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That night, a torrential downpour transformed Crime Alley into a river of garbage and regret. Bruce Wayne moved through the darkness like a shadow, his purpose clear. His black ears were pressed flat against his cowl, his tail tucked tightly behind him, as all Omegas do when they feel threatened. And in Gotham, threats were always present.
The shipment of drugs he was tracking had led him here, to the heart of this decaying city, the very place where his parents had been murdered years ago. The drug dealers scattered at the sight of him, abandoning their goods in a panic. Bruce was surveying the scene, photographing the evidence, when he heard it: a faint scraping sound of metal on metal, followed by a muffled curse that sounded surprisingly young.
His ears swiveled towards the sound before his head did, years of training honing his instincts to pick up on subtleties that a human ear might miss. The Batmobile sat silently in the shadows where he had left it, a monument to technology and intimidation. But something was wrong.
Someone was under the car.
Bruce approached with fluid, predatory grace, silent despite his large size. He could smell the person's scent—young, male, radiating desperation and determination. As he crouched down to look under the car, he saw something that made all his carefully controlled Omega instincts erupt, an unexpected and overwhelming surge of power coursing through him.
A pup.
A small pup, with coarse black fur on his ears and a thin, ragged tail that looked like it had been pulled taut by stress. He was trying to pry open the Batmobile's tires with a crowbar almost as big as himself. The pup couldn't have been more than ten years old, angular and gaunt, his clothes worn and tattered, perhaps having been worn for years. His ears were pressed flat against his skull in concentration, his thin tail wrapped tightly around his waist for warmth; Bruce could count his ribs through his soaked shirt. “This won’t work,” Bruce’s voice came through the speaker in his helmet.
The boy jumped, his head hitting the chassis with a dull thud. He scrambled out from under the car with surprising speed, his hands tightly gripping the crowbar as if it were his weapon, though its weight made his arms tremble. His ears were pressed flat against his skull, his lips pulled back to reveal a set of blunt little teeth, and he let out a ferocious growl that might have been intimidating if he hadn't been so clearly terrified.
"Get away!" the puppy growled. Bruce could smell the fear hidden beneath his brave exterior—a pungent, childish, and sharp scent. The boy's tail, though pitifully thin, bristled, making him look like an angry, wet bottle brush.
Bruce slowly and calmly raised his hand and removed his helmet, which helped mask his scent. The effect was immediate; the boy's eyes winested, his fierce posture wavering as he stared at Bruce's dark Omega ears and the tail that was now visible in the dim streetlight.
“You’re…” the boy’s voice was hoarse. “You’re an Omega.”
“Yes,” Bruce answered simply, his tone gentle and his body language non-threatening. He tilted his head slightly, observing the boy with curiosity rather than judgment. The boy was thin, painfully and even dangerously thin. His ears were dull, and patches of fur were missing from his tail due to stress or malnutrition, making it look patchy. But his eyes were bright and intelligent. “What’s your name?”
The boy gripped the crowbar tightly, not letting go. His knuckles were white, his body tense like a spring, ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. “What’s it to you?”
“You were trying to steal from me. I think I at least have the right to know your name.” Bruce’s tone was light, with a hint of playful teasing, carefully avoiding any hint of Omega dominance or authority. This little one was already too frightened to easily submit to dominance.
The little one's chin trembled, and his bright blue eyes held a mixture of defiance and despair. His ears twitched slightly, betraying his unease. Finally, he reluctantly said, "Jason. Jason Todd."
"Jason, where are your parents?"
A flicker of coldness crossed the little one's face, his expression becoming numb, like a child who had been taught from a young age that emotions were dangerous. His tail curled tightly around his waist. "Dead. Gone. What does it matter?"
It mattered. It mattered more than Bruce could fully explain, because all his Omega instincts suddenly surged like a cacophony of screams, a feeling he hadn't experienced so strongly in years.
A pup. Alone. Afraid. Hungry. Cold. Insecure. Needs care. Needs protection. Needs warmth. Needs a home. Needs a pack. Needs.
Bruce had been struggling to control these instincts ever since Dick had grown up and moved to Blüdhaven to become Nightwing. His pup, no longer his pup, truly no longer, had grown into an adult, a full-fledged Alpha with his own territory. He had left home three months ago. And Bruce had been struggling to keep himself from falling apart.
Two weeks after Dick left, Alfred found him. He was standing in the middle of his bedroom, surrounded by every blanket, pillow, and soft thing he could find in the manor, his Omega instincts overwhelming the carefully constructed rational control he had built over the years.
"Master Bruce," Alfred said cautiously, his Beta nose twitching slightly, seemingly sensing the pheromones filling the air—pain, confusion, desperate longing. "What are you doing?"
"I don't have a pup anymore," Bruce said, staring blankly at his hands as if they didn't belong to him. He had been unconsciously gathering nesting materials, his body moving on autopilot while his mind drifted far away. “Dick is gone. He’s an adult now. He—he has his own territory. I know. I know, Alfred. But… this time of month is always so difficult.”
He gestured helplessly at the pile of thick blankets and pillows, at his own betraying Omega body, refusing to accept the reality his rational mind acknowledged.
“No, Master Bruce,” Alfred gently agreed, his tone carefully neutral. “You don’t need to. But perhaps… perhaps this is for the best. Perhaps you need this.”
So Bruce continued building. He constructed a nest in the corner of his bedroom, a massive nest that took up almost a quarter of the room, built with the same meticulous attention to detail he applied to everything else in his life. He used soft, dark blankets—deep blue, dark gray, deep black—colors that wouldn't show dirt easily. He arranged pillows of varying sizes and firmness, creating different layers and support structures. He meticulously and systematically scent-marked everything, rubbing his wrists against each item until his Omega scent permeated every fiber.
It took him three days to build the nest. When it was finished, it was perfect, a masterpiece of Omega instinct and engineering, designed to create the safest and most comfortable space possible. The walls of the nest were high enough to provide a sense of security without feeling claustrophobic. The base was layered with multiple soft cushions, sturdy enough for support yet soft enough for comfort. The interior was divided into different areas: a sleeping area, a reading area, and a space simply for resting.
Perfect. And yet, heartbreakingly empty.
Dick’s scent still lingered throughout the manor, in his old room, on the training mats in the Batcave, in every corner he had ever occupied. For a few days each month, whenever Bruce caught a whiff of that scent, his Omega instincts would immediately flare up, whispering, “Little one,puppy, yourpuppy, he’s here, he needs you.”
But Dick didn’t need him anymore. Dick is twenty-four years old, a mature Alpha, who has established his own pack in Brudhaven, has his own territory to protect, and has his own life to live. He occasionally returned, always careful not to leave his scent mark on Bruce, because he was a good boy who understood an Omega's needs, but things were different now. He no longer slept in the nest. He no longer snuggled up to Bruce, letting him groom his fur, protect him, and take care of him.
The nest was empty, and Bruce felt a pang of heartache because of it.
Now, standing in the pouring rain in Crime Alley, looking at this small, fierce, desperate Beta pup with nowhere to go and no one to care for him, Bruce felt something in his chest being filled. "Come home with me," Bruce blurted out, the words escaping him before he even realized he'd said them.
Jason laughed, a sharp, bitter sound that was incongruous with his young voice. "Oh yeah? So you can hand me over to the police? Or social services? Or worse?" He flicked his tail behind him, splashing rainwater. "I've heard that before, Omega. I'm not stupid."
"Nobody does this for free," Jason continued, without waiting for a response from Bruce. "Everyone has an ulterior motive. So what do you want? Do you like having little puppies around that you can sell later? Is that it?"
The accusation was sickening, stemming from pain a child shouldn't have to experience, and it made Bruce feel nauseous. But he tried to remain calm, his body language open and non-threatening. “I won’t hurt you,” Bruce said softly. “I promise. I just want to give you a warm meal and a safe place to sleep.” He paused, then cautiously admitted, “I have a nest. At my house. It’s empty right now. My other cub, he grew up and moved out. And, well, Omega instincts don’t always follow logic. I built the nest because I needed him, but it’s empty. You’re a cub who needs safety and warmth. This… this would be good for both of us.”
Jason’s ears twitched, a flicker of unease crossing his young face. He was thin, too thin, even in the dim light, Bruce could see that. His clothes were soaked, and he shivered, though he tried to hide it. The rain tonight was cold, and it would only get colder, and this cub had nowhere to go.
“I’m not staying,” Jason finally said, his grip on the crowbar loosening slightly. “One night. Maybe. If you dare… do anything, I’ll gut you with this thing, I don’t care how big you are.”
Bruce almost laughed. This little pup was feisty, with strong self-preservation instincts, perhaps the very instincts that had kept him alive for so long. “Okay,” he said, “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
---
On the way back to Wayne Manor, the only sounds were the low rumble of the Batmobile’s engine and the patter of rain on the roof. Jason sat stiffly in the passenger seat, his small hands gripping the edge of the seat so tightly his knuckles were white. His ears twitched constantly, tracking Bruce’s every movement, every sound. His thin tail was wrapped tightly around his waist, surely uncomfortably so, a self-soothing behavior that betrayed his deep-seated anxiety.
Bruce’s movements were slow and steady, his driving smooth. He could smell the pup’s fear, but beneath the fear, there was another emotion, awe, wonder, and a desperate hope intertwined with learned cynicism. Jason's eyes winested as he took in the interior of the Batmobile, quickly registering every detail like a born survivor.
"This is really the Bat car," Jason whispered to himself. His fingers trembled slightly, as if he wanted to touch something but didn't dare.
"That's right," Bruce confirmed. "Go ahead and touch it. You won't break anything."
Jason's hand immediately recoiled, as if Bruce had threatened to chop it off. "I'm fine."
They drove through the streets of Gotham, leaving the dilapidated Crime Alley behind and heading towards increasingly improved neighborhoods, finally arriving in Bristol. Bruce watched Jason's expression change as they passed through different areas—the Bowery, the East End, and finally the tree-lined streets of Bristol, where old money insulated residents from Gotham's worst problems.
When Wayne Manor came into view, Jason gasped. "Is where... you live here?"
"Yes."
"That's not a house, that's... that's..." Jason seemed at a loss for words. His ears perked up, and his tail, which had been loosely wrapped around his waist, straightened slightly in shock.
Bruce drove the bat car into the cave, watching Jason's awe intensify as they entered. The young boy's head swiveled from side to side, taking in everything—the computer systems, the training area, the vehicle bay, the trophy case filled with mementos from past cases.
Alfred was waiting at the top of the stairs leading to the main house, impeccably dressed despite the late hour. His graying ears perked up as Bruce and Jason emerged from the cave, looking quite interested. Bruce saw Alfred's nose twitch slightly, sniffing the young boy, carefully taking everything in like a seasoned second-in-command.
"Master Bruce," Alfred said, his tone carefully neutral, but his eyes warm. “Looks like we have a guest.”
“This is Jason,” Bruce said, his hand hovering near the boy's shoulder but not touching him, giving Jason his personal space. “He needs a hot meal and dry clothes.” “And maybe a first-aid kit; I think he might have some injuries.”
Alfred's expression softened almost imperceptibly, a change only someone who had known him for decades would notice. Bruce knew, he could smell it too—malnutrition, stress, and that pungent scent unique to a young pup without companions, without security, without anyone to care whether he lived or died.
“Of course, sir,” Alfred said calmly. “Master Jason, please come with me. I think we have some clothes that might fit, and the kitchen is well-stocked.”
Jason looked at Bruce, then at Alfred, his small frame still radiating suspicion. His ears were half-pressed against his head, his tail curled tightly against his body, as if protecting himself. Now that they were in a safe place, he was trembling even more, and Bruce could hear his stomach rumbling even from across the cave.
“I’ll be up in a bit,” Bruce said in a relaxed tone, “I need to log tonight’s patrol and secure the cave. Alfred will take care of you.”
It was the perfect thing to say, giving Jason space, not making him feel uncomfortable, treating it as a normal occurrence rather than making a big deal out of it. Jason’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and he nodded quickly.
“Okay,” Jason said, following Alfred upstairs, his wet shoes squeaking on the stone steps.
Bruce watched them go, his chest tight with a mixture of tension, unease, and hope. He could still smell the scent of the young pup, that unique scent that would linger in the cave for hours. A young beta, malnourished, frightened, alone. All his Omega instincts were screaming at him to follow, to make sure the pup was fed, clothed, and safe. He forced himself to go through his usual post-patrol routine, giving Jason some time to settle in and accept Alfred.Beacause Alfred provided food and care, without having to worry about Bruce's overly strong Omega presence interfering with everything. He documented the night's activities, properly stored the medical evidence, and updated the case files. When he finally climbed the stairs and smelled the aroma of food—Alfred's potato soup, freshly baked bread, and the subtle changes in Jason's scent as he ate, his body digesting what was probably the first real nutrition he'd had in weeks—the sharp edge of despair softened slightly.
Bruce quickly showered, washing away the sweat and grime from his patrol, then changed into comfortable pajamas, soft pants and an old T-shirt. He stepped out of his room and paused in the hallway, his Omega senses automatically tracking the pup's location.
Jason was in a guest room two doors down from Bruce's room. Bruce could hear the sound of running water; Jason was taking a shower, which was good. Alfred would have prepared soap and shampoo, ensuring the pup had everything he needed.
Bruce walked towards his bedroom, his steps instinctively leading him to the nest in the corner. Since he had built it, it had called to him every night, a primal Omega urge to be in his safe space, his carefully crafted sanctuary.
He approached slowly, his hands gently smoothing the carefully arranged blankets, checking the position of each pillow with movements so precise it was as if he had done it countless times. Everything was just right. The nest was perfect—meticulously built, exquisitely beautiful, and flawlessly maintained.
Yet so empty.
Bruce climbed in, his body finally relaxing, sinking into the soft, comforting embrace. His tail unfurled from his waist, stretching out behind him. His ears, tense all night, relaxed back to their natural position. Here, he felt safest, most at ease, most able to shed the burnests of Batman, Bruce Wayne, and all the other masks, and truly be himself. Textbooks will tell you that a nest is the ultimate expression of an Omega's love and protection, a place where cubs sleep, play, and feel completely safe. It's a manifestation of instinct, biological instinct overriding learned behavior. Every Omega builds a nest, some simple and small, others elaborate and complex. Bruce's nest undoubtedly belonged to the latter category, but he was never one to do things halfway.
However, there were no cubs in the nest. Dick's scent had long since faded from the blankets and pillows, completely replaced by Bruce's own Omega scent. The nest structure was intact, yet empty.
Until tonight.
Bruce tossed and turned, unable to sleep, every sound in the manor making him perk up his ears. A primal instinct deep within him drove him to track the cub's whereabouts, hoping he was now sleeping in the guest room at the end of the corridor. Even from this distance, he could faintly smell Jason's scent, now clean and fresh, the acrid smell of stress hormones having dissipated with the fading fatigue.
The cub was safe. Fed and warm. For perhaps the first time in months, he was sleeping in a real bed.
Bruce's hindbrain ,his Omega-like brain circuitry purred contentedly, even though his rational mind told him it was only temporary, that Jason would leave tomorrow morning, that this wasn't, and couldn't be, permanent.
But tonight, there was a cub in his territory. His tail began to move naturally, giving a slight wag whenever something caught his attention. The emptiness in his eyes began to fade as regular meals and sleep gradually restored him.
Over the next few days, Bruce learned a few things about Jason. He discovered that the boy was incredibly intelligent, surprisingly quick-witted, able to absorb information and make connections rapidly, which even surprised Bruce. Before his mother's death, Jason had attended school sporadically, and despite his irregular attendance, his reading level was far beyond his age. Bruce discovered Jason's almost fanatical love of books. The next day, Alfred found the boy in the manor's library, curled up in a large armchair, holding a worn copy of *A Tale of Two Cities*, his tail resting on the armrest, his ears perked up, completely engrossed in reading.
"Master Jason," Alfred said softly, careful not to startle him, "Would you like some tea?"
Jason looked up, his eyes wide, as if caught doing something forbidnest. "I... shouldn't I be here? I swear I didn't touch anything valuable, I just..."
"The library is for reading," Alfred interrupted gently. "You're welcome here anytime. Books are meant to be read, not just for display. I'll get you some tea and biscuits."
Later, when Alfred told Bruce about this, the Omega felt a warm, comforting feeling wash over him.
Bruce also learned about some darker things: the scars on Jason's back, left by his father's belt; his involuntary flinching at suddenest movements; and the nightmares that made him whimper at night. Alfred reported that Jason was hoarding food in his room, stuffing leftovers into his pockets and hiding them in drawers—a survival instinct born from not knowing where his next meal would come from.
"Should we intervene?" Alfred asked.
"No," Bruce said, his ears drooping, his heart aching at the thought of Jason's suffering. "Let him be. He'll stop when he feels safe. Taking his food away now will only make him more afraid of scarcity."
Perhaps most importantly, Bruce discovered Jason's intense craving for touch.
This craving manifested in subtle ways that broke Bruce's heart. Whenever Bruce or Alfred entered the room, Jason's ears would perk up, even if he pretended not to notice. When they stood nearby, he would almost imperceptibly lean towards them, his body yearning for closeness while his mind resisted. His tail slowly became fluffier with proper nutrition, and whenever Bruce praised him, the tip of his tail would wag almost imperceptibly.
Puppies need to be touched and hugged. Just as they need grooming, scent marking, and physical contact. This is as important to their growth and mental health as food and water. Jason clearly hadn't received these things for a long time, and this was evident in his behavior, body language, and the way his eyes eagerly followed Bruce's hand whenever it came near.
But he wouldn't ask for it. Perhaps, after all the hardships he'd endured on the streets, he simply couldn't bring himself to ask.
So Bruce waited. And while he waited, he made sure Jason knew about the existence of the nest.
On the sixth night, they were in the library. Jason was curled up in his favorite armchair, this time reading Pride and Prejudice, his tail resting on the armrest, gently swaying as he read. Bruce sat in a nearby chair, browsing case files on his laptop, a comfortable silence between them.
"I built a nest," Bruce said casually, his eyes still on the screen. "In my room. You're welcome to use it anytime you want."
Jason's ears twitched towards him, but the puppy still kept his head down, reading. He was silent for a long time before he spoke: "Why would I use it?"
"A nest is safe," Bruce said simply, his tone still light and casual, without any hint of coercion. "Warm and comfortable. A nest is meant to provide puppies with a sense of security and comfort."
"I'm not your pup." Jason's voice was defensive, sharp and jarring.
"But you are a pup." Bruce finally looked up, his gaze meeting Jason's across the room. His expression was gentle and non-threatening. "There's nothing shameful about that, Jay. Puppies need care, they need security, comfort, and reassurance. There's nothing wrong with that. It doesn't mean you're weak."
Jason clutched the book tightly, his knuckles turning white. His tail remained motionless. “I’ve always taken good care of myself.”
“I know you have. You’re strong, capable, and very smart—probably the smartest pup I’ve ever met.” Bruce put down his laptop and looked at Jason intently. “But you don’t have to carry all this alone anymore. The nest is there. It’s safe. You can go back anytime.”
Jason was silent for a long time. His ears were slightly flattened back, not completely flat, but he was hesitant. His tail was curled between his legs, a self-comforting posture. When he finally spoke, his voice was sharper and more childlike than usual.
“What about your other pup?”
“Dick.” The name sounded heavy in Bruce’s mouth, carrying complex emotions. “He’s grown up. Twenty-four years old, an alpha. He has his own territory in Blüdhaven, his own life, and he’s building his own pack. He… he’s an adult now.”
“So you want a replacement.” The words were full of bitterness and accusation, more hurtful than intended. Jason’s gaze was sharp, fixed on Bruce’s face, trying to find any clue, any sign of deception.
Bruce’s ears drooped slightly; he hadn’t had time to control it. The accusation touched the most vulnerable part of his heart. “No,” he said firmly, every word filled with genuine emotion. “I don’t want to replace Dick. I could never replace him, and even if I could, I wouldn’t want to. But I want…”
He paused, choosing his words carefully, trying to find the right words to explain the instincts of an omega to a pup who had never been exposed to any healthy omega role models. “My instincts know I’m an Omega,” Bruce said slowly. “They know I’ve built a nest, because that’s what Omegas do when they have pups to care for. And they also know there are no pups in the nest right now. Dick’s scent is gone from the nest; he’s been gone too long, and the scent has completely faded. So my instincts are confused. They’re telling me I need to care for pups, but there are no pups. It feels wrong. It’s… uncomfortable. Sometimes even painful.”
Jason was listening intently, his ears perked up.
“But this is my problem, not yours, and I could choose to take suppressants, but I haven’t,” Bruce said. “I’m offering this nest because you’re here, and you’re still a pup, and maybe it will make you feel safe. That’s all. No obligations, no expectations. Just… a comfortable home for you if you need it.”
Jason’s jaw moved silently. “What if I don’t need it?”
“Then you don’t need it. The offer stands regardless. Whether you step into the nest or not, you’re welcome to stay here. That won’t change.”
Jason nodded slowly, processing the words. He went back to reading, and Bruce thought the conversation was over. But an hour later, when Jason said goodnight and prepared to go back to his room, Bruce noticed him pausing in the hallway outside the door, radiating curiosity and longing.
That night, Bruce lay in his own nest, hearing soft footsteps in the hallway outside his bedroom. The footsteps approached his door, paused for a moment, and then retreated. Jason’s scent permeated the hallway—a mix of curiosity, unease, longing, and fear.
Bruce said nothing, nor did he react. He simply waited.
The same scene played out again the next night. And the next few nights after that. Each time, Jason would walk to the door, stand there for longer and longer periods, and then turn away. Bruce could sense the internal struggle in the pup’s scent—the longing for comfort and safety, intertwined with learned distrust and fear of vulnerability. On the seventh night, Bruce was awakened by movement in the nest. He immediately opened his eyes, his senses alert, but his body remained relaxed, showing no signs of threat. In the dimly lit room, illuminated only by the soft moonlight streaming through the window, Jason stood at the edge of the nest.
The little boy was wearing pajamas prepared by Alfred, soft flannel pants and a T-shirt that was still too big for his slender frame. His ears were pressed tightly against his head, and his tail was wrapped around his legs. His face was pale, his expression a mixture of confusion and fear, yet tinged with a desperate hope.
"I just wanted to try," Jason whispered, his voice barely audible. "Just for a little while. I—I—"
"Of course," Bruce said softly, his tone cautious. He shifted his body, making space, each movement careful, slow, and non-threatening. His tail moved to the side, clearly creating an empty space. "Come on, Jay. It's okay."
Jason crawled in slowly and awkwardly, as if he had forgotten how to accept comfort, as if his body had forgotten how to be a cared-for pup. He curled up at the edge of the nest, as far away from Bruce as possible, but not completely outside the nest, his body tense.
Bruce remained motionless, almost holding his breath, afraid of startling him. He half-closed his eyes, showing no emotion, allowing his omega pheromones to work. He slowly and cautiously increased the secretion of calming pheromones, a type of pheromone specifically designed to soothe frightened pups, conveying messages of safety, comfort, and protection.
This scent gradually permeated the entire nest, a biological signal that bypassed conscious thought: It's safe here. You are protected. There is no danger. Rest. I will guard you.
At first, Jason's breathing was rapid and shallow, and his small body was stiff. But gradually, after several long minutes, the pheromones began to take effect. His breathing began to slow and deepen. His ears were no longer pressed against his skull, but lifted slightly, returning to a more natural position. His tail also uncurled from his waist, extending fully behind him. Bruce narrowed his eyes, watching Jason's body slowly, little by little, relax, sinking into the sense of security the nest provided. The little boy's head drooped, his eyes slowly closing, then opening again, the periods of closure growing longer and longer. The small hands tightly clutching the blanket also gradually relaxed.
Finally, Jason fell asleep.
Bruce watched over him for hours, a strong, protective, and deeply, overwhelmingly satisfying feeling surging in his chest. There was a little pup in his nest, his little pup. Because semantics didn't matter, the bonds between pack members weren't always bound by biological or legal definitions. This brave, intelligent, wounded little pup had chosen to trust him, and even if only for this moment, that was incredibly significant.
Since Dick had left, the nest hadn't felt this complete. Not because Jason had replaced Dick, not at all. But because the nest was once again fulfilling its purpose, providing shelter for a little pup desperately in need of safety and comfort.
Bruce closed his eyes, listening to Jason's gentle breathing, and gradually drifted off to sleep himself. For the first time in months, his Omega instincts were so calm and content. There was a pup in the nest. His pup was safe.
That is enough.
---
After that night, everything changed. Jason began spending more and more time in the nest, though the process was still slow and cautious. The first few times, he would wait until Bruce was already in the nest before carefully crawling in, staying as far away from Bruce as possible. But each night, the distance between him and Bruce would shorten slightly.
A week after Jason first entered the nest, he was sleeping quite close to Bruce's tail. Two weeks later, he was nestled against Bruce's side, breathing evenly and peacefully. Three weeks later, Jason was completely curled up beside Bruce, his head resting beside Bruce's arm he was completely relaxed, full of trust.
Bruce's Omega instincts felt incredibly satisfied. Everything was right. This was the meaning of the nest's existence.
Once Jason felt safe enough to truly relax, his body grew at an astonishing rate. Good nutrition, regular sleep, and the pack bond worked wonders. His ears became glossy and healthy, no longer drooping from tension, but standing upright. His tail also became full, thick, and expressive. The hollow, melancholic expression on his face disappeared, replaced by the natural radiance unique to young pups.
He smiled more, and laughed more. The sharp edges of his personality didn't disappear; Jason would always be fierce, intelligent, and stubborn, but they softened, becoming brighter and more pleasing.
Bruce began to groom his hair. At first, it was casual; while they watched movies together, Bruce's hand would gently stroke Jason's hair, smoothing it when his ears were a little messy. The first few times, Jason would stiffen, his body rigid with surprise and unease. But he never pulled away, and gradually, he began to enjoy the touch, his tail wagging gently.
Later, Jason actively requested grooming. The pup was curled up in the nest, snuggled next to Bruce, who was working on his laptop. Suddenly, he shifted, pressing his head against Bruce's free hand.
"Can you—" Jason started, then stopped, his ears drooping, looking embarrassed.
"What can I do, little one?" Bruce asked softly, putting down his laptop.
"Can you... groom my ears? They feel weird. Alfred showed me pictures of wolves grooming their pups, and I thought, I mean, it's okay if you don't want to, I..."
"I'd be happy to," Bruce interrupted him, his heart clenching at the mix of hope and fear in Jason's voice. “Come here.”
Jason snuggled against Bruce's chest, and Bruce carefully and gently stroked his ears, smoothing his fur and patiently untangling the small knots with a comb. Jason let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a purr, completely immersed in Bruce's touch.
This became their routine. Several times a week, Jason would ask Bruce to groom him, and Bruce would meticulously care for his ears and tail, rubbing his nose against his fur, thoroughly marking him with his scent. Jason would relax completely, feeling incredibly happy, his tail lazily wagging, a contented purr rumbling in his chest.
Bruce's scent now permeates Jason's entire body, a clear signal that anyone with a nose could smell: My puppy. I will protect him. I will take care of him. Dare to touch him, and you will face my wrath.
Jason started calling him "B" instead of "Bruce," a nickname that slipped out naturally one night while he was half-asleep in his bed. Bruce's heart swelled with joy; this small intimacy meant far more than it seemed.
Four months after Jason arrived at the manor, Bruce began training him. Not as Robin. Not yet, at least. This was simply a way for Jason to learn to protect himself, a way to channel his innate athleticism and tenacious will into something productive. Jason seemed naturally suited to the training; he was fearless and threw himself wholeheartedly into every exercise. He was completely focused, determined to succeed.
“You’ll get hurt if you don’t slow down,” Bruce said, watching Jason attempt a somersault he wasn’t ready for.
“I’m fine,” Jason insisted, his ears pressed flat against his head, a determined look on his face. “I can do it.”
“I know you can. But don’t rush. We have plenty of time.”
Jason looked at him with his bright blue eyes, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face. “Really? I… Will I really stay?”
Bruce pulled him into a hug, knowing Jason needed it, though he rarely asked for one. The boy snuggled into his embrace, his tail wrapping around Bruce's leg.
“You can stay as long as you want,” Bruce promised. “This is your home now, Jay. Your nest, your pack. I won’t leave, and you don’t have to leave either.”
That conversation led to the signing of legal documents. Bruce officially became Jason’s foster parent, and then began the adoption process. Jason was quiet throughout, and although he tried to act nonchalant, his ears betrayed his nervousness.
“Is this real?” he asked after the adoption was finalized. “Am I really… Do you really want me?”
“I really want you,” Bruce affirmed, pulling the boy closer and taking a deep breath, inhaling his scent. My boy, my son, my pack. “Forever, as long as you want.”
Jason cried, the first time Bruce had seen him truly shed tears since the first week of his fostering. They were tears of relief, joy, and overwhelming emotion, and Bruce held him, gently stroking his ears and murmuring comforting words.
Six months later, Jason became Robin.
His uniform was different from Dick’s, something Jason insisted on. The red, yellow, and green uniform was custom-made for him, tailored to his build and fighting style. When Jason first put on the uniform and looked at himself in the mirror, his tail wagged so fast it was almost a blur.
“I look… I look like a hero,” Jason whispered, awe in his voice.
“You are a hero,” Bruce corrected, “You always have been. This uniform just makes it official.”
Working side-by-side as Batman and Robin created a whole new dynamic between them. In the Batcave and on patrol, they were partners, working seamlessly together, like two people who completely trusted each other. But back in the nest, they reverted to being Omega and pup, the boundaries of authority and partnership giving way to the more fundamental bonds of the wolf pack.
The nest remained their sanctuary, a place where Bruce and Jason could shed their masks—both literally and figuratively. Jason could curl up beside Bruce, making himself small and protected; Bruce could groom Jason's ears, leaving his scent mark on him, fulfilling his deepest Omega instincts to care for his pup.
"I love you, B," Jason murmured one night, half-asleep, his face pressed against Bruce's shoulder. They had just returned from a grueling patrol. Jason had taken a punch and was shaken, and Bruce had spent a full hour meticulously grooming him, checking every inch of his skin to ensure there were no injuries, letting his Omega pheromones bring comfort and healing.
Bruce's throat tightened with emotion, his arms tightening around the little pup, his pup, who was now unmistakably and completely his in all the ways that mattered. "I love you too, Jay. So, so much."
"Mm," Jason hummed softly, his voice gentle and content, full of trust. His tail gently thumped against the pillow. "I know."
The nest was filled with love. Bruce's heart was filled with love. In that brief, perfect moment, everything was just right.
Dick would visit occasionally, his Alpha scent permeating the manor, bringing warmth and familiarity. He and Jason were initially awkward around each other, but they eventually got along well, Dick genuinely happy to have a younger brother, and Jason, despite his outward nestial, idolizing the original Robin. Watching them together, Bruce's Omega heart swelled with joy. His children. Both of them.
"The nest's smaller than I remember," Dick said during one visit, his tail wagging as he surveyed Bruce's room.
"I rebuilt it," Bruce admitted. “After you left, I changed it to how it is now. Your scent was fading, and I needed—” He gestured helplessly, unable to explain the Omega instinct that drove him to tear down and rebuild.
Dick pulled him into a hug, leaving a deep scent mark on him. “I’m sorry I left you alone.”
“Don’t say that. You had to leave. It was time. It’s just, my Omega instincts don’t always follow logic.”
“Is Jason sleeping in there?”
“Every night,” Bruce confirmed, a hint of pride in his voice.
Dick smiled, his voice warm and understanding. “Good. You needed a companion, B. I’m glad he’s here.”
For two years, everything had been perfect. Bruce had his pack, Dick visited regularly, Jason stayed in the nest every night, and Alfred, as always, calmly managed the household. They were a family, harmonious and happy despite the frequent nighttime activities and constant danger.
Bruce should have known that such a life wouldn't last.
---
Three days after the Ethiopian incident, Alfred found Bruce in the lair.
The butler had been checking on him. As always, he brought food that went untouched, water that went undrunk, and tried to speak softly, but received no response. Since returning from the funeral, Bruce hadn't left the nest, hadn't showered or changed clothes, and barely moved except to shift his body within the carefully arranged space.
But this time was different. When Alfred opened the door to Bruce's bedroom, he was greeted by a sound that shattered his Beta heart.
Wailing.
Bruce was curled up in the center of the nest, surrounded by carefully arranged blankets and pillows, and he was wailing. The sound was low, broken, yet continuous—the unique lament of an Omega who had lost a pup. It was an expression of biological instinct, a profound sorrow that transcended language, reaching the most primitive parts of the brain.
Alfred had heard an Omega's wail before. Martha Wayne suffered a miscarriage shortly after her marriage, and he was there when it happened; her cries of grief echoed through the manor for days. But this was different. This was worse. Because Bruce's puppy hadn't died of natural causes or an accinestt.
Bruce's puppy had been murdered.
"Master Bruce," Alfred called softly from the doorway, his voice filled with sorrow. He had been struggling to control his emotions, trying to comfort Bruce.
Bruce's ears twitched back, seemingly acknowledging Alfred's presence, but he didn't stop shaking or relax. His tail was tightly wrapped around himself, and Alfred worried about his circulation. His clothes... they were as wrinkled as the ones he wore to the funeral, and the smell... the unsettling pheromones were so strong that Alfred could even taste them in the back of his throat, pungent and unpleasant, causing his instinctive beta instincts to let out a piercing scream, as if something had completely broken.
Alfred approached slowly and cautiously, every movement careful so as not to startle Bruce. A grief-stricken Omega's emotions were easily out of control, and instinct could override rational thought. But Bruce had never posed a threat to Alfred, and even now, immersed in grief, he didn't show any defensive reactions.
"Sir," Alfred spoke again, slowly and steadily sitting down at the edge of the nest. "You haven't eaten for two days. You need to take care of yourself. Jason wouldn't want..."
At the mention of Jason's name, Bruce's wails intensified, and his whole body trembled.
Alfred's eyes stung with tears. He, too, loved Jason deeply, having witnessed the transformation of that angry street urchin into a sunny, loving young man. He had listened to Jason excitedly babble about books, taught him to cook, and bandaged countless training injuries. He had long since loved him like his own grandson.
But Alfred's grief was quiet and private. Bruce's grief, however, was primal and all-consuming, the biological instinct of an Omega mourning his lost pup overriding everything else.
"Master Bruce," Alfred said, gently placing a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "Please. I know... I know it hurts. I know what it feels like to lose him..." His voice choked. "But you need to take care of yourself. You need to eat, you need to drink. Your body—"
"He's gone," Bruce whispered, his voice hoarse with weeping. His eyes were vacant, lost in a daze of sorrow. "Alfred, he's gone. My pup is gone."
"I know, sir. I know."
"I should have... I should have been there. I should have been faster, I should have—" Bruce's breath hitched, his wail pausing briefly before resuming. "The nest is empty again. I can still smell him, but he's not here. He's not—he's not—"
Bruce couldn't finish, his words swallowed by another wail. Alfred's tears finally spilled over, the tears he had been trying to hold back completely overwhelming him at the sound of Bruce's utter breakdown.
“Jason knows you love him,” Alfred said softly, his hand still on Bruce’s shoulder, trying to comfort him. "Master Bruce, you have to believe that. He knew he was your pup, that this was his nest, his home, his pack. No matter what happened in Ethiopia, no matter what the Joker did to him, Jason died knowing he was loved."
"It doesn't matter," Bruce said, his voice finally calm and empty. "I failed him. I brought him home, promised him safety, promised to protect him, but I failed. I let him die. I let my child die."
The nest still smelled of Jason, the young Beta, intelligent, brave, and talented, with his excitement for the mission and his inherent unwavering will. But that scent was fading, had been fading since the moment he died. Soon, too soon, his trace would be gone. The nest would be empty again, completely deserted, and Bruce had to face this reality.
He had to face a world where Jason Peter Todd had died at fifteen, his life brutally cut short, his potential extinguished by a madman's crowbar.
Alfred stayed with Bruce all night, watching over the grieving Omega. He brought water, but Bruce didn't drink; he brought food, but Bruce didn't touch it. He sat on the edge of the nest, silently keeping Bruce company, letting him know that even in the darkest moments, he wasn't alone. Bruce was completely consumed by his grief.
The sun rose, and the morning light shone on the nest, the usual tranquility seeming particularly jarring. Bruce finally stretched slightly. His eyes were red and sunken, his face haggard. He looked as if he had aged ten years in three days.
"I have to destroy the nest," Bruce's voice was flat and empty, devoid of emotion, more heartbreaking than a wail. "The nest, I must, I can't, every time I see it, I see him. He slept here, read books here, let me comb his hair. I can't, Alfred, I can't—"
"You will do no such thing," Alfred said firmly, a tone of authority he rarely used with Bruce. "Master Bruce, you are grieving. You are in pain, more pain than I have ever seen you endure. But destroying the nest will not bring Master Jason back, nor will it lessen your pain. It will only intensify it. You will regret it when the worst of your grief has passed."“What should I do then?” Bruce stared blankly at Alfred, his ears pressed against his head, his tail drooping limply.
This self-reproach was heartbreaking. Alfred reached out, cupping Bruce's face in his hands, forcing him to meet his gaze.
“He’s dead—”
“Yes, he’s dead. It’s a tragedy, and I don’t think either of us will ever truly get over it.” Alfred’s voice choked with emotion, his grief palpable. “But his death doesn’t erase the life you gave him. It doesn’t erase the little puppy you raised, the young man he was becoming. It doesn’t erase the love, belonging, and sense of pack that Jason Todd experienced for two years. You gave him all of that, Master Bruce. You gave him everything you could.”
Tears welled up in Bruce’s eyes again. “It wasn’t enough.”
“Yes,” Alfred sadly agreed. “It wasn’t. But it was still everything. Master Jason knew that. He knew, sir. Even at the very end, he knew.”
They sat in silence for a long time, the morning light growing stronger, the sounds of the waking city drifting through the window. Bruce’s wailing had stopped, but the grief remained, heavy, oppressive, suffocating.
“You said his scent is in the nest,” Alfred finally said cautiously. “What if… what if we could preserve it? I could seal some blankets and pillows in a container. That way, even if the scent in the nest fades, you can still smell him.”
Bruce’s ears twitched, a glimmer of hope flashing across his grief-stricken face. “You can do that?”
“I can,” Alfred affirmed. “I’ll do it today. But Master Bruce, you need to promise me something.”
“What?”
“You must live. You must keep going.”
Bruce gritted his teeth, his tail curling up again. “I don’t know if I can.”
“You can. You’re the strongest person I know, Master Bruce. And you won’t be alone.” “Master Dick will be here later today. I called him after the funeral. I’ll be here too. The three of us will get through this together.”
“Dick,” Bruce whispered, something shattering in his chest. Dick, he too had lost his brother. Dick, perhaps, was also suffering the same pain in his own way.
“He knows you love him,” Alfred gently interrupted. “He needs you too, let him come to you, Master Bruce. Let us help you through this.”
Bruce slowly nodded, his movements sluggish with exhaustion and grief. Alfred stayed by his side until Bruce finally drifted into a restless sleep, his body finally releasing the unbearable weight in his heart.
Alfred carefully retrieved several blankets and pillows, all bearing Jason’s strong scent, and sealed them away as promised. Then he sat by the nest, watching Bruce sleep, silently weeping for the clever, brave little pup they both loved and lost.
---
That afternoon, Dick arrived, his scent preceding him even before he entered the nest. Bruce was awake again, staring blankly ahead, curled up in the nest, tightly clutching Jason’s favorite blanket to his chest.
“Bruce,” Dick’s voice was filled with sorrow. His eyes were red-rimmed, his ears drooped, and his tail dragged on the ground.
Bruce looked up, something breaking deep inside him. Seeing his eldest pup, no longer a pup but a grown alpha, yet still his, still a member of the pack, Bruce’s heart ached. “Dick. I’m sorry, I should have, I should have called you, I—”
Dick instantly rushed into the nest and hugged Bruce tightly. “Don’t. Don’t apologize. Just, just let me stay here.”
“I loved him too,” Dick whispered. “I loved him so much, Bruce. My brother. I should have protected him, taught him, but I…”
“It’s not your fault,” Bruce said hoarsely. “It’s my fault.” "I sent him to Ethiopia. I should have—"
Bruce's ears drooped.
"I miss him," Bruce whispered.
"I know. I miss him too. Very, very much." Dick's voice choked up. "I always expect him to call, to argue with me about something, or ask me to help with a case. I always forget he's gone, and then I remember, and it feels like I've lost him all over again."
They stayed in the other nest for several hours, sometimes talking, sometimes sitting in silence, always touching each other, maintaining the pack bond, reminding each other that they weren't alone. Alfred eventually brought food, and this time Bruce ate mechanically, because Dick insisted, his omega instincts responding to the alpha pup's demands.
"Now Jason's scent will fade too," Dick said softly, his voice full of understanding.
"Alfred sealed some things away." “So…” Bruce couldn’t finish his sentence.
Dick pulled him closer, their tails entwined, and Bruce wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe he could survive, that he could bear the pain of losing him, that life would one day cease to be an empty nest and a broken heart.
But all he could think of was Jason’s bright, unwavering smile, Jason’s unrestrained, joyful laughter. Jason curled up in the nest, safe, warm, and loved, calling him “B” in that familiar tone that always made Bruce’s heart swell.
Everything was gone. Everything was destroyed by a madman’s brutality.
The nest was empty. His heart was empty too. Bruce didn’t know how to fill the void anymore.
---
Red Hood’s safe house in Crime Alley was extremely practical, even spartan. Before Jason cleared it out and took it over by force, it had been a drug nest. He kept the basic structure but removed all traces of previous habitation. There were no decorations, no personal belongings, nothing to indicate that anyone actually lived there, that it was anything more than an operational base.
The walls were lined with weapons—guns of various calibers, knives, neatly arranged ammunition, and locked explosive devices. Monitors displayed different areas of Crime Alley, and there was a workbench for maintaining equipment, and a small kitchen with only the most basic utensils. The furniture was all scavenged or stolen by Jason: a worn-out sofa with springs poking through the cushions, a wobbly table, and a few mismatched chairs.
The bedroom was even more spartan. Concrete floor, blackout curtains on the windows, and a bare mattress on a metal frame. No blankets, no sheets, nothing soft at all.
Except for the pillow.
It quietly Lying on Jason's bare mattress, the dark blue fabric was soft from frequent use. It looked out of place amidst the otherwise orderly furniture.
Jason told himself he kept the pillow for practical reasons. After all, everyone needs a pillow. It was ergonomic, supported his neck, and prevented headaches from poor sleeping posture. All these logical, rational reasons had nothing to do with it coming from Bruce's lair.
That was a lie, and Jason knew it. He had never been good at self-deception, not even before the abyss.
The pillow came from that lair. From Bruce's lair. Even if Jason wanted to, he couldn't fit in there anymore; his body had grown too big, too mature, too unsuited to that kind of comfort. He had been a child at fifteen, but after death, he had become a man in his twenties, possessing the full height and strength of a beta-level metahuman. That lair was designed for a child, and Jason was no longer a child.
He hadn't been a child since the crowbar, the bombs, and the Joker's laughter.
Jason took the pillow the night he returned to Gotham, when Bruce didn't know he was at the manor. It was three months after his resurrection, after crawling out of the grave and escaping the manipulation of the League of Assassins and Talia. For three months, he had been filled with anger and confusion, the effects of the abyss making everything feel wrong, distorted, as if he were seeing the world through broken glass.
He broke into the manor. It was easy if you knew all of Batman's security measures. He moved like a ghost through the familiar corridors, his adult body feeling out of place in the spaces of his childhood. Alfred was asleep. Bruce was on patrol. The manor was quiet. Complete silence.
Jason stood outside Bruce's bedroom for ten minutes, his keen hearing picking up every sound, confirming that he was truly alone. Then, he pushed open the door.
The nest was still there.
That was the first shock, the first crack in the carefully constructed numbness that Jason had wrapped himself in. After Jason's death, Bruce had rebuilt the nest. It was smaller than Jason remembered. Compared to the vast nest of his childhood, it had shrunk considerably.
This nest was different. More compact, more enclosed. He wasn't sure if Tim had ever been in it, because by the time he was fifteen, he felt awkward squeezing into the nest, but occasionally, just occasionally, he would ask Bruce to hold him in the nest, and they would read together, at least Bruce's instincts still drove him to maintain the structure and daily routine of the nest. He had built it beautifully, maintained it meticulously, and Jason watched him with a heart full of anguish.
The scent was the second shock. The nest was filled with Bruce's scent, the scent of an Omega, the scent of safety, the scent of home, but beneath that scent, other traces were hidnest. Sadness. Old grief. Loneliness. And a faint, almost imperceptible scent of Jason.
Bruce had preserved Jason's scent in the nest, perhaps through some technological means. Even after two years, even though Jason was supposed to be dead, Bruce still preserved his traces in the carefully arranged blankets and pillows.
Jason stood there, gazing at the nest, something in his chest cracking open. The anger that had accompanied him since his resurrection temporarily subsided, replaced by something more primal, more painful: sorrow, loss, and a desperate, agonizing longing for something he could never have again.
He involuntarily walked towards the nest... He felt as if his body was on autopilot. His hand reached out, touching the soft fabric, and the scent hit him with overwhelming force. Security, comfort, home, Bruce, the pack.
Before Jason could stop himself, he grabbed a pillow. Just one. He clutched it tightly to his chest, burying his face in it, taking a deep breath, inhaling the scent of everything he had lost. Then he left, before Bruce could return and find him standing there, amidst the ruins of his stolen life.
Now, six months later, he moved between safe houses, discarding equipment and supplies without regret, but the pillow remained with him. He guarded it like a treasure, though he didn't know why.
Because the scent of the nest still clung to the pillow. Bruce's scent. The scent of safety, comfort, home, and everything Jason told himself he didn't need, didn't want.
He found himself curling up next to the pillow almost every night, his face pressed against the pillowcase, greedily breathing in the fading scent of his Omega. He wasn't his Omega anymore, not after everything that had happened, but the body didn't always listen to reason. His subconscious still recognized the scent, still craved the comfort and security it offered.
On those difficult nights, when anger raged beneath his cloak, his skin felt tight to the point of suffocation, his mind filled with screams, the Joker's face, the sound of the crowbar hitting bone, the smell of smoke and burnt flesh, Jason would bury his face in the pillow, greedily breathing in the lingering scent of his Omega, feeling a slight release in the tight muscles in his chest.
That was all he needed, before the scent faded completely.