It’s just as painful to watch his parents fall the second time as it was the first. 

Nightwing, hidden in the shadows of Haley’s Big Top, is holding on to the rigging at the very top of the tent. It takes every amount of control to stay where he is rather than let go of the rigging and drop through the air to save Mary and John Grayson from their awful fate. But, rather than look at the expensive timeband under his gauntlet, he instinctually knows changing the events of today would have an unpredictable backlash – one even the Flash couldn’t spin back, another Flashpoint, another break in the chain of events that made all of them who they would be.

And even if he stayed in the past to be able to see them, to hear them speak, to hide in the crowd in street clothes with strategic cotton candy covering his face, even if his eyes grew hot and wet hearing his mother laugh, watching his father put a hand on his younger self’s shoulder, remembering the last climb up his father’s back to hang off his shoulders. Even if it was all almost too much, they aren’t the reason he was thrown back in the past.

The moment he’s actually here to watch – is when a young boy comes to pose for a picture and sit on his lap before The Flying Grayson’s last performance with Haley’s Circus. The moment he meets Tim Drake for the first time.

And there in his street clothes, he sees the second their eyes connect, when little Timmy takes his hand, and the two of them gasp –the moment the connection happens.

It’s there in the way his younger self’s eyebrows furrow and little Timmy’s mouth drops open. The moment their soulbond reaches out and partially activates.

It makes sense neither of them would truly understand the implications, not as young as both of them are. Soulbonds aren’t supposed to activate until both parties are of age, but with the memory of his parents’ death so prominent in his memory, Dick Grayson had to know the truth.

So when Nightwing watches the tragedy, older and wiser and more intune with his heart, mind, and soul, he keeps his attention on tiny Tim Drake pushing a handkerchief in his younger self’s hand before he’s dragged away by his parents, leaving younger Dick alone to face the GCPD and the Batman that swooped in just a little too late.

He lingers until the Big Top is empty and the bodies of his parents are taken away, as his younger self goes with the people he’d known all his life up to that point, taken away to be coddled in a trailer, traumatized and grieving. He finally lets himself down from the top of the tent to the stands where people jumped to their feet, horrified, only an hour before. His steps silent in the aftermath along the bleachers until he picks up the discarded hand-drawn picture, crayon red and green and gold, the picture little Timmy had drawn to give him after the show.

He folds it carefully along the seams, slides it in a hidden compartment of his suit for safe keeping.

The vigilante takes one last, longing look around, and finally taps the timeband under his gauntlet, ready but then again, not ready, to return home.

**

Rather than go back to his apartment, he immediately goes to his safehouse in the warehouse sector of the Haven.

The false-front shipping container beats out Jay Bird’s fake porn store any day of the week.

Once inside, he activates the secondary floor and the elevator silently slides down, down, down into a subterranean basement. The three levels have everything a capeless crime fighter would need in a city as twisted as the Haven, but Nightwing bypasses the kitchen, bedrooms, gym, lab, and meeting room for the second level containment area.

The special palm reader, face scan, password encoded lock finally recognizes him and the lead-lined double doors slide open.

Since he’s aware how capable Tim Drake is and always has been, he’d made sure to lock him in a room without vents, lights, or any other avenues he could use to escape.

The lights outside the room kick on, pointed at the teenage boy sitting with his back against the wall, cradling his injured side even with his wrists restrained to a hook embedded in the cement floor.

Nightwing gently pulls the drawing from his suit and unfolds it delicately, like it’s something priceless, before showing it to the boy on the floor.

Tim doesn’t even look at him, still huddling in the corner of the room.

“I had to go back and see for myself,” is the explanation before Dick Grayson pulls off the domino, to look at his actual soulmate with bare face and earnest eyes.

Tim doesn’t respond, doesn’t turn, doesn’t move.

“I’m going to get a shower and make us some noodles. If you promise not to attack, I’ll let you out, then we can eat, we can talk about it. We can talk about…everything, okay? We’ll work it all out.”

Tim’s shoulders hunched up, his face turned away.

“You have to talk to me at some point. You can’t just keep being angry at me, Tim.” Gently, he rises up,  moves around the containment unit to be in Tim’s sightline.

Something mumbled that Dick strains to hear, leans closer to the enclosure. “C’mon, you can talk to me. I’m here, aren’t I?”

And only his instincts as a vigilante keeps him from jumping when Tim snaps.

The younger crime fighter leaps as far as his restrained wrists would let him, his eyes blazing with anger, jaw tight.

“Talk?! You want to talk?! After everything you’ve done?” Tim’s yelling and Dick stands to take his anger all at once.

“I know it’s disappointing,” Dick starts softly.

“How many people did you flirt with undercover while your soulmate limped home every night carrying your name?” Tim’s snarl is ferocious, his teeth white in the dimness of the holding cell. How many people did you fuck while I was waiting for you to recognize me?”

Dick blinks back at him, stunned, his chest starting to ache.

“How many nights did I wear your insignia while B and Alfred let me go broken and bleeding to an empty house because I knew, I knew, someday you’d realize who I am to you.”

“Timmy,” and Dick gasps in a painful breath, the soft link between them tremulous at best.

“How many people put their hands on you when you’re mine, Dick? How many of them stare at you when you were made for me?” The sharp snap, the restraints breaking free so Tim can slam his fists into the reinforced plexiglass. “I’ve known since that day. I’ve always known! I had to watch you with Kory and Babs and Wally! Not to even mention everyone out of the life you’ve been with!”

“Tim, I-I never…I didn’t think I had –” “And I had to watch you, Dick. I had to watch you with all of them. You never hesitated. You never thought of your soulmate, out there that needed you.”

And it strikes him in a place he doesn’t recognize. It might be the emotions from Tim, it might be shame when he didn’t really do anything wrong.

“But, it’s fine,” Tim leans up, blood on the plexiglass where his knuckles tore under the strain. “It’s going to be fine because now I’m old enough for the bond to take and you know who I am.”

Calming, Tim expertly picks the lock on the restraints.

“Timmy, we-we’re going to talk about all of this okay? Soulbonds are…a lot. And, you’ve barely dated. I want to make sure you don’t regret this, you know?”

The soft sound of the restraints falling covers up the sleight of hand when Tim produces a small tablet from somewhere and presses a button. The doors to the containment room lock down and the lights flicker off, a red emergency light in the corner casting a gruesome hue over the plexiglass wall.

Seconds later, smoke is filling the room while the holding cell is on a completely different HVAC line.

“Tim!” Dick frantically goes for the rebreather as the knockout gas hits him in the face, but it’s–

–gone.

The new criminals in town are on the down low killing off the minor gangs or pulling everyone on the wrong side of the law under their evil empire.

The Bats are all hands on deck to find every lead they can on the baddies taking over their city. Any criminal they catch won’t say a word, even to the Bat himself. No amount of threatening, dangling off rooftops, knuckle-cracking beat-downs will make anyone talk. Oracle even put word around town that the Batman is willing to put in a good word with the GCPD for anyone that would roll over on the new crime syndicate in town.

Matches met with some contacts in the local Goonion, tried to get some in with the new heat in town. All they have is whispers, nothing solid to give them a lead.

The body count keeps going up, and the Bats are all sleep-deprived, stressed, and snappish.

Alfred is the one to finally put his foot down. He sends Master Bruce out of town to check on Batman Incorporated, Master Damian out to hunt down his Nobody friend, Mistress Cassandra back to Hong Kong, Master Luke to hunt down some former thugs that had long moved on to Capitol City, Mistress Stephanie to work with Mistress Barbara to shift through digital evidence, and Master Jason off to look for his team to work a case out of town.

With only Master Dick and Master Tim, the household winds down, and he sends the two of them off to patrol the city. They may run down the sparse leads, but a slight respite from this case may prove to be what everyone in the family may need.

But when the night takes a turn, Nightwing and Red Robin find themselves running after someone in a creepy looking owl mask.

The absolute maze they’ve stumbled into does not at all bode well for an easy night in Gotham.

Time passes and the water from the fountain looks enticing for some reason.

N snags Red’s arm tightly, pulling him away from almost sticking a hand into the strange-looking water. “Don’t,” N warns in a growl, pulling the tiring Red Robin around by the wrist.

More than once, they’ve caught sight of more masks in the peripheral.

“We’re being drugged somehow,” Red Robin stands with his back to N’s, woozy and starting to recognize why it’s harder to think, hard to figure a way out. It’s too late but he slaps the rebreather over his nose and mouth. “Put yours on! There might be something in the air.”

N’s back is tense against his, face turned, not following the order. “Don’t worry, Red. We’re getting out of here.”

“You finally lured one of them here. Excellent work!”

The creeps in the masks line a hidden balcony above them in some weird ta-da, bad guys! moment. The next step is usually the monologue that ironically gives them plenty of time to make a plan.

Welp, sometimes it doesn’t pay to be wrong.

“That will be enough of this run-around,” the center mask squawks, “it’s time to reveal our little secret weapon.” 

The lean-in doesn’t bode well, and Red taps a finger on N’s gauntlet.

“Time to do your duty, Talon.”

Red looks for whoever this ass hat is talking about, expecting the next big bad to come out from the shadows.

“You said not him,” Nightwing calls out. “You said he would be safe.”

“What?” Red spins, a hand over his face when he realizes whatever is in the air is hitting him harder, even with the rebreather. “Big Wing?”

“Oh, come now,” lead mask guy waves a hand, “none of them can go free, now can they?”

“You said,” Nightwing growls again.

“Well,” another mask leans over the balcony, “we lied. Do what you were made to do, Talon! Kill him, right here, right now.”

“Talon?” Red Robin takes a shaky step away from Nightwing’s tense shoulder, brain slowly putting together what the hell he heard.

But something, something shifts and Red Robin fumbles at his utility belt for some kind of antidote along with the portable bo that would probably be welcome right about now.

But even as he’s reaching, flipping the staff out to full-length, Nightwing, the vigilante he’s fought beside, bled beside, cried on, carried home, been carried by, seen the worst atrocities imaginable with, his mentor and friend and even his former Batman, someone he thought he knew better than he knew himself —

— makes an inhuman noise and lunges into the air.

Red Robin yells as the screams start and N is tearing through the masks, more feral than Red has ever seen him before. It’s terrifying enough to take the strength from his knees and he’s sinking down onto the tile floor of the maze, dizzy as blood arcs into the shadows and the screams gradually die down.

Through hazy vision on the verge of unconsciousness, he sees N land it back down, dripping black blood. In both hands, wickedly curved blades instead of his usual escrima sticks, face painted sickeningly with death.

The whiteouts on the domino are up and Dick’s eyes are black, not-not blue.

(Anymore.)

“I’m sorry you had to see that, Timmy,” is gentle with each step closer he takes, and the terror at those footsteps, blood on those familiar boots, slides down Tim’s spine, and he can’t even move to try and get away.

“No…Not-not you. Dick…not you.”

“Yeah, it was me all along, Timmy.” And he’s crouching down so he can flip the whiteouts up on Tim’s mask, can bend down so he’s looking directly in Tim’s fading gaze. “I hated it. Everything they did, everything they made me do. I hated all of it…but, they said you would be safe if I followed orders.”

There’s blood on the fingerstripes. The knives slide in hidden side panels of the Nightwing suit, places Tim’s never seen or noticed before.

“You’ve always been mine, Timmy. They promised I could have you when it was all over and Gotham was back under their control.” And the edge to Dick’s tone, the residual anger in the back of his mouth, ready to spill out. “I only had to kill the others, but you? I would get to keep you. Just like we’ve always been. You never would have known differently if they had just kept their promise.”

“Dick…don’t hurt…please, don’t hurt…”

But gravity is tossed around and Dick lifts him effortlessly, suit and all. “Ssshhh, ssshhh, it’s okay. It’s okay now. We’re leaving.” 

Being held up like this, being carried away from this insane maze, from this night straight out of his nightmares, being helpless to get away, to fight back, and Red Robin can’t even look away from those black, black eyes.

“I’m going to take you somewhere safe, somewhere we can be together, okay? I’ll make sure you’re safe, and then I’m going to go for the rest of them. It won’t be hard, Timmy, I promise. They’ll pay for trying to hurt you. I might have to make sure the others don’t interfere, but as long as we’re together, none of them matter, okay?”

And in a terrifying turn of events, Dick’s grip shifts, bringing him closer, bringing them face-to-face. “I’ve always wanted to be with you. Not like this, but, in the end, beggars can’t be choosers. And I know I can make you happy, right? Without the others, you won’t have to be Red Robin and I won’t have to be Nightwing. We can’t just be us. Won’t that be nice?”

And Tim doesn’t hear anything else Dick might say, passing out cold in the Talon’s embrace. He doesn’t hear the shot of the grapple, or know he’s going to wake up tied to a bed in an unfamiliar apartment, with Dick Grayson, former Robin, former Nightwing, cleaned of blood and waiting —

When he tries to get down with a little detecting, his team has a bad habit of not leaving him the fuck alone. Kon hovers while he’s gathering evidence, Bart pretty much runs all over it, Cassie never wears gloves and touches everything. Raven and Gar leave it to him because they know all about the Robins. Even Miguel has a bad habit of tainting evidence just by leaning over while he’s eating something and getting crumbs or sauce in the samples.

So, little by little, Red has been trying to get his team on board with good detective practices.

Case in point: he’s got Kon with him tonight, a fake boyfriend to take in front of Gotham’s elite so they can hopefully dig up some dirt and have tasty hors d'oeuvres at the same time.

The hair stands up on the back of his neck several times in the first hour, his inner vigilante sense kicking in because he knows someone was watching him.

He leans into Kon, the arm around his back tightening as he leans closer to breath against Kon’s ear. “Pick up anything?”

Kon pushes his glasses up while leaning down to nuzzle at Tim’s ear. “A few blank spots, nothing substantial.”

“There shouldn’t be any lead down here.”

“Your office another story, Mr. CEO?”

“You know it. Keep your guard up. Some of these debutants are ruthless.”

“Glad I have you to lead me through this, Red.”

The two of them make rounds with Kon playing the sweet bumbling college student dating successful CEO Tim Drake, and the pressure of being watched follows them.

It gets more weird as the night wears on. 

Tim’s favorite finger foods come out on the next round, none of which were on the menus he approved two weeks ago. The TV screens around the ballroom with scrolling photos of Wayne Enterprises friends and family switch to just pictures of the CEO in his office, in R&D, doing paperwork, standing up to present at a board meeting. Cans of grape Zesti could be found on the beverage tables. An unsuspecting tablet sitting close to Tim’s hip just appears, catching their eye when a short code appears for just a moment and is gone. The perfect puzzle for a detective.

Tim finally gets the message and sweeps the tablet up, makes some excuses, and leaves Kon in the hallway while he slips into his office.

It takes about five minutes to unlock the tablet, longer than he thought it would, but still.

Tim sighs gently, waiting for something fucked up to pop up on the screen, a video from Ra’s or the General, hell, even Lonnie at this juncture.

(The criminals obsessed with him really should say something about his style of crime fighting, but Tim isn’t even going to focus on that now.)

Instead, the tables flashes with his own insignia and Tim gasps—

Because he can’t move.

Whatever hypnotic suggestion was programmed into the tablet is effective when he doesn’t have the domino with whiteout or the suit. He can’t move, talk, or yell, his office is enmeshed in lead, and Kon wouldn’t know any better.

Everything makes sense when the gloved hand sliding over the back of his neck pauses, squeezes tight.

Fucking Ra’s.

“You’ve been very, very bad, Mr. Drake,” warm breath against his ear. Everything in Tim freezes, gets cold, when he realizes who actually sprung the trap.

The hand moves down his back, down his spine, over the nice suit coat, grips at his hip.

“Bringing the clone?” Renegade pulls Tim’s hips back into the front of his body. “You wanted to get my attention that badly, did you?”

Tim can’t even swallow the acrid taste in his mouth as Renegade’s mouth brushes against his neck, tightens the grip on his hips.

“I know what you were trying to do,” the villain chuckles lightly against skin, sending chills down his spine. “Bring your little boyfriend out in society, maybe catch a criminal tonight, hm?”

Those hands move, slide around the front of Tim’s body, touch him with breathy moans. “Too bad, I’m the one that caught you instead.”

One hand cups him between the legs, the other slides up his chest.

“Did you like my gifts? I made sure you had all your favorites tonight.”

The gloved hand grips his chin, turns his face to meet the whiteouts, “I’ve got them all at home waiting for you, my little Robin.” And Renegade smiles, wide and white, pressing the gentlest of kisses to the frozen CEO’s mouth. “Don’t worry, we’ll make sure you never go anywhere alone again.”

When Superboy finally gets enough waiting outside for Red Rob to figure out the tablet, he pushes the door to the office open, ready to throw off the disguise and do a little punch-smack-grab rather than investigate-research-review—

—the office is completely empty.

**

And it’s like taking a full breath after gasping for so long.

The Gotham air is the same (“Welcome Home,” the city seems to say), but after everything, after the struggle to find B, to fight Ra’s and his worst enemies, to take out the League enough to stay on the trail, to keep Wayne Enterprises in the proverbial family (even if that isn’t him, not anymore, maybe hadn’t ever been), he’d tried to send his mentor right back to Gotham. Only a simple “things changed,” to explain the new suit, the lack of oversight, the lack of a team, of a safety net. How he knew everything about WE, about international criminals, how ee different now. 

He let himself have one night, just one, a cheap motel with two beds where he sat up all night and just – watched. Bruce slept deeper than Tim can ever remember, not even a twitch until 6am.

What he expects is to report as much as possible. What he doesn’t expect is the ensuing argument–

“You aren’t staying here. I don’t care who Robin is now.” B isn’t even going up the walkway of the plane Red very thoughtfully brought especially to get him back to Gotham ASAP.

“I. Bruce, look–”

“I’m not going without you, Tim. That’s final.”

“I already told you I’m an emancipated minor, right? You aren’t responsible for me anymore.”

“Sure. That means I’m absolutely not leaving you now.”

And it had been so long since he found himself thrown over B’s shoulder like he was still that Robin, that he couldn’t bring himself to fight it.

He’ll never know if months of sleep debt hit him in that plane ride, or if B slipped him something, but either is pretty valid.

Waking up in his former room in the Manor is not the Good Morning, Red he was hoping for.

The room was cleaned of everything him over a year ago when he was stripped of the tunic. He’s disoriented after getting sleep, actual sleep, that it takes long moments to process the room, the bed spread, the curtains, the replacements (ironic, isn’t it?) on the shelves, on the walls, in the niches where he used to hide.

Something like hysteria bubbles up at the back of his throat, close enough to the surface he has to slap a hand over his mouth to keep it all in.

(And the last time he lost control of himself, he’d broken everything in this room. Smashed priceless artifacts and art, tore all of it to the ground, tore himself up in small pieces, scattered in the carpet, so lost in his anger and grief and betrayal.)

“Master Tim?”

By the sound of it, it isn’t the first time Alfred called for him.

His eyes go to the window, already a foot on the floor.

“I wouldn’t try it if I were you, young man,” is audible and still utterly patient.

(Insanely, Tim wonders where the cameras are before his sense kicks in because, really, it’s just Alfred being Alfred.)

“I’m coming in, Master Tim.” And, it’s for everyone’s best interest Alfred is holding a tray with coffee when the door opens and his normal expression softens.

**

Dick is on him the second Alfred opens the door, even daring the butler’s wrath.

“I owe you an apology. Tim, can we talk?”

“No. No, I don’t want an apology, I don’t want to talk. You should be with Damian and Bruce, not with me.”

The cup of coffee gives him enough energy to stalk around the room for things he needs – phone, wallet, utility belt, you know, the necessities.

But Dick is right on his heels the whole time, not letting up on the whole panicky, need to get out vibe.

“Now that I know Bruce is back, we will absolutely have time to talk about everything, believe me, but no, Tim. Right now, I really need to be with you.”

“Nope, sorry. Your Robin is another castle.” 

He makes it to the top of the stairs, but Dick literally body checks him, knocking them both into the room just by the landing.

“Stop that. I know, I know it was hard losing the R, Tim–”

He literally spins his hips to throw Dick off of him, sad when the current Batman rebounds like a boss and lands it to block the door.

“–but I! It wasn’t supposed to be that way, I swear. Before you took off, I had another plan, okay?”

“What makes you think,” Tim’s on his feet, staring at Dick through his too-long hair, copper in the back of his mouth that isn’t blood for once, “I care about any of that a year later?”

“You do care,” Dick hasn’t moved from his stance in front of the door. “It’s been years and I still care how B did it to me with Jason.”

Tim’s spine snaps straight.

“Give me a chance to make it up to you, to really apologize.” Dick begs, those blue, blue eyes so stupidly sincere.

**

Tim never imagined this is what an apology would look like.

“It’s only until B and Dami bond,” the very different B in the same suit soothes as they stand on the roof of the Wallstone apartments. “But, we can have some fun in the meantime, right?”

And it’s hard, knowing Dick kept his last suit that was the red, gold, and green from his best days, before his life went to shit. That Dick hoarded it like a treasure for this moment is too much to process when they’re going to fire grapples and storm the city.

Tim hums, his elbows feeling the breeze, his hair ruffling, his heart beating hard against the familiar tunic that somehow feels a little too tight now.

The gloved hand grips his bicep, turns him to look at the cowl. “I’m not asking you to forgive everything with this,” the current B soothes in a voice that does not match the outfit. “But, just for tonight, I want you to try and trust me, okay? Do you think you can do that, Robin?”

And as much as he wants to let his wobbly knees lose their strength, to sink down on the rooftop he’s grown up on, to sob out two years worth of pain, to let all the grief and fear and loss and I can never go back finally break free, looking up and knowing it was Dick being the mask, Dick giving him this chance, Dick trying to apologize, Dick desperate to get him back, he can’t say no.

Instead, he takes a small step, a minute turn to put them face-to-face in this new, strange dynamic.

“I guess,” and his voice is thick in his throat, difficult to get past the lump, “we’ll have to find out whether or not you’ll really catch me, won’t we?”

Jason Todd almost runs right inta his back when Dickie-boy stops inna middle of the fucking sidewalk. They’re in the daytime usual, hanging out ‘cause they both need ta visit some Omega stores here onna nice side a’ the business district. 

Dickie’s been whining fer some new nesting supplies, and Jason has a preference when it comes ta scents, ‘specially when he starts ta go down.

(He ain’t gonna never admit the musk he finds smells close ta their big ole’ Pack Alpha, what still has problems comin’ back sometimes. Seems like Timmy knows why Jay’s heat safe house smells th’ way it do.)

So’s both a’ ‘em went ‘round ta a few stores and came out with some nice supplements for their upcoming lay-ins.

“Oi, Goldie,” it’s impossible to tell if Jay is irritable because they had to deal with some assholes onna way or if it’s just pre-Heat startin’ ta set in. Either way, he grips the older Robin by the elbow to get a lil’ get ta steppin’ motion.

“You’re really serious about this?” Is all Jay catches as Dickie gets with the fucking program an’ starts walking again, but the scent suddenly rollin’ offa him is a whole buncha angry. Seems like any asshole Alphas what think they might wanna piece’ll probably think twice.

“Oh, I’m going to handle it. Just as soon as I get back, I’m going to make a plan,” and the edge of growl, out here inna open makes it allll seem just a lil’ more important ta Jay’s immediate attention. “He’s not up for anyone. He’s ours, Gar. Do me a favor and get the word out. I’m going to make sure it’s extremely clear, but some notice will probably make it less scandalous.”

A pause an’ the Rolls they took from B is almost in view.

“This from you? You can’t even buy some shame, Beasty, so don’t lecture me on model behavior here. Apparently, some things need to be made absolutely clear in the community.”

Jay hits the clicker and the trunk rises, listening with half an ear as he tosses his bags in and Dick’s spine is rod straight as he does the same. Five minutes ago, ya couldn’t pry the new blankets from ‘im with a crowbar.

Jay takes a second to lean against the Rolls, lights a cigarette to smoke before they get in (only ‘case Alfie don’t like the smell a’ smoke onna leather, an’ yeah, yeah Jay can’t tell ‘im fuck that). His eyes, flecked with green, scan over his Pack Omega, nearly vibratin’ outta his skin with whatever’s comin’ from Titan’s Tower.

“Anyway, I appreciate the heads-up. We’ll handle it, Gar.” And Dick abruptly ends the call, eyes all narrow n’ lookin’ like he’s ready ta fight the whole lotta Rogue Gallery fuck-nuts.

Sue ‘im. Dickie looks hot when he’s all pissy. Just is what it is.

“Sounds like we godda problem in paradise, yeah?” He maneuvers around Dick ta get t’ the driver’s side first. He don’t want an angry Dickie trying ta drive ‘em back ta the Manor – no thanks.

“We do, but I’m going to pull a Pack O on this one, Jay Bird. Once we’ve had a discussion, I’m going to bring him back in time for our Heats. After that, we’re all going to have a nice understanding, don’t worry.”

And oh no, he ain’t worried no how. Might be a tad hopeful Dickie can finally talk some sense inta their reluctant Alpha. It’s ‘bout time he came back ta Gotham fer good.

**

When Red Robin gets the alert Nightwing is out of the city (this close to his Heat??), his entire brain pan process immediately shuts down.

He’s already in the re-made BatWing, flying stealth back to a temporary Perch he made in Gotham –

(not that he plans to keep it long-term, it’s more a landing pad for when the Bats called for him, which has been more frequent in the last three months than the last three years)

– when one of his always-running algorithms pinged with someone in the Haven live streaming a pretty righteous fight.

Between Nightwing and Deathstroke of all people.

Every instinct he has as an Alpha, even the new, more powerful instincts he attributes to being a stand-in Pack Alpha helping Omegas through their potentially fatal Heats, seems to come to the fore. The vigilante known as Red Robin takes a back seat to the Alpha male immediately changing course, twenty minutes out from the fight, and fixing his attention on the footage he managed to capture before the live went off the air.

He watches every move Deathstroke makes close to Nightwing, looks intensely at the back-and-forth banter, checks his own utility belt absently to make sure he is absolutely stocked.

In the twenty minutes it takes for the plane to hit the right airspace, he’s watched the footage no less than twenty times, paced the length of the Wing, and is ready to rip out Slade’s throat with his teeth.

It takes less than a few minutes for the vigilante brain to come up with a plan, and the Alpha male jumps from the open door just as nightfall hits.

**

“Oh, now Dick,” Slade is pacing his way around a span of garage doors in a small storage facility, “you forgot your suppressants, didn’t you?” He uses the tip of his sword to drag across the tin, absolutely giving himself away.

If there’s anything Slade Wilson enjoys, it’s a challenge.

“It’s understandable, you know,” he calls conversationally, “with how close you are, maybe you need an Alpha? That’s why you picked a fight me tonight, isn’t it?”

The soft sound of reinforced boots skims over metal and Slade smiles behind the mask.

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” and his voice drops, lowers to an Alpha croon. “You don’t have to do all this to get my attention. I would be happy to take care of you.”

A swish on his right side.

“Of course, I know how much O’s love the chase. I do, too. But…you aren’t fooling anyone. I can smell you. You know that, don’t you?”

Something closer to the ground, a zaaf moving closer. And oh, this is going to be much easier than he thought.

“I have a place in the city, perfect for you. We can play as much as you want, hm? My knot can be all yours. Come out, and let Alpha help you.”

The night turns in his favor when Nightwing appears over the top of the storage building, already red in the face under his mask, sweat starting to slide down his neck.

“That’s a good Omega. You know what a good Alpha smells like, don’t you?” Slade’s mask tilts up to look at him, a stunning specimen in that skin-tight suit, smelling like sin and sex, and something wild, almost feral.

 “I do,” Nightwing purrs from his perch over Slade’s head. “I know what a really good Alpha smells like.” Nightwing jerks his chin over, “when he’s not on suppressants, it smells like him.”

And when Slade turns, Red Robin is there to bring out every fighting style he’s ever learned in a brutal hand-to-hand brawl.

It takes him no time to disarm Slade with barely a flick of his wrist to send the belt of ammunition flying and the sword blocked by the bo, spinning it to lift the hilt right out of Slade’s hand. The furious lotus palm from Shiva, knuckle-break from Clyde, full leg extensions and speed from fighting King Snake, all of it puts Slade down to a knee.

The laugh is really a nail in his coffin. Slade just doesn’t know it yet.

“Really, kid? Ra’s players don’t hold a candle to me.” With all his enhancements, Slade rises to full height, cracks his neck and folds his arms over his chest. “I don’t play by Bat rules. I will kill you without losing a wink of sleep, little bird.”

“Only one crazy assassin gets to call me that,” Red Robin comes back, bo over both shoulders, hands hanging from it lazily.

“Aw, give Shiva my love next time you see her. Well, if you ever see her again.”

“She’s got more important assholes to worry about.”

“This is cute. You fight crime with your little team like this? Banter away and hope it’s distracting enough to get a few good punches in?”

“Hate to say it,” Red Robin closes one hand and opens it again, this time with a small remote control, “but it worked on you.”

The button activates and the loose lasso he’d tied around Slade during the fast and furious hand-to-hand, tightens immediately. The legendary assassin doesn’t even have a second to yell before he’s violently yanked through the air and slammed into several buildings by the speeding BatWing above.

Eminent threat handled, Red turns to the sweating vigilante still lounging overhead, and even through the quick-time suppressants he’d swallowed the minute he watched the footage couldn’t keep his scent from spiking.

He catches Nightwing visibly react to his Alpha aura, his scent, especially now that the deep growl that exists so far down comes further and further to the surface, the growl that tells him mine, mine, mine. No one else can have them, my Pack, my Omegas, my ma–

That is never going to happen, his less feral side cuts into that thought, forces him to back down, his hackles to slowly lower.

“T-Timmy,” N slumps over on the roof and Red Robin is leaping up before he thinks twice. He already has one arm over his shoulder, ready to lift the Omega.

“We need to get you out of here. I’ll come back for Slade–”

When N pulls a surprise on him and throws Red down, straddling his hips, a snarl as he leans down to put them face-to-face.

“Oh, we’re going to get out of here, but not until you tell me exactly what you said to the Power Company, Timmy.” “Wh-what? What I said to who now?”

And N has no problem shoving his hips down over the reinforced cup to grind right against the Alpha, make sure his scent is close to Timmy’s face.

“Didn’t you tell them you’re just a Service Alpha? Just helping out?” And N’s voice gets low, dangerous, his grip on Red’s wrist just this side of painful. “Like we don’t mean anything to you?”

“Dick–”

“That’s all we are? Not your Pack? Everything you’ve done with us, to us, was just being a good Alpha? Helping out Omegas in need?”

“I…Dick, B asked me to take care of you, no one ever said…Years, Dick, I spent years–”

“Do you even know how long we were waiting for you?” N is right in his face, snarling and angry, his scent spiking with hurt and betrayal. “Every year, Tim. Every year until you were old enough to come back and be our Alpha. Do you even know what Jay and I went through without an Alpha for our Heats unless we had to? What Cass and Alfred went through as our Betas? How hard B tried to let you make your own decisions but year after year he just kept hoping?”

At a loss, his brain pan torn between Tim Drake, Red Robin, and Alpha desperate to be Pack Alpha. He draws in a breath of Dick’s scent and just croons. The deep noise reverberates in his chest, something he can never remember making before tonight.

The sound hits Nightwing in the right place to weaken his grip and the lock of his elbows, arms no longer straining. It gives Red Robin the opportunity to shift his grip and lurch up to catch Dick around the mid-back, hold him close while the noise, the croon, makes every tense muscle in the Omega simply relax.

An Alpha’s croon is meant to mean safety and warmth and love and Pack, to mean, come to me, I’ll take care of you.

And it’s one of his Omegas that lies limply in his arms, hot face buried in his neck. Red reaches up quickly to pull off the scent-block patch so Dick can nuzzle close to his scent gland.

Another click of the remote and the plane heads back to them, an unconscious, dangling assassin hanging from the rope. A flick of the wrist and a whirlybird cuts through the rope holding Slade in the air, the sadly short drop accentuated with a whump. The sound of sirens signals it’s time for them to get ghost–

–and try to get back to the heat-safe room in Gotham before Dick goes fully under.

He pulls Dick’s power thighs around his hips and stands with his Omega clinging to him, fires a grapple up at the BatWing. The line reels them in quickly, up through the floor and into the cockpit.

Red manages to get the seat back far enough he doesn’t have to relinquish his hold, just keeps up the croon and strokes a hand down Dick’s back. He takes a wrist and wrestles off gloves and gauntlets, pulls at the sleeve until the scent glad in Dick’s wrist is bare. He lifts the wrist to the other side of his neck and rubs their scent glands together, chest vibrating with the combination of their scents.

“There,” breathed in his Omega’s ear, “this means I’m your Alpha, doesn’t it?”

Blearily, Dick manages to raise his head just enough to stare into the whiteouts. “Not yet,” he slurs out, completely lax with the powerful croon, “but we’ll work on it. Whole Pack…gonna make you ours.”

Tim hums and adjusts Dick on his lap to be able to fire the secondary set of thrusters, “I will absolutely look forward to it. For now, Alpha is going to find Jay and take care of you both. Luckily I brought you new nesting blankets.”