Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bruce woke up to an aching, unescapable feeling of wrong.

(It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling, of course. Wrong and Bruce were old companions, who lingered in the shadows together and greeted each other often.

Wrong was a bang and the sound of clattering pearls on cement and tacky, dried blood on his hands. Wrong was the metallic taste of copper in his mouth and the throb of a bullet in his back.

Wrong was a small, broken body, cloaked in the flames of a burning warehouse, and manic, cackling laughter.

Wrong was a blood-red helmet and a duffel bag full of heads and blue eyes turned green.)

His eyes opened to the familiar sight of his darkened bedroom, colored in the soft grey of the hours before dawn. His skin prickled.

He ran down the familiar checklist as his eyes absently flitted around the room — Alfred would be in his bedroom, connected to the family wing by an old passageway for ease of access; Dick was at his apartment in Bludhaven, 143 Bluesmoke Drive, surveilled by the 5 cameras that Barbara let him keep access to; he could hear Tim’s soft snoring from two doors down, in the room he still stubbornly insisted was a guest bedroom.

And Jason was somewhere in Gotham. The thought twisted in his chest with more force than usual.

Tonight wouldn’t be a good night, he knew. So he climbed out of his pristine blank nest, taking some scented clothes as he went, reluctantly leaving the faint call of sleep behind.

He settled into his preferred chair in the Cave, and opened the most recently created case file, a particularly nasty collaboration between Crane and Ivy, who was apparently having a bad week and wanted to take it out on some “over-processed and under-funded” public parks — all the while ignoring the throbbing of his bones and the itch under his skin. He resisted the urge to keep his eyes trained on the side screen with cameras showing Alfred, Tim, and Dick’s sleeping bodies and the program compiling a list of Jason’s most likely safehouse locations.

It took him half an hour to notice the stressed scent seeping into the surroundings. He hadn’t properly smelled it on himself in 3 years, 8 months, and 16 days.

Bruce had first learned to hide his scent standing in front of crowds of reporters on the Manor family plot, watching as Thomas and Martha Waynes' graves were lowered into the ground. He had mastered the ability in Nanda Parbat, while locking eyes with Ra’s Al Ghul and pretending his instincts weren’t screaming at him to run. His true scent was rarely perceptible, and it only ever reached the rest of the world without his knowledge during his pack heats. He hadn’t had a pack heat since after Ethiopia.

Alarm bells were ringing in the back of his brain, telling him to go back up to the manor and alert Alfred, to curl up in his nest and bear the aching loneliness until Dick could drive over or Tim could be convinced to join him. He needed to consult Leslie about any possible complications involved with having a heat after an extended period, he needed to arrange for his patrols to be covered, there were a thousand things that he needed to do—

...his feet were pulling him towards the glass case holding burnt kevlar.

(Maybe his loss of control would have been easier to bear if he could tell himself that it was just omegan instincts, a natural response to the loss of a pup packmate. But that didn’t explain why he had hired the best, most discrete scientists to come up with a permanent way to fully preserve scents in a contained space three years ago. Or why he fought the urge to press the button and open the sealed glass, just for a second, every moment of every day since the memorial was installed.)

He had reached the case, almost without realizing, and his hand had found the hidden catch on the back of the base before he could stop it. There should have been a moment of hesitation, a moment where he recognized what would happen and pulled himself back from the edge, as he had done so many times before. Instead, he watched the glass descend into the base, and as his eyes finally met the familiar, mangled red, yellow, and green, the rest of the world promptly disappeared.

...

...

...

...

...

His body was frozen.

Fear had frozen his every tensed muscle, but it didn’t even register, because there wasn’t space in his brain for anything else other than his Jason, his pup’s milky scent covered in layers upon layers of pain. His puppy was in pain and covered in fear, and suddenly his chest was heaving with the effort it took to breathe through the panic but all he got was another lungful of scared puppy and then he was moving again, desperately clawing at the fabric because that was his Jason but suddenly it was fading, his puppy’s scent was fading so where was he, Bruce had to find him—

The sheer amount of adrenaline flooding his system pushed back his hindbrain for a moment, leaving him to desperately gasp for air and remember Jason is in Gotham somewhere, but then he was drowning in the knowledge that his puppy was somewhere in his territory, alone, and smelled like pain and fear and he needed to f i n d h i m findhimfindhimfindhim —

The Batcomputer beeped an alert, and he shakily stumbled over to the controls, only to see cameras on all his other packmates but not his lost puppy and he dissolved into panic again until he faintly heard “Jason,”  and it took him far too long to get his brain to release its chokehold on his sense of smell and remember how to properly hear, but then:

“...repeat, there is an 83.76% chance that Jason Peter Todd, also known as the Red Hood, is currently located at 207 Willow Drive. Sending coordinates to the Batmobile, estimated time of arrival is…”

When questioned later, Bruce could honestly say that he had no idea how he made it to Jason’s safehouse. He blinked, and he was curled into a ball in the backseat of the Batmobile, hands pressed to his ears as though they could muffle the echo of explosions and gunfire in his skull. He blinked again, and the car had jolted to a stop, the doors sliding open with a faint whoosh that finally caught the attention of his hypervigilant senses.

His brain had, at this point, fully given way to the fog of heat, brutally smothering all rational thought in a thick haze of instinct, all notsafe-wantmypuppy-keephimsafe-hidemypack-NOTSAFE — but Bruce, unlike most omegas, had spent decades cultivating an entirely different set of instincts. His brain knew, almost as well as it knew that pack’s safety was paramount, that an open door was an open exit, and an open exit meant it was time to go, to move out, even if his body thought otherwise. So though his rapidly-heating, cramping muscles begged for him to stay tightly curled up, covering his stomach, he found himself stumbling out of the car and up the steps, to the nondescript wooden door he didn’t recognize. He clumsily grabbed at the doorknob, and, finding it locked, he leaned against the door, his fogged mind leaving him out of options. What was he—

There it was. Just a faint tinge, under the old wood and polish and chemical-paint smell, but his puppy was there. Jason was there, his puppy who was in pain and scared, but all he smelled was tired-safe-secure and it was so nice, but his puppy wasn’t with him so of course he wasn’t safe so Bruce had to get to his puppy, and he was weakly clawing at whatever was between him and his puppy’s scent, blindly pressing himself hard enough into it to hurt— and then the barrier gave way to air, and Bruce was falling into strong, warm arms.

Bruce was immediately enveloped in warmth, and it felt so good. His aching body gave in without a fight, letting go completely until he was only being supported by— he took a startled breath in, his body tightening in fear, only to be met with the familiar cinnamon-smoke-fresh-bread-coffee-jason, immediately washing away the panic that had choked his throat.

He’d found him!

For a short, blessed moment, Bruce’s brain just melted away into disbelief-relief-joy- love. But then he caught a quickly-hidden burst of SHOCK-confused-fear , and he remembered — his puppy was still scared. Hating himself for drawing away from what Jason needed, even for a second, he growled, and quickly tried to push away his remaining panic in order to project the fierce-love-protection-ihaveyounow-safe his Jay needed. His muscles were refusing to cooperate, but he stubbornly forced his hand up — when did his puppy get so big? — until he could scrub his wrist over his puppy’s neck, covering him in protective omega until just the barest traces of his Jaylad’s real scent remained. Finally, he’d found his puppy, and now that they were together, everything would be alright. Apparently his Jason agreed, because after a brief spike of confusionfear, Bruce was suddenly hit with a wave of calm-safe-happy-loved. He couldn’t help it — the relief was so strong that he sighed, his mouth dropping open slightly as though he could taste the scent. He took another deep breath in, and drowned in the knowledge that his lost puppy finally smelled right — nothing else mattered. The very air around him was ambrosia, and he had been starving for far too long. He thought he might have ended up on the floor somehow, and there was some faint noise in his ears, but he honestly didn’t care, not when his precious puppy was right there.

He buried his nose in his puppy’s neck, inhaling that familiar cinnamon-smoke-safe, and shivered. His puppy was so warm, was he sick? The panicfear threatened to rise again in his throat, even as his arms tightened around his puppy’s back, but a new wave of pup-is-safe-calm-love slammed into him, just as he was gently pressed further into the soothing warmth. Bruce had struggled for so long to find his puppy — now that they were together, even his iron will couldn't possibly withstand the temptation to give into the relief and joy and safenow-ifoundyou-packistogether that he'd been missing for so long. He knew his puppy would always be his anchor, making sure he never fully drifted away into the sea of bliss.

He'd just… let go, now, and trust his puppy.

(Bruce floated.)

He was brought back to reality by the sensation of sinking into something soft. As Bruce slowly forced his eyes open — when had they closed? — he remembered searching for his lost puppy, and his whole body tensed. But soon, his eyes met Jason’s, and he let out a breath, fully relaxing into the comfort; everything must be fine, now. Something about his puppy’s face was niggling at his brain, but he ignored it. Nothing else mattered, as long as his pup was with him.

Suddenly, he was moving closer and closer, and then they were shifting, so that his face was on his puppy’s chest, where Bruce could feel his heartbeat and still look at his face. Bruce couldn’t help but purr — his precious puppy was so good, he knew exactly what to do. He was so happy.

But something was wrong: his puppy suddenly went still, and his scent spiked with a jumbled mix of shockfearhopeisthisreal that Bruce couldn’t parse. He stared helplessly at his puppy — what was wrong? His vision was blurring, so he blinked, because he needed to see his puppy — but then there was salt in the air, and he frantically reached up to scent his pup’s face, because why was his puppy crying? They were safe now, weren’t they?!

He hadn’t noticed his cramping limbs slowly freezing, but his entire body felt so cold and dead now, as he fought to turn away from his puppy’s warmth, so he could protect him from whatever was scaring him. He had almost succeeded, forcibly bracing himself against his puppy’s shoulders to give him enough strength to face the threat—

And then the call came. He hadn't paid any notice to faint ringing in his ears, someone saying “…B! Bruce! Bruce! Omega— “ until it was cut off by a keening pup-call and a riptide of omega-come-protect-me-nest-together-safe, sending his whole body swaying back towards his pup. Bruce stubbornly resisted his puppy’s call, even as his limbs protested being torn away from the warmth of his pack. He had to protect his puppy!

But wave after wave of omega-packissafe-restnow-sleep caught him, and he was so tired.

He’d found his puppy, and he was so tired.

And he’d been lonely, and cold.

He had his pack, his puppy — he should be warm, but he was cold.

His puppy was warm, and he said they were safe.

Bruce trusted his puppy, and he was so tired, and so cold.

(His body gave out.)

Chapter Text

Hi! So just to briefly summarize, in the past 3-4 months, I've now been through approximately 700 different versions of how/for how long the rest of this fic is gonna play out, but I think I've finally settled on a format that I can make work with the plot! (...Really hope I'm not jinxing myself here, please knock on wood for me😭)

ANYWAYS, the current plan is to fully just make this a multi-chap — it'll be 6 chapters, alternating between longer chapters of Bruce's [extremely hazy] POV, and short interludes of mostly dialogue focusing on Jason and the rest of the Batfam, with only the last chapter including a full Jason POV. So the next chapter will be the first interlude, and will also cap off most of the rest of the actual whump for poor Bruce — after that, the remaining four chapters will be almost entirely fluff/comfort, with only a tiiiiiiiiiiiny bit of emotional angst, lol. I'm still slightly struggling with finishing the first interlude up, BUT I wrote this line that, in my humble opinion, kinda slaps, so I posted it to my tumblr! (Oops, forgot to mention — update pt. 2, I finally made a tumblr! My username's @admiringtheskies, and I'm pretty much just constantly queueing Batfam/Bruce-centric "in defense of" essays, long-ass metas, fun comic panels, fanart, good old memes, and pretty much any other type of tumblr fandom post possible [with a sprinkling of HP stuff, social justice stuff, and cool quotes for flavor]. Linking the snippet here: https://www.tumblr.com/admiringtheskies/724657204055212032/posting-this-hoping-that-if-someone-happens-to?source=share

Anyways, hope y'all like it, and thanks to everybody who's subscribed and commented — I know I haven't replied to most of the more recent comments, but seeing those emails in my inbox legitimately always makes my day, I appreciate every one of them so much! See you soon with an actually completed interlude, hopefully <3

Chapter Text

There was nothing in the world that scared Bruce more than the scent of copper-iron-hurt-pain-pack.

He hadn’t been a particularly shy or fearful child, he knew — he’d had more than his fair share of the bruised elbows and scraped knees that were the mark of an active, healthy puphood. But as a grown man, even with his near-eidetic memory, he’d completely lost the ability to recall any earlier memory of blood than the dark stain spreading over his mother’s dress, steadily creeping closer and closer to where he’d planted his face on her rapidly cooling stomach. When he’d started shivering, partly from the shock, partly from Gotham’s ever-present chill, he’d first tried huddling into her while lying on his side, the way he’d always nested with her. And then he went to lay his head on her chest, and found himself violently pulling away, frantically scrabbling down a few inches so that his torso was draped across hers and the opposite side of his face pressed into soft skin; now trembling even harder at the feeling of tears starting to drip down the side of his face, disturbing the thin film of blood that had soaked through the fabric to stain his cheek.

Except the faint trail of smoke-gunpowder, that never failed to chill him, even decades later, had turned, now, into an inferno, assaulting his lungs, parching his mouth. And he was hunched over a much smaller body, and his hand, with two fingers outstretched, searching futilely for a pulse, encircled a fragile, bruised neck instead of his mother’s thin wrist.

It was the sight of his other hand, however, carefully cradling a head of short, black curly hair, now matted with blood and covered in dust, that truly sealed his fate. He let out a gasping, stuttering moan, head falling forward to further bury his nose in his pup’s marred skin, even as he almost retched at the sweat-pain-fear-helpme-copper-blood-pain staining Jason’s scent. He distantly noted the low crooning of a pup-call, the noise that was meant to comfort distressed pups turned harsh and grating as it kept being broken by his gasping for breath and the fevered chant of “Jay, Jason, Jay, please, Jay, Jay JayJayJay—”

(That first, bitter taste of pack-blood on his tongue, so many years ago, had long since washed away any belief Bruce once held in the existence of a benevolent God. But it was here, surrounded by destruction that brought him to his knees, with nothing left to look at but the results of his sins, that he finally understood what drew people to the seemingly meaningless acts of worship, to unquestioning faith in a future mercifully granted by a higher power—

because the futile, agonized calls that still spilled from his lips, unending, could be nothing else but blind prayer.)

And yet, the horror wasn’t over. The blood spilling from his parents’ bodies was an always-aching, but distant memory; the blood soaking his little Jay’s hair was a recent terror, an open, gaping wound on his heart that threatened to drain him dry. Neither prepared him for the fresh bite of that hated iron-copper-pain-help scent, now permeating the warm air that carried an intertwining trail of his remaining two pups.

“Why are you moving at the speed of a goddamn snail, Dickface, what part of  ‘get your ass over here now’ did you not—”

“Stop fucking yelling at me so I can drive, Jason, because I can guarantee you that putting Timmy in charge of a car is a horrible idea that will not get us there any faster.” The weak attempt at humor was foiled by the tension straining his voice.

Another voice chimed in, a little quieter and more hesitant. “I mean, I might’ve gotten us here faster, I think; and it’s not like you don’t risk life and limb on a regular night anyways.”

“Tim, I love you, but no. Also— wait, he took the Batmobile? Alfred said— well, doesn’t matter, we’re here, apparently; door’s open, right?”

He heard a car engine switch off and two pairs of feet hit the ground even as he irritably hissed back, “Well, I didn’t exactly get the chance to go and double-check my locks after the old man decided to literally fucking fall into my house in civvies and then collapse on me in the front hall, what do you think?” He’d clicked off his comm somewhere in the middle of the sentence, plucking it out of his ear and tossing it somewhere on the couch behind him in favor of staring expectantly at Dick and Tim, now standing frozen in the doorway to his living room after they’d practically sprinted into the house.

Dick was, for once, rooted to the spot, as he took in the impossible scene. Jason glared up at him with a valiant attempt at ferocity, that nevertheless did little-to-nothing to conceal the unspoken plea for guidance; hair mussed and obviously caught off-guard, he clearly hadn't had the chance to finish changing after his patrol, given how sharply the blood-red Kevlar-padded armor encasing his entire lower body clashed with his soft gray sweatshirt and fluffy socks. He sat with his back supported by the bottom of the sofa, legs sprawled across the floor in a deliberately careless manner, whose effect was completely undone by the tenderness with which he cradled the violently shivering bundle in his arms.

Standing just behind Dick, Tim’s eyes were flicking over Bruce’s crumpled form with poorly-hidden shock, unable to tear his gaze away from the sight of the Bat lying unconscious, his head resting on Jason’s chest and hands loosely grasping at his sides, half-tucked under a free edge of the duvet that was covering the floor that Jason was sitting on. He was curled into himself protectively in a way that left most of his weight resting on Jason’s thighs, and his nose was buried in his former Robin’s chest.

The low, pained, whine rumbling from Bruce’s chest was what finally jolted them all back into motion. Jason frowned, pulling him closer and scenting him again, rubbing his wrist in slow, soothing circles over Bruce’s back until he settled. He looked up just in time to catch Tim darting off, presumably to collect supplies from the car, which unfortunately left him alone with Dick, who seemed like he was about to start vibrating with indecision.

“Fucking get over here already, asshole, I’m not gonna bite,” he sighed. Dick's lips twitched in a weak smile as he acquiesced, carefully padding towards them — slowly, at first, until he got within scenting distance of Bruce, dropping gracelessly to the ground then and there when his surprise overtook his caution. He ended up kneeling next to Jason, his knees just shy of touching Jason’s thighs, as he leaned over to scent Bruce, wrists lightly trailing the omega’s throat, following the path Jason’s had taken just minutes before. Jason, for his part, pointedly kept himself from tensing at Dick’s gentle invasions of his space, watching with reluctant relief as Dick’s eyes gradually stopped constantly flicking up from their survey of Bruce to confirm that Jason wasn’t about to lose his patience and shove him out of his bubble.

By the time Dick was finished, his brows were creased in concern. “He’s been in heat proper for… probably at least an hour, by now? Shouldn’t he be warmer than this?”

“I called Leslie first, and she seemed pretty sure he’d end up going into heat shock. I think he was running hotter when he first got here, so it checks out.” His voice had come out rougher than he’d intended. He kept his gaze firmly fixed on where Dick’s hands were still lightly resting on Bruce’s neck. He wasn’t sure whether he’d imagined Bruce starting to lean into the touch, even as he still shook with intermittent tremors.

Tim returned with an armful of blankets piled high enough to reach above his head, pausing again, almost unbearably cautious, at the entrance to the living room. Dick reluctantly went to take some of the stack, and they all dutifully pretended not to notice each other's heads whipping around to face Bruce at the small, protesting whimper that escaped him when Dick’s hand left his skin. He slumped just a bit further into Jason’s chest, and Jason inwardly cursed the way his arms instinctively tightened around the unconscious form.

After handing off his load of nesting materials to Dick, Tim turned and headed straight back to the car for more supplies, leaving Dick and Jason to start turning the younger's living room into something marginally more comfortable. Dick unceremoniously stuck his hand into the pile of linens to give them at least a bit of faint contact-scent, then handed the top half of the stack off to Jason to arrange. Jason waited for a minute, watching Dick get up and start to close and cover the windows and doorways to other parts of the house, and then sighed, picking up a thin sheet with his free hand to shake out and carefully drape over himself and Bruce.

He repeated the process with a few more blankets, carefully tucking them around Bruce while still trying to leave himself as much airflow as possible, slowly adjusting to the sight of Dick puttering around in the space he'd been inhabiting alone for the past few months. He— he certainly wasn't going to kick Bruce out before his heat was done, he wasn't that cruel; but he wasn't going to enjoy suddenly having the rest of the Bats fluttering around his space for the next few days, either. Somewhat at a loss for what else he could do with Bruce huddled on top of him, he ended up trying to meditate, sitting up straighter and starting to run through some of the breathing exercises he'd learned from one of the League elders.

He managed to pass a few minutes like that: slowly calming himself, acclimating to the warmth of the blankets over him, the faint scent of his former pack in them starting to settle into the small space, the weight on his legs and chest. But at some point, he blinked, and the quiet blankness he'd gradually settled into abruptly crumbled away, leaving him with a sudden awareness that something had just... shifted.

It took him a second to pinpoint what it was that had changed; but he took another deep breath in, and this time, he actually registered Bruce's scent. By the time Dick and Tim had arrived, it had settled from when he'd first barged in, the shifting tinges of emotion it carried going muted in the way that indicated deep sleep or unconsciousness. Now, though, it was spiking again, the sharp tang of distress collecting and beginning to overtake his baseline.

Jason tightened his gentle grip around his- Bruce's torso, stroking his hand over his throat and back for another scenting, but it wasn't working to calm him as it did before. The trembling that had somewhat subsided under the warmth of the blankets was back again, and his breathing was getting heavier and heavier, until he was on the verge of hyperventilating, gasping harshly into Jason's chest.

Jason looked up, suddenly wishing for direction, only to find that the faint noise of Bruce's heaving breaths had drawn Dick's attention before he could. Dick was already kneeling in front of them before he could get a word out, reaching out to cradle the exposed side of Bruce's face with a steady hand.

"Bruce—" he paused, as another full-body shiver rolled through the other man, "Bruce, hey, can you look at me, B?" He waited a moment for a response, softly stroking the arch of a high cheekbone with his thumb, but Bruce didn't appear to have heard him at all. Trading a worried glance with Jason, Dick carefully tightened his grasp on Bruce's chin and turned his face towards him, trying to get a better look.

The change in position seemed to have some effect; they both watched as his eyes blinked open, revealing pupils blown so wide that the familiar icy blue was almost entirely hidden. Dick started murmuring softly again, trying to spark some reaction, but it quickly became clear that Bruce wasn't aware of what was in front of him, his eerily blank gaze listlessly staring out into some dream or memory.

The itch of sitting in his well-used patrol gear had been easy to ignore when Jason was still reeling from the shock of Bruce's abrupt appearance, but by now it was starting to get noticeably uncomfortable. He shifted slightly, trying to adjust so that his thighs weren't chafing so much against his pants — but that was apparently a mistake, because Bruce suddenly gasped, and then seemed to stop breathing altogether. They both watched with quiet alarm as he squeezed his eyes shut, forcing out some of the tears that had gathered, and abruptly shoved his face into where it was already resting in Dick's palm, turning as though to hide himself in the younger man's hand. Jason watched mutely as Dick furrowed his brows and consciously pushed out a wave of calm-content-pack-is-safe scent, hoping to pull Bruce out of whatever nightmare he was trapped in, but his panicked breaths were starting to devolve into quiet, shallow sobs.

For a moment, they just stared at each other helplessly – until a third voice suddenly intruded, startling both boys out of their confusion.

"What set him off?" Tim asked quietly, hovering just inside the doorway and clutching one of the expanded field med-kits in fidgety hands.

Now stroking Bruce's scalp with his free hand, Dick replied, "We don't know; I'm guessing a nightmare, because he seemed relatively fine sitting with Jason for a few minutes before randomly started getting worse again, but he also seriously freaked out when Jason moved around a bit just no– oh, shit."

"What is it—"

"Jay, do you have any open wounds on you right now? Even tiny ones, anything that might be bleeding at all," Dick suddenly asked, shifting to sit criss-cross in front of them and pulling Bruce just a little towards him as he did so.

Resolutely pretending that he hadn't almost instinctively dragged Bruce back towards him, Jason frowned, replying, "I mean, yeah, probably a couple, I literally just got back from patrol, and I had a couple of hands-on meetings toni– what the fuck are you doing." In the middle of his sentence, Dick had suddenly decided to use his freaky-ass flexibility to lean around Bruce and start… sniffing at his armor? Apparently an active night's worth of sweat and traces of scared drug lords weren't to his taste—obviously—because he suddenly let out a frustrated huff, knocking his head against Jason's well-padded knee, before abruptly straightening.

"You need to scent me and then go change, and dress any open wounds you have well," he demanded with no explanation, already properly pulling Bruce towards him.

Jason scowled, struggling to relinquish his arm around Bruce's waist and tear his eyes away from where Dick's hand was still gently carding through Bruce's hair. "What the fuck is that about? He's fuckin' out of it, no way he's reacting to anything that small. And there's no way you're telling me Batman's getting set off by blood, now."

Dick actually growled at him a little, the fucker, and shot back, "Well shit happened, and he gets 'set off' by our blood, asshole– and it's not like you don't know damn well that all the self-control in the world goes flying out the window when a heat's involved."

Jason had never claimed that his restraint was one of his better qualities; glancing up to see Robin 3 still standing there staring at them as they squabbled, too, did nothing good for his temper, and he would have snapped something right back— if not for the awful noise that suddenly tore out of Bruce's throat. A high, choked keen, that flew like a well-thrown knife straight into Jason's own chest.

His eyes were open again, Jason belatedly realized. Still staring into empty space, but now even more obscured by a continuous stream of tears. His jaw worked around nothing, the space between his lips widening and contracting, in and out, without ever fully closing— as though he was trying to speak, but couldn't get himself to form the words, to force them out.

The same anguished sound rose up again from somewhere in his chest. Jason wildly thought, for a second, that he could almost see it- see the noise being physically pulled out of his mouth like a piece of string.

He wanted to take hold of it and start tugging, reeling it in like a fishing line, until he could yank it all the way out. Pull out the far end and twist it around his fingers, bundling it all up into a tiny ball, and cast the whole horrible thing away, off to the side, leaving Bruce's chest empty, hollowed-out and clear. He wanted, very much, to cover his ears.

Dick's arms finally closed around the man curled up between them, pulling him away from Jason for good. "Scent us and go change," he bit out, the stone in his eyes and furrow of his brow a sharp contrast to the false-calm scent he was deliberately putting out, weaving the beginnings of a shroud of reassurance to drape over Bruce.

The sudden wave of antagonism receded just as quickly as it had come; leaving him with just that little bit less of himself (or his rage— if there was really any difference) than before. What else could he do?

So Jason took a deep, deliberate breath in, focusing himself, and pushed the anger and regret and the rest of the miasma that usually filled his head outwards, off the edges and away into the borders. And then he leaned over, threading his hand under the blankets to trail tranquility-together through his wrists all over Bruce's trembling back.

After a long, stretching moment, he pulled his arm out of the blankets, and, with another deep breath, reached a little farther, until he could brush against the hollow of Dick's throat and the top of his chest, circling gently around the spot where Bruce's forehead now laid; doing his best to spin soft skeins of pack-is-here around— around– around his—

…around the man who had once been his big brother.

And then he stood up, allowing the layers of bedding still half-covering him to fall to the floor, and headed straight for the hall without a second glance. When he brushed by Tim on his way out, he managed to make it a little gentler than he'd thought he could.

"I'll be right back," he quietly promised the empty air, as he drew the makeshift curtain shut over the doorway behind him.