Chapter Text
This particular safehouse in Crime Alley smelled like gun oil, old wood, and apple pie, and it was the place he slept in more often than not.
Jason liked it quite a lot.
The place sat wedged between a boarded-up laundromat and a clinic that only stayed open because Jason made sure it could. Its windows were narrow, reinforced, and half-covered by rusted blinds that filtered Gotham’s gray afternoon into thin, fractured lines across the old and kind of wobbly kitchen table.
That was where the package sat.
A brown cardboard box with clear tape sealing its contents and no scent markers on it. Also no return address.
Jason leaned his back against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest, and his helmet resting beside him. He’d already swept the room twice looking for thermal, chemical, and electromagnetic devices. He searched for cameras, microphones, motion sensors, and certainly for bombs or other unwelcome surprises. But there was nothing.
And that wasn’t reassuring. It was precise and it spoke of intent.
Jason had too many enemies, but a smart meticulous enemy would jump towards his high priority list. As far as he knew, he hadn't pissed anyone like that in a while.
He pushed off the counter and circled the table once, boots silent against the warped floorboards. His kris knife slid free from it's sheat at his thigh with a soft metallic whisper, the blade catching a sliver of light as he angled it towards the tape.
One clean cut was all it took. He opened the box slowly, and inside, wrapped in a dark and soft cloth, was a book.
Jason stilled.
He recognized the title before he even touched it. His fingers brushed over the cover, tracing the worn leather, and feeling the faint imprint of age and use.
When he lifted it free, the spine creaked softly, familiar in a way that hit somewhere deep in his chest.
The Count of Monte Cristo.
It wasn't just a random copy. It was a first edition, carefully annotated, and certainly cared for. Jason flipped it open, eyes scanning the margins— and he froze.
The notes weren’t random ideas or thoughs, they were careful and intelligent dissections of the text. And they tracked the exact passages that Jason had once fixated on as a kid— the ones about patience, revenge, transformation. Someone had followed those thoughts, expanded them, and challenged them in places.
Someone had taken the time to understand them. Understand him.
Jason shut the book with a quiet, controlled motion, and let go of a breath he hadn't know was holding. “…You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered. This wasn’t a random guess on a title he might enjoy, this was someone who had known him. Someone who had known his likes and his feelings.
And that could be dangerous for Jason.
The second package arrived two days later.
This time, Jason didn’t hesitate to open it. He cut it open almost as soon as he found it, tension coiled through his shoulders, and all his senses sharpened.
It was ammunition.
He picked up a round, rolling it between his fingers and feeling the weight distribution of it— it was perfect; slightly forward-heavy, but optimized for his firing style. The casing was custom-made, the finish matte to reduce glare.
Jason’s grip on the ammo tightened slightly. This wasn’t just incredibly expensive, it was tailored for him. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I remember this.” Because he only knew one man who could create custom made ammunition of such high caliber, and that also knew the Red Hood's shooting style good enough to create it for him.
He remembers clearly, the training halls beneath the League’s compounds, the endless drills, and the correction after correction until motion became instinct.
And his teachings— 'You compensate with force, when precision would be faster.'
Jason exhaled slowly. “Slade,” he said aloud to no one in particular.
By the third delivery, Gotham itself seemed to shift around him. This time Jason didn’t see a package. He saw results.
The clinic down the block, the one that was barely functional, now had new equipment. Not flashy, but high-grade. Reliable. The kind that didn’t break under pressure and that would serve the population of the Alley well.
Three shelters also reported anonymous funding. Enough money to stabilize them for months. And to top it all, repairs started on a condemned building that Jason had been trying to reclaim for years, for housing.
There were no signatures. No one claiming ownership or demanding anything of anyone. It was just a quiet and effective change, made to prove intent.
A few hours later, Jason stood on a rooftop overlooking the street. His boots were planted on the damp concrete roof, and he was quietly watching over the city, looking as it stretched out in layers of neon and decay below him.
This wasn’t charity. This was positioning. This was someone demonstrating capability. And restraint.
Jason dragged a hand down his face. “…I'm being courted.” he said under his breath.
He took out his helmet and pulled out his satellite phone. The secure line connected on the first ring. “Wilson.” a male voice said, cool and collected.
Jason leaned against a rusted water tower, the metal cold through his jacket. “You’re getting bold, old man.” Jason said.
“Efficiency saves time,” Slade replied evenly.
Jason huffed. “You always did like cutting corners.” the entire situation was bizarre.
“I prefer removing unnecessary steps.” Silence stretched between them, filled with the distant hum of traffic and the low, constant pulse of Gotham at night. He still doesn't understand.
“What do you want?” Jason asked.
A beat. Then— “You.”
Jason’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “That’s vague. Try again. We talking mission, or—”
“You are a prime omega,” Slade said, tone precise. Jason felt himself still. This tidbit of information was not supposed to be easily accessible. “You operate independently, control territory effectively, and maintain discipline under pressure. You would strengthen my pack.”
Jason’s face went through multiple emotions, finally settling in a carefully constructed blank mask. “Thanks, I guess.” he muttered.
“You have always been exceptional.” Slade continued. “Even in the League, and you learned faster than most.”
Jason’s grip tightened on the phone. “I'm not—” he said quietly.
“I trained you to refine that control,” Slade went on anyway. “And you’ve improved it tremendously.”
Jason pushed off the tank. “I didn’t call for a performance review, Wilson.”
“No,” Slade said. “You called because you recognized the intent.”
Jason’s jaw clenched. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess I did.”
Grant Wilson did not announce himself.
He didn’t need to.
Jason felt him before he ever saw him. A presence at the edge of his territory that didn’t push and didn’t challenge, but that also didn’t retreat.
The first time they met, it was on a rooftop overlooking Crime Alley. The concrete was still damp from earlier rain, and the air was heavy with the scent of wet asphalt and distant smoke. Below them, neon signs flickered, casting uneven light upward.
Grant stood near the ledge, hands in his pockets, and posture relaxed but balanced— his weight distributed like someone who knew exactly how to move if he needed to.
“You took your time,” Jason said, stepping out of the shadows. He had felt Grant enter his territory hours ago, yet he did not show immediately.
Grant didn’t turn immediately, instead kept watching down the alley. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”
Jason scoffed. “You’re in my territory, raising all sorts of red flags. That ship's sailed.”
Grant glanced over his shoulder, eyes sharp and assessing, but not aggressive.
“You got the gifts.”
“Yeah.”
“Thoughts?”
Jason tilted his head slightly. “You always this patient, or is that just for me?” He was wearing scent patches, but he was sure that Grant Wilson was an Alpha.
Grant’s mouth curved faintly. “Just for you.”
That— he was flirting. Jason refused to blush, instead, he shifted his stance, his boots scraping lightly against gravel. “You’re wasting your time,” he said.
“Hmm— I don’t think so.” Jason studied him, searching for a hidden agenda, a sign of disgust, or annoyance, or even boredom in Grant.
He didn’t find one.
Grant Wilson seemed perfectly content talking to Jason in dirty and smog-filled Gotham.
The Wayne Pack noticed the shift before they even understood it.
The Batcave was colder than usual, the hum of servers filling the space as Tim scrolled through data, his slender fingers moving rapidly across the keyboard.
“Something's happening,” Tim said, pulling up a map of Gotham. “Activity clusters near Crime Alley, but it’s controlled. No escalation.”
"Does Hood have a new rogue?" asked Dick, but Tim shook his head almost immediately.
Bruce stood behind him, his arms folded over his chest, and his gaze fixed on the screen. “Who is it?”
Tim hesitated, “…Deathstroke.”
Dick, leaning against a nearby console, straightened. “Deathstroke’s in Gotham?”
“Not confirmed,” Tim hurried. “But his network is active, someone is definitely here.”
Bruce’s expression darkened slightly. “Slade Wilson doesn’t move without purpose.” Tim pulled more maps, pointing specific areas the activity was spotted on.
“No shit,” Dick muttered. “It's never good whenever he is involved in something.” The tension in his voice was sharp, personal.
The distaste thick in his scent.
Jason didn’t tell them.
He didn't tell them when he found the first gift, and he didn't tell them when the gifts kept coming, either. He also didn't say anything when Grant’s presence became a constant at the edges of Crime Alley, always close to him, but also always respecting his boundaries, never truly invading his space.
He didn't say anything when the pressure Grant was creating built into something more tangible, something he couldn’t ignore.
Because telling them meant explaining.
And explaining meant— “Jason.” He turned towards the voice.
"No names in the field." He said, just to be contrary. Nightwing stood at the far end of the rooftop, his silhouette outlined against the city lights, the wind tugging at his suit, carrying the faint scent of the ocean and thunderstorms with it. He needs to change his scent patches .
“You’ve been off comms.” Dick said, stepping closer. “Are you okay?” His eyes were looking over him in detail, looking for hodden injuries, signs of pain.
Jason leaned back against the ledge, his arms crossing, defensive. “Nothing you need to worry about.” he still hasn't made up his mind, and if he tells him what's going on, he will demand a choice from him.
“Try me.” It doesn't surprise him that Dick doesn't let it go, even though it's obvious that Jason doesn't want to talk about it.
Leave it to Dick Grayson to try to fix everything for everyone.
Jason let's out a quiet, humorless breath. “What do you think of me, Dickie?” he asked and he comvinces himself that he is not evading. This is just as important.
Dick blinked. “What?”
“Answer me."
Dick frowned. “You’re— direct. You hit hard. You—”
“I'm a blunt instrument." Jason finished.
Dick hesitated. “No, you’re... effective.”
Jason’s laugh was sharp, making Dick wince. “Yeah. That’s one way to put it.”Jason takes out his grapple hook, and leaves Dick alone in the rooftop.
The truth always comes out.
It took one moment— one slip. One faulty scent patch during a long stake-out, one single shift in scent that Bruce caught before Jason could suppress it.
And then the cat was out of the bag.
Bruce met him back in the Cave, “You’re an omega.” his voice accusatory, even of that wasn't his intention.
Jason didn’t flinch. Refused to. “Yeah,” he said. “I am.” as a matter of fact. Nothing left to hide.
Dick stared at him, something like disbelief flickering across his face, all their interactions going through his head a mile a minute.
Tim’s hands stilled over the keyboard, his eyes wide as saucers.
But it was Damian’s gaze that sharpened immediately. “And not just an omega,” Damian said, taking a deep breath. “A Prime Omega."
Jason’s eyes flicked to him, assessing him. “Don't fucking sniff people, brat. It's impolite.” Damian had the sense to blush for a moment, before deciding that he didn't care about Jason's opinion in the matter.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Dick asked.
Jason pushed off the railing, boots echoing softly against the stone floor as he stepped forward. “You really want to know?” he said.
Dick’s jaw tightened, his fingers clenching in his fist “Yeah. I do.”
Jason stopped a few feet in front of him, his gaze hard. “You talk about me like I’m a battering ram,” he said. “Like the only thing I’m good for is hitting harder than the next guy.”
“That’s not—”
“That’s exactly what it is,” Jason cut in. “You never thought to look past that.”
Silence settled, heavy and uncomfortable in the Batcave, because they knew.
It wasn't done out of cruelty. It was simply clinical and operational. They were all working under an assumption, and never thought to doubt it
“You never once asked about me, beyond what I could do for you,” Jason said flatly. “So I simply didn’t give you anything else of me to use.”
Bruce face was pale, the heavy implications of Jason's words finally sinking in. A faint memory of Jason as he first came into the Manor resurfacing for a moment—
Damian broke the silence. “Wilson is courting you,” he said.
Jason didn’t deny it. “Yes.” There was no point.
Dick’s head snapped toward him. “Slade is what?”
“Courting me for his Pack,” Jason repeated, tone dry. “Try to keep up.”
Dick’s expression darkened immediately, his tone cold and his scent sharpening. “Absolutely not.”
Jason raised a brow. “Didn’t realize you got a vote.” He crosses his arms and watches as Dick recoils, before quickly recovering.
“This is Deathstroke,” Dick snapped. “He is dangerous , he doesn’t get to just—”
“He’s not forcing anything on me,” Jason said sharply.
Everything seemed to stop for a moment.
While it was true that Slade and Grant were not forcing him to do anything or choose any which way, what wasn't said, what they understood, was that Jason was considering it.
Everything felt different for the Wayne Pack after that.
Not just because of the information they had received about Jason, but because the dynamic had shifted.
Pack. Hierarchy. Choice.
And for the first time, they were all on the same page about how to proceed.