Chapter Text
Tim glanced around his room, noting the mess with an air of resignation. Clothes were scattered across the floor and the internal components of various devices were strung across his bed. On the floor, in small, unorganized heaps, files of cases and WE paperwork sat in stacks. Mugs littered his desk and crumpled papers overflowed from the trashcan beneath it. There was no way he was going to get this all cleaned before patrol. Alfred was going to be so disappointed. The elder man was often hard to read, and that was without taking Tim’s condition into account.
Frankly put, Tim was a null. In a world full of alphas, betas, and omegas, he got dealt the worst-case scenario. The rest of his family, excluding his biological parents who had signed over custody when he was 12, did not have such problems. Where many people relied on scent to identify each other, Tim had none—not even the milky scent of a pup. In some ways, he was like a sponge. He could soak up other scents but they wouldn’t hold and slipped away in minutes.
Now, Tim didn’t necessarily mourn this, as that meant he excelled in sneaking around for missions and the like without being detected the way that his brothers would be. On top of that, he didn’t have to worry about a heat or rut, or being influenced by pheromones. Small mercies, he supposed. Being scruffed had no affect on him, which meant he was uniquely advantaged in the field.
Unfortunately those were the extent of up-sides he received from his status, as the drawbacks were more severe. He couldn’t scent anybody, and scenting didn’t have an effect on him. He couldn’t smell emotion like the rest of his family. Not only that, but they couldn’t smell his. While he could technically have bonds, he couldn’t initiate them. To make matters worse, according to his family, his end of the bond felt underwater, muffled. Realistically, it served no real purpose. Tim couldn’t interact with the bond either, meaning that his family may as well have been bonded to a brick wall.
Distantly, Tim wondered what it would be like to be normal, to be integrated into the pack fully, able to help where he was really needed, but he quickly dismissed the idea. He had accepted his reality when he hadn’t presented at 13, again when he hadn’t had a rut or heat at 15, and for the last time when he hadn’t had any strong, real bonds by 17. Now, at 18, he was content the way he was, seeing no point in dwelling on it.
He made himself get up, stretching as he got to his feet. Patrol would start in an hour, and he still needed to get suited up, warm up, and do the strategy meeting with his family before nightfall. They were going out a bit earlier than usual, as winter was well in season. Nightfall fell sooner and sunrise came earlier, but crime never slept in Gotham.
As Tim left his room, he grasped the doorhandle behind him, bringing the door to meet flush to the frame. He paused, stopping abruptly in the hallway. He turned around, facing the door. Again, he repeated the motion, listening for the snick of the mechanism to latch closed, but it never came. Without twisting the knob, he pushed the door open. It swung out with a groan and Tim echoed the sound with an exhausted sigh. The door wasn’t latching, meaning something must be wrong with the door knob. It wasn’t entirely out of the norm. The manor was old, complete with its fair share of squeaky floor boards and temperature-sensitive wood swelling. Overall not a big deal, but Tim preferred sleeping with the door locked. He’d tell Alfred after patrol. Problem solved. With an annoyed breath, he pulled the door to, despite the latch failing, and headed down to the cave.
Dressed and ready, Tim sat through the strategy meeting. The operation was simple in nature, and it was expected to be a relatively quiet night. Stay out of sight, see what they were distributing, and find out how they were moving it—bragging rights to anyone who safely snagged a sample to test at the cave. Easy enough in theory. At the table, Bruce handed out small semi-translucent adhesive patches. Bat-grade scent blockers. Tim stuck them on the patch of skin between his collarbone and his neck, just as everyone else did. It was all-available-hands on deck tonight, with the criminals’ warehouse being so big. Too many exits and escape routes to watch over while also trying to collect a sample.
Despite the simple stakeout, there was something in the air, a sort of anticipation buzzing between the vigilantes. There were rumors going around that the drugs being smuggled were new to the market. According to an information leak between suppliers, the drug was a heat/rut inducer on steroids—hitting stronger and faster, especially among the test-subject omegas that had come forward to the GCPD. Inducers weren’t uncommon, especially among sex workers and criminals. Chemical heats and ruts served many purposes in underground brothels and trafficking rings. It had become more prevalent in the last few years, as well as easily available.
There was, however, a saving grace. Typical inducers were much shorter and weaker than a natural heat or rut. It wasn’t all-consuming like the drug’s real-counterparts were. It allowed for rational thinking, where natural heats and ruts inhibited it. It made it easier for victims to get away or make rational decisions under the influence. That is part of the reason they were investigating the importation of the new drug into Gotham. This new inducer was intended to take away those affects—designed to make it harder to refuse or run away.
The game-plan formed fast. Decisions were made quickly and efficiently, with little room for argument. There were protocols in place for situations like this. With Stephanie and Cass on a separate mission, it left the men of Wayne Manor to handle the situation alone, save for Oracle over the comm line.
They took the orders of their positions mostly without issue. Batman and Red Robin would be taking the main section, as Bruce was an alpha and Tim was a null, therefore less likely to be affected should the drug become airborne or a fight break out. Nightwing, the only beta besides Alfred, would take the south end of the building solo. The truck dock was there, and finding out how they were loading it, as well as what they were driving would be vital in the investigation. Red Hood, their resident omega, and Robin, their resident pup, would take the outside exits, noting who came in and out.
The only real arguments came from the last two, both disliking the idea of being strayed from the fight just because of their secondary genders, or lack thereof. Unfortunately for them, Batman was notoriously stubborn. They separated mostly without fanfare, grumbling and complaints be damned, and the stake-out commenced. They surrounded the warehouse, divided as planned.
Soon enough, the vans pulled in one after another, filling the formerly-vacant warehouse within the hour of the Bats arriving. For once, everything seemed to be going to plan. Dick had managed to snag a sample with an ultra-thin grapple for data analysis early on, and they had gotten valuable information on the supply chain. Batman and Red Robin stood in the rafters, watching the goons work below. They seemed to be moving in a uniform fashion, nearly perfectly in step and output.
As a fleeting thought, Tim wished that he could pick up on the scents of the warehouse like the rest of the Bats could. Emotions, to a certain degree, could be smelled through the air. It was yet another biological failsafe that Tim was unable to utilize. The goons on the warehouse floor, were they scared? Comfortable? Smug? He looked at them closer. They moved in union. The steps marching to an unheard beat. How odd.
Red Robin narrowed his eyes. “B, I think this might be bigger than just a new drug ring. Look at how they move. It’s too synchronized.” While RR knew that Batman had likely already noticed it, he knew without a doubt that Oracle was listening in to comms. In return, he got a low hmm from the older man. They watched for a few moments, silent and still. Then, with a shift in energy even Tim felt, the entire room halted. Men on the floor froze mid step, boxes and supplies still in hand. In between one beat and the next, the goons swiveled their heads to their location in the rafters. It was a scene straight out of a horror movie, all of their eyes suddenly on the shadows they resided in.
Just as the men on the warehouse floor aimed their guns, both vigilantes dropped from the rafters. Batman’s mind was running a mile per second, trying to calculate how they were figured out. When the cowl had done thermal scans, it hadn’t detected any heat-signatures from anyone who could have spotted them. Even if they were operating on some sort of hive-mind, someone would have to had spotted them first. It made no rational sense. Unfortunately, he couldn’t dwell on the how because they needed to contain the fight as soon as possible. Red Robin was fighting to his left, with his other hero counterparts quickly approaching to help subdue the fight.
Nightwing arrived first, all of them being led to the action with the guidance from Oracle via comms. Moments later, Robin and Red Hood joined the action. The room was a colorful flurry of flips, bullets, and knockouts. The way the goons moved was robotic, easy to predict and subdue, but it made bullets no less lethal.
Make no mistake, it had not slipped the mind of any vigilante in the building what the criminals were illegally harboring in the warehouse, but in the flurry of movements, it was easy to miss one goon, plain-looking and deceptively calm, reach into a wooden crate and drag out a handful of darts.
Red Robin saw the glint of a metal tube aimed towards Robin and moved. It was something instinctual, not quite training and not quite protocol, that pushed him in the direct path of the multitude of darts destined for his little brother. They hit in the blink of an eye and the sharp yelp of his callsign told him that the youngest Robin had seen exactly what happened. Still, in one breath, he yanked out the sharp tubes out of his front and side, the darts having hit him at an angle. Four dark gray tubes, in what seemed to be carbon fiber dart casts, sharp enough to pierce vigilante-grade armor. Very troubling indeed.
The fight continued for what felt like hours, but in reality was only minutes. Most vigilante work was like that—long periods of slow interrupted by short periods of very, very fast. As the last few goons fell, Batman started ziptie-handcuffing the ones already unconscious, the others already moving to do the same. Soon, they all sat in a corner, waiting on the police to arrive.
“Robin, report. Any injuries?” Bruce, straight to the point as ever. There was an order of things when reporting in the field. It was always a youngest-to-oldest ordeal unless something more pressing was obvious.
“Minor, Batman. Scrapes and bruises. However, Red Robin took a hit of something in my stead.” Even as the younger boy spoke, there was an unexpected anger in his voice. It was tight, barely restrained, and the shock of it took the rest of them by a short, momentary surprise. It had been a while since that tone, angry and hurt, had come from Damian. Wordlessly, the other vigilantes turned their attention to the red-clad teen.
He shot his younger brother a glare, adrenaline from the fight fueling his annoyance. “I took four darts to the side and chest. I assume it’s full of the inducer drug, but I saved the canisters to take back for testing.” There was a pause, as if he was debating to say the next part, “Ultimately, it was better for me to take the hit than him.”
Batman gave him a severe look, which showed up any time any of his children’s sacrificial tendencies came out. With a clenched jaw, he ordered, “Nightwing, get Red Robin to the cave for treatment. Robin, stay here with me so we can confer with the GCPD. Hood-”
Bruce was cut off with a sharp, buzzer-like noise coming from Jason. “I’d love to stay and chat, old man, but I’ve got leads to follow to make sure this stuff stays out of the Alley.” As much as he claimed to love to stay and chat, Jason was already making his way to the exit, phone in hand as if ready to make some calls. “I’ll let you know if anything bat-worthy comes up.” And just like that, he was gone.
Bruce took a deep breath. Jason was hard to pin down on the best of days. The fact that this contact hadn’t ended up with an argument blowing up had to count as a win in his book. He could live without the debrief this time, he supposed. Turning back to his other sons, he nodded, and they followed his orders. Tim and Dick walked towards Dick’s bike, discussing something out of earshot. He watched Tim’s gait as the younger man walked away. It was normal overall, he seemed a bit tired, but they all were after such a stressful fight.
While he didn’t approve of any sacrificial tendencies, he understood where Tim was coming from. Bruce and Tim often had the same thought processes. He could not confidently say that had he the same circumstances, he wouldn’t do the same. If the inducer was as strong and dangerous as the reports indicate, it could do serious and permanent harm to an unpresented pup. While Bruce would never admit it out loud, this was probably the best case scenario of any of his kids being dosed with it. That didn’t mean he had to like it, or even condone it, though.
Tim, despite his best efforts to accept his null status, still felt other in comparison to the rest of the family, Bruce knew. While it wasn’t entirely unheard of, being a null was certainly rare, and he knew how much it affected the boy, despite his hiding it. All Bruce could do was hope nothing bad came of this situation in the long run.
He turned his attention to Robin, who was clearly fuming beside him. As much as he wanted to, he didn’t have time to unpack why he was upset, beyond the situation being involved with Tim. Police cars lined up in front of them, their lights casting the dreary warehouse in blue and red. Commissioner Gordon stepped out and lit a cigarette, letting the lower-appointed cops enter the warehouse. Batman walked to greet him, Robin on his heels.
The drive went smoothly, the only interruption being the check-ins about Tim’s condition. Overall, he felt fine, just warm and a little stuffed up. This wasn’t out of his expectations, unfortunately. He suspected it would be like the flu until the drug finished its course through the body. As they pulled into the cave, Alfred was waiting on them in the medbay.
“Master Timothy, I hear you had an unfortunate encounter with the wrong ends of a few darts?” Alfreds’ voice, while still serious, was comforting in its own right.
“Afraid so.” Tim huffed, as he hopped onto the examination table. Still sitting, he stripped off the top layer of his armor, as well as the sweat-wicking undersuit, leaving his bare torso open to the cave. Alfred’s cold hands felt around the injection sights as he checked over for any other hidden injuries. The puncture wounds themselves were quite small and easy to miss among the other bruises he gained in the fight at the warehouse.
“No broken or bruised ribs, it seems. You should count yourself lucky, lad. However, I will need some blood to run through the synthesizer. We don’t know exactly what you were dosed with and the sooner we find out its contents the better.” As Alfred collected the supplies to draw blood, Tim took a moment to check in with himself.
“Full-transparency, I feel kind-of warm. Almost like I’ve got a fever. I assume it’s just the drug running its course, but still.” Despite his unsure tone, it wasn’t a lie, not even in the slightest. It was something he was working on, being more truthful to the adults in his life, even after all this time. An ever-present struggle, it seemed. Alfred hummed, and after he completed the blood draw and sent it to the computer, he put the back of a gloved hand to Tim’s forehead.
“You are a bit feverish,” he frowned. “Allow me to grab the thermometer and get a precise read.” Alfred pulled out the little white rectangle, situating it under the younger boy’s tongue. Glancing at one of the bat-tablets, his eyes skimmed quickly over the information it displayed. “All things considered, Master Timothy, we are all quite thankful you shouldn’t be too affected by the worst of the drug. Some of the preliminary results are in from the blood draw, and it looks like a modified version of the typical street variation. With your designation, it shouldn’t be more than a tough flu or head-cold. Best to drink a healthy amount of water and try to sleep it off until we get an antidote on the way.”
Even though Tim was expecting those results, it was a still relief to hear them confirmed. As if on cue, Dick entered back into the medbay, in fresh clothes and damp hair. Clearly he had taken advantage of being the first one back to hog the hot water, not that the cave was lacking in it. Tim, even now, still felt quite warm in the typically cold cave. “What’s the verdict, Alf?”
The elder man relayed the information back to him. As he did, Tim himself slipped of the bunk to go towards the shower. Before he reached the door, Alfred’s sharp voice stopped him. “Young Master, do not forget to put this on. Do not take it off until Master Bruce or I tell you to.” In the elder man’s hand, an electric blue rubber-like band sat neatly. It was a remote monitoring bracelet, the kind that sent vitals to one of the tablets in the cave. He slipped it on without fuss and headed his way to the cave showers.
When he emerged from the steaming shower room, Damian and Bruce had long-since returned. Bruce himself must have been caught up on his condition, because beside him sat the tablet monitoring his vitals and a full glass of water that he promptly handed to Tim. Immediately after, Bruce reached over and grabbed a small plastic cup with two pills inside. Tim recognized them, as they were bat grade medication, branded with the logo and easily identifiable by any of the bats. A fever reducer and a pain reliever. He downed them quickly and finished his glass of water. It was soothing on his throat, the cool temperature making him feel a little less heated from his shower.
Bruce watched him closely, as closely as he had been watching the vitals on the tablet. The younger boy was flushed. While it could be attributed to the hot shower—as evidenced by the steam rolling out from the cracked door—he had a feeling it was more related to the fever he knew the younger boy was hosting. He glanced down and assured himself that the bright blue band was still securely in place.
He could smell the soap on Tim. Bruce knew that the young man didn’t typically hold scents long, but it was almost impressive how strong the scent of it was. While the Tim didn’t usually use scented products, Alfred must have changed the soap in the cave showers. It was nutty, almond-like. Quietly, something inside of him he didn’t know was restless settled. Bruce shook his head, waving the thoughts from his head.
He laid a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder, “Tim, we should get you in bed.” And at the boy’s nod, they headed up the stairs and to the family wing. At his door, Tim paused, said good night, and retreated into his room. It was late, even by their standards. In actuality, it was closer to morning and Tim was the last one to check in for the night. Bruce shook his head, tired himself. Bruce walked down to the last door on the hall.
Setting the tablet on his nightstand, propped up where he could see it, Bruce began to get ready for bed. He got under the covers shortly after. The lights were turned off, but the illumination of the vitals tablet basked the room in a soft glow. Maybe it was the stressful night he had, worried about his sons. Maybe it was the recent long hours spent staying up to track down shipments. Or maybe, it was just pure bad-luck that Bruce fell asleep, unaware the tablet was muted.
As Tim shut the door behind him, he was once again reminded that he forgot to tell Alfred about his door not latching properly. A sharp pang of annoyance flared in his chest, alongside something else he couldn’t easily identify. With a huff, he headed toward his closet. He had put on clothes after his shower, of course, but they were itchy on his skin, a new feeling he was definitely not a fan of. Figures that would be one of the symptoms of his pseudo flu. Still, he swapped his regular sweats for a thinner, softer pair of pants and his shirt for a similar material. By the time he finished getting dressed, the world was spinning, and he found it difficult to stay standing the way he intended to. That was always Tim’s least favorite part about being sick—the lack of control.
Still, he made his way to the bed and collapsed in it. He was exhausted, more so than he usually felt after a big fight. He sent out a silent curse to whoever manufactured the drug and tried to get comfortable. It took some tossing and turning, but eventually Tim relaxed and let his breathing even out, sending him into the inky void of dreamless sleep.