Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

‘Everything happens for a reason’ the saying goes.

Tim likes to believe that’s the case. Though he can’t help but call bullshit when he gets into situations like the one he’s currently knee deep in.

It’s ?:?? o’clock on the ?th day of the ?th month of his sixteenth year and he sits staring at a blank wall in a dingy cell. What a life. 

Since he and Pru were rescued abducted by the League of Assassins, he’s been sequestered in this tiny cell with no means of escape. Trust him, he’s checked.

He’s heard whisperings of murdered assassins and the Council of Spiders, but, for the most part, he’s been left in the dark. 

They give him three square meals a day through the tiny slot in the thick metal door, but otherwise, they leave him be. It’s almost as if they don’t quite know what to do with him, especially with Batman being AWOL – not dead – and all. 

It’s hard to tell, but he thinks it’s around the forty four day mark when he’s finally acknowledged by his captors. They’re not ones for courtesy and sophistication, though, and they don’t bother unshackling his legs as they drag him from his cell and up the hall.

He’s brought before the mighty Ra’s Al Ghul and he’s, frankly, unimpressed. The guy looks like some old coot you’d catch watching soft-core porn in the public library and Tim has to suppress a laugh at the image of him being thrown out by a disgruntled librarian.

Maybe he’s gone looney after going more than a month without interacting with another human being or seeing any kind of light, but he can’t seem to take anything seriously. He knows he hasn’t really lost it, but something about the situation is just so damn funny.

“Timothy Drake, you are amused,” Ra’s observes, his tone giving nothing away.

He has at least six quips locked and loaded, but Tim’s smart enough to know when to keep his mouth shut – for the most part.

Ra’s frowns, clearly displeased, but continues.

“I apologize for your rough treatment over the last two months…”

Two months. Shit, that’s way longer than expected.

“...but it was necessary to sort out our arrangement, you see.”

It’s obvious the guy is being cryptic on purpose, but Tim doesn’t really have time to play these games. He’s wasted two months in this place. Two months that he’ll never get back. Two months that Bruce has spent wandering around in time while these other idiots think he’s dead.

“What arrangement? Cut to the chase,” he snaps, no longer amused.

“Now, now, let us practice patience, my pet,” Ra’s smirks, now very amused.

‘My pet’? What the hell?

“We have observed you very closely, Timothy. Though you hide your true nature quite well, we are the League of Assassins and very little goes unnoticed here.”

Tim can already tell where this conversation is headed, but he prays to any god who will listen that he’s wrong.

“It is rare to see such a skilled, capable Omega in your field…”

Fuck.

“Many are meek and timid, afraid to sully their dainty hands with combat. But you… you are different, my pet,” he grins, now looking more like a wicked predator than a pathetic old man.

There isn’t much he can do in this situation but deny.

“I don’t know where you get your information from, but I’m here to tell you it’s nonsense,” Tim snaps, doing everything in his power to remain cool.

It’s a messed up system, really. 

Since the day he presented as an Omega, Tim has wondered why the hell humans need secondary genders when the primary genders get the job done just fine.

As a result, he’s been resigned to a lifetime of bullshit. From suppressants to heat cycles to involuntary physiological changes, Tim has been through hell. And, even better, he’d eagerly signed himself up for vigilantism, a field chock full of Alphas. Brilliant.

He’s not sure how they’ve seen through his layers and layers of suppressants and meds, but he has no choice but to bluff, banking on the fact that they have no way to prove their claims.

Just his luck that they very much have a way to prove the thorn that’s been wedged in his side since the age of ten.

“Your determination is admirable, Timothy,” Ra’s chuckles as he gestures to one of his goons who brings out a syringe topped with a long needle. “We shall see if your denial is proven correct.”

The needle doesn’t hurt much, he’s been through much worse, but what follows is nothing short of awful.

Instantly, his body lights aflame, his nerves tingling and borderline numb as he doubles over in something between pain and arousal. 

Heat inducers. Of course.

He’s at the mercy of his body at this point and he knows there’s nothing he can do but succumb to desire. It’s purely biological and it pisses him off to no end.

Ra’s laughs triumphantly as he watches Tim crumple to the floor and breathe out weak gasps.

“Wonderful!” he bellows gleefully. “This is magnificent!”

Tim doesn’t know what the hell he’s so happy about. Tim Drake, former Robin-current Red Robin, is an Omega. Whoopty-doo.

His confusion lasts for all of ten seconds, though, with Ra’s dropping an atom bomb on him with his next sentence.

“You will make a perfect mother for my grandson,” Ra’s grins.

…I beg your pardon?

At sixteen, Tim’s been doing this for more than half a decade, but never has he heard a string of words so ludicrous that it causes his brain to legitimately malfunction. It also doesn’t help that his body is solely focused on seeking pleasure at the moment.

He must be expressing his absolute bewilderment on his face because Ra’s smoothly follows with an explanation disguised as another bomb.

“You see, my grandson was born from a unique situation wherein both of his parents, my daughter Talia and Batman, are Alphas…”

I beg your pardon???

At this point, Tim is convinced he’s dreaming or, more fittingly, nightmare-ing. As analytical and levelheaded as he is, he is left speechless by the back to back to back nukes of information being dropped on him.

Ignoring Tim’s clear upheaval, Ra’s continues, “As a result, his mother has had… difficulties. She is an Alpha, unable to provide for him in the way an Omega, such as yourself, can. Therefore, you, Timothy, will provide him his required care, support, and nutrients.”

Tim lowers his head, now in complete disarray, both mentally and physically. 

“Are you alright, my pet?” His voice is annoyingly smug.

Tim’s gut is twisted to the point where it’s painful and his brain has just been blown to bits by Ra’s so he’s not entirely in the position to ‘be alright’.

“It has taken me many moons to discover a capable, strong, intelligent Omega and I will not let you go, Timothy Drake.”

With that, he waves his hand and Tim is taken away, thrown in a fancy-looking room this time instead of a dingy cell. It’s equally suffocating, though.

He strips immediately, not giving a damn whether or not they’re watching. He needs relief and he needs it now.

He’s pitifully wet when he reaches down and slides one finger into his pussy, gasping softly at the sensation.

Embarrassment fights to be felt, but desire wins out and soon he’s shoving three fingers in while tugging on his leaking cocklet as his loud moans echo around the room.

It feels good, annoyingly so, but it’s not enough. That’s always been his problem, and a big reason why he’s relied so heavily on heat suppressants for six years now.

His heat cycles are hell and it’s damn near impossible for him to get through them alone. Nothing he does is enough to satisfy his irritatingly greedy body and he’s been left with no choice but to suffer.

The idea of having an Alpha help him through it has always lingered in the back of his mind, but that’s all it’s ever been: an idea. And so long as Tim can help it, that’s all it’ll ever be.

It’s already pathetic enough that he can’t control his body, and it’d just add insult to injury to be ‘helped’ by an Alpha in such a vulnerable state.

While he’s normally all for his righteous self-imposed policy, it’s really hard to not crave the touch of an Alpha like he’s been programmed to do when he’s four fingers deep and not even close to sniffing his first orgasm.

“Fuck!” he curses, desperate and frustrated.

As he tugs harder on his aching cocklet, the heavy door to his room-slash-cell opens and in walks a tall woman with tanned skin and long chestnut hair. 

She’s pretty and elegant but stern, and within three seconds of seeing her, Tim knows who she is.

“Your… dad’s an… asshole,” he grits out as he continues to serve his needy body.

“I am aware,” she says calmly as she takes a seat on the small stool beside the bed.

For a while, she simply sits there, watching as he struggles to find release. It’d be creepy if she didn’t look so serious and calculating. It’s clear she’s taking this whole motherhood thing seriously.

Normally, Tim would be looking for any way to bust out, but he’s in no shape to even consider escape.

Finally, Talia stands to leave, not sparing him a single word as she saunters through the door. 

A few seconds after she leaves, a masked man, likely a low ranking member of the League, enters and sets a box atop the bed before quickly turning tail.

Tim doesn’t know if this is Talia’s way of telling him that he’s passed her test or something, but he can’t find it within himself to care as he stretches himself open on the smallest of the set of five dildos in the box – though it may be more accurate to say the ‘first’ of the five instead of ‘smallest’ considering it isn’t small, at all.

After nearly ninety minutes of suffering, Tim finally reaches bliss, moaning at the release of tension in his abdomen as he comes, the bed now sopping wet with his slick.

His moment of peace lasts for a generous two minutes before his senses are kicking into high gear again and the cycle repeats.

Three days later, he’s fully ready to rip Ra’s Al Ghul’s head off for putting him through heat just to prove a point.

He’s exhausted, completely beat as he’s tended to by League staff members. They bathe him and re-bandage his injuries with care, treating him as if he were royalty instead of a sixteen-year-old kid doomed to parent a random child simply by virtue of his secondary gender.

Despite showing excitement at finding their ‘perfect Omega’, Ra’s and Talia don’t seem to be in a hurry to have Tim meet the child they plan to have him care for. It’s a bit weird and he’s seemingly back to square one, just with a comfier bed and a better decorated cell this time. 

He spends all of his time strategizing but, like with his previous cell, they have him sealed up tight. He can only hope Dick found and, more importantly, took the time to read the haphazard files he’d transmitted to the BatComputer just before he and Pru were ambushed in that desert.

He’s honestly surprised to see how composed he is. He’s never been one to panic, but any way he looks at it, his situation is hopeless, so he had expected to at least be a bit more stressed out, but he’s shockingly calm. Kudos to Batman’s training, perhaps.

On his seventh day of post-heat captivity, he finally meets the child they call Damian.

They lead him to a room on the other side of the gigantic lair and push him into a lavish looking bedroom with no explanation, leaving him to face the scowling three year old alone.

Tim doesn’t dislike kids, not in any way, but he’s never been great with them like Bruce or Dick are, so he’s at a loss.

Hesitantly, he shuffles over to the bed and takes a seat, sitting stiffly on the edge as the child stares holes into him.

Suddenly, the kid’s scowl softens, and he very slowly approaches, drawn to him by something. By the ten minute mark, Damian is in Tim’s lap and hugging him around the middle. The two of them have yet to exchange a single word, but Damian is already attached.

Weirdly, Tim also feels attached as he’s ambushed by profound maternal instincts that have never once appeared in his carefully curated list of feelings and emotions.

The kid is cute and sweet and nothing like his stern mother and grandfather. Just a boy who was born into violence who should be, needs to be protected. Tim silently hugs him back, unsure what to make of these foreign feelings and the tingly sensation in his stomach.

He’s not sure how long they sit there, but Damian is fast asleep when Talia re-enters the room.

Again, she takes a seat beside the bed, this time on a fancier-looking chair, and regards Tim with a blank stare.

“My son is crucial to the success of the League. You will care for him with grace and humility. You will nourish him with your bosom and teach him the love of an Omega.”

‘I must be insane,’ Tim thinks as he nods numbly.

“Good. We will begin tomorrow.”

She leaves just as fast as she came and Tim lies on his back, gently patting Damian’s back as he dozes on his chest. Soon, he, too, is drifting off, feeling oddly light as he cradles the child in his arms.

His peaceful slumber is interrupted at the crack of dawn when two League members shake him awake. Damian is nowhere to be found and Tim is quickly led back to his cell, again with no explanation. They toss him on the bed and stick him with a miscellaneous needle before hurrying out of the room.

Talia arrives just as the drugs kick in and he can’t lift a finger or even utter a word of protest as she strips him and begins to feel up his flat chest, her expression remaining neutral as she methodically fondles him.

After a short examination, she calls out something Tim can’t quite make out and the door opens to reveal a large masked man.

“You will now mate with this Alpha,” Talia explains matter-of-factly. 

It’s insane and Tim tries and fails to object, his body betraying him every step of the way.

“After an extended period of consuming suppressants, many of your Omega traits have remained dormant. You will mate with an Alpha to awaken these traits. Your breasts must be fuller to adequately nourish Damian and your scent sweeter to bring him comfort.”

As she rattles off other traits that he has neglected, Tim turns his attention to the man standing at the foot of the bed. He’s built and muscular with visibly rough hands and scars across his body.

Something about him is familiar, but the way he stands and his demeanor as a whole tells Tim that the man isn’t entirely in control of himself. He wouldn’t be surprised if he’s drugged or under a spell of some sort, making him just as much of a victim as Tim.

While he’s busy observing the Alpha to pinpoint the source of familiarity, Talia quickly and efficiently jabs them with a series of needles.

Once again, fire engulfs his body and his mind goes hazy, his heat triggered near instantly.

It isn’t until the man begins to take labored breaths that it truly dawns on Tim how bad of a situation he’s in. His eyes follow Talia as she leaves the room while the Alpha mounts him, his hands rough on his sensitive skin.

It’s his first time having sex with an Alpha and he’s going to be mated – quite possibly the worst case scenario of all worst case scenarios.

Chapter Text

The masked Alpha is a force to be reckoned with, his cock pounding deep as Tim cries out in pleasure.

There was no preamble nor foreplay before the man essentially tore Tim’s flimsy garments off and began to devour him whole.

His lips are soft against Tim’s, a stark contrast to the roughness of his hands. Each touch draws sharp gasps, even as he forces his huge cock into his folds.

Tim, for all intents and purposes, is a complete virgin, and he’s overwhelmed by pleasure as he’s taken for the first time in his sixteen years.

It’s hot, entirely too hot, and he struggles for breath as the man relentlessly hammers into his pussy, all while fondling his small cocklet. The stimulation is mind-numbing and he can’t stop the lewd sounds of pleasure that fall from his lips at each thrust.

“Ah! Oh! Ahn! Yes, Alpha!” he cries, simultaneously mortified and turned on by his own voice.

The man says nothing in reply, simply increasing in speed and intensity to pound him harder into the creaking bed.

At the next rough tug on his cocklet, Tim is arching his back and splurting his cum into the air, his pussy squirting slick as his abdomen convulses.

His moans don’t let up for even a second as the Alpha continues ravaging him, his deep grunts painfully arousing as he pulses his long, thick cock in and out of Tim’s helpless body. Tim can’t tell if he’s in heaven or hell as he holds onto the muscular body above him for dear life, his pussy stretched to its limit as his body is ambushed by another orgasm. 

“Fuck, Alpha, please!” he screams as the man pumps him full with another load of his seed.

His belly bulges slightly with the amount cum in his womb and Tim is shocked by how turned on he is by the sight. He’s never once imagined being pregnant and, maybe it’s his heat talking, but the idea of being filled with an Alpha’s seed has his mind reeling.

The entire first day of their shared mating cycle is spent simply fucking, Tim fully at the mercy of an Alpha in rut as he fades in and out of consciousness.

It’s scary, terrifying really, to have no agency whatsoever as he’s taken by what is essentially an untamed beast, but Tim somehow can’t find it within himself to hate the man unleashing his primal desires upon his body.

The Alpha is incoherent, mentally subdued, and firing purely on instinct. There is no way for him to be cognizant of his actions nor does he have the power to turn off his biological desires. 

The two of them are helpless victims of their own bodies, of their shitty circumstance, and of the Al Ghul’s, and as his gut tenses in anticipation of yet another orgasm, Tim vows to get his revenge. 

Reaching up, he pulls him into a desperate kiss, one filled with anger and lust and hopelessness. Whether it be in a day or in a decade, Ra’s and Talia Al Ghul will know pain.

On what Tim calculates to be approximately the third day, something strange happens.

He lies facedown with his knees propped underneath him so his ass is sticking in the air, a textbook presentation. He holds a pillow to his chest and shouts muffled whines into the mattress as the Alpha thrusts into him from behind.

Conquered by pleasure, Tim can only whimper and drool as he’s taken. 

Only when the Alpha slams into him and abruptly stops does he notice something is wrong. 

In the more than sixty hours they’ve been at it – on and off considering their intermittent sleep – the man has not stopped once, but now, he pauses, breathing hard as he sheathes himself balls deep inside of Tim’s aching pussy.

Tim is moments from raising the obvious question when he feels a distinct pressure against his walls.

“Wait, stop,” he gasps, reaching back to push against the man’s abs. 

It’s a futile attempt considering his weak body and the man’s vice grip around his waist. He becomes more frantic when the Alpha’s cock keeps growing and soon he’s panicking.

“Stop! Stop, it hurts!” he cries. His protests fall on deaf ears.

The pain is unbearable but not entirely unpleasant. It’s a strange feeling, almost indescribable, and as the cock speared inside of him continues to expand, he cries out in pleasure, his body succumbing to another orgasm.

It isn’t until he comes down from his climax that it clicks that he’s been knotted, and they remain joined for a long time, simply breathing together as they become one. 

Finally, the man moves, reaching around to fist Tim’s sensitive cocklet and leaning down to mouth at his neck. Tim’s body shudders with ecstasy and he bucks his hips in an attempt to match the rhythm of the rough hand grasping his short shaft, but he finds he can’t move much with the knot stuck deep inside.

While he fondles Tim’s small cocklet, the Alpha begins to nibble at his neck, licking strips up and down the soft patch of skin before finally biting down hard and eliciting a pained cry from the helpless Omega beneath him.

Tim comes as he’s marked, his body naturally pleased by the act despite the sharp pain radiating down his neck.

He releases soft sounds as the Alpha, his Alpha licks the blood trickling down his neck.

“Ah, mm, y-es,” he gasps, the fiery sensation crawling across his skin now soothed by his Alpha’s cool touch.

His body is suddenly lighter, as if he’s been relieved of a burden he’s been unknowingly carrying. His heart hammers in his chest as a rush of affection and fondness courses through his body, directed only at the man hovering above his body and making sweet love to him.

Perhaps he’s gone crazy or delusional, but every atom in his body now feels tied to the Alpha who continues thrusting into him even after his knot has subsided.

He’s been claimed, thoroughly, and his body loves it, though he’s not so sure his mind will agree once he’s on the other side of this endless mating cycle.

His brain officially turns off when he begins to ride his Alpha’s huge cock, his hands splayed on his abs as he bounces up and down in desperation.

“More, Alpha!” he moans, sounding nothing like the calm, sensible, levelheaded Tim Drake that the world knows.

Their passionate, desperate, helpless, involuntary mating doesn’t end for another two days, and by the time his heat has waned, Tim is too out of it to even form a single coherent thought, let alone speak a single word.

Like with his previous heat cycle courtesy of Ra’s, League staff members clean him up and put him to bed, carefully nursing his battered body back to health.

A full three days later he wakes to an aching body, his joints sore and his pussy and cocklet throbbing as he weakly turns to his side to find Talia seated at his bedside once more.

“You have risen.”

He doesn’t respond, the anger seething from his expression enough to relay his unspoken thoughts.

She doesn’t note his lack of reply, instead roughly pulling down the duvet and tearing open his loose robe to reveal his chest once again.

Tim yelps in surprise but can do nothing to stop her, his body still far too weak to even sit up on his own.

As she begins to fondle his chest, he’s shocked to feel arousal. Never before has he felt anything from his chest being touched, but now, he’s fighting moans and whimpers as she flicks his hard nipples with her fingers. 

On his chest are two small mounds that definitely weren’t there before and his eyes go wide as he glances down to see small white beads collecting at his nipples.

“You have been successfully mated, awakening your dormant traits. Congratulations,” she says flatly as if reporting the weather. “You will continue to engage in sexual intercourse with your Alpha to produce milk for my son. I will see to it that your breasts grow large and supple.”

‘Been mated’. A reminder that he had no choice in the matter. 

“Fuck you,” he spits venomously. “Like hell I’ll– Ah!”

His protest turns into a moan when she pinches his nipples with her fingertips, causing thin streams of milk to squirt out as he rubs his thighs together in search of stimulation.

This is what they’ve made him: a whore.

“I trust you will rectify your attitude come time to nurture Damian,” she states, pinching and pulling until he’s coming untouched.

She wipes her hands with a handkerchief as she leaves, gazing upon him with one final unreadable expression before stepping out of the room.

Miserable is quite possibly the only word capable of describing Tim’s current state.

He’s miserable and weak and vulnerable and used. His body has been used and abused and there’s nothing he can do to change that fact.

He doesn’t bother with tears, they’ve never done him good. Instead, he turns to anger, gathering that deep, visceral rage swirling deep within his gut and channeling it to the two individuals responsible for his defiled body.

He’s busy contemplating possible escape routes and opportunities to call for help when he’s suddenly struck by a sharp pain at his neck and in his heart. 

Reaching up with a shaky hand, he brushes his fingers against the still-healing mating bite on the side of his neck. He shudders as a strange concoction of longing, fear, adoration, lust, and guilt is injected into his veins.

His heart aches for something he doesn’t quite understand and, unable to handle the blinding pain, he musters as much strength he can manage and rolls out of bed. He struggles to his feet and shakily makes his way to the door, desperate for something or someone to fill this uncomfortable sense of emptiness in his heart.

He crumples to the floor just a few feet from the door, gasping for breath as his chest tightens. It’s nothing like anything he’s felt before and he’s at a complete loss as to what to do. 

As he blindly feels around, his hand comes into contact with a small shelf to his left, on top of which is a glass lamp that he promptly throws across the room with his remaining strength. Several League members are at his side in an instant at the shattering noise and he’s carried back to bed, now only managing small whimpers in his weakened state.

Just as he begins to feel feverish, relief arrives, though not in the form he would have preferred.

He turns his head at the sound of the door opening to find his Alpha standing in the doorway, still masked and expressionless.

It’s both impressive and terrifying how instant his relief is. His shivers come to an abrupt stop and the sharp stabbing pain in his chest subsides immediately, just at the sight of his Alpha.

Tim isn’t stupid. He knows what being mated permanently to an Alpha means for his independence, both emotionally and physically. But experiencing the withdrawal symptoms that come with mate separation firsthand makes it feel much more real than he’s comfortable with.

The Alpha makes no move to approach on his own accord, having to be dragged toward the bed by two League members. Only when they whisper something Tim can’t quite make out into his ear does the Alpha lie on the bed beside him, his presence bringing with it immense comfort.

Tim’s symptoms are all but gone as he instinctively latches onto his mate, slotting into his body like puzzle pieces made for each other.

He rejects this situation with everything he has, but he once again succumbs to biological desire, humming in contentment as he breathes in his Alpha’s scent.

He knows nothing about the man – not his name or appearance or eye color or birthplace or favorite season or preference for food, nothing – but he feels cosmically attached thanks to the cruel twist of fate that goes by the name Al Ghul.

Chapter Text

He begins nursing Damian two weeks following his engagement – because that’s what it is: an engagement he had no say in.

The first time the child is brought to his room, he’s horrified. 

He’d concluded very quickly by Ra’s and Talia’s usage of words like ‘nutrients’ and ‘nourishment’ that this would be part of his duties, but dread and panic come to play ping pong with his heart regardless.

His breasts remain fairly small, but his milk production has been steady so they have deemed him fit to begin ‘nourishing’ the Demon Head’s grandson.

It’s uncomfortable and intrusive and awkward, God it’s awkward, but he remains civil as the child approaches and is guided to sit atop his lap by Talia. It’s not like he has any choice but to comply, anyway.

In the room to serve as his very unwelcome audience for this very intimate act are Ra’s Al Ghul, Talia Al Ghul, a total of six League members, and, naturally, his masked Alpha who has yet to be introduced by name.

Therefore, not only is Tim expected to breastfeed a criminally small toddler, but he must do so in front of nine people who have no business being around a child in any capacity.

He leans against a pile of pillows and says nothing as one of the League members opens his robe to reveal his swollen breasts. While they are rounder and more pronounced, they are still quite dainty and Damian has some trouble latching on as he hesitantly leans forward and laps up the milk dripping from his tender nipples.

It takes everything in Tim to maintain what little dignity he has left by suppressing a very unwanted moan-gasp-sigh the moment Damian makes contact. The sensation is a combination of relief, pleasure, and protectiveness – something he’s never really felt before.

After a few experimental licks, the boy leans away with a quiet whimper and a look of unease, still holding Tim tightly around the middle as he glances around at their audience. He’s a tiny little thing, entirely too small for a three year old, and Tim’s heart pangs with sadness as he studies his teary eyes.

Even if he hadn’t been trained by the World’s Greatest Detective, he could've pieced together that the kid is terrified. He turns to Ra’s, Talia, and the League members with a vicious scowl, the soft expression with which he’d gazed upon Damian now virtually erased from existence.

“Can’t you see he’s afraid?” he snaps, protectively wrapping his arms around him. “Get out.”

He can practically see the smoke billowing from Ra’s Al Ghul’s ears as he splutters in outrage.

“You– You dare! How– My grandson– My heir will do as I command!” he shouts, effectively startling the boy and forcing his tears to overflow.

Unfazed, Tim squints at him with undisguised scorn.

“I don’t give a fuck about your bullshit politics,” he hisses after covering Damian’s ears, “Get out. Now.”

Sensing his mate’s rage, his Alpha moves closer on the bed, positioning himself between Tim and the unwelcome spectators. 

Though they haven’t uttered a single word to each other, Tim and his Alpha have been consistently on the same wavelength.

He finds it strange that the Al Ghul’s have essentially created a weapon for him to use against them. His Alpha is tall and strong and skilled and dangerous, and they’ve basically shot themselves in the foot by forcing him into a mating bond with Tim, someone just as, if not more, dangerous.

While he’s busy soothing Damian, the others in the room are in a silent standoff, doing whatever Alphas do to assert dominance that Tim couldn't give less of a shit about. 

“It’s alright, Dami,” he coos. 

The nickname is unplanned and simply slips out as he gently cards his fingers through the boy’s soft hair, but Damian doesn’t seem to hate it, instead comfortably resting a cheek on his breast. Tim decides to address the root of his profound fondness for the pup at another time.

Seeking comfort in the tense atmosphere, Damian nuzzles closer, burying his face in Tim’s chest and hugging him as tight as his small body will allow.

At last, Ra’s, Talia, and their goons turn to leave, glaring at him with disapproval and ire as his victorious Alpha simply sits atop the bed, unmoving.

For a long time, Damian remains trembling in his arms, but very gradually, he begins to emerge from his shell. Tim finds his shyness terribly endearing and it’s increasingly unsettling that he feels so connected to the child. 

He shouldn’t be feeling maternal toward the grandson of Ra’s Al Ghul. He shouldn’t be offering his body to this small boy. He shouldn’t have been mated against his will by a masked man who acts like a robot with a flesh covering.

He shouldn’t be here.

But still, as the child in his arms carefully brings his lips to his breast, his heart melts with affection.

He drinks gently but that foreign feeling of pleasure and protectiveness quickly returns, and Tim finds himself tenderly stroking Damian’s back and releasing soft sighs as he drinks.

It’s horribly embarrassing and half of him wants to immediately search for the next bus off of planet Earth, but he remains composed, putting the child’s needs before his own both by instinct and deliberate choice.

If there’s one thing Batman taught him, it’s that objectivity and poise prevail in these types of situations. 

Neither his Alpha nor Damian are his enemies, rather, they may very well be his only allies in this hellhole, so he approaches them with care and empathy, seeing them as fellow victims, tools at the mercy of their perpetrators.

“Good, pup,” he whispers encouragingly.

Apparently, this is the wrong thing to say to an eager three year old suckling for the first time, because the next thing he knows, Damian is biting down hard on his sensitive nipple, sending a bolt of intense… something through his body.

At his sharp gasp, his Alpha stirs, immediately recognizing Damian as a threat to his mate and roughly removing him from his lap. Naturally, the boy begins to cry and Tim panics, his heart aching at the sight of the distressed child. 

When he reaches out for him, his Alpha moves further away, holding Damian with care but tightly enough to keep him restrained in his grasp.

“Give him to me,” Tim says, his tone firm but gentle so as not to startle the... his pup. He’s filled with guilt for his sudden, albeit involuntary, outburst, and wants nothing more than to soothe Damian. “It’s alright, I was just surprised that’s all,” he softly reassures, motioning for his Alpha to release the boy.

Shockingly, he listens and loosens his hold just enough for Damian to slip away and hurry back to Tim. 

In the two weeks they’ve been essentially attached at the hip, his Alpha hasn’t once shown any sign of understanding his words. It’s like talking to a brick wall, if brick walls were clingy and touchy.

But now, Tim has been given more information about the mystery Alpha that he’s stuck with for life. He stares wide-eyed at his zombified Alpha, his brain shifting into overdrive as he takes mental notes on his behavior and approximate cognitive capabilities.

The fact that he responds to sounds of distress and verbal instructions is proof that he retains enough awareness to respond to external stimuli, a promising discovery considering Tim is going to have to single-handedly get him and Damian out of here at some point.

Pause…

…and Damian?

It’s obvious that he’ll have to take his Alpha with him if when he escapes, but he’s dumbfounded by the fact that he’d even considered the grandson of the Demon Head a variable in his equation.

As he contemplates why the hell he had automatically included Damian in his pending escape plans, his attention is drawn to the small child in question who stares up at him with fearful eyes.

“I am sorry,” he mumbles quietly.

The first ever words he’s spoken to him are an apology. Tim could cry.

With that, he knows everything there is to know about how Damian has been treated by the League and he’s flooded with a fierce protectiveness that catches him entirely off guard.

“Don’t apologize, love,” he soothes. It’s odd how natural he sounds using such a soft tone and a term of endearment that would have left him a cringing mess not even a few hours earlier. "You did nothing wrong."

As Damian hesitantly reattaches his soft lips to his breast, Tim returns his gaze to his Alpha who remains silent.

“Come here,” he says gently. When the man makes no attempt to move, Tim tries again, this time incorporating a term his past self would have killed him for using. “Come here… Alpha.”

It’s not like he’s never said it before – considering he’d been screaming it at the top of his lungs after being pumped with a hundred cc’s of Talia’s magical ‘I Need to Be Railed Right Now’ heat inducer concoction – but it’s a completely different story when it’s a fully conscious decision, and he finds himself cringing internally at his own words.

He’s both pleased and mortified when his Alpha responds without hesitation, moving to his side in an instant.

Cradling Damian to his chest with one arm, he reaches out with his other hand to gently caress his Alpha’s face, driven more by curiosity than anything.

Even with the entire top half of his face obscured, Tim can tell he’s handsome, in a rugged kind of way. It may not be fair for him to make this assessment after mating with the man, but, to his credit, he’d noticed how attractive he is the moment he stepped foot in the room at Talia’s cue.

In any other scenario, Tim would probably be in awe, but he can only look upon him with love and pity. It’s a love he has no say in, but he feels it nonetheless as he draws his thumb across his Alpha’s chapped lips. It’s intimate in a way Tim has never felt, and he is flooded with a heavy, suffocating, overwhelming desire to see the man he has been forced to devote his life to in his entirety.

“I want to see you,” he whispers, leaning closer as he traces his fingertips along his jaw as if entranced.

The moment he slides his hand further up his cheek and tentatively slips one finger under the mask, the door bursts open and the same six League members who had been in attendance earlier hastily drag his Alpha away.

Tim doesn’t waste time protesting. He’s not surprised to see them barge in and whisk him away so suddenly, given they’ve done the same thing each time he’s gotten too close to revealing his Alpha’s identity.

With how sensitive Tim is when he’s separated from his mate, they’ll have to bring him back within the hour, anyway.

It’s funny that they think hiding him away will make him any less curious. The same way strict parents often raise sneaky children – except, in this case, the strict parents are demented assassins and the sneaky child is a sixteen-year-old vigilante in quite possibly the worst pickle he’s ever been in.

Damian freezes when the League members enter, following their every move with frightened eyes. Tim gently guides him to his other nipple, turning his face away and stroking his hair to soothe him.

“Drink, pup,” he coos, “I’m here.”

As expected, approximately half an hour later, his Alpha is brought back, this time with a more secure mask that covers his entire face. Talia accompanies his return, a scowl in place of her typical neutral expression as she observes her son happily suckling milk from Tim’s breast.

“Damian,” she says, her tone horribly cold as she addresses her son.

Immediately, Damian turns his attention toward his mother, as if a soldier standing at attention.

“Come, it is time for training.”

Tim is too highly trained to not notice the nearly imperceptible hesitation in Damian’s movements as he climbs off of his lap to join his mother. His body suddenly feels icy as his pup is taken away, but he makes no move to keep him in his arms.

The emptiness lasts for mere seconds, though, with Talia siccing his Alpha on him the moment Damian exits the room.

“You will replenish your nutrients with your Alpha’s seed. I expect you to nurse daily.”

Tim may not be a math wiz, but he’s smart enough to know that daily nursing sessions require daily intercourse, which, frankly, he’s not confident he can handle.

Following their initial mating cycle, he’s had sex with his Alpha only twice, both times a result of Tim’s residual heat symptoms. And both times, he’d been out of commission for at least twenty four hours after having been, in scientific terms, fucked stupid.

So now, as he faces his Alpha once more – only, this time, totally sober and unimpaired – he’s filled with dread, fearing the state his body will be left in once his Alpha is done with him.

He remains frozen atop the bed, his chest still laid bare, as he waits for his Alpha to make the first move. 

Only when Talia whispers something in his ear as she leaves the room does his Alpha turn to him, his movements rigid and methodical as he climbs atop the bed and simply sits beside Tim.

His reservation is unexpected and he’s cute in a way, sitting cross-legged like a kid at a summer camp bonfire.

As he observes the stoic Alpha beside him, Tim is torn between wanting to make love and wanting to get this over with as fast as possible.

He’d be a liar if he said being fucked by his Alpha didn’t feel amazing, but, at the core of it, it’s… wrong.

Neither of them are willing participants to this torture, regardless of how good it might feel physically, and with Tim being the more cognizant of the two, he feels a responsibility to make this process as painless as possible, so he promptly ditches the ‘make love’ option and begins to strip the motionless Alpha, his movements clinical and efficient.

He can’t help the guilt he feels as he pushes him back against the headboard and straddles his hips. His hands are strong and comforting as they settle on his waist. Again, that burning affection engulfs his body and he quickly sheds his robe, instinctively bucking his hips forward when his cocklet brushes against the big cock standing tall.

It feels depraved to be essentially using his Alpha as a fuck toy, but he can’t stop himself as he lifts his hips and lowers himself on the massive rod, pathetic gasps falling from his lips as his pussy is filled up in one go.

“God, you’re big,” he moans, clutching his Alpha’s shoulders as he adjusts to the massive intrusion.

He’d never pegged himself as a size queen, but considering how much he’s come to love being spread open on a long, fat cock, he just might be.

“Ah, ah, fu-ck, mm!”

His small moans increase in volume as he begins to ride his Alpha more earnestly, chasing his high as he clings to his muscular body. He starts slow, feeling every inch of cock drag along his walls, but soon he's moving with more intensity and increasing his speed.

“Y-es, Alpha!” he cries as he bounces his hips, his little cocklet bobbing uselessly as his pussy quivers around his Alpha’s cock.

The ‘get this over with as fast as possible’ plan, goes flying out the window when Tim is already on his third orgasm and his Alpha is still rock hard.

He’s exhausted and desperate to be filled with cum – a state he’d never ever thought he’d find himself in – and when he crests his fourth climax, his legs finally give out.

Pitiful whines escape him as he grinds his hips onto the huge cock still sheathed inside. He’s not sure if he’s a shitty lay or if his Alpha has the restraint of a Tibetan monk, but regardless, it’s immensely frustrating.

“Alpha,” he breathes, idly sucking hickeys onto the soft skin at his throat. “Please… fuck me.”

Open sesame, apparently.

Tim cries out in surprise as he’s roughly pushed onto his back, his knees pressed to his chest as his Alpha’s enthusiasm suddenly goes from deep in the negatives to fully maxed out. He mounts him with fervor and begins thrusting with reckless abandon, grunting and groaning as he pistons his cock in and out of Tim’s sensitive passage.

“Ah! Hah! Y–Yes!”

His mind becomes more and more hazy as he’s pleasured beyond comprehension. 

The speed is blinding and on a particularly rough thrust where his Alpha snaps his hips forward hard enough to push him further up the bed, Tim cries out and arches his back, squirting his slick and cum as his vision goes stark white.

He’s fucked through his orgasm and just as a hint of his senses return to him, his Alpha buries himself deep inside and releases his seed, filling his womb to the brim.

They remain intertwined as they catch their breath. It’s intimate and vulnerable and scary, but Tim feels loved and cherished and treasured by this man who has yet to say a single word.

Chapter Text

It’s dark.

No… it’s bright.

It’s neither in a way.

Honestly, he can’t really tell. He’s been suspended in a haze for as long as he’s been conscious, the length of which is another thing he’s not entirely sure about. Being completely lost seems to be a common thread in his useless brain.

Things come and go in vague visions, as if he’s stuck on a bullet train racing through the countryside with nothing to do but stare at the blurry colors racing by.

Very occasionally, he’s able to break through the numbness and goes downright ballistic, his brain abruptly snapping awake only to be quickly forced back into submission by a needle to the arm or neck.

It’s unclear what triggers these ‘resurfacings’, but he’d love to know because he’s sick and tired of living as what is essentially a rock that happens to have functioning arms and legs.

He sometimes makes out vague outlines of a face or sharp tones in a faraway voice, and for a long time, and that’s all it is… until his mate arrives.

With how out of it he generally is, it may seem odd that he’s aware that he has a mate at all, but the cosmic pull he feels the moment he lays eyes on his Omega is unmistakable. Even before his body goes haywire in his rut, he sees him clear as day.

He’s the first thing he’s been able to truly see without a cloudy film affixed over his eyes in a long, long time, and he is absolutely beautiful. It’s almost as if there is a halo of brilliant light surrounding him and only him.

In the few seconds of clarity he experiences for the first time in what could very well be years, he uses his time to admire the gorgeous Omega before him. 

When he’s suddenly stabbed with something sharp in his shoulder, his already clear vision goes into ultra high resolution and he becomes extremely hyperaware of his surroundings, to an unsettling degree.

While his agency and independent decision-making abilities are heavily impaired nonexistent, his body seems to work just fine, and it’s deeply uncomfortable as he’s assaulted by a rush of unbearably intense arousal. 

His senses are lit ablaze, his lips and arms and chest and everything tingling as he moves on instinct. His body is entirely on autopilot while his mind struggles to find reason through the onslaught of arousal.

The pretty Omega remains immobile on the bed before him, defenseless and, unfortunately, appetizing. He… His body wastes no time mounting him and burying his aching cock deep inside.

Deep down, he knows it’s wrong. It’s depraved and perverted and lustful and disgusting, but he simply can’t stop himself, groaning low at the raw pleasure coursing through his veins.

It’s a scary thing, not being in control, but it’s not a feeling he's unaccustomed to with how long he’s been essentially an empty shell of a human being. 

But this… this is different. 

He’s completely at the mercy of his primal desires and, as a result, an innocent Omega is being defiled and violated in a way that can never be undone.

As he hammers roughly into the helpless Omega beneath him, he hates himself.

As his body excites at the weak mewls and moans, he hates himself.

As a shudder snakes its way up his spine when he knots him, he hates himself.

As he sinks his sharp canines into the smooth skin of his neck, he hates himself.

At some point, he blacks out, his brain shutting down either due to overwhelming guilt, overwhelming pleasure, or both. When he finally comes to, he’s back in his dark cell.

The thick fog swiftly rolls back in and he’s once again forced into the barren wasteland that is his mind – only this time it’s a fiery inferno of intense emotions rather than miles and miles of gray nothingness.

First, it’s remorse. Second, protectiveness. Then, love, followed closely by deep adoration and longing. Hatred is next to the party and, finally, sorrow. Deep, deep sorrow.

It’s a vicious medley and he finds himself spiraling in the tiny space, the manic laughter escaping his lips sounding both terribly close and incredibly far as he crumples to the floor in a pathetic heap.

I mated an Omega.

.You were forced to mate with an Omega

He had no choice. I did.

I’m a rapist.

.You’re a victim

Fuck, what do you know?

.As much as you do… Nothing

That’s not fair.

.None of this is fair

Who am I?

His breakdown doesn’t last long, with what he has determined to be his handlers quickly entering his cell and sticking him with another shot of whatever they’ve been using to keep him subdued.

He retains no memories of his past. As far back as he can remember, he’s been stuck in this thick mist with no identity of his own.

He has no idea why he’s being held captive nor why they keep him drugged. Not a clue about what their goal is with him, his only knowledge being from the few pieces of information he’s been able to gather about himself:

1. He is an Alpha.
2. He is in his late teens or early twenties.
3. He has green eyes, black hair, and tan skin.
4. He is an extremely skilled fighter.
5. He has highly tuned critical thinking and deductive reasoning, much like that of a detective.

Otherwise, he’s left in the dark, both metaphorically and literally, until his captors require his ‘services’, which apparently constitutes raping a defenseless Omega.

He spends the next X minutes, hours, days, in his cell until he’s called upon for his services once more. 

His hatred for himself and his captors never wanes.

The vivid visual clarity he’d experienced upon first meeting his Omega returns each time he is permitted to be in his presence, but he is tragically unable to do anything but observe. It is as though he's watching his mate through a thick pane of glass, his body completely uncooperative.

It’s pitiful how powerless he is against the drugs and apparent mind control. Disgust, self-loathing, and remorse are all he deserves to feel in every moment he spends watching the… his Omega, but attraction, ever dogged, ultimately sneaks into the fold.

He’s absolutely magnetic. Gentle yet strong. Caring yet stern. Nothing like the reserved, subservient Omegas that Alphas often expect.

After their third time… engaging in intercourse, he is pulled to his Omega’s room for a different reason.

Vaguely, he recognizes that he is sitting atop a bed with his captors, his Omega, and what he can make out to be a small child in the room. Muffled voices float around his head while he stares holes into his mate, focused solely on the one thing he can see without obscurity.

He has no right to gaze upon one he has caused such pain and suffering to, but his eyes remain glued to him as the pup climbs into his lap.

The voices change their tune, indicating aggression, and, suddenly, he senses intense protectiveness and agitation from his mate. His body instinctively positions itself between his mate and the offending individuals – though they appear more like an amorphous blob in his vision.

They are Alphas, that much he can tell, but they are weaker than he is. Even in his subdued state, it takes very little effort to intimidate them, particularly because his mate is involved, and after a brief standoff, they leave.

Satisfaction, comfort, and fondness waft from his Omega when the boy in his lap begins to suckle.

He sits motionless, but he is spurred into action when a sharp gasp penetrates the dull buzz in his ears.

Immediately, he turns his head and zeroes in on the pup before separating him from his mate. 

As an Alpha, his first priority is the safety and comfort of his Omega, something his body clearly understands at the atomic level. His heart hammers in his chest as he’s ambushed by an adrenaline rush driven by intense protectiveness and, more specifically, possessiveness.

Even as the pup begins to cry in his hold, he remains steadfast, refusing to allow any harm to come to his Omega.

Again, a soft voice pierces through the thick layer of phantom cotton packed in his ears.

“Give him to me,” it says, sounding melodic and beautiful. “It’s alright, I was just surprised that’s all.”

As if the voice were a lullaby, his heightened emotions are instantly soothed and he unconsciously loosens his grip on the pup.

Transfixed, he stares at his mate, eyes drawn to his bright blue irises and delicate nose and plush lips and long eyelashes. He remains the only thing that he is able to perceive in his world of blur and he is borderline angelic.

The spell is broken when the lovely face he’d been so diligently studying suddenly turns to him. He can see those pretty pink lips moving, but nothing registers… that is, until the magic word is spoken.

“Come here… Alpha.”

It’s like someone dumped him in a vat of frigid water, shocking him to attention. His body moves automatically at the command like a well-trained animal. He remains captivated as his Omega caresses his face, his touch gentle and tender, sending warmth through his entire body.

“I want to see you,” he whispers.

He feels a finger slide under his mask and the next thing he knows, he’s being dragged away from his other half and thrown back into his shadowy prison, confused and disoriented.

How much time has passed is a mystery, but at some point, they come back for him, sticking him with another unnamed drug before leading him back to his mate.

Stars and colors flash in his vision as he stands numbly at what he faintly recognizes at the foot of the bed. More muffled words are exchanged between his Omega and the strange woman. As she turns to leave, she whispers a single word in his ear before exiting the room, “Obey.”

It’s all it takes to get his body to move and he feels like a prisoner in his own skin as he climbs atop the bed. 

Every cell in his body is induced with the deep, visceral desire, no, need to devour his Omega whole, but he fights with everything he has, determined to resist, determined to protect his Omega’s dignity, determined to win.

And so he does, remaining pliant and accommodating as his Omega mounts him and rides his throbbing cock with his wet pussy.

His pretty moans and seductive expressions are tantalizing and it becomes increasingly difficult to hold back as he continues to pleasure himself.

The moans and whimpers become more desperate and, finally, the gates are opened.

“Alpha, please fuck me,” that same soft voice says, sounding lustful and possessive.

He had put up a valiant effort but at his Omega’s command, he snaps, that intense desire that he’d worked so hard to repress now flooding his senses freely and eagerly.

He thrusts and ruts and pumps his hips with zero restraint, his nerves working overtime to handle the amount of pleasure shooting through his body as he glides his cock against his Omega’s walls until he’s releasing his seed inside his warm womb.

It’s both extremely terrifying and immensely comforting to be so deeply tied to another that his body knows exactly how to maximize satisfaction. 

This pattern continues for many cycles: nurse, fuck, sleep, repeat. But it all comes crashing down on what he determines is the fourth or fifth iteration.

He’s resisting his body while his Omega rides him once again, waiting patiently for the ‘go ahead’ and refusing to subject his mate to another brutal rape, when his reality is irrevocably shattered.

His Omega is on his third orgasm when he hears the clear sound of something being unlocked. He blinks and suddenly his field of vision is wider, the mask placed upon his face by his captors now removed by his mate.

He stares in confusion at the horrified, outright anguished expression staring back at him. At first, he assumes he’s ugly, or even hideous, as the alarm and panic in his Omega’s eyes increases. But with the weak, deeply pained utterance of one simple word, his vision goes bright green.

“Jason?”

He’s not entirely sure what happens next.

He can’t see or hear or smell or taste or feel anything, complete sensory deprivation, but a few moments later, his brain is inundated with an avalanche of repressed memories.

Jason. Peter. Todd. Sixteen. Eighteen. School. Gotham. Fifth Street Deli. Park Row. Bruce Wayne. Batman. Jason Todd. Robin. Wayne Enterprises. Grappling hook. Jim Gordon. Justice League. Superman. Wonder Woman. Batmobile. Alfred. Manor. Homework. Joker. Mom. Drugs. Dad. Criminal. Airplane. Ethiopia. Cold. Hot. Explosion. Dead. Abandoned. Forgotten. Talia. Ra’s. League of Assassins. Al Ghul. Damian. Weapon. Training. Rebel. Submission.

Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey.

Obey.

Everything comes back to him in a brutal blow to the brain and when his vision finally clears, he – Jason Todd, age eighteen, former Robin from Gotham City – is strangling a helpless Omega against the bed, his hands not loosening even a bit as his mate’s face goes from red to blue to purple.

Chapter Text

Facing death isn’t an entirely new experience to Tim. It basically comes with the job of being Robin. A right of passage in a way.

The worst part about almost dying is that it has all the downsides, particularly the indescribable pain and terror, with none of the benefits, like actually dying. 

Therefore, he’s just left to suffer while clinging to a life he’s not sure he even wants anymore.

It’s entirely different when the person subjecting you to that pain is your childhood hero and crush, though. As Tim stares up helplessly at the face he’d recognize anywhere, anytime, anyplace, his walls come crumbling down and he officially falls apart at the seams.

Tears stream from his eyes uninhibited, screams caught in his throat as he’s suffocated by the one meant to protect and love and cherish him.

Just when the last hint of light in his vision goes dim, the hands gripping his throat release and oxygen floods his lungs.

“What the fuck… What the fuck,” a horrified voice says. “Holy shit, holy shit, oh my god, I’m sorry– I don’t– fuck, fuck– Who are you? Where– I don’t know what– Fuck! I’m sorry, Christ, I–”

Jason’s frantic apologies continue while Tim brings his hands to his throat and gasps for air, hacking coughs escaping him as he struggles to piece together his shattered psyche.

The combination of emotions that assaults both his head and heart send him into a full breakdown, terrible sobs racking his body as he curls into himself.

He weeps for his freedom, for his chastity, for his life.

Every painful emotion, every unshed tear, every suppressed scream that he’s neglected since his capture is now ungated and, with this, Tim executes a picture perfect mental collapse.

I’m not okay.       I'm not        okay. I’m                     not okay. I’            m not okay.I’m not okay.I’m     not                okay.     

I’m scared.                                                                   I’m 

scared.                                                                                                                 I’m scared.

I’m scared.

                                                 I'm                                          scared.                                                                                                         Help.

Someone help me.

Help me.                                                 Help me. Help                             me.                    

Help                                                          me.                          Help me. 

Help me. Help me. Help me. Help me.

HELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPME

Even in his state of complete disarray, his body senses his Alpha’s… Jason’s turbulent emotions and recognizes that he, too, is very clearly freaking out.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he chants, his voice cracking as he tenderly cradles Tim to his chest, his own tears streaming down his cheeks while he fights to make sense of both his past and present.

A few seconds later, everything goes dark as their riotous minds are swiftly quieted by tranquilizers.

When he wakes, Tim doesn’t feel real. 

He observes himself in the third person as his pounding head attempts to pin down who he is, what he’s doing, where he is – any information that could help bring him back to Earth, really.

He lies dazedly on a plush bed in what he can tell is a different room just by the lighting and smell.

His body is uncooperative and he feels something metallic and cool around his left ankle.

Very slowly, his senses come back to him and after a few minutes he’s able to move his body, though with great effort.

He pushes himself further up the bed and wraps himself in the soft blanket he’s been laid upon, his tears kicking back into high gear as memories come flooding back to him. The shackle around his ankle rattles as his body trembles.

There’s levels to the pain and hurt, levels so deeply interwoven that it’s impossible for him to apply logic and compartmentalize. As a result, he’s stuck with the heavy burden of feeling.

On top of the complex grief and fear and guilt and sadness and thousands of other emotions swirling around inside, there’s the added layer of pain and disorientation that comes with being separated from his mate that begins to creep in, a mate that shouldn't even be alive.

His breathing becomes shallow, his body heats up, and stars begin swimming in his vision.

It’s terrifying to be at the mercy of his body, betrayed by instincts he never wanted in the first place.

With the little strength he has, he rolls out of the bed, stumbling to his knees when he tries to stand. 

Everything hurts, but he persists, desperate for the touch of his Alpha.

He expects Talia or Ra’s or a League member or two to rush into the room with Jason in tow to soothe him, but they never come, and he’s left to suffer in the throes of withdrawal in the middle of the floor, crying pitifully for his Alpha.

At some point, he blacks out from the intensity of his emotions and the pain accosting his body, and the next time he wakes, he’s attached to an IV with Damian lying beside him, staring at him with his big round eyes.

While he remains very definitively mentally unstable, the pain in his chest has lessened to a dull ache, due to the presence of his pup or the drugs pumped into his veins, he’s not sure.

Sensing his distress and misery, Damian nuzzles closer, his expression distinctly worried and afraid.

Regardless of his state of being, at the core of it, Tim is an Omega, and he automatically reaches out and wraps his arms around Damian to ease his heightened stress.

“Drink, pup,” he slurs, turning to his side and gently holding the boy to his swollen breast. He releases a deep sigh when his pup latches onto his nipple and begins to suckle.

Nursing Damian brings him a brief reprieve, something to focus on while putting his active meltdown on hold, but his moment of comfort is brought to an abrupt end when Talia enters the room to fetch her son, her gaze cruel as she stares down at his pitiful form.

“Damian. Go,” she commands, pointing to the League member waiting by the door.

Tim hasn’t the strength to clutch his pup to his chest and with one final look of hesitation, Damian climbs off the bed and follows his chaperone out of the room, leaving him and Talia alone.

“You are pathetic,” she states plainly, unfazed by the pure, unbridled hatred being communicated through his glare. “We have asked very little of you, Timothy Drake. You were to mate and nurse – nothing more, nothing less – yet, still, you succumb to fruitless rebellion.”

She reaches down and grasps his bruised throat just tight enough to be uncomfortable and smiles in such an uncanny fashion that it sends a shiver down Tim’s spine.

“Courtesy of your selfish irresponsibility, your Alpha is currently unfit to replenish your bosom,” she coldly explains. “We will make do with supplements for the time being, but I trust this experience has taught you obedience.”

She’s gone before he can formulate a response amid his anger and he’s once again left to wallow in his misery until Damian’s next nursing session.

It continues this way for, at minimum, three days. Time is a bit of a foreign concept to him at this point in his delirium.

People come and go, he’s fed at seemingly regular intervals, and Damian arrives promptly each day to suckle from his breast.

The problems begin on day four when Damian has trouble drinking, Tim’s milk supply being much too low. 

Damian tries a bit longer, keening in frustration, and they are quick to increase the dosage of his ‘supplement’, causing him to spiral further into numb emptiness, that distinct pain from being separated from his Alpha steadily returning the more he deteriorates.

By day seven, he’s completely useless and in immeasurable pain, his breasts small and producing not even a single drop of milk as Damian tries and fails to nurse. 

It hurts as his pup nibbles and sucks with all his might, but Tim can only lie there as his body struggles to keep itself running amid the emotional, physical, and psychological harm he’s been subjected to.

His consciousness comes and goes in waves. Last he wakes, Damian is gone and he lies pliant while Ra’s, Talia, and a few League members stare down at his pathetic body.

Their conversation is vague and distant, entering Tim’s throbbing head as muffled sounds.

“Inc…se… dos…e.”

“Too… r..sky. Pote…al… over…se.”

“It…orth… th… isk.”

“Do it.”

Suddenly, he’s jabbed with yet another needle, but this time, the reaction is new, and much, much worse.

It’s as if he’s been lit ablaze. 

The awful sensation he’d felt under the influence of the heat inducer and the sharp ache he feels from longing for his Alpha’s touch don’t hold a candle to searing pain traveling through his body now.

He feels ravenous but fragile, desperate to fill the empty hole in his heart, the yearning and arousal so heavy that it feels like he may really die this time around.

Jason is rabid, unhinged, borderline psychotic, as he foams at the mouth with rage.

He’s shackled down in every way possible, the chains around his wrists and ankles and neck and waist clanging as he thrashes and writhes with everything he has.

Amidst his pain, guilt, shame, remorse, anger, desolation, he’s completely out of control, and after he incapacitates the third League member assigned to him, they officially leave him alone.

His perpetual state of fight or flight makes him aggressive and unrestrained, essentially a wild animal. With no way to estimate time, he can only say that this adrenaline rush continues for a long time.

His anger is scary and complex and overwhelming, directionless almost. He’s pissed off at anything and everything, and only one person is spared from his murderous rage: his Omega.

It’s unfair. 

All of it’s unfair.

The fact that he was abandoned, that he died, that he was brought back to this shitty world without his consent only to be used as a weapon, that his memory was completely wiped when he refused to act as said weapon.

It’s fucked, and Jason is pissed.

Perhaps a side effect of the Lazarus Pit that he’d been so kindly dropped in by a group of psychos, his emotions are categorically uncontrollable, intense to the point where he feels physical reactions.

His heart aches like it’s never ached before, his head feels like it’s constantly being stabbed, he can’t seem to take full deep breaths, and he can’t stop crying.

It’s both pathetic and reassuring that he feels such heavy remorse and sorrow for his Omega, proof that he’s not a complete monster.

But feeling guilty for his actions doesn’t make up for the irreversible damage he’s inflicted on one he’s meant to hold dear.

It feels disgusting and wrong for him to long for someone he’s hurt so terribly, but with their bodies and spirits being forever tied, he’s forced to experience the miserable physical and mental effects of being separated from his mate.

His self-hatred reaches an all time high when he hears his Omega’s helpless cries echo down the hall, his heart splintering at each weak mewl that he has no power to soothe.

Time passes and he remains shrouded in the darkness, apparently left to rot by his captors after regaining his memories and becoming, effectively, useless. They still bring him meals and provide water, though, so it seems they still expect to find some use for him.

He’s proven correct some time later when the door to his cell slides open to reveal Talia looking more alarmed than he’s ever seen her.

Immediately, he lunges at her, growling as he struggles against his restraints. He hates her with every fiber in his body.

For the first time in what seems like forever, she speaks to him as if speaking to a human being.

“Jason Todd, your Omega will perish should you not comply.”

His aggression abruptly subsides as he registers her words. 

There’s not a hint of manipulation or ulterior motive in her tone. She means exactly what she says.

“Good, come with me,” she commands as he calms down and his shackles are released.

It takes everything he has not to kill her right then and there. It’d be easy to, even with the six highly-trained League members flanking him. They may be skilled, but he’s better, not to mention the rage rolling off of him in waves.

As they walk down the hall, Talia fills him in on basic information about his Omega, quite reluctantly. It’s obvious that she’s giving him the bare minimum, but Jason cherishes every detail.

“His name is Timothy Drake, often referred to as ‘Tim’. He is sixteen years of age, born and raised in Gotham City.”

Before he can demand more information, they’ve arrived at the room furthest down the hall and Jason is ambushed by a sense of dread so heavy that he nearly buckles at the knees.

The door is opened to reveal his Omega, Tim, lying motionless on the bed, his chest rising and falling rapidly as drool slides down his chin.

Jason is at his side in an instant. 

“What the fuck did you do,” he snarls, holding Tim in his arms.

“There was a… mishap with the dosage of his supplements,” Talia says carefully.

“A goddamn overdose?!” Jason curses, now in a complete panic. It feels like some sinister joke that he’s once again desperately holding onto someone he loves while they’re fighting an overdose. “Shit… shit, what do I do?”

“You must… relieve him.”

It doesn’t take a genius to understand what she’s saying, and Jason’s ire returns as he scowls at her and her goons.

“Get the fuck out,” he snarls, hugging Tim protectively to his chest.

Apparently not willing to defend themselves, they retreat from the room without protest, leaving Jason to deal with their fuck up.

Tim is barely conscious in his arms, his heart rate is dangerously high and he’s gasping for breath as his eyes struggle to focus.

“J–Ja-son,” he whispers weakly, tears trailing down his flushed cheeks, “help… me, A-Alpha.”

He doesn’t want to do this. 

He really, really, really doesn’t want to do this.

But, once again, he’s left with no choice but to violate his Omega’s dignity and innocence. 

In the wake of the absurdly intense want radiating from Tim, Jason’s arousal spikes and tears fall from his eyes as he gently lays him on the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks as he carefully undresses him. Apologies are all he can seem to form as he hovers over his mate and slowly enters his warmth. “I’m so sorry.” 

Chapter Text

Contrary to how most people experience overdoses, Tim is strangely aware of everything happening to him – meaning every gentle touch, passionate kiss, and rough thrust he feels with the utmost clarity.

At first, he’s convinced he’s finally kicked the bucket and simply experiencing the euphoria of terminal lucidity in his final moments. 

But as his heart rate begins to slow and he becomes increasingly alert, he quickly connects the blissful feeling to the man cradling his body as he makes tender love to him.

Not sex or intercourse or mating or breeding, making love.

Never has Tim felt such tender, unrestrained, adoring intimacy from another’s touch, and it’s heavily intoxicating.

He doesn’t know exactly how long Jason has been caring for him, how long he’s been keeping him alive in the most literal sense possible, but based on his reaction to the small, weak sound that falls from his lips at a particularly forceful thrust, he must have been in bad shape for some time now.

The second Tim responds, Jason stops all movement, his voice deep and rough and hot as his words come through as faint echoes.

“...im? Ti…! Ca… y… ear… e?”

Tim releases a pitiful moan as he uses what little strength he has to grind his hips, desperate for more stimulation.

“Ple-ase,” he croaks, tears falling from his eyes, “hu…rts.”

The pain that flooded into his system the moment Jason stopped is alleviated as he slowly begins to rock his hips once more, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his mating bite.

His raw, unfiltered affection is too much for Tim and he’s coming in seconds, his back arching instinctively as watery cum splurts from his overstimulated cocklet, evidence of how long they’ve been at it.

It’s essentially a heat cycle on steroids and he is still nowhere near satisfied.

Jason’s sweet love is ceaseless, progressively filling the deep, gaping hole left in Tim’s heart by their lengthy time apart.

The excruciating pain from the potent drugs traveling through his bloodstream melds with the all-consuming love from his mate to create an undefinable feeling of want and Tim moans and whimpers and keens as his mate continues to tend to him with utter devotion.

With his sensitivity cranked far past ten, the rough drag of his Alpha’s cock against his walls and the soft feel of his lips along his neck and his strong yet gentle grasp around his waist and- and- and everything drives him absolutely mad, his whines pitiful and needy as he holds Jason close.

“D–Don– Ahn! Mm! Do-n’t… s–stop,” he gasps, his limbs trembling as he desperately clings to his mate.

“I won’t, Tim,” Jason whispers low and gruff, snapping his hips into Tim’s tight pussy with increased vigor, “I’ve got you.”

Their desperate sounds of pleasure echo around the room, ricocheting off the walls back to them to further trigger their arousal.

As Jason drives his cock deep into his pussy, Tim pulls him down for a sensual kiss, their tongues entangling in an impassioned dance.

The longer they go, the more lucid and less frantic Tim becomes, his panic and fear evolving into ardor and excitement.

“O-h, fuck, Jason!” he cries out when Jason latches onto his breast, the pace of his hips brutal as he swirls his tongue around his sensitive nipple.

No method of stimulation is left untouched, and while he’s busy sucking on his Omega’s breast and pounding into his voracious pussy, Jason reaches down to stroke his cute cocklet, drawing out yet another gorgeous moan as Tim has an intense dry orgasm.

In response to the insanely erotic climax, Jason sheathes his huge cock in his folds, reaching deep to jam the stiff head against the soft entrance to Tim's womb.

By the time he feels a knot blowing, it’s too late to pull out, and lewd whines fall from Tim’s lips as the already massive intrusion begins to expand.

He glances up to see Jason staring down at him in horror. It’s rare for Alphas to knot outside of a rut cycle, so it’s unsurprising for him to look so shocked.

Jason’s apologies come flowing out once more as he makes several futile attempts to pull out, clearly afraid of hurting him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… shit, does it hurt? I’m sor–”

Tim cuts him off with another kiss, wrapping his arms around his neck and bucking his hips to push his cock even deeper.

Jason melts into his lips, a soft sigh escaping him as he gently caresses Tim’s body, his rough palms grazing over his sensitive skin and his fingers gingerly tracing his scars.

Despite circumstance, it almost feels as if they were meant to be, a deliberate decision by Fate herself, an Alpha made just for an Omega and an Omega made just for an Alpha. Jason and Tim, Tim and Jason, as the universe intended.

Another weak cry courtesy of his Alpha’s ever-growing cock and Tim breaks their kiss, throwing his head back against the bed and instinctively bucking his hips.

With his mate’s neck bared, Jason dives in, licking and sucking and lapping to paint a constellation of hickeys before leaving another kiss to the bite bonding their souls.

At that, Tim comes for the last time, his abdomen convulsing as his body gathers the last bit of cum, resulting in a weak spurt from his aching cocklet as his pussy clenches around his Alpha’s thickened rod.

He falls asleep to the tender kisses Jason leaves on his body, the drugs that were assaulting his system now flushed away by his mate’s unrestrained reverence.

Jason watches with both concern and adoration as Tim’s eyelids flutter closed, his face and body flushed a pretty shade of red and his wet eyelashes clumped together from his tears.

He has a total of three pieces of information on the captivating Omega beneath him – name, age, and place of origin – yet he feels cosmically attached.

It’s a bizarre feeling to be in love with a stranger.

He remains still while his knot slowly subsides, not daring to move as he focuses on Tim’s shallow breathing.

Lethargy begins to wheedle its way into his mind, the adrenaline rush of seeing his mate almost die wearing off and leaving only physical and mental exhaustion.

When his knot finally vanishes, he carefully pulls out and gently wraps Tim in the cleanest blankets left on the bed. He hugs his cocooned form against his chest, pressing kisses to his nape as his pulse gradually slows down and sleep takes him.

Based on the cloak of fatigue still draped over his body when he jolts awake, it’s clear he hasn’t slept long. He rises with a start, sensing danger and tightening his hold on his still-unconscious mate.

His wild eyes immediately land on the League members trying to surreptitiously pry Tim from his arms.

Jason’s aggression is instant. He releases his hold on Tim to lash out at their unbid company.

His good friend adrenaline comes back to visit and he goes blind with rage, defensiveness and possessiveness the only emotions he’s capable of feeling while facing the threat to his Omega.

Talia arrives as he’s choking out the fifth and last League member, the others strewn about the floor in various stages of ‘probably not dead’.

She keeps her distance and regards him with simultaneous disgust and mirth. Her gaze drifts briefly down to his unclothed crotch before flitting back up to bore holes into him.

“Congratulations. You have disabled those meant to tend to your Omega." It’s a miracle that she’s capable of sarcasm.

As she takes a few steps toward the bed, her attention now focused on Tim’s sleeping form, Jason quickly blocks her path.

“Touch him and you’re fucking dead,” he growls.

“Your Omega maintains life,” she says evenly, as if she isn’t the reason he nearly died in the first place, “should you wish for this fact to remain true, you will allow for him to be tended to.”

She’s right and he hates it.

While Tim’s overdose may have been circumvented, he still remains weak and vulnerable. There’s no telling what residual effects the heinous concoction of bullshit they jabbed him with might have on his already depleted body, so Jason’s left with no choice but to rely on his warden.

He remains planted to the floor between Talia and Tim as she calls for more League members who enter with more hesitation than usual, their fallen comrades proof of what a misstep may get them.

Although he needs their help to nurse Tim back to health, he refuses to let go of him, cradling him protectively in a princess carry as he follows the wary staff out of the room. 

They’re first led to an infirmary where they deem it necessary for him to bathe considering his relatively stable state. 

From there, Jason is guided to their extravagant bathhouse located multiple levels below the floor they apparently like to keep their prisoners.

A single glare is all it takes for the staff to turn and leave them to bathe alone, and Jason steps into a tepid bath, gently lowering Tim into the water and positioning him on his lap so that he doesn’t fall over.

It’s a terribly peaceful setting for such a detestable place, almost insulting how serene it is.

A light stream of water runs over a collection of smooth rocks, pouring into the bath to create calm ripples. Steam fills the room creating a comforting haze amidst the warm, dim lights.

After a few more minutes of simply sitting in the rare moment of tranquility, Jason begins to wash Tim’s body, starting with his arms and working his way down his body to his legs.

During the entire process of Jason essentially worshipping his body, Tim remains unconscious, his breathing regular and reassuring. He finally stirs halfway through Jason washing his hair, coming to with a low moan of confusion.

“What– huh?” he rasps, hoarse and weak.

“It’s okay, you’re safe,” Jason whispers, sounding painfully tender. He’s never been one for tact or sentimentality or really anything involving emotions but being in the presence of his mate brings out a level of warmth and affection he didn’t think possible of himself.

As his awareness increases, Tim begins to take fast, shallow breaths, very obviously trying to stave off a panic attack. It’s only natural given he’s coming out of an overdose only to wake up in a bathhouse with no recollection of how, when, or why he’d gotten there.

His breathing evens out when Jason plants a kiss to his mating bite, instantly soothing him and drawing a pleased sigh.

“Can you close your eyes for me?” Jason asks softly.

“Mm,” Tim hums, obediently closing his eyes to allow Jason to rinse his hair with a few pitchers of water over the head.

He opens his eyes after Jason gently wipes the water from his face, staring up at him with those beautiful blue irises. His cheeks are strangely flushed, more than normal even for them being in a steamy bathhouse.

Concerned, Jason raises a hand to his forehead, his worry growing when Tim flushes an even deeper red. But before he can question it, Tim speaks first.

“What happened?” he asks quietly, now sitting with his back against Jason’s chest. He seems to have a vague understanding of what transpired, but it’s likely he’s having trouble separating reality from hallucination.

“You overdosed,” Jason answers, equally quiet as he rests his chin on Tim’s shoulder and wraps his arms around his middle. “I almost lost you,” he whispers, tightening his hold.

It feels ridiculous to be so in love with someone he knows close to nothing about, but his heart aches with agonizing pain as he thinks about the unimaginable.

Tim is quiet for a long, long time, feeling his mate’s fear and unease to his core.

“I’m Tim Drake. Nice to meet you,” he finally whispers, placing a hand over Jason’s right below his ribs.

It’s completely out of left field and, admittedly, sort of hilarious in a heartbreaking kind of way, and Jason can’t help the small grin that appears on his lips.

“Likewise,” he says, “I’m Jason Todd.”

When Tim remains silent, simply resting back against his chest and stroking his hand as he stares down at the water, Jason continues, slowly raising a hand to rest at the base of his still-bruised throat.

His smile disappears and his heart pangs with guilt at the memory of strangling his Omega, his mate, his Tim against the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes again, his voice strained, “I hurt you and–”

“Don’t,” Tim says before he can finish, turning his head to stare up at him with soft yet stern eyes. “None of this is your fault.”

Jason is dumbfounded, to say the least. He can’t understand why, how Tim is so forgiving, what drives him to be so rational in the face of such emotional distress and trauma.

“But–” he snaps his mouth shut when Tim’s eyebrows knit together, indicating his disapproval. “…Okay,” he mutters, returning his chin to Tim’s shoulder when he turns his head back toward the rocky waterfall on the far end of the large bath.

Apparently wanting to use this time to get to know each other – ironic considering they’ve explored each other in their most vulnerable states – Tim continues with his self introduction.

“I’m sixteen, seventeen in July. I’m an only child and I’m from Gotham City. I like sunsets more than sunrises. My favorite color is red and I’m allergic to peanuts. Math is my best subject but I like history more. I like to skateboard and listen to alternative rock. I absolutely hate spiders…”

Jason can sense his hesitation in the way his body tenses, his breathing cadence increasing in speed ever-so-slightly.

“And… I– I used to be Robin,” he finally says, terror, insecurity, and guilt emanating from his entire being as he resolutely stares ahead.

“…You what?”

Though Jason's tone is more stupefied than upset, Tim winces anyway, on the sharp edge of anxiety and fear as he awaits Jason’s response.

While he doesn’t particularly want to leave Tim suspended in his state of trepidation, Jason takes a long moment to process this revelation.

Bruce had replaced him.

Bruce had replaced him.

He expects to be enraged, furious at being abandoned by the one he trusted the most, but all that’s left for him to feel is profound empathy as he stares at Tim’s trembling form.

It’s both comical and devastating that they’ve been brought together like this. Two Robins who’ve had their wings clipped now huddling together in their misery with only each other to rely on.

How poetic.

The wrath is there, no doubt about it, churning deep in his gut like a caged bear clawing at the metal bars of its prison, but his desire to soothe his Omega wins out, and he remains calm as he responds to Tim’s vulnerable confession.

“Me too,” he says simply.

“I know,” Tim says after a few moments, his relief evident. “You were my hero.”

It sounds childish but Jason is simultaneously touched and gutted, self-hatred seeping back into his heart at his own uselessness.

“Some hero,” he mutters bitterly, painfully aware of how pathetic and helpless he is in their current situation, how spectacularly he’s failed at protecting him. “I’m not a good guy, Tim.”

He tones down the self-deprecation when he notices Tim’s saddened expression. Desperate to replace his frown with a smile, he tries his hand at humor, regardless of how out of place it may be.

“Nice to meet you, Robin. I’m Robin,” he says, deadpan and flat.

Miraculously, his attempt is successful and he’s rewarded with the most beautiful smile he’s ever seen, bright and warm and downright blinding.

The violent stutter that assaults his heart is distinct and unique, something completely unrelated to the biological bond they share. It's a terrifying kind of attraction but he longs to feel more of it.

When his cute chuckles subside, Tim turns to him with an expectant gaze, his blue eyes meeting green with curiosity and desire.

“I’m eighteen, nineteen in August,” Jason starts, ducking his face and resting his forehead against Tim’s nape. “I’m also an only child and from Gotham City. I like rain and hate snow. My favorite color is green. I’m shit at school but love to read. ”

He lifts his head to gauge Tim's reaction only to find his eyes shining with affection and longing. The next thing he knows, he’s being kissed, Tim's soft lips pressed against his in what can only be described as a tsunami of love.

He’s caught off guard but his body is instinctively ready, and Jason tilts his head to deepen their connection, relishing in the breathy moans and sweet sounds being released by his mate.

Following weeks, no, months of constant terror and confusion and turmoil, it’s all he needs and all he deserves.

Tim Drake is his and only his, and he will do anything and everything in his power to protect the one he’s fated to love.

Chapter Text

Following their disastrous decision to withhold Tim's Alpha from him, Ra’s and Talia allow him to see Jason more regularly, with the added caveat of constant supervision, save for when they’re forced into intercourse to replenish ‘resources’ for Damian.

As a result, the only times they’re able to talk with any confidentiality is when they’re fucking each other. Not the most ideal setting to hatch an escape plan, but they make do.

To maximize their opportunity to strategize and to allow Tim’s spleen-less body to recover, they take it slow, which inadvertently causes their sex to become extremely sensual and intimate very quickly.

“S–Slower, Ja-son,” Tim breathes, clutching the sheets in his fists as Jason takes him on his hands and knees.

At first, it was mortifying to have sex completely sober, squarely because in each of their previous experiences, one or both of them have been completely delirious. But as they shifted their focus from being utterly humiliated to getting the hell out of here – and moved by the threat of being forced into another mating cycle were they to disobey – it became more natural, though not any less physically or emotionally exhilarating.

After just a few days, they operate like a well-oiled machine, bouncing ideas and tactics off of each other as they plan.

Heeding his mate’s request, Jason slows to a snail's pace and leans forward to mouth at his nape. 

He doesn’t mind going slow. Part of him actually prefers it, with the risk of hurting Tim by accident steadily decreasing the slower he goes, especially with his still-fragile body post overdose.

“Every– Ugh! Mm! Every fo-urth d–day,” he stutters, his pussy pulsing at the drawn-out drag of Jason’s long cock, “sh– Ah! shift c–change.”

“Before… or… a-fter Dami?” Jason asks, grunting low at the grip around his cock.

“Af– Ahn! Fuck, Jason!” Tim cries out, “Aft-er, hah!”

“How much… Christ, you’re tight… time.”

Unable to handle essentially being edged by his Alpha’s huge cock, Tim wraps his hand around Jason’s wrist positioned beside his head and squeezes, a silent request to speed up.

Jason happily obliges, rutting into him with more enthusiasm as Tim’s pretty sounds dance around the room.

Overwhelmed, Tim shoves his face into the mattress, his moans muffled as he welcomes his mate’s massive cock.

Keeping pace, Jason gently snakes an arm underneath Tim’s chest and leans back to sit him in his lap as he thrusts up into his pussy, his hands fondling his breasts and pinching his sensitive nipples.

“Let me hear you, Tim,” he whispers encouragingly.

He’s unsure whether he’s referring to the obscene sounds being released by his mate or the details on the shift change that they can potentially use to their advantage.

“N-ine- Ah! Ah! Ahn! Alpha, please!” he whines, high and loud as his body tenses against Jason’s chest, squirting cum and slick onto the bed.

Jason lowers him back onto his stomach after shooting his load inside. He remains hovering over his body, trailing kisses up and down his spine as he waits for him to deliver the rest of his observations before Talia or Ra’s or whoever comes to interrupt them with watchful eyes and prying ears.

“Nine minutes,” Tim says a few minutes later, still out of breath but no longer unable to form words. “Sometimes eight. Gives us a gap between Dami's nursing and the new shift to get out.”

Their plan is rudimentary at best but finding a potential weak point like this is a huge development.

“I only have half the floor mapped out,” Jason replies, his kisses tickling Tim’s throat. “I need a bit more time.”

“That’s fine. Can you gather supplies? Mainly clothes for the cold. We’ll need enough for three.”

Jason pauses, his lips frozen on his smooth shoulder.

“Three?”

Tim turns his head to meet his confusion with his own look of bewilderment.

“Yes, three,” he confirms firmly. “You, me, and Dami.”

“Tim… you can’t be serious,” Jason whispers, flabbergasted.

In their short time together, he’s gathered that Tim is as logical and clearheaded as they come, so he’s shocked to find that he has baked the toddler into their grand escape plans as if it were the most obvious conclusion in the world.

Jason’s not entirely against the idea, being weirdly fond of the little squirt himself, but it’s a long shot and, realistically speaking, Damian will only slow them down.

“Of course I’m serious. He’s done nothing wrong and deserves freedom just as much as we do,” Tim snaps defensively. His tone wavers ever-so-slightly, indicating his unease and lack of confidence in his decision.

Before Jason can respond, the door is slamming open and they’re being forcefully separated, the staff quickly making them decent in preparation for Damian’s arrival.

Per usual, the boy beelines to Tim, jumping in his arms with a bright smile and hugging him tight like he’ll disappear if he doesn’t.

Jason watches as Tim immediately softens, a flower being enriched by the sun.

“Hi, pup,” he says, impossibly gentle and loving.

Damian croons in response, nuzzling against the hand stroking his face and staring up at Tim with unmistakable adoration.

Day in and day out, Jason has observed his mate and the pup interact, but it’s only now that he sees their bond. It’s as if discovering that Tim plans to bring Damian along has opened his eyes, allowing him to witness their deep attachment in its totality.

As Damian begins to nurse, Tim beckons Jason toward him, exhaustion painted on his features. 

Moving quickly, Jason positions himself behind his mate, pulling him into his lap and protectively wrapping his arms around him and the pup.

They're almost like a human matryoshka the way they’re nested together.

The sigh that escapes Tim communicates pure satisfaction and contentment as he leans back against Jason’s chest, holding Damian to his breast and resting his head back on his Alpha’s sturdy shoulder.

Seeing this side of him feels, put mildly, extremely intimate, and Jason can physically feel the strong maternal instincts radiating from his Omega, that powerful protective spirit creating a comforting air around them.

He buries his face in the crook of Tim’s neck and stares down at the pup happily suckling from the perfect peak for a long time.

“Okay…” he finally concedes, understanding that Damian is a nonnegotiable.

Tim smiles and lolls his head to the side to press a sweet kiss to Jason’s cheek.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his hands continuing to stroke his pup’s small back.

Motherhood is as familiar of a concept to Tim as walking is to a fish.

In other words, he has no idea what the hell he’s doing.

He acts purely on instinct around his pup, and while he’s not confident that he’s doing things right, per se, Damian’s and, relatedly, Jason’s responses tell him he’s doing a satisfactory job.

The relief that washes over him when Jason officially signs off on including Damian is palpable, and it’s then that Tim realizes just how much he’s come to care for the same boy he’d once dreaded meeting.

You’d think he birthed the pup himself by the way he bursts with happiness and warmth in his presence.

With the list of future escapees finalized, they’re able to hone in on the details of their plan. But while he and Jason spend much of their time strategizing, they can only have so much sex, so they’re often left with idle time to talk about other non-secretive things ranging from Jason’s experience coming back from the dead to the most efficient way to load a dishwasher.

It’s passive and leisurely and domestic in a way that makes Tim’s heart swell.

The more time he spends with Jason, the more he finds himself crushing on him like he’s nine years old again, blushing when he doesn’t mean to and fumbling his words when he’s flustered. Old habits die hard as they say.

He feels ridiculous for being excited about having simple conversations with someone he’s been fucked into oblivion and back by, but he’s long learned that applying logic to emotional responses often leads nowhere, so he lets it be.

They’re engaged in one of these back and forths about nothing in particular when they’re served up the final piece to their plan on a silver platter.

By this point, their routine is well-established and the League members attending to them have become complacent, revealing tidbits of information while oblivious to the two highly-trained detectives within earshot.

“It’s a shame Lady Talia will be away on business next week,” one sighs. “I had hoped to receive her tutelage in my training sessions.”

“Hush!” the other hisses, eyeing the Alpha and Omega cuddling on the bed, their limbs tangled together as they quietly chat. “Quiet yourself. They’ll hear.”

The blabbermouth scoffs, “You worry too much.”

As they continue their meaningless discussion, Tim and Jason begin another conversation thread communicating purely through eye contact, physical cues, and well-hidden sign language. Thanks to Batman, maintaining two or more conversations at once is a breeze.

‘Next week, fourth day,’ Tim motions.

‘Supplies prepped, floor mapped.’

‘Exit?’

Jason nods, eyes steely. Tim can see the cogs turning in his head as he visualizes their escape step-by-step, minute-by-minute.

It’s a fairly simple plan considering the weeks they’ve had to prepare: wait for Talia to depart, utilize the eight, maybe nine, minutes of quiet during the shift change on the fourth day, find Damian, book it. 

Piece of cake, right?… 

Wrong.

The plan hinges on entirely too many uncontrollable variables to be comfortable for someone as meticulous as Tim and more than a few times, Jason has had to calm him down and talk him out of his endless circles of logic.

Naturally, Jason shares the same worries, but he’s much more adept at ‘going with the flow’ and Tim is immensely grateful to have him at his side.

In all fairness, Jason has the added benefit of having more physical freedom than Tim does and, consequently, more peace of mind and familiarity as he approaches the idea of navigating the dungeon that is the League of Assassins HQ. 

While Tim has spent their time apart laid up in bed, prohibited from exerting his body in any way lest he interfere with his valuable Omega traits, his Alpha has essentially had free reign, permitted to exercise and roam about so long as he’s accompanied by, at minimum, eight guards. As long as they keep his mate cooped up, Jason can't escape anyway, so his security is relatively lax compared to Tim's.

If you’d ask Tim, he’d say it’s complete and utter bullshit. But it is what it is. He doesn’t have the time to be bitter about gender politics and sexism.

Because of this, their efforts are largely split between strategizing and executing, Tim busy piecing together the plan while Jason covertly assembles necessary supplies and commits their massive prison to memory.

Two days out from M-Minute of H-Hour on D-Day, Tim nearly blows it.

It’s a typical nursing session – the fact that he’s now accustomed to this routine is not lost on him and remains terribly unsettling – and Damian arrives as chipper and smiley as he usually does.

Tim greets him with his regular warmth, “Hi, pup.”

But the moment Damian leans forward to latch onto the perky nipple topping his full breast, Tim catches sight of a dark bruise just below his collarbone and pushes him away, eyes wide with alarm as he quickly undresses him.

He’s horrified to find the boy’s body covered in bruises and cuts, the anger in his gut bubbling with increased fire the longer he gazes upon the small pup in his lap.

For the first time in his life, he experiences true bloodlust.

Apparently what they say about mothers being willing to kill for their children is true because Tim is barely holding himself back from breaking down the door, hunting down Ra’s Al Ghul, and ripping him to shreds with his bare hands when Jason arrives to mollify him.

“Jason, they–”

“I know, Tim,” Jason says, anticipating Tim’s tirade. His tone is flat but does little to mask his own ferocity. “I know.”

His shallow breathing evens out as his mate soothes his storm with tender kisses.

As most studies and textbooks would say, Alphas are often an anchor for Omegas, natural born protectors and providers, and Tim is annoyed at having to acknowledge this fact as true based on his own current experience with Jason’s voice instantly quieting his busy mind.

“Two days,” he whispers into his ear, eyes darting to the two League members posted by the door. "We’re almost there."

Unfortunately, Jason’s right. They’re at the ten-yard line – third and goal – and if Tim were to go ballistic now, they'd be swiftly put on lockdown, dashing any hopes of escape.

So he grits his teeth, takes a few deep breaths, and rests back against his Alpha's sturdy body.

He doesn’t know he’s crying until the first tear drips onto Damian’s plump cheek. He brushes it away with a defeated sigh.

“I’m sorry, Dami, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

His ability to regulate his emotions has noticeably declined since his first arrival but he has yet to determine why. There are simply too many possible reasons why he’s now quicker to anger or break down into tears or be consumed by joy for him to whittle it down to a single cause.

It’s strange to feel highs and lows more frequently than the even-keeled neutrality he’s accustomed to. At the current moment, he has little mental capacity to investigate his off-kilter hormones, so he simply blames the aftereffects of drugs for his sudden tears of frustration.

As Damian stares up at him with those adorably round green eyes, innocent and curious, Tim gently guides him to his sensitive bud, gasping softly when he begins to suckle. While his pup nurses, his mate continues pampering him, his woodsy musk comforting and relaxing.

Thus, their plans remain intact, and two days later, Tim is on a knife's edge as he watches the last of the staff leave the room with Damian and Jason following their nursing session, guiding them to their respective holds for the duration of the shift change.

He’s on his feet in an instant, the eight minute timer starting the moment the door shuts. 

The day prior, he’d nabbed a key from one of the staff by faking a fainting spell, so exiting his room is a cinch, only he’s half naked and completely empty handed.

Poking his head out of the doorway, he scans his surroundings once, twice, three times before stepping out into a freedom he hasn’t felt in ages. His shoulders are light as he sneaks down the dim hallway, his bare feet quiet as he passes by the dingy cell they’d sequestered Jason in. 

After only one close call with a League member who was running late to their shift change, he arrives at the heavy door to his Alpha's room-slash-cell, making quick work of the lock and sliding it open to reveal Jason already packing their supplies.

Tim has no idea where he’s been stashing all of these items, but he doesn’t have time to ask as a set of thick clothes are tossed his way.

“Six fifteen,” Jason announces, his mental clock only two seconds off from Tim’s. 

They’re dressed and ready to go with four minutes left and hurry down the hall, around the corner, up the stairs, and through the long corridor to Damian’s room following Jason’s reliable navigation.

The fourth of eight keys on the set Tim had stolen unlocks the door and they enter to find the small boy huddled by the window on the far end of the room peering at them with obvious fear, natural given their masked appearance.

The room is lavish and beautiful and so, so soulless, to the point that Tim can faintly hear his heart shattering on the cold marble floor.

After what has likely been months of nursing him, Tim can confidently say that Damian is his pup. Not Talia’s or Ra’s’ or even Jason’s, his.

The vehement love he feels for him is what compels him to remove his mask and approach with care, reaching a hand out and beckoning his pup closer.

“Come, Dami,” he whispers. “It’s me, love.”

Recognition flashes in Damian’s eyes but he makes no move from his spot by the window, hesitation still present as he shifts his gaze between the Omega before him and the Alpha stationed by the door.

Two minutes and six seconds.

“It’s okay, pup, don’t be afraid,” he coos, doing everything in his power to hide his anxiety.

Damian shuffles out from his hiding spot at an excruciatingly slow speed.

One minute and twenty-one seconds.

“Dami, please,” he urges, desperate.

Still, Damian wavers and Tim’s panic only grows as doubt invades his mind.

‘Did I overestimate his attachment to me? Maybe I underestimated his loyalty to the League… He’s only three… But he was born into this. Fuck, what if I can’t get him to come with us? What if– What if– What if–’ his mind unhelpfully provides.

Loud shouts begin to echo down the hall and Tim can sense Jason’s urgency without even seeing him.

Fifty-three seconds.

A small glint of hope in Damian’s eyes. They’re almost there. Just a bit more.

Forty.

Tim inches closer, his arms open and inviting even as he struggles to calm his pounding heart.

Twenty-seven.

“Tim, we’re running out of time,” Jason calls from the doorway, his tone grave and pressing.

Tim’s final Hail Mary is humiliating but necessary. 

More than once he’d noticed Damian’s lips pressed together as if preparing to make a ‘M’ sound and it hadn’t taken much to deduce what he was trying to say. But even as he employs this piece of information as a tool to save his pup from a violent fate, he can’t help but feel horribly queasy as he opens his mouth to speak…

“Come with Mama, pup,” he coaxes, his love for his pup, his baby, overflowing from his heart.

Chapter Text

Mama is pretty and strong, with striking blue eyes, soft black hair, and an angelic smile. 

Baba is fierce and handsome. He has bright green eyes and tanned skin and a comforting laugh.

Although Damian Al Ghul is but three years old, this much he’s been able to understand.

Each long night he’d spent wishing for his real parents to come to his rescue became worth it when they’d arrived a few months prior to retrieve him from the evil people claiming to be his mother and grandfather.

When he looks at himself in the mirror now, he sees Mama’s beautiful hair and Baba’s intense green eyes, facets of his true mother and father staring back at him with pride. 

His tan skin and warm smile are proof of their relation to him and he could not be more relieved. 

He was born gentle, a sin among the League of Assassins, and he’s paid the heavy price for it in every brutal training session, every harsh beratement, every cruel beating he’s received since the moment he gained consciousness.

The eyes of the cold woman he calls ‘Mother’ and the wicked man he calls ‘Grandfather’ hold only scorn and disappointment, a stark contrast to the love and affection he’s met with when he’s taken to nurse with Mama and Baba.

His tears have never been met with tenderness like that of his mama. Not once has another come to his defense with bared teeth like his baba has.

They are his rock, his hope, his everything.

So as he continues through his day to day life of training, studying, training, eating, sleeping, and more training, he feels lighter, at ease with the knowledge that his parents have come to save him.

The first time he sees his sweet mama anger, he’s startled. It directly follows a merciless training session he endures, the resulting pattern of cuts and bruises across his skin stinging as he trudges down the hall after his chaperones.

With Mother absent for a period undefined to him, Grandfather has been in charge of his training, a nightmare come true. The sessions are hellish, nearly inhumane, but he endures it, solely motivated by the fact that he will see his parents soon.

His pain and fatigue dissipate when he sees Mama, rushing forward to enjoy the brief period of comfort he’s allowed daily.

“Hi, pup,” Mama coos.

Damian loves him. So much so that he’s afraid his little heart will burst.

‘Hi, Mama. I love you,’ he wants to say.

Instead, he buries his face in his chest, breathing in the comforting scent like oxygen.

Perhaps due to his inherent shyness or the deeply beaten in ingrained habit to avoid talking out of turn, he rarely speaks around them, only relinquishing his thoughts and opinions when absolutely necessary.

After absorbing his tender love like a sponge, he turns to look at Baba who sits nearby, gazing at him with a more subdued but equally profound fondness.

His baba often wears a serious expression, but he’s surprisingly familiar with the concept of humor and often makes him giggle with silly faces or gentle tickles when Mama falls asleep.

The small smile on Damian’s lips drops into a worried frown when he’s abruptly pushed away from his mama's bosom before he’s able to drink even a single drop of milk.

An icy chill crawls across his skin when he glances up to see Mama staring down at him with absolute rage.

At first, he thinks he’s done something wrong, tears prickling at his eyes in fear, but once his mama begins to unclothe him and examine his body, he understands the source of his fury.

His hands are gentle as they glance the mottled bruises and scabbed cuts on his skin. He can almost see Mama’s heart breaking in his crushed expression.

Damian’s convinced his mama is going to go berserk, but before the rage emanating from him can intensify any more, Baba intervenes, wrapping his arms around the two of them and peppering Mama in kisses in the sweet way he likes while his large, rough hand comes to rest on Damian’s back to soothe him.

“Jason, they–”

“I know, Tim,” Baba whispers before Mama can even express his anger. “I know.”

While Baba remains composed, Damian can see that he, too, is seething beneath the surface as his eyes drift across the traces of violence upon his skin. 

He finds it admirable that he makes an effort to compose himself for Mama’s sake, and Damian pockets that knowledge, internally vowing to be there for his mama no matter what.

“Two days. We’re almost there.”

Damian doesn’t understand what Baba means, but he’s happy to see that Mama looks a bit calmer.

A while longer and he’s reaching out to caress his cheek with teary eyes.

“I’m sorry, Dami,” he whispers, kissing him atop the head, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Mama is much more emotional than when they first met, but Damian doesn’t mind. He loves and cherishes him regardless, just like Baba does.

‘Don’t cry, Mama, it’s alright,’ his heart shouts.

He takes a moment to study the conflicting expressions painted on his mama’s face. It’s hard enough to comprehend emotions as a toddler, but having been raised in an environment of strict cruelty and ruthlessness, he finds it immensely difficult to parse what his mama is feeling.

He doesn’t manage to land on any single emotion before he’s being gently guided forward to drink.

Mama’s milk is sweet and light and comforting, everything he is but in liquid form. 

Ever since he’s begun nursing, Damian has felt stronger and more nourished, compared to the lethargy and haziness that came with the artificial pills Mother used to make him consume, so he suckles with enthusiasm and eagerness, valuing every second he has with his parents before he’s taken away again.

After only a few more minutes of nursing, his guardians enter the room and whisk him away, tossing him right back into the miserable ‘Loved and Lost’ portion of his day that he wholeheartedly despises.

With Mother away on business, much of Damian’s time outside of training and studying is spent staring out of the window in his room.

It’s a large window… he thinks. With most of the rooms in his ‘home’ being windowless, he doesn’t have much to compare with.

There’s not much to look at outside, but he looks anyway. At the mountains and snow and bushes and rocks and boulders. At anything that reminds him that there exists a world to escape to, that there's a reason for his hope.

He wishes he could show his parents his beloved window that brings him so much comfort. Though he hasn’t seen Baba’s room, if it’s anything like Mama’s, it’s likely small and suffocating, and he worries for their health.

It doesn’t take long for his imagination to take off as he gazes out at the snowy peaks from the daybed beside the window.

He daydreams about mighty pirates and spacemen and soldiers. About how he’d bravely save Mama from an evil dragon if he were a knight and how he’d be Baba’s right hand man against a wicked villain if he were a superhero. 

It’s one of the final remnants of childlike wonder that is left behind in his three-year-old mind and he doesn’t even know it.

Suddenly, he hears the lock in the heavy wooden door to his room turning and immediately hides.

His guardians don’t come to bother him much, but when they do, it’s usually for a scary reason. 

Like when Grandfather got upset that they gave him extra sweets at supper so they called him out of his room to beat him with a wooden paddle.

Or when he’d passed out from exhaustion during training and two guardians had come to fetch him and forced him to kneel on rice with heavy sacks on his shoulders for hours.

Or the time Mother had caught him crying and tied him to the pillar just outside of the main gate until his skin turned a faint purple in the Himalayan chill.

His skin crawls with dreadful anticipation, his eyes water habitually, his knees wobble as he begins to replay recent events, desperately searching for what it is he should be apologizing for when they enter.

It’s strange that they tried multiple keys before finally finding the correct one, but Damian’s far too terrified to note this oddity as he squishes himself into the gap between his armoire and the daybed, trembling from head to toe.

The door swings open to reveal two masked figures. Though they’re dressed in the same attire as his guardians, their demeanor and movements are entirely different – earnest, frantic, desperate.

He watches with wide eyes as the shorter of the two approaches. Something about them is familiar, but Damian refuses to move, too accustomed to being betrayed by guardians who have treated him well after they are found out and reprimanded by Grandfather or Mother.

His rigid defiance shifts to shaky hesitation when the guardian removes their mask.

“Come, Dami. It’s me, love.”

Of all people, the one he had least expected to see was Mama.

He doesn’t understand.

Why is Mama dressed like the other bad guys? Is Mama a bad guy? What about Baba? Are they friends with Mother and Grandfather? Have they been watching him to make sure he’s being good? Does Mama even love him?

He glances between Mama and the man by the door who he assumes to be Baba, his heart and mind in a battle so vicious it puts gladiators to shame.

“It’s okay, pup, don’t be afraid,” Mama says in that sweet voice that fills his heart to the brim. 

Damian can tell he’s nervous, but he decides to give them the benefit of the doubt. It would be, should be, impossible for them to fake the level of raw, real affection they’d given him so ceaselessly. 

As he wriggles out from his hiding spot, Mama becomes a bit more urgent.

“Dami, please.”

His memories of receiving unadulterated love clashes with the hours of torture he’s been subjected to at the hands of his guardians, and his feet remain planted. His trust wavers in a way that is entirely too much for a three year old.

At last, his heart triumphs. Desperate to be proven right, he gazes at Mama with hopeful eyes, pleading, begging for him to give him a sign that he’s making the right decision.

They remain only a few feet apart, eyes locked in silent communication when Baba’s voice comes from nearby the door, sounding more serious than Damian has ever heard him.

“Tim, we’re running out of time.”

Now only about a foot and a half away, Mama opens his arms and smiles in a way that rivals the sun.

“Come with Mama, pup.”

It’s all Damian needs to be dragged back to the side of hope, despair left in the dust as his shoulders sag in relief.

Mama and Baba are kind and warm and affectionate and loving and everything he’s ever wanted. They’re a gift heaven-sent and he loves them with every molecule of his being.

Which is why he ultimately chooses to follow them with absolute trust when they come to guide him to salvation.

A single tear streaks down his cheek as he dashes forward and dives into Mama’s arms.

“Okay, Mama,” he mumbles against his shoulder.

The moment Damian caves, they’re legging it down the hallway toward the exit Jason had discovered a few weeks prior when he’d put on an Oscar-worthy performance and gone on a dramatic ‘rut-fueled’ rampage through the entire lair. 

With the few seconds they had left, Tim had bundled the pup up in three layers of thick shirts and coats in preparation for the cold.

Now, Jason carries Damian, in addition to their supplies, while Tim sprints a few paces behind, his forcibly enfeebled body doing little to help.

He’s out of breath by the time they reach the staircase. Exhaustion pulls at his limbs as he stares up at the seemingly endless steps.

Eight flights. A hundred twenty steps between him and his freedom. 

He grits his teeth and begins to ascend, the pounding footsteps and frantic shouts from behind quickening his steps.

As they reach the ground floor and slink through the hallways like they're in some shitty heist movie, Tim struggles to quell his boisterous mind. He’s done the calculations a thousand times over and every time the result has been the same for their far-fetched plan: not promising.

He turns to see Damian remarkably calm in Jason’s arms, just another knife in Tim’s heart as he realizes how horribly he’s been treated at just three years old for him to be so unfazed.

Finally at the topmost landing, Jason kicks in the door to the roof. The chill is immediate, the frigid wind whipping by like sharp slaps to the face.

Tim retrieves Damian from his arms and hugs him close, wrapping his bundled form in his coat and trying to will all of the heat from his body to transfer to the shivering pup.

Meanwhile, Jason is breaking into the helicopter parked right smack dab in the middle of the big ‘H’ on the roof.

It had almost felt like a joke when they’d overheard the conversation between the League members supervising them two weeks prior.

“Can you believe Master Ra’s purchased a helicopter of all things? Funny considering how old school he is with his weapons arsenal.”

“Tell me about it. Just once I’d like to shoot a gun instead of swinging a dumb wooden pole or a katana or whatever.”

“Lady Talia has a gun.”

“Yeah, genius. That’s because she’s Lady Talia.”

“Whatever. Anyway, I hear the thing’s just parked on the roof.”

“You’re kidding. No way he just leaves it up there.”

“Maybe he had an identity crisis and wanted to get something new and shiny or something. Well, to be fair, it’s an older model. Pretty vintage, I hear.”

“Matches his ancient personality, I guess.”

The two idiots proceeded to discuss in great detail how to get to the roof, what model it is, and how often it’s monitored, among other things, essentially serving the two prisoners they were supposed to be supervising a full course meal of ideas.

Jason finally breaks open the door and quickly hauls Tim and Damian inside, slamming the door shut behind him and immediately fishing around for wires underneath the main console.

Tim watches helplessly, only able to worry and overthink at this point in the plan. 

According to Jason, hotwiring a helicopter is close enough to hotwiring a car that it falls into the category of ‘entirely doable’, so Tim ultimately left this part of the plan to him, putting his full trust in his mate.

He instinctively rocks back and forth to soothe Damian as Jason works, leaving soft kisses in his hair both to calm his pup and himself.

Just as the first League member bursts through the door to the rooftop, sparks fly and the engine comes to life, sputtering a few times before the rotors begin turning.

Damian stares up at him as Jason prepares to pilot a helicopter with only two instances of flying a plane – arguably helicopter-adjacent at best – under his belt.

“Mama?” he squeaks, his previous composure now unsteady as he watches Jason’s hands fly across the console, flipping switches and turning knobs like he’s a DJ on the main stage, only the DJ is holding the lives of three people in his hands.

“It’s okay, love,” Tim whispers, quickly grabbing the ear protection Jason hands to him and placing it gently over Damian’s ears.

Unable to risk a premature launch, they’re forced to wait for the rotors to reach at minimum 300rpm before takeoff – sitting ducks in a tempestuous pond.

“Jason,” Tim urges. From his vantage point, he can’t see the meter reading the rotor rpm’s, so he’s left to depend on his judgement.

“I know,” Jason says, his tone low as his eyes bore holes into the ticking meter.

League members begin banging on the durable windows, their weapons doing little to damage the barrier meant to protect the great Ra’s Al Ghul. Still, Tim hides Damian’s face in his chest to protect him from their relentless pursuers.

“Jason,” he repeats, more urgently this time.

He tries and fails to calm down, not wanting to burden his mate with the stress that he most definitely feels. It’s not the easiest thing in the world when the only thing separating them from a horde of brutal assassins is a thin sheet of plexiglass.

“Fucking hell,” Jason curses, his grip tight on the control column.

They finally take off just as a League member pries the door on Tim’s side open and reaches in to grab him by the arm.

Fueled by adrenaline, Tim twists his torso to create space between his assailant and Damian before kicking them in the gut to send them tumbling forty feet below.

His heart rate is off the charts as they fly southwest, the direction with the highest number of cities and towns for them to shroud themselves.

Jason is a bit shaky at the controls but, for the most part, they’re home free. 

Tim can’t believe it.

I’m free… We’re free… We’re free…

As he watches the scenery zip by, he’s overcome with the sudden desire to jump for joy, to sing until his voice gives out, to laugh with his whole heart as if told the funniest joke in the whole world.

Instead, he hides his face in Damian’s hair and weeps, the cauldron of stress he’s been tending to for the months finally bubbling over.

Chapter Text

Jason has always wondered why his parents gave him the middle name ‘Peter’ when ‘Fuck Up’ was a perfectly viable option.

Just hearing it out loud, Jason ‘Fuck Up’ Todd, sounds much better. Not to mention it fits his M.O., evidenced by the fact that he’s currently standing knee-deep in snow fifty feet away from the burning wreckage of what used to be a helicopter while his mate attempts to appease a bawling pup.

Marvelous.

In all fairness, it was a controlled* descent forced by fuel shortage, and he’d managed to grab his two passengers and bail before he got blown up (again), so it isn’t entirely his fault.

^*Debatable.

Thanks to the shock and adrenaline assaulting his entire nervous system from neuron to neuron, he’s still functional and able to quickly gather Tim and Damian in his arms before beginning the descent down the mountainside.

There are a few non-fuck ups in the resulting outcome, though, one being the fact that, miraculously, none of them were injured beyond a few cuts and scrapes. The other is the tiny village at the base of the steep hill that beckons them with its promise of civilization.

It’s surprisingly easy for him to carry both the pup and his Omega, both of them feeling light as a feather even with the added weight of their supplies, more specifically, the supplies that survived the crash.

He’s still on autopilot as he wades through the snow, his two dependents clinging to him with shuddering breaths as they brave the cold.

Since the moment Tim arrived at his 'room' in the horrid place the League of Assassins calls home, Jason has been calm and hyperfocused, barely an ounce of panic or anxiety sneaking past the thick barrier of concentration surrounding his mind.

You’d think it’s confidence that keeps his head level. It’d be unsurprising considering how brash and cocky he can come off as sometimes. 

But what really drives him to keep his cool, to keep going are the two people he holds in his arms as he marches through heavy powder.

Tim, his mate, his one and only, the sole person he’s dedicated everything to, and Damian, the pup, the one who’s done no wrong, the boy they adore.

With these two relying on him, he feels like Atlas carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He won’t fail. He can’t fail. And, at this point, he’s willing to do anything to ensure their safety. 

They arrive at the edge of the village in what he estimates to be half an hour. While Damian remains restless, wriggling around in Tim’s arms, Tim has gone still, and Jason picks up his already maxed out pace.

As they reach the base of the mountain, the pup peeks out from the bundle in Tim’s lap and peers up at him, his eyes communicating an enormous amount of worry that fuels the fire under Jason’s ass to ignore his numb legs and get a move on.

“Baba?” His voice is nearly lost to the howling winds.

“Almost there, kid,” Jason grits, responding automatically to the title without realizing it.

It’s late, likely far past midnight, and the village is a complete ghost town.

The thought of continuing onward briefly flashes through his mind, but his body vetoes the idea as his knees begin to buckle.

Operating under the faint glow of the full moon, he locates a barn-like building nearby and marches toward it with purpose.

Breaking in is a cakewalk – to be expected given he’s held more paper clips, tension wrenches, and picks in his lifetime than keys.

Waiting for them inside are stacks and stacks of rectangular hay bales. Jason sets his mate and his pup down and immediately gets to work.

What results is a makeshift bed-slash-nest in the most obscured corner of the barn. A slapdash job and a pretty pitiful setting for their first night of freedom, but they’re not particularly in a position to complain about the lack of amenities.

Tim is still out cold, literally, and Jason is quick to lay him down, shedding his own layers to cloak his Omega.

Whether due to residual fight-or-flight or the fact that he simply has more stamina than Tim at this point, Jason is raring to go, restless and antsy as he watches him rest. 

With fewer numbers and resources than the League of Assassins, they’re more likely to be caught unawares than get one over on them, so he, unfortunately, doesn’t have the time to dillydally.

They’ve traveled at least two hundred miles southwest, based on the odometer reading on the helicopter console, but it’s not nearly far enough. They’ll have to be gone by morning.

Given the time constraints, Jason channels his inner Robin Hood and gets to stealing – though most would argue that stealing with the intent of bestowing the stolen goods unto oneself falls squarely into the category of ‘crime’ rather than ‘noble deed’, but Jason isn’t too worried about semantics at the moment.

As he stands to leave, he feels a tug on his arm and turns to find Damian staring up at him with fearful eyes.

“Baba, where are you going?”

“I’ll be right back,” he reassures.

The boy’s grip only tightens.

“I promise, Dami, I’ll be quick.” He crouches down to his level and faces him head on with a serious expression, addressing him man to man. “I need you to protect Tim while I’m away, okay?”

Damian’s expression hardens, much like that of an army general being assigned a critical mission. He glances briefly at Tim’s sleeping form before fixing his determined gaze on Jason.

“Protect Mama?”

Jason confirms with a curt nod, “Protect Mama.”

It’s an effective way to keep the pup safely hidden away in the barn without the use of force, and as Damian dutifully takes up his post at Tim’s bedside, Jason steps back out into the frigid air.

His burglaries are clean and efficient, courtesy of a childhood spent in Crime Alley. He nabs the essentials – clothes, food, water, basic toiletries, etc. – and hurries back to find Damian still standing rigidly by the makeshift bed.

“Good boy,” Jason smiles, ruffling his hair and pulling a beanie over his head.

He dresses the pup in layers and finishes with a tightly wrapped scarf before moving onto his Omega, carefully maneuvering his pliant body into long sleeves and sweaters and thick pants.

Leaving himself for last, he hastily ditches the League clothing for the more generic winter clothes he’d stolen from the furthest house to the left which, amazingly, had also had an ancient handheld GPS, opening another door of hope for their little band of escapees.

“Get some sleep, big guy,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around both him and Tim in an effort to keep them warm.

Dusk arrives in what feels like seconds.

Jason awakens just before the first rays begin to peek through the wood paneling of the creaky barn. He’s on his feet and gathering their meager supplies before his brain even registers that he’s awake.

Damian startles at his sudden movement, but Tim remains asleep, his exhaustion taking a toll on his body more than anticipated.

Lately, he’s been showing more signs of extreme fatigue, beyond the base level of debility that comes with essentially being a sex slave, that Jason has found concerning, but with little time to investigate the cause, he takes a mental note to conduct a thorough examination once they reach relative safety and continues to prepare for their departure.

The previous night, he’d identified three potential getaway vehicles, and now in possession of an, albeit shitty, GPS, their next steps are obvious: jack a car and get the fuck out of dodge.

On paper, it’s a simple endeavor, but as he drapes Tim over his back and takes Damian by the hand, Jason can feel the nerves that he’d suppressed during their daring escape begin to bubble up.

“Come on, kid, we gotta jet,” he says, tugging the toddler along.

It’s probably around five a.m. but they don’t encounter a single soul on their way to Option #1, a newer model crossover, which they promptly find to be missing.

Cursing, Jason guides them between buildings to Option #2 which, thankfully, still sits outside of the house where he’d found the GPS.

He has the car unlocked in six seconds flat and since he’d taken the liberty of pulling the alarm fuse from the fuse box under the hood the night before, they should be smooth sailing from here.

As he pulls out onto the dirt road leading west, he glances at Damian who sits quietly in the middle seat of the old pickup fussing over Tim who’s still stuck in dreamland.

He wants to offer a word of support, encouragement, reassurance to the kid, but he can’t. 

There’s no way to know how any of this insane shit they’re trying to pull off will go, so he remains silent, his eyes focused on the road ahead as they snake through the rolling mountains to their next destination: Kathmandu, Nepal.

Nightmares are nothing new to Tim. They’re an old friend in a way, a regular at the busy coffee shop that is his brain.

Dreams, on the other hand, are uncharted territory.

Terminology-wise, nightmares are technically just dreams infused with fear, but his point still stands: he simply doesn’t dream.

So, when he finds himself wading in a clear spring among vibrant wildflowers and singing birds, the first emotion he feels is confusion.

He expects a monster to swim up from underneath him and swallow him whole or an axe-wielding maniac to jump out of the brush and slice him to pieces, but nothing of the sort happens. He feels weirdly at peace just floating along the natural lazy river under the shining sun. 

There’s no stress or anxiety or pressure, only freedom and tranquility, and as his gaze wanders from the flower petals drifting along in the crystal-clear water to the soft sunshine filtering through the swaying leaves high above, a warmth begins to grow in his abdomen.

It’s not painful or uncomfortable, it’s simply there.

Suddenly, when he places his palm flat on his stomach, the calm current becomes choppy, the birdsong rises to loud screeches, the flowers wither and evaporate into dust and seconds before his serene dream launches into a nightmare, he’s jolted awake.

“Mama?” a little voice calls from his left.

Groggy and disoriented doesn’t cut it. Tim feels fresh out of hibernation with leaden limbs and heavy eyelids, his brain muddled with thick fog.

He slowly turns his head and squints against the bright sun shining through the windshield of what he quickly determines to be a pickup truck puttering down a windy dirt road. His ragged clothes have been discarded for something a bit more presentable and, while the chill lingers, he no longer feels ice seeping into his bones.

“Mama!” the voice calls a bit more urgently as he focuses his eyes.

Finally, he glances down to see the adorable face of his pup staring up at him with tears pooling.

“Dami…” he whispers, leaning down to press a kiss to his head.

While he instinctively fawns over his pup immediately upon waking up, he turns to evaluate the state of his mate.

Jason looks, in the most literal way possible, dead on his feet.

His eyes are bloodshot and sunken, his lips chapped, knuckles cracked, and skin sickly. From any angle and based on any metric, he’s entirely unfit to be operating a vehicle.

“Jason, let me drive,” Tim says, poking his leg to get his attention.

As if just realizing his passenger has come back to the world of the living, Jason startles.

“Jesus Christ, Tim,” he breathes, holding a hand to his heart, “you scared the shit out of me.”

Tim only frowns in response. The fact that his Alpha hadn’t noticed he’d woken up is only further proof of his borderline-dangerous level of exhaustion.

“How do you feel?” Jason continues, glancing over at the passenger seat with obvious concern.

“Where are we going?” Tim replies, answering a question with a question.

“Kathmandu.”

“Let me drive,” he repeats.

“We’re almost there.”

“Jason.”

“It’s only a few more hours.”

“Jason.”

“Tim, you need to rest. It’s not–”

“Alpha.”

“…”

And that’s that.

Two minutes later, Jason is passed out in the passenger seat, Damian holding his hand to comfort his baba after he'd been scolded by his mama.

So far, their plans have gone relatively smoothly, which is both promising and terrifying.

Seeing that Jason has hard-carried the last however many hours of their survival, Tim steps up to the plate, safely navigating them to the city for the remaining half of the seven hour drive.

As they reach the outskirts of the city, he pulls off the road into a sparse rest stop, picking an unassuming corner to park in before rousing Jason.

Jason wakes with a start, his wide, alert eyes darting around rapidly before landing on his two traveling companions.

“We’re just outside of the city,” Tim explains, gently stroking his hand in apology for waking him so suddenly. 

From here, their plans rely heavily on stealth, improv, and luck.

Before responding, Jason pulls Damian into his lap and covers his ears tight, not wanting him to be privy to how much they’re flying by the seat of their pants.

“We only have a few days. We’re gonna need to fly out…”

Kathmandu is the most obvious destination for escapees from the League of Assassins, so they likely have one, maybe two days to regroup before they’ll be forced to flee again.

“Don’t have passports for commercial. Can we jack another plane?” Tim thinks out loud.

“Nothing long distance.”

“In hours?”

“Six or more.”

Ideally, they’d get to Istanbul and disappear into Europe from there, but with the flight from Kathmandu hovering at around eight hours, going west is out of the question.

“East?”

“Could do Hong Kong. The Pacific is a pain in the ass, though. We’re gonna need to fly commercial at some point.”

“I know a passport guy in Macao,” Tim says, offering no further explanation. “From there, we can get to the States.”

It’s so far-fetched it’s almost laughable, but they’re left with no choice. It’s their best, no, their only option currently – especially since any and all transmissions to call for help would undoubtedly be intercepted.

With [Kathmandu → Hong Kong → Macao → the United States] finalized, they look ahead to the next few days in Nepal where they’ll need to:

1. Secure shelter
2. Secure money
3. Steal a plane

“I can take care of the money for passports in Macao, but we’ll need something for the short term to get by.”

Having dead rich parents who tried to fill the gaping hole of neglect they left in their only son with money has its perks, mainly going by the names ‘account number’ and ‘routing number’. 

“Leave that to me,” Jason says. “We can squat in a hotel tonight. It's the off season for tourism, there’s definitely some empty rooms. Just need the manifest to find vacancies.”

“Which one?”

“Any of the luxury ones that locals tend to avoid.”

“Let's do it.”

Easier said than done, but it could be worse – they could have an entire criminal assassin organization tailing them… oh right. The punches just keep coming.

1. Secure shelter
2. Secure money
3. Steal a plane
4. Avoid the League of Assassins at all costs (New addition!)

With the plan laid out, they head toward the heart of the city on the last drops of gas in the tank of the sputtering pickup, their minds noisy with worry and fear and doubt and, most importantly, hope.

Chapter Text

The threaded linens are soft on Damian’s palms as he splays across the king-sized bed. He rests with his hands folded under his chin and watches Mama’s pretty eyelashes flutter lightly.

Baba is gone again and it’s up to him to keep Mama safe, so he remains vigilant, even though he’s sleepy too.

“Don’t worry, Mama, I am here,” he whispers, pushing himself up to sit cross-legged and holding his mama’s hand in his two small ones.

At the end of the long car ride, they’d arrived at a tall, fancy-looking hotel in a city that his parents call Kath-man-doo. 

Damian had stuck close to his mama as they snuck into the back office while his baba created a diversion in the lobby. He doesn’t know exactly what kind of diversion it was, but the distinct smell of smoke permeated the air from the opposite side of the lobby when they’d exited the office.

After that, Mama and Baba had huddled in the big bathroom stall and studied a piece of paper called a ‘manifest’ really hard before taking him up the stairs to a room on the tenth floor.

He doesn’t know where Kath-man-doo is or what a manifest is or where they’re headed next, but he doesn’t complain, just delighted to be in the care of his parents.

At his age, it’s expected for Damian to get bored and antsy in a quiet hotel room with nothing to do, but he’s content simply watching Mama sleep. He admires his delicate features with shining eyes, proud to have such a beautiful mama.

He isn’t sure how much time has passed, but his legs are numb when Baba returns, causing him to stumble when he climbs off the bed to greet him.

Like always, Baba catches him and sets him upright, a big grin on his face as he shows off the many shopping bags he’s brought back.

“You like dumplings, kid?”

Damian smiles wide and nods with enough enthusiasm to give himself minor whiplash.

They sit on the floor at the foot of the bed in front of the TV, sharing dumplings while cataloguing the shirts, pants, soap, shoes, bandages, and more.

“I hope you like blue,” Baba says as he pulls out a small, dark blue puffer jacket.

“I like blue,” Damian replies, not feeling one way or another about blue but elated that his baba picked something out for him. He joins him in digging around the plastic bags and finds a heavy metal item at the bottom of one of the bags. “What is this?”

“Pliers so I don’t freeze my fingers off when I’m hotwiring.” Baba gently takes the tool from him and sets it aside. “…Which is totally illegal and not something you should ever try,” he quickly adds, “and don’t pickpocket either, that’s bad too.”

Damian frowns, wanting to do everything his baba does even though he isn’t familiar with the terms ‘hotwiring’ and ‘pickpocketing’. 

“Why can’t I hot-wire and pick-pocket like you, Baba?”

“Do as I say, not as I do,” Baba states with finality, patting him atop the head with a small, sort of mischievous smile and returning to carefully organizing their toiletries. “And you can call me ‘Jason’, you know,” he says, not unkindly.

“Okay, Baba.”

His baba pauses and turns to him with a funny look on his face.

“Why don’t you give it a try?” he encourages, clearly amused. “Jason.”

“Baba.”

“Jay-son.”

“Ba-ba.”

“Juh. Ay. Son.”

“…Ba. Ba,” Damian says, matching his baba’s silly grin.

“Alright, kid, you win,” Baba concedes with a chuckle.

When they suddenly hear a stifled laugh from the bed, they both whip their heads around to find Mama lying on his side, his head propped comfortably on a pillow as he watches them with fond eyes.

“Mama, you are awake!” Damian squeals, jumping up on the bed and burrowing into his arms.

“I am, pup,” his mama says, his light chuckles sounding like jingling bells as he slowly sits up.

“Morning, sunshine,” Baba smiles, helping him up and gently brushing his hair out of his face.

Damian loves to see his parents interact like this.

Baba is always sweet and tender with Mama and Mama is always warm and loving with Baba, a constant reminder to Damian that he, too, has goodness and kindness in his heart by virtue of his parents.

“How long was I out?”

“Around an hour and a half,” Baba says, handing Damian another dumpling. “I’ve got goodies.”

At his mama’s sigh of relief, Damian pulls back and examines his weary face. “Are you okay, Mama?”

There’s a brief wordless exchange between his parents that he can’t quite decipher before Mama presents him a radiant smile.

“I’m okay, Dami,” he reassures. “I’d feel much better if we got you cleaned up, though, Sir Smelly,” he teases, drawing little giggles from him with light tickles. 

“Baba, am I smelly?” Damian asks, turning to his baba for backup as he fights off his mama’s hands.

“Not as much as me, kid,” Baba chuckles as he plucks him from the bed and carries him to the bathroom.

While Baba helps him bathe, he tells him a funny story about a villain he used to battle that used condiments as his primary weapon.

He describes in great detail the ketchup that got all over his hair and the mustard that ruined his cape and the mayonnaise that somehow got in his shoes before he finally triumphed over the ‘Sultan of Sauce’.

By the end of his bath, Damian’s stomach hurts from laughter and he’s sent with his residual giggles back to Mama while his baba showers.

“Baba is being silly, Mama,” he tattles cheekily.

“He was born silly,” Mama laughs, taking the towel draped around him and gently drying his hair. After dressing him in his freshly-bought clothes, he pushes the takeaway box of dumplings toward him. “Have you eaten enough, pup? You must be hungry.”

As if on cue, Damian’s stomach rumbles. He is indeed still hungry, nay, starving, but he notices that his mama hasn’t had a single bite of food, so he refrains.

“No, Mama, you must eat,” he insists, pushing the dumplings back.

Mama’s hesitation is clear as day, but he eventually makes an attempt to eat, recognizing the deep worry etched into Damian’s face. His small nibbles aren’t much but it’s better than nothing. 

Damian watches carefully as his mama eats, wanting to make sure he’s actually consuming the food. Mama is kindhearted so it’s not unbelievable for him to fake eating to leave more for him and Baba.

He just barely manages to get through one dumpling before Baba finishes bathing, and he quickly goes to take a shower.

“Is Mama okay, Baba?” Damian asks when his baba settles beside him, the bed sinking slightly as he sits down. “He will not eat,” he frowns.

The concern painted on his baba’s face mirrors his own and does little to calm his anxieties. It’s scary, but he appreciates how honest and open Baba is about most things.

“I don’t know, big guy,” he simply says with a rueful smile. “…I don’t know.”

Jason’s ‘I don’t know’ gradually becomes a definitive ‘No’ the longer he observes his mate. 

The main concern is the constant cloud of fatigue surrounding Tim. While his mental clarity and sharpness are still present, his body is consumed by lethargy and sluggishness.

But with no way to access proper medical attention, Jason is only able to make his concern and support known to his struggling Omega with soft touches and gentle words. A frustrating situation, to say the least.

Freshly showered and napped (for the second time), Tim sits quietly against the headboard while Damian nurses, his eyes following Jason as he moves around the room.

After organizing their newly acquired supplies and belongings, Jason settles on the small couch lining the window to map out their airport infiltration plan.

It’s night now, and not wanting to somehow draw attention to what should be an unoccupied room, they keep the curtains drawn and lights dim, so he’s left squinting at a small, worn map of the Tribhuvan International Airport he’d gotten at a curio shop.

“We’ll have to go at night, between two and four,” he announces as he jots down notes with the hotel pen and notepad. 

“Tomorrow?” Tim asks, his tone soft and breathy as he guides his pup to his other breast.

“Probably our best bet,” Jason agrees. “The airport’s ten minutes by car. Think we can taxi?”

Tim thinks for a moment, letting his head fall back against the headboard and staring at the ceiling.

It seems completely out of place and maybe even inappropriate in this moment, but Jason suddenly thinks he looks absolutely breathtaking. 

Despite the physical signs of exhaustion and the pup actively suckling from his teat, his mate is gorgeous, and Jason has to shake his head to clear his thoughts, staring intently at his notes in an attempt to re-focus.

“Yes,” Tim finally answers, lowering his gaze, “but not directly to the airport. A few blocks away then we’ll walk.”

Jason nods in agreement with his focus still zeroed in on the notepad, the dim lights doing God’s work to hide his flushed cheeks.

“I’ll leave in the morning to scout planes.”

Tim looks like he wants to argue the point about him going alone, but he lets it be, aware that it’d be counterintuitive to take Damian with them simply to scout their getaway vehicle.

“Okay,” he says instead, covering himself up after Damian pulls away with a satisfied hum and promptly conks out.

Only the sound of Jason’s scribbling and Damian’s quiet breathing can be heard in the cozy room, and within five minutes, Tim is asleep, his arms secure around his pup.

Taking that as his cue to call it a night, Jason carefully adjusts the sleeping pair to a more comfortable position before checking the lock, switching off the light, and sliding under the covers on the side of the bed closest to the door.

Sleep takes him quickly and seven hours later, he’s being dragged back to reality by the blaring clock beside his head. He’d set an alarm out of fear of sleeping through the entire next day, but now as he punches it into silence and groggily gets up, every bone and muscle in his body regrets it.

Both Tim and Damian stir at the sudden loud noise, but Jason is quick to lull them back to sleep.

“Jason?” Tim slurs, his eyes unfocused as he instinctively hugs Damian closer.

“Shh, it’s okay, just the alarm. Go back to sleep,” he soothes, smoothing his mate’s messy bed head.

Uncharacteristically obedient in his sleep-addled state, Tim drops his head and dives right back into his sweet repose.

Jason methodically prepares for his scouting mission, perfecting his disguise with a weathered coat he’d nicked from a construction worker, a beanie pulled low over his head, and a pair of basic frames that rest on his nose.

Though his actions in the past day and a half do a great job of painting him as a seasoned criminal – which, to be fair, he basically is – desperate times call for desperate measures, so he’s given himself a pass so long as he mentally apologizes to each person steals from.

He leaves his mate and his pup each with a kiss atop the head and exits the room, making sure to take the stairwell down to the ground floor.

Adjusting his gait and posture, he slowly makes his way to the airport on foot. Taking a bus or taxi is an option, but it's a risky one in broad daylight.

The entire city is likely teeming with League members by now, so he remains on guard, eyes constantly scanning his surroundings.

While the airport is only about ten minutes by car, on foot, it’s nearly an hour, and with the winding path between buildings, along backstreets, and through marketplaces he opts for, it takes him nearly two and a half to get to the airport.

He walks with purpose into the baggage claim area, wandering around and plucking free brochures off of kiosks as he goes.

Ducking his head, he casually reads one of the brochures as he navigates to the observation deck.

Under a section titled ‘Interesting KTM Facts’ he reads the following quote: 

‘A unique mix of geographical, meteorological, and infrastructural factors makes Kathmandu’s Tribhuvan International Airport (KTM) one of the most challenging airports in the world to operate to, requiring exceptional skill, training, and vigilance of crews and air traffic controllers to ensure safe operations.’

“Fucking wonderful,” Jason mutters to himself as he stares out at the planes parked on the tarmac.

Thankfully, the airport doesn’t have a separate private terminal, so he has a full view of the ‘Vehicles I Can Potentially Hijack’ menu.

After a good hour of studying, interrupted by frequent location changes to waive suspicion, he settles on what looks to be a Cessna, perfect for their needs so long as it has a full fuel tank.

Since private flights aren’t listed on the public flight boards scattered around the terminal, he’s left to play a guessing game and ends up spending another hour ranking his options from best to worst with added contingencies for different scenarios.

Finally satisfied with his scouting mission, he leaves, taking another meandering route back to the hotel and stopping by one of the many marketplaces for breakfast.

Tim is awake and freshened up when he opens the door to their room, Damian still passed out on the bed.

“Welcome back,” he says through a slight grimace from the couch by the window.

Immediately, Jason sets down the bag of assorted breakfast foods and hurries to his side.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, my stomach just feels weird,” Tim smiles, hiding his discomfort. “How’d it go?”

“Bunch of options. I think we’re good,” Jason responds, not hiding his worry. “Tim, maybe… maybe we should get you checked out somewhere.”

“No, not here. It’s too risky.”

The fact that he hadn’t immediately objected and claimed he’s fit as a fiddle tells Jason all he needs to know about what kind of shape he’s in. (Hint: It starts with ‘b’ and ends with ‘ad’.)

They’re in a silent staring contest for longer than typically considered comfortable before Jason folds, sighing and returning to his hastily discarded bags.

“I’m assuming you’re not hungry?” he asks, laying out the food for Damian when he wakes up. 

At Tim’s hum of confirmation, he turns around and hands a separate bag to him.

Tim stares at the offering in confusion for a moment before accepting it and peeking in.

His expression flits through the entire spectrum of human emotion before landing on true neutral as he pulls the simple black bra out of the bag.

“Do you like it?” Jason asks, his tone teasing but simultaneously comforting.

“I’m over the moon,” Tim deadpans, appreciation written on his features despite his sarcasm. “How’d you even know my size?”

Turning his body to sit facing him, Jason zeroes in on his breasts and lifts his hands to mime groping him.

“My hands have good memory,” he says with a cheeky grin.

His tasteless (or -ful depending on who you ask) joke earns him a smack upside the head, but it also gets a genuine laugh out of Tim so it’s entirely worth it.

“Whatever, perv, just help me,” Tim half-grumbles, half-chuckles, shoving the bra toward Jason before pulling his shirt over his head.

It seems odd that his skin tingles with excitement every time he sees his Omega’s naked body, but he can’t help it. Tim Drake is hot and there’s nothing Jason can do to stop his brain from registering that hotness as a brand new experience every single time.

With careful hands, he secures the clasp at his back, his heart hammering in his chest. It’s a strangely intimate act and Jason finds himself holding his breath as his clumsy fingers fumble with the small hooks.

Now sitting behind him, he doesn’t notice Tim’s tears until his first pitiful sniffle.

His alarm is instant and he quickly wraps his arms around him, carefully studying his complicated expression before resting his head in the crook of his neck.

“Are you upset?”

“No,” Tim answers immediately, his tears steadily streaming down his cheeks. He leans his head against Jason’s and intertwines their fingers at his middle.

Unsure of what exactly Tim’s emotional state is currently – and, more broadly, lately – Jason tries another angle a few moments later.

“Please talk to me, Tim. What’s wrong?” he encourages, voice painfully soft. 

It takes a long time for Tim to respond, simply staring down at his lap and playing with Jason’s fingers.

“I… I don’t know,” Tim whispers, his tears devolving into choked sobs, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Seeing someone so composed and levelheaded suddenly experiencing the highest emotional highs and lowest emotional lows at completely unpredictable intervals is troublesome.

Seeing someone so composed and levelheaded, who is also your mate, suddenly experiencing the highest emotional highs and lowest emotional lows at completely unpredictable intervals is downright terrifying.

He says nothing as he cradles sobbing his Omega in his arms, each sniffle, hiccup, cough, and gasp another blow to Jason’s already shattered heart.

Something is very wrong with Tim and Jason is scared to death.

Hong Kong can’t come soon enough.

Chapter Text

If Tim had access to Google at the current moment, his first search would probably look something like ‘How to file a lawsuit against your own body’.

Never has he felt so betrayed by the same mind and body that he’s spent seventeen years with.

Constantly drained, constantly unfocused, constantly moody, constantly everything. 

It sucks, bad, and with no sign of relief in the near future, his resolve and willpower are steadily dwindling.

Currently, he precariously toes the line between pissed off and apathetic as he stares at the floor in the back seat of a taxi in an effort to suppress his motion sickness. Being the sweetheart he is, Damian holds his hand on his left, giving comforting squeezes and encouraging pats.

Jason sits in the passenger seat responding to the talkative taxi driver’s questions and comments with blatant lies as cordially as he can in his stressed-out state. 

“Beautiful family you have here!” the driver chuckles.

“Thanks,” Jason replies with a forced smile.

“Where are you from?”

“Italy.”

“Just visiting?”

“Yep.”

“How old is the little one?”

“Five.”

In Tim’s opinion, anything outside of screaming ‘For the love of God, shut the hell up!’ to the untimely but well-meaning chatterbox is an A+ job, so he makes a mental note to give Jason his kudos later.

Finally, they come to a stop in front of a shabby motel a few blocks from the airport. The walk is a short one, just shy of ten minutes, and when they arrive, the place seems almost deserted with how quiet it is.

“Wait here,” Jason instructs, temporarily stashing them away in a dark corner of the terminal before running off.

As they watch him disappear around the corner, Damian tightens his hold around Tim’s neck.

“Baba is leaving again…”

“Don’t worry, pup, he’ll come right back,” Tim gently says. He contemplates explaining where they're headed, but based on Damian’s past experience with flying, he decides to leave it at that.

“Promise?”

“Promise,” he says with a sweet kiss to the cheek.

Fifteen minutes later, Jason returns to prove Tim right and quell Damian’s steadily growing separation anxiety.

“Cessna’s still here. The fuel tank is full so we’re good to go,” he quickly explains, beckoning for Tim to follow as he navigates across the terminal, through various pre-disabled security doors, and onto the chilly tarmac.

Upon arrival, the doors are already unlocked and Jason quickly begins another hijacking operation. While Tim gets Damian settled in the back row, Jason hauls in their belongings and locks the door behind him.

Apparently, hotwiring a plane is easier than a car because the engine comes to life within thirty seconds of Tim securing Damian’s seat belt.

Before buckling himself in, he pokes his head over the front row to find Jason calmly adjusting the settings. His question about how the hell he managed to start the plane so quickly dies in his throat when he sees the flathead screwdriver shoved unceremoniously into the ignition.

“Figured I’d give it a try before busting open the console,” Jason shrugs with a cheeky grin, following Tim’s eyes to his ridiculous DIY keysmithing job. “They probably have eyes on the airport. We gotta go.”

With that, Tim quickly takes his seat beside Damian, once again relying on Jason to transport them to safety. 

It’d be a bold-faced lie to say his Alpha’s dependability isn’t extremely attractive, and when Jason peeks behind from the pilot’s seat to check on them before takeoff, Tim’s heart flutters, as if recently emerged from its chrysalis and eager to test out its wings.

Meanwhile, Damian is in shambles, way past the verge of tears as he cuts off the circulation in Tim’s hand.

“Mamaaa,” he bawls, frantically reaching out for his embrace.

Tim’s heart aches as he watches his pup actively develop a fear of flying, fighting tooth and nail against both his seatbelt and his PTSD.

“Shh, I know, love, it’s okay,” Tim soothes, rubbing circles into his small palm with his thumb. “Baba will take care of us,” he promises.

He’s not sure when he started referring to Jason as ‘Baba’ to Damian, but it feels extremely domestic and only causes the butterfly wreaking havoc in his chest to intensify.

Damian’s tears don’t cease, but at the mention of Jason, he seems to calm down a bit, his sobs reduced to small sniffles. Naturally, his heartwrenching cries of fear pick up again during takeoff when they go barreling down the runway, but once they’re in the air, he is back to relative stability.

The moment they reach cruising altitude, Tim unbuckles him, mainly to prevent him from hurting himself with his restless wriggling and squirming, but also because he can’t stand to see his pup in distress.

Now cradled in his arms, his baby is calm-adjacent and his tears have all but dried.

“You were so brave, Dami,” he praises softly, peppering his tear-streaked cheeks with kisses. “Good pup.”

Damian simply hums in response and buries his face in Tim's chest, hugging him with all the strength in his little arms.

While he stares out into the black sky and comforts his pup, Tim takes a moment to conduct a mental self-evaluation, listing out the recent symptoms and oddities his annoyingly attention-seeking body has decided to conjure up, including but not limited to:

• Extreme fatigue
• Mood swings
• Lack of appetite
• Nausea
• Stomach pain
• General malaise
• Brain fog
• Prolonged milk production in the absence of intercourse

The most feasible culprits are the unidentified mystery drugs that he’d been pumped full of during his months-long involuntary vacation with the oh-so-generous League of Assassins.

His hormones are undoubtedly thrown off post-imprisonment, so it makes complete sense for him to be experiencing these extremely bothersome symptoms, but what brings him severe pause are the vivid dreams he’s been suddenly having, all related to fruits or baby animals or nature in some way.

Tim isn’t stupid. He knows what a pregnancy dream is. It’s the fact that he’s been having them regularly as someone who’s biologically unable to conceive life that leaves him completely bewildered.

Since the moment he presented as an Omega at the ripe old age of ten, he’s gone through fertility checks in each and every one of his biannual physicals, all of which have told him he is definitely, irrefutably, unmistakably, one hundred percent STERILE – written just like that in all caps with bold lettering and sharp underlines on his medical chart.

Therefore, with twelve separate instances of being told by multiple licensed professionals that he’ll never, ever bear a child in his womb, the thought of pregnancy doesn’t even cross his mind while he contemplates what the hell is wrong with his body.

He doesn’t even realize he has drifted off until he feels a familiar hand come to rest on his knee and when he turns his head in response, his half-lidded eyes land on Jason’s worried expression.

“Tim? You with me?”

Confused, Tim nods, “Huh? Yeah, I’m…” he says, sounding more hoarse than expected. “What? Where’s… You need to–”

“Autopilot. We’re an hour out,” Jason explains, very clearly shaken as he checks his vitals. “Dami told me you were unresponsive.”

Shit, that’s at least two hours of Dami being essentially alone while Jason focused his attention on flying.

He’d left a toddler unbuckled and unsupervised in an aircraft actively flying ten thousand feet in the air as he frolicked among flowers in a dream didn't even want to experience. The poor pup had to have been desperately trying to wake him for some time if he decided to alert Jason while he’s piloting the aircraft.

Tim shudders at his own irresponsibility as he glances at Damian’s worried pout, a billion what-if scenarios flying through his mind in a whirlwind of worry. 

His horror and disappointment must be evident in his expression judging by Jason’s response.

“Tim, it’s not your fault,” he says, firm but warm. “We’re a team, don’t blame yourself.” After confirming his heart rate, respiration rate, and body temperature are normal, Jason gives him a comforting squeeze. “Just hold out a bit longer, okay? We’re almost there.”

A few moments more of studying him and Jason turns to face Damian with a proud smile, “Good job, kid. I’m proud of you.”

Damian beams at the praise, sitting a bit straighter and holding his head a little higher.

“Protect Mama,” he recites like a mantra, eyes full of determination and pride.

“That’s right. Protect Mama,” Jason grins, ruffling his hair and leaving a tender kiss on Tim’s hand before returning to his piloting duties.

Tim opens his arms to allow Damian to climb back into his lap, his strange symptoms forgotten and his mind now focused on something else entirely…

Protect Mama.

Two simple words have him in complete disarray, blushing like a lovesick teen… which, well, he is. He's busy wondering when Jason had taught their pup something so sweet and heartwarming when the pup in question suddenly places a hand on his cheek.

“Are you sick, Mama? You are red.”

“I’m– I’m alright,” Tim stutters, still flustered by his mate’s open affection. “Just feeling a bit warm.”

He’s not sure if it’s the Omega in him talking or if he’s simply that enamoured with how protective and tender and chivalrous Jason is, but, regardless, his pulse is giving Apollo 11 a run for its money with the way it’s skyrocketing.

It feels ridiculous in a way, like they're doing this whole love thing backwards, but Tim doesn’t hate it.

He doesn’t hate the way Jason carries him as if he’s a delicate flower, the way he presses kisses to his skin like he’s trying to infuse his body with love, the way he’s simultaneously gentle and respectful and funny and adoring and everything he’s ever wanted in a significant other.

He doesn’t hate it… he adores it.

The way Jason knows exactly what he needs without exchanging a single word, the way he’s fatherly and loving and affectionate toward a pup unrelated to him, the way he teases and jokes and laughs in that playful way of his that always draws out a smile.

Tim loves everything about being in love with Jason.

He just wishes he were in a better position to enjoy it…

Of all the times Jason has been stabbed, this easily slots inside the Bottom 3.

Its low rank in his extensive ‘Times I’ve Been Stabbed (Ranked from Best to Worst)’ list has nothing to do with the level of physical pain he experiences and everything to do with the circumstance in which it occurs.

To better understand why he feels so shitty about this particular instance, below is a timeline of events leading up to S-Time, short for ‘stabbing time’:

6:44am (S-minus 41 minutes)

Land a Cessna 310 on the long strip of road leading to and from Hong Kong’s Kai Tuk Cruise Port.

6:45am (S-minus 40 minutes)

Crash a Cessna 310 into a, thankfully empty, warehouse at the end of the road leading away from Kai Tuk Cruise Port toward downtown Hong Kong.

6:47am (S-minus 38 minutes)

Evacuate the burning airplane, just barely avoiding major second and third degree burns, after safely removing the precious cargo: Tim and Damian.

6:49am (S-minus 36 minutes)

Run through the streets of Hong Kong to get as far away from the wreckage as possible, carrying said precious cargo in his arms.

7:13am (S-minus 12 minutes)

Duck into an alleyway to avoid sirens headed toward the crash site.

7:16am (S-minus 9 minutes)

Breathe a sigh of relief after narrowly avoiding authorities multiple times in the last thirty minutes.

7:20am (S-minus 5 minutes)

Immediately rescind said sigh of relief when ambushed by three League assassins.

7:20am (S-minus 5 minutes)

Make a run for it.

7:21am (S-minus 4 minutes)

Fail to make a run for it when greeted by four more assassins around the next corner.

7:25am (S-Time)

Get stabbed.

Moral of the story, don’t land a plane at a cruise terminal.

With the adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream, he barely feels the wound and takes out the offending, recently-knifeless assassin with a nasty uppercut, but his clusterfuck of a day is now exponentially worse, so there’s that.

In spite of Tim’s weakened state and their defenseless three-year-old, their combined skill allows them to hold out for much longer than expected, the desperation to never return to that living hell driving them to fight with everything they have.

Crouch low, plant foot, lift leg, distribute weight, extend knee, turn, roundhouse. 

Duck, dive, side step, parry, loosen shoulder, engage core, twist, right hook.

Block strike, grab wrist, dodge left, grab other wrist, disarm knife, pull, headbutt.

Jason's movements are methodical, muscle memory in its most basic form, but his muscle memory lacks the added caveat of simultaneously defending a toddler and an enervated Omega while also being severely sleep deprived, and as more League members emerge from the shadows, their hopeful rebellion begins to falter.

It’s seemingly endless, two more replacing each one they take out like heads of a hydra, and the steeper their uphill battle gets, the more desperate they become.

I can’t let Tim go back. I can’t let Dami go back. I can’t go back.

A sharp strike to his calf sends him to the ground, his knee hitting the rough asphalt with a loud smack when his entire right leg gives out.

Hopelessness advances like a flash flood.

While he struggles to his feet, he hears a pained sound come from Tim’s direction followed by the spine-chilling scream of their pup.

“Mama! Baba!” Damian wails, helpless as his small, weak body is restrained.

Jason’s heart plummets at the cry for help, but he’s powerless against the two League members pinning him down, his energy depleted and body uncooperative. The vicious string of profanities flying from his lips is swiftly suppressed by a mouth gag, leaving him to growl and froth at the mouth like a rabid beast.

Fuck. No, no, no, no we can’t go back.

Somewhere on his left, Tim is similarly being tamed, his desperate screams for his pup muffled as he writhes and thrashes like a wild animal.

We can't go back. There has to be a way. We cant go back.

When Tim’s cries become choked sobs, Jason’s mind goes eerily quiet, only a single thought bouncing around in the empty cavern of desolation.

It can’t end here. Please, somebody, anybody… IT CAN’T END HERE.

As fickle as she may be, Lady Luck finally answers his call, arriving in the form of a shadowy figure slithering through the group of League assassins and incapacitating them one-by-one.

They can only watch in awe as their assailants drop like flies. The alleyway is thrown into absolute silence as the last one slumps to the floor.

Even Damian is quiet, his sobs quelled as he gawks wide-eyed at the masked figure standing before them, her stillness an eerie contrast to the blinding speed with which she took out nine League assassins.

Jason remains on edge, ready to defend with his life should this newcomer prove to be a threat, but their mysterious savior says nothing, simply removing her mask and regarding them with a blank expression, her eyes giving away nothing as she studies them.

His tense aggression wanes when he suddenly hears a sharp gasp from Tim and turns to find him staring at the girl with an expression of pure, unadulterated shock.

“Cass?”

Chapter Text

It takes a lot to surprise someone like Cassandra Cain.

Raised to forgo speech in favor of body language for the sole purpose of maximizing killing efficiency, she is what most would call ‘even-keeled’.

However, her years of training to anticipate every possible outcome fail spectacularly when she comes across a ‘supposed-to-be-dead’ Alpha, a ‘supposed-to-be-in-Gotham’ Omega, and a ‘???????’ pup being ambushed by at least fifteen assassins in a dingy alleyway at seven-thirty a.m. in Hong Kong of all places.

The bizarre, almost unbelievable scene has her second-guessing her eyes for the first time in a long time.

They’ve fought off around a third by the time she arrives, but their time is running out. Even the most elementary calculations would determine that they don’t stand a chance.

They’re tired, weak, vulnerable, and, for some reason, slightly singed as if coming from a plane crash. Put lightly, their odds are looking less than favorable.

But as coldhearted and stoic as she may outwardly seem, Cassandra Cain has never been one to abandon those in need, especially her family, so she dives in without hesitation, snaking her way through the group of assassins with the ease of a hot knife through butter.

Considering she’s been training against the League of Assassins since birth, it’s effortless, almost comically so.

Not a single word is exchanged in the excruciatingly long thirty seconds she spends staring at the trio, a flurry of scenarios and explanations flying through her mind as she studies the Alpha’s bloody torso, the Omega’s white knuckles, and the pup’s trembling legs.

Jason looks just like he did in the photos around the manor, only much taller and more rugged. He’s handsome and resembles Bruce a bit despite the lack of blood relation. With her only exposure to Jason Todd being old photo albums and a cold tombstone, she isn’t quite sure what to make of him.

Tim looks nothing like he did last time they saw each other. While still pretty, he’s noticeably paler, more worn-out, and, strangely, more feminine. Though it’s only been a year since she left Gotham and the Bats, his appearance and demeanor give the impression that she’s been gone for much, much longer.

And the toddler is… a toddler. He is adorable and innocent and brave and afraid and tiny and a toddler.

While Cass evaluates them at the most fundamentally human level with her sharp gaze, the trio remains completely silent.

At last, Tim speaks, his voice hoarse and small, “Cass?”

Relief and gratitude accompany the obvious recognition and shock in his tone. She is equally relieved to have arrived in time, but she is also keenly aware of the fact that the League of Assassins is most definitely on their way with reinforcements.

“Not here,” she says, low and short.

She wordlessly turns on her heel and quickly guides them through the backstreets of Hong Kong, arriving shortly at a nondescript doorway leading to one of her many hideouts scattered around the city: the basement of an abandoned bakery that doubles as her weapons armory.

The moment she reactivates her security system and guides them to the med bay, she begins her interrogation.

“Alive. Why,” she immediately asks, pointing at Jason who stares at her with well-masked disquietude.

His prior aggression and possessiveness are now absent, but it’s clear (to Cass) that he’s still on edge, positioning himself firmly between her and his companions. Despite his guarded demeanor, there is deep gratitude etched into his features.

“Lazarus Pit,” he supplies easily as he shifts his attention toward the pup tugging at his sleeve.

Cass flits her gaze between Jason and Tim.

“Kidnapped. League of Assassins,” Jason answers before she even prompts him with a question.

Finally, her eyes land on the tiny human hiding behind his legs.

“Who.”

“Damian.”

She feels simultaneously appreciative and annoyed by his short answers, finding the conversation straightforward but also frustrated at the lack of information being provided. She finds his unwillingness to provide more than surface-level information very little brother-esque.

Her and Jason’s intense standoff is interrupted by Tim who helpfully starts from the beginning, explaining his investigation into Bruce’s ‘death’, how he’d been ambushed in the desert while investigating how to get him back, Jason’s death and subsequent resurrection, the entire ordeal with the League, and how they’ve traveled from Nepal.

During this entire exchange, the mystery pup, Damian, watches nervously as Tim tends to Jason’s actively bleeding wound, fussing over them with small whines and teary eyes.

She observes him as she processes their story. It’s what Steph would likely call ‘batshit crazy’ but their exhaustion and desperation are evidence enough of what they’ve been through.

“Going where,” she finally asks.

There’s hesitation in their responses, but they eventually land on a common answer.

“Gotham.”

It’s, frankly, not what she wanted to hear, but she nods anyway, giving Tim a brief hug before leaving to collect supplies.

Located eight thousand miles on the other side of the planet, Gotham City feels almost like a distant memory.

Following Bruce’s death – now ‘disappearance’ according to Tim – she’d gone AWOL, spontaneously leaving the city for Hong Kong.

She’s never been the ‘feeling’ type, with things like social and emotional cues being fairly recent additions to her arsenal, but the death of her adoptive father was damaging in ways she couldn’t have ever imagined.

For weeks, she’d holed up in the manor wallowing in her misery, and at some point, she’d simply up and left, unable to handle the crushing weight of grief shrouding the entire city.

Now, more than a year later, she’s set to return, her move fueled by gaining rather than losing family members this time.

How funny.

After gathering basic living supplies for the trio, she navigates back to the basement to find Tim sitting with Damian in his lap as they watch over Jason laid out on the medical cot with his freshly-stitched stab wound.

They don’t immediately notice her arrival and she catches the tail end of a question from Tim as she begins to put aside their supplies on the other side of the dim basement.

“…feeling okay?”

“‘Tis but a scratch,” Jason says in a terrible British accent, sounding strained but playful.

Tim’s deadpan response relays his lack of amusement, “Jason, you got stabbed.”

“I’ve had worse.”

A sigh followed by, “Stop quoting Monty Python, I’m being serious,” from Tim and a small giggle from Damian.

They’re endearing, the three of them, and Cass finds herself smiling as she listens to their lighthearted banter. She makes her presence known with a purposeful kick to a nearby box as she approaches to take a seat beside Tim.

“Come on, you pansy,” she recites sans accent, her eyes full of mirth as she finishes Jason’s quote. 

She recalls sitting through Monty Python and the Holy Grail with Steph multiple times over as she painstakingly paused and explained each and every joke, and while she still doesn’t quite understand the humor, the entire movie is now hammered into her memory after countless rewatches.

Jason grins and shoots Tim a smug look, “See? She gets it.”

Tim frowns and pokes his stitches in response before turning to face Cass, pointedly ignoring the pained groan from the cot that may or may not be dramatized for effect.

He looks nervous, a rare expression from someone as self-assured as Tim Drake.

“Cass, I’m– we’re so… If you hadn’t–” His features suddenly soften and he takes a deep breath to collect his thoughts. “Thank you,” he exhales, his shoulders sagging as he looks at her with open warmth and appreciation.

Cass simply shakes her head with a tiny smile, her way of saying, ‘Don’t sweat it’, and turns her attention to the small pup in Tim’s lap.

“…Hello, Damian,” she offers.

Dealing with children has always been a bit hit-or-miss for her. Their blunt honesty and straightforward attitudes are refreshing and easy to follow, but their emotional volatility is often difficult to handle.

In reply, Damian huddles closer to Tim, his eyes communicating blatant fear, but after a few gentle nudges, he slowly emerges from his cocoon.

“You got it, Dami,” Jason encourages softly.

“Th– Thank you… Auntie Cass,” the pup mumbles, cheeks flushed as he hides his face back in Tim’s chest.

She smiles in return, finding his bashfulness cute and lovable.

Initially, she thinks nothing of the title she’s been given. 

In many cultures, it’s common for children to address adults unrelated to them with familial terms, much like Dick referring to Superman as 'Uncle Clark', so she naturally assumes that she and the small pup fall under the same umbrella.

Her assumption falls apart seconds later when Damian glances up at Tim and whispers, “I did it, Mama, just like Baba said!”

“You did, Dami,” Tim laughs, completely unfazed as he plants a soft kiss on the pup’s forehead.

Dumbfounded, Cass glances at Jason who is of no help, his fond gaze fixated on Tim and Damian like they’re the only things he’s capable of seeing in the world…

Click.

• The mating bite on Tim’s neck that was previously hidden by his coat. 
• Tim and Jason’s intertwined fingers. 
• The way they look at each other, their adoration unmasked as if they don’t even realize it themselves. 
• The way Damian looks at them like he’s seeing the stars for the first time. 
• The tenderness with which they both treat the small pup, almost like he’s their own flesh and blood.

It simultaneously makes complete sense and no sense at all.

In his explanation of the events leading up to their arrival to Hong Kong, Tim had, either by design or by mistake, neglected to mention more than a few tidbits about the child they’re now in custody of. It's strange for someone as meticulous as Tim to leave so many gaps in their story, but the more she observes the trio and, in particular, Damian, the harder it becomes to question their relationship, so she lets it be.

“Are you hungry?” she asks, her question directed toward Damian. 

She remembers Bruce mentioning the importance of treating children with respect and how addressing them directly as one would an adult can often help with social and emotional development.

Knowing firsthand what a lack of socialization and compassion can do to a child, in this moment, Cass makes it her personal mission to be the best ‘auntie’ she can be.

When the pup nods in response, she stands and gestures for him to follow, wanting to give Tim and Jason some time to rest.

While some unease remains in his expression, after only a few more moments of careful observation from Tim’s lap, Damian follows, instinctively grasping her hand and staring up at her with tentative excitement.

For the next two days, Damian commits himself to learning everything he can about his newest family member.

Auntie Cass is quiet and reserved, kind of like him, but even though they don’t talk much, they get along well which is a relief.

Like Mama and Baba, she doesn’t get upset or yell or hit him when he makes a mistake, and though she looks kind of intimidating and scary when she isn’t smiling, she is caring and thoughtful and brings him sweets every time she comes back.

While he hasn’t a clue about what’s going on or where they are or where they’re going, Damian, per usual, is just happy to be with his family.

He picks up bits and pieces of context from their adult conversations, and while he can’t understand much, he still listens carefully.

“We’d planned to have passports made in Macao,” Mama says, gently stroking his hair as he prepares his instant porridge. "We'll have to fly to the States."

“No Superman?”

“We tried. They're likely off world. Kon too.”

“Justice League?”

“Monitored comms.”

“Money?”

“Plenty.”

Auntie Cass looks very serious as she contemplates Mama’s words. Their conversation is succinct and efficient, neither of them using many words to get their point across.

“I’ll go.”

Damian sets aside the markers and coloring book Auntie Cass got for him when his mama nudges him to eat his dinner.

“Mama, will you and Baba eat too?” he asks, glancing over at his baba who sits slumped over on the small couch by the far wall, his head hanging low and his arms crossed loosely over his chest.

It’s late at night and he knows his parents are tired and busy, but Damian can’t help his worry when he rarely ever sees them consume more than a few bites of food while his belly is consistently full.

“We’ll eat later, love,” Mama reassures, always soft. He continues his conversation with Auntie Cass once Damian starts eating, albeit reluctantly.

“Time?” Auntie Cass asks, already preparing to leave.

“Two to three days.”

“Faster?”

“Unlikely,” Mama says, looking grim.

“Got it.”

After Auntie Cass snaps a quick photo of Damian, takes down some information from Mama, and bids them goodbye, Mama turns to him with a sweet smile that makes his heart bloom, “Dami, can you wake Baba for dinner please?”

As always, Damian takes any responsibility entrusted to him very seriously, no matter how big or small.

With a determined nod, he climbs down from his chair and shuffles over to his baba.

“Baba,” he whispers, imitating the gentle way Baba always wakes Mama, “Baba, wake up.”

“Hm?” Baba hums, his eyes still closed but clearly awake.

“Mama said dinner,” Damian says, pulling at one of his arms.

“Huh? What’d Mama say?” he mumbles sleepily before swiftly grabbing Damian and pulling him into his lap.

“Wake up, Baba!” Damian squeals, trying to wriggle out of his arms. “Mama said wake up!”

By this point, Baba is wide awake and dons a mischievous grin as he leans down to blow a raspberry on his tummy, causing Damian to lose control of his giggles.

He’s released from Baba’s hold when Mama arrives with their dinner, but he remains seated in his lap, feeling bad for always choosing to sit with his mama and not wanting to hurt his baba’s feelings.

“What’s she doing in Hong Kong?” Baba asks, setting aside his half-eaten bowl to play with Damian’s hair.

Damian frowns, knowing his baba is eating slowly on purpose in case Mama wants more food. He wishes he’d saved some of his dinner for Mama too.

“She left Gotham when Bruce… died, and nobody had heard from her since. I guess she ended up here and decided to stay.”

At the continued mention of this ‘Bruce’ character, Damian’s curiosity gets the best of him, “Mama, who is Bruce?”

Alarm bells immediately go off when his parents go deathly still, their panicked eyes meeting above his head and communicating something he can’t understand. 

He’s just about to apologize when Baba answers on Mama’s behalf.

“Bruce is a fucking asshole,” he answers plainly.

“What is a ‘fucking asshole’, Baba?”

His innocent question invites Mama to pull him into his lap and smack Baba on the arm.

“Don’t teach him that!” he cries, protectively cradling Damian to his chest.

“He’ll learn eventually anyway,” Baba defends, his deep-set frown now replaced with a sly grin.

“Is ‘fucking asshole’ bad?” Damian asks, glancing confusedly between his parents.

“Yes.” / “No.” they say simultaneously, one serious the other amused.

“Don’t listen to him, pup, he’s got rocks for brains,” Mama sighs, ignoring Baba’s hysterical laughter as he carries Damian toward the small bathroom to get ready for bed.

Even amid his giggles at his baba’s antics, Damian doesn’t miss the full bowl of food left on the small table by the couch, and worry seeps back into his mind as Mama helps him wash his face and brush his teeth.

The uncomfortable pit in his stomach only grows as he climbs onto the small bed Aunt Cass prepared for them and feels how icy Mama is.

“Mama, you are cold,” he frowns, pressing his palm to his forearm.

That same flash of sadness passes through Mama's expression before it’s replaced by his pretty smile.

“I’m always cold, love,” he chuckles, “that’s why I’ve got Baba.”

On cue, Baba, their personal furnace, climbs into bed, giving Damian’s cheek a light pinch before putting out the dim light and hugging them close.

Sleep always comes easy in the presence of his parents, but tonight something feels different, amiss, wrong.

For as long as his brain allows, he remains awake and stares intently at his mama and baba, determined to protect them from whatever it is that’s causing the anxiety and unease in his stomach to spread.

The answer comes early in the morning, long after he’s dropped off into unconsciousness, when he’s suddenly jostled awake by Mama jumping out of bed and running off in the direction of the bathroom with a hand clamped over his mouth.

As he helplessly watches Baba hurry after him, the pit evolves into a massive abyss, drowning him in potent dread.

Chapter Text

What comes to mind when you hear the word ‘seventeen’?

There are plenty of reasonable answers to this question: carefree, high school, movie nights, college applications, prom, excitement, driving tests, birthdays, part time jobs, dancing queen, final exams, soccer practice, tutoring, debate club, beach hangouts, curfew, winter formal, annoying parents… the list goes on.

Among these very normal, generally universal experiences, none yet apply to Tim Drake a few months into his seventeenth year.

Unfortunately, he’d have to go further down the list to find his answers, zooming right past ‘bright-eyed’, ‘homecoming’, and ‘footloose’ to eventually land on ‘pregnant’, ‘on the run’, and ‘terrified’.

It’s the shittiest of shitty situations and Tim is, for lack of a better term, a fucking mess.

After two days under Cass’s protection, their nerves had calmed somewhat and they’d gradually returned to their quote-unquote routine à la Kathmandu.

The sledgehammer over Tim’s psyche comes early morning on Day 3.

Over the past few weeks, he’s become well-acquainted with nausea and lightheadedness, but the unbearable queasiness that suddenly washes over him at five fifteen in the morning is something he’s never experienced before.

He’s out of bed, throwing open the bathroom door, and kneeling by the toilet in seconds, his head spinning as he empties the meager contents of his stomach.

Only after he finishes dry heaving does the other shoe finally drop – seemingly from the stratosphere based on the nuclear shockwave it sends through his body on impact.

No. No, no no no. There’s no way.

Summoned by his mate’s distress, Jason arrives in seconds, gently stroking his back and offering soft words of support.

No, that’s impossible. It can’t be true. I can’t be…

He can tell the exact moment Jason’s thoughts sync up with his by the way his hand freezes on his back.

“I thought… I thought you were…” Jason manages, trailing off in disbelief. He’s out of breath, almost like his brain has suddenly mixed up the process of inhaling with exhaling.

“I’m supposed to be,” Tim whispers, voice cracking. His trusty steed, Logic, tries and fails to provide an alternate explanation, but Panic wins the match this time around, sending him into a fit of hyperventilation. “Oh my god… Oh my god, Jason, what am I gonna do?”

“It has to be something else,” Jason reasons, desperate. “Tim, it can’t…” Again, his voice escapes him, leaving only the harrowing look on his face to communicate his dismay.

But Tim knows.

In his heart of hearts, he knows.

Tim Drake, age seventeen, is pregnant.

It’s a reality that some sick monster had to have conceived as a cruel joke, but it’s his reality regardless.

He can almost visualize the medical chart that stabbed him in the back so spectacularly being amended.

Name: Timothy Jackson Drake

Age: 17

Blood Type: AB-

Gender (Primary/Secondary): Male/Omega

Height (ft/cm): 5’8”/172cm

Weight (lbs/kg): 148lbs/67kg

Fertility Status: STERILE  FERTILE

“No, no, no, no, I can’t do this,” he sobs into his hands, the delicate threads just barely holding him together rapidly unraveling. “Why me?”

Jason is completely speechless, shock, confusion, and anguish written on his expression in flashing neon lights as he hugs Tim to his chest.

As he curls into his mate’s embrace on a cold bathroom floor thousands of miles from home, Tim grasps at the fading phantom of hope while he’s dragged further into the turbulent waters of devastation by the echoing sobs mocking his misery.

He’s never felt so small.

The polite but urgent knock followed by Damian’s sweet little voice from the other side of the bathroom door knocks over the final domino, catapulting him into a full blown meltdown.

“Mama? What is wrong?”

Game over. Commencing mental break.

With that, Tim is promptly ambushed by the Power Rangers of conflicting emotions – shock, sadness, happiness, guilt, anger, and jealousy – and not one of them bothers to pull their punches…

                                                                                    I have to be dreaming

Why can’t I be like other seventeen-year-olds?

This is wonderful news, I’m fertile!

WHAT THE FUCK                                                                           

                                          I’m crushed… What’s the point anymore?

            I’m not being fair, it’s not the baby’s fault

                                                               I’m only seventeen                                                                                                                                                      IM ONLY SEVENTEEN

This isn’t fair

It’s a dream come true!                                                           I’mscaredI’mscaredI’mscaredI’mscared’mscaredI’mscaredI’mscared

                                                              But I did everything right

                It’s a goddamn nightmare.                                                                                            A CURSE

 The poor thing            

                                                                                                            What did I do to deserve this? Why me?                                                              A MIRACLE

                                          This can’t be happening to me, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe

                                          It’s not fair

I should be happy                                                                                                     Creating life is a beautiful thing!

               I’d rather fucking die                                                                    I don’t know if I can go on

It didn’t ask to exist

                                                    Bullshit, I didn’t ask to be an Omega                                                                           None of this is real… it can’t be

I have so much love to give                       

I want to disappear                                                                                    What about Jason?                                        What about Dami?

I HATE IT I HATE IT I HATE IT I HATE IT I HATE IT I HATE IT I FUCKING HATE IT

I DID EVERYTHING RIGHT

The baby deserves a good mother… What am I gonna do?

                                                                                  WAKE UP I NEED TO WAKE UP                                          Poor Dami is probably so afraid

When’s it my turn to be happy?                                     

But I am a good mother! I’m doing alright with Dami…

Why did I think I could do any of this?

What if Dami thinks I don’t want him?                       

WHY ME                                             WAKE UP                                                                           WHY ME                                                                               WHY ME            

                                           IT’S NOT FAIR                                                       IT’S NOT FAIR                                            WAKE UP                                                                 IT’S NOT FAIR

There’s this annoying quote that’s often thrown around whenever bad things happen to good people that Tim can’t stand.

When a child is diagnosed with a terminal illness. When an upstanding member of the community is ruthlessly murdered. When a young newlywed couple is killed in a car crash.

Life isn’t fair.

At its core, it’s a hopeless and unproductive phrase full of complacency and condescension and apathy that only really warrants one response: ‘Yeah, no shit.’

Life isn’t, and never has been, fair.

It’s a fact woven into the very fabric of the universe… but, God, could Tim use some fucking fairness.

The word ‘helpless’ is quickly redefined in Jason’s personal dictionary as he cradles his inconsolable Omega after, arguably, the mightiest slap in the face he’s received in his nineteen years.

Each of Tim’s choked sobs shoots another needle of despair into his actively fragmenting heart, the deep cracks of sorrow mercilessly weaving their way across its delicate surface as he struggles to remain calm.

There’s nothing he can think or say or do that will change the fact that Tim is pregnant… with their child.

He’s never shied away from the thought of being a dad, evident given the way he’s easily adopted Damian as his own, but to conceive an entirely new life in the midst of relentless chaos and instability falls into an entirely new category of fatherhood that he’s not quite ready to face.

To say he’s absolutely terrified would be a severe understatement.

He’s petrified, scared to death and back, his body reacting as if he’s staring down the barrel of a fully loaded shotgun.

Damian’s knocks increase in urgency as his panic rises, Tim’s heartwrenching meltdown exacerbating his stress.

“What is wrong with Mama?!” he cries, banging on the door with his little fists.

‘Everything,’ he wants to say, ‘Everything is wrong with Mama, kiddo.’

Instead, he takes a deep breath and reaches up to crack the door open, his other arm still secured firmly around his mate.

What remains of his shattered heart disintegrates the moment his eyes land on the panic-stricken look written on the pup’s face.

Struggling against tears, he dons an unconvincing smile, “Mama just has a tummy ache. He’ll be fine, Dami,” he reassures, sounding nowhere near confident.

“Can… Can I come in, Baba?” Damian whispers, small and unsure and terribly afraid.

At the pup’s affectionate term for him, Jason flinches, the bitter reality of their situation swooping in for another blow.

He stares at him for a long time, fighting the urge to slam the door shut to protect him from their brutal reality and to protect Tim from spiraling any further.

“Baba?” Damian repeats, pulling him out of his raging dilemma.

“How about we just hang out like this?” Jason suggests, his overexaggerated cheer failing to mask his turmoil. He adjusts his body so that he can see Damian through the small sliver in the doorway while Tim and Damian remain hidden from each other. “We don’t want you getting a tummy ache too,” he adds to explain away the need for separation.

Just by looking at him, Jason can tell that Damian is fighting off his own panic attack while listening to Tim’s sobs and hiccups. The poor kid is already packed full of anxiety at just three years old, and as he watches his eyes slowly well up with those thick, heartbreaking tears of his, Jason is called to action.

“You wanna hear a story, kid?” he prompts, already knowing the answer.

Squishing and squeezing Jason’s hand for comfort, Damian nods his head.

“Alright, here goes,” Jason starts after leaning down to press a kiss to the mating bite on Tim’s neck to soothe him. “There once was a pretty princess trapped in a cave with a bunch of evil goblins. She had no memories and was scared and all alone, but one day, her prince charming arrived to save her. He was smart and confident and graceful and compassionate and very, very beautiful. And he was everything she ever wanted in life”

“That sounds like Mama,” Damian chimes in, already too engrossed in the story to shed tears.

“Sure does, doesn’t it?” Jason smiles, endeared by his pup’s adorable nature. “Anyway, the pretty princess’s memories came back thanks to the charming prince and while they plotted their escape from the scary goblin cave, they came upon a lost boy who was even smarter and cooler and more handsome and more adorable than both the prince and the princess combined.”

At this point, Tim has calmed down slightly. His body still trembles and his tears remain steady, but Jason has his attention, and that’s all he needs.

“After a long wait, the prince, the princess, and the boy finally got their chance to escape…”

“Did they get away, Baba?”

“Yep, they made like thieves in the night and ran away to the nearest city. But as they slowly made their way home, the prince began to feel funny.”

Damian frowns, “Why did he feel funny?”

“For a while, nobody knew why he felt so funny, but when he suddenly got a painful tummy ache, the prince and the princess found out that they were going to have a baby.”

He feels Tim’s grip tighten the moment the word ‘baby’ leaves his mouth, but he soldiers on, determined to drag his mate back from the pits of Tartarus.

“At first, it was really scary for the prince because they were still running away from the evil goblins who were chasing them and strange things were happening to his body and he was stuck with a princess who could be really annoying at times…”

The tiny, almost inaudible chuckle he gets from Tim pushes him to the finish line, his heart instantly feeling lighter.

“…But once they realized that they have each other, they became confident that everything would be okay, especially because their boy is the sweetest, silliest, most gentle kid in the world and will be the best big brother mankind has ever seen,” he says, eyes crinkled with affection as he pats his pup on the head.

Jason can see the exact moment realization strikes Damian, his face morphing from bright interest to sober neutrality.

“Is Mama sad?” he finally asks after nearly a full minute of staring thoughtfully at Jason’s hand in his lap.

“I think Mama is feeling a little bit of everything right now, big guy,” Jason says honestly. A cheeky grin sneaks its way onto his lips as he glances down at his mate. “But I think he’s mostly upset that I got to be the pretty princess in the story.”

The weak smack and melodic laughter from Tim confirms his success, and Jason can’t stop himself from leaning down and attacking him with kisses.

As Tim giggles and tries to swat him away, Jason opens the door further for their pup, who wastes no time diving into Tim’s arms.

After a long moment of simply hugging his mama, Damian looks up at him with fiery, resolute eyes.

“I will do my best, Mama.”

“You’ll be a good big brother regardless, kid,” Jason laughs, clinging to the two people he values most in the world as if they’ll be ripped away from him at any moment.

“You’re a good pup, Dami,” Tim coos, leaving a tender kiss atop his head.

Life isn’t fair.

It never has been and it never will be.

But if there’s anything the three of them have in common, it’s their superhuman resilience, and they’ll be damned if they take all the bullshit life decides to throw at them lying down.

Chapter Text

With her return to Gotham set, Cass spends her last few days in Hong Kong closing out her active cases and, essentially, cleaning up shop.

Thankfully, she’s a protege of the World’s Greatest Detective, so it doesn’t take very long, and within forty-eight hours, her cases are closed, safehouses are emptied, and traces are covered.

After a brief visit across the bridge to retrieve their passports from Tim’s connection in Macao, she returns to their hideout only to be met with an atmosphere bogged down by overwhelming tension and unease.

Neither Tim nor Jason say a word when she arrives, watching with saddened eyes as Damian runs-slash-toddles to the door to greet her.

“Hi, Auntie Cass,” the pup mumbles bashfully, a direct and, frankly, adorable contrast to his eager approach.

She greets him with a warm smile, picking him up easily and making her way toward the duo still seated on the small couch.

Tim is a complete mess, clear as day. His red-rimmed eyes and distant expression are enough to get that point across.

While Jason is, similarly, in a state of disarray, he makes an attempt to mask his internal chaos with a weak smile.

It’s only been two days since she’s last seen them, but they look like completely different people, as if replaced by depressed doppelgangers.

Figuring they’ll talk when ready and never one to push for conversation, she begins to unpack the contents of her bag, first pulling out their passports followed by a fluffy stuffed animal.

“For you,” she states, holding the toy out to Damian.

The pup stares wide-eyed at the dinosaur nearly half the size of him, disbelief evident.

A combination of anger and sorrow pulls at Cass’s heartstrings at his blatant hesitation. 

She hasn’t been made privy to his origin or upbringing, but his deeply-ingrained inclination to feel stress and apprehension in lieu of joy and excitement when receiving even the smallest gifts paints a pretty clear picture of how he’d been treated by those who came before Tim and Jason.

Only after she manually wraps his arms around the plush does happiness bloom on Damian’s face.

“Thank you, Auntie Cass,” he says, his tone and demeanor bursting with shy gratitude.

Cass can’t help the way she melts. The pup is sweet and gentle and kindhearted and everything she was denied the opportunity to be as a child, so she’s confident she'd do anything to preserve that innocence for him.

As she lightly pinches and pulls at his cheeks to manage her cuteness aggression, Damian’s eyes drift to Tim, communicating a silent request that Cass has come to learn means ‘nursing time’.

“You are welcome, cutie,” she says as she releases his cheeks, a slight flush flooding her face at the term of endearment that subconsciously slips out.

It was strange, at first, to witness Tim behave in such a motherly fashion, but now as she watches him carry his pup to a more private corner of the room to nurse, it seems like the most natural thing in the world.

Tim has always been independent, preferring to act alone without anyone to rely on or anyone to rely on him. She and him are similar in that sense, self-sufficient almost to a fault, so it fills her heart with relief and solace to see him this way.

Once Tim is out of earshot, Jason finally speaks, his nerves now unmasked in the sole presence of his big sister of approximately three days.

“Cass, you’re not gonna like this, but… Alpha to Alpha, I need a favor,” he starts, his voice low.

In their short period of knowing each other, Jason has been calm and easygoing and humorous – a bastion of comfort, hope, and security for his mate and pup – but the way he looks at her now portrays nothing of the sort.

She meets his open consternation with fierce determination. They may have just met, but he is family, point blank period.

“If anything happens to me before we reach Gotham…” He pauses at the cute giggles that drift from Tim and Damian’s direction, looking somewhere between adoring and agonized. “I need… I need you to promise me you’ll take them and go.”

Her immediate reaction is a visceral, “No.” Under no circumstance will she leave anyone behind. “We go together. I won’t–”

“Tim’s pregnant,” he blurts, bringing her objection to an abrupt halt. He allows her only a few moments to process this earth-shattering news before shoving her unceremoniously between a rock and a hard place. “You have to promise me.”

As an Alpha, she understands. The desire, no, the need to protect is coded into their DNA, and that feeling is likely amplified by the knowledge of an unborn baby.

But as a sibling, she wavers, immensely so.

“They’re everything to me, Cass,” he whispers, desperate in every sense of the word. In him, she sees salient fortitude and raw, unfiltered love for his mate and pup(s). “They’re all I’ve got, and- and I can’t let them get hurt again… ever.”

It’s hard. Perhaps the hardest decision she’s had to make in her twenty years. But the longer she stares into his pleading eyes, the more apparent the right answer becomes.

Were she in his position, she’d ask the same of him, and she knows in her heart that Tim would too.

“…Okay,” she agrees after a moment of silence even she considers extensive.

Given words mean much more to Cass than most people, her verbal agreement holds as much weight as a blood oath and they both know it. There’s no turning back.

Jason visibly relaxes, the tension leaving his body as he slouches onto the couch and plops his head back to stare at the ceiling.

“Tracker,” she adds as a conditional, pointing to her arm. 

If – heavy emphasis on if – she is put in a position where she’s forced to uphold her promise, she refuses to fully abandon her brother. After delivering Tim and Damian safety, she will make it her life’s mission to retrieve him.

“Deal,” he says easily, lifting his head with a look of genuine appreciation. “Thank you, Cass.”

As Tim returns with Damian, they share a pained smile, the two of them connected by their tragic but necessary promise.

“All done?” Jason asks as he pulls his pup into his lap and pokes at his arms, his rueful smile now turned cheerful. “I think Mama’s a magician, kid, you’re starting to look shredded,” he teases.

“I want to be strong like you, Baba,” Damian beams as he flexes his little arms with pride.

“I’m touched, but I think you should aim a bit higher, big guy,” Jason laughs. “Mama and Auntie Cass are a hundred times stronger than I am.” 

While Jason is able to switch from melancholy to carefree at the drop of a hat, Cass remains wedged in her somber state. It almost feels like she’s made a deal with the devil – except the devil is her little brother and the deal centers a horrible lose-lose situation for both of them.

She’s yanked out of her thoughts when a cold hand comes to rest on her forearm.

“Cass, are you okay?”

The irony of Tim’s question would be amusing were his physical and emotional fragility not so worrisome.

“Mhm,” she hums, her guilt preventing her from meeting his analytical gaze, “just thinking.”

Apparently sensing her difficulty, Jason swoops in to free her from Tim’s baby blue microscopes.

“We’re thinking we should implant trackers before we go,” he explains, his hands resting gently on Damian’s back as he dozes on his chest, properly milk-drunk, “especially with our travel plans.”

They finalized their travel arrangements two days prior, just before Cass had left them to take care of her final tasks in the city, and while it's a solid plan, none of them are very happy about it.

With the League of Assassins on the prowl for an Alpha, an Omega, and a small pup, traveling as a unit would be far too risky. 

Therefore, they’ve decided to split up, with Tim and Jason each navigating to the airport, checking in, and going through security alone while Cass takes Damian. They even purchased separate seats on the flight to avoid suspicion.

Both Tim and Jason are wary about being separated from each other and their pup, but the main concern is how Damian will react.

In the few days of interacting with and observing her nephew, Cass has been able to loosely diagnose him with severe separation anxiety. He remains attached to one or both of his parents at all times and he is quick to tears in their absence. And while he clearly feels comfortable around her, she is no replacement for his mama and baba.

“I agree,” Tim says after a long pause spent deep in thought. “Do you have them on hand?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s do it after Dami wakes up,” he suggests, his soft gaze resting on his sleeping pup. “We can talk to him about the plan then, too…”

“He’ll be fine, Tim,” Jason reassures, sensing his worry. “It’ll only be for a little while.”

Tim says nothing in response, simply staring at his pup as if trying to channel every ounce of love he has into his small body.

As Cass watches the three of them in their own little world, the promise she’d made with Jason weighs heavy on her mind, looming in the shadows like a predator waiting to strike.

Damian wants to be brave. He really, really, really does. But he can’t help the way his gut twists as he watches his parents leave, one after the other.

Even though he cried a little bit, he’d done his best to remain calm when Auntie Cass put the small metal bean-like object in his arm, but his parents are now leaving him behind, and he’s nowhere near calm.

Devastated is all that can be said in reference to his state of mind.

Over and over again they’d reassured him that he’s done nothing wrong and that they love him very much and that he’s a good pup and that they’ll see each other again very soon, but their words of encouragement don’t hold a candle to the intrusive thoughts wreaking havoc in his head.

What if Mama and Baba get hurt? What if Mother and Grandfather find them and take them away? What if me and Auntie Cass get lost? What if they don’t want me anymore because they have a new baby now?

“I– I want Mama an-and Baba,” he cries as he clings to Auntie Cass, his dinosaur plushie being strangled in his death grip.

“We will be right behind them, Dami,” she explains, gently brushing his tears away as she fixes his disguise.

On top of being separated from his parents, the fact that he will once again be flying exacerbates his stress and he simply can’t stop his hyperventilating sobs. 

Patient as ever, Auntie Cass sits with him until he runs out of tears, periodically wiping his cheeks and helping him blow his nose.

“Everything will be okay,” she soothes. “I know you are scared, but Tim and Ja– Mama and Baba need you to be brave, pup. Can you be brave for them?”

After a long moment of studying her intense brown eyes through blurry vision, Damian gives her a small nod paired with a miserable sniffle.

“Good boy,” she smiles, picking him up and grabbing their light luggage before heading out.

The trip to the airport is a mere half hour by train, but in Damian’s reality, it’s rife with opportunities for things to go wrong.

“Auntie Cass, where are Mama and Baba now?” he asks repeatedly throughout their short journey across the city.

Each time, she dutifully supplies an answer, not an ounce of irritation in her tone as she reads her tracking device and gives status updates on his parents' whereabouts. 

When they arrive at the bustling airport, she holds him close and tight, her eyes constantly scanning as they make their way to the security line.

It’s Damian’s first time being at such a big airport and, more importantly, his first time being around this many people, and he promptly decides that he absolutely hates it.

He’s frightened and uncomfortable and overwhelmed and all he wants is to be back in Auntie Cass’s small basement with his mama and baba, but, for his family and for himself, he must be brave.

Aside from the tense moment when the stern-looking man at the front of the line carefully examines their passports, security is quick and easy.

“Can we see Mama and Baba now?”

Before answering, Auntie Cass takes him to a quiet corner by an empty kiosk, her expression very serious as she crouches down to his level.

“Remember, we can see them, but we cannot talk to them,” she reminds, stern but gentle.

Damian deflates. In his eagerness to be reunited with his parents, he’d forgotten that they won’t be able to actually be together until later because, according to Baba, ‘the scary goblins are still looking for them’.

“Okay,” he mumbles, dejected but obedient.

With that, she takes him by the hand and they make their way across the terminal to the gate. 

Upon arrival, Damian has to bite down on his poor dinosaur to prevent himself from calling out to his mama who sits a few rows away with long blonde hair, glasses, and a denim jacket.

‘Mama! I am here, Mama, look!’ he wants to scream as Auntie Cass guides him to a quiet row of seats by the window.

From his vantage point, Damian can see most of the waiting area and after only a few seconds, he locates Baba on the far end, sitting up straight in his suit and tie with curly chestnut hair falling into his sunglasses.

Auntie Cass gives him his coloring book to keep him occupied while they wait, but he can’t keep his eyes from returning to the two people who matter most to him in the world.

Hyperfocused on his mama and baba, he’s startled when she suddenly pulls him into her chest and hugs him tight.

His confusion dissipates when he hears a sinister voice come from behind.

“What a winsome pup,” the man chuckles. “Is he your own, miss?”

Just from his awkward cadence and outdated language, he can tell the man is one of Grandfather and Mother’s higher-ranking officers.

Auntie Cass stiffens, her arms tightening around him. He doesn’t dare lift his head.

“Yes,” she snaps, making her annoyance known.

Damian’s skin crawls when he feels an unfamiliar hand land on his shoulder. 

“May I request to see him? I have heard on the news channel of many runaways in recent days and I think it important to verify–”

“Don’t you dare touch him, you creep!” she cries, drawing gasps and murmurs from nearby onlookers as she slaps the man’s hand away. 

She sounds completely different from the quiet, reserved Auntie Cass he knows and it seems a bit counterintuitive to shout when they’re trying to avoid attention, but Damian trusts her judgement so he remains silent, doing everything he can to stop his body from trembling.

The man sounds nervous when he replies, clearly on edge by the probing eyes of his newly acquired audience, “I– I apologize, miss, we– I only meant–”

“Get the hell away from me and my son before I call security,” she snarls, her tone accusatory and protective.

With the League aiming to avoid conflict with ordinary civilians in most cases, the man leaves just as fast as he came, and after fielding a few questions and words of support from those seated nearby, Auntie Cass returns to waiting in silence, though her grip around him is noticeably tighter.

Soon after their close call, Damian is forced to reckon with the moment he has been dreading the most: boarding the plane.

His courage wears thinner and thinner as he moves further up the line, his vice grip on Auntie Cass’s hand not loosening for even a second. By the time he has reached his seat, his eyes are wet with tears, unable to handle his fear of flying in the absence of his two pillars of support.

The terror weighing heavy on his shoulders lessens slightly when Baba, who is seated one row up and diagonal to them, drops something in the aisle and shoots him a sly wink as he bends down to pick it up.

Similarly, Mama surreptitiously gives his head a gentle pat when he walks by to go to his seat a few rows back, soothing him with just his touch.

As far as he could tell, both of his parents had completely ignored his existence while they were waiting at the gate, so their small acts of acknowledgement are now even more effective at calming his busy mind.

From there, things aren’t so bad. They aren’t good by any means, but they’re bearable, and that’s really all he needs in order to get through the next fifteen hours.

To help keep his worries at bay, Auntie Cass puts on a movie called Home Alone for him. 

He’s never been exposed to movies or television shows, so he’s excited by the pictures moving on the screen as he nibbles on the extra bag of pretzels the nice flight attendant had given to him.

As it turns out, Home Alone was the perfect choice, and as he watches Kevin McCallister cleverly navigate being, well, home alone, Damian feels inspired – mainly by his confidence and wit, and less so by his evil-streak and borderline criminal booby traps.

Throughout the long flight, Mama and Baba communicate with him in different ways, like pacing up and down the aisle to stretch their legs and giving him little squeezes as they pass by or leaving short notes for Auntie Cass to read for him. They don’t say a single word to him, but he’s comforted by their presence regardless.

Four movies, two meals, and a long nap later, they’re touching down in New York, and while Damian might not be ready to take on the big city on his own like Kevin did in Home Alone 2, he has gained a tiny bit of confidence in himself which is a major plus.

He can be brave and courageous and strong just like Mama and Baba and Auntie Cass said, and that’s enough for him to believe that things will be okay for now.

Chapter Text

A brief excerpt of a conversation between Intuition and Reason:

Something bad is going to happen.

What do you mean ‘something’?

I dunno.

Well, when’s it going to happen?

Maybe now, maybe later.

Can you at least tell me where it might happen?

Nah, I don't feel like it.

Is there any valuable information you can give me to prepare for this bad… 'something'?

Yes.

Okay, shoot.

SOMETHING BAD IS GOING TO HAPPEN.

Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking useless.

Throughout their entire journey from Hong Kong to New York, Tim is accosted by the half-assed bastard that goes by the name Intuition.

Every proton, neutron, and electron in his body tells him that something is about to go terribly wrong, but none of them have the balls to tell him what it is that’s about to turn his already upside down world inside out.

He’s been perpetually nervous and nauseous and oh-so drained, but despite his overwhelming exhaustion, he hadn’t gotten a lick of sleep during the fifteen hour flight from Hong Kong, his attention glued to his pup a few rows up the entire time.

The poor thing had been terrified beyond measure, and after their encounter with what was clearly a League scout, Tim’s heart rate had been off the charts for a not insignificant amount of time.

Now, approximately 11pm EST/12pm HKT, he’s engaged in a fistfight with sleep as he stands rigidly at the passenger pickup area, his eyelids in a repetitive cycle of drooping closed and snapping open.

After a particularly severe moment of drowsiness, he’s jolted awake when he’s caught on his way to the floor by strong arms.

“Are you feeling alright, miss?”

He turns to see the handsome smile of his Alpha inches from his face.

Startled, flustered, and alarmed all at once, Tim quickly regains his footing and creates space between them.

“Yes, I’m– I’m alright, thank you,” he stutters, his heart doing jumping jacks at both the proximity and suddenness.

“Not a problem,” Jason says, the cheeky grin never leaving his face, “especially for someone as lovely as yourself.”

He looks simultaneously hot, ridiculous, and ridiculously hot in his suit and tie disguise, but Tim doesn’t have much time to dwell on this fact with Jason silently relaying information about Cass and Damian under the guise of flirting.

“Your blonde hair is beautiful, but might I say black hair would look ravishing as well.”

(Cass is getting the car. On her way with Dami.)

His hands are fast, but sign language has always been Tim’s forte, so deciphering his words is a breeze.

“I’m flattered, but I’m not so sure black would suit me very well.”

(ETA? I’ll walk to the next terminal.)

“Your humility is admirable. Might I ask your name?”

(I’ll go. They’ll pick you up here in ten.)

“Petra. And yours?”

(Okay, be safe.)

“Jack. It’s been a pleasure.”

(I will. See you soon.)

With a final fleeting touch, Jason is off, sauntering to the next terminal over as if everything is right with the world. Just looking at him, one would assume he just came from a successful business meeting or got a high-value promotion rather than on the run from an international crime syndicate.

Although that nagging feeling of impending doom remains in Tim’s heart, it’s quieted slightly by his mate’s confidence and reliability. He loves him so much it hurts.

As promised, nine minutes and forty-eight seconds later, a plain black sedan is pulling up to the sidewalk, flashing its lights once then twice quickly.

Putting on the smile of someone who just returned from an exciting vacation, Tim jogs up to the car and casually hops in. The moment the door shuts behind him, his baby is in his arms, crying and sobbing and letting out all the pent up fear he’d been bravely holding in for so long.

“I mi-missed you, Mama,” Damian hiccups, his eyelashes sopping wet.

“I know, love,” Tim coos, struggling to suppress his own tears, “I missed you too.”

Not for one second does his pup let go of him as Cass navigates to Terminal B to fetch Jason. 

Upon arrival, she puts on her hazard lights for three clicks instead of flashing her lights, and just as Tim manages to calm the overwhelmed pup down, Jason hops in beside them and the waterworks pick up again.

“You did amazing, Dami,” Jason soothes amid Damian’s wails. His praise continues as he attempts to return the wriggling pup to the car seat in the middle.

For the next two-ish hours, things go smoothly, the mood shifting from anxious to hopeful as they get closer and closer to home.

It’s 1:12am when they enter the city limits.

It’s 1:19am when their two front tires are blown out.

Cass does everything in her power to maintain control of the vehicle, but she can only do so much and they end up crashing into a nearby office building.

They’re in the financial district on a Sunday night so the place is a ghost town, save for the group of masked assassins closing in on them.

‘Fuck intuition and gut feelings and sixth senses and clairvoyance and inklings and hunches and all of their bullshit variants,’ Tim thinks bitterly as he hurriedly unbuckles Damian from his car seat, passes him to Jason, and jumps out of the car.

He doesn’t know the what, when, where, why, or how surrounding their sudden ambush, but he does know the who, and as he sprints closely behind Cass and Jason through the eerily silent streets of Gotham, all Tim can picture is the wicked smile of Ra’s Al Ghul.

They make it across the bridge to the North Side and halfway through Chinatown before they’re forced underground.

While they’re submerged in near pitch darkness with only the flickering lights above to guide them through the complex web of tunnels that is the Gotham City subway system, they have the benefit of (1) being born and raised in the city and knowing the tunnels like the back of their hand, and (2) not worrying about being ran over by a train with the subways being offline at this late of an hour.

The four of them, Damian included, move in complete silence, slinking their way uptown and doing everything in their power to ignore the stampede encroaching from every possible direction.

Right, left, straight, bear right, up two levels, left, down one level, switch platforms, straight, left.

It’s like hitting quick time events in a decision-based video game, and as they get further and further uptown, the hope that was mangled in the car crash seemingly only moments ago begins to bloom once more.

That is, until they turn a corner to be met with the daughter of the Demon Head, Talia Al Ghul, herself, looking as murderous as ever.

Tim’s blood runs cold, his feet frozen under her deadly glare from across the platform. She seems different, more unhinged, the crazed look in her eyes making her look almost possessed.

“You bats are all the same. You return to this festering city with your pathetic loyalty like pitiful dogs. It is laughable,” she sneers with an uncanny chuckle. Her laughter ends abruptly, her expression turning icy. “Return my son to me or perish.”

The standoff between their small ragtag group of victims and their foreboding, heartless perpetrator seems to last eons.

Finally, Jason acts, very slowly handing Damian to Tim and giving a simple but assertive command, “Run.”

They’re fast, but Talia’s faster, and she’s on them in an instant, clawing a long line of cuts through Tim's jacket and down his arm as she reaches for the son she doesn’t deserve.

By some miracle, Jason manages to pull him away and land a vicious kick to her stomach, paving the way for Cass to get to work. 

With her lightning-fast combat style that contains not a millimeter of wasted movement, she has Talia on her back foot in moments. 

A loud crack and a wretched shriek from the normally composed woman echoes down the tunnel after Tim and Jason as they sprint away, trusting Cass to follow.

“Knee,” is all she supplies when she catches up.

It’s ironic, in the most dreadful way possible, that mere seconds later, two shrill cracks are piercing through the air and Jason is hitting the ground with a pained grunt.

As he watches the blood pool from the gunshot wounds just above and below Jason’s knee, Tim recalls the offhand comment made by one of the League staff members during their imprisonment… ‘Lady Talia has a gun.’

“Baba!” Damian cries, unable to stop himself nor his tears.

“Fucking hell,” Jason curses as he slowly attempts to stand, only to stumble when his other leg gives out.

“RETURN MY SON TO ME.”

The chilling command from the disheveled woman limping toward them paired with the pounding footsteps that only increase in volume force Tim out of his shock. He doesn’t notice he’s crying as he desperately pulls at his mate’s arms.

It’s the final nail in the coffin and they all know it. There’s simply no way for them to get out with Jason being unable to walk.

But even if his brain knows it’s hopeless, Tim’s heart prevails, refusing to face their grim reality.

“Jason, you have to get up!” he pleads, his strength failing him as his mate remains seated and makes no effort to stand on his own accord.

“Tim, I–”

In his frantic desperation, he barely registers Jason’s words, instead looking up at his sister with a look of absolute betrayal, “Cass, what are you doing?! Help me!”

The anguish and despair painted on their faces does little to resolve his confusion.

Why are they looking at me like that? Why aren’t they helping me? We have to go, why aren’t they doing anything? Why aren’t they helping me?

“What’s going on?!” he demands, far beyond the threshold of hysterical. He repeats himself when he’s once again met with silence. “Jason, what’s–”

His question is cut off when his Alpha pulls him into a heartrending kiss full of equal parts love and atonement. 

It’s tender and aching and poignant and comforting and terrifying and so, so brief, and when Jason pulls away to gaze at him with undisguised grief, Tim can physically feel his heart being ripped apart.

“I love you so much,” he whispers, his pretty green eyes glistening with tears as he presses another soft kiss to his lips. “I’m sorry, Tim.”

The last thing he registers is his mate’s beautifully sad smile before he feels a sharp jab to his neck and the world goes black.

Chapter Text

Sundays used to be Alfred’s favorite day of the week.

In the mornings, he’d often prepare brunch with the help of Master Jason… before he passed.

He recalls enjoying many afternoon tea times with Miss Cassandra… before she disappeared.

The evenings hold many fond memories of playing chess with Master Timothy… before he, too, vanished.

Sundays are no longer Alfred’s favorite day of the week. 

But while he is a man of many talents, adjusting the Gregorian calendar to remove the seventh day of the week is not one of them, so, alas, he is forced to endure the day filled with glum reminders of better times.

With a deep sigh, he places two cups of coffee on a small tray and carefully makes his way down to the Batcave.

Per usual, Master Dick is up dark and late, hunched over what has become his work station in his hunt for his siblings.

And, per usual, Master Bruce is awake as well, though it may be more accurate to describe him as up early rather than up late.

In any other scenario, Alfred would scold them all the way into their much needed REM sleep, but considering the circumstances, he can’t find it within himself to do anything but assist in any way possible to keep them alive and functioning.

Though just as dreadful as every other Sunday since Miss Cassandra and Master Timothy’s disappearances, today marks three months since the return of Master Bruce, which also means it has been three months since Alfred has seen the man smile.

His homecoming had been… bittersweet, mildly speaking.

With the detailed information Master Timothy had relayed just prior to vanishing, Superman, Green Lantern, Booster Gold, and their fellow Justice League members had successfully retrieved Master Bruce from his involuntary journey through time.

Naturally, relief and delight were abundant, but Master Dick, Miss Barbara, and Miss Stephanie had remained untouched by such cheer and liveliness, immediately continuing their search for Miss Cassandra and Master Timothy.

For nearly ten days following his return, Master Bruce had been delirious and bedridden, his mind and body afflicted by his lengthy journey through time. But upon regaining clarity, he, too, sequestered himself in the Batcave, focused solely on finding his missing children.

As he descends the winding steps into the cloud of despair settled in the Cave, Alfred can’t help but notice their dark circles and bloodshot eyes.

Primarily taking on a ‘support’ role when it comes to his family’s detective and vigilante duties, watching them struggle is nothing new to Alfred. But in his many years of supporting and understanding and tending and listening, he has never witnessed such deep, heavy dejection.

Master Bruce barely registers Alfred’s presence when he approaches the Batcomputer to deliver his coffee.

The man looks to have been sapped of his very essence, the only sign of life being a quiet grunt to communicate his appreciation.

Alfred is old, wise, experienced, with many years of both joy and sorrow under his belt, but he can’t begin to imagine what Master Bruce is, and has been, feeling.

Not only was he lost in the fabric of time for an indeterminate amount of, well, time, but he was immediately met with the knowledge that two of his children have been missing for months upon return. Safe to say, he was crushed.

Frankly unable to look at his distraught form for much longer, Alfred makes his way to the far side of the room toward the other tortured soul chained to the Batcave.

While they are all connected by their shared sorrow, Master Dick is a separate matter entirely.

At just twenty-four years old, he has:

• Lost both parents
• Gained a father
• Gained a brother
• Lost a brother
• Gained a sister
• Gained another brother
• Lost a father
• Lost a sister
• Lost another brother
• Regained a father

He is the human embodiment of ‘Loved and Lost’ and it shows in his dreary demeanor and broken spirit.

It hurts Alfred’s heart to see someone so young endure so much suffering.

“Thanks, Alfred,” he mutters as he accepts the cup with dry hands and cracked knuckles, his anguish attempting to escape with his hoarse voice.

He knows it's fruitless, but Alfred tries anyway, “Master Dick, perhaps it’s time to take a break. You have been–”

“I know, goddammit!” he snaps, one foot already past the threshold of a breakdown. His expression displays his immediate regret. “Sorry. Fuck, I’m sorry, Alfred. I didn’t mean…”

“It’s alright, I understand,” Alfred says softly, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder as his tears stain the stack of files sitting on the table before him like fresh rain on dry concrete.

“You’re right, I should… I should take a break,” he mumbles, making no attempt to leave as he robotically returns to his files. 

His sniffles echo loudly in the cavernous space but his tears are not addressed. Not by Alfred, not by Master Bruce, not by anyone. Master Dick simply keeps working like his life depends on it – and, truth be told, it just might.

It’s been this way for months and each passing day, Alfred is more and more convinced that he’ll never again meet the young man with the shining smile and bubbly personality that he’s come to love so much.

They have searched nearly the entire globe to no avail - even with assistance from their allies - and he can see the light in Master Dick’s eyes slowly go out as each dead end rips away his last vestiges of hope.

It has even gotten to the point where they have neglected their nightly patrolling duties, evidenced by the fact that Miss Stephanie, Batgirl, is the sole protector of Gotham this evening.

Just as the final dull glimmer of hope blinks out of existence, a loud crackle pierces through the silence and the voice of Miss Barbara, better known as Oracle, echoes throughout the Cave.

“B, Nightwing, we need you in Park Row. Right now.”

The panicked urgency in place of her usual cool equanimity raises alarm bells and Master Bruce and Master Dick are on their feet in seconds. 

“We’re on our way. What’s the situation,” Master Bruce states, his voice even despite his apparent rising stress.

A beat of terribly suffocating silence before a string of words that reignite the dying flame of hope in their hearts.

“It’s Tim and Cass.”

With that, they’re gone like the wind, almost leaving their shadows behind in their frantic departure.

Dick Grayson is many things.

A young man, a son, a grandson, an acrobat, a vigilante, a detective, a leader, a partner, et cetera… but most of all, he’s a brother.

It’s what he prides himself on, what he holds dearest to his heart, what gives him life.

Which is why, after losing each and every one of his beloved siblings, the only thing on his mind is what most would consider the exact opposite of life: death.

With each month, week, day, hour, minute, and second that goes by, his will to go on diminishes, replaced by a merciless depression that sinks its claws deep in his heart and simply WON’T. LET. GO.

All this to say, Dick has had a rough year.

While Bruce’s return had been a welcome reprieve from the incessant failures that used him like a boxing bag, the Grand Canyon-sized chasm in his heart left by the disappearance of his two remaining siblings only continues to grow as time goes on.

Over and over again, he replays his final conversations with his sister and brother.

Cass had been so blatantly heartsick, and even as she distanced herself from him and the others, Dick had said nothing, failing spectacularly as a big brother by ‘allowing her space’ when what she really needed was a shoulder to cry on in her grief.

The last thing Cass had said to him was, “I’m fine.”

Tim, on the other hand, had been so angry that there was no way for Dick not to notice. He was confident and sure and so, so furious when he’d left, determined to prove that Bruce was alive. And guess what, he was fucking right.

The last thing Tim had said to him was, “I have to try.”

He’d say it hurts like hell if it wasn’t such an egregious understatement. 

Now back to being an only child with nowhere to direct his overflowing love, he stares down at yet another stack of files while Alfred, bless the man, comforts him.

‘Maybe Alfred’s right,’ he thinks as his sanity finally begins to slip. ‘Maybe I should take a break… permanently. All of this can end if I just kill mys–’

His grim thoughts are brought to an abrupt halt when Oracle’s voice shoots through the Cave’s comms, sounding much more anxious than normal.

He lets Bruce handle the details while he suits up, methodically going through the same motions he has repeated almost every night since the age of nine.

As he contemplates what could have Babs so freaked out at two a.m. on a Sunday night (or Monday morning) – a typically quiet time of the week for crime – she says four simple words that nearly send him into cardiac arrest.

“It’s Tim and Cass.”

His motor neurons move before his sensory neurons can even register what’s happening, and when his vision comes back to him, he’s racing down the highway in his Nightbird behind Bruce in the Batmobile.

As they snake further downtown, Oracle directs them toward their moving targets, and finally, finally they catch sight of a small shadow half-running, half-trudging into a back alley.

It’s almost as if someone turns up the saturation in his eyes the moment Dick recognizes his little sister.

With his head above water at last, his senses clear and he ditches his car without a second thought, sprinting down the alley, Bruce hot on his tail.

Clearly on edge, she turns on him with wild eyes as he approaches, but after a brief standstill, her expression softens through her pained grimace.

In his many months of thinking and imagining and hypothesizing and preparing, Dick has played out this moment thousands of times. 

What would he say when he saw them again? How would he act? Would he smile? Cry? Cheer? Yell? How would they react? Would Cass be upset? Would Tim be angry? Would they still be his siblings?

But now, as he looks at his dear little brother and sister, all he can do is stare, his heart overloading his brain with so many emotions that it pushes it to the point of paralysis.

They're alive. They're here. They're living and breathing and alive and they're here.

Only when Bruce speaks do the dominoes start falling.

“Cassandra,” he breathes, almost inaudible.

At that, her legs give out, knees just barely grazing the ground before Dick catches her and the… the toddler in her arms.

?????????????????????????????????

In their initial shock, they had entirely missed the child and now allow themselves a very brief moment of pause to glance at each other as if wanting to confirm that what they are seeing is, in fact, real.

Bruce is the first to break, quickly removing Tim from her back and the toddler from her arms before hurrying away. 

As he transports them back to the Batmobile, Dick follows with Cass cradled to his chest, trying his very best to ignore the blood steadily flowing from a wound just below her ribs.

He knows she’s in bad shape from the unintelligible string of babbles flowing from her normally tight lips, her glassy eyes trying and failing to focus on him.

When he places her in the passenger side of the car, she has a sudden moment of lucidity and grips his forearm, hard.

“Jason,” she gasps, out of breath due to both exhaustion and pain. Her final words before blood loss snatches her consciousness away send chills down Dick's spine, “We need to find Jason.”

Chapter Text

Years of doing this vigilante, detective, hero bullshit, and Jason still doesn’t understand why kidnappers opt for dingy warehouses and basements instead of five-star hotel rooms.

They’re effectively the same thing – a functional space to keep a hostage or prisoner – only, one has a bed and the other a concrete floor.

They’ve chosen a cell in a basement, not too far off from the cell he’d been kept in at their base deep in the Himalayas, and it feels familiar in a morbid kind of way. He’d almost go as far to call it homey.

He’s officially back to square one, but he has his memories this time which can technically be considered a plus.

Pointedly ignoring the steady drip of water in the corner of the cell that may or may not have been strategically placed there to drive him crazy, Jason focuses on compartmentalizing.

At this point in time, he has a grand total of zero options, so there’s really not much he can do but try not to go insane, which is asking for a lot, all things considered.

With all of his trauma and pain and the two bullets still wedged in his leg, he should be terrified, hysterical, manic even, but all he can feel is profound relief.

Even as his skin crawls at the horrible sound of his chains scraping across the floor and the awful smell of iron that wafts from the pool of blood beneath him, his heart feels light, the image of his mate and his pups being taken to freedom successfully suppressing his fear and panic.

He knows Tim will be pissed, God, he’ll be livid, but the important thing is that they got away safely, all four of them.

It’s not entirely clear where things will go from here, and he has spent pretty much every minute of the last however many hours wondering why the hell he’s being kept alive when they’ve had plenty of opportunities to off him, easily.

His silent musings are interrupted when the door to the basement opens and the human shitstain that’s more often referred to as Ra’s Al Ghul descends the metal steps. 

Behind him is Talia, now looking more composed but no less bloodthirsty, her gait awkward with her blown out knee courtesy of Cass.

Based solely on the rage woven into their expressions, Jason can tell he’s won.

Normally, he’d be flying off the handle, spewing profanities at them like he’s paid by the word, but now with the knowledge that his family is safe, he’s cool as a cucumber, mellow like yellow, completely unperturbed.

He lets them stew in their failure as they glare down at him with pure loathing.

“Jason Todd, you are a disgrace,” Ra’s spits, literally, at his feet as he motions for one of his goons to open the cell door.

The sound of metal on metal is ear-splitting but Jason doesn’t flinch. 

Ra’s stands aside menacingly as two henchmen adjust Jason’s chains to where he’s kneeling in the middle of his cell, his arms raised and back exposed.

“You act as though you hold importance in this world,” the old man seethes, moving closer with a disgusted look on his face and a weighty whip in his hand, “but you fail to comprehend that you are merely a beast. An animalistic, feral, sub-human beast to be used as cattle for my success.”

It’s not like he doesn’t see the hit coming, but, Jesus Christ, does it hurt.

He tries his best to contain his grunts and hisses and curses of pain as he’s whipped like some weird homage to nineteenth century corporal punishment.

Being subject to flagellation in a year that starts with a two and a zero would be kind of funny if it didn’t hurt so goddamn much.

“You are a selfish,”

Five.

“irresponsible,”

Six.

“untamed,”

Seven.

“lustful,”

Eight.

“savage,”

Nine.

“imbecilic”

For fuck’s sake, TEN.

“fool.”

Just when Jason figures the guy has run out of synonyms, the beratement continues.

“You are my slave. You will do as I say. You will know your place.”

“Just fucking kill me already,” Jason snaps when the brutal flogging finally pauses, his body ice cold despite the warm blood trickling down his back.

Unexpectedly, the man laughs.

“I will not kill you, you stupid mutt,” he chuckles condescendingly. “Unlike my senseless, imprudent daughter, I am capable of bringing my plans to fruition.”

He says ‘daughter’ as if it’s a slur. 

Talia winces. 

Jason notices.

“Allow me to make this simple for you. The Omega, Timothy Drake, is the one I desire. You are simply a tool to ensure his health and wellbeing as he fulfills his inherent duty to me.”

While Jason is more than happy to be a tool to ensure Tim’s health and wellbeing, he’d prefer it to be under different circumstances. And although a bit insulting, the explanation makes it clear why they’ve deemed it necessary to keep him alive, albeit quite crudely with the lashings and all. 

“Why Tim?” he grits, hoping to prolong this monologue – because angering his captors at this point literally is skin off his back.

“An intriguing question from a witless animal. How amusing,” Ra’s smiles. “Timothy possesses traits of an Alpha – strength, tenacity, intelligence – while maintaining the pristine, subservient nature of an Omega. He is the perfect specimen to nurture my heir and I will not leave this putrid city without them in my possession.”

Again, Jason strangely finds himself agreeing. Tim is perfect and fit to raise Damian by every possible metric.

He knows he’ll regret it, but he can’t stop himself from pointing out a serious miscalculation on Ra’s’s part, “Nothing about Tim is subservient, dumbass.”

Cue the regret.

“I am Ra’s Al Ghul, the great Demon Head!”

Seventeen.

“You are my slave.” 

Eighteen.

“You will do as I say.” 

Nineteen.

“You will know your place.”

Twenty.

“You will obey me.”

Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three…

It hurts like hell, all nine circles of it, but Jason still can’t find despair in his mind, body, or soul.

He won.

Period. Full stop. Finis. Merci au revoir. That’s all folks. The end.

Nothing else matters because he fucking won.

And if Tim, Damian, and his unborn baby having freedom and happiness and everything else they deserve means he’s doomed to rot away in this grimy cell for the rest of his life, so be it.

Eventually, Ra’s gets tired or bored or both and leaves, the only evidence of his visit being the brutal welts streaked across Jason’s entire back.

At around number thirty, Jason’s consciousness had gone on vacation, unable to handle the excruciating pain with each strike, and when he comes to, the room is empty, save for the woman seated stiffly on a crate just a few feet away.

Maybe he’s lost it – a long time coming, really – but laughter begins to bubble up from deep in his chest, escaping his lips as a cackle directed at the demented woman who both ruined and saved his life.

She says and does nothing as she watches him with those soulless eyes of hers, his clanging chains echoing around the room in a chorus of misery.

Finally, she speaks, her tone hateful as always, “You are a disgraceful Alpha.”

Jason despises her. He always has. But now that Ra’s has inadvertently handed him a fully loaded, metaphorical assault rifle, he has the ability to do something about it.

With a small snicker, he loads the magazine, cocks the gun, aims, and fires.

“You’re a disgraceful daughter,” he laughs in her face, relishing her shocked expression. “He fucking hates you and you can’t stand it.”

That split second of hurt in her eyes is enough proof for him to keep spewing his very personal vitriol. Jason knows daddy issues like no other, and he’s finally met his match.

“You want him to love you and be proud of you and, shit, at least acknowledge you, but you’re just a fuck-up he never even wanted,” he grins, knowing he’s striking nerve after nerve, “and that’s all you’ll ever be.”

Her mask slips and slips and slips some more until her pain is on full display, but she remains silent, either unable or unwilling to defend herself.

“‘Disgraceful Alpha’ my ass, you’re the one who couldn’t even raise your own kid without abusing the shit out of him. You wouldn’t know love if it hit you square in the face and, Christ, it’s not hard to guess why.”

He knows what it’s like to seek approval and love and praise and feel insecure and unwanted and abandoned, and based on her reaction, so does she, to a visceral extent.

“I wonder how Daddy feels now that he’s found someone who’s a better mother than you,” he jeers, his hatred for her and everything she’s done to him, to them, apparent.

A bout of indescribable rage suddenly flashes across Talia’s face at his words.

“HE IS NOT A BETTER MOTHER THAN ME,” she shouts, rising to her feet and taking a few wobbly but purposeful steps forward. Her knuckles are stark white around the bars of his cell, almost as if she is the one being held captive.

Jason can’t hide his surprise, openly startled by her outburst and petulant tone.

After shock comes confusion. 

In every instance he’s seen Talia and Damian in the same room, not once has he recognized anything other than scorn, disgust, and disapproval in both her words and her actions toward her son.

“That… That… Omega is weak and dense and foolish and naive and inadequate for my son, my Damian,” she hisses. “I am more intelligent, skilled, elegant, beautiful, and powerful, yet he draws attention and praise simply by virtue of his repulsive secondary gender. It is dishonorable and despicable and– and it is not fair!”

She sounds like a child who was told to share for the first time in their life and it’s nothing short of jarring.

Only the sound of her heavy, irate breathing fills the room, her eyes burning with… no fucking way.

A smile infused with both disbelief and triumph creeps onto Jason’s lips as it finally dawns on him.

“Holy shit, you’re jealous.”

Bruce isn’t typically one to throw around profanity… but what the fuck.

He does his best to take mental notes as Cassandra explains the situation through rare tears, but at some point, he simply can’t keep up.

He’s able to extract some of the key details from his sobbing daughter – who is in the middle of experiencing long overdue emotions, her grief so delayed that the person in question went full circle and came back to life – but his understanding remains basic at best.

First things first, Tim was kidnapped in the desert and taken to the League of Assassins headquarters where he found Jason who had been revived by Talia Al Ghul using the Lazarus Pit.

Already a trainwreck of a sentence.

From there, they’d escaped with Damian Al Ghul, the biological son of Talia and a man whom both Tim and Jason had neglected to mention, and made their way home, running into Cassandra in Hong Kong.

Alright, things are starting to make some sense. (Key word: starting.)

Due to… circumstances, the pup, Damian, is under the impression that Jason and Tim are his parents, perhaps a result of the two of them sharing a mating bond.

False start. Back to zero.

On top of all of this, Tim, the previously sterile Omega, is pregnant… with Jason’s child.

Wait. Hold. Pause. Stop everything.

Finally, upon arrival to Gotham, they were ambushed by the League of Assassins who’d been tracking them. As a result, Jason was injured and Cassandra was forced to fulfill her promise to him, neutralizing both Tim and Damian with nerve strikes and bringing them to safety at the cost of Jason’s freedom.

For the sake of emphasis, what the fuck.

It’s at this point that Bruce wonders if he’s mistakenly been brought back to the wrong timeline.

The joy he feels upon seeing his children once more clashes with his sheer confusion and sorrow like oil and water. More specifically, like ice being thrown in a deep fryer and blowing up the entire establishment – the establishment being his brain.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I had to, I’m sorry,” Cassandra intones, her tears unceasing as she clings to him like she’s a little girl again.

He and Barbara sit in shock as she breaks down, her normally unflappable demeanor nowhere to be found as months of pent up emotion and stress come crashing down on her like a ton of bricks.

While Bruce meets her apologies with gentle ‘It’s alright’s and ‘I’m here’s, Stephanie enters the room looking significantly more stressed out than when she’d left with Alfred and the pup upon Cassandra’s emotional collapse.

“How’s the pup?” Barbara asks, quiet and hesitant.

“He’s not crying anymore but he won’t stop asking for his… parents,” Stephanie sighs, her eyes distant and hollow. “Alfred’s keeping him busy for now.”

When that heavy, suffocating silence begins to creep in again, she continues, asking the very question that Bruce has been dreading, “Bruce, what do we do?”

It’s a question he’s asked often, both as Bruce and as Batman.

Most times, he’s able to respond with ease, prepared with research and experience and logic.

Very rarely, he’s stumped, left unsure and unconfident and afraid.

Regrettably, this instance falls under the latter category.

He spends a long moment collecting his thoughts, his eyes trained on a tiny dot on the far wall just above the fireplace.

It’s a mark left by Jason when he’d gotten him a dartboard for Christmas one year, among many other gifts.

The kid had has always been an expert marksman and, as a result, his interest in the dartboard had waned quickly but his interest in the darts themselves only grew over time.

Ever-imaginative, he would constantly find new targets to practice on after ditching the board, and Bruce and Alfred had eventually gotten used to darts sailing past them as they made their way throughout the manor.

It never bothered Bruce that his walls were being left like a ‘connect the dots’ puzzle. He’d simply fill in the holes as they were made and was just happy to see Jason happy.

Only one hole remained when Jason died but, to this day, Bruce still can't seem to fill it, in more ways than one.

Though it's a bit silly, the last dot he stares at now is what reminds him most of Jason – more than his untouched room or his still half-unpacked school bag or his unread books or his pristine marble gravestone.

It’s proof of his joy and youth and creativity and talent and charm. Proof that he lived, not that he died.

And as he replays memories of the son he’d failed, he’s faced with something that’s extremely hard to come by in life: a second chance.

First and foremost, he is a father, and his one duty in this world is to protect his children, something he refuses to neglect ever again.

With newfound determination, he tosses aside his apprehension and fear, but just as he opens his mouth to begin strategizing, another, previously unconscious, element enters the chaos.

They hear Tim before they see him.

“WHERE IS HE,” he screams, his broken voice echoing down the hallway, “WHERE'S JASON?!”

Through Tim’s agonized cries comes Dick’s desperate voice, “Tim, please, you’ll hurt yourself,” he begs.

Doors slam, walls shake, floors thud, and before Bruce or Barbara or Stephanie or anyone is able to do anything, Tim is standing in the doorway looking like Wrath incarnate.

He’s angry, furious, downright rabid, and Dick barely manages to hold him back as he lunges toward Cassandra with unfettered betrayal pouring from his intense blue eyes.

“You fucking traitor,” he shrieks, fighting against Dick’s hold with everything he has. “How could you do this to me?”

His frenzied outrage rapidly cools, his anger quickly evolving into desolation and guilt as a tidal wave of helplessness washes over him.

“It’s not fair… How could he?” he sobs weakly, slumping against Dick and Stephanie who had been quick to assist.

He knows, Bruce knows, Dick knows, they all know…

There was no other choice.

But knowing this only seems to amplify Tim’s sorrow, and with nowhere to direct his grief, he’s left to implode in on himself, his emotions beating down on his psyche like a relentless hailstorm.

While most would consider Dick the glue of the family, it’s really Tim that’s always been there to ground them… Always.

So now, as he watches their foundational rock crumble catastrophically, Bruce questions whether they’ll ever be able to put him back together, whether they’ll ever be able to make him whole again.

Chapter Text

Damian is three years old and he doesn’t understand.

Who these new people are or where he is or when Baba will come back or why he’s not allowed to see Mama or Auntie Cass right now.

The unfamiliar house is big and cold and scary and a little too quiet. He doesn’t particularly like it, but he thinks it’s better than the dark tunnels he had been in just a few hours prior.

He woke up disoriented and slightly sore just a few minutes ago on a comfortable couch in a room with a tall window, smaller than the one in his old room but still large. 

With Baba, Mama, and Auntie Cass away, he’s all on his own, so he decides to be brave despite his watering eyes.

“Where is Baba?” he asks, his voice shaky.

The two people seated across from him simply stare at him with sad eyes so he tries again, his frown deepening and tears increasing.

“Where is Baba? He said he will be right back,” he adds, remembering how his baba had reassured him when Mama suddenly fell asleep in the tunnel.

“Go with Auntie Cass, Dami, I’ll be right back,” he had urged after giving him a big kiss on the cheek and a whispered 'I love you, kiddo'.

In the moment, Damian hadn’t registered Baba’s tears.

Now, they are all he can think about.

‘He will come back,’ he reminds himself in an attempt to stave off his worst fears. ‘Baba always comes back.’

Finally, the girl with blonde hair approaches him, carefully shuffling forward as if he’s one of Grandfather's time bombs set to blow at any second.

“What’s your name, little guy?”

Damian instantly shrinks away. 

“I want Mama and Baba,” he mutters, hiding his face in the thick blanket they’ve wrapped around him.

“Your mama and baba are… busy right now,” she explains, sounding unsure and less than convincing.

Frustrated sobs pull hiccups from his chest as he curls further into himself.

“I want Mama and Baba!” he demands, now bawling.

For a while, they simply let him cry, the blonde girl and the old man sitting quietly amid his loud wailing.

When he finally tires himself out, his receding sobs replaced by small whimpers, the old man tries his hand at appeasement. He approaches slowly and kneels on the floor beside the couch so that he and Damian are eye level.

“You know, your mother…” He pauses to correct himself when Damian winces at the term. “Your mama used to live here,” he says, instantly drawing his attention.

“Really?” Damian sniffles, eyes wide with surprise.

The old man nods with a warm smile that makes him feel unexpected comfort.

“Would you like to see his room?”

Damian takes a moment to gauge his trust in the old man, studying every hair on his head and every wrinkle in his face as he teeters between enthusiasm and caution.

Eventually, his apprehension wanes. If his mama and baba brought him to these people, they must be trustworthy, even if it’s scary and uncomfortable to be around them alone.

With a small nod, he slowly rises to his feet, his clumsy steps on the plush cushion nearly sending him face-first off of the couch.

When the old man catches him, Damian makes no attempt to wriggle out of his arms, allowing himself to be carried out of the room and down the hall. He’s not sure why, but he feels affection similar to that which he receives from Mama and Baba from the old man that he can’t help but be drawn to.

A quick trip down the hall, up the stairs, down another hall, to the left and, immediately upon arrival, Damian’s excitement takes off.

It’s a simple room, slightly messy but nothing necessarily out of the norm, with a bed, nightstand, closet, lamp, and the works, but Damian suddenly feels fundamentally closer to his mama.

Having watched Baba, an avid cleaner-slash-organizer, quietly pick up after Mama without complaint for some time now, he’s not surprised to find the room a bit untidy. He quietly totters his way around the room, carefully examining the weathered skateboard poking out from under the bed and the pile of hoodies that smell like Mama and the stacks of papers strewn about the desk until he finally arrives at the tall bookshelf beside the window.

For someone who can’t yet read, he feels oddly intrigued by the assortment of books, tall and short, thick and thin, on the shelf.

Among everything, the one that catches his eye most is an unassuming photobook with a plain red cover perched on the third row from the bottom.

It’s just out of reach and after a few attempts on his tiptoes, he turns to the old man for assistance.

“An excellent choice,” the man smiles, sliding the book out and joining him on the floor.

Without thinking, Damian climbs into his lap and, for a while, they simply sit together right there in front of the bookshelf, flipping through the pages in comfortable silence.

Inside are wonderful photos of sunsets and sunrises, friends and family, rainy days and sunny days, formal events and casual gatherings, big buildings and small gardens, and mixed in with these pretty pictures are images of a boy wearing a red, green, and yellow costume.

The more photos he sees of the boy, the more familiar he seems, and when they finally reach the last page, the pieces fall into place.

“Baba,” he says, pointing to the photo of the smiling teen before him and glancing up at the old man for confirmation.

“You have your mama’s wit,” the old man chuckles, the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling fondly. “These are indeed photos of your baba,” he nods, his tone proud and sentimental, “taken by your mama.”

Just the thought of Mama taking photos of Baba in their youth warms his heart. He wonders if Baba used to tease Mama in the same playful way or if Mama has always preferred sleeping on Baba's left side or if they were as in love with each other as they are now.

It feels strange to see evidence of the world before his existence, but he finds himself wanting to learn more about his parents' previous lives.

“Did Baba live here too?” he asks, studying the charming smile he’s come to know so well.

There’s an odd hesitation in the old man’s demeanor, but he eventually answers with an affirmative, “Yes.”

“Can I see?”

Before the old man can answer, there’s suddenly a loud bang followed by Mama’s voice, sounding heartbroken and afraid and angry.

“WHERE IS HE. WHERE’S JASON?!”

Immediately, Damian makes for the door, but his short legs and wobbly steps only take him so far before he’s pulled back by the old man.

“I want Mama!” he cries, his panic and desperation increasing as his mama’s sobs intensify. “Let me see Mama!”

His tears do little to sway the old man who quickly covers his ears with his hands to muffle the shouts and moves further away from the door.

He struggles and squirms and fights and flails with all his might but his efforts are for naught, and he’s left to cry his little heart to shreds in the old man’s arms.

When he wakes, hours later with a throbbing headache, it’s in a different room, this time in the arms of the very person he’d been longing to see seemingly moments earlier.

“Mama?” he mumbles as he lifts his head, unsure whether or not he’s dreaming.

He frowns when he notices the tears streaming down his cheeks. 

It’s not the first time he’s seen his mama cry, but a more distinct shade of hopelessness and despair is now evident in his eyes that was never there before, and it’s deeply frightening.

Damian wishes Baba were here to cheer them up like he always does.

“Hi, pup,” Mama whispers, planting a soft kiss on his head. His voice is barely audible and very, very sad.

“Why are you crying, Mama?”

Mama’s pretty smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “I just miss Baba, love.”

Confused, Damian pauses to study his face.

“But Baba will be right back,” he says quietly, not understanding why Mama seems so crushed.

‘You're right, Dami, Baba always comes right back,’ he expects in reply.

Instead, Mama simply hugs him close and weeps.

Still, Damian doesn’t understand why.

It’s not until later that he finds out that Baba got lost.

He sits quietly on a couch in a corner of the room inspecting various stuffed toys with Mama while the other adults gather at a nearby table and discuss something clearly serious.

As always, Damian pays careful attention to what’s being said around him, even if he doesn’t recognize many of the words. He picks up bits and pieces like 'Jason' and 'tracker' and 'find', enough to sense that something is wrong related to Baba’s whereabouts, which is far from reassuring.

Worry eats away at him, but looking at his mama’s hollow, faraway eyes, he can’t quite bring himself to ask about his baba, so he simply sits in silence, staring at the plushies before him and wishing he'd held tighter onto the dinosaur from Auntie Cass in those dark tunnels.

‘Mama is just tired,’ he tells himself as he fiddles with the ears of a teddy bear. ‘Baba will come back soon and Mama will smile again and everything will be okay.’

In the half hour he spends gathering the courage to raise his concerns, Mama falls asleep, and Damian is once again left to wonder on his own. About his parents, about Auntie Cass, and about his baby sibling who he’ll have so much fun with.

Feeling antsy, he rests his head lightly on his mama’s belly and does his best to communicate with his sibling telepathically.

Hi, little baby.

…

It is Damian, your big brother.

…

I am excited to meet you.

…

Mama and Baba are very nice and love us very much.

…

Are you growing big and strong like Baba said?

…

I hope so. Then we can play together.

…

Mama is doing his best so please be nice to him, okay?

…

I love you, little baby. I hope you love me too.

His baby sibling never acknowledges him, but Damian doesn’t mind. The baby is probably tired just like Mama is.

Lifting his head, he returns to his post beside his mama’s sleeping form, determined to protect him from harm like his baba always does.

But as he watches his mama rest, he suddenly wakes with a start, his breathing heavy and his eyes alarmed. His face is twisted into a pained grimace and he holds a trembling hand over his belly.

Mama's initial confusion quickly becomes horror and shock, his sharp, shallow gasps drawing the attention of the others at the table.

“No…” he whispers, tears welling up in his already red-rimmed eyes.

“Mama?”

“No, no, no, no.” 

“Master Timothy, is everything alright?”

“Please, I can't…”

“Tim, what’s wrong?”

As Mama gradually becomes more and more emotional, the others become more and more frantic.

“Tim, what’s wrong?” the younger black-haired man in the blue shirt repeats.

“My baby…” Mama mutters, “no, no, not my baby.”

At his words, a heavy cloud of devastation falls over the room, wrapping its wispy tendrils around their throats as if to suck the life out of them.

When a bright red rose begins to bloom on Mama's gray sweatpants, the blonde girl lets out a sharp gasp and a terrified “Oh my god” while the older black-haired man and the man in the blue shirt rush to his side.

“Not my baby,” Mama croaks, desperate and crestfallen. “Please, I can’t lose my baby.”

'Maybe Mama is worried that I'll get lost like Baba,' Damian thinks worriedly.

Anxious and stressed, he tries his best to calm his mama down amid the others' urgent commands.

“I am here, Mama!” he cries, pointing at himself and moving to make sure his mama can see him. “Your baby is right here!”

He has just enough time to register the look of utter despair on Mama’s face before he’s whisked away and taken to another room on the far side of the house amid the panic and dismay.

Damian is only three years old and he can’t understand.

Why Baba isn’t coming back or why his Auntie Cass and the other adults won’t stop crying or why Mama was calling out for him with such distress and anguish when he was right beside him.

He’s only three and he can’t understand why.

Chapter Text

There’s an aspect of self-sacrifice that is rarely, if ever, talked about, more often relegated to an afterthought rather than a legitimate consequence. 

The ones left behind.

To be fair, there’s nothing heroic or noble or grand about being, effectively, abandoned in the pursuit of the greater good – especially by the love of your life, in Tim’s case.

He’s being a big fat hypocrite and he knows it, considering he would’ve done the same, but as he idly watches his pup study the assortment of stuffed animals that have been laid out for him, his simmering anger comes to a boil once more.

‘How could he do this to me?’ he thinks, a victim of devotion disguised as betrayal. ‘How could he be so self… self… self what? -ish? -less? -serving? -forgetting? -absorbed? -denying? -centered? -sacrificial?’

Jason has committed one of the most simultaneously selfless and selfish acts possible, and Tim can’t decide if he wants to kiss or kill him for it.

“Look at this one, Mama,” Damian says quietly, pulling Tim from his stupor as he holds out stuffed animal number fourteen, his eyes hopeful but his cheer dulled. “Do you like it?"

Just meeting Damian’s gentle gaze is enough for his rage to dissipate, gone as fast as it arrived. 

Its replacement, deep sorrow laced with gratitude, is quick to fill in, and Tim fights tears as he accepts the small bunny rabbit.

Damian is his shining light, his pup, his baby, and Tim’s heart aches at the prospect of explaining to him that their beloved pretty princess simply may never return in exchange for their safety.

“I do,” he coos, gently stroking his cheek with the pad of his thumb, “thank you, love.”

The frown on his pup’s face deepens at his response but he says nothing, returning to his stuffed animals in search for another to bestow upon his mama, concern evident in his furtive glances.

He’s a smart boy, Damian, and though he may not understand their circumstance in its complicated entirety, his knowledge that something is awry is clear as day in his uneasy demeanor.

‘I have to be better for him,’ Tim reprimands himself as he lies on his side, his head propped on the pile of previous plush offerings from his pup. ‘I have to try.’

He watches quietly as Damian sorts his stuffed toys by color then size then species with one hand, his other tightly gripping his mama’s.

With his head submerged in a viscous sludge of doom and gloom, Tim isn’t able to gather even a vague outline of Bruce, Dick, and Babs’s plan to find and recover Jason, their voices coming through garbled and distorted like the adults in a Charlie Brown cartoon.

He feels himself nodding off the longer they talk, and after receiving plushie number fifteen from the kindhearted boy he’s proud to call his pup, Tim slips off the cliff of consciousness.

It’s one of those strange dreams again. 

This time, he’s standing in the entryway of his parents’ empty home – not his, always his parents’ – with nothing but a pair of scissors in hand.

The place is just how he remembers it. Cold, dark, and quiet, perpetually suspended in a melancholy blue hour.

As he aimlessly walks the halls and peeks into the dreary rooms, he spots a faint golden glow emanating from the cracked door of one of the rooms on the second floor.

Odd.

He doesn’t remember the room being there, but he doesn’t take the time to question it as he enters to be unexpectedly met with a sprawling flower garden.

It’s very Narnia-esque, the way he’s now encased in a completely different world, the door to the dismal mansion of his childhood seemingly vanishing into thin air behind him.

Before him, roses and peonies and dahlias and daffodils and tulips and sweet peas and a plethora of flowers he can’t hope to name grow in beautiful bunches along a curved pathway.

He’s never really felt one way or another about flowers. To him, they’ve always just been plants – nothing more, nothing less – but now as he walks along the floral path, he feels drawn to them by some cosmic force, a moth to a flame or, more fittingly, a bee to a blossom.

Fragrant lavender and honeysuckle tickle his nose as serenity settles into his soul, his worries forgotten in his self-conjured idyllic wonderland.

At the end of the pathway, past the lilacs and magnolias and chrysanthemums and hyacinths, is a small patch of pure white lilies – or what used to be a patch of pure white lilies.

All but one of them have been snipped at the stem, a sad collection of clipped lilies peppering the ground around the flower bed. The sole survivor looks to have just sprouted, new and eager to experience the world.

It’s an unsettling picture, but Tim thinks it’s strangely beautiful.

How pretty.

As he stares, spellbound, at the lone lily standing tall, that familiar dull flame in his gut ignites, growing warmer with each passing moment. What begins as a comforting feeling, a cozy blanket on a rainy day, quickly evolves into a raging inferno.

Ignoring the uncomfortable heat building in his stomach, he reaches out to brush his fingers against the delicately curved petals.

It’s soft and matte and lovely, and he’s suddenly overcome with the visceral urge to destroy it.

I don’t want to.

Powdery yellow pollen stains his fingertips.

But I have to.

An almost angelic glow surrounds the radiant white petals in the sunlight.

I won’t.

The staticky voice in his head telling him to ruin it gets louder and louder.

I have no choice.

The flame spreads, slithering through his body like a serpent of pain.

I can’t.

Heavy storm clouds roll in from the distance, obscuring the sunny skies with their dark foreboding.

I need to… It was never meant to be.

He raises the sharp scissors to the slender stem, an unwilling puppet of compulsion. 

I’m sorry.

At once, the flame in his gut dies, the thick clouds on the horizon recede, the nagging buzz in his ears quiets.

As he gently holds the untethered flower in his cupped hands, droplets of water begin to fall on its graceful petals.

He thinks it’s rain. 

The clear skies say otherwise.

His trip back to reality is a harsh one, and he suddenly wakes in a cold sweat clutching his stomach in pain.

His disorientation doesn’t last long. Within seconds, he knows.

“No…”

Damian immediately perks up beside him, his eyes wide with worry as he crawls closer on the couch, “Mama?”

Tim’s heart is overcome with shock and disbelief as it sinks deeper into the murky waters of sorrow.

“No, no, no, no.”  

Alfred’s concern is next, his gentle voice barely sneaking past the blaring alarms in Tim’s ears, “Master Timothy, is everything alright?”

“Please, I can't…”

“Tim, what’s wrong?” Dick asks, staring at him like he might shatter into a million pieces from a light breeze. His panic rises as Tim’s breaths become shorter and more frantic. “Tim, what’s wrong?”

It’s a dreadful feeling to think you’ve reached the lowest possible point of agony and heartache only to have the floor fall out from under your feet to reveal a basement.

“My baby… no, no, not my baby.”

His hands tremble as they hover over his abdomen, his womb, as if trying to infuse life into the baby he couldn’t save.

Choked sobs escape him as he stares down at the patch of blood spreading between his legs, his already battered heart pulverized by the unforgiving fists of fate and fortune.

“Not my baby. Please, I can’t lose my baby.”

Amid his desperation and the others’ urgency, Damian holds his arm tight, doing his best to be noticed by his mama.

“I am here, Mama! Your baby is right here!”

‘I know, my love, I’m sorry,’ Tim wants to say, feeling guilty and broken and… not enough, ‘You’ll always be my baby too.’

Moments after Damian is carried off, Bruce cradles Tim in his arms and rushes to the infirmary, Alfred yelling directions to Dick and Steph while Babs goes to assist Cass in calming the pup down.

It’s a whirlwind – havoc, disorder, mayhem, if you will – and Tim can’t quite tell what’s real and what’s not. Or, more accurately, what he wants to believe is real and what he wishes isn’t.

He only manages pitiful whimpers, sobs, and hiccups between cries of pain as he loses a part of him he has just recently decided he wanted.

Dr. Thompkins, or ‘just Leslie’ as she likes to be called, arrives within the quarter-hour, looking uncharacteristically anxious. She rattles off a series of directions as she begins her examination after hooking Tim up to an IV to ease the pain.

Tim says and does nothing, lying on the exam table like a lifeless corpse as his head floats among clouds of denial.

A few hours later, he drifts back down to earth, his muffled hearing becoming un-muffled and his blurred vision becoming un-blurred.

He sits on the verge of catatonic, focusing on the rough texture of the sheets on his palms in an attempt to feel something, anything, as words like ‘eleven weeks’ and ‘open cervix’ and ‘inevitable miscarriage’ are thrown around.

As his mind and heart try to reconcile his utter devastation, he thinks of his mate, imagining his gentle hands and strong arms and tender kisses. Of his pup, his bright smile and cute laughter and sweet nature. Of himself, the person who used to be confident and capable and powerful, now reduced to a pathetic victim of circumstance.

He has so much to live for, to hope for, yet he can’t help but feel like he’s lost everything.

His long journey freefall down to the depths of despair has been frightening and overwhelming, agonizing in the most profound ways possible, but now, as he stands kicking his feet at the bedrock that makes up the nadir of human misery, he’s completely numb.

It’s desolate and cold and soul-crushing, and as the last remaining shred of his mate, his Alpha, his world is ripped away from him by the cruel whims of misfortune, Tim is left a shell of a person.

He finds rock bottom to be a terribly lonely place.

“We have no gauge on how many there are, whether they’ve called for reinforcements, or where in the city they might be lurking. The only definitive thing we have is Jason’s location,” Bruce states, face hard and grim. “This needs to be quick and efficient. We’re in and out. We’ll deal with the Al Ghuls after bringing Jason home. Understood?”

Dick barely manages a nod, his eyes locked onto the floor as his little brother’s heartbroken cries echo in his mind on repeat.

In the past thirty-six hours, Tim has experienced hell on earth, situations most never hope to see in their lifetimes, and Dick has been able to do shit all to help.

It’s demoralizing in a way he never thought possible.

“I’ve recruited Wonder Woman and Green Lantern to assist. The others are either off-world or caught up at the moment. They will act as a diversion on the southwest side of the warehouse near the loading docks while we extract Jason from the eastern wing.”

The plan makes sense. Extractions missions are nothing new to any of them. But the tense, stifling air that clouds the room is unlike anything Dick has felt before.

While they want more than anything to rescue Jason for Jason’s sake, they can’t help but feel they need to do so for Tim’s sake more than anything.

Any further loss would completely destroy him, and just imagining the outcome of failing to save Jason paints a harrowing picture.

“We leave at sundown, we’ll need the advantage of covert movement. Cassandra, you will stay here with Alfred to look after Tim and Damian. You need more time to recov–”

Cass, who rarely ever objects to Bruce’s decisions, instantly voices her opposition, “But–”

“You will stay here,” Bruce doubles down, firm but warm. His eyes soften when she shrinks back into her seat. “This is a hard time, but we need to focus on recovering Jason in the safest and smoothest way possible. Again, we leave at sundown, approximately two hours. Any questions?”

A beat of silence before they disperse, each unsure where to go or what to do while they wait the excruciatingly long two hours until sundown.

As Dick wanders around the manor, he eventually comes to the library, a place he knows Jason used to adore. He doesn’t know much about him, but the few things he does know he cherishes, holding onto each fact and memory for dear life.

It’s funny and cruel, but mostly cruel, how losing someone can make you feel closer to them, a one-sided bond formed across the border between life and death.

Jason became Robin at a difficult time for Dick, and there hasn’t been a single day that’s gone by since his death that he hasn’t regretted treating him like an afterthought. And now, with the knowledge that his late brother is alive, Dick struggles to find the confidence to face him.

The library is dark save for the dim light by one of the far bookshelves where Damian sits on the floor beside Alfred, his small hands caressing the smooth surface of one of Bruce’s old encyclopedias.

Dick hasn’t said much to the pup, but feelings of affection and protectiveness don’t always require words.

He takes a seat next to the duo and silently relieves Alfred from his duties, allowing him to return to the infirmary to help Dr. Thompkins tend to Tim in the hours following his miscarriage.

Damian’s quiet intrigue quickly becomes vocal opposition as his attention is drawn away from the book to Alfred’s departing form, but he eventually settles down, sniffling quietly as he stares up at Dick.

“Hello, Dami,” he starts, a warm smile pulling at his lips at the cute pup, “I’m your Uncle Dick.”

The kid is afraid, actually, terrified, and Dick is surprised he responds at all.

“Hi… Uncle Di- Di…” He frowns, frustrated by his uncooperative tongue.

“‘Uncle D’ is fine,” Dick laughs, endeared. “I guess that makes you Little D, huh?”

“I am not little.” Damian remains unamused, his expression dead serious. “Baba says I am a big guy,” he proudly states.

“I guess he’s right about that.” Dick’s soft chuckle has more notes of sadness than it does happiness as he pats him atop the head. “What’s, um… Baba like?” he finds himself asking.

The shift in energy is immediate, Damian’s eyes shining with delight at the opportunity to sing his baba’s praises.

“Baba is tall and smart and strong and and tall and he is very nice to me and makes me laugh and he takes care of me and Mama,” he rambles, too caught up to notice he mentioned ‘tall’ twice. Dick can see the cogs turning in his little head as he tries to find words in his limited dictionary. “He loves Mama a lot and gives him many kisses and makes him smile when he is sad…”

His excitement dips a bit as he trails off, Tim’s wellbeing, or lack therof, clearly on his mind.

“I miss Baba,” he mumbles, fiddling with the raised edges of the big book.

As if witnessing Tim’s torment wasn’t enough, the look on Damian’s expression drives the knife deeper into Dick’s heart, splitting it in two with its hopeful optimism and deep-rooted terror.

“I miss him too, bud,” Dick whispers, his tears still deciding whether or not they want to fall. “I’ll- We’ll get him back.”

The pup stares at his outstretched pinky with open befuddlement, cocking his head in a way that is entirely too adorable.

“It’s a pinky promise,” he explains, gently intertwining his pinky with Damian’s small one. “You go like this and then the promise is made official.”

Damian takes a moment to study his face, his big green eyes oscillating between faith and skepticism before finally landing on tentative credence.

“You will bring Baba back?” he asks, staring intently at his pinky as if waiting for some magic to appear.

“I will, Dami,” Dick replies, equally serious, “I promise.”

Chapter Text

Jealousy is a hell of a drug.

It burrows itself deep in the soul and eats away at the spirit from the inside out; a parasite spreading bitterness and animosity unencumbered.

Although inarguably detrimental to the psyche, it’s strangely comforting in a way, giving a sense of purpose, a clear direction, for hatred in this already bleak, meaningless world.

Timothy Drake is strong and confident and intelligent and beautiful and resilient and competent and an Omega. 

Talia detests him with her entire being.

While the view from outside suggests she has everything she could ever want in the world – money, power, status, skill, you name it – there is one immensely vexing aspect of the human condition that she severely lacks: the ability to love.

She has long attributed her unfamiliarity with the concept to her unconventional upbringing.

Her father is a man of grandeur. He is domineering and bloodthirsty and cruel, willing to go to any end to accomplish his lofty goals.

Ergo, Talia is similarly domineering and bloodthirsty and cruel… traits markedly antonymous rather than synonymous to nurturing and caring and gentle.

She never wanted to be a mother until she became one. 

Her sun was born on a temperate summer day, bright and glowing and radiant, his first cry touching her icy heart like a rogue solar flare.

As an Alpha, her pregnancy had been arduous, her body unfit to nourish and grow an infant. There were more moments than she can count that she truly feared she’d lose her child, but against all odds, she fulfilled her father’s demands, successfully conceiving and birthing his heir.

She had expected to feel pride or gratification or even relief, but as she held her newborn for the first time, the only emotion she was capable of feeling was unrelenting grief.

Talia Al Ghul is not one to fall short, ever. But a nurturing spirit does not come naturally to one who has never experienced affection, in the traditional sense.

Thinking back, her closest moments with her father have revolved strictly around violence and brutality. It was and is her only avenue to validation. She simply doesn’t know any better.

With love and fondness and adoration and kindness being decidedly absent in her arsenal of available emotions, she raised her son the only way she knew how: harsh, stern, and withdrawn.

Damian was doomed from the moment of conception, a future victim of her father’s iron fist, and it had become her responsibility to prepare him for the inevitable ruthlessness he would face. Her acts of tough love would be understood by him as he aged, or so she told herself.

The first seed of jealousy was sown two months prior to Damian’s third birthday when he had suddenly fallen ill, his small body unable to handle the absence of an Omega, both physically and emotionally.

Talia's inadequacy had been put on full display, resulting in a series of harsh beratements to further propel the spear of insecurity wedged in her heart since birth.

The glee her father expressed when they had captured Timothy Drake and discovered his true nature directly contrasted her deep resentment and sorrow.

Watching Damian latch onto that disgusting lower being with such adoration and innocence had made her stomach turn with envy. He had done nothing to deserve her son's love, and it tore her to pieces to stand aside as her pup, her baby was ripped away from her.

What’s worse, her pitiful attempts at regaining favor she never possessed – subjecting the child to increasingly strenuous training and raising already high expectations – had backfired spectacularly, only pushing him further into the arms of the revolting impostor her father holds in such high regard.

Hearing news of Damian’s abduction was the straw that broke the camel’s back, causing the dormant seeds of jealousy in her heart to sprout and bloom into a verdant field of unadulterated repugnance, rancor, and rage.

The Alpha she painstakingly revived and the Omega she painfully tolerated had betrayed her in the most reprehensible way possible, taking away the one thing in her miserable life she wants to love.

Now, standing alone in a small office on the second floor of an abandoned warehouse, Talia struggles to find that same unrivaled rage she had felt so intensely.

Jason Todd’s words echo in her mind as she gazes out at the twinkling Gotham skyline.

Now that he’s found someone who’s a better mother than you.

It’s a slap in the face that she has no defense against, because he’s right.

Whether she likes it or not, Timothy Drake bests her in every category of motherhood. He possesses compassion, patience, kindness, warmth, and tenderness, all elements that are starkly missing in her disposition.

“It is not fair,” she whispers to no one in particular, her eyes drifting down to the table on which lay two items.

The first was a coming-of-age gift from her father for her eighteenth birthday. A Mauser C96, old and precise and unforgiving, just like him.

The second is a ghost of innocence and cheer she had recovered in the Gotham underground in lieu of her son. A stuffed dinosaur, small and cute and sweet, just like him.

It’s something she wouldn’t have fathomed ever presenting him, but the already fraying threads and well-loved fluff suggest it brought him joy and comfort.

Perhaps that is what it means to be a child – playing and laughing and experiencing happiness – something she has lost her chance to understand.

She doesn’t know why she takes the two items and marches out of the room, nor why she descends the stairs to the dim basement with purposeful steps, nor why she can’t seem to look at the man chained to the wall with that deep-seated scorn that used to come so easily.

In his beaten, bloodied state, his level of consciousness is unclear, but the minute shift in his posture indicates his recognition of her presence.

For a long time, she says nothing, simply staring and thinking.

Her mind wanders from anger to sadness to guilt to superiority as she studies his shallow breaths. Only when she notices him crying does she speak. 

“You shed tears,” she notes plainly.

The weak chuckle that fights its way out of his chest expresses no amusement.

“No shit, Sherlock,” he replies, voice low and surly, “wouldn’t you?”

It’s a fair question, one she can’t quite answer with confidence. She’s never been one to cry.

Again, silence stretches, broken intermittently by his rhythmic wheezing and hacking coughs.

She studies his inflamed, oozing knee from a distance and brings a hand to rest on her own, swollen and tender. 

An eye for an eye as they say.

Patience has never been Jason’s strong suit (at least, patience directed at her) and he’s soon lashing out, his eyes glowing with veritable loathing.

“What the fuck do you want?”

Another reasonable question. She’s not sure why she has come to keep him company either.

The plush dinosaur is soft in her left hand, the gun heavy in her right.

“Tell me about my son.”

Confusion precedes outrage, Jason’s expression momentarily suspended in disbelief before he lunges forward against the single chain restraining him, positively livid.

“Like there’s anything you deserve to know, you goddamn psycho,” he spits venomously. 

His reaction is entirely warranted.

While she wouldn’t necessarily go as far to deem herself a ‘psycho’, as he claims, she is undoubtedly unorthodox in her approach to parenting, leaning closer to barbaric than maternal in the eyes of most.

Still, Damian is her son, and she wishes to know about his likes and dislikes, habits and tendencies, things she has foolishly neglected to learn in her many hours spent with the pup.

A full hour passes before he concedes, his eyes now free of tears but brimming with longing and sadness.

“He’s a good kid.” His tone is hoarse and distant. “He’s small and smart and strong and kind and so, so small,” he says, too caught up to notice he mentioned ‘small’ twice. “I love him to bits.”

When he lifts his head, his gaze locks onto the stuffed toy in her hand, and the play button is officially pressed, each word infused with unfathomable amounts of fondness and affection for a child he has no blood-relation to.

Talia learns that Damian prefers sweet things over salty things. 

He eats each item on his plate in a specific order, finishing one at a time. 

He is ambidextrous but favors his left in most activities. 

He does not have a favorite color.

He has a habit of squeezing his hands together when he gets upset or nervous. 

He is a talented artist despite his age and enjoys drawing with crayons. 

He is afraid of needles and terrified of flying. 

His giggles often turn into hiccups when he laughs too hard. 

He is clingy and a crybaby but just as strong and stubborn as… as Timothy. 

He is determined and hopeful, thoughtful and earnest, full of life and love, and he is good. 

Damian is good.

She doesn’t notice her tears until he is finished, the dinosaur crushed in her unyielding grasp. She’s flooded with both airy relief and sharp bitterness to learn that her pup has been in such good, loving hands all this time.

Two teenagers fleeing from her father’s organization with no resources have been able to provide in mere days what she has been unable to in years…

Staring down at the broken man, no, boy before her that is overflowing with unconditional love and adoration for her pup, it becomes obvious.

I can never love him the way they do.

There comes a time in most people's lives that is often called a watershed moment, a critical point that indicates an irreversible change in direction, drawing a distinct line between 'before' and 'after'.

Talia fears she has been met with hers.

As she reconciles her wants with Damian’s needs, a loud crash suddenly reverberates from the southwest side of the building, a frenzied commotion instantly breaking out a few floors up with faint shouts of 'Wonder Woman!' and 'Green Lantern!' drifting down the stairs.

“Sounds like my ride’s here,” Jason deadpans, only pure exhaustion left in his features.

Amid the rising chaos above, Talia strangely finds herself utterly calm, as if all is peachy keen with life.

She slides open the cell door with ease, approaching her prisoner with stark neutrality. Only one chain links him to the wall now, his body properly debilitated enough to prevent escape.

His handsome smile is crooked and pained when he looks up to meet her cold gaze.

Jason Todd. The boy who had once stood as a beacon of hope in this wretched city. The boy she’d saved from the jaws of death. The boy she'd nursed to health and trained and had faith in.

Funny. Perhaps she had yearned for motherhood prior to Damian without realizing it herself.

The gun now feels light in her hand as she raises it to his face, the barrel pointed in the dead center of his forehead.

His eyes show only bold intrepidity, as if daring her to pull the trigger. It is difficult to instill fear in one who has already once departed.

She has every reason to kill him. 

She has more reasons to spare him.

While her hand is steady, her loyalty to her creed, to the League of Assassins, to her father, wavers tremendously, a straw house in a howling tempest.

As she recalls Damian’s bright smile each time he gazed upon Timothy, his cheerful laughter in Jason’s arms, and the sheer jealousy and hatred she’d felt in those moments, her decision becomes clear.

It’s wrong… but it’s what will set her free.

The single gunshot is drowned out by the blood rushing in her ears.

Only after pulling the trigger do her hands tremble, does her heart pound, does her skin tingle.

An unreadable expression is painted on Jason’s face as his gaze flits between the shattered chain and her pained scowl.

She leaves him with one final command as she turns away, “Treat him well.”

He chooses the only appropriate response, “Go fuck yourself.”

The Batcave is quiet. 

Too quiet, even for her, and Cass finds herself idly scuffing the floor with her feet to maintain sanity in the apparent vacuum of space that has decided to occupy the area.

She sits beside, well, nearby Tim, monitoring comms and locations and the plethora of other vital metrics displayed on the Batcomputer.

With Damian occupied upstairs thanks to Alfred, it’s just the two of them and their deeply uncomfortable silence in the Cave.

By any degree of rationality, Tim should be nowhere near the Batcomputer, his mind and body in a state so fragile he could crash and burn at the drop of a hat, but after what she’s put her dear little brother through, she can’t bring herself to send him away to wallow in his misery alone.

‘It’s not your fault, Cass,’ they had emphasized.

‘You had no choice,’ they had reasoned.

‘It was a last resort. There was nothing you could do,’ they had reassured.

‘I made him like this,’ she tells herself.

The longer she watches him out of the corner of her eye, the more potent her guilt becomes.

It’s a wicked thing, latching onto the head and heart like a leech to suck out happiness, reason, and contentment and leave behind only remorse, contrition, and shame.

What’s worse is that she would have felt this same guilt had she not betrayed his trust, had she chosen to break her promise to Jason, had she let them be captured once more.

The illusion of choice is, as Jason would say, some goddamn bullshit.

Tim sits reclined in Bruce’s chair, his body lax and his face emotionless with only hints of his despair breaking through the surface. His hands rest gently on the heating pad atop his lower abdomen, his pain evident despite his neutral expression.

Since the onset of his miscarriage just over nineteen hours earlier, he hasn’t said a word, his gaze stuck somewhere far away amid his steady stream of silent tears.

While watching him spiral and absorb blow after blow is beyond brutal, the most agonizing aspect of it all is that there’s simply nothing they can do.

Sure, retrieving Jason would heal a large part of what is broken inside of Tim, but nothing, nothing can be done about the loss of their unborn pup, stolen by the winds of fate never to be seen, heard, or felt again.

In an attempt to deny her feelings the privilege of being felt, Cass bores holes into the blinking dots on the map with her sharp gaze, her uneasiness rising as Bruce, Dick, and Steph arrive at the warehouse.

On paper, the mission is simple, but the opportunities for things to go wrong are plentiful, allowing for doubt and fear to wheedle their way into her mind.

As she follows their movements with her eyes, she’s suddenly struck with a previously-buried memory; not buried due to trauma or embarrassment or anything of the sort, a memory simply lost to time.

It’s slotted in her mental files at around a year into her tenure in Gotham, an unusually hot night in the tail end of summer at Steph’s apartment. The two of them were basically inseparable, joined at the hip, peas in a pod.

They’d stockpiled popsicles, ice cream, fresh fruit, and everything else that fits into the picture of a warm summer night, and as they sat on the tiny couch in the living room side-by-side, Steph suddenly began to ramble about the meaning of names. 

After spending a humble five minutes boasting about how ‘Stephanie’ means ‘crown’ or ‘garland’, symbolizing glory, dignity, and royalty, she dove into the story of Cassandra of Troy.

According to Steph, Cassandra of Troy, one of the many daughters of King Priam of Troy, was cursed by the god Apollo, receiving the gift of prophecy but cursed to never be believed.

Cass hadn’t put much weight on the myth when Steph first told the story. The two of them had simply been chatting about this and that with a lighthearted tune, but now, she finds herself revisiting the story with newfound reflection and rumination.

She’s startled out of her thoughts when Tim’s voice suddenly cuts through the silence, raw and scratchy.

“I’m sorry, Cass.”

Her head immediately snaps to the side, eyes wide. Despite her laconic nature, Cass isn’t used to being left speechless.

For a long time, she openly stares at him with a combination of shock and confusion, searching frantically for any insight into his thought process.

Eventually, she finds her words.

“Why?” she asks quietly.

Tim is serene to an almost alarming degree. His expression is soft yet detached and his eyes are crystal clear. He simultaneously possesses not a single and every care in the world.

“I shouldn’t have said those things to you.”

Again, confusion infiltrates Cass’s brain. She cannot fathom why or how he feels the need to, of all things, apologize after experiencing so much loss.

Tim is, perhaps, the strongest out of any of them, but whether this is a testament to his intrinsic nature or to the sheer amount of pain and suffering he’s clawed his way through in his seventeen years of life, she’s not quite sure.

Tears prickle at her eyes as she scoots her chair closer and takes his cold hand in hers.

“I am sorry too,” she whispers.

Tim says nothing in reply, only a ghost of a smile gracing his lips as he tightens his grip on her hand and quietly watches the monitor.

Peace has been brokered and forgiveness exchanged, but their moment of warmth is quickly doused when commotion begins to brew over the comms channel, Bruce, Dick, and Steph’s curtains of stealth gradually lifting with each passing moment.

Tensions rise alongside conflict and the muffled sounds of fighting making their way over the channel with interspersed ‘Where is he?’s and ‘Nothing on my end yet’s and ‘Fuck, they’re everywhere’s.

Amid the increasing disorder, Cass’s gut feeling decides to make an appearance. 

There’s something else. BANG. Something’s not right. CRASH. They have something else. THUD.

As if her thoughts are being read by some higher being, Jason’s tracker suddenly goes dark, and then… BOOM.

It’s an explosion, no doubt about it. Sharp, sudden, roaring, destructive, a proper explosion through and through.

In the 1.24 milliseconds Cass and Tim’s eyes meet, the following few words are exchanged.

Don’t.

I have to.

It’s too dangerous.

I have to.

And so he does, gone without a trace before her eyelids can complete even another full blink.

Cass knows Tim, maybe better than anyone in their family (save for Jason, obviously), and as a personal victim and beneficiary to his stalwart determination, she knows there’s no stopping him.

It’s selfish. He knows it’s selfish, but he has to go. Like always, even in his debilitated, fragile, unstable state, he has to try.

That’s just who Tim is: the most intelligent, strong-willed, loyal, caring dumb idiot this world has ever known.

Cass can’t help the dread sinking deeper into her stomach, that absolute feeling that tragedy is imminent, but as she stares at the empty seat beside her and strains to hear the fading echoes of the motorcycle engine, a short back-and-forth she'd had with Steph on that same late-summer night pops into her head that puts her at ease (in the most loose definition of the word).

‘I do not want to be like Cassandra of Troy,’ she had said as she finished her second popsicle.

‘Well, good thing you’re not Greek,’ Steph had laughed, casually handing her a third.

Chapter Text

Having a strong will to live has never really been in Jason’s, let’s say… wheelhouse.

It’s not like he’s been perpetually suicidal or anything, he’s just always had more reasons to die than to live.

As far back as he can remember, he has constantly asked himself a question that even the greatest philosophers and scientists of past and present haven’t been able to answer.

What’s the point?

It’s something he’d often ponder all those times he’d come home to his mother sitting on the bathroom floor in a daze with needles and burnt spoons scattered around her, or the countless times he’d watched his father get locked up for petty theft and domestic abuse, or those nights he’d spend wedged between dumpsters in a dark alleyway because it was better than going home.

Taking on the mantle of Robin had helped ease the existential dread a bit, giving him some sense of drive and purpose.

While he’s never really seen value in himself, he’s always seen value in others, and having an avenue to channel his desire to help and assist and save was more than enough for a little while.

He’d loved being Robin, absolutely adored it, but as he and Batman continued stopping the same crimes and fighting the same criminals and watching more innocent civilians become innocent victims, that gnawing question began to creep back into the fold.

Maybe it’s why he picked fights with Bruce so often in the tail end of his tenure as Robin. 

Maybe it’s why he’d tracked down his biological mother and scampered off to Ethiopia without telling Bruce, or anyone for that matter. 

Maybe, just maybe, it’s why the only thought he was able to generate as he watched that time bomb tick down to zero was, ‘I guess that’s it then.’

In short, Jason Todd has never had a true reason to live…

until now.

As he drags his battered body up the cold metal steps, his mate’s gorgeous smile flashes before his eyes, his pup’s joyful laughter floats past his ears, the feel of holding them close and tight weighs on his arms.

Each step is excruciating to the point he’s surprised he’s still conscious, but regardless, he just keeps going.

‘If it hurts so bad, why not just give up?’ his seven-year-old self would ask. 

‘I can’t,’ Jason would reply.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’ve finally found the point.’

Driven by the fact that each tiny, torturous step takes him even a little bit closer to his mate and pups, Jason ascends from the pits of hell to what looks like, well, the lobby of hell.

The warehouse is steadily approaching a state of complete dilapidation by the time Jason crawls his way up from the final landing, actively ablaze and crumbling from both the bottom up and top down.

It sort of resembles those old paintings of the Great Fire of London in 1666, though not nearly as artistic or picturesque.

From every which way, clamorous shouts blend with creaking metal and loud crashes, but the small area surrounding Jason is oddly quiet and calm, almost encased in an invisible bubble of peace.

As he stares, transfixed, at the distorted waves of heat radiating from the thick metal beams, he suddenly feels a gentle tug on his heart – not in a figurative sense, a literal tug, as if someone attached a string to it and decided they wanted to play a half-assed game of tug-of-war.

It’s unclear why he follows it (to be fair, it’s unclear why he does a lot of things), but he feels compelled to let it guide the way.

The string becomes more and more taut the closer he gets to what he approximates to be the northwest wing of the warehouse, the tug on his heart shifting into a more deliberate pull.

Amid his simultaneously valiant and pitiful crawl to freedom, a series of explosions rock the massive building, going off sporadically like moles popping up in Whac-A-Mole.

Unsurprisingly, each explosion transports him back to that rundown shack in Ethiopia, his handy dandy PTSD kicking in at only the most convenient of times. 

The brevity of the episodes following each detonation is a bit shocking, though, with Joker’s cackles quickly drowned out by Damian’s sweet giggles and Tim’s pretty laughter, their mere existence almost acting as a guiding light to pull him out of his waking nightmare.

There’s something to be said about human connection and love.

What exactly there is to be said, Jason hasn’t a fucking clue, but the fact remains that his deep, all-consuming love and devotion for his mate and pups is the only reason he has managed to drag his limp body up three flights of stairs and through a burning building with two bullets in his leg, a mangled back, multiple broken ribs, an eye swollen shut, and an actively bleeding head wound.

His pace is slow, a snail in a hundred meter race, the heat stings his eyes, and his body is on the verge of collapse, but not for one second does his determination waver.

He has to go on.

When he turns a corner past a row of old, rusted forklifts waiting to meet their end, the tug on his heart that had become a deliberate pull evolves into certified yank.

The reason becomes clear when he catches sight of a painfully familiar silhouette through the smoke.

At first it doesn’t make sense.

Tim wouldn’t be here. Tim couldn’t be here. Tim shouldn’t be here.

It’s illogical, positioned at the furthest point from rationality, but Jason’s eyes have never been great at deceiving him.

There, standing less than a hundred feet away from him in the flesh, is his Omega, his mate, his purpose.

Seconds after recognition hits Jason, Tim turns and makes direct eye contact, his pretty baby blues going wide with alarm, relief, and fear.

They’re only allowed one step closer to each other before another explosion goes off, this time mere yards from Jason, sending him flying into a nearby stack of crates and forcing him to watch helplessly as he’s buried in a concrete coffin.

Turns out, finally reaching the light at the end of the tunnel only to find that it’s a train is only a witty and amusing concept if it’s not you getting hit by the train.

Between each ebb and flow of his fading consciousness, he hears both panicked desperation and rough urgency in the form of screams, shouts, and cries.

He’s sort of half buried, with, ironically, only his lame leg - courtesy of Talia - sticking out from the debris, and the pain is indescribable. 

The darkness in his field of vision clears bit by bit as pieces of rubble are picked away by frantic hands, and after a period of time that feels both agonizingly long and short, he’s met with the radiant face of an angel.

For a moment, he’s convinced he has died again, something he’s getting to be very good at apparently, but as his unfocused eyes strain to make out the beautiful face staring down at him, he’s able to put a name to the ethereal being.

“Hi… Tim,” he wheezes, his own voice sounding extremely far away and muffled.

Tim Drake is, as always, a sight to behold.

“No, no, no, please,” he begs, his tears streaming down his face and dripping pitifully on Jason’s cheeks.

Despite his furrowed brow and overflowing tears and sunken eyes, he is drop-dead gorgeous, and Jason is almost able to attribute the warm feeling in his stomach to his adoration for his mate.

He quickly finds out the true reason behind that warm feeling when he glances down at his abdomen.

‘Oh, man… that’s a lot of blood,’ he stops himself from saying, not wanting to further panic his already panicked mate.

Instead, he turns his attention back to Tim’s face, studying it as if wanting to commit every detail to memory in case… just, in case.

“I missed you… so much,” he breathes, his lips pulled into a pained smile. “I’m sorry.”

“Please, Jason, you can’t go. You can’t leave me.”

Not one to make empty promises, Jason simply decides to speak the truth, lifting a trembling hand to gently caress his mate’s cheek.

“God, you’re beautiful.”

The last thing he sees before he drops off into the void is a bright green light eerily similar to that of the Lazarus Pit.

Extraction missions to Bruce are like riding a bike: easy, natural, practiced.

The same could be said about extraction missions to rescue his formerly-deceased son from the League of Assassins… if the bike were missing a wheel, undergoing brake failure, and on fire.

So when the first explosion rumbles through the building, he’s not necessarily surprised.

The lack of surprise, however, does not constitute the absence of stress, more specifically, PTSD, and as the metal panels of the warehouse walls shudder and creak, flashbacks of his biggest failure flicker through his mind.

Jason. Catherine. Ethiopia. Sheila. Trap. Joker. Bomb. Too late. Too late. Too late.

It’s not like he hasn’t been around explosives, bombs, detonators, dynamite, TNT, etc. since Jason’s death. He’s been around them quite a bit, actually. But with the core of this mission being someone he’s once lost to a violent blast, Bruce’s composure quickly goes flying out the window to make room for panic and its flurry of 'what if's'.

‘Jason’s gone dark,’ Barbara relays over their comms, hints of anxiety in her even tone. ‘His last location was on the northwest side of the building.’

Amid the chaos of Wonder Woman and Green Lantern continuing to wreak havoc, assassins running around the place like cockroaches, and the potential for additional bombs to go off, Bruce hurries his way to the loose coordinates Barbara transmits.

Of course, of course, of course his urgent chase to save his son is halted by the sudden appearance of someone he has held in contempt for a very long time.

“It has been too long, Detective,” Ra’s Al Ghul greets, his demeanor proud and haughty as always.

Bruce doesn’t bother responding, quickly changing direction to circumvent the unsolicited obstacle.

But if Ra’s wants a conversation, odds are, he’s going to get one, and Bruce’s escape routes are quickly blocked by the old man’s henchmen.

‘I don’t have time for this,’ he thinks as he mentally calculates whether Ra’s Al Ghul’s monologue would take longer than fighting his way through his fleet of assassins.

“I have always held respect for you, Detective,” Ra’s begins, “and I have long emphasized that you alone rival my intellect, the ideal human to support my legacy.”

Bruce remains silent, his patience wearing thin as images of Jason’s limp, lifeless body flash through his mind - though, his frustration and urgency are abruptly put on pause as Ra’s goes on with his spiel.

“At last, I have fulfilled this mission, creating an heir who draws your blood, yet you remain blind to the empire we have the opportunity to build.”

Bruce snaps his head to face him, carefully deciphering whether or not this is a calculated move on the Demon Head’s part.

It could very well be a red herring to draw his attention away from more pressing matters – like rescuing his resurrected son who has been kept prisoner for nearly three days – but the surprise on Ra’s’s face suggests otherwise.

“Oh? I see you have not been made aware.” His tone is light and almost, almost teasing.

“What are you talking about,” Bruce demands, having no time to waste playing mind games.

Ra’s laughs in that arrogant way of his, expression bright with glee at having stumped the World’s Greatest Detective.

“You seem to be in quite the hurry, so I shall take it upon myself to deliver this with the utmost clarity,” he smiles, wicked and unsightly. “My heir, Damian Al Ghul, is of your blood, Detective.”

It’s a bombshell somehow louder than the explosions vibrating through the building and Bruce stands frozen in place, his brain in a rare state of ‘struggling to keep up’ and ‘information overload’.

While he tries, fails, and tries again to make sense of the utter nonsense Ra’s just spouted, the man continues.

“You see, when Damian was born, I was ecstatic, my visions of the future evolving from opaque to translucent. However, the boy has proven to be weak-minded and feeble, unfit to honor my legacy,” he explains with unmasked disgust. “If I am to speak with candor, I have lost faith in the boy. He is a fragile, soft, deficient, insufficient, inadequate, deplorable child. Therefore, I ask that you join me once more in bringing forth a new heir, one with innate strength and power and intelligence.”

When Bruce doesn’t respond, Ra’s grins, eager to express his delusions of grandeur.

“Once you and my disappointing daughter have completed your task, I will employ Timothy Drake, the Omega, to raise the child and instill in him tenacity and skill.” His eyes show an unsettling sort of obsession when he mentions Tim, enough to send a chill down Bruce’s spine. “Should you decline to produce another heir and relinquish Timothy to me… I will not hesitate to burn your beloved city to the ground, Detective.”

The detonator in his hand tells Bruce that he’s not bluffing, and in the few seconds he’s given to respond, his brain finally catches up and quickly ingests the following facts:

• Damian is his son by blood
• Talia is Damian’s mother
• He and Talia share a child together
• Ra’s Al Ghul wants them to make another child
• Ra's Al Ghul is seemingly infatuated with Tim who will raise this new child
• Ra’s Al Ghul has officially lost his mind

Knowing an outright refusal will only create more problems, Bruce redirects the attention to the one who’d be left behind in these grand plans.

“And what of Damian?” he asks, voice low. 

“Of Damian?” Ra’s repeats in shock before bursting into uncontrollable laughter.

Amid the disturbing cackles, Bruce notices a familiar woman quietly approach from the side.

Talia looks just like she had when they last met: terribly beautiful and terribly sad.

“Damian is of no matter to me, Detective,” Ra’s says after his laughter subsides. “The boy is meek, not only unfit for the League of Assassins, but also unfit for life. My daughter has failed in raising him to be merciless and unrelenting, and she too should feel ashamed for cursing this world with such wretched filth.”

Either consciously or subconsciously, Bruce’s eyes flit to the daughter in question. Her face is twisted into a pained grimace, her knuckles white around the gun in her right hand.

“Should you join me in my noble crusade, I will readily eradicate his being from this very realm,” he chuckles, stroking his chin as if intrigued by the thought of murdering a child.

As Bruce stares in complete disbelief at the unhinged old man before him, Barbara’s voice comes through the comms.

‘Batman, Jas- the target been retrieved. Green Lantern and the others are heading back for medical as we speak.’

The flood of relief mixing with the absolute horror at Ra’s Al Ghul’s words makes for a strange feeling, and Bruce can’t quite find an appropriate response to the complete and utter blasphemy that has been thrown in his direction.

Taking his silence for genuine contemplation, Ra’s prods him once more, unaware of the enraged beast looming at his side.

“What say you, Detective? You and Timothy will join me in exchange for Damian’s life,” he announces with finality. “A simple knife across the throat should do,” he smiles, giddy, “or perhaps poison. A child as small as he would only require a miniscule dos–”

Ra’s Al Ghul’s legacy doesn’t end in a big battle or a grand finale, but a single sharp pop, the bullet entering and exiting his head with class and efficiency.

Talia’s extended arm drops in sync with her father, his body limp and lifeless on the dusty, grimy floor, as the blood he so cherished flows from his head.

Her gun remains trained on him as she empties the clip, her cold, flat expression becoming more and more angry and sad and deranged with each bullet that pierces his skin.

Absolute silence stretches, the assassins surrounding the area at a complete loss after watching their glorious leader drop dead in the blink of an eye.

Bruce isn’t sure what compels him to move forward, to pry the smoking gun from Talia’s hand, and to embrace her as she breaks down into agonized sobs.

And as he comforts her at what is either the lowest or highest point in her life while staring at the corpse of a man who ruined the lives of so many, he can't help but wonder…

What's the point?