#zeta!reader

It wasn’t supposed to be an intervention.

But this was the Batcave, and nothing happened by accident.

Dick had barely made it three steps past the Zeta-jet’s landing pad when he was met by a wall of quiet, watchful silence.

Jason leaned against the railing, arms crossed.

Tim sat on the lower console steps, typing—but his eyes were locked on Dick, not the screen.

Damian was perched above, like a hawk waiting to pounce.

And Bruce… Bruce stood at the center of them all, unreadable, jaw tight.

“Long patrol?” Bruce asked, voice even.

Dick exhaled through his nose and dropped his gloves on the nearest workstation. “Something like that.”

“Funny,” Jason said. “Because we’ve been covering your sectors for four nights straight.”

Tim added, “You missed three intel briefings, skipped the GCPD meeting, and haven’t checked in with Babs once.”

Damian didn’t say a word, but his nostrils flared slightly—and he gave the faintest growl under his breath.

Dick didn’t need a mirror to know what they smelled.

He still carried her scent.

Warmth. Hearth. Forest wind and something not Alpha, not Beta, not Omega—but something other, something soft and ancient and wrapped around him like a claim.

The scent of her hands against his skin. Her wrist brushing behind his ear. Children tugging at his jacket. Nesting wool clinging to his neck.

Jason’s voice broke the tension. “You smell like you’ve got a pack of your own.”

Tim looked up. “Like you’ve bonded.”

Dick’s jaw flexed. “I haven’t.”

“No?” Bruce’s voice was calm, but sharp. “Then explain the shift in your scent. The way your cycles are syncing. The absence. The need.”

Dick tensed. He knew what they were smelling. What they were feeling, even if they didn’t have the words for it. Scent was truth. There was no hiding what the body already knew.

Damian’s voice was low and scathing. “You are the firstborn. The eldest. Your loyalty should be here.”

“I am loyal,” Dick snapped, sharper than intended.

“To what?” Jason shot back. “Because it’s starting to feel like it’s not us.”

The words hit harder than expected.

And for a moment, he didn’t answer.

He just… stood there. Breathing in his own scent—the scent that wasn’t just his anymore.

He could feel the ghost of her chirp in his ear. The soft press of her hand as she tucked a blanket around a child. The way the children clung to him like he belonged.

And he realized, quietly, painfully:

They were right.

He didn’t belong here anymore. Not fully.

But neither did he belong there. Not yet.

“…I’m figuring it out,” he finally said.

Bruce took a step forward, expression unreadable. “Then figure it out soon. Before you lose your place in both.”

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

It was late.

The sanctuary was quiet, dimly lit by the soft glow of night-lights strung along the halls. Most of the children had already curled into their nests, lulled to sleep by the gentle cadence of chirps and clicks. But she waited for him, as she always did—on the worn bench just inside the infirmary doors, a blanket folded in her lap.

He stepped in, slower than usual. Shoulders tight. Jaw set.

Her head tilted the moment she caught his scent.

Not the familiar warmth he usually carried from the city, nor the sharper undertone of rain and rooftops. This scent was conflicted. Coated in anxiety. Regret. Guilt.

She didn’t ask—not with words.

Instead, she opened the blanket in silent invitation.

Dick sank down beside her, his eyes tired. “They knew.”

A soft click from her throat.

“My scent,” he explained, rubbing the back of his neck. “They noticed. Asked questions. Said I was—different. Like I’d bonded.” He let out a humorless breath. “Jason said I smelled like I had my own pack.”

She watched him, still and quiet, the way only a Zeta could be—reading his breath, the shift of his muscles, the invisible weight he carried.

“I told them I hadn’t,” he said. “But… it didn’t feel true. Not really.”

A long pause.

Then, gently, she reached up and brushed her fingertips behind his ear—pressing lightly over his scent gland.

Not marking. Not claiming.

Just… acknowledging.

His throat bobbed, and he leaned into the touch without thinking.

She chirped once, soft and low. A sound meant for reassurance, the same one she used with frightened pups.

I see you. I know. You’re not alone.

Dick closed his eyes.

“…I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “But being here—it feels like breathing. Like I’m me again.”

Another pause.

She chirped again, a little firmer this time, and touched her own wrist to his.

A silent answer.

You are.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

They found him the next morning.

Two little ones crept into the shared common room while he was sitting on the edge of the low couch, elbows on his knees, still dressed in last night’s armor. He hadn’t gone back to the city. Hadn’t wanted to.

The smallest pup—Nia—climbed onto the couch beside him without a word and pressed her cheek to his side.

He blinked. “Hey, kiddo—”

She clicked softly, a tiny broken rhythm that didn’t need translation. Her nose wrinkled.

“You smell sad,” she said, and nestled closer.

Before he could respond, another child crawled up behind him and gently touched the scent gland at his wrist.

Then another reached for his shoulder.

Little hands. Little chirps.

He hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t told them anything.

But they knew. Pack knew.

Instinctively, they surrounded him—not to demand answers, but to offer comfort in the way only pups could: warmth, closeness, scent.

He found himself laughing, just a little, as they climbed over him like determined barnacles.

“Alright,” he whispered, pulling them close. “Okay. I get it. I’m yours too.”

From across the room, she stood quietly in the doorway, arms folded. Watching. Her scent pulsed in soft waves of approval.

Not claiming him. Not asking for anything.

Just… waiting for him to know it for himself.

And finally, he did.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

It started with a blanket.

Not one of the infirmary’s standard-issue emergency throws, but a thick, navy blue one from his apartment. He’d brought it back after a patrol, tucked it under his arm like it was nothing. No one commented—not even her.

He folded it at the edge of one of the storage rooms they weren’t using yet. Cleared out the crates. Dragged in a small mattress. Then he added a pillow. Another blanket. A hoodie he didn’t wear anymore.

It was instinctual—quiet, unspoken. The way he rearranged the space to feel safe. To feel like home.

By the end of the week, he’d surrounded the mattress with soft, scent-heavy items—some his, some hers. One of the children had even slipped their own stuffed animal into the nest: a battered, one-eyed bear with matted fur and a flower-patterned bowtie.

He didn’t question it.

He just left it there.

It was Nia who found him fluffing the edges.

She watched him in silence from the doorway, her little hands curled around the frame. Her nose twitched.

“…Are you making a nest?” she asked, curious, not accusatory.

Dick paused. Caught.

“…Yeah,” he admitted softly. “I guess I am.”

Her eyes lit up.

“Can we make one too?”

By afternoon, he’d been conscripted by five of the younger kids to help them build nests of their own. The playroom was a mess of blankets, pillows, old clothing, and the occasional stuffed toy. He didn’t mind. He showed them how to layer warmth first, then softness. How to surround it with things that smelled like comfort. Like home.

“Your nest is your safe place,” he told them, gently nudging a pillow into a tighter curl. “It’s not just where you sleep. It’s where your pack can find you when things are too loud. Too big.”

The children chirped to each other in soft echoes, weaving their own little sounds into the nest as they worked. She watched from the hallway again, heart swelling with something tender and raw. Watching him teach them the language of belonging.

When he caught her gaze, he smiled.

Not a polite one.

A real one.

An ours one.

And in the quiet between them, something settled.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

It was late. The halls were quiet, the children long since tucked into their nests, soft clicks and breathing the only sounds in the stillness.

Dick moved through the infirmary with practiced ease, barefoot, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows. Patrol had ended hours ago, but he hadn’t gone home.

He hadn’t wanted to.

He never did anymore.

He paused by the laundry line, where freshly washed clothes were still pinned to dry. His hand hovered over a few pieces absently before his fingers brushed cotton—soft, familiar. One of her cardigans. The pale green one she always wore when tending to the smaller children, frayed at the cuffs, still faintly smelling like her and chamomile.

He didn’t think.

He just took it.

Back in the small room he’d claimed for himself, the nest was still warm from the last time the children had piled into it that afternoon. A half-colored page was tucked between pillows. One of the kids’ toy dinosaurs had lost its tail and now lived as a nest guardian, toothy and vigilant.

Dick held the cardigan for a long moment. Ran his thumb along the sleeve.

He could still hear her voice in his mind—soft clicks, low hums, the way she calmed even the most restless pup. How she made even him feel steady, even when nothing else did.

He pulled the cardigan close. Tucked it carefully into the edge of his nest, just near the place where he always rested his head.

Her scent settled into the fabric like a balm. Chamomile and warmth and something hers.

He curled beside it without realizing he was seeking comfort.

And for the first time in a long while, sleep came easily.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The argument had started like all of them did: someone accusing, someone deflecting, someone walking away.

This time, Dick didn’t walk.

“You haven’t been on patrol in weeks,” Jason snapped, arms crossed over his chest. “You disappear for days and come back smelling like someone else’s territory, someone else’s pack—”

“I have a pack,” Dick said.

The words stopped the room cold.

Tim blinked. Damian froze mid-step. Barbara went still behind the computer, lips parting slightly. Even Bruce looked shaken, as if those words meant more than anyone wanted to admit.

“You what?” Damian finally bit out, his voice a mixture of betrayal and disbelief.

“I said, I have a pack,” Dick repeated, quieter now. Not a defense. Not an excuse. Just the truth.

“I didn’t mean to keep it from you,” he continued, “but I didn’t know how to explain it. It wasn’t a decision. It just… happened. I didn’t go looking for it.”

“Who are they?” Barbara asked carefully. Her voice was steady, but her eyes were sharp. Searching.

“They’re civilians. Mostly. The kids—” Dick hesitated, breath catching. “There are children. Pups. Hurt ones. Scared ones. She takes care of them. And I—”

He looked down at his hands, as though trying to reconcile the blood on them with the softness he’d found elsewhere.

“I help. I bring them things. I teach them. I protect them.”

“You love them,” Tim said quietly.

Dick met his eyes.

“Yes.”

There it was.

Raw. Honest. Unapologetic.

“I love them,” he said again. “I love her.”

Silence.

It was Damian who broke it this time, his jaw tight, throat working as if the words scraped his pride just to say them.

“…And they love you back?”

Dick’s smile was soft and sure. “They chose me. Every day.”

Jason cursed under his breath and turned away, but didn’t leave. Barbara leaned back slowly, her expression unreadable. Tim sat heavily on the arm of the couch, like he was letting it sink in.

Bruce… didn’t speak. But his shoulders sagged just slightly. Not in disappointment.

In relief.

Because maybe—for the first time in a long while—his son wasn’t just surviving.

He was safe.

He was home.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Jason didn’t knock.

He just showed up.

Boots crunching gravel, helmet tucked under one arm, tension radiating off him like heat. The building was tucked behind a crumbling fence, half-hidden in a forgotten part of the city. He might’ve missed it entirely if he didn’t have Dick’s scent memorized.

The moment he stepped inside, everything hit him at once.

Warmth. Scent. Sound.

Pup-laughter. Someone humming. The faint scent of chamomile, citrus, and—

Pack.

A bond not his.

A sharp click echoed from the hallway—low, cautious. Protective.

Jason turned, hand twitching toward the gun he wasn’t going to draw.

She stood there.

Barefoot. Calm. Head tilted just slightly, studying him not like a threat… but like a puzzle. Her scent was steady, grounding, but there was an edge to it—a warning, more instinct than posture.

“Jason Todd,” she said, voice low but sure. “I was wondering when one of you would come sniffing around.”

Jason blinked.

“…You’re the Zeta.”

“And you’re the one who carries ghosts behind your eyes,” she said simply, tone not cruel, but not soft either. She didn’t flinch under his stare. “Do you always glare at the people your brother loves?”

Jason frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mm,” she hummed. “You came looking for something. Dick? Or proof?”

Jason didn’t answer.

A small body barreled into her leg then—one of the pups, maybe five or six, wild curls and grubby fingers. He clung to her skirt and peeked up at Jason with big eyes.

“He’s mad,” the child whispered.

She knelt and brushed his cheek gently. “No, sweetling. He’s just loud inside his head.”

Jason stared. Then, softer: “You always talk like that?”

She glanced back, the barest ghost of a smile on her lips. “Only when it matters.”

Another child scampered in and darted up to Jason before he could step back. “Are you Nightwing’s brother?”

Jason looked down. The kid’s nose scrunched up. “You smell weird.”

He huffed. “You’re not wrong.”

“Come on,” she said, standing again. “You came all this way. You may as well see the nest.”

Jason followed, silent, as she led him deeper into the home—through warm halls, soft blankets, scattered toys. He saw Dick’s touch everywhere: hand-drawn star charts, patched-up furniture, a hoodie slung over a chair, clearly loved by more than one small body.

She opened the door to a side room, where a nest had been constructed—huge, layered, clearly meant for more than one person. Jason’s eyes caught on a soft green cardigan near the center.

Something hers.

The scent made sense now.

“You should stay for dinner,” she said, not looking at him. “The pups keep asking if Nightwing’s brothers are real.”

“…They think I’m a story?”

She finally turned back to him, eyes steady.

“No. They think you’re important to him.”

Jason swallowed.

“Yeah. Alright,” he muttered. “I’ll stay. But I’m not washing dishes.”

She laughed—genuine and bright—and for a moment, the heavy thing in Jason’s chest shifted. Not gone. But lighter.

Maybe this place wasn’t what he expected.

Maybe… it was better.

Jason lingered near the archway, pretending to admire a faded painting tacked to the wall. The Zeta had disappeared into the kitchen, her voice drifting back in soft pulses, like the tide—calling names, gently redirecting the chaos of dinner prep. Pups skittered by with toy blasters and mismatched socks. One of them stopped to offer Jason a sticky crayon. He took it with a gruff nod.

And then—

The front door creaked open.

No announcement. No dramatic entrance.

Just the whisper of boots on worn floorboards.

Jason turned his head.

Dick stepped inside, brushing off the light mist clinging to his jacket. His hair was damp, eyes tired, shoulders loose in that way they only ever were when he wasn’t pretending to be fine. A paper bag was tucked under one arm. Something homemade peeked out—a bright blue scarf with shaky embroidery.

He didn’t see Jason yet.

But someone else did.

The smallest pup squealed. “Nightwing!!”

The moment shattered into joy.

Suddenly, Dick had arms full of children—tiny bodies flung at him from every direction, laughter erupting as he staggered back, barely catching them all.

“I brought marshmallows this time,” he said, grinning like an idiot as he held up the bag. “No tiny riot over hot cocoa tonight, alright?”

“You forgot last time!” a curly-haired girl accused, jabbing a finger at him.

“Did not,” Dick said, mock wounded. “You just beat me home.”

Jason watched, frozen, as more pups crowded around. Not because they were told to. Not because he brought gifts.

Because they missed him.

And then she entered.

The Zeta.

She didn’t run to him like the pups did. She didn’t need to.

Dick turned the second she stepped into the room—drawn to her like gravity. The way his smile softened, the way she tilted her head, already reading him. Her eyes swept over him, cataloging the tension in his shoulders, the faint circles beneath his eyes.

“You didn’t sleep again,” she said quietly.

“I did,” he lied.

“Mm,” she hummed, stepping closer. “Liar.”

He ducked his head. She reached up and, without hesitation, rubbed her wrist gently along the curve of his neck—just where shoulder met collarbone.

A slow, soft scenting.

Intimate. Instinctive.

Dick breathed in like he needed it more than air.

He returned the gesture a second later—behind her ear, slow and reverent. One of the older pups casually turned away, already used to the quiet rituals that bound their makeshift family together.

Jason couldn’t move.

He’d seen Dick broken, angry, laughing, grieving, barely alive.

He’d never seen him belonging like this.

The pups were climbing him again, dragging him toward the main room where pillows had been flung into a sloppy nest. Dick laughed, letting them cling, ruffling hair and whispering things Jason couldn’t hear—but the Zeta did. She was still watching him, gaze half-lidded, protective and affectionate all at once.

She didn’t look surprised to see Dick like this.

She looked home.

And it hit Jason like a gut punch:

They didn’t just love Dick.

They trusted him.

Not the mask. Not the title.

Him.

Amid the laughter and the scramble of little feet and warm voices, Dick’s eyes suddenly flicked to the shadow near the doorway.

Jason.

He was still there—leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching everything with that unreadable expression.

Dick’s smile faltered.

His body stiffened in a way that wasn’t just surprise. It was guarded—a flicker of old instincts rising to the surface.

For a heartbeat, the room’s warmth seemed to cool around him.

She noticed immediately.

Without breaking her calm rhythm, she stepped closer, sliding her hand lightly along his forearm—the soft, familiar press of her wrist where her scent glands lay.

Her voice was quiet but sure, a steady pulse beneath the noise.

“He’s family,” she said softly, eyes locking with his.

Dick exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing.

She tilted her head, smiling a little—something small and private, meant only for him.

“Let him watch,” she said. “Let him see.”

Her presence was like a balm, grounding him. The scent she left behind—earthy and warm—wrapped around his senses and quieted the old fears.

Dick’s gaze flickered back to Jason, softer this time.

He stepped forward, a little less tense.

Jason gave the slightest nod, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

The room filled again with the easy noise of children’s laughter and murmured greetings.

And in that moment, Dick knew:

He wasn’t alone.

Not here.

Not anymore.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The room was dim—just the low glow of a single lamp, casting long shadows against the cracked concrete walls of the old training room.

Jason leaned against the far wall, arms folded, his usual edge softened by weariness.

Dick sat on the bench, fingers drumming lightly on his knees, eyes fixed somewhere just past Jason.

After a long pause, Jason broke the silence.

“So… you really have a pack now,” he said, voice rough but quieter than usual.

Dick nodded slowly. “Yeah. I do.”

Jason’s eyes flicked away, as if the words were heavier than he expected.

“I thought… maybe you were just running,” Jason admitted. “From us. From everything here.”

Dick looked up, meeting his brother’s gaze. “I’m not running.”

“I know that now,” Jason said. “But it’s hard to watch you disappear. It felt like you were shutting us out.”

“I didn’t want to hurt anyone,” Dick said. “Especially not you.”

Jason snorted softly, but there was no real humor in it. “You always think you have to carry everything alone.”

“That’s not how it works anymore,” Dick said, voice firm but gentle. “I’ve got people now. A family.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed, searching. “Do they know what it means? What this life demands?”

Dick smiled, a little tired but honest. “Yeah. And they’re not just accepting it—they’re embracing it. We take care of each other.”

Jason shook his head, almost in disbelief. “I don’t know if I get it. But… I want to.”

“You do,” Dick said simply. “You’re already part of it.”

Jason’s face twitched, maybe with a smile, maybe a wince.

“Don’t make it weird.”

Dick laughed quietly.

They sat in silence then, the kind that only brothers shared—a quiet truce, the kind that held more love than words ever could.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The heavy door creaked open, and the unmistakable silhouette stepped inside.

Bruce Wayne.

The room seemed to hush instantly, the usual warmth dimming just a fraction beneath his towering presence.

Jason had warned her about him—the stern gaze, the silent judgment—but she didn’t flinch.

She was calm, steady, like the eye of a storm.

She was folding laundry when Bruce entered.

Without looking up, she tucked a stray curl behind her ear and continued her task with quiet efficiency.

Bruce’s eyes scanned the room—the scattered toys, the nest piled with blankets, the children who froze mid-chirp and peered cautiously from behind her.

He cleared his throat.

“Dick’s been gone from patrols,” he said, voice low but firm. “He’s been unreachable at times.”

She nodded slowly, folding another shirt.

“We’re aware,” she replied softly.

Bruce’s gaze sharpened. “I wanted to see for myself what kind of… pack has taken him.”

She finally met his eyes.

“Pack isn’t always what you think, Mr. Wayne,” she said, voice steady as stone.

Bruce frowned slightly but said nothing.

She stood and walked toward him, unhurried, the subtle scent of chamomile and earth rising with her.

“This place isn’t just a shelter,” she continued. “It’s a home. For the children. For him.”

One of the pups stepped forward, holding a handmade drawing out shyly.

She smiled and gestured for Bruce to look.

He glanced down, expression softening despite himself.

Dick appeared then—quiet, barefoot, carrying a small bundle of firewood.

He froze when he saw Bruce.

The room tensed.

But she stepped between them without hesitation.

“Welcome,” she said simply.

Bruce’s lips twitched, almost a smile.

He nodded once.

Then, he looked to Dick.

“Thank you for showing me,” he said quietly.

Dick relaxed, and the children resumed their gentle play.

Bruce stayed longer than expected, observing not as a judge, but as a guardian seeing a new kind of family emerge.