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Bruce didn't think much of it.
That was the problem, really. He never thought much about these things, such as the small gestures, the casual touches. He'd spent so many years building walls around himself that he'd forgotten other people noticed when those walls occasionally cracked.
It started with Dick.
Dick had dropped by the Cave unannounced, which wasn't unusual. What was unusual was the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was set just a little too tight. Bruce had seen that look before, and it meant Dick was carrying something heavy, something he wasn't ready to talk about yet.
Bruce had been reviewing case files, half-distracted, and Dick had walked past him on his way to the training mats. Without thinking, Bruce reached out and ruffled his hair.
It was a brief touch. Barely a second.
Dick froze.
Bruce looked up, confused. "Richard?" He didn't mean to call him by that name.
But Dick wasn't looking at him. His eyes were half-lidded, his pupils slightly dilated. The tension in his shoulders had completely melted. A low, involuntary sound rumbled from his chest, something between a purr and a growl, and he leaned into the touch like a cat seeking more.
Then he blinked, realized what he'd done, and went scarlet.
"I—" Dick cleared his throat, straightening abruptly. "I'm going to—training. Yes. Training. Good talk, B."
He practically fled to the mats.
Bruce stared after him, utterly bewildered.
Two days later, Jason showed up.
This was more surprising. Jason's visits were rare and usually accompanied by some form of property damage or existential crisis. Today, he seemed... quieter than usual. He was standing in the middle of the Cave, staring at his helmet like it held answers to questions he hadn't asked yet.
Bruce approached carefully. Jason's Alpha instincts were notoriously volatile, the feral subtype made him unpredictable at the best of times.
"Jason."
"Don't." Jason's voice was flat. "I'm not in the mood for a lecture."
"I wasn't going to lecture you."
"Sure you weren't."
Bruce studied him for a moment. The tension in Jason's frame was palpable, the rigid set of his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip on his helmet. He was wound so tight he might snap.
Bruce reached out.
Jason flinched, actually flinched, but Bruce didn't stop. His hand settled on top of Jason's head, fingers brushing through the dark curls that had grown longer than Bruce remembered.
The effect was immediate.
Jason made a sound that was nothing short of devastating. It was a whimper: a small, broken noise that seemed to be ripped from somewhere deep inside him. His knees buckled slightly, and he caught himself on the worktable, his whole body trembling.
"You—" Jason's voice cracked. He pressed his forehead against the table, shoulders shaking. "What the hell, old man?"
Bruce withdrew his hand immediately, alarmed. "Jason? Are you injured? Should I call Alfred?"
"No!" The word came out as almost a snarl, but there was no heat in it. "Don't-just-" Jason took a shaky breath. "Give me a minute."
Bruce waited, deeply confused.
Eventually, Jason straightened. His eyes were suspiciously bright, but his expression was carefully neutral. "Don't do that again."
"Do what?"
"That." Jason gestured vaguely at Bruce's hand. "The-the thing. With the—" He made a frustrated sound. "You know what? Forget it. I'm leaving."
"Jason—"
"Forget it, Bruce."
And he was gone, leaving Bruce standing alone in the Cave with no explanation whatsoever.
Tim was next.
Tim had been running on three hours of sleep and an alarming amount of caffeine for the better part of a week. Bruce had been trying to get him to rest, but Tim was stubborn, a trait he'd unfortunately inherited from Bruce himself.
"Tim."
"I'm fine."
"You're swaying."
"Am not." Tim's eyes were fixed on the Batcomputer screen. "I just need to finish this algorithm and then I'll sleep."
Bruce sighed. He walked over to Tim's chair and looked down at him. Tim was practically vibrating with exhaustion and caffeine. His Beta instincts were usually so stable, so controlled, but even Betas had their limits.
"Tim."
"I said I'm—"
Bruce's hand landed on Tim's head, ruffling his hair in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. He'd seen Alfred do it a hundred times. It seemed like the right thing to do.
Tim's entire body went slack.
His eyes fluttered shut, and a sound escaped him, something between a sigh and a moan. He leaned into the touch with the kind of desperate, bone-deep relief that suggested he'd been holding himself together with willpower alone.
"Dad," Tim breathed.
Bruce froze.
Dad. Tim had never called him that. Not once, in all the years he'd been Robin. Not in private, not in public. He'd always been "Bruce" or "Batman" or occasionally "B" when he was feeling particularly close.
Bruce's hand stilled on Tim's head. "Tim?"
Tim's eyes snapped open. He went scarlet, the same shade of red Dick had been, and scrambled back in his chair so fast he nearly fell out of it.
"I didn't—that wasn't—I just—" Tim covered his face with his hands. "Oh god. Oh god. Please forget that happened."
"Tim—"
"I'm going to go. To my room. To sleep. Yes. Sleep is good. I'm doing that now."
He was gone before Bruce could protest.
Damian was the most confusing of all.
Damian was an Alpha, a royal subtype, if you can count his parents.... However, he's the most dominant of the dominant. He was proud, arrogant, and fiercely independent. He didn't need affection, or so he claimed. He didn't need comfort. He was a warrior, and warriors didn't need head pats.
Bruce didn't intend to touch him. He was walking past Damian in the hallway, and Damian was going on about something: a mission, perhaps, or the incompetence of the GCPD, and Bruce just...
Reached out. Brushed his hair back from his forehead, the way he'd seen Talia do years ago.
Damian stopped mid-sentence.
His eyes widened, actually widened, and his Alpha dominance simply... vanished. His posture softened, his shoulders dropped, and he leaned into the touch like a cat seeking warmth.
"Father," he said, and his voice was tiny. Small. Vulnerable.
Bruce stared at him. "Damian?"
Damian's eyes were bright. He blinked rapidly, clearly fighting back tears. "That is... Father, I..."
"Damian, what's wrong?"
"Nothing." Damian's voice was barely a whisper. "Nothing is wrong. I simply—" He swallowed hard. "I did not realize that you..."
He couldn't finish the sentence. He just stood there, leaning into Bruce's hand, looking like he was about to shatter.
Bruce was starting to feel deeply, deeply out of his depth.
It wasn't just his sons.
Cassandra even his daughter, his combat omega, the fiercest fighter he'd ever trained nearly cried when Bruce touched her head. She leaned into the touch with a trust that was absolute, instinctive, primal. She didn't even try to hide it.
Stephanie froze mid-sentence, her Beta instincts going haywire as she processed the gesture. She ended up laughing hysterically and claiming she needed to "go think about some things."
Barbara, in her chair, closed her eyes and let out a breath that sounded like she'd been holding it for years. "Bruce," she said softly, "you have no idea what you're doing, do you?"
"I don't understand what's happening," Bruce admitted.
She just smiled mysteriously.
Duke stared at him for a long moment, his Alpha-Beta hybrid instincts clearly at war with each other. Then he laughed, shook his head, and said, "Yeah, okay, that's... that's fine. That's fine. I'm gonna go sit down for a minute."
Even Jason came back. Twice. He wouldn't admit to it, but Bruce caught him loitering near the Batcomputer with an expectant expression that he absolutely refused to acknowledge.
The final straw was Dick, again.
Dick had been unusually quiet all evening. He was sitting on the edge of the training mat, staring at his hands, and Bruce recognized the signs of a spiral. Dick had a tendency to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, and sometimes it got too heavy.
Bruce sat down beside him. "Dick."
"I'm fine."
"You're not." Bruce reached out, and Dick tensed, but he didn't pull away. Bruce's hand settled on his head, fingers threading through his hair. "What's wrong?"
Dick's eyes closed. He made that sound again: that low, purring growl that seemed entirely involuntary. His whole body relaxed, and he leaned into Bruce's side like he'd been desperate for contact.
"You do this," Dick said softly, "and you don't even realize what it means."
Bruce frowned. "It's just a gesture."
"It's not." Dick opened his eyes, and there was something raw in his expression. "B, you're an Omega. The Omega. The one who broke every stereotype, who proved that secondary genders don't define strength or power. You're—" He laughed, a little brokenly. "You're the pack alpha. The leader. The protector. You're the one everyone looks to when the world falls apart."
"I'm—"
"And when you do this," Dick continued, gesturing vaguely at Bruce's hand, "when you touch us like this, it's—" He took a shaky breath. "It's approval. Acceptance. It's claiming. It's the most primal, instinctual thing an Omega can do. It says 'you're mine, you're safe, you're worthy.' And we can't—" He laughed again. "We can't fight it, B. Our instincts take over before we can think. Because it's you. And you're everything to us."
Bruce stared at him.
"I didn't know," he said finally.
"No. Of course you didn't." Dick shook his head, but he was smiling. "That's the thing about you, B. You have no idea how much we need you. How much we crave that approval. You think you're just giving us a head pat. We think you're telling us we matter."
Bruce was quiet for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he ruffled Dick's hair again.
Dick melted.
"Thank you," Bruce said quietly. "For telling me."
"Anytime," Dick murmured, leaning into the touch. "Anytime, B."
Alfred found them there an hour later, Bruce and Dick, sitting on the training mat, Bruce's hand still resting on Dick's head. Dick was asleep, his face peaceful, all the tension finally drained from his body.
"Master Bruce," Alfred said softly.
Bruce looked up. "Alfred. I didn't hear you come in."
"I'm not surprised." Alfred's expression was knowing. "It seems you've discovered the power of an Omega's touch."
"I don't understand it," Bruce admitted. "I'm just... me. I'm not doing anything special."
"That, Master Bruce, is precisely the point." Alfred smiled. "You are simply being yourself. And to this family, that is more than enough."
Bruce looked down at Dick's sleeping face. At the trust in every line of his body, the absolute surrender to Bruce's presence.
"I don't deserve them," Bruce said quietly.
"Perhaps not," Alfred agreed. "But they are yours nonetheless. And they would not have it any other way."
Bruce's hand tightened slightly on Dick's head.
From the hallway, there was a soft sound: the whisper of fabric, the quiet intake of breath. Bruce looked up.
Jason was standing in the doorway.
He had his helmet tucked under his arm, and his expression was carefully neutral. But his eyes were fixed on Bruce's hand, on Dick's sleeping form, and there was something hungry in them.
"Jay," Bruce said softly.
"Don't." Jason's voice was rough. "I just—I came to-" He swallowed. "Never mind."
He turned to leave.
"Jason."
Jason froze.
Bruce carefully extracted himself from Dick, tucking a blanket around him, and stood up. He walked over to Jason, who was still frozen in the doorway.
"You can stay," Bruce said quietly. "If you want."
Jason's jaw tightened. "I don't—"
"Jay."
Jason's eyes met his. There was so much pain in them, so much anger, so much hurt. But underneath it all, there was a desperate, aching need.
Bruce reached out.
His hand settled on Jason's head, fingers brushing through his hair.
Jason's breath caught. His eyes fluttered shut, and he made that sound again—the broken, vulnerable whimper that had first alarmed Bruce so much.
"I've got you," Bruce murmured. "I've got you, Jason."
Jason's knees buckled.
Bruce caught him easily, pulling him into an embrace. Jason's face pressed into his shoulder, and his whole body shook with silent sobs.
"I've got you," Bruce repeated. "Always."
One by one, they came.
Tim, still exhausted but unable to stay away. Damian, proud and defiant until he saw Bruce's outstretched hand. Cassandra, silent and trusting. Stephanie, trying to joke but eventually giving in. Barbara, rolling her eyes but letting Bruce touch her head anyway. Duke, laughing softly as he leaned into the gesture.
And finally, finally: Alfred.
"Alfred," Bruce said, startled, "you don't have to—"
"Don't be ridiculous, Master Bruce." Alfred stepped forward and gently guided Bruce's hand to his own head. "I have been with this family for longer than any of them. I believe I am entitled to a bit of pack affirmation as well."
Bruce laughed, actually laughed, and ruffled Alfred's hair.
"Thank you," Bruce said softly. "For everything."
"Always, Master Bruce." Alfred smiled. "Always."
Later, after everyone had finally gone to bed, Bruce sat in the Cave and stared at his hands.
He was an Omega. A rare, unstable type. He'd spent his whole life breaking stereotypes, proving that secondary genders didn't define you. And yet, somehow, he'd missed the most important thing of all.
His pack needed him. Not as Batman, not as Bruce Wayne, but as him. As the Omega who had claimed them, who had made them his.
Bruce closed his eyes and smiled.
He was still learning. He'd always be learning. But that was okay.
Because he had them. And they had him.
And that was more than enough.