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Jason Todd wakes up the moment the door to his bedroom opens, even though none of the hinges in the Manor squeak. So it’s not the non-existent sound of the door opening that wakes him — it’s the scent of a distressed pup.
Worried-fear spills into his den in a wave, burning his nostrils with the intensity of it.
He blinks a few times rapidly, trying to clear the sleep-fuzziness from his eyes, as adrenaline surges through him. Pups should never smell like that. Pups should be protected and sheltered from the world; they shouldn’t have to deal with the ugliness of reality. Unfortunately, that’s unrealistic.
It’s a scent he’s all too familiar with from his puphood and, to this day, his patrols. Because Gotham wouldn’t be Gotham if the streets didn’t reek of terrified pups. That’s the number one trigger for him losing his temper with perps while on patrol.
Yet, he’s in the Manor. So that scent shouldn’t even be a possibility, let alone this overwhelmingly strong.
Jason sits up in his nest, unable and unwilling to ignore the scent. He wouldn’t be any kind of Omega worth existing if he ignored a pup in clear need. And while Jason has flaws and knows it, he’s never been a crap Omega, not outside the Pit Madness.
“What the—?”
Damian Wayne is standing in the doorway to Jason’s bedroom, the light from the hall behind him casting a distorted shadow on the floor. He’s shaking, head hanging, staring at the floor threshold.
(It’s a different bedroom than the one Jason had as a pup, thank goodness. Different than the room he had before he was murdered died. He wouldn’t have been able to slip back into that room of innocence and Robin’s magic.)
It kicks the adrenaline even higher. Damian should never smell like that, but especially not when he’s safe in the Manor. Even when Jason was estranged from the Wayne Pack and refused to come home, he never doubted the safety of the Manor … just his mental and emotional safety with the people inside it.
“Pup?” he asks around a yawn, hating that the adrenaline is taking so long to counter his exhaustion. It’s been a couple long weeks of cases and patrols. He’s worn down more than he would like to admit.
But—
Hell, he’s not going to give Bruce a chance to bench him as if Jason is still an unruly pup himself who doesn’t know his own limits. Jason knows his limits better than anyone. Ra’s and Talia al Ghul guaranteed he learned exactly what they were when Jason was with the League of Assassins all those years.
Damian whines, high-pitched and needy.
The sound jolts Jason in his nest. He can count how many times he has heard that in his life on one hand. The last time, one of Ra’s’ enemies got their hands on Damian when he was still just a tiny pup, having infiltrated the Shadows to accomplish it.
The following day, Ra’s presented Jason with red training uniforms, saying Jason was “exquisite in red.”
Jason inhales deeply, shoulders only relaxing when he doesn’t smell a hint of iron-blood-pain. So whatever is wrong, it’s not an injury. In their world, that doesn’t mean much, though. There are much worse things than physical pain. Jason knows that firsthand. They all do. Anyone who embarks on the vigilante path should be prepared to walk through the fires of hell without ceasing.
Damian hasn’t stopped staring at the invisible line that separates Jason’s room from the hallway. It hurts Jason’s heart. Because if they were still with the League, Damian wouldn’t have hesitated for an instant. He would have been assured of his welcome in Jason’s arms and nest.
That was before Jason left him behind to seek revenge — a fact that still fills him with regret.
“Come here, Little Prince,” Jason says in League Dialect, wanting Damian to be reminded of home. He beckons Damian into his bedroom, his den.
Jason hasn’t allowed anyone inside since Bruce Wayne awkwardly gifted it to him one night when Jason was too tired to drive his motorcycle to his closest safe house. Jason handles all the cleaning and chores himself. His den smells like Jason and nothing else. Usually, at least. Right now, the regular, comforting scent is being smothered by fear-anxiety pup-scent.
It has Jason’s hackles rising. He’s never been able to ignore a pup in need — especially not his this pup.
Closing the distance between them in a rush, Damian clambers inside Jason’s nest without waiting for Jason to offer him a hand to formally welcome him inside. It soothes Jason. Perhaps the damage he did to their pack bond by leaving the League is healing faster than he thought.
Damian keens softly. It must’ve been a bad nightmare if Damian’s non-verbal right now; what else could it be but a nightmare? It’s that weird time of early-late morning when they’ve been back from patrol for hours. So there’s no chance Damian’s been exposed to Fear Toxin or anything similar. Even knowing that, Jason hates how Damian shakes against him. It takes a lot to scare Damian. For him to be reacting like this? Jason loathes whatever faceless nightmare resulted in such a primitive reaction of sending him scurrying to an Omega’s nest for protection.
Even though he would never deny this his pup protection.
Damian nuzzles into Jason’s chest, tugging at his shirt. He whines needily and smothers Jason in please-Mother-let-me-please. The sheer desperation in his pup’s scent almost brings tears to his eyes.
Hell, this is his fault. He should’ve taken Damian into his nest that very first night Bruce gave it to him. He should’ve fed his pup then. If he had, Damian wouldn’t have been unsure of his welcome.
“It’s all right, Little Prince. I’ve got you,” Jason says as he shrugs off his shirt and leans against the edge of his nest, chest aching fiercely.
Jason lost his milk when he returned to Gotham for revenge and left Damian with the League. It didn’t come back in until Bruce gave him his own personal den in the Manor, officially acknowledging Jason as welcome in the pack den. Trusted to be around the pups again, now that the Pit Madness has faded. Trusted with Timothy Drake’s and Damian’s safety.
Just thinking of those months when he couldn’t control himself burns.
Omegas are meant to protect pups, not hurt them. Jason hates that he failed at that, even temporarily. He’ll never stop being grateful that he always managed to regain his senses before he killed Tim or Damian.
If he had … Jason shudders and kisses Damian’s hair, not wanting to dwell on the thought even a moment more.
“You’re safe,” Jason breathes against a golden-bronze brow.
Damian keens, his gaze locked on Jason’s chest. Droplets of milk are spilling from his nipples, tracing across his muscles before dripping wastefully onto the blankets surrounding him. Please-Mother-please becomes so thick in the air that it’s cloying.
Jason knows the rest of the pack has smelled his milk on him since it returned, has felt their eyes tracking him whenever he’s near enough for them to scent it.
But he hasn’t fed any of them to strengthen the pack bonds.
Soon … soon he might trust them enough to bless them with his milk, to let them in his den, his nest, his safe haven. But not yet. Not quite yet.
There are too many emotions that need to be resolved before that can happen healthily.
Damian is the only one Jason would have accepted right away. Yet, his pup hadn’t come to him. At the time, Jason thought Damian was mad at him for leaving. But now, with Damian crawling in his nest and begging, Jason can’t help but wonder if Damian thought all this time that Jason would refuse him, that he wasn’t welcome, because Jason had, objectively, abandoned him.
If that is the case, and Damian had to go practically feral in fear to reach out to the Omega who raised and nursed him … Jason will need to kick his own butt.
“I’m sorry, Little Prince. I’m here now. I’m not leaving you again.”
He drags a soft, fuzzy blanket off the lip of his nest and drapes it over Damian as the pup settles in his lap and latches onto his breast, suckling the milk that’s fed him since Jason was first brought into the League by Talia. Damian drinks in greedy gulps.
The terror in his scent finally fades as hungry-safe-special teases Jason’s senses.
Damian curls up against Jason, a ball of heat that he’s desperately missed in his nest — there was a period of several years where Jason never slept without his pup burrowed into his side — and makes happy humming noises as he drinks Jason’s rich Omega milk.
He pulls back for a moment, tongue lapping at his lips, to whisper, “Thank you, Mother,” before diving back in.
The tiniest of scuffs — intentional, obviously — draws Jason’s attention away from the pup at his breast. The pup whose soft hair he’s petting. The pup he’s purring for, to soothe away any lingering remains of the nightmare that drove Damian to his nest when he had stayed away before.
“You let Damian in your nest?” Tim asks, pained-sour.
“Little D?”
The pack doesn’t know of their history in the League. Oh, Jason’s sure all three of them have figured out both Jason and Damian were there at the same time, and surely crossed paths. Yet, none of them know Jason and Damian’s true relationship: Omega-mother and pup.
Not biologically, of course. But if any of them have learned anything from Bruce, it’s that blood isn’t necessary for someone to be pack family.
“B. Dickiebird. Re” — Tim winces and Jason corrects himself mid-word, fighting against the habits that still linger from his Pit Madness — “Timmy.”
Damian makes a loud slurping sound on his next mouthful. Jason has to bite his lip to keep in the laughter. He doesn’t think his pup could have rubbed it in any harder if he tried.
Bruce, Dick, and Tim are just outside the doorway. The longing in their scents — begging-please-hungry-want — is overwhelming. They smell downright covetous as they stare at Jason feeding Damian. It’s almost enough to convince Jason to trust them in his den, his nest, with his milk.
But—
Damian mewls and snuggles closer, tugging on Jason’s arm insistently to bring Jason’s attention back to him. He’s smirking around Jason’s nipple. Smug-satisfaction rolls off him.
His pup is such a demanding brat. Jason loves him so much it hurts.
Jason nuzzles his chin against Damian’s head, thoroughly scenting him, and hugs his pup. Jason let go of Damian because of the Wayne Pack once before. He’s never going to do it again. He never wants Damian to worry about his place in Jason’s nest.
A pup should know he’s welcome in his mother’s den.
“Jaylad, we—”
He bares his teeth and releases his control of his scent — flooding his den with pheromones that proclaim warning-protective-pup-mine — so that they know what they’re risking if they dare to cross the threshold without his permission: death.
Aching-hurt unfurls off them, but Jason can’t regret his decision. He won’t let himself regret it. If he lets them in his nest without addressing the issues and difficulties between them, it’ll all get swept under the rug, only to burst out later when it’s least expected.
He’s not going to let them drink his milk and strengthen the pack bonds, only for something to pop up down the road and rip them to shreds. Jason’s lost his pack bonds before; he knows the absolute agony of it — worse than everything the Joker subjected him to. Jason’s not insane enough to invite that kind of hell back into his life. Especially not when his pack bond with Damian grows brighter and stronger inside him with every gluttonous gulp of his milk.
Damian got hurt because of him, by him, the last time he was reckless with his pack bonds while Pit Mad. Jason’s determined he’ll never hurt Damian like that again.
Some things take time. This is one of them.
“Not now.”
Jason watches them through half-lidded eyes as his pup falls asleep at his breast. They don’t move an inch.
Maybe … maybe things will be resolved, after all.
But until they are, until he’s absolutely sure it’s safe to build those pack bonds, Jason won’t chance it.