lover of batmans and spider-mans everywhere

Bruce is mentally and emotionally exhausted. Their round-trip journey to a neighboring planet had been slated to take two weeks—it was now going on five. Five weeks stuck in the Javelin with the Justice League. Five weeks dealing with Hal’s smart mouth. Five weeks listening to Oliver bemoan the time away from Dinah. Five weeks sitting in an enclosed metal tin with dwindling rations, their pheromones circling the stale air, and sharing a room with Clark.

The Javelin has only four bunk rooms. Barry had been allotted his own room on the account of being the perceived lone omega in the group. Diana, too, had been given her own room as she was the only woman aboard. That had left Hal and Oliver sharing a room, and him and Clark.

Clark, an alpha.

With him.

An omega.

It is improper for many reasons. Bruce should have spoken up beforehand; should have revealed that he is an omega; he should have begged Diana to swap rooms; he should have done something.

The protocol to separate by sex and dynamic is not inherently discriminatory despite how it may appear. There is a reason for it. One of these reasons is why Bruce has absconded to the sole bathroom, gripping the stainless steel sink with enough force to dent it.

If an omega spends a significant amount of time around an alpha in a confined space, their body will take it as a sign of mating and force them into a heat. Bruce had anticipated this. He had brought on a supply of suppressants to combat his fickle, dysfunctional biology, but the suppressants had run their course two weeks ago. He’d been hoping that his body, for once, stayed true to its abnormal estrous cycle.

He should have known better.

Bruce shudders as another shiver wracks through him, the preheat crawling beneath his skin. He grits his teeth, bracing his forehead against the cool steel of the sink. It will be too suspicious if he retrieves antipyretics like Tylenol or Aspirin from the med-kit. He’s never had the need to take mild pain medication before, not when he’s powered through broken bones on the battlefield without so much as a whimper.

Damn Clark. Damn his strong, alpha scent. Damn Bruce’s own broken biology that doesn’t know what a normal heat cycle is anymore. Too much trauma and stress, Leslie had said. First, the miscarriage what he’d thought had been a miscarriage and then the grief of losing Jason. It’s been years since Jason returned, but his body has never truly recovered from the losses. He isn’t even sure his body is his anymore. Some days, his skin doesn't feel like it belongs to him.

Someone knocks on the door. Bruce doesn’t move.

“Bruce?” calls Diana. “Are you well?”

He swallows back the ridiculous urge to whine, to roll over for the alpha and invite her to aid him in his coming heat. Instead, he bites out, “I’m fine.”

It comes out weaker than intended.

There’s a pause, where he clenches his eyes shut and wills Diana to leave it alone, then she says, “Alright. You’ve been in there a while, is all.”

“I’ll be out in a moment,” he says.

Bruce doesn’t shift until he hears her move away from the door. He stares at his reflection in the mirror, taking in the pink hue to his skin, the slight reddening of his eyes. He spares a bit of their water supply to wet his hands and wipe the feverish sweat from his temples and nape. The cool water does little to soothe him.

Damn Clark, he thinks again.

Bruce double-checks the pheromone blocking patches on his scent glands. The skin around each is pink with irritation and starting to itch fiercely, but he forces himself to leave them alone. He’s been wearing them for too long—much longer than the twenty-four hours advised—but he only brought a limited supply. If he ignores the build-up of oil that’s causing the irritation, he should be able to last the remaining few days needed to get back to the Watchtower. Then, he can hole up in his room at the manor and succumb to his heat.

Just three more days, he thinks.

The only person missing from the lounge is Barry. Bruce feels guilty for the relief that runs through him, but if anyone was going to recognize the symptoms of a preheat, it would be him. He’s the only omega on board. The rest—Clark, Diana, Oliver, and Hal—are alphas. Oliver is another worry as the only one mated to an omega, but Bruce privately thinks that he won’t notice; he believes Bruce is an alpha like the rest of the world.

It’s not like Bruce can blame Oliver. When he’d returned from abroad, tall, broad-shouldered, and wielding a vapid yet rogueish grin, no one had needed to catch his scent to guess what he’d presented as.

He’s never corrected their assumptions.

Diana catches his eyes as he slinks towards a lone corner. Bruce offers her a nod so she doesn’t think anything is amiss. The vinyl fabric of the chair is cool against his skin and smells faintly of the League, of the closest thing to the pack he has up here. He resists the urge to close his eyes and burrow into it. That’s too much like nesting behavior than is comfortable, and he can’t just start up a nest in the middle of the lounge. He can’t start up a nest at all. The dopamine and other happy chemicals will only expedite the onset of his heat, something he doesn’t want this far out in space while surrounded by a bunch of alphas.

Let alone while he’s sharing a room with Clark.

Bruce shuts down that thought before his body can react and try to pump out pheromones to entice the alpha, to get him to spend his heat with him. Bruce hasn’t shared a heat with someone since Talia, he isn’t about to start with his coworker.

And that’s all he is: a coworker. That’s all he’ll ever be. Who will want to be with a poor excuse of an omega like him anywa—

Bruce forces his thoughts away, refocusing on what the others are doing.

They’re playing a card game. He vaguely recognizes it to be an alien game that Hal learned in the Lantern Corps. Bruce isn't familiar with the rules, although Barry had once described it to be a mixture of mahjong and rummy with a betting aspect like poker.

Clark is winning, given the size of his betting pile. Bruce squints at it. Are those M&M’s? He swore candy wasn't on their rations list, so someone must've snuck them aboard as contraband. He'll have to figure out who it is and reprimand them. The Javelin can only hold so much weight once gravity has taken hold, and every gram must be accounted for.

His thoughts stray from the future lecture when Oliver says something snarky to Clark, and in response, he takes a red M&M and pops it in his mouth.

Clark’s pink lips curl politely over his teeth as he chews. A dimple marks one cheek from the grin he's sporting. Oliver scoffs something else, but Bruce can't hear past the thumping in his ears. Sweat slicks down his back as a pink tongue darts out, dragging over plump lips, leaving them with a slight sheen.

Bruce swallows, his mouth dry.

The game ends then, with Diana placing her last three cards, a pleased little smile curling her mouth. Hal groans and Olliver curses. Bruce's eyes are drawn back to Clark. His brows are furrowed as he stares down at his own cards, five of them. Then, one-by-one, he places them down, the sequence creating a crown.

Diana’s pleased smile drops.

“Cheater,” Olliver accuses even as he dutifully pushes his collection of M&M’s towards Clark. Clark takes the pile with a little grin. Bruce can't stop looking at his mouth.

“I’m going to join Barry in the cockpit,” Diana announces, valiantly ignoring Hal’s mutter of “Sore loser.” She whacks the back of his head as he passes, indifferent to his “Ow!” of complaint.

Bruce tears his eyes away from Clark as Diana passes close by, her earthy and laurel scent clearing some of the fog from his mind. He blinks slowly at her, inhaling slowly as he resists the urge to lean into the perfume she emits. The scent of her is calming and makes something warm settle in his gut. It’s his body’s way of telling him an alpha’s presence will help during his heat.

He ignores it.

“Hey, Spooky!” Hal calls out, expertly shuffling the cards. “Want to join us? Someone needs to keep Clark in line.”

“I’m not a cheater,” Clark protests. The large pile of candy in front of him suggests otherwise.

Bruce hesitates, glancing over at the clock on the wall, displaying the time back at the Watchtower to be 21:00. He should turn in soon, to at least attempt to keep to a sleep schedule. But when he thinks of returning to that small, confining room cloaked in Clark’s scent, of how it’ll make the heat rear up when he's already feverish because of his lips, he stands and settles in Diana’s abandoned chair. Bruce holds his breath for a moment, stunned by the proximity of alpha pheromones. Maybe he should get back up, he thinks. An excuse is on the tip of his tongue, but then Oliver offers a grin—the same boyish one he’d wear when they were at school and Bruce deigned to participate in a round of poker—and, well, he can’t change his mind now.

His fever settles as the hours pass, temporarily sated by Oliver’s woodsy scent, Hal’s musky leather, and the intoxicating mix of sun-warmed earth, toasted wheat, and something spicy, something other, that makes up Clark’s scent. The pheromones of familiar alphas soothe some of the aches from his preheat.

But it won’t last.

His body is comfortable with the alphas for now, but as he continues to sink into his biology, he’ll start itching all over. The scents of un-marked alphas will confuse him. His instincts will convince him they'll all fight for him, that he’ll be a mere prize to the winner. Or maybe his heat brain will think they’d take turns as an alpha coalition—they share each other's scents, so the air wouldn't stink of rival alpha. Hal’s leather will stick in his throat; Oliver’s pine will sting his nose. Clark’s. . . his scent will. . .

Bruce exhales, using the excuse of grabbing another card to lean away from Clark. When had he started leaning towards him? He checks the clock. It’s past midnight back at the Watchtower.

Clark catches where his eyes have gone. “It’s getting late,” he comments, setting down two cards that form a tower-like symbol, making Oliver scowl as the other two lie in front of him.

“Lights out when this game is over?” Hal suggests, hiding a yawn behind his hand.

Bruce feels the exhaustion stinging at his eyes. All he wants to do is curl up on his bunk with an inordinate number of pillows and blankets, to cover himself in Clark’s scent and let his heat overcome him. He wants to ask Clark to share his heat, to protect him from the other alphas; he wants to let the alpha rub the aches out of the small of his back, to put those big hands on him, rub them over his scent glands, all of them; he wants him to soothe the ache between his thighs—

Fuck, Bruce thinks, clenching his thighs together under the table. It’d been a mistake to sit so close to a group of alphas who weren’t wearing scent-blockers. He’s been sitting in a cloud of happy-alpha-pack pheromones for hours.

Perhaps his fever has addled him. He is clearly delusional if he thought sitting near alphas while in preheat was a good idea.

“Bruce, your turn,” says Oliver, nudging his foot.

Bruce glances down at his cards, pretending that he hadn’t lost focus of the game. Then, like Clark had done earlier, sets down his last five cards: the crown. Hal swears under his breath and tosses his cards into the center of the table. As the others do the same and start pushing their betting piles towards Bruce’s—his pile has quickly grown over the past few games, Clark’s having shrunk—Bruce stands.

“I’m going to relieve Diana,” he says, heading towards the cockpit. Barry had retreated to his bunk not long after Diana had joined him.

“What about your candy?” Hal asks.

“Give it to Barry,” he says over his shoulder. They had started rationing a week ago, not having expected the trip to run three times the planned length. While the cut isn’t drastic, it is hitting Barry hard due to his heightened metabolism. He will appreciate the sugar.

Diana is calmly watching the distant stars once he enters the cockpit. The small space is perfumed with her pheromones, and Bruce takes a moment to shove down the part of him that wants to bare his scent glands to it in a mimicry of scent-marking.

“Everyone’s heading to bed,” he says, settling in the other chair. Barry’s scent still clings to it. He wants to bury his nose in the fabric and inhale it. Dick once told him that sharing his heat with another omega had soothed all the sexual aches in his heat, had made it more bearable. Bruce wonders if that is true, wonders if Barry will be willing to share his nest—

No, Bruce doesn’t need to share his heat with anyone, let alone invade another’s nest. Dick had been cuddly during his puppy heats, but he’d always sought Bruce out instead of inviting him to his room. No one wants him in their nest. He’ll probably mess it up.

No, it is better if he stays alone. That’s why he’d gone to the cockpit in the first place. A few hours here away from anyone else is what he needs. He won’t have to keep on guard against their scents, won’t be expected to spend the night with Clark, whose close proximity and pheromones unguarded in sleep won’t help his heating body remotely.

Diana glances at the clock. “I haven’t been on watch for long,” she says. “I don’t mind if you wish to rest for the night.”

“I’d like some time alone,” Bruce admits, as close to the truth he’s willing to go. He doesn’t like lying to his friends, Diana less so. He respects her, how she values being transparent with her teammates, but his secondary sex isn’t something he’s willing to share. Some part of him wants to outright admit that he’s an omega, to tell her that he’s in preheat—but that’s not him thinking, not really. Diana has this pull to her, encouraging one to speak the truth. It’s not nearly as strong a compulsion as her Lasso, but he has to shake himself before he lets it all spill.

“I’ll retire for the night, then.”

She stands but doesn’t leave just yet. Bruce breathes through his mouth as she hovers close, her pheromones threatening to make his head swim. Diana watches him, her nostrils flaring as she attempts to take in his pheromones.

He purses his lips at her, unappreciative at the blatant attempt to scent him. Even then, when she takes a polite step back, part of him wants her to close the distance once more. He takes that thought, the desperate wanting, and shoves it deep within so only his annoyance at Diana’s impropriety remains.

Ever the blunt one, Diana says, “I know you prefer your privacy, but our pheromones might not bother you as much if your own mingles with them.”

Bruce slowly exhales. Sometimes, he wishes she would look the other way. He doesn't want to get into this now.

“It’s fine,” is all he says, turning away.

Diana watches him for one last moment, nods to herself, and then leaves.

The first thing that hit Peter was the abundance of smells. They weren’t even bad smells, either. Well, there were bad smells, like sewage and rotting food and that unique smell that all dumpsters had, but there were others, too. His nose burned with the abundance of them, his brain whirling as he cataloged each one automatically.

Plum. Rose. Cedar. Citrus. Musk. Dirt. Pine. Petrichor. Motor oil. . .

Oh, he knew that one! He automatically shuffled closer to the mild earthy smell, picking up the neutral notes of unscented soap in it, which reminded him of one of Tony’s specialized greases for his watch movements. There was also something else, something sweeter, like fruit. Blueberries, maybe? And. . . one more. He furrowed his brows as he tried to parcel it out, but all that came to mind was omega.

Peter paused nose still pressed against warm skin. Omega? Like the Greek Letter? How does a letter have a smell? Like, he can understand the smell of, say, a Beta-Kappa-Gamma – sororities and fraternities were pretty unique in smells, reeking of alcohol and sex – but just omega?

The body under him hitched as a groan rumbled somewhere above him. Peter became aware that he was still nose-deep in Tony’s neck and he pulled away quickly, confused about why he’d started smelling him in the first place, or why it had felt so normal and comforting.

“Cazzo,” Tony groaned, pushing himself up onto an elbow. Peter shuffled further off him, glancing at their surroundings. They were in an alleyway, and not one Peter recognized. And he recognized a lot of alleyways.

But for some reason, he had the strange feeling that he hadn't even been in an alleyway for a long time.

“Cucciolo?” Tony breathed suddenly. Peter snapped his head back towards Tony and froze. Orange washed over his vision for a moment, an orange sky, and orange ground, and then Tony was back, face remarkably unwrinkled but still Tony.

“Papa?” Peter found himself responding in Italian, his voice scratchy yet young.

“Vita mia? My life,” Tony repeated in English, his voice ragged, face crumpling in a way that made Peter’s nose and eyes sting. “My boy. Peter, my boy.”

Peter was seized in a hug.

Oh, this is nice, he remembered saying not too long ago, and his arms automatically curled around Tony’s shoulders as he had then.

He remembered now. The agonizing slow death as his body flaked apart in Tony’s arms. The floaty orange place. Coming back to life only to immediately be shoved back into a battle. Reuniting with Tony, who’d been older, grayer, frown lines curling around his mouth. Tony wielding the gauntlet, face set and determined yet white with pain. And Peter, he’d been unwilling to let him do it by himself. He’d launched himself at Tony and wrapped his hand around the stones just as Tony had snapped.

There’d been hushed voices in his mind, a rainbow surrounding him, and then. . . here.

Tony was still babbling in his ear, a mix of Italian and English, the blueberry in his scent – how did Peter know it was his scent? – souring into something that reminded him of wine gone bad. Peter’s throat tightened and a whining sound escaped him. It was an animal noise he’d never made before, not even while in pain. Tony made a rumbling noise in response. It vibrated in his chest, in the base of his throat where Peter’s face was buried.

It soothed something in Peter. He sniffled against Tony, trying not to remember the orange place or the memory of his own death. Tony rubbed his cheek against the top of his head, one warm palm moving to the side of his neck. Peter automatically nuzzled against Tony’s throat again.

Eventually, that sour scent left Tony, and he became aware of his own scent. Something milky and sweet like honey and May’s green tea. His mind automatically supplied puppy, like Tony’s pet name from earlier.

Okay, so this was getting a little too weird. Peter pulled away from Tony and frowned when he realized they weren’t the same height anymore.

“Dad, what’s going on?” he asked. “Why are we in an alley? Weren’t we just. . .”

Tony scrubbed a hand over his eyes and cleared his throat, searching their surroundings with the same confused frown Peter had. His nose wrinkled at the sour scent roiling off the full dumpster beside them.

“I don’t know,” he said, “but we need to find somewhere that doesn’t reek to figure this out.”

Peter’s eyes locked onto a fire escape. It was a little rickety, but they managed to climb their way onto the roof without needing a tetanus shot. Peter felt oddly weak, his limbs shaking as he pulled himself up the ladder and stairs. His chest felt tight as he sat down, the roof gravel digging into his legs.

Tony crouched down in front of Peter, placing the back of his hand against his forehead. God, he hadn’t felt like this since before the spider bite cured his asthma.

“M’not sick,” Peter got out between slowing breaths. Tony tsked, scanning him automatically, as he always did after Peter returned from patrol. “I’m not hurt, either,” he added, although that was kind of a lie. All of his limbs and joints hurt, like he’d been pulled at each end, stretched like he was on the rack, a torture device that MJ once told him about just to make him squirm.

“I don’t like the sound of your breathing,” Tony said, frowning.

“It’s fine,” Peter said, ducking away from his hand. “It’s probably whatever the Stones did that got us here.”

Tony’s expression crumpled a little at the reminder. “You shouldn’t have grabbed my hand,” he said quietly, staring down at where the gauntlet had been.

“You were dying,” Peter said, his eyes stinging at the reminder. He sucked up the tears, because he’d already cried today, thanks. “I wasn’t going to let you do it alone. You—” Peter swallowed. “You were there for me.”

Tony made a low wounded sound, and his scent soured once more.

“Do you think the Stones brought us here?” Peter asked, hoping to distract him. He’d only smelled that scent twice now, but he could tell it was the worst thing he’ll ever smell.

“It’s possible,” Tony said, his eyes going a little distant. His brows furrowed. “Do you remember hearing anything after I used the Stones?”

Peter stared down at the chunks of gravel, trying to think past the shock of pain that had crawled up his arm after he’d grabbed ahold of Tony’s hand. He remembered the battlefield going slow, he remembered Tony’s heart slowing, he remembered hearing his own heart slow. His vision had dimmed, and he could barely see any of their allies as he’d collapsed against Tony. And then. . . there was color. Not like when he’d been in that orange space. There’d been orange, but there’d also been red, yellow, green, blue, and purple. He’d felt like he was floating. There’d been voices. Soft, indistinct voices, for the most part.

But he did remember one thing that stuck out.

He remembered thinking, “I don’t want to die again.” He remembered the desperate want of, “I don’t want Tony to die, he’s all I have.” He remembered begging, “I just want to be with my dad. Please, all I want is to be with my dad.”

And then there’d been a whisper, of voices layered over themselves. They hadn’t formed any words he could make out, but Peter got the feeling they’d granted his wish.

Peter looked back up at Tony, and he knew. Tony had thought something along those lines, too.

“So it was the Stones,” Tony said, rubbing a hand down his face. “Where the hell did they drop us?”

Peter glanced around, hoping that he’d be able to recognize what part of New York they were in. He didn’t see any notable landmarks, but then again, they were on a pretty short building surrounded by taller ones. He did notice a large number of gargoyles around, though. One on the building beside them was missing chunks, the stone gouged out like something with claws had gone at it. He’d never seen that gargoyle in his life.

“I don’t recognize where we are,” Peter admitted, looking hopefully at Tony. Tony just shook his head.

“Okay,” Tony muttered to himself. “Okay. We need to find out where we are, get a message out to the team. They’ll be wondering where we are.”

He searched his pockets and pulled out a phone. Peter stared at it. “Is that a flip phone?” he said incredulously.

Tony stared at the phone in bewilderment. He turned it on, the keys sticking loudly as he typed in his passcode. Then, he stopped and stared. When he didn’t move, Peter leaned forward to catch a glimpse at the ancient screen. It said it was 2001.

“That explains why you look like you’re thirty,” Peter blurted.

“Then why aren’t you an infant?” Tony said, frowning as he pocketed the phone. “You’re young, but you can’t be older than twelve here, cucciolo.”

“What?” Peter demanded. “Take a picture of me, right now.”

Bemused, Tony pulled his phone back out and clicked a picture of Peter, flipping it around so he could see it. He stared at the picture, noting that Tony was right, but also. . . “Is this thing a potato? Did you used to own a potato phone? I’m so disappointed in you right now.”

Tony snorted at him, so at least Peter knew he was doing a good job of lightening the mood. Then his face turned serious. Ah, well, it was good while it lasted.

“Okay, here’s the plan – since this ‘potato’ doesn’t have a browser, we’re going to have to find somewhere with a working computer to do some research.”

“The library?” Peter suggested.

“Bingo,” said Tony, pointing at him. He rocked to his feet and held out a hand for Peter, pulling him up with startling ease, enough that Peter stumbled into his chest. Tony paused, his nostrils flaring. A strange look overcame his face. His head dipped towards Peter’s neck and he drew in a deep breath, which for some reason didn’t feel awkward at all, even though it should have. Peter did squirm a little, though, when Tony’s facial hair tickled a weirdly sensitive part of his neck.

“Why do you smell like green tea?” Tony asked in bewilderment. Then, he turned his nose towards his own shoulder, making an even more confused face. “Wait, why do I smell like one of DUM-E’s smoothies?”

Peter laughed, because, yeah, actually, that was a good description.

Tony took another sniff of himself. “And what the hell is an omega?”

“My brain told me that, too!” Peter exclaimed.

Tony shook his head. “Okay, we’ll look into that later, but we really need to get off this roof.”

Annoyingly, the weakness had not gone away. Tony insisted on being right below Peter as they climbed down the last ladder, which turned out to be a good idea, as on the second to last rung down, Peter’s fingers gave up and he slipped. He fell into Tony, who gripped him firmly and helped him the remainder of the way down.

Peter stared down as the rusted paint chips on his fingers once they got on stable ground.

“I didn’t stick.”

“Cosa hai detto?” Tony asked. He glanced up from where he’d been examining his wallet from 2001, which thankfully had a stack of cash in it.

“I didn’t stick,” Peter repeated himself, swallowing against the panic threatening to rise in him. “I tried to stick when I slipped, but nothing happened. Dad, nothing happened.”

Tony’s nose wrinkled a little, like he was smelling something off, and he pulled Peter into a quick hug. “It’ll be okay,” he said, rubbing his palm against his neck again, which felt nice and eased some of his anxiety, for some reason. “It’s probably just the displacement, cucciolo.”

Peter swallowed. “Yeah,” he mumbled into Tony’s shoulder, inhaling his soothing scent, which reminded him of days in the lab. “Yeah,” he said again. “It’s probably just the Stones.”

Bruce knows that he’s unconventional for an omega. Perhaps, when he’d been young, one would look at his soft features and willowy frame and ponder on whether he’d present as an omega, but Bruce had left before they could find out the truth. When he’d returned, he’d been tall as any alpha, broad in the shoulders, a broad grin on his face and a ditzy but charming look in his eyes—despite the scent blockers he wore, no one doubted he was an alpha.

His scent was atypical for an omega, he knew, part of the reason he blocked his scent in the first place. It was deep, musky like the streets of Gotham, sharp like its rain, earthy with petrichor. Alfred had frowned at Bruce when he’d first caught his scent, noting how he didn’t have any of the sweet floral and citrusy notes Martha once perfumed.

It wasn’t like Bruce had wanted to smell like his mother, but he couldn’t deny the brief flicker of disappointment that tried to spark in his chest before he smothered it.

It was fine. He didn’t need to smell like an omega to be one, anyway.

Besides, Bruce wasn’t a slave to his own biology. He’d been trained well enough to keep the emotions out of his pheromones, to keep the reactions to a minimum. Omega instincts were a weakness. They had no place in a city as violent as Gotham.

So, he ignored the urge to pad his bed with soft and fluffy things, instead sticking to the fine silk sheets Alfred made his bed with. And sure, it had itched under his skin when Alfred smoothed out the perfectly formed cocoon he’d made of his bed when he’d first returned, but Bruce eventually gave up and left the blankets alone. Alfred had been so pleased to not have to wrestle with the extra laundry.

His heats, he rigorously worked through. He scrubbed the oil from his scent glands until they were red, slathered himself with blockers, and continued with his work. Whether that be at Wayne Enterprises, working a case in the cave, or on patrol. Alfred didn’t approve, but Alfred wasn’t an omega. Even if Bruce occasionally succumbed to his fever in an offshoot branch of the cave, all he had to do was play it off as extra patrol time.

The most pesky instinct to reign in was the scenting. Scenting had been one of his favorite activities as a pup, sitting in his mother’s lap and nuzzling under her chin, allowing his scent to coalesce with hers; or having his father cards his fingers through his hair, briefly rubbing his wrists against his neck before leaving for work. He’d tried to scent after their deaths, too, but Alfred had been very strict about it.

“Scenting is for pack, Master Bruce,” he’d said, something pained in his eyes even as his lips were stern.

And, well, who would want to smell like the curdled and sour milk scent of a grieving puppy? Bruce couldn’t very well begrudge Alfred for not wishing to share scents. Alfred was only his employee, after all.

It’s just, well, Dick had also been a puppy, his scent sour and bitter, but all Bruce had wanted to do was cover that scent with his muskier one, allow them to balance out. Perhaps he should have expected Dick to lash out. Scenting was for pack—for parents and their children. Bruce wasn’t Dick’s mother.

Dick had made that very clear.

“Stop trying to replace them!” he remembered Dick screaming once, his little face red and angry, eyes sharp and watery. “I don’t want to smell like you!”

So, Bruce had just. . . stopped trying to scent him.

Then Dick left, and Bruce was reintroduced to Talia al Ghul. A charming, beguiling alpha of a woman who he’d reluctantly fallen in love with. Talia didn’t like scenting, either. Claimed that as an alpha she’d prefer to only leave her scent on him, claimed that if she were to belong to someone it was Ra’s, even if she wished to mate him. 

And mate him, she did. They’d spent a long, toiling heat together, her knot the only thing to soothe the ache inside him. Three months later, Talia came for him, and took him back to the League, where he remained for another four months.

Alfred had believed he’d gone undercover again. Bruce had let him dwell in that belief. He’d been happy. Perhaps not as happy as he might have been back in Gotham, but well, something silly and childish in him swelled at the thought that he was a good omega after all, carrying a pup.

Then he lost him. A miscarriage that ravaged both his insides and his heart.

Bruce returned to Gotham, a pup-sized hole in his heart, and later found it shrinking when he met an angry little pup with a dirty mouth and a tire iron in his hand.

Jason hadn’t replaced his little pup. No one could. But Jason—he was good. He let Bruce scent him and scented him in turn. He curled up under Bruce’s arm when one of his now-abnormal and painful heats struck. He let Bruce adopt him. He called him mama.

Then he got Jason killed. What a poor excuse for an omega he’d been, letting his pup go out and fight crime, leaving him alone with the Joker running around.

Bruce hadn’t let himself get close to Tim. He’d been harsh on the boy, but he had his own pack, his own parents, and Bruce didn’t want another pup to die under his care. But he wiggled his way in, soothing some of the hurt in Bruce even if he never let the omega in him out again. He’d had two chances now to be a good omega—that was plenty enough.

Then Dick came back. There was Cass. And Stephanie, who insisted on spending his money and eating his food. And then—and then Jason.

But Jason wasn’t a pup anymore, he wasn’t Bruce’s pup. His milk and honey puppy scent had turned to something sharp and angry and alpha that clawed at Bruce’s throat whenever he was around him, but he supposed he preferred it to the rotten, bitter scent of dead puppy. Even though Jason didn’t let him get close enough to scent, he was happy.

Even though Dick didn’t come to him to be scented, or Cass, or Tim, it was fine.

Really, it was.

Especially when a miracle appeared.

Damian.

Talia had lied. She’d induced an early labor, tore Damian out of him, and let him believe he’d lost his pup, that he was a bad omega. Although, Bruce was a bad omega. He shouldn’t have believed Talia, should have known that she would do something like that. He should have sought her out, demanded to see the corpse of his pup, done—done something.

Damian didn’t call him mama like Jason had once done. He called him “Father.” Like Bruce hadn’t carried him for seven months, like Bruce hadn’t mourned and screamed and cried for him. But—

It was fine. He had his puppy. Even though he didn’t believe in scenting like Talia. Even though he refused to cuddle up to him and let out rumbly little puppy purrs.