet filters out any outside scents, but he doesn’t need to track the Replacement by scent to know where to find him. Up the stairs, one, two doors to the left.

His fucking bedroom door isn’t even closed.

He nudges it open with a mere flick of his fingers. It swings the rest of the way on silent hinges, revealing his prey at last.

The pup is curled up in his bed, a tuft of black hair poking out from under the downy comforter. Jason watches him for a long moment, patiently taking the time to make sure this isn’t any sort of trap. He can see the covers rise and fall with every breath, even and deep.

Wrinkling his nose at the amount of clutter on the floor, he approaches the bed. The pup doesn’t even stir.

Quick as a snake, he rips the blanket off him. Eyes, dyed vibrant green by the night vision of the helmet, snap open a half second before Jason’s hand closes on the back of his neck and squeezes with bruising force.

The scruffing works instantly. With a strangled keen, he goes boneless with forced submission, panicked eyes frantically searching the darkness as he tries to see who’s got him pinned, who’s gotten the drop on him in his own bed.

The pit purrs with satisfaction even as it simmers with the need for more. This wasn’t even a challenge.

“Hey Replacement,” he growls. “Not making a great first impression.”

The pup shudders under him, a bitten off whimper coming from his throat. “Who - who are you?” he whispers, his mouth one of the only parts of him he has any control of at the moment. “What do you want?”

He hums consideringly, tilting his head like he’s thinking about it, even though he knows he can’t see the gesture. “How about for Batman to stop making the same mistakes?”

His eyes widen, but his confusion manages to sound somewhat genuine as he says, “B - Batman? I don’t know anything about Batman.”

Jason snorts. “Okay then,” he says amiably.

He hooks an arm under the tiny rib cage and scoops him up off the bed, ignoring the yelp that turns to a wheezing cry as he slams him belly-down onto the floor. He looms above the limp form.

Helpless. Defenseless. Pathetic.

The green urges for pain, and he’s happy enough to deliver it. His steel-toed boot strikes the side of his ribs, right in the tender spot beneath his sprawled arm, not hard enough to puncture anything but hard enough that even he can hear the crack.

Another strained cry, a flinch. His fingers twitch and spasm against the floor, fighting the submission as he tries to drag his elbow down to protect himself.

Planting an armored knee in his back, Jason kneels down, stroking his palm over the exposed back of his neck almost soothingly, before squeezing. The submission sweeps back over him, the fight draining unwillingly out of him.

“Do I seem like I’m here to listen to you try and jerk me around?” Jason asks softly. “I’m not playing with you, because this isn’t a fucking game. If I don’t want you to walk out of here alive, you’re not going to.”

The kid’s breathing is rapid. He digs his knee in deeper, crushing the air out of him, before picking up one limp arm, twisting it behind his back in a careful grasp. “If I want to hurt you,” he says, even more quietly. “I will.”

The shoulder dislocates with an awful pop.

The pup thrashes, the pain strong enough to cut through the fresh submission. Jason is even a little impressed by the amount of strength he’s able to put into it, even if it’s far too weak to actually buck him off. If he wanted him to kill him outright, he could.

The pit snaps its teeth, and he rises smoothly to his feet, letting the pup scramble up.

The kid can barely keep his feet under him, swaying as he staggers backwards, groping for the bedside table with the arm not currently dangling uselessly out of its joint. His fingers find the cord of the lamp and click it on.

His helmet switches from night vision to day automatically to compensate for the sudden light, and he gets his first proper look at the pup up close.

He’s still panting with pain, blinking frantically as his vision adjusts. Jason can see the moment the figure in front of him finally comes into focus, the surprise and fear that flickers across his expression before he can smooth it out again.

“Hood,” he says warily. It’s fun, watching him try to draw the Robin persona around himself like a cloak, straightening his spine and speaking as though this were any rooftop meeting, as though he isn’t alone and unarmed in his bedroom with a clipped wing and broken ribs. “Well, this is…new, for you. You make a habit of breaking into teenagers’ bedrooms in the middle of the night, or did you finally get kicked off all the dating apps?”

Jason chuckles. Through the voice modulator, it’s a terrible sound. “Man, you’ve got it all, don’t you? The Robin mouth, black hair, blue eyes, the stupidity,” he spits, enjoying the flinch it earns him. “Which is an important trait to keep in mind when you’re picking your child soldiers.” He strolls casually further into the room as he talks.

“I’m not a child,” he responds, edging towards the door, which Jason pretends not to notice. “And I’m not a soldier. I’m just trying to help.”

“Cute,” Jason drawls. “How’d that helpful attitude go for the last little idiot B dressed like a traffic light?”

His eyes flash. “Don’t talk about Robin like that,” he snaps, lips pulling back to reveal a hint of puppy fangs.

Jason cocks his head, caught off guard, but covers it. “I’ll talk about him how I want,” he sneers. “You, what, got some gratitude towards the kid whose shoes you’re filling? After all, not like you would have earned your wings if he hadn’t got himself killed and cleared you a spot.”

Tim lunges. Not towards Jason, or even towards the door, both of which he’d been waiting for, but towards a clothes hamper in the corner of the room.

Jason dives for him on instinct, wraps an arm around him and yanks him out of the hamper he’s half buried in and reaches for the back of his neck, but the small body twists as he does.

Even through his armor, the taser suddenly pressed to his gut fucking hurts.

He grunts, and the pup takes advantage of the distraction to rip himself out of his grasp and bolt for the door. It occurs to Jason that some of his earlier shakiness may have been exaggerated, because he’s sure not swaying on his feet now.

Unfortunately for the brat, his injuries are not fake, and the green that suddenly blankets Jason’s vision makes it very easy to shove aside the pain of the shock and pounce.

In two strides, he’s caught up with the brat. Gloved fingers tangle in black hair, uncaring of the way the pup’s head cracks into the doorframe as he wrenches him backwards.

He tosses him back against the wall as easily as he’d toss aside a dirty shirt.

Tim’s foot catches the cord of the lamp as he slides to the ground, the lamp clattering down next to him, the bulb casting strange shadows across his dazed face.

Jason kneels in front of him, draws his gun from its holster. The pit is singing, victory, prey, hurt.

A line of blood trickles down the Replacement’s temple. His eyes are having a hard time focusing, blinking slowly as he stares blankly at the gun.

Jason croons, reaching up to tenderly brush the blood away with his thumb. The pup leans into the gesture, forehead wrinkling and a weak keen escaping his throat.

He presses the pup’s head firmly against the wall behind it, and when his lips part in confusion and betrayal, he shoves the gun into his mouth.

Dazed eyes are suddenly very wide and very focused.

“Now, what would your alpha say, if he could see you right now?” Jason murmurs. “Think he feels your failure yet? Feels your pain? Think he’ll feel your bond break when I pull the trigger?”

His Replacement swallows around the barrel, teeth clicking lightly against metal. There’s terror in his eyes.

The pit sings.

Suddenly, Jason needs to be seen, needs to see the fear and bewilderment when he shows his face. He undoes the latches on his helmet with one hand, and finally reveals himself.

The scent of pup terror and pain hits him like a mallet to the face.

Emotions flash across the kid’s face, echoed by his scent, eyes widening as he takes him in. Jason drinks in the shock, hurt, fear, guilt, a maelstrom of confusion in the thick air surrounding them.

There’s a thread of…something like wonder, the sweetness of it almost buried in the bitterness of the rest.

It sours something in his stomach.

His gaze flicks to the gun as he pulls it out of the pup’s mouth so he can speak, double checking that the safety is on.

“J-Jason?” he croaks, licking the taste of gunpowder off his lips. “I - How?”

Jason grins, a horrible baring of teeth. “I’m the ghost of Christmas future, Pretender.”

He’d swear the pup hasn’t blinked since he took the helmet off, studying every inch of his face with a frantic gaze. “Lazarus pit,” he whispers. “Your eyes - they were blue.”

He tilts his head with a smirk. “Look at you, doing your homework. Didja read my file?” His voice grows cold. “Personally, I think the ending was a little cliche.”

“Does Bruce know?” his voice is stronger, urgent.

“I’ll tell you what Batman knows,” Jason snarls. “Batman knows exactly what happens to the pups he throws into his fucking war. Batman knows that the last one died screaming, and yet here I am looking at my fucking replacement.”

The pup shakes his head desperately. “No, no, Jason, I’m not - I’m not your - ”

“Bullshit,” he hisses, pressing the muzzle of the gun to his collarbone. “Bull-fucking-shit. You wear the colors, the colors I fucking died in. Because Batman gave them to you.”

He’s still shaking his head, still trying to deny it, and anger sparks in acid green. The pistol cracks into his cheekbone. The pup’s head snaps to the side, body jerking in pain.

“Robin should have died with me.” The taste of pain coats his throat like honey. “But then again,” he says softly. “You’re not a Robin, you’re a fucking cuckoo, and Batman invited you into the goddamn nest.”

He doesn’t try to turn his head back towards Jason. The pained twitches turn to shaking sobs, the only sound he makes the rapid suck of air between gritted teeth.

“Fucking look at me!” Jason roars. “You want to fucking take my place, look at what that means!”

He obeys, tear tracks streaming down across the vivid red mark where the gun struck him. “I didn’t replace you!” he cries, wild and strangled. “They’re not even my pack, Jason! They’re still yours! Bruce never even wanted me!” His voice cracks and shatters at the end, and Jason jerks back.

The pain in his scent is so strong he chokes on it, feels it clinging sour to his throat.

The green clears, just for a moment, forced out by the instinctive rebellion against a pup’s pain, and something is…wrong.

There’s something niggling at him, something off about the entire situation that suddenly becomes sickeningly obvious without the rage as an excuse not to see it.

There are no other scents in the room.

He sits back abruptly on his heels. The distance doesn’t help much, but he takes a deep breath anyway, searching.

The agony-fear-hurt-shame hangs in a cloud, but beneath it, there’s…nothing. No parental smell at all, not even a stale one, even though he knows the Drakes live here too when they’re not traveling, knows they were in town just last week, plenty recent enough to leave a scent.

His heart quickens, and he lunges forward to grab the kid’s chin, not caring when Tim cringes back from his touch. He scruffs him without thought, forcing his suddenly limp head to the side and pressing his nose to the junction of his neck and shoulder.

He has to shove himself back immediately, the scent of terror-panic-pup-please no so thick it makes him gag.

It doesn’t matter. He got the information he needed anyway, as he reverts to small, shallow breaths in an attempt to calm his stomach.

There is no pack scent.

None of the comforting vanilla-and-cinnamon alpha that Dick loves to scrub on his packmates every chance he gets. None of Bruce’s heavy father-alpha-love-protected that Jason remembers with an ache. Not even a hint of the herbs-and-honey beta that was always soaked into the kitchen, that Alfred used to dab gently on his wrists whenever he left the house.

The pup in front of him, the pup that reeks of pain and hurt, is completely alone.

He comes back to himself at the realization that the repla - that Tim is muttering something, tears leaking down his pale cheeks and neck still bared. He leans closer, and the words come into focus.

“No, no, no, please don’t, please don’t touch me, I don’t want to, please don’t - ”

Jason fights the urge to gag again.

“No,” he chokes out. “No, I’m not going to, I wasn’t - ”

Words fail, and he scrabbles for the scent blocker plastered over the gland on his neck. He rips it partially off, allowing his own distressed omega scent to seep into the air.

Blue eyes roll to look at him, and the terror he’s exuding eases slightly.

Jason presses the scent blocker back into place as soon as he’s reassured the pup that he’s an omega, needing to bury the vulnerability back where it belongs before he starts to panic.

There’s a chance he’s panicking anyway.

“I’m not going to touch you,” he repeats, in as level a voice as he can manage. “I would never rape a pup.”

The submission is still pinning Tim into pliancy, but he thinks he relaxes even further at the verbal assurance, though his eyes are still wary.

As they should be, Jason thinks darkly, seeing as he’s completely helpless in the same room as the man who just tortured him.

God.

He really did attack a packless pup in his own bed and torture him, and apparently, there wasn’t even a point.

Bruce didn’t adopt a new pup.

He just….dressed him up in the dead one’s clothes and sent him out to fight.

If Jason had pulled the trigger on that gun he shoved in his mouth, Bruce wouldn’t have even known anything was wrong.

He finds his grip on the fury once more, and he pulls it over himself like a quilt against the dark.

This time, there’s a pup tucked under it with him.

Tim’s eyes are struggling to focus on him, and dread pools in his stomach. His injuries need care, and if he doesn’t have any pack, there’s no one coming any time soon. “Okay,” he murmurs, purposefully keeping his voice gentle. “I’m gonna pick you up, okay?”

He says nothing, just keens, high and frightened. It makes Jason’s stomach flip, and he chuffs softly in response.

Tim’s eyes slip shut, resignation bleeding into his scent. It’s the closest thing to acceptance Jason is likely to get at this moment.

He puts his helmet back on before gathering the pup in his arms carefully, wincing when he whimpers in pain at the jostling anyway.

Tim’s nose presses into his neck, muffling muted whines as he carries him down the stairs, and Jason pushes aside the discomfort of having teeth so close to his throat.

If it weren’t for the way the wounded pup scent demanded soothing, he wouldn’t be able to tolerate it.

The wind has blown the front door mostly closed, and he nudges it open with a foot. The breeze picks up, and the door thuds behind him. Automatically, he whirls towards it, snarling.

In his arms, Tim keens sharply and tenses, and his growl turns to a chuff as he realizes there’s no threat.

The car he’d “borrowed” is parked behind some trees at the edge of the property. He’s never been more grateful that he didn’t take his bike, having decided it would stand out too much in the wealthy neighborhood.

He hesitates as he reaches the vehicle. Setting Tim in the front seat will make him more likely to be picked up by any cameras, but the idea of having his back to the pup, even injured, puts him on edge.

Plus he just…doesn’t really want to let him out of his sight.

He’ll take the risk of being spotted. He’ll be ditching this car anyway.

He tucks him into the passenger seat. After a moment’s hesitation, he takes off his jacket and tucks it around him.

Tim shudders, but curls into the leather. His eyes are dull and glassy.

Jason is glad he can’t smell whatever he’s feeling through the helmet.

***

By the time they reach his safehouse, Tim is unconscious, slumped against the window.

Jason moves more quickly now, alarmed by the way the pup doesn’t even stir as he scoops him out of the car, jacket and all.

Inside, he lays him down on the couch and takes off his helmet, checking that his scent is indeed the more mellow scent of sleep.

He decides to knock the most painful bit out of the way first.

The shoulder is a clean dislocation, and it pops back in with little fuss, especially with the muscles loose with unconsciousness. The kid’s forehead screws up, and he whines, pain spiking in his scent, but his eyes never flutter open.

Jason tries to pretend it doesn’t worry him.

He hesitates then, trying to prioritize. Ice for the head, stop the bleeding on the still sluggishly oozing cut, possibly in need of stitches. Ribs.

He’d been aiming to crack, not splinter, but…he was also angry.

He doesn’t want to dwell on the way his memories feel clouded and distant when he tries to remember his thought process through the pit. He hadn’t…he had thought the pit made everything clearer when he let it fill his mind.

Now he’s not so sure about that.

The point is, he should check the ribs, make sure they’re not going to puncture a lung.

He’s also definitely not shoving his hand up an unconscious pup’s shirt, especially one that had been convinced earlier in the evening that he was about to be raped.

Grimacing, he gives him a light shake. “Kid,” he murmurs. “Kid, can you wake up for a minute?”

Tim makes a quiet sound, eyelids fluttering, but they don’t open.

“Kid!” He tries again, louder.

No response.

Okay. Well, fuck.

There’s no rattle or wetness in his breathing, so he decides to concentrate on the head wound. There’s probably not much to be done for the ribs anyway, so long as he’s breathing fine.

The pup has started to shiver.

He leaves him on the couch to grab blankets out of the linen closet, packing them in around him until he’s more blanket burrito than pup.

Not that that takes much to accomplish. The kid is tiny. Before the pit, Jason had been scrawny, but even he was bigger at that age.

Half-remembered statistics about pack neglect and stunted development flash through his mind. He thinks of the surveillance photos Talia gave him, the way the pup’s skin was too pale even when he wasn’t being assaulted in the middle of the night, the wiry body that hasn’t put on much muscle even though he knows Bruce must be training him.

He goes back to his nest and grabs the softest blankets out of the lining, the ones that hold the most of his scent, and adds them to the burrito.

From the stash of ice packs he keeps stocked in the fridge, he uses the blankets to pin one against his ribs, leaning his head back against a second one. After dabbing away the worst of the blood, he decides the cut on his head will be okay with just a butterfly bandage.

Tim doesn’t stir the whole time he cleans and bandages it, doesn’t flinch away from the ice packs.

He just shivers.

Soon, there’s nothing more Jason can really do. He fusses with the blankets, adjusting them and readjusting them. He turns on the heating, takes stock of the medical supplies he’s got on hand.

Tim is pale under the blankets.

Soup, Jason decides. He’ll make some soup.

This, of course, comes with the new challenge of having to be in the next room, with a wall blocking his line of sight to the unconscious pup.

He makes do by just darting over to the doorway to check on him every time he takes a break from stirring or chopping. In between making sure the pup hasn’t suddenly vanished in the time it takes him to violently chop an onion, his mind races.

Kidnapping Robin was…really not the plan.

But then Robin wasn’t supposed to be a packless pup abandoned in an empty house, where anyone could find him. Anyone could hurt him.

Jason’s done a fantastic job at proving it.

And what the fuck is Bruce doing, huh? Taking his own pups out to fight was fucked up enough, taking someone else’s pup out was worse.

Taking a pup with no pack? Sending him home alone, unprotected?

When he’d broken into the house, he’d assumed it was arrogance, that Bruce was so full of his own ego that the danger didn’t occur to him, even after what happened to Jason.

Now, there’s a sickening twist in his stomach as he wonders if maybe it’s something worse.

Even if he’s doubted it in some of his darker moments, he’s never earnestly believed that Bruce took him in because he was looking for a new Robin. A replacement for golden-boy Dick? Sure. No way he’d have ended up getting taken straight home to the manor like a stray cat if Bruce hadn’t been empty-nesting hard for the last kid with black hair and blue eyes.

But he hadn’t initially wanted Jason to be Robin.

Had he?

Bruce is a clever man, more than capable of being manipulative. Brucie Wayne is proof enough of that. He’d fought Jason, at first, when Jason said he wanted to be Robin. He’d claimed it was too dangerous, and goddamn if he hadn’t been right.

But did he ever actually care?

Or did he only fight him so Jason wouldn’t question it when he gave in?

Was Jason ever even a facsimile of a son?

Or did Bruce take one look at him and see the perfect mold for a new soldier to throw into his fight?

And Tim. If the answers to the questions swirling in his head are what he fears they are, Bruce must have been thrilled to find him. Another packless pup, alone and easy to shape into what he needed, and this one was an upgrade, a well-bred little Bristol kid instead of a street rat.

Hell, Tim ostensibly has parents. Bruce wouldn’t have even had to pretend to be a father. This one he could just send home and forget about until he needed him again, a batarang tucked away in a cabinet until the next time he needed it.

And Tim would have soaked up every pathetic little “well done” that Bruce deigned to give him, would have clung to every pat on the head and done anything to earn the next one.

Jason remembers the feeling bitterly well.

He’s been stirring the soup far longer than necessary. The rich aroma has long since filled the kitchen, and he blinks, turning off the burner with a last stir.

Screw what the fuck is Bruce doing, what the fuck is Jason doing? What the hell is the plan here? He’s just kidnapped not only Robin, but Tim Drake. Neglected or not, the kid’s not a street rat no one’s going to miss.

Someone will come looking.

And they’ll be fucking lucky that there’s still a goddamn pup to find, some part of his mind snarls. Lucky Jason had a shred more self control than he could have, lucky Jason had only wanted to torture him and not wanted to slit his throat and leave the pup in his own rotting blood for the maid to find next week.

The fact that he’s the only viable candidate right now to protect the pup he just tortured is the kind of fucking ridiculous that you only find in Gotham, he thinks furiously, and spoons a generous helping of soup into a bowl.

The pup shows no signs of having woken up, but he has tipped further over, held up only by the pile of blankets.

Jason hurriedly sets the bowl on the side table and moves to tip him back upright so he doesn’t strain his ribs.

His skin is clammy to the touch, and much too cold.

Jason is an idiot.

He starts to yank blankets off, cursing himself the whole time.

Of course the pup’s going into shock, he has no pack bonds. That alone would compromise his health, especially if Jason’s suspicions are correct about how long he’s been packless for. Pile on the level of pain, fear, and physical and emotional trauma Jason so kindly just gifted him?

It’s lucky his heart hadn’t given out right there in his own bedroom.

As soon as there’s enough space, he folds himself in between Tim and the back of the couch, pressing the pup to his chest and tucking the blankets back in around them.

Skin to skin contact and warmth, in lack of pack contact. Sugar, preferably. He glances at the bowl of soup. Out of reach, but he’ll worry about that when the pup isn’t unconscious.

He picks up a limp, icy hand, feeling for a pulse. He finds one, but it’s weak and thready, and doesn’t seem to be getting any stronger as Jason cradles him.

“Shit,” he hisses.

It’s not going to be enough.

No amount of blankets and hugs are going to give him the strength he needs at this point.

He needs pack.

Jason takes a deep breathe, shoving back the long list of reasons why this is a stupid idea that spring to mind. He can’t afford to dwell on them, not when most of them are correct.

If he’d found Robin dying in an alley of shock, he’d shrug it off. Not his problem.

But this whole situation is his own doing, which unfortunately makes it very much his problem, consequences be damned.

The pup doesn’t deserve to die just because Bruce failed them both.

He takes a deep breath, steeling his nerves. Carefully, he tilts the pup’s head to rest against his shoulder, exposing his throat.

Fuck you for making me do this, Bruce.

He bites down, and the new pack bond snaps into place.

***

Grey Gotham sunlight filters in through the kitchen windows and spills into the living room where Jason is curled around his new pup.

He cracks an eye open, lazily checking on Tim. His pallor is looking much better, some color returning to his face. Jason’s fingers are still resting on the pulse in his wrist, reassured by its steadiness and strength.

Of course, he doesn’t really need the pulse. He can feel that Tim’s okay through the brightly shining new pack bond, lightly humming with content sleepiness, echoed back from Jason’s end.

It’s intoxicating, really.

He hadn’t realized how… off balance it had left him, being packless. How cored out.

His chest vibrates with a purr, his omega instincts thrilled by the weight of the pup against him. He’s too drunk on the new bond to even be embarrassed about it.

His mind traces over the fresh bond like fingers through hair, reassuring himself of its strength. It’s clear and bright, the link taking root with ease, illuminating the blackened and damaged part of Jason’s mind where his pack bonds used to be.

Until it took, he hadn’t been positive that he even could form new pack bonds, that death hadn’t shredded the part of his mind capable of reaching out to another.

The indescribable pain of waking up in his coffin, terrified and hurt, reaching for his pack, and finding only a violently torn hole in his mind where their bonds should be is something he still has nightmares about.

He shudders, flinching away from the scar tissue around Tim’s bond, though the fury and ache that brushing against it causes to swell doesn’t threaten to choke him for once.

He turns his attention to Tim before he can dwell on it, unwilling to allow the emotions to seep through to him. The pup doesn’t need to deal with that shit right now.

Instead, he checks the bond on Tim’s end, tugging lightly to check its stability. The pup’s mind brushes back, tired but strong, still fast asleep.

And…there’s something else.

The faintest hint of a presence, not bright like a pack bond, but…there.

Jason was still a pup when he died, didn’t present as an omega until after the pit. He’s never had the control over his pack’s bonds that all head omegas hold.

But instinct is strong.

He recognizes the nascent bond without being told, the weak little bud of a link between Tim’s mind and someone else’s, one that has clearly not been nurtured or brought to fruition.

He’s frowning, staring off into the dawning sunlight in the kitchen without seeing it as he prods carefully at the bond.

Until, suddenly, he recognizes the mind at the other end of it.

His teeth bare, and a snarl rolls through his chest. The pup stirs, forehead screwing up as he softly keens in response.

He wrestles the growl back into a purr, a little harsher than it was before, and he knows his eyes are glowing green. The pup relaxes, though there’s still a small furrow across his brow, clearly picking up on some of Jason’s rage and anxiety through the bond.

He can’t help it.

Bruce has no right, no right to have a presence in his pup’s mind, not even a small one. He left his pup, left him alone to the mercy of a predator.

He had to know, had to have felt the young mind reaching out to him, desperate for pack, and yet he still left him.

His pup needed him, and he didn’t come.

Well, fuck that.

Jason sure as fuck isn’t what Tim deserves, but he’s what’s here, and so long as he’s alive and kicking, the pup is his now.

If Bruce wanted to claim him as pack, he should have settled the bond when he had a chance.

Bruce holds no claim on either of them.

He doesn’t rip the nascent bond out, doesn’t do anything that might cause Tim pain. He is as coldly precise and careful as a cat sinking it’s claws into prey as he grips the fragile bond and tightens, until finally, the bond gives, crumbling away like dust, like a dream in the soft light of morning.

…

Tim stirs awake wrapped in warmth, and the odd sensation that he has just forgotten something important.

He reaches for it without knowing what he’s reaching for.

Was he dreaming?

He doesn’t remember.

Fingers soothe through his hair, and he leans into the touch with a soft trill. An omegan purr rumbles back.

He cracks an eye open, surprised. He can’t remember his mother ever stroking his hair like this.

Even as he thinks it, there’s a pulse of brother-omega-safe-calm in his mind, and he goes boneless at the sheer pleasure of the sensation.

He’s never felt this before, this - this lack of hollowness.

It feels like how he always imagined being wrapped in Batman’s cape would feel, those chilly nights where he watched from the rooftops as Robin tucked himself into the fabric, looking warm and cozy and protected.

Someone adjusts the heavy weight wrapped tightly around him, and he snags his fingers around the edge of a soft blanket. Beneath it, he finds not a cape, but what feels like a leather jacket, draped across his shoulders.

“Go back to sleep, Baby Bird,” a cigarette-roughened voice says quietly. “You need it. ‘S okay now.”

The warmth in his head hums that it’s the truth, and he trusts it, letting himself sink back into the darkness.

Robin would never lie to him.

Chapter Text

Bruce doesn’t often think about the nascent bond between him and Tim.

It’s just...there, as it has been for a while now, and when he thinks too hard about it he remembers that it scares him.

He didn’t choose for it to form, didn’t even fully notice until it was already there. It was inevitable, really, he tells himself. Spending so much time with the pup, training with him, his milky pup scent clinging in traces to the manor and the cave until his alpha instincts simply recognize his presence as being right, as being part of his territory, where pack should be.

There’s no way to tell that part of himself that the pup is not his, that he has his own pack, his own parents. Even if those parents are…unsatisfactory, from the pieces the detective in him has taken note of. They are still his parents, still his pack.

Not to mention the sheer arrogance of thinking for even a moment that he could do any better.

He has already failed both his pups in their own way, he has absolutely no right to be so selfish as to do the same to Tim.

And pups’ minds reach out so easily, seek out new bonds as naturally as seeking out food, needing the nourishment of those connections as they grow.

He knows better than to take advantage of that, no matter how much his instincts want him to settle the bond, to wrap the pup in the protection of pack and claim the child as his own.

So, no, he doesn’t often think about the bond. It would do no one any good to dwell on it. Day to day, he simply does his best not to notice it.

He notices when it snaps.

He’s in the manor when it happens, a cup of coffee in his hands as he stretches his legs on his way back to his office. His thoughts are full of nothing important, absently running through the quarterly reports in his head for the meeting he has in the next hour.

The bond, a tiny shadow of a presence in the back of his mind, dissolves into hollowness.

There are shards of ceramic on the rug, hot coffee splashed across his shoes. He stares down at it, uncomprehending.

He reaches for the bond, the bond he’s always been so careful not to touch, not to strengthen, and finds…nothing.

Not the jagged wound that was left when Jason died, not the soft recognition of his presence in the world.

Just a void where Tim was and is not longer.

It’s like a dream as his feet pound down the hall, a slow-motion nightmare he’s had a thousand times before, knowing that whatever he’s running towards, he’s already too late.

Alfred appears around the corner between one blink and the next, alarm written in every line of his face. “Master Bruce, what on Earth -?”

“Alfred,” his voice feels raw, even though he doesn’t remember shouting. “Tim. Where’s Tim?”

The old beta’s face cycles through emotions, shock, concern, fear, before he’s able to school it. “He should be at Drake Manor,” he responds promptly, settling quickly into a grimly businesslike countenance. “His parents flew in last night for the weekend.”

Bruce is off before he can finish the second sentence.

Of course. He knew that, knew Tim was next door. He curses himself for the precious seconds wasted establishing information he already has.

There is no time for him to make such mistakes.

He runs for the garage, not the cave. It will be roughly thirty seconds faster at top speed to reach Tim’s house from the driveway than by the back entrance to the cave, thirty seconds he cannot afford to sacrifice.

Thirty seconds could be everything.

Thirty seconds could have saved Jason.

He has the pedal to the floor as soon as the engine turns over, gravel spraying as he flies down the driveway. He doesn’t slow down for the gate to fully open, clipping the edge of it as throws the car through the gap. He doesn’t even flinch at the screech of metal.

His knuckles are white around the steering wheel. It’s only a little over a mile between their houses, and he feels every inch of distance in the pounding of his heart.

Not again. Not again. Not again.

He can’t stop reaching for the missing bond, like poking at a missing tooth. It should hurt, shouldn’t it? Why doesn’t it hurt?

If his son is -

It should hurt.

Because it wasn’t a true bond, his mind whispers viciously. Because you pushed him away, because you knew you wouldn’t survive this kind of pain again.

The joke’s on him, then, he thinks as he guns the engine up the driveway towards Drake Manor.

Because if he walks into that house to find a body, he’s not sure he’ll survive it, bond or no bond.

***

He finds no body in the house.

It doesn’t make him feel the slightest bit better.

He stands in the doorway to Tim’s room, a detective's eye running through the facts at hand and a father’s heart that refuses to consider any scenario that doesn’t end in Tim coming home.

Facts:

There is no body. There is a small smear of blood against the edge of the door frame, a couple strands of black hair stuck to it, at the right level for a pup of Tim’s height.

The bedroom smells like fear and acrid pain, like pup terror, the terrible scent covering whatever fainter emotions might have been left beneath. A lamp has been pulled down off the bedside table and abandoned where it lays on the floor. Tim’s taser, the small one Bruce had gifted him months ago, is on the floor a few inches under the bed. The quilt has been ripped off and flung to the ground. His phone was left on the bedside table.

There are moments he wishes he didn’t have the mind of a detective. The images that form in his head are brutal in their clarity.

He can picture Tim, asleep under the covers, tiny and unprotected and vulnerable.

He was not ready for a fight, not here, not where he was supposed to be safe.

He can hear the sound his skull makes as it cracks against the wood, can smell the pain and fear he must have felt as he was taken down.

Did he scream?

Even knowing no one was coming, did he cry out anyway, praying that by some miracle, Bruce would hear him from his home a mile away?

The blood is hours old, already dried.

What was Bruce doing, when Tim was bleeding on the floor? Was he asleep, safe and content in his own nest the way Tim should have been? Was he still working, pondering crimes already committed as his pup was dragged from bed, reeking of terror?

What was so important in that moment, that Tim’s cries for help were allowed to go unheard?

There is no second scent in the house.

And that keeps itching at him, the stale scent of Jack and Janet Drake that’s probably months old, the utter lack of anything that smells like pack.

But he can’t focus on that right now.

Facts: at least one grown, likely male adult broke into Drake Manor by force. There was a pup alone in the house, who is no longer there.

His bedroom smells like terror.

Bruce’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he takes it out, glancing numbly at the caller ID before he picks it up. “Dick,” he says, and clears his throat when he hears how hoarse it comes out.

“What’s going on, B?” he demands without preamble. Bruce can feel the worry-concern-dread flaring at the other end of his bond.

For the first time, he realizes he’s unconsciously clamped down on his side of the bonds, protecting his pack from his own panic-grief-desperation leaking through. His mind traces over the bonds, reassuring himself that Alfred and Dick are there, are safe.

Shies away from the hollow where Tim is not.

“I need you back in Gotham,” is what he finally says. “Something has - ” his voice wavers. “Someone took Tim.”

Dick makes a sharp, cut-off sound. “I’ll be there in forty-five,” he responds. There’s a rustle, what might be footsteps. A long pause. Dick takes a breath like he’s going to say something, then let’s it out, a crackle of static.

A pulse of comfort-determination-pack, pushed through the bond.

It catches Bruce off balance, the feeling soothing something in his chest. The younger alpha has pulled back from the bond over the years, and even though they’re better than they used to be, he can’t remember the last time his pup so openly used it to show him affection.

Without thinking, he clamps down hastily on the automatic instinct to return the comfort, keeping a tight lock on his end of the bond.

His emotions are too uncontrolled right now. He doesn’t trust himself to push through the strength and calm that Dick deserves from his alpha without his grief and fear bleeding through.

It should never be his pup’s responsibility to share the burden of his weakness.

After another beat, hurt flickers on the bond, and then Dick clamps down on his end too. “We’ll find him, B,” he says, and he doesn’t sound angry.

He just sounds weary.

The line goes dead, and Bruce immediately wishes not for the first time that he knew how to do better before he caused his pups to hurt.

He takes several minutes to breathe, to wrap up his fear and draw it back until he’s sure it won’t leak through, and then he pushes back, love-pack-protection-regret.

He holds his breath.

It doesn’t take long. Dick doesn’t push any more emotions through, but his end of the bond opens up again, and Bruce can once again feel him, a steady, reassuring presence. Safe, alive.

He lets out the breath, resolve settling. Taking one last look around, he turns to leave the empty room.

He’s going to find his missing pup. He’s going to bring him home, to a house that smells like pack instead of fear, and he’s going to make sure he knows that he has a place in that pack.

He has to, because to bring home another body will destroy them all.

***

When Tim wakes up this time, he feels much more alert.

Which kind of sucks ass, as it turns out.

There’s no warm haze between him and the pain, just a full-body, throbbing ache that makes him wish he was unconscious again.

He’s hardly begun to process the extent of his injuries when there’s an… awareness, in his head.

His eyes snap open.

Footsteps come from behind him, light but hurried. He cranes his head back to peer over the arm of the couch he’s on, ignoring the throbbing in his skull for a moment in favor of staring in shock as Jason appears in the doorway.

His eyes are wide, but he schools his face into something fairly neutral as soon as he sees Tim looking at him. He steps into the room, plucking something up off the coffee table. “Here, you’re gonna want this,” he says, and chucks the object at Tim.

Tim reaches to catch it on instinct. Pain flares hot and bright through his shoulder and ribs. He yelps, and the object smacks him in the forehead with a plastic rattle, and he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood as white spots of agony dance in front of his eyes.

“Shit, fuck, sorry, that was stupid -”

His vision clears, and Jason is right next to him. He flinches back before he can stop himself.

Jason freezes, waiting until Tim is able to focus on his face before slowly reaching down and picking something up off the floor beside the couch, telegraphing his every movement.

It’s a pill bottle, he finally realizes as Jason carefully holds it out to him. Ibuprofen, the extra-strength stuff. “Thanks,” he croaks automatically. He watches Jason warily, waiting for the trap to spring.

Jason…doesn’t look like someone who’s plotting the next way to hurt him. He looks like someone who desperately needs to lie down and take a ten hour nap. He’s taken off the scent blockers, and there’s no anger in the air around him.

He looks back down at the pills. They look like actual ibuprofen.

Jason huffs. “You don’t have to take any if you don’t want to,” he says, sounding faintly irritated.

And…true. If he was being drugged, Jason would probably just shove them down his throat.

Tim decides he doesn’t care. The raw tenderness that feels like someone’s been using his brain as a stress ball is worth the risk. He tips out two pills and dumps them in his mouth.

Jason grabs a water bottle off a side table and holds it out to him, rolling his eyes when Tim just eyes it warily. He uncaps it, letting him hear the snap of the seal breaking, and takes a gulp himself before offering it back out. “Seriously, you take the strange pills and then get paranoid about the water?”

“You tortured and kidnapped me, I’m allowed to be paranoid,” he says flatly. He takes the water.

Jason winces.

There’s another pulse, guilt-bitterness-anxiety. Tim nearly spills the water on himself in shock.

“What the hell,” he breathes.

“Okay, look - ”

“You seriously pack bonded me.”

“- I need you not freak out - ”

“That wasn’t just a dream. That really happened. You kidnapped me, and then you bit me - ”

“Look, I’m not gonna apologize for the kidnapping thing, but I am super sorry about the whole torture thing - ”

Tim feels his eyes abruptly fill with tears. “Jason, you’re alive.”

Jason’s expression turns from guilty to horrified. “Oh fuck, please don’t cry!” he blurts out. Tim makes a noise that’s half a sob, and Jason’s hands flutter frantically, unsure how to fix this. He settles on awkwardly patting his head, lightly scrubbing his scent into his hair. His scent is slightly panicked, so it doesn’t help much. “Do you want some soup?” he asks hopefully. “I’ve got soup.”

Tim sniffles, blinking until his vision is mostly clear. He nods.

Jason disappears into the kitchen, and Tim hears the beep of a microwave. He takes the moment of solitude to wrestle his emotions back under control, scrubbing furiously at his damp eyes and nose.

He’s back in a flash, the scent of chicken and herbs wafting into the room with him as he cradles a large bowl in his palms. He sets it on the coffee table in front of Tim, once again carefully telegraphing his movements as he gets close.

“Sorry,” Tim mumbles. “Dunno why I’m being dramatic.”

“Jesus, kid, don’t apologize,” he sighs, dropping down into an armchair on the other side of the table. “You’re not being dramatic. Look, we gotta - we gotta talk.”

Tim sniffs again, and carefully scoops up the bowl, the warmth of it reassuring against his palms. He looks up at Jason, and waits.

Jason rubs at the bridge of his nose. His hair is mussed, the white strand in the front sticking up weirdly, and there are raccoon-like dark circles under his eyes.

He looks much younger without the domino mask.

“Tell ya what,” he says. “I’ve got some questions for you. You probably have a bunch of questions for me. How about I’ll answer one of yours for every one of mine you answer honestly?”

“Are you going to answer mine honestly?” Tim asks carefully.

The bond doesn’t give him as much access to Jason’s head as he’d like, but he doesn’t sense any irritation at the challenge.

Jason huffs. “Sure. I go first, though.” He raises an eyebrow at him. “How are your ribs?”

Tim blinks, surprised. “Fine,” he says automatically.

Jason scowls at him, and Tim leans back slightly in alarm. “Honest answers only.”

Tim chews on his lip. It goes against every bit of his training to be open about an injury to the very person whose boot stamped it into him.

But…he still senses no malice.

“Sore,” he finally hedges.

“Not broken?” he presses, and Tim shakes his head. They hurt, but he doesn’t feel the sharp, stabbing pain he associates with broken ribs.

Some of the tension leaves Jason’s shoulders. “Alright, your turn.”

Tim looks down at the bowl of soup, scooping up a spoonful to buy time. He’s got so many questions, and he’s not sure how long Jason’s patience is going to last with this game. He needs to prioritize carefully.

He takes a sip of the soup, and blinks in surprise. “Is this Alfred’s recipe?” he blurts out.

Goddamnit.

Jason snorts loudly. “Yeah, it is,” he answers drily. “And yes, that does count as your question.”

Tim shoots him a mild glare, and takes another sip of soup.

Jason leans forward, hands resting on his knees, body language purposefully unintimidating. His face turns serious. “How did you become Robin?”

Tim tenses, fingers tightening around the bowl. “I didn’t - ” he takes a deep breath. “I really didn’t replace you, Jason, I promise,” he says quietly. Jason frowns, and he hurries to continue. “You have every right to be mad, I mean, I’m not - I’m not trying to tell you you can’t, I completely understand why you hate me. But you just - it’s important that you know that I didn’t take your place, I was just - I was just a placeholder, you know?” he says earnestly. “Because Batman started to get really violent after you - after, and I realized that Gotham needed a Batman and Batman needed a Robin, and I tried to get Dick to come back but he wouldn’t, but now you’re back and you can be Robin again - ”

The wave of emotion slams through the bond like a bullet. “No,” Jason snarls, eyes flaring violent green, and Tim cringes back with a whine, barely resisting the urge to bare his throat.

Jason squeezes his eyes shut. When they open again, there’s more teal there, though acid still sparks around his pupils. “No,” he repeats. “There’s not going to be any more Robins, and I’m sure as fuck not Robin anymore.”

Tim swallows. “Why not?” he asks softly.

He lets out a bitter laugh, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb.

In that moment, Tim is struck by how much the gesture reminds him of Bruce.

“Have you ever had any pack bonds before, kid?” he asks abruptly.

Tim bites down the urge to push for an answer to his question, the bitter rage he can feel through the bond still simmering. “When I was a baby,” he responds. “I guess. I don’t really remember, but I know they say most babies don’t survive without bonds, and my parents always insisted we were pack because we were bonded once. They just kind of…faded.”

Jason’s eyes are flickering again, and he feels the sudden need to defend his parents. “I mean, it’s not like they broke them on purpose. They just travel a lot for work, you know? And it’s hard to maintain solid bonds when you’re not around each other. But it’s really actions that make a pack, not bonds, and they work really hard to make sure I’m taken care of. That’s what’s important.”

There’s a tick in Jason’s jaw. “They tell you that?”

Tim looks down, poking at a piece of chicken with his spoon. “Doesn’t make it not true,” he mumbles.

Jason lets out a soft exhale through his nose. “Fine. Let’s talk about actions, then. Bruce put you in danger.”

“I put myself in danger,” Tim counters. “And he’s not my pack.”

“Exactly,” Jason hisses. “Why the fuck isn’t he your pack? He finds a neglected pup right next door to him and he just decides to take you out on the town and throw you at thugs? And don’t even start trying to defend him by saying he didn’t know,” he adds, no doubt seeing Tim’s eyes light up with a response. “I don’t care how clever you are, I don’t care how well you think you hid it, he knows something’s up. You might not think having your parents leave you alone and packless in an empty house while they galavant around the world is neglect, but the rest of the world sure as fuck does and you know it. Why didn’t he push further? Why didn’t he adopt you into his pack like me and Dickie?”

Tim closes his mouth, the light in his eyes shuttering. He stares down, wishing he knew how to shut off his end of the bond the way he knows people can do.

“Because it’s me,” he mumbles at last. “You and Dick were his pups. I’m just… the neighbor kid who forced my way in. He didn’t choose me, so he doesn’t owe me that.”

The wave of angry-protective-sad that sweeps through the bond makes his eyes once again start to water, and he swipes at them furiously, hating how overly emotional he seems to be this morning.

“Oh, Timmers,” Jason sighs, and suddenly he’s up and moving towards him, scuffing his feet intentionally against the carpet so it doesn’t come as a surprise when he plops down on the couch next to him.

Tim slumps sideways before he can overthink it, tucking himself safely into his side and ignoring the way it makes his ribs and shoulder throb.

Jason stiffens, and Tim tenses, ready to be shoved away.

Instead, after a moment’s hesitation, Jason lowers his arm, gently rubbing his wrist against his neck to scent him. The smell of protective omega seeps into his skin, traces of leather and gunpowder and pack surrounding him like a warm blanket.

Tim goes even more boneless, letting out a shuddery breath. “My turn,” he mumbles. “Why did you bond me?”

Jason lets out a soft breath. He doesn’t answer for a long minute, and Tim begins to think he’s not going to.

“Because you didn’t deserve for me not to,” he quietly says at last.

***

Every line of Dick’s body is tense where he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “So we have no idea who might have taken him,” he says flatly. He’s still in uniform, having been on his way to work when he’d called Bruce.

“Oracle is combing through footage to see if any cameras picked them up,” Bruce responds. His tone is rough, detached, the Batman voice he reserves for the worse of cases.

His throat hurts with it.

“No ransom demands have been made? No threats?” As if Bruce would have kept it to himself if there had.

“No,” he answers anyway. “I’m analyzing the mud from the boot prints, in case there are any clues to their location.” He doubts there will be. The footprints led to a spot at the treeline, where signs point to someone having done surveillance for some time prior to breaking in. It’s likely they’ll find nothing in the mud that didn’t come from the Drakes’ own property.

He doesn’t say so.

Dick chews on his lip. Bruce can sense there’s something on his mind, something he also doesn’t want to say.

“Nightwing, thoughts?” he asks, trying to keep his voice neutral. It comes out too-sharp anyway.

Alfred shoots him a disapproving look. His own knuckles are white where they’re clasped elegantly over each other as he stands regally to the side.

Dick frowns, glancing at him, but it’s wary, not angry. “I just… it’s been almost half a day,” he says carefully. “Most kidnappers don’t wait that long to make contact in child abduction cases if the goal is ransom, the chance of the parents contacting the police before they can make their demand is too high.”

“Your point?” Bruce growls.

His frown turns to a scowl. “Nothing. I don’t have a point.”

“Tim is alive.” Bruce’s tone leaves no room for argument.

“I never said he wasn’t,” Dick snarls right back. “Jesus, Bruce, I want to find him just as much as you do, don’t treat me like I’m working against you here.”

“There is a perfectly viable way to determine whether… Master Tim is alive,” Alfred speaks up suddenly, the barest hint of a waver in his words. “Without sniping at our own pack mates.”

Bruce refuses to duck his head at the chastisement, though he knows regret would be thick in his scent if he weren’t wearing blockers.

Dick doesn’t look at him, eyes fixed on Alfred. “What is it?”

He arches an eyebrow. “You could reach out to his pack,” he says like it should be obvious.

Because of course it should. Bruce could smack himself. “His parents,” he breathes, already digging his phone out of his pocket.

Jack and Janet had chosen to extend their stay, as Tim’s phone had revealed, but had given no indication that they would be out of cell service. Surely they would have let Tim know if they were going to be unreachable.

He’s got their numbers stored in his phone, thank god, and he pulls up Jack Drake’s number and hits call before he can let himself hesitate.

Dread and hope churn in his stomach. One way or another, he will know shortly if Tim is alive.

It takes five rings, and he’s growing worried that it will go to voicemail, before Jack picks up. “Brucie! I wasn’t expecting to hear from you,” he says. He sounds surprised, but… cheerful.

Not like a man who’s felt the kind of terror from his pup that Bruce smelled in that room, and certainly not like a man whose pup has died.

A stone settles in his stomach.

He thinks on his feet. “Jack!” He says, matching his merry tone. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything important, I know you’re a busy man. I can call back later if now’s a bad time.”

Dick shoots him an alarmed look, and he gives him a tiny shake of the head in response.

“Not at all! I’ve always got time for a pal like you,” his tone is the overly-friendly one Bruce recognizes from a hundred people at various galas, sensing an opportunity for a business deal. “What can I help you with?”

“Ah, excellent! Well, I was actually calling to ask about Tim,” he keeps his voice casual, curious but distantly so. “You see, we’d talked at that gala last month about him coming by Wayne Industries for a little tour, talk about some of our internship programs! He was supposed to come by the office this afternoon, but he never showed up.”

“Oh dear,” Jack says. He doesn’t sound concerned, but rather…annoyed. “I’m terribly sorry to hear that! You know how teenagers can be sometimes, so self-involved. I’m sure he forgot to write down the date. That’s no excuse for wasting the time of a man like you, we’ll certainly be having a talk with him,” he says sincerely.

Bruce laughs, and it astonishes even him that he’s able to summon such a carefree sound. “No worries, no worries, I know how kids can be. I actually appreciated the excuse not to take any calls, I just wanted to make sure everything was alright, I thought maybe he was sick or something.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s perfectly fine,” Jack says flippantly. “The housekeeper checks in on him when we’re away.”

“Naturally,” he says through smiling teeth. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your work. Good talk, Jack.”

He hangs up before the other man can say anything else to keep the conversation going. His knuckles are white around the phone.

Dick and Alfred are both staring at him expectantly. “Well?” Dick blurts out.

He takes several measured breaths. “I don’t think he has the slightest clue that anything is wrong,” he says tightly.

Dick’s expression twists in confusion. “But - they should have felt something through the pack bond. Even if he’s not - if he’s okay, he was scared, a pup being kidnapped isn’t just something you miss, unless - ” The blood drains out of his face. “You think Tim is packless?” he asks hoarsely.

Bruce doesn’t think all the scent blockers in the world could stop the fear and fury he can smell seeping into the air from himself in that moment. “I do.” He doesn’t even recognize his own voice. “I don’t think he’s bonded, even to his own parents.”

Dick sways slightly. “Fuck,” he says softly.

No one says a word about his language.

Chapter Text

Jason has a problem.

Actually, he has a growing stack of problems, interlocking like a jenga pile, but most of them boil down to the pup he’s impulsively stashed in his safehouse without any planning or forethought.

He’d had a plan. A detailed plan, with lots of moving pieces and critical milestones.

He mourns that plan.

Right now, his priority has to be the pup, but he isn’t totally sure how he’s supposed to do that. What does that mean, in context, beyond making sure he’s got food and water?

He’s pretty sure taking care of a kid is more complicated than taking care of a cat.

And how to balance that care with his determination to face down Bruce, and his need to see the Joker dead?

First of all, if at all possible, he really doesn’t want to have to hold Tim here by force. He’s given the pup enough trauma already. He brought him here because he wanted to keep him safe, and that’s going to be a hell of a lot easier if there’s some amount of trust between them.

At the same time, he’s under no illusions that the pup is here of his own free will.

Frankly, it’s a miracle the kid is being as cooperative as he is. He hasn’t tried to escape, hasn’t tried to reach out to the bats for help. He eats the food Jason gives him, doesn’t touch any of his weapons, is perfectly polite and obedient.

Easy to say when Jason is in the same tiny apartment as him.

The moment Jason leaves the building, who knows how long that cooperation is going to last.

Jason snatched him early Friday morning. It’s now Saturday afternoon, trailing into evening, and Jason can feel the clock ticking.

Tim has already confirmed that his parents rescheduled for two weeks from now, but their original itinerary had listed them as having tickets to fly back out of town Monday afternoon, which means Bruce will likely notice he’s missing Monday night, Tuesday at the latest, at which point it’s likely only a matter of time before he finds some link to the Red Hood. Jason thinks he’s covered his tracks pretty well, but he’s not so arrogant as to count on the idea that Batman won’t figure it out eventually.

The wheels of his plan to bring their confrontation to a head are already in motion, have been since before he ever set foot into Drake Manor.

The clocks in his head are all ticking down, and he is sitting in a safehouse with a pup he doesn’t know what to do with.

The walls are too close.

At this point, his saving grace is that at least some of the business of being a drug lord can be done on a computer in this day and age.

Tim is curled up on the couch, watching some true crime show on TV while Jason works. He looks like he might be getting ready to doze off again, which he’s been doing a lot over the past day, still healing from his wounds and adjusting to the new bond.

He is, once again, not wearing the fucking sling Jason gave him for his shoulder.

Jason drops his laptop on the table harder than is probably good for it. Tim jolts fully awake, blinking at him in surprise.

He prowls over to where the sling is halfway tucked between the couch cushions. He looms over the curled up pup, flinging it into his lap. “Wear the fucking sling before I have to snap your arm back into place. This time, I’ll make sure you’re awake to feel it,” he hisses.

The world is tinged green.

He waits exactly long enough to watch Tim put the sling on, before spinning on his heel and striding quickly across the apartment and into the bathroom. He locks the door behind him.

It’s stupid. This is stupid. He’s going to vibrate out of his skin.

Or murder a pup.

The worst bit is Tim isn’t even doing anything. He’s just there.

In Jason’s space. And his head.

He would give anything to just go for a fucking walk right now, to go patrol his territory, to go get some business done, any of the things he would usually do on these days when everything is just a bit too much.

But that would mean either leaving Tim alone or taking him with him, and both of those options pose their own dangers.

It’s stupid, this sensation like he’s losing control. He chose to steal the pup and take him home, chose to make him pack. This isn’t losing control of his life, it’s his own damn choices having consequences.

So why does he still feel like the walls are closing in on him?

He splashes some cold water on his face, concentrating on his breathing. He meets his own eyes in the mirror, watches the sparks of green dance at the edges. He keeps breathing until they die down, until they’re embers instead of a flickering bonfire.

It’s fine. He’s got this under control.

So long as Tim doesn’t do anything to set him off.

Wonderful. He’s turned into fucking Willis.

When he comes out, Tim’s head whips around a little too quickly to look at him, visibly schooling the wariness out of his features.

Jason falters. He hates that the guilt that flares feels more like frustration than anything else. He must not be doing as well as he thought at keeping the anxiety and anger from bleeding through the bond.

He can’t fucking be out here right now.

He stalks over, grabbing a blanket off the chair he’d been camped in, and tosses it lightly over Tim. “I’m going to bed,” he announces, ignoring the fact that there’s still fading orange sunlight visible through the kitchen window.

Tim pulls the blanket off his head, static making his hair stick up. He glances at the window skeptically, but thankfully for both their sakes, doesn’t call him out on it. “Good…night?”

Turning, Jason spots the sling, once again abandoned on the table.

Tim lunges for it. “Yep, yep, just took it off for a second to do something, putting it back now.”

“Your shoulder, break it if you want to,” he mutters.

He slams the door to the bedroom before Tim can say another word.

***

The batcomputer’s screen is blurring in front of Bruce’s eyes, but his thoughts are as jaggedly sharp as ever.

Ostensibly, he’s going through the Drake’s financials, looking for any possible reason why someone could have wanted to take Tim Drake, while Barbara combs through footage and Dick reaches out to some of his contacts to put out feelers on any news about Robin.

What Bruce has found is proof of his own failures.

The worst part is that none of what he finds is truly a shock. He knew the Drake’s spent more time out of the country than at home. He knew Tim had a housekeeper but no live-in caretaker, had in fact acknowledged the convenience it granted Tim’s training.

The total amount of time they had spent in the city within the past year was just under four weeks.

The housekeeper is only billed as coming over three days per week, many of those hours during the time when Tim would have been at school.

He didn’t see these details because he didn’t want to see them, because he didn’t want to think about the deeper implications of what he knew.

Because he was weak. Because to dig deeper would have been to acknowledge that Tim needed something from him that he wasn’t sure he could bear to give.

It was so much easier to just… tell himself a story he could let himself believe.

His parents were loving, if misguided. Absent, yes, only because they thought it best not to drag a pup around the world as they worked, but surely they were home with him as often as they could be.

Tim had spoken fondly enough of Mrs. Mac, who was surely there most days, keeping him company and tending to his needs.

Perhaps not the picture-perfect life for a pup, but acceptable. He had a fine house, a pack that provided for him, privilege and opportunity at his fingertips. Lonely, but taken care of, he told himself.

Dick and Jason had had no one left when they’d come into his life. They had needed him, in a blatant way, and he was unable to turn away from that need.

It had been too easy to turn away from Tim. He’d kept it too easy by not letting himself look closer.

There are other things, more sinister things, now that he’s digging.

Now that he’s not looking away.

An illness, when he was five, that pulled him out of kindergarten for almost two months, around the time his parents’ time away began to outweigh the time spent at home. One of his teachers had written a letter expressing concern over his health when he had returned, wondering if he was ready to return to class. No medical records appear from this period.

Bruce suspects that if an examination had been conducted, they would have diagnosed him with shock caused by dissolved pack bonds, which for a five year old, would have demanded involvement from CPS.

A sprained wrist, two broken arms, and a concussion, each put down to skateboarding accidents over the years.

Each lining up with one of the rare periods the Drakes were home.

What else has Bruce missed?

What else was he too afraid to see?

His comm buzzes. “B,” Oracle says crisply. “I’ve got something.”

Instantly, he’s blinking away the blurriness that’s begun to creep into the edges of his vision, the two days without sleep falling away as his heart skips a beat.

“What is it?” he says urgently.

A beat. “Nightwing is on his way back, he’s about eight minutes out,” she answers instead. “We’ll go over it when he gets there.”

He bites back a demand for answers, knowing Barbara won’t respond well to it. “Eight minutes,” he growls.

He turns back to the computer, determined to use every second of it to keep looking.

Whatever happens, he refuses to look away again.

…

“The footage is pretty low quality,” Barbara says. Dick is leaning over the back of the second chair, knuckles white where he grips the back. “Bodega camera picked them up off Parkview, just after 3 AM.”

A video appears on the screen, blown-up and grainy, of a Toyota Camry, two figures visible through the windshield.

Dick inhales sharply. “That’s - ”

“ - The Red Hood,” Bruce finishes in a snarl. His eyes are locked on the black and white shape of his helmet, the grey pixels where white lenses lie.

Beside him, Dick moves quickly towards the screen, reaching out as though to touch. Bruce drags his gaze away from the mask to follow his fingers, to the passenger seat.

A tiny, pale face, dark hair falling messily around the edges. Even though the pixelation, Bruce can picture the dark curls in vivid detail.

His eyes are closed.

“Were you able to see where they went after this?” Bruce asks.

“No.” The frustration in Barbara’s voice is clear. “Bastard knows how to avoid a camera, that’s for sure. I’m still looking. It’ll be easier to see if any other camera’s caught him, now that I know what I’m looking for.”

Dick’s eyes are narrowed, lips pressed into a thin, worried line. “Drugged?” he speculates. “If the head wound knocked him out and he’s still unconscious by this point, that’s…” he falters.

Bruce glances at the time stamp. “This was 3:14?” he double checks. She makes an affirmative noise, and he nods his head sharply. “He’s definitely alive,” he says decisively.

Dick casts him a look, frowning. He chews on his lip, but doesn’t outwardly question him.

Bruce takes a careful, even breath. “There was… a nascent bond between Tim and I,” he says haltingly. “It’s how I knew something was wrong.” He keeps his gaze fixed on the image of Tim’s face, alive, alive, still alive - “At a few minutes before 8 AM on Friday, it broke.”

Dick drops into the chair so quickly, it’s clear his legs have given out, shock-grief-horror swelling in the air.

On the other end of the comms, Barbara is silent.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” he croaks at last. His face is white as paper, eyes shining in the dim cave light.

“Because I knew what you would assume,” he growls. “Good detective work cannot rely on assumptions. You would assume the bond broke because he was killed.” The bluntness of the statement makes Dick flinch. “If you believed him to be dead, you might have missed something, something that could be vital to finding him alive.”

Dick’s face twists. “So instead you just withheld information from us,” he says, and his voice sounds stretched thin over all the emotion under it. “Keeping evidence a secret, is that good detective work?”

“There are other reasons the bond could have broken.” His knuckles are white against the desk’s edge. “Trauma, experimental tech or chemical exposure, we don’t know, but we have to explore those explanations. We don’t have time to argue over this. Tim doesn’t have time.”

The emotions he can feel over the bond burn like ice.

Dick lets out a harsh, shuddering breath, and stands up abruptly. His fingers flex and curl against his thighs. “You should have told us,” he whispers, and, louder, “You should have - ” he cuts off sharply.

Without another word, he spins on his heel and strides for the door.

“Dick - ” he calls hoarsely, but Dick doesn’t look back.

“I need to think,” is all he says. The door slams shut behind him.

For a moment, all is quiet.

“I’ll keep looking,” Barbara says through the comms. Her voice is coolly neutral. “I think I’ll come over to the manor to work.”

She doesn’t need to explain why.

Dick needs someone who isn’t Bruce right now, who doesn’t continue to mess things up at every turn.

The footage glares at him from the screen. Tim, unconscious and wounded, unguarded against the whims of the man who stole him.

This can’t be the last glimpse he gets of his son alive.

***

The dream never starts in a warehouse.

It starts in an alley.

Jason is running, as fast as he can, his lungs burning and pulse pounding in his ears. The buildings exaggerate themselves, stretching and looming so high above him he can’t see the sky. The alleys aren’t his friend, not here. Every turn he makes is the wrong one, leading him deeper into the filthy maze.

Deep down, he knows he’s running towards a dead end.

He can do nothing but keep running.

Shouting voices follow him, rough cries that dissolve into high, cackling laughter, tearing at his eardrums until he breaks. He crumples to his knees, clawing at his ears.

It’s worth deafening himself, to escape that terrible laughter.

Hands seize his wrists, ripping his hands away from his ears, and the sound of himself screaming does nothing to block out the laughter that sinks into his skin like a blade, like a crowbar against his bones. The brick walls have dissolved, revealing the warehouse beneath, the warehouse that was always hidden beneath, just waiting for him to understand that there was never going to be any escape.

There’s a pale face staring down at him with wide, wild eyes, and the laughter echoes, tugging at his very brain.

But he’s not in the warehouse anymore. He’s in a bed, he can feel the soft mattress underneath him, can feel the hands that pin his wrists down so he can’t fight back. He wrenches at them, and they give with surprising ease, and it’s a trap, always a trap, they like it when he thinks he might be able to get away, like to give him hope so they can rip it away again, like the scent of despair turning his pup scent bitter.

His fingers brush metal, and his palm closes around the gun beneath his pillow like a lifeline.

CRACK.

There is no more laughter.

His ears ring with the gunshot, and in a heartbeat he is wide awake, unable to hear anything but his own pulse.

For a second, he doesn’t know where he is, blinking at the wall of the safehouse, lit only by the nightlight he’s plugged in to stave off the darkness and the tiny bit of Gotham light that spills in between the curtains.

The smell of blood hits him first.

A half second later, the ringing subsides enough for him to hear the quick, panting breaths from past the end of the bed, pulses of pain that’s not his own echoing in his head.

A whine, pup-high and choked off.

“Shit,” he gasps. “Shit, Tim.”

He barely notices as the handgun hits the carpet with a dull thud, already scrambling off the bed towards the small figure hunched against the wall. Tim’s curled around himself, and Jason can smell the blood and acrid pain.

“Where’d I hit?” he rasps out, frantic hands patting for the wound. It’s dark, too dark to see properly, and the walls are closing in on him. In his head, there’s blood everywhere, soaking his hands and the knees of his sweatpants, a bullet hole in the pup’s throat, his chest, arteries pumping him dry in moments. “Where’d I - Tim.”

“S’okay,” Tim says, voice tight but strong. “Jason, it’s okay, I think it’s just - get the light, I’ve got pressure on it.”

Light. Yes, light.

Jason’s whole body is shaking.

The washed-out light of the overhead bulb he never bothered to change spills over the room, sweeping away the horrific visions of pools of blood and Tim’s dead body.

Tim is pale, red streaking down between his fingers where he grips his arm, staining the sling, but his eyes are bright and alert. Jason crouches back down immediately, prying at his fingers until he can see the wound for himself, stomach twisting as more blood spills out.

The pup lets out a slow, steadying breath. “Should probably have guessed you’d sleep with a weapon. That’s my bad.”

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Jason hisses through his teeth. His hands won’t stop shaking.

“You were having a nightmare,” he mumbles. “I could hear you screaming.”

It’s a graze. Just a graze. A deep, bloody graze through his upper arm that’s going to be a bitch to deal with while it heals, but it missed the bone, missed any arteries.

Jason’s heart is still pounding so hard it makes his chest ache.

“And you thought, what, the best way to help would be to come loom over me and grab my wrists? You didn’t see any way that could go badly?” he bites out, pressing down maybe a little harder than he has to on the bleeding.

The pain in Tim’s scent spikes, but he doesn’t flinch away. “I tried calling to you, but you kept clawing at your ears. I was worried you were going to hurt yourself.”

For the first time, Jason notices the slight stinging high up on his cheeks. He suspects he’d find skin under his own fingernails, if he checked under the blood now staining them.

He shudders, dull sense memory of satin threads and wooden splinters lodged under his nails.

The urge to scrub his hands is suddenly so strong he can hardly bear it.

“So you got yourself hurt instead. Fucking genius, real Robin shit right there,” he says, acid dripping off his words.

Tim does flinch at that.

The biting anger drains away as quickly as it comes. “Just - just go wait for me in the kitchen so I can stitch you up,” he mumbles, and gets up, refusing to look the pup in the eye.

He grabs the massive first aid kit from the bathroom, taking the brief moment alone to check that it’s got everything he needs, even though he knows full well that he’s too obsessive over his safehouses for it to be out of anything.

He just… he needs the moment.

Part of him still feels stuck in the dream, like this room is just another illusion that will dissolve away at any moment.

The seconds pass, and the bathroom counter is still solid beneath his palm.

He’s feeling a bit more in control of himself when he comes out, and a lot more ashamed.

“That was mean. I’m sorry,” he says quietly, he says, setting the kit down on the counter next to where Tim has seated himself on one of the stools. “I didn’t really mean that.”

Tim shrugs with his uninjured shoulder. “You were right, though,” he says as Jason sets to work making sure the wound is clean. There’s a pink flush of shame to his pale cheeks, and though there are no tear tracks, his eyes are more red-rimmed than they were when he went to get the medkit. “I panicked. I should’ve thought of a better way to wake you up than grabbing you, I’m really sorry. I know this is inconvenient.”

Jason pauses in the middle of threading a sterile needle. “Kid, are you fucking apologizing for getting shot right now?”

“Well, it wasn’t your fault,” he mumbles.

“Doesn’t mean it was yours, pup, Jesus Christ.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, running through a quick breathing exercise until he’s sure there’s no green coloring his thoughts. He picks up the needle again. “I shouldn’t have gotten so mad at you, alright? You were just trying to help. You couldn’t have known I would panic and shoot you. I didn’t even know I was going to panic and shoot you. If I did, I would’ve kept the gun out of reach, or locked the door or whatever. Pup-proofed my shit.”

That earns a small, petulant scowl. “I’m not a toddler.”

Jason smirks, the indignant expression loosening the knot in his stomach. “You’re the size of a toddler, same safety rules apply.”

“Hey!”

“Don’t move, are you trying to make me stab you with a needle?”

Tim subsides, looking only slightly sheepish as Jason glares him into submission before carefully returning to his work. They’re both quiet for a little bit, Jason thinking carefully about what he wants to say before he finally clears his throat and says, “You know your parents were fucked up, right?”

Okay, so there was probably a more tactful way to approach that, but fuck it, his nerves are still too fried for tact.

Tim twitches, barely remembering in time to keep his arm still. “I don’t - I mean, I know they weren’t perfect - ”

Jason cuts him off, knowing hearing Tim try to defend them is liable to trigger the pit right now. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to answer me honestly, okay?”

He waits until Tim gives him a hesitant nod. “Did your parents ever use physical pain as a punishment?”

Tim falls silent.

Jason looks up from the stitches, sees the way Tim gnaws on his lip, not looking back at him.

He has to close his eyes for a moment and just breathe. Even so, he knows they’re flickering green when he opens them again. It’s nothing that really surprises him, but it’s the shame on the pup’s face that gets to him, that he can feel curling at the other end of the bond.

His fingers don’t tremble in the slightest as he keeps sewing. He makes sure of it.

“I know on some level, you already know this, ‘cause you’re smart, but I’m gonna say it anyway, because I think you need to hear it,” he says steadily. “That was abuse, baby bird. You don’t have to tell me any details if you don’t want to, but the details don’t matter. I don’t care what you did, I don’t care how much you pissed ‘em off, you didn’t deserve to be hurt.”

He could choke on his own hypocrisy.

Instead, he swallows, and keeps going. “And you didn’t deserve what happened tonight, either.”

“I know this wasn’t a punishment!” Tim says quickly. “It was an accident, I know that - ”

“Yeah, I know you know that,” Jason says. “But there’s a - a thing that happens sometimes, when you get used to justifying why someone decided to hurt you. You get used to telling yourself that when you get hurt, it must’ve been because you deserved it somehow. Slip on a patch of ice? Should’ve watched where you were stepping, doesn’t matter if you couldn’t see it until your ass was hitting the ground. I can see that bullshit going on in your head right now, and I’m nipping it in the fucking bud.”

He takes a deep, steadying breath. “Look, I’m fucked up in the brain, okay? Like, really fucked up. Turns out, I’m still figuring out some of the ways I’m fucked up. Right now, I’m the fucking ice, and I don’t know really know where it’s safe to walk either. And that’s my responsibility. So that’s why I’m telling you to knock it off with taking responsibility for anyone else’s screwed up behavior. Because if I get triggered, or I lash out and I say something you don’t deserve, that’s on me to own up for and do better, not on you to try and prevent it, okay?”

Tim’s looking at him with wide eyes, and the feeling poking at the other end of the bond feels uncomfortably like awe. Jason has to look away. “Kids shouldn’t have to worry about walking on eggshells just ‘cause adults are screwed up,” he mumbles, carefully putting a bandage over the line of fresh stitches. “There. All set. Didn’t even maim you that bad this time.”

Tim is still watching him with a heavy gaze. “Thank you,” he says softly.

“Don’t mention it.” He focuses on putting the first aid supplies back in the bag. “Go get some more sleep. I put some numbing cream on it, but let me know if you need any painkillers or anything.” He gets up to go return the bag to the bathroom.

“Do you know?” Tim blurts out suddenly. Jason looks back at him in confusion, and he flushes. “That it wasn’t your fault. What happened to you.”

Jason’s knuckles are white where they rest on the doorknob to the bedroom. “Go get some sleep,” he repeats, and doesn’t look back again.

There’s a bloodstain smeared on the wall where Tim fell, a bullet hole a few feet up. Jason thinks about going back out and grabbing cleaning supplies from the kitchen, but that would mean going back out where Tim is.

The stain can wait until morning.

He turns off the bedside light so he at least can’t see it.

Two seconds later, he turns it back on again, heart pounding.

Nope. Not a night where he can handle the dark.

He rolls over, mumbling curses, and grabs his book off the side table, recognizing that he’s probably not actually getting to sleep tonight, and lying there with his eyes closed is just going to be a way to torture himself.

Reading helps.

It doesn’t take away the nightmares pacing at the back of his head, even awake, but it helps him pretend he can’t feel them lurking.

Two chapters later, a shadow moves under the door.

He doesn’t tense, only because he can feel the indecision at the other end of the bond, though anxiety still prickles. “Quit being a Bruce, this is not a lurking household,” he says aloud. “Either come in or go back to bed.”

The indecision turns to sheepishness, and the door quietly creaks open, revealing Tim’s small form, the bandage a pale lump peeking out from under his pajama shirt. “Sorry,” he murmurs.

Jason puts a finger between the pages and sets the book down in his lap. “Don’t worry about it. You alright?” He subtly scents the air, searching for any hint of pain or distress too subtle for the bond to reveal.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he answers quickly, shifting in the doorway. “I just - I could feel you were still awake.”

Jason snorts. “Don’t worry about my beauty sleep, Timmers, I’ll catch up.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” he says, exasperated. “I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

“Asshole’s my natural state. This is the nicest I ever get, I promise.”

“Well, beauty sleep won’t help you with that.”

Jason snickers, quietly pleased that the pup is apparently comfortable enough to insult him now, and relieved that pleased is all he feels, no trace of annoyance rising to the surface.

Tim hesitates for another moment, and then abruptly strides over to the bed, pulling back the covers and climbing in, seeming completely unimpressed by Jason’s bafflement.

“The fuck are you doing?” He asks. The safehouse bed is only a basic nest, with simple materials and his own scent barely settled into it. Still, it rankles, the uninvited presence of someone else in it.

The pup seems unconcerned by anything resembling basic nest etiquette.

He worms his way delicately up to the pillows, doing a fairly decent job at not disturbing their placement. He curls up, a couple inches of space between him and Jason.

“The couch isn’t that comfortable,” he says.

“Doesn’t sound like my problem.”

“It’s your couch,” Tim returns instantly. “Besides, you said not to worry about your beauty sleep, so I’m not worrying about it.” His fingers play with the hem of the blanket, still draped over his legs. “I can go if you really want me to,” he says, some of his earlier confidence draining away. “I just thought - maybe you didn’t want to be alone.”

There’s still a part of Jason that itches at the intrusion into his space, but it’s not as strong as he expected. Despite the minor irritation, there’s no real urge to snap his teeth and chase the pup out.

With a jolt, he realizes Tim smells like pack.

Of course he does. He is pack.

He’s still sitting carefully prim against the pillows, legs folded under himself and shoulders hunched in like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible.

Jason lets out a slow breath through his nose. “Have you ever even been in a pack nest before?”

He shrugs with one shoulder. “Never been invited in.”

“Christ - alright, c’mere,” Jason mutters. He grabs the edge of the blanket out of his fidgeting fingers, tugging it up over the pup and tucking it around his shoulders. “Your parents are useless pieces of shit. Now lay down, watch your stitches. If you bleed on my sheets I’m making you scrub it out.” He picks his book back up. He’s lost the page he was on, but it doesn’t matter. He flips back to the beginning.

Tim is watching him, soft awe and relief filtering into his scent, the smell of content pup soaking into the nest.

Jason can’t help himself. He runs his wrist across the soft black hair, omega-safe-protected layering on top.

“Shut your eyes,” he instructs, and Tim obeys easily, eyelids fluttering shut. There’s dark circles under his eyes, skin a bit too pale to be healthy.

Jason finds the first line of the book, then pauses, glancing back down at the pup. “Next time, consider yourself invited,” he says quietly. He starts to read.

“Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.”

Within a few minutes, Tim’s breathing has evened out, and the inch of space between them has disappeared.

Three chapters in, and Jason’s voice is getting tired, but he’s startled to realize his own eyes are growing heavy. His nest is warm, smelling of safety and happy pup, and the bond in the back of his head is peaceful and content.

It’s hard for his anxiety to sink his claws in when there’s a sleeping pup curled unafraid against his side.

He doesn’t realize he’s drifting until his cheek is pressed against the top of the smaller head, Tim’s breaths coming in soft puffs against his collarbone, and by then he can’t be bothered to care.

There are no more nightmares that night.

***

Barbara watches Dick pace.

There are dark circles under his eyes, nervous energy and the bitter fury evident in his scent probably the only things keeping him in motion.

It’s setting her teeth on edge.

“I am this close to kicking you out of this room and making you go work with Bruce in the cave,” she growls, glaring at him over the screen of her laptop.

She likes to pride herself on her ability to keep a level head when the other alphas around her are losing theirs, but right now, with going on three days of no new leads and the grief-fury-guilt that permeates the manor, she’s having a hard time keeping her thoughts clear and logical, and Dick isn’t helping.

He runs a hand through his hair, the movement jerky and harsh. “Sorry.” He makes an effort, dropping himself down in the study chair nearest her. He makes it about two seconds before his leg starts bouncing.

“I just don’t get how we don’t have any more information on him,” he bursts out after another three.

“That is what I’m working on,” she says, as levelly as possible. “Hood’s not a ghost. He’s got a trail, I just need to find it.”

His leg doesn’t stop bouncing.

She sighs, shoving her glasses further up her nose. “Between me and Bruce, he’s not going to be able to stay hidden for long. I don’t care how careful he is, he’s not a bat. We’re going to find Tim.”

Dick’s jaw clenches. His leg falls still.

“Maybe I don’t think we will,” he says evenly, his eyes fixed on the window, the murky light spilling up from Gotham against the low hanging clouds.

Her fingers slow on the keyboard, though they don’t stop entirely, her own agitation showing through. “Bruce believes he’s still out there.”

Dick lurches to his feet again, picking up his pacing where he left off. “Bruce is in denial. Bruce is - after Jason - ” his hand runs through his hair again, harsh enough that she’s surprised he doesn’t pull strands free. “He lied. And - I get it. I get why he did it. But it doesn’t change the fact that Tim is - ”

His expression cracks, grief shining through like a spotlight.

“Did you know I didn’t find out Jason was dead until a week after it happened?” he says abruptly. “I was on a mission, but we weren’t out of contact. He could have reached us, told us to come home. He could have - ” he breaks off again, his voice flattened with the emotion it’s compressing beneath it. “I didn’t find out until I got to the manor. We were supposed to go to this - book signing, me and Jason. Some author he’d told me about. I thought it would be a good chance for us to bond, to spend some time together without - without me being a jerk to him just because of my own issues with Bruce.”

He drops back down into the chair. “I got back the day before his funeral,” he continues quietly. “I couldn’t stop thinking about how - how little time there was. When I came home, I thought we were going to go to a book signing, and the next time I walked out the door, it was to go bury my little brother.”

She doesn’t know what to say. Dick is the one who has words in these kinds of situations, not her. She gives him the only comfort she can offer.

“We’ll still find him,” she says. “If… Bruce is wrong, we’ll find Hood, and we’ll bring him to justice.”

Dick raises his head to look at her, and for what feels like the first time in days, she stops typing, her attention entirely on him. “When I find the Red Hood, I’m not handing him over to Bruce, or Arkham, or anyone else,” he says quietly.

His eyes are steel.

“When I find him, I’m going to kill him.”