Archive of Our Own

The rain tonight is rancid. There is some acidic, dark quality to it. They jab their way, pattering against the Kevlar with malicious intent.

It's never good to say it's been a quiet night. Tim is not in the business of being superstitious but he's also not in the business of flipping fate off either. He finds it to be an instant mood turner. And anyhow, Bruce is not treating it like a quiet night, his voice is gruff, his shoulders tensed. Tim can't get the man's scent because of the patches, but he has learned to pick up on subtleties.

There's a burglary in a deli store by Ninth Sq. Just shy of Crime Alley. Batman lets Robin handle that one, hovering in the shadows himself, monitoring, always scrutinizing. It used to put him off, as Tim is always terrified of failure. Of not measuring up. But now he's grown to find, in the folds of that tremendous pressure, a small comfort. An affirmation that he is to be trusted.

Tim ties the masked fuckers up, two of them, drunken Alphas stinking to high heavens. He tries his hardest not to cringe. He doesn't know how Bruce does it. The overwhelming deluge of scents is not always easy to shake off.

They're waiting on a rooftop. Waiting for the cops to arrive. The rain worsens a little, and Batman's gaze is castaway. A turn to his lips. Tim fidgets and narrows his eyes at the tied up perps. These silences between them…sometimes they're alright. They're benevolent, companionable. But tonight it feels stifling.

"All good, B?"

Batman grunts. Tim tilts his head. He can't quite parse through what it means. He'd try and shift closer to Bruce if they were in the cave, try and see if he's giving off any strong emotions, just barely perceivable through the blockers; but right now his sinuses still feel a little raw, and the rain doesn't help with his sense of smell either.

He just settles on a generic- "The rain's severe."

"Are you cold, Robin?"

Tim is quick to shake his head. Sometimes he forgets, small talk is not really a thing with Bruce. According to Dick it used to be way worse. He shudders, just imagining it. Is it worse now? Or was it any better after Dick and before Jason?

"We should split up—"

"Negative. Shadow me."

One of those nights then. Sometimes Bruce lets him off the leash a little. Tim wants to think that the brutal training he's undergone, the security measures Bruce enforces with his entire being is enough. And some days it is. But some nights like this…

“Got you, B." 

Tim is right about one thing. It's certainly not a quiet night. They patrol for about fifteen minutes; Bruce skirts the edges of Crime Alley, as though too hesitant to breach its boundaries. But finally, the shrill screaming of a woman draws them in. A perp with a knife. Bruce doesn't let Tim near. Knocks the guy out with little effort. The woman still pales seeing the two of them and runs, her purse clutched to her chest. 

Tim watches her run in the rain, slipping and slamming into cars, through the fumes. One second Bruce is right there next to him, the next he is not. 

Tim's head whips to the almost soundless shifting of the suit. Batman in pursuit. Robin takes after him in the storm, tapping his earpiece, “What's our target, B?” 

Batman doesn't respond and Tim has to vault over trashcans and fire escapes to catch up to the man. They're chasing someone. Tim can see through the blurry slosh of the rain. A bulky man with a mask. Tim nearly stumbles off a roof's ledge. 

That's Hood. The newbie in Crime Alley. They've been tracking his movements for a week now. By the looks of it he's trying to run away from Batman. His movements are erratic, and Bruce is on the chase like a madman let loose. 

He’s just… running away. No taunts, no bullets, just tearing through the streets and the roofs like he’s played roof tag with Nightwing before. Tim is surprised Bruce hasn’t barked at him to head back to the cave yet, or at the very least to hang back and out of the shooting range from Hood. He’s been making some concerned statements, regarding Robin. 

Batman’s focus is razor sharp and single minded. 

Tim tries to catch up, his chest heaving with the effort, he tries to communicate with the bat through the earpiece.

“B? Should I call for backup—" 

Batman doesn't respond. Tim finally makes it close enough because Hood has stalled to a stop at the ledge of the roof of an abandoned building. Batman shoots at Hood with a grapple gun, but before the cord can even tug Hood down by the wrist, the man dashes it off with a knife. 

What sort of knife cuts through Bruce's grapple cables that easily? Tim can't make sense of it. 

The silence between them is eerie. Batman doesn't converse. Hood doesn't initiate any threats or taunts. It is only as Tim approaches them that Hood's gaze is directed over the Bat’s shoulder, fixated on Robin. He staggers to a stop. 

Hood's demeanor changes immediately. As though snapped into a fight and flight response, and before either Bruce and Tim can do anything, a canister is thrown in their direction, the gas going off midair, hitting Bruce in the chest. He would've deflected it easily. There is almost no question. 

But Batman doesn't dodge. He doesn't deflect the canister, doesn't activate his mask in time. As soon as there’s any possibility of toxins, you’re supposed to put on your mask. The number of times Bruce has drilled this into Tim’s head is almost obnoxious.

But instead of doing any of that, Bruce  makes an aborted move towards Hood, who leaps off the roof like it’s a goddamn trampoline, all the earlier staggering gone. 

Batman looks like he’s about to jump off after him, but stumbles instead. Batman stumbles. He’s not supposed to stumble. 

“B!" Tim activates his own mask, "B!” 

Batman has gone down onto his knees, and Tim can see his shoulders shaking. He lands next to Bruce, and winces at the sharp thud that reverberates up his ankles. Rookie mistake, bad landing, but there’s no time to think about that, his hands are already moving, trying to get Batman’s rebreather on him even as despair seems to rise up because it's clear it's already too late. Whatever was in that canister, Bruce has already inhaled too much of it. 

Rebreather on, effective or not, Robin raises a hand to his ear, “Hello? Agent A, Batman’s down. Got hit with a gas, we’re gonna need the Batmobile in our location.” 

He kneels down next to Batman as the comm crackles. He has a hand on top of the rebreather over his mouth, like he’s about to rip it off. He’s still staring at the spot from where Hood had taken off. 

“ETA four minutes.” 

“Right,” Tim murmurs, “Right.” They’re not too high up, three storeys. But if Batman’s too compromised, he’s not sure if he’d be able to get Bruce down properly. If he becomes aggressive– “Batman, can you hear me? Batman? B?” Should he touch Bruce? Shake his shoulder? Would that startle him? Swallowing harshly, he instead picks up the canister and shoves it into an evidence bag. 

The entire time, Batman doesn’t move. He’s too still. The shakes are gone and Tim knows that’s a bad thing. He knows it. A chill goes up his spine. The rain batters them. 

A small, rasping whisper breaks through whatever silence had engulfed Bruce. “Jay?” He’s not looking at Tim, but still at that same spot. 

Tim breathes, slowly, deeply. If… If Bruce is seeing Jason, that’s a pretty bad sign. He might drop or go feral. Tim can't contain him in that state.

“Batman,” Robin says, voice steady, cutting through the sound of the rain, “Batman, we have to get off the roof. It’s not safe here. The Batmobile’s coming.” 

For a second, Tim thinks Bruce didn’t hear him, but then he shakes his head. He tries to stand up and immediately crumples again, Tim barely catching him and grunting under the weight. He quickly lowers them both down, Bruce clutching onto him with surprising strength. 

He doesn’t let go even when they’re both safely on the ground. 

“Batman?” Tim tries, only able to hear the sound of Batman’s harsh breathing, too close to his face. His cheek presses against Tim’s forehead, huddled in their strange, soaking wet pile. It’s hot, like he’s running a fever. Too hot. Never a good thing for Omegas.

Robin turns his head, wriggling his hand up to try and adjust the setting on his rebreather. The entire time, that little bit of Bruce’s skin presses against Tim’s, slick with the cold rain water and yet jarringly hot. When the dial on the rebreather clicks, a sweet smell pierces through his senses. It’s dulled by the mask’s settings, but it’s unmistakable. 

Bruce is going into heat, and if Tim can smell it through his rebreather, then his blockers are definitely not keeping it contained. 

No one even knows that Batman’s an omega. The widely accepted, almost unanimous consensus is that he’s an alpha. If anyone smells Batman like this– 

Robin takes a deep breath, ignoring the sharp sweet smell of Bruce’s heat and adjusts his arms across his own shoulders, trying to get into a position that’d help Bruce get up on his own two feet. There’s a thin keening noise escaping Bruce’s lips that’s barely audible over the rain, and something awful squirms in Tim’s guts. 

“Come on, B, we have to go.” If he can maintain a good enough hold on Bruce, and he isn’t actively trying to escape Robin’s grasp, he’s certain he could grapple them both down. It’s not a long drop, and in the worst case scenario, a botched landing might end them up with a cracked bone or two. Still better than being out in the open while Batman suffers through what Tim’s awfully certain is a fear gas variant as well as a heat. 

“Come on, come on, please, Batman, B, please,” Tim hisses, but Bruce is on the ground and he’s not budging and Tim needs some cooperation, please. Without thinking too hard about it, he yanks his left glove down, and peels off the patch over the scent gland there. Risky, but not as much as removing the one on his neck. His scent is slow to join Bruce’s, helped by the fact that it’s still raining cats and dogs. He swipes his wrist, almost too hard, against Bruce’s neck, pressing his forehead against his, and trying to soothe Bruce as he trembles. 

“Please, Bruce, come on, it’s me, Robin, we have to go–” 

Bruce gives a full body shudder and clamps a hand around Tim’s wrist, still pressed against his neck. Tim has no time to panic before he’s standing up, nearly dragging Tim upright with him. Another second and he’s swamped in darkness, the entire length of his body pressed up against the hard armour of the Batman suit and the dark cape swallowing him up. 

The vicelike grip on Tim’s wrist releases, but then Bruce’s arm comes to wrap around Tim, squeezing him against himself, lifting him off the ground, Tim squeaks, almost flails, but Batman’s already taken a running leap off the edge, grapple gun clicking and shooting. 

Tim is whisked off the roof. 

Tim has seen Bruce at the bottom of the pit. The very rock bottom of grief. The type of thing they don't write books about and don't show in movies. 

Bruce's biological disposition almost made the grief impossible to bear. And Tim who'd freshly presented as an Omega himself at the time found it insurmountable. 

Tim thinks it is quite safe to say that Bruce mourned Jason with his entire being for as long as his body physically and mentally allowed for it. He went through a drop and a feral rampage before succumbing to the grief. Throwing in the towel. Seen the way grief replaced the feral anger and weighed down every bone in Bruce’s body, the way he wore that dark cloud like a second cape around him. 

What Tim observes in the Batmobile is scarily similar to those bleak days. Bruce yanks the cowl off, his hands shaking, his body spasming, his eyes unfocused. He’d let go of Tim after they’d gotten to the car, set on autopilot, already moving. He’d let go of Tim after shoving his nose into Tim’s neck and clearly not getting what he wanted. 

It didn’t sting, it didn’t hurt. 

All Bruce utters is Jason's name in a slurred mumble. Followed by a plaintive plea, a reckoning. When a parent calls a pup over. Something in Tim itches to respond but he knows it's not what Bruce wants. That it’ll only hurt worse. 

Tim tries his best. He's always tried his best. He yanks his own scent patches off, even thinks about calling Dick before he thinks better of it. 

“Bruce?” He calls out, and Bruce twitches. “We're almost there." 

They've made it to the Cave's entrance in record speed. Bruce turns away from him, curling into himself.  It is a move, so unlike the man that Tim can only helplessly watch. His knuckles are pressed hard against his lips, having yanked off his rebreather despite Tim’s best attempts, and he’s mumbling to himself, low and small, eyes screwed shut. 

Alfred opens the car's doors to air it out. Tim looks at him in desperation, "I think he's gonna drop.” 

Alfred purses his lips, leaning inside the car with one hand braced against Bruce's clammy forehead. 

“We need to get him in the nest,” the older man confirms. “Help me, Timothy. Master Bruce?”

"Alfred?” Bruce chokes out through his fingers. Gently, Alfred bends down to pry them away, pulling his gloves off, peeling the scent patches off. Bruce stares up at him, eyes blown wide, kind of glassy, too bright, and Tim wants to look away. 

"Master Bruce—” Alfred says, voice achingly soft, his hand reaching up to the patch on Bruce’s neck, already curled up on one end with the adhesive starting to dissolve. 

Bruce leans closer to Alfred, "Where's Jay? I was out and Jason—Jay. Where's Jay?” 

"Easy does it, sir. It is alright.” Alfred is moving, signalling to Tim with a nod of his head. Tim hops out of the car, hurrying over to Bruce’s other side as they slowly get him up, an arm around each of their shoulders. 

Bruce doesn’t protest, much more pliant than he’d been on the roof, "My son is—is he home? Is he in bed?” He stops walking abruptly, nearly causing all three of them to crash down, “Alfred—”

They speed up their walk towards the cot in the medbay, and Tim is only thankful that Bruce isn’t trying to actively flee. His eyes keep darting around towards different corners of the cave, to the Batcomputer, to corners where only the bats screech and sleep, towards the glass cases full of costumes, including—

Alfred expertly turns Bruce away and sits him down on the cot. "We will get you sorted, Master Bruce. Easy now.” He runs his wrist through Bruce’s hair, “Have you tried scenting him?” He asks Tim. With a briskness that Tim envies, he begins the tedious task of removing Batman’s suit. 

"He doesn't recognize me.” Tim wrings his hand for a second, looking away from Bruce and Alfred. He hurries over to the equipment bay, prepping up a syringe to draw Bruce’s blood. The fact that it keeps him occupied is a bonus he’s not thinking about. 

“We shall try again in the nest." 

“Jay?” Bruce mumbles, frowning at Alfred. “Go fetch him, Alfred. I need my son. Go get him." 

Alfred nods soothingly, letting out a small croon of his own, “Just put on these clothes, yes? Then I shall do as you want.” 

As much as Tim’s grateful that Bruce is not being combative, the quiet compliance with which he rushes out of his costume underclothes and into the lounge clothes that Alfred offers him is just unnerving. There’s a moment where it looks like he’s about to topple over, and he has to grab onto the edge of the cot to stabilize himself. His breaths pick up, and he stares off at one end of the cave. Tim tries not to look, knowing there’s nothing there. But he doesn’t want to look at Bruce either. 

“I don't feel good.” Bruce whispers. Alfred gently takes his arm and gestures for Tim to come closer. Bruce lets him. “Where's my baby?” 

“Should we sedate him?” Tim asks as he draws the blood. Bruce doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t even look down at his arm. Thinking about sticking him with a sedative in this state leaves a bad taste in his mouth, and he’s grateful when Alfred shakes his head. 

"Not yet. Master Bruce, you need to calm your breathing. Everything is alright. Robin will be waiting for us in the nest—" 

Tim throws Alfred a dirty look before smothering it. That’s underhanded and dirty, but who is Tim to argue with Alfred? He can’t claim to know what’s best for Bruce better than the man who raised him. 

"It's raining outside,” Bruce says urgently as Alfred starts guiding him towards the stairs, “He shouldn't be out. Check the library, Alfred.”

“I will. Climb carefully now." 

Tim hops up and away, quickly stripping out of his clothes and changing into some comfortable sweats. He dashes up the stairs and towards where he knows Alfred must be taking Bruce. 

Tim can hear them in the corridor as they approach the pack room, the big nest. Bruce slurring, “Make him hot cocoa. He likes it. I'll have him in the nest–” When he stumbles and nearly goes down, Tim quickly rushes over. Bruce is trying, it is clear, but his movements are uncoordinated and every limb trembling. 

"Shall do so, Master Bruce. Timothy here got you to the nest safely. Why don't you stay with him while I check the house for Master Jason?" Alfred tilts his head downwards, and Tim nods, taking on more of Bruce’s weight as Alfred disengages and starts walking towards the library. 

Bruce’s nose is buried in Tim’s hair, but only for a moment. “He doesn't smell like me. Jay… go, get Jay." 

“Hey Bruce,” Tim says, stepping into the darkened room, “Take it easy." 

Bruce shakes his head wildly, sniffing hard, his eyes darting around the shadowed corners of the room as he tries to tug himself out of Tim’s rather wear, supporting grip. 

“Shh, Bruce. You'll be okay in a bit. It's just the fear toxin.” 

Bruce seems to understand that rather shallowly. He meets Tim's eyes, his own pupils dilated, glazed with a sheen of unshed tears. There is faint recognition. The acknowledgment that Tim isn’t a threat. But beyond it, he just looks and smells scared, worried, anxious. So high strung that it’s raising Tim’s own hair on end. 

Tim wonders again whether he should call Dick. He would know what to do surely. But he can't be that cruel. Dick grieves Jason with the same intensity but in a different way. Not much he can't do anyway, since he's not in Gotham. 

Bruce yanks himself out of Tim’s grip, and with surprising grace, manages to reach the little bedside table and picks up a book from there. Tim’s seen that book there every time he’s been in this room, although that’s not saying much. 

“He’s reading this one now,” Bruce shows Tim, caressing the worn cover of Brönte's Wuthering Heights. The man pulls the book close to his lips, pecking the cover with a bowed head. Like it is something sacred. Like if he kisses it tenderly enough, Jason might be able to feel it. 

“Look at the pages he's annotated. I've read them so many times. He's so bright, that boy. I'm so proud of him.” 

His hands, Batman's hands, shake as he leafs through the book, his fingers catching on underlined sentences and the margins of the paper. 

Once the lump in his throat is a little under control, and Tim can speak up without choking, he whispers, “Let’s lie down, Bruce. Scenting helps. I can help.” 

Bruce pauses where he’s brushing his nose against the pages of the book, inhaling deeply. Tim recalls how Dick had told him that Jason’s scent was similar to that of old books, and that Jason had been annoyingly— endearingly proud of it. 

Bruce looks at the bed, then towards the door, shaking his head. "I'm waiting for Jay. I want Jason. I don't even think he's had dinner yet. I should call Alfred …we should go get him food and then—I feel wrong." 

“Bruce.” Tim gently pries the book from Bruce’s hands, which have started gripping it tightly enough that Tim’s worried about damage. And the last thing Bruce would want is to damage something that used to belong to Jason. “It's the fear toxin. You're going into a stress heat. That's messing with your memory. You are experiencing cognitive dissonance. That's all this is.”

He knows Jason is dead. Some part of him must know. There are tears in Bruce’s eyes and they have been there for a while, his ghost white face, pressed thin lips, and the desperate way he clings to the book are clear enough evidence that even if Bruce doesn’t quite remember that Jason is dead, he knows something is wrong.

It's so utterly devastating to watch it play out. 

Bruce whips his head vehemently. “I want him. I can't feel him, not in the pack bond. Why isn't he here?" 

“Bruce," Tim closes his eyes, looking away from the relics left scattered and unscented in the nest. “You know why." 

There’s some of Dick’s clothes, some of Alfred’s. Tim knows which clothes are Jason’s, because they’re never cycled out, they’re never laundered. They’re not in the middle of the pack nest, nor thrown around haphazardly like the rest of their clothes. A deep red hoodie, and a Wonder Woman themed blanket stand in places of deep reverence near the head of the nest, kept close enough to be scentable but also out of the way so that they wouldn’t get smothered by other scents. 

They’ve been scentless for a while now. Tim knows. 

A long, warm golden string light illuminates the room in a way that doesn’t strain the eyes, but casts long shadows throughout the room. 

He feels a stifling shadow himself. As though Jason's ghost is present with them in the room. A dark something from the corner of his eyes. But when he looks…it's just the curtains rustling. He stares at the spot for several moments longer though, convinced he must have missed something. But it’s Wayne Manor, there’s no possible way an intruder could have made it up to the window of the pack nest. 

Jitteriness builds up in his fingers as he finally manages to get Bruce to let go of the book, brushing his fingers over where Bruce’s hand has started to crinkle the paper, which makes the man let go like he’s been burned. Tim takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart, and gets a lungful of that old book smell. 

He must have gotten a lungful of that toxin himself. Or maybe it's just the stress emitting out of Bruce in waves and cascading rings, affecting him. 

The book feels heavy in his hands, and Tim wonders if he’s got any right to take comfort in that smell. He never even knew Jason.

“I need him. I need—” Bruce suddenly grabs him by the shoulders, eyes wild, scent spiking with distress so abject that Tim flinches. “I can smell blood everywhere. On his things–” He stumbles over to the blanket, to the hoodie, fisting his hands in them, collapsing to his knees with a thud that makes Tim yelp and put away the book, trying to get him off the ground but he’s crumpled up, “There's just blood everywhere—" 

“I'm sorry.” Unable to get him up, he kneels down next to Bruce. “I'm so sorry, Bruce. Just take a deep breath, alright, let me scent you. You can get in the bed, there are more scents there, you’ll feel better, I promise. We can talk about something else, you don’t— you don’t have to think about— If you keep doing this to yourself you're gonna drop—" 

“Not think about it?" Bruce snaps, pushing Tim away, “How can I not think about it!? He's my child! He's mine. I can’t feel his bond! I can’t feel my son’s bond, my child’s bond, why? Where is he? What's happened to him—he’s too young, he's only a child. What if he's scared…" 

He doesn't allow Tim to scent him. Even as Tim can see that he desperately yearns for comfort. He doesn't allow himself. Bruce recoils whenever Tim even tries to approach him. His clammy face pressed against his own hand, the blanket, a cushion above their heads. 

“Please," Tim begs him. His own Omega yearns to respond to the ache, the deathless loss. But what is there to say? He’s not even bonded to the man, even though he knows Bruce wants to. Something in him protests, feels like he’s crossing a boundary, a betrayal, even though bonding with Dick didn’t take nearly half as much thought. 

“Where is Alfred already?” Bruce's tone is feverish. “Is Jason hurt?”

"No, Bruce. He's just sleeping.” 

"Well he's supposed to be here in the nest with me. I'm his…I'm…I know I'm not his mother but I—" 

“I know." Tim tries to cajole the distraught man. He should agree with whatever he says, lest he agitates him. If Bruce goes feral, a whole army is needed to take him down, civilian life would be endangered. If he drops…what can a hospital even do but sedate him through the renewed mourning of the loss of his child?

“That woman…Sheila,” Paranoia drips from each word. Following it, there is anguish. “I've looked into her. She's no good for Jason. She's dangerous. I haven't told him. Is that why he's not here? Is he upset with me? Please just—" 

Bruce's hand clumsily grasps his wrist, bringing it to his nose, his face scrunched up in confusion. Tim smothers the ache in his chest. 

"Bruce?” 

“I don't recognize your scent,” Bruce doesn't understand it. “You're in my nest and my own son isn't and the other one is so far away.”

“Yeah. Dick's in Blüdhaven." 

“Jason?" The hopeful note in Bruce’s voice feels so fragile that it breaks Tim. He stops trying to fight him, stops… everything. He cannot do this any longer. 

“Jason's here,” Tim whispers, he pushes his head under Bruce’s chin, trying to distract him with his own scent, “He's asleep, Bruce.” 

“Is he cold?"

“No. He's not cold. He has you. He loves you. He just wanted to see Sheila. That's all. He's back with you now.” 

Tim doesn’t know what this lie is going to cost, how badly it is going to affect Bruce in this state, when he finally realises, remembers, that his son is dead. That he’s cold, and will be forever now. That he’s gone, and he won’t be back with Bruce ever. He’s gone, gone, gone—

“I can feel him,” Bruce breathes out, and Tim tries not to audibly choke, “But only out there in the rain. I think he's cold. Alfred should search the grounds. You know he climbs the trees in our state sometimes. Like Dick used to." 

“Yeah,” he forces out through a rapidly tightening throat, “I climb them too. To take pictures. Family tradition.” 

“You don't smell like you're mine. You don't—”

“Shh, I know.” He… wants to. He yearns to. His dad is in a coma and he’s not waking up and Tim’s not even sure if he will wake up and that bond feels so faint it’s not even there. Yet Bruce sits here, gently running his nose through Tim’s hair as they both tremble in each other's arms. But not right now, not when Bruce doesn’t even remember Jason’s death. “We're not there yet. Maybe—" 

Bruce abruptly straightens, “Did you hear that?" 

Tim follows Bruce's gaze to the tall windows. “Hear what?" 

“Tapping. On the glass. It's him. He's sneaking—" He lets out a breathless chuckle, too worn out. “Open the window—" 

“Bruce—" 

“He likes Poe. You know that poem of his…There's a Raven in it. He likes that one. He's got it memorized. He's playing the Raven.”

"It's cold. If I open the windows, you're gonna get a chill. Jason's not outside—” 

But he hears a little something too. Maybe a branch, tapping against the glass pane. Tim shakes his head slightly. He's imagining it. It's the paranoia working its way through him because Bruce feels it so tangibly. 

“You're right.” the man admits after a beat. He sags down in the nest, curls against Jason's blanket and closes his eyes. Tim tries to settle next to him. Close enough for a scenting but not too close for a bite. It wouldn't help Bruce in this situation. 

“They didn't deserve him," Bruce mutters against the fabric. "His parents. None of them did. I thought I…I tried. I was so close. I could make it. He was so scared.”

Tim is nauseous. Bruce is matching the pieces together all out of order. He doesn't know if he can watch the whole thing play out. The way the man clings to the relics, his shoulders shaking. The helplessness in him is making Tim want to die too. 

The air is getting heavier, almost suffocatingly so. Like a damp attic that hasn’t been aired out in a long time. There’s a sheen of bright tears in Bruce’s eyes. 

“Alfred's not coming.” He mumbles to himself. As if reaching the conclusion. “He's not even looking, is he?”

Tim is rendered mute. He looks around the nest, at the dark corners of the room. He feels useless. There is nothing he can offer to the man that will ease the pain. Not his scent. Not his company. Not his status as Robin. Robin had been a symbol, and Batman needed Robin, so Tim stepped up.

Jason was Bruce’s son, and Tim could never step up there, could never take that role, could never be what Bruce truly, so desperately wants. 

He tentatively settles a trembling hand over Bruce's shaking shoulder. He'll need to hydrate soon. They're not past the danger yet. Bruce has not yet once explicitly admitted to Jason's death. And he probably won't. Not until the toxin's worn off. 

“It should've been me.” Bruce whispers into the blanket. “Whatever's taken him from me. It should've been me. I should've been put in the grave not him—" He’s starting to tip a bit into Tim, who holds him steady as best he can. 

“Shh, Bruce. He's just asleep,” Tim lies, over and over again. 

Jason may have made a mistake. 

Or maybe a long series of mistakes. He just isn’t sure how far back they all started, really.  Throwing that canister at Batman? Being out when it’s raining so heavily? Not using waterproof scent blockers? 

Ethiopia? Garzonas? 

He doesn’t even know the exact contents of the canister. He’d been hoping to get a proper analysis soon, having confiscated those things from a bunch of psychology students trying to form a cult around Scarecrow several days ago, and had been on the lookout for a rogue member of the group when the weather had turned. 

His injuries were more due to Gotham’s dogshit architecture than any genius on the part of a senior psychiatry student leading the cult. The railing he’d been on had collapsed, dropping him on top of the lab table that was probably violating several standard lab protocols. His Red Hood armour protected him a lot fucking more than the Robin shorts would have, that is for sure. It still hurt, and left him disoriented. 

He’s not even sure if he took in any of the fucked up chemicals the guy had been brewing there— his helmet ought to have taken care of most of it, but the panic with which he fired that thing upon Batman didn’t feel quite rational either. 

It’s just… he isn’t ready yet, none of the plans are in place, nothing’s in place. He hasn’t even threatened the family properly yet, not dropped any concerning hints, not even put anything in motion. But when he’d smelled Batman on his trail— just a whiff, a tiny, barely there thing that felt more like a memory than anything real— his brain had hissed and gone blank. When he’d seen that dark, huge shadow swooping down upon him, terrifying, larger than human, his brain had kicked back into gear. 

Maybe if their bond had still been intact, Jason wouldn’t have skittered away like a terrified animal, seeing Batman descend upon him. 

But he did, and he’d thrown that canister, without knowing what it’d do. 

And then—

Then, Jason should’ve run away. Robin had been there, and Robin would take care of Batman. Jason could leave, run, get away, lay low until he’d put his plans together.

But he could smell Bruce, he can still smell Bruce and it’s much worse and following Batman and Robin back to the manor and dangling outside the pack room’s window like some kind of peculiar dream catcher was a bad fucking idea. 

But he’s here now, hanging precariously from the one point where the security detectors won’t trip, trying to peer into the dim room and not inhale too deeply even though all he wants to do is shove his face into Bruce’s neck and smell his mama—

He’s not a pup, he’s not. He’s not going to just— just barge in there and turn into a gooey puddle at the scent of Bruce in heat. 

He shivers, and sways gently, listening to Drake try and soothe Bruce, listening to Bruce fall apart in a way Jason never thought the man was capable of. He sounds delirious, sick with worry, his scent oozing out so thickly that it seeps out from the corners of the windows, the tiny little gaps between the edges and the seams. 

He’s never really… doubted, that Bruce loved him. It had been clear, in not just his scent but in every little interaction they had, in the food and the gentle instructions and the care. Even when they’d been fighting, Jason had never failed to feel that love through their bond, maybe muted, smothered with too much worry, anger, upset, fear— but always there. 

But that was before he died. Before he woke up, cold and alone and with nothing where there used to be three thriving, warm bonds, snaking through his entire soul and lighting it up. Nothing but darkness, since then. 

For him, Joker’s status as not deceased was proof enough that the love had died as soon as Jason did. The broken bonds did nothing to disprove that, even though that may not have been an entirely fair thing to hold accountable. Even if Bruce had loved him once, he clearly doesn’t anymore. 

Except he does. 

It’s thick and sickening, and it makes Jason want to let go, and fall down the two storeys. 

It wouldn’t kill him, but maybe he’d lose consciousness. An escape, to go somewhere else, to leave this wretched, painful, twisted phantom of another life that had been ripped away from him in a flurry of laughter and pain and fire and smoke. 

It’s sweet, hot, and prickles along Jason’s skin even though he’s still wearing his armour, soaking wet, helmet off and left on his motorcycle. 

He doesn’t know why he did that. He doesn’t want to think about why he did that. He has a domino one, and that’s— that should be enough. 

Enough for what? 

Enough to hide his identity when he crawls in through the window and curls up in Bruce’s lap like he’s a small, thirteen year old puppy again, one who hasn’t been betrayed and tortured and murdered yet? 

Except he can’t do that. Bruce has another puppy now, one who isn’t damaged from years of malnutrition, a healthy little omega child, still small enough to fit in Bruce’s arms and cuddle with him and scent him, to share his nest with when Bruce is in a heat, one who’s smarter, better for the job, approved by the Original Dick Grayson himself. 

How could Jason, unpresented even now, a damaged piece even the Lazarus Pitt couldn’t fix, ever hope to compete with that? 

Of course Bruce wouldn’t break his no kill rule for Jason, especially not now, when he knows what having the perfect son feels like. Not when he finds out Jason is the Red Hood. 

So he just hangs there, breathing in the scent of Bruce, grieving a dead child, as Jason witnesses the unraveling of someone he’d always thought unshakeable. 

He’s the one who did this. He’s the one who threw at canister at Bruce and sent him into a heat. Or had the man been patrolling with an upcoming heat? 

No, Jason would’ve smelled that, before he sprayed him. 

Is every heat like this? 

It can’t be, right? It’s the fear toxin making it worse, messing with Bruce’s memories, bringing up a version of him that used to love Jason. Except even as realisation washes over Bruce, the love from the scent doesn’t fade. 

Jason wants to feel it. Just smelling it is not enough. It’s never enough. This unending, deep seated, raw, greedy thing within him that has always existed, one who’d been angry at the way heroin use dulled down his mother’s bond until barely a whisper remained. The thing that wanted to, still wants to, devour love like it’s never felt it before, this thing that feels ice cold and lonely and horrendous and claws for love like it’s something he could yank out of people.

That gnawing need had been the reason he’d given in and finally agreed to let Bruce bond with him, to finally feel the love he’d been able to smell in Bruce’s scent. 

The new Robin is not bonded to Bruce. Not yet. 

It means nothing but also there is a sharp claw, ripping into Jason's chest with each shuddering breath he takes in. He tries to fill his lungs with the scent, trying to drink up comfort but all he gets from the scant aroma overpowering the rain is pure agony. 

He can't take it. He wants to ply the edges of the window apart, tear into the glass and burrow himself into Mama's arms like he used to before everything went so wrong. So devastatingly wrong. 

He shivers, his fingers trembling but he pulls himself up, his ears tuned to the trembling of Ma’s voice. He's not Bruce anymore. He's Ma again. Jason is weak and pathetic and he can't…he shouldn't forgive but that's his…

He pulls himself up a little. Just a little. Bruce is clutching at his blanket. Jason's blanket. Scenting it, searching for Jason. Looking around. 

I'm here. Right here. Jason yearns to scream. 

His fingers trace the glass, his heart squeezing into itself. It would ruin everything. If he just goes in now and Mama sees. All those revenge plans, those skulls he wanted, the rolling heads of Gotham. His brand of vengeance. 

Because here he's not Red Hood. He's…Jay. He could be Jay from before he was torn and dead. The Jay that Ma is crying for. 

Logic can't overtake this desperation. His fingers press against the glass, more insistently. And there's a clink. His nail inadvertently taps the hedge between him and his mourning Ma (something Sheila could never understand and yeah she… she couldn't) and two heads turn. 

He hears the rapid footsteps of the small Omega, the presented Robin. Jason is suspended, indecisive. 

Of course, he should leave. He should let go and fall. He should run for it and huddle into himself like a sick, wounded animal in a rundown dump. 

The window opens and Jason vaults up, hearing a harsh gasp and the boy reeling back in pure surprise. Bruce is no longer in the nest, protectively perched behind the new Robin. But only for a moment. 

Only for a moment. Because the man's tear soaked face drains of any blood, drains of the forced flush the heat has imposed upon his complexion. 

Jason drops inside the packroom, hyperventilating. Alarms blaring in his head. Run run run run run run run—

Bruce takes in a big gulp, breathing him in. Tim has a weapon. Yes. Jason looks down with wide eyes at the batarang in the boy's hand, ready to be thrown with full force. 

And around Timothy's wrist, there is the bruising grip, Bruce's hand. 

Bruce mouths his name first. He doesn't utter it. He doesn't have the air, the presence of mind to utter it. 

Jay. He mouths. His nose is flaring up, his fevered eyes swimming between him and his small Robin. 

Jason draws out the gun from his waistband, hidden underneath his jacket. Not even loaded. It used to be. He runs out of bullets frequently. 

“Who are you!? How did you get past our security—" 

Jason stares at Robin, his head tilting. The scent of Bruce's devastation weighs him down like a ton of blocks, overloading any other instincts, any other thought. He doesn't even have a bond with him anymore. 

Robin's hand is straying, his other hand, towards a button. A panic button. There didn't use to be one in the packroom. 

"Jay.” Bruce croaks again, dragging the blanket with him as he walks past his new Robin towards him. 

Jason points the gun at him. He's not thinking. But then Bruce makes a soft crooning noise, and the gun lowers a few inches before he’s even registered it. Mama takes the opportunity to close the distance between them; he doesn't even look at the gun, even once it presses against his chest, smothered in the blanket clutched against him. 

“Jay?" 

“Bruce! Get away from him! Alfred! Alfred! Intruder!" The boy hollers.  Tim makes an aborted move to disarm Jason from the side but Bruce's hand flies up to Jason's face. To his cheek. 

Jason almost drops the gun in shock. He can't breathe. And when Bruce used to…the last time he did it, Jason was shorter than him. Jason was small enough that sometimes he got carried around. 

Bruce has to reach up now, only a little. Jason's lips tremble in a snarl, an aborted growl, a keening noise, a whine. 

“Where have you been?" he whispers. His voice is so low that Jason can barely hear it. 

Jason, drained of all color, stares at his…at Batman. At Bruce. 

"Bruce?” Tim approaches them tentatively, “Bruce, he has a gun.”

“Where did you go? Didn't I tell you not to go?” Bruce's hand shakes against his face and Jason is rendered mute. His tongue remains heavy and unmoving. His eyes glazed. 

His grasp on the gun slips. Like butter. The thing clatters down on the floor between them, and the new Robin is quick to shuffle between them, kicking the gun into a corner, out of the way. The Batarang in his hand is now threateningly raised. 

“Get away from him! Now!" 

Jason can't. Bruce drops the blanket and enfolds him in a hug without another word. Jason keens and Bruce tightens his hold, one hand on the back of Jason's head, breathing him, scenting him and—Jason crumples. 

“Ma—" He cries. 

Bruce is steadfast. Holding him when Jason's knees buckle. He draws back, his fingers peeling the domino off Jason's blotchy face. Jason lets him. He lets him see the gross green eyes. The damage. He would look, Jason knows and not recognize him. 

He would look and reel away in disgust. He would realize how Jason is soaked in blood. In muck. He would go back to his pup, to the presented one, to the perfect eldest son, to—

Bruce brings his hands up, his fingers prodding the area around the peeled mask as he inspects the eyes. There is no alienation in his posture. No disgust. Fascination, recognition, relief—

“Oh my god…Oh my god—” Jason hears Timothy mutter from next to them. 

Bruce has something so close to a smile on his face. “Is it you, Jay?" 

Jason nods his head, holding himself so he doesn't weep like a puppy. 

Bruce lets out that same, soft crooning noise again, the kind he’s only ever vulnerable enough to make when he’s in his heat, his wrist is a warm, heavy weight against Jason’s neck, almost making Jason feel drunk off of the scenting. “Did you come back?" Mama asks again. 

Jason nods again and sniffs. He feels so big and wrong in this body. 

“Why were you all alone, baby? I was right here. I was always waiting right here. Where did you run off to?” 

"Ma—” 

"Alfred—” Timothy whispers, his pale, blanched face, rapidly soaking with tears as he turns on his heels and runs out of the room. 

Bruce doesn't even turn. 

“I dug in the rubble for an hour to get you." Bruce mutters against his neck, his hand smoothing Jason's hair back lovingly. “I would've come sooner. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was late.”

He's not asking how. He's not asking for how long. He's not asking the mechanisms. He's so relieved that Jason is alive, that he treats it like a dream. Maybe he thinks it is one. 

Jason sniffs, he hates that he is crying like a baby. Like he isn't wrong and monstrous now. Like he's not Frankenstein's monster. 

“Out in the rain. Out in this weather. Come here, let's get you in the nest—" 

“I—" 

“Let the dream last a bit more, won't you?” Bruce doesn't look him into the eyes, only tugs him along. "I'd never seen you grown up in my dreams before. Just a bit more.” 

Jason sees his own beat up cover of Wuthering Heights, his blanket, his hoodie haphazardly in the nest, disturbed now and replete in Bruce's grief. The scent of a grieving Omega. 

It's suffocating. Jason lets the man drag him into the nest. Scent him like he used to. He tries to hold Jason like he used to. Crooning soft nothings in his ears, smoothing his hair for him, wiping Jason's tears with shaking hands. 

“I'll remember this one,” Bruce mutters, his eyes fluttering in exhaustion, "I'll remember you. This dream. I won't forget, okay?” 

Jason sees two shadows upon the threshold, a quiet gasp, a tray cluttering to the floor. Bruce turns at that sound, and lets out a small beckoning noise, clicking and soft, making Tim stumble a couple steps into the room, like Bruce had tugged on some string holding him. Satisfied that Tim’s creeping closer, Ma holds Jason in the nest with a small smile and a look of uttermost content.  

More scents are coming closer to the nest, but for once it doesn’t raise Jason’s hackles. He relaxes, and burrows into Ma’s arms. Tries to make himself fit in there, make himself small, right where he should've been. Bruce’s teeth nip at his neck, just a little, and Jason’s sleep addled, scent drunk mind can almost feel their bonds flare back to life, as if it’d been a gasoline drenched piling just waiting for that single spark. 

He closes his eyes and just like Bruce, he tries to remember this one time before all hell breaks loose.