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Tim has had a five-layer contingency plan in place ever since he was eleven years old. The details and players have evolved over the years, but the depth of his meticulous failsafes has remained the same. Never, in the eight years of being an omega, has Tim reached his last resort.
His family doctor has always been the easiest, most consistent solution. A forged note from Mom and Dad, the bending of rules so often common with the rich. Strong suppressants have been doled out to Timothy Drake since his early presentation.
But that, of course, couldn’t be his only source. It’s highly unethical, for one, and there are only so many years even a morally-lazy medical practitioner will allow Tim to forgo his heat without raising some eyebrows. The average omega only spends a year consistently prescribed suppressants. It’s not meant to be a permanent solution.
So Tim employs fake identities with doctors across Gotham and even Bludhaven, banking his supply without drawing too many eyebrows. Lies through his teeth about when his last heat had been, finds suppressant-free blood samples to use when he needs to be tested to ensure his hormone levels are in decent range for such heavily-regulated, dangerous medication.
He even diverts a large portion of his trust fund every year to support a very well-run Women, Omega, and Children’s Shelter in Gotham that provides free medical care to homeless and endangered clients. Tim feels guilty every time he has to use them in an emergency, and always donates more than enough to offset the loss in resources. Tim is very careful, so even this option is so rarely used.
But recently, a new law has passed that heavily restricts the prescription of suppressants. Studies have shown the long-term damage to fertility and overall health in omegas and alphas alike. Abuse of suppressants can cause arrhythmia, tachycardia, iron deficiency, hormone imbalance, and in increasing cases, death. So now the medication is only prescribed in the most extreme of cases, when an omega’s hormone levels are dangerously detrimental to their health. Doctors are unable to prescribe them on their own — they must now pass through a specialist, then a review panel. Almost overnight, suppressants have become one of the most highly regulated medications in the country.
It’d be easier for Tim to get his hands on heroin these days. It almost feels like that’s what he’s trying to do, tucked between buildings in Crime Alley with a surgical mask firm over his face and his hood pulled over his head.
“I was told three-hundred,” Tim faux pleads, hunching his shoulders in the approximation of a wounded, desperate omega, one who could easily be assumed to be living on the streets.
“Sorry kiddo, you know how it is. Five-hundred is the new going rate.” Raymond Jacosta is as ethical a drug dealer as can be found in Gotham. Tim has spent months tracking, studying, and intervening with every person who pushes designation-controlling substances. Has sent dozens of anonymous tips to the GCPD to take care of the ones who are truly dangerous.
Jacosta is operating in the seedy underbelly, but he’s doing so in as close to the right way as he can. He sources his pills from actual pharmaceutical labs in Bialya; though the medications aren’t approved by the FDA and are technically illegal to sell in the country. He doesn’t cut the pills with anything dangerous or addictive, and he’s not using his dealing as a cover for finding vulnerable omegas to traffic.
He’s still a criminal, though, so Tim shouldn’t be surprised he’s taking advantage of the new demand that’s spread like wildfire through the country.
“I don’t have five-hundred dollars on me.” TIm lets his voice warble, desperate and keening. Jacosta is an alpha, and while the nature of his job probably means he isn’t vulnerable to the manipulations of omegas, he might have a subconscious impulse to soothe like most other subgenders.
“There’s an ATM just down the street, doll, if you need more cash.” Tim bristles, at the words more than the shakedown. He hates having to step into this role, letting people perceive his second designation. It’s always so patronizing.
“Do I look like someone with two-hundred dollars just sitting in my bank account?” Tim snaps. His heart is hammering in his throat.
This is supposed to be a quick errand, is the thing. Crime Alley isn’t anywhere you want to linger for too long. Especially not in the loose disguise he’s chosen to wear. The more Jacosta needles him, keeps him lingering, the more can go wrong.
“Look, just give me how much three-hundred can cover and I’ll come back for the rest another time,” Tim offers.
“I don’t know, sweetheart. Supply is going fast. Who knows if I’ll have what you need later.”
He steps closer to where Tim’s backed himself at the entrance. He smells like cloves and cigarettes, unashamed of the alpha scent that pours off of him. He’s not the biggest man Tim’s ever had to face off against, even outside the costume, but he still doesn’t want to attract any attention tonight. Taking him wouldn’t be easy. And Tim doesn’t like the look in his eyes, the way his gaze sweeps down Tim’s entire body, even covered in baggy clothing.
“That’s for me to worry about, not you,” Tim counters. He shoves his hands into his hoodie pockets, curling around the civilian taser he has hidden there.
“There’re other ways to pay,” Jacosta sidesteps. He doesn’t even sound like he’s trying to be sleezy, using the same business deal tone he’s been using all night. Like propositioning Tim in exchange for a clearly needed medication is just another transaction.
“I don’t think so,” Tim says slowly. “I brought what you told me over the phone, that’ll just have to do tonight. How much can you give me?”
Tim doesn’t even get a second to blink. Jacosta darts forward, pinning Tim against the building wall with an arm pressed to his throat. They’re at the entrance of the alley, so easy to spot by any passerbys. But people tend to mind their business here, even as Tim claws at the man’s forearm, unable to even kick out as Jacosta presses his entire body against Tim’s front.
“You look like you’re new to this life, sweetheart, so I’ll let the sass go.” There, there’s that danger dripping in his voice. It makes Tim’s spine crawl, violence pooling in his mouth. But he can’t let Robin take over. Not here. “But you need me way more than I need you. There’s a thousand other omega whores crawling these streets. But I’m your only option for a product like this. One that’ll actually keep that pesky little heat of yours away, that scent.”
Jacosta leans in, nose only centimeters away from Tim’s throat. His scent gland. Tim does fight back then, fear zipping through his body from his hind brain. His head shoots out, headbutting Jacosta right in the nose. It crunches loudly under the force, and Jacosta’s body flinches back from the pain. Tim shoves him and scrambles onto the street.
Looks like his final contingency has failed. He can recalibrate back at the Nest. For now, he needs to get away from this guy.
“You stupid fucking bitch,” Jacosta snarls. He’s fast, faster than Tim had expected for someone of his size. Tim takes a glance over his shoulder, sees how close the man’s hand swipes at his shoulder, then forgoes any escape strategy. He just runs, feet pounding and breath heaving as he flees though the main street. All stealth forgotten.
Tim earns himself some distance as he passes block after block, but it’s not enough to think. Not a single second to slow down and plan an exit strategy. He doesn’t have his equipment, doesn’t have a safe house nearby. It’s just him, an alpha nearly at his back, and streets that won’t care about the violence intended to be inflicted on him.
That is, until there’s a cry behind him, the sound of bodies hitting pavement in a gross, wet skid. Tim turns automatically, ready to take on the new threat behind him.
Red Hood is standing on top of Jacosta, large booted foot pressing down on his chest. His featureless helmet is locked down on the man pinned beneath him, a gun pointed right at Jacosta’s chest.
“What do we have here?” Red Hood asks, his voice muffled by the modulator. Tim ducks his head, heart pounding in his chest. Jason’s patrol is supposed to have him twenty blocks north of where their deal’d been taking place. Had Tim run that far, or is Jason off his normal route? Either way, he’s fucked.
“We were just messing around,” Jacosta grunts. He tries to push up off the pavement, but Jason sends a boot crashing into his head. The safety of his gun clicks off loudly.
“You call a broken nose foreplay?” Jason snorts. Finally Jason looks up, trying to catch Tim’s eyes. Tim stares firmly down at where Jacosta is sprawled. He takes a step back, carefully, ready to run as soon as Jason’s distracted.
“You know how omegas are. They love a good chase. It’s even better when they’re feisty.”
Anger spikes in Tim, his hands shaking at his side. He can’t respond, not without breaking his cover. He aches for his bo staff, wants to smash it into this idiot’s mouth until he’s drinking his meals through a straw. Instead, he stays quiet.
“Buddy, if you think that’s how dating goes you’re listening to the wrong kind of podcasts.” Jason leans down, shoving a hand into Jacosta’s pockets with the gun pressed to his temple. Jason’s fingers close around the pills, and he lets out a triumphant sound as he pulls them out.
“Usually I just bring flowers when I’m courting an omega.” He pockets the pills, then flips Jacosta over to slap cuffs around his wrists. When Jacosta is secured, Jason steps up to Tim.
“Now you,” Jason grunts. Tim takes another step back, so Jason grabs him by the front of his hoodie. “Say no to drugs and all that, but are you stupid going to a deal alone? Do you even need these that bad?”
Jason pulls out the baggie, eyeing the pills there. Tim keeps his chin tilted down.
“Can I go?” Tim says quietly, pitching his voice up. Jason goes still, and Tim knows he’s made. Suddenly a hand is yanking down his hood, and Tim swears.
“Jesus Christ.”
Jason doesn’t bother dealing with Jacosta still handcuffed on the street. He reaches down to throw Tim over his shoulder, then suddenly they’re airborne. Tim doesn’t even have the energy himself to fight. He just lets Jason sweep him away, mind racing through a dozen excuses he can give to Jason whenever they land.
Jason grapples them up to a nearby rooftop, then another, Tim clutching to his jacket to keep from falling. Finally, when they’re alone, Jason sets him down.
“Timbers, you’ve got some explaining to do.” A series of clicks, and then the helmet is off. Tim’s met with Jason’s domino-covered eyes. Rolling his own, Tim yanks off his surgical mask.
“I’m under cover,” Tim snaps. “And you just ruined the best lead I had on this case.”
“Funny, because I could’ve sworn anything that goes down in Crime Alley is my jurisdiction. Stepping on my toes there, Red Robin.”
“This is bigger than Crime Alley,” Tim counters. “It’s about what they’re pushing, not where.”
Another contingency of Tim’s. A cover he’s put together in case he had been caught, one that’s so close to the truth there’d be no need to look at his motives further. He has a trail of drug dealer arrests to back up his fake mission.
Jason pulls out the baggie to inspect the pills closer.
“What is it? Something Penguin’s been pushing? Scarecrow?”
“Heat suppressants,” Tim mutters. Jason’s head whips up to Tim, confusion etched on his face.
“Suppressants? Why are you wasting your time with that? GCPD can totally handle that.”
Tim raises his eyebrows, unimpressed.
“Since when do we leave the police to handle things?”
“Since we’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
Jason’s face is still furrowed in confusion, staring down Tim like he’s a puzzle to be solved. Looking for clues Tim has desperately, carefully hidden away. Tim’s been called the detective out of the rest of Bruce’s wayward kids, but Jason is still a former Robin. He’s not so easily distracted by Tim’s smoke and mirrors.
So Tim lets a little vulnerability leak onto his face. Taps into that anxiety he felt ripping through the streets, that alpha pawing after him. The sick clump in his throat at getting called doll, sweetheart. The frustration, at being at the end of his rope with no more plans to fall back on.
“A friend of mine died,” Tim lies, sounding hurt all the same. “From overdosing on those things. Didn’t know how much to take, since they bought it off of a friend in college. Because they couldn’t go to their doctor and get a prescription, like they used to.”
Understanding washes on Jason’s face. The pills crinkle in his hand as his fist closes.
“That’s tough,” Jason murmurs. Tim knows Jason’s lost his fair share of civilian friends as Red Hood. The streets of Gotham are a dangerous place, but especially for the most vulnerable that Jason protects. He’s closer to the ground than the rest of them.
“It is,” Tim replies stiffly. “So sorry for stepping on your territory, but it wasn’t exactly something I thought I needed to loop you in on. It’s a personal project.”
“It’s still stupid,” Jason settles on. “It’s one thing to be running around on your own as RR. But you’re not wearing kevlar tonight, that whole deal could’ve gone stupidly wrong. Especially since he thought you were, you know. An omega.”
“I can take care of myself,” Tim snaps. “I’ve faced off against Ra’s, the Spiders, all on my own. Some pusher in Gotham is nothing.”
Jason raises an unimpressed eyebrow.
“So touchy tonight, Timbers.” He reaches for his helmet and sets it back over his head, the mechanisms clicking into place. His voice modulator kicks back to life. “I’ll make sure to get rid of these for you. I’m sure you can figure out your way home from here.”
The annoyed dismissal is clear in his tone. With that, Jason grapples off of the roof, swinging back through his city streets. Tim waits until he’s out of sight before sinking into a crouch, digging the heel of his palms into his eyes.
“Shit,” he gasps. He can feel the beginnings of panic starting to claw at his lungs.
Tim has seventeen pills left in his stash. He usually needs to take two a day to stave off all omegan symptoms such as scent, fluctuating hormones, and of course, his heat. If Tim rations and takes one pill a day, he knows he’ll feel fatigued, like a cold coming on. If he stretches it to every other day, he could risk his scent returning. If he didn’t ration properly and he completely runs out of his supply, going cold turkey could be such a shock to his system it could kill him.
“Shit.”
***
The thing is, Tim’s heat remains the single most terrifying, horrible experience of his life. He still has nightmares about it — the manic fever that had ripped through him, the clawing loneliness, the pain that wracked every joint in his body. Crying out desperately, day after day after day, for help. Help that would not come.
Because Tim had only been eleven when he’d presented. The normal age is somewhere between thirteen and sixteen. In the first few years after presentation, omegas and alphas experience heats and ruts that mostly function as a tool for bonding with their familial pack. Learning what it means to walk through the world with their secondary gender, and not just as a pup. To be held, scented, soothed, as biology rewrites your body. To be marked by the people who love you the most, claim you as theirs. A sign of protection, of devotion. This is our omega, and these are the people who love him best.
At all of Tim’s boarding schools, health education did not prioritize secondary genders. Not for pupils so young, and not when subgenders are a subject impolite to discuss in high society. That can wait until pups are closer to the standard age of presentation, or be left to the families to explain.
Tim’s parents had been in Ecuador. Mrs. Mac’s mother had broken her hip, so she’d left Tim with a week’s worth of prepared meals and fled to Boston to be at her mother’s bedside. Tim is an expert at taking care of himself, so he’d been content at first to spend the week alone. He had his books, his winter break assignments to complete. It also made it easier to sneak out of the house as well, to follow Batman and Robin from rooftop to rooftop.
But on the second night alone, Tim had started to feel feverish. His face flushed, sweat dotting his brows and wetting his hair to his face. He felt the urge to burrow in his bed, to pile every soft and well-loved piece of clothing and bedding all around him.
As the night ticked on, he felt worse and worse. A desperate burning, itching under his skin. His mind delirious and unfocused. Tim wanted his mother. Wanted to bury his face in her neck and smell her, hold her, be held by her. He wanted his father, his steady hand on Tim’s back and the way his voice rumbled in his chest. He felt so, so alone, it frightened him.
The days had melted together. He’d cried and cried until he’d been too dehydrated to produce tears, his voice too hoarse to make sound. He’s scratched at the skin of his neck until he bled, from how raw and sore his newly-formed scent glands ached. He felt like he’d die there, in a tangle on his bed, that he’d burn and wither away to nothing.
It’d passed, eventually. Left him trembling and weak after four days. It took him another six hours to drag himself out of bed. To his bathroom, where he stuck his head under the faucet and drank and drank and drank at the water until he’d been sick. Then he drank again.
His heat left an awful hollowness within him. He’s never known what loneliness truly felt like, not until then. People are built for packs. Designed for it. Are biologically dependent on the scents and touches of their packmates for emotional and hormonal regulation. Tim didn’t have that.
Then there is, of course, the fact that he’s an omega. It’s certainly not as bad as it has been, when they’d been relegated to nothing but breeding stock to be passed from familial pack to socialized pack through marriage. Tim is still the Drake heir, could still attend school and pursue his hobbies.
But omegas aren’t alphas. They’re not even held to the expectations of betas. Having a child present as an omega is always met with the same sympathetic words as if a child failed a grade.
And of course, Bruce Wayne is an alpha. Richard Grayson is an alpha. Jason Todd is an alpha. Tim’s foolish dream, of standing at Batman’s side, of protecting this city — it feels like it’s being ripped from his hands. Just over simple biology. Something Tim can’t control.
That is, until Tim takes himself to his family physician. Admits to him what he’s been through. And the doctor had only clicked his tongue, told him he’s much too young for something like that, it won’t be good for his growth. Why not delay it, hm?
Offers him suppressants. So he’ll never have a heat again, never feel a headache stabbing in his sinuses from the overwhelming onslaught of other people’s scents. He’ll never feel the urge to duck his head when the alpha bus driver snaps at the rowdy group three rows behind him loudly.
So Tim agrees. Tells the doctor he’ll let his parents know of his updated medication when they return. Reads the instructions carefully.
Then Tim lives a beta. It makes Bruce happy, too. To have a sidekick who doesn’t need to take a week off every few months due to biology. Who doesn’t need special consideration. Who he can treat as a partner, even as a child, since he doesn’t need to be pack.
And now Tim’s nineteen, and it’s been so long since he’s had to feel anything from his secondary gender. And he never will again, not if he can help it. Tim doesn’t know if he can survive that kind of loneliness again.
***
Dick has made himself at home in Tim’s bedroom. Decked out in his full Nightwing costume, sans mask, he sprawls all over Tim’s poorly-made bed.
Tim is doing his best to ignore him. He’s hunched over his keyboard at his desk, reading over this month’s WE requisitions report.
“I still don’t get why you don’t want me to tell B,” Dick sighs. “He’s not going to be mad at you for being sick.”
“I’m not sick,” Tim answers easily. He is down to four pills. Last week he’d reduced to one a day. This week, he’s doing every other. He can stretch to the end of next week before he’s completely out.
“You were sluggish.” Dick’s voice is more serious now. “Slow to react. You took hits I know you wouldn’t normally. And your face is all flushed. It’s okay for your body to need a break.”
“I’m just tired,” Tim waves off. “I’ll go into the office late tomorrow, it’s fine. But we’re too busy to miss patrols.” There’d been an Arkham break out this week, which means all hands on deck. It’s why Dick is patrolling with them again.
“You getting hurt will only take you out of patrols for longer,” Dick counters. He heaves himself off of the bed and slumps over the back of Tim’s chair. He wraps his arms around Tim’s shoulders, cheek buried in Tim’s hair. Tim shudders, finding himself leaning unconsciously into the touch. Another symptom of his lowered dose, a craved tactileness. Dick’s always been physically affectionate, which is the worst combination.
One of Dick’s hands reaches up, pressing the back to Tim’s forehead. Tim holds himself very still so he doesn’t rub his face all along his brother’s knuckles.
“You feel a little warm, but not too bad,” Dick admits. It’s a good thing no one knows about his missing spleen, otherwise even the hint at infection would probably send Dick into full sepsis protocol.
Tim sighs and spins around in his chair. Dick’s arms are dislodged from his shoulders, but he settles his palms there instead. He looks so concerned as he stares down at Tim.
“Why don’t I patrol with B tomorrow night? And you take Damian?” Tim offers. “That way he’ll be there if I start to feel worse.”
It’s a gamble. Bruce will pick up on any mistake Tim makes, especially as Tim’s brain feels sluggish, his body heavy. But Dick is too emotionally perceptive. He doesn’t drop things, not when he’s on a scent like this. Bruce, for all of his problems, has always treated Tim like he can handle his own problems as long as it doesn’t interfere with the job.
“Sure, that would work, if you let me tell him you aren’t feeling well.”
“I’ll be fine by tomorrow,” Tim assures. He stands from the chair until he’s nose to collarbone with Dick. He thinks he can smell something, for a second, like a variety of spices and mountain air. It’s gone nearly as quickly as it appeared. It distracts Tim just long enough for Dick to make his move.
“I’ll be the judge of that.” Dick manhandles Tim over to his bed, bullying him into the spot he’d just vacated. With exaggerated flourish, he tucks Tim in like Tim’s a toddler being put down for a nap.
“I’ll get B to swap our patrols, but if you look out of it again tomorrow I’m telling him.”
“That’s the best I’m going to get, huh?” Tim asks. He feels sleepy, so suddenly, the bed still warm from where Dick had been laying. It smells good. His brain is shutting down against his will, his lids fluttering.
“Yup.” Dick bends down, smacking a kiss to Tim’s forehead. Tim must be looking vulnerable for Dick to think he can get away with that. Tim just yawns in response, fingers tangling in his comforter.
“Feel better, baby bird.”
Tim’s asleep before he even sees Dick slip out his bedroom window.
***
It’s been a month since Jacosta. Three days since he’s run completely out of suppressants. Tim feels like there’s a sword constantly dangling over his head on a fraying string. Or an hourglass, sand slipping rapidly from end to end, and when it’s out his body will go with it.
It’s like he’s living in constant pre-heat. That feeling from that first night. Trembling, hot and cold at the same time. His nose burning with how many scents are stuffed there. Skin crawling with the need to touch, to be touched. His scent glands throbbing in his neck.
He’s smothering himself in scent-neutralizing soaps, slapping on scent blocking patches to cover every inch he can. But it still doesn’t stop him from smelling himself, as unfamiliar to him as a stranger’s scent. Like ice, crackling mint and fizz. So cold it burns, burns his nose and throat and chokes him. He chases it away, beats it back with whatever measures he can.
He’s taken a break from patrolling. Claims a concussion from a bad punch a Black Mask goon laid on him earlier that week. Well, maybe he does actually have that concussion. It normally wouldn’t be enough to bench him, but Tim knows he’s a liability now. He can barely string together a coherent thought that isn’t danger, danger, danger, pack, pack, pack, help, help, help.
His body is breaking down, too. His joints are aching, constantly thrumming beneath his muscles. His heart beats fastfastfast, like he’s running, like he’s terrified, even if he’s sitting perfectly still. He can’t keep food down anymore. Can’t even stomach coffee, not with the way it sends his already frayed nerves on edge. Tim is at the end of his rope. He has done everything he could to get himself out of this hole, but he couldn’t. He needs help.
So why can’t he ask for it?
Why is it so hard for him to look Bruce in the eyes? Dick? Admit what he’s done, that he’s an omega, that he’s slowly been poisoning himself with suppressants and now whoops! He’s going through withdrawals that could kill him.
But Tim has always been the smart Robin. The rational Robin. It feels like the ultimate betrayal of Bruce, of what he’s been taught. He’s supposed to leave the personal shit at the door, not bring it to Robin. It might just be another sign to Bruce that he’d made a mistake letting Tim take up the mantle. That Tim had never been ready to be Robin. That there’s no place for an omega within the cape.
Tim has one final, desperate gambit. One that has him stepping through a zeta tube and into Metropolis.
Lexcorp is working on a brand new variant of suppressants. One that’s more mild, doesn’t completely eliminate omegan biology, but mutes it to a manageable degree. It’s still in the trial phases, but it’s made it to human testing, and there’s been good results. Lex has promised that once the drug reaches the markets, there will be no need for the strict regulation like it’s predecessors require.
Tim has read the testing reports. Had spent two days straight hacking Lexcorp’s impressively complicated systems. Tim’s sure Lex Luthor has sinister reasons for developing the drugs, but the science checks out from what Tim can see. It works.
And if there’s anyone in the world Tim can feel guilt–free robbing to treat his own dying body, it’s Lex Luthor. So Tim has told no one where he’d gone, donned in his Red Robin gear and slinking through a less familiar city.
Lexcorp’s labs are only fifteen blocks from the zeta tube’s exit. Tim heaves himself up to the nearest building, gathers his bearings, then starts swinging.
He can hear the blood rushing in his ears. The city’s evening lights are a blur around him. He just has to hold on, get through this one last mission. He wills his body to give him a break, just this once.
Each swing has his head reeling, like the blood is sloshing around in his skull. His stomach swoops like it hasn’t since he’d first been Robin. He can see Lexcorps glowing logo in the distance. Halfway there.
Tim lands hard on a roof, stumbling so hard he nearly falls to his knees. He runs on, shooting out his next line. He leaps, back into open air, and then his vision goes black. Everything tilts so suddenly, like he’s upside down. He tries to cling to his grapple, his body ripping through the air, but then a sharp pulse throbs behind his temples. He slips. Everything fuzzes over so completely that he must pass out.
It’s nothing, so much nothing, and then voices. Sirens. He tries desperately to cling to the sounds around him, to try to force his eyes open.
“-perman, it’s one of the Bat’s kids.” Police radios chatter. Spidery pain crawls through Tim’s entire body. His head is a current, churning and churning. The pavement underneath his head is wet.
“...Robin, hey. Come on, son.” A hand is at his shoulder. So carefully turning him over onto his back. Tim’s heart stutters in his chest.
A loud familiar thud of feet hitting the ground.
“What happened?” Kon, whose voice is high with stress. “What’s Rob doing here?”
“I don’t know,” Clark murmurs. Tim tries so hard to pry his eyes open. They don’t listen.
“His heartbeat, what the hell? Why does it sound like that?” New hands on him, picking him up off the pavement. Kon’s not wearing scent patches, so his sweetgrass scent fills Tim’s nose. Tim whines, turning his face into Kon’s chest. That’s pack.
“Hey, hey, Rob, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” Kon’s hand passes over the back of Tim’s hair. “Could it be poison?”
“I don’t know, but we need to get him out of here. I’ll call Batman, can you get him back to Gotham?”
The world spins again as Kon stands. Tim can feel Kon’s TTK helping to keep him firm in Kon’s grip.
“I’ll be fast.”
Then they’re in the air. Kon can usually clear the distance between Metropolis and Gotham in four minutes at full speed. He won’t be able to do that with Tim weighing him down. Tim grips at Kon’s shirt, tugging.
“It’s okay Robbie,” Kon repeats. Blearily, Tim is finally able to peel one of his lids open. Kon is looks straight ahead, stars blurring behind him at a dizzying speed.
“Kon,” Tim pants. He doesn’t have time. He can feel the way his heart is stuttering in his chest. Clenching painfully in a way you’re not supposed to feel your heart. He doesn’t know how long it’ll keep beating.
“Suppressants,” Tim chokes out. “Withdrawals.”
Kon’s head whips down, eyes going white all around. Kon is so, so much smarter than people ever give him credit for, so of course he processes Tim’s words right away. He knows exactly what Tim’s done to himself.
“What the fuck, Robbie,” Kon spits. But Tim can hear the panic in his voice. The wind starts whipping around them faster.
“S’rry,” Tim sighs. Everything is getting fuzzy around the edges, like a vignette.
“Hey, no, it’s okay. It’s okay Robbie, just keep those baby blues open. We’re almost there.”
Tim can certainly smell it. That certain smoky haze of Gotham’s ozone, coal and harbor and steel. The city that Tim loves so much, the one he’s dedicated his life to protecting. This isn’t how he ever thought he’d go out. At least he’s in his costume. Can die as Red Robin.
Kon drops suddenly, and they’re sinking fast through one of the hidden tunnels to the caves. It’s dark, so dark, and then they’re bursting into the main cavern.
Kon rockets to the floor, only slowing himself at the last second so he can land gently and not jostle Tim. It’s too bright in the cave, Tim’s eyes screwing shut once again to block it off.
“Report, Superboy,” Batman snaps. Kon jogs over towards the direction of the med bay, Bruce’s near silent steps right along.
“We got a call from the police, a nearby patrol found Red Robin sprawled on the sidewalk. It looked like he fell while grappling. They called Superman immediately, and when we got there RR was still out of it. His heart-”
Kon inhales sharply. “Tim woke up on the flight over. He told me what’s wrong. suppressant withdrawal. It explains why his heart is beating like that, too fast for the blood to really move through it properly. Then sometimes it doesn’t beat at all.”
“Put him on the table there, Master Conner.” Alfred’s hands are on Tim then. Peeling off Tim’s domino and sweeping his hair back.
“He’s most likely having an endocrine crisis. Master Bruce, will you elevate his legs?”
A needle is slipped into Tim’s arm, and his legs are lifted off of the bed. His ears continue to ring.
“Is he going to be okay?” Kon asks.
“It depends on how long he’s been using the medication,” Alfred responds. His voice is flat in that way it gets when he’s tense. His thumb soothes over the crease of Tim’s elbow, where the needle sits. “Anything more than three years of consistent abuse could make treatment difficult.”
“Eight years,” Tim whispers. He can barely understand the words tumbling out of his mouth, not with the way they slur together. His tongue doesn’t want to work. But Kon’s breath catches.
“Dammit Tim, eight?” Kon snaps. “How are you fucking alive right now?”
“Don’t coun’… don’ coun’ on’... on it,” Tim mumbles. Flails out, trying to find Kon’s hand. Or Alfred’s. He doesn’t want to die alone.
“Don’t move too much Master Tim, you’ll disrupt your IV.” Alfred grabs Tim’s flailing wrist, presses his thumb gently against the gland there.
“Master Tim, in your state the best thing we can do is allow you to bond with your pack. I’m going to have to remove your scent patches.”
Tim’s going all floaty again. He couldn’t stop Alfred if he tried. Alfred starts with his wrists, then his throat, then the back of his neck. Each patch removed reveals Tim’s frigid, burning scent, filling the room. He hates it.
But then there’s a new scent overpowering it. Like rich, freshly turned earth, like damp lake rocks. Bruce. Bruce’s hand, rubbing at Tim’s throat, then cupping the back of his neck in a firm palm. Mixing their scents until it’s a pleasant iceberg brushing a cliffside. Bruce’s skin is so warm and dry, perfect against Tim’s feverish skin. Tim whimpers, baring his neck more. His pack, his alpha. His family.
“I’ve got you chum,” Bruce rumbles. “You’re home, you’re safe.”
“Okay,” Tim breathes. He is home. Bruce is here. It’s a good a time as any to let go — to rest or to die, he doesn’t know. Unconsciousness crashes over him again.
***
When Tim wakes again, he can tell he’s in his bed. Or, well, he’s in someone’s lap in his bed. Arms are wrapped around his torso, a rumbling purr stuttering in the chest he’s leaning against. Spice and mountain, Dick.
There’s another hand brushing against his cheek. Lemon and bright, strong fingers gentle against the curves of his face. Cass.
“Little brother,” Cass murmurs. She can tell he’s awake before Tim’s brain can even catch up. Tim tries to stir, but Dick’s hands grab his arms to hold him steady.
“Careful, you’ve still got a line in. How are you feeling, birdie?”
Tim takes a moment to check on his body. He can tell immediately he’s in the throes of it, his second ever heat. He’s hot, boiling in his skin, his thoughts scattered.
But it’s so different this time. He’s in a nest, surrounded by the scent of pack. He’s got his family here, holding him, scenting him. He’s dizzy, but he has somewhere secure to land. It feels so entirely different.
Eight years, Tim has been terrified of this exact moment. Pushed his body to the very edge of his limits, just to never feel as alone as he did that first time. Is this what it’s supposed to feel like? Safe? Is this what being part of a pack means?
It’s not fair. What did Tim ever do, how undesirable did his child self have to be, that he didn’t deserve this until now? Why did no one want him? Why did it have to get this far, just to be loved?
Tim is overwhelmingly relieved and heartbroken all at once. Tim feels tears spring to his eyes before he can stop them.
A sob rips past his mouth, young and warbling. He turns in Dick’s hold, hiding his face in Dick’s chest. Clings to him like Dick’ll float away if he doesn’t. Dick makes a concerned noise in the back of his throat, sitting up higher on the bed.
“Timmy, what’s wrong?” Dick asks. “What hurts?”
Tim just shakes his head, dissolving into humiliating blubbering.
The bed dips, and Cass’ weight disappears. The loss of one of his family members only makes Tim cry harder. Already he’s driving them away.
“Oh Timmy, it’s okay. That was pretty scary, huh?” Dick’s hand rubs down Tim’s back in firm, repetitive strokes, like he’s petting a cat. “Your hormones are all out of whack too, it’s okay to be a little weepy.”
“Don’t go,” Tim whimpers. He digs his nose into Dick’s t-shirt. “Please, Dick.”
“I’m not going anywhere, birdie,” Dick promises. “None of us are.”
Tim’s bedroom door opens again, and Tim can tell immediately that it’s Bruce. Tim finally sits up, but his muscles are uncooperative. Dick has to help him.
Bruce takes the spot on the bed Cass had vacated. He looks tired, the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow on his jaw. He wipes at the tear tracks sticky on Tim’s cheek.
“It’s good to see you awake.” His eyes sweep Tim, looking for any further injury.
“How long?” Tim croaks. Bruce’s eyebrows furrow, and he brings a cup up from his side. Ice chips, which he dutifully feeds Tim before he answers.
“Superboy brought you to the cave about forty-eight hours ago. We managed to get you stable, but you almost immediately went into an adolescent heat. Alfred thought it would be best for you to be comfortable, so we brought you up here. This is the first time you’ve been awake.”
Tim hadn’t even considered that he’d be thrown into a mature heat. Thank god he’s not dripping with slick and begging for a knot in front of his family. Being a crybaby mess clinging to them like a child is embarrassing enough.
“I see,” Tim murmurs, ice clinking around against his teeth. Bruce smiles, a small twitch of his lips, and then he’s leaning over to fold both Tim and Dick into a tight hug. Tim’s squished between their bodies, all three of their scents mixing together.
“You gave us quite the scare there,” Dick adds. His chin is digging into Tim’s shoulder. “Hey Tim, did you know you’re missing your spleen?”
“Is it technically missing if I know where it is?” Tim mumbles. Bruce is so warm, it’s so easy to bury his face into his chest. “Ra’s has it in a jar somewhere.”
Tim can feel both of them stiffen at his words. For the first time, he can smell the emotions in their scents, something indescribable below their normal fragrance. Anger, worry, stress. Tim’s omega flinches at causing his packmates distress.
They must smell Tim’s upset as well, because Bruce pulls back to pet at Tim’s neck, soothing.
“It’s fine, chum,” Bruce rumbles. “We can talk about it later.”
“And take a flight to Nanda Parbat,” Dick mutters.
“Grandfather would not keep such a treasure somewhere so easily found.”
Damian emerges from the doorway, hovering awkwardly at the edge of the bed. He eyes where Tim’s sandwiched, his eyebrows twitching.
“Drake, hold out your hand.”
Tim does. Damian takes hold of his forearm, then carefully rubs their wrists together. Damian has yet to present, but even pups carry a certain scent. Almost milky.
“Irresponsible as it was, it is admirable how long you were able to hide your designation from the family. I shall have to keep a closer eye on you in the future to ensure something like this does not happen again.”
“Damian,” Bruce sighs. “Don’t say admirable.”
“Why?” Damian scoffs. He reaches for Tim’s other wrist, repeating the same motion. “He has managed to outsmart the world’s greatest detective since he was a child. Certainly that deserves some praise.”
“It’s a failure on my part that he even felt the need to hide it in the first place.” Bruce’s eyes are on Tim’s again, searching. “But we can talk about that later. You need to focus on recovering first.”
“Bruce…” Tim hates to think that Bruce is blaming himself. That Tim had feared some sort of prejudice, rejection from Bruce, and that’s why he’d hidden this for so long. Logically Tim had known it would never be as bad as he’d feared. Had known he shouldn’t have hidden this for so long. But there’s nothing rational about the deep-rooted fear Tim harbors about being an omega. It’d just seemed so much easier overall to hide it. Bury his head in the sand until he couldn’t anymore.
“Nothing will change,” Bruce promises. “Only that you’ll be healthier. And we’ll know how to support you better.”
“Though we might have a certain half-Kryptonian we need to fight for your honor,” Dick adds, a smirk in his voice. Tim shoots back an elbow to his older brother’s ribs. Dick huffs in pain, folding over at the waist which only has his full body weight squishing him against Bruce.
The door is flung open again, and even more of his family’s scents fill his room. It’s never felt more alive.
“You’re hogging him, Dickwing,” Stephanie snaps. She stomps into the room, yanking at Dick’s shoulder until there’s a gap between them. She fits herself easily in the space, curling around Tim’s back and pressing a kiss behind his ear.
“You’re lucky you look so cute right now, otherwise I’d be murdering you,” she coos. Tim rolls his eyes. Jason follows in after her, sitting at the edge of the bed. He takes Tim’s feet into his lap, large hands circling Tim’s ankles easily. Almost his entire pack as a point of contact on him.
“A Robin trying to kill Tim? Try to be a little more original there, Spoiler.”
Duke and Cass filter into the room, arranging themselves on whatever free space is left on the bed. Alfred is the last to follow, a bowl of soup curling steam in his hands. He passes it to Bruce, who very seriously takes the spoon in his hand, blowing at the broth before aiming it at Tim’s mouth. With his hands free, Alfred takes the handkerchief in his breast pocket to wipe the tears and sweat off of Tim’s face.
“No one will be killing Master Tim,” Alfred assures as Tim rips the spoon out of Bruce’s hand. He’s not so invalid that he can’t feed himself. He does, however, let Bruce hold the bowl steady for him as he eats. “Omega or not, we are a pack. We take care of each other.”
Tim’s so filled with love he might vibrate out of his skin.
***
When Tim does finally recover, the talk he has with the rest of the family isn’t as easy as the ones during his heat. Bruce is hurt, but he’s also furious Tim would put the mission at risk by unnecessarily damaging his body. Tim’s completely infertile now, too, Alfred confirms, which Tim doesn’t care much about but a fact that upsets Bruce even more. Tim may never have a normal heat again, his endocrine system permanently damaged from the drug abuse.
Dick takes the whole thing personally, Stephanie counts it as another lie Tim’s kept from her, and Damian now treats him with kid gloves, proclaiming some out-of-date League misogyny that makes Tim want to throw him off a rooftop.
The Young Justice League are pissed too, when Tim breaks the news to them. Kon especially, since he’d been there for the worst of it.
But through it all, Tim never feels alone. Abandoned. He always has a pack member’s scent he’s wearing on his skin, he no longer brushes off the casual touches of his family.
It’s an outcome that, even with Tim’s most optimistic predictions, far exceeds what he’d imagined for himself. He can’t even regret not saying anything sooner. Because Tim is right where he needs to be, loved and loving in return.