Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"He's so tiny." 

Jason can't help but marvel at the tiny, alien looking thing Michael's sweaty arms. He can't help but marvel how Michael looks as if he ran through the nine circles of hell and back, sweaty and red and looking absolutely exhausted, and still he's beaming serenely down at the infant. 

They're all- minus the Twins and Duke, who opted to stay and watch them and "can wait to see the baby after they're, you know, clean from all the blood and fluids"- crowded into the private hospital room, all excited to finally see the arrival of their newest Pack member. It's exhilarating. It's terrifying. 

It's something, Jason notes with a wry smile, remembering how nervous Dad was, that when he heard that Michael and the baby were fine, he collapsed onto the floor in a burst of relieved tears. Mother and Tim had to take over talking to the doctor as he and Cass helped Dad up. 

But they were here. Looking at sweaty Michael and the tiny, alien-baby in his arms. 

"He's perfect," Michael murmurs. "He's beautiful and magical and perfect. My little angel football." 

Jason turns to Tim, raising an eyebrow. 

"After-birth Morphine," Tim confirms, and Jason snorts. 

"He's tiny," Mother notes, doing her pinchy-blank-face, which usually means she's trying to be supportive, but she really thinks she doesn't need to be here.

But she's here, and will be here until someone says otherwise. 

Honestly, he's glad Mother's here. As Head Omega, he's supposed to be the second one to cradle the infant, right after Michael and Jason is... apprehensive. What if he holds the alien wrong? What if the baby cries or like, suddenly dies because Jason didn't support his neck or head right or- 

A thin hand settles between his shoulders, and he instinctively relaxes as Tim leans closer.

"You'll do fine, Head Omega," Tim murmurs into his ear, warm and confident and brother. "You'll be fine."

Jason shakes his head. Of course; he's taken the mandatory children courses, and all of them took a class in infant handling- even Mother. He's dam of Carrie and Terry- and not only that, but he's been Tim's older brother and nurture since the little Alpha wandered into the same alley Jason was in all those years ago. And Tim, for all his confidence and capability, sometimes has the self preservation skills of a rabid raccoon. He can do this. 

Nevertheless, he glances at Tim and Mother, and feels relieved at their subtle nods. 

He steps forward, smiling at Michael, who beams at him, a little lopsided. 

"Look at him," He's tearing up, but his scent screams joy, joy, joy. "Look at this beauty, Head Omega."

"He's wonderful," Jason agrees, and carefully takes the babe into his arms.

The babe does a snuffle, kicking, but curls close to his chest, still asleep even through all the noise. 

Carefully, delicately, he brushes his wrist against the tiny neck, holding his breath. 

The babe sighs, but does not wail or cry, and oh- Jason can feel the bloom of another bond, a tiny, bright bond, shouting so deep in his heart: I'm alive, I'm alive and I want to be loved

You are, he thinks as he purrs, smiling down at the lovely, beautiful boy. You are our Pack now. 

The babe slumbers on, but the bond is still bright in Jason's chest as he gives back the child to Michael. He feels elated and shaky, happy and nervous. The baby is so small. 

"What's his name?" He asks after the baby is settled back into his dam's arms, as Dad curls behind Michael and grins helplessly at the bundle. 

"Ripple Theodore Drake," Dad adds, eyes soft and wet as he strokes a downy cheek.

Michael stares dreamily down at the infant. "We can call him Rip for short." 

"Absolutely not," Mother blurts out, and Jason had to snort at the sheer 'no' on Mother's face. Janet Drake was many things, but no one ever accused her of being too "passive." (He's positive she's never been passive a day in her life. Her body would implode or something like that.)

"We are not calling him Ripple, for fuck's sake, that's not a name you give to a human, Jack, we've been over this." 

Something more familiar and annoyed crosses over Dad's face. "It's a nice name, Janet, it's gender neutral and-"

"It's a dog's name," Janet interrupts plaintively. "It's- no, not even a dog's name. You don't name a child Ripple. That's like calling someone Blossom or River, or some weird plant. We're not the Jorgensens, Jack. We have standards."

"Theodore is a good name, a classy name," Michael defends, but Mother waves her hand. 

"Theodore is a good name, Michael, and I can understand the sentiment, that's not what's the problem." She glares at Dad. Dad glares back, and if it was a different situation, Jason would be concerned, but Mother has a point about the name. 

Mother crosses her arms, staring Dad down. 

"Jackson Charles Drake," Mother starts.

The babe gives out a wail.

"It was a good name," Jack grumbles as they eventually traipse back to the Chevy Suburban- a necessary purchase after Cass came into the picture, sleek and black and able to fit nearly all of them in one vehicle. 

"It was a shit name," Janet gives him an unimpressed look as he slides into the driver's side, watching with another careful eye as Michael and Jason slide in, both on each side of the car seat, looking down on Rip with matching looks of fondness. 

Jason had nothing to worry about, she thinks. He's Head Omega Drake- of course he would love the pup. 

She gives Jack a smug look as they pull out of the hospital, heading back to the comforts of Nest and Pack and Home. 

"Ripley," she says, flicking imaginary lint off her pants. "Is a better suited name for a Drake."

Chapter Text

His memory only goes back so far. 

Carrie says she can remember a comforting Alpha paw before TheLeader, but all Terry can remember is TheLeader, before HeadPack came and took them and gave them names and Names. 

Before, it was TrashPathetic, TrashisBad, TrashisBugUnderFoot. Before, it was claws and bleeding and nails and Nails. It was groveling for breathing, for thinking, it was Punishment for being Trash. Before, there was only the scent of rageragePainfearrage, nothing calming or soothing, only pain and piss and blood and rage, of TheLeader cackling when one of them humiliated themselves, before being shoved into tiny dark rooms smelling only of dust and their fear. 

Before, it was BlackRed, not Terry and Carrie. It was BlackRed against TheLeader, against the world. BlackRed could curl into each other for safety, for comfort in their little dark rooms. BlackRed was two bodies, hunched against TheLeader, licking their wounds. 

Before, BlackRed had only themselves, and then they were brought to HeadPack. 

HeadPack, and Dam. 

He pushes open the door, taking a moment to breathe in the smells of calmingcomfortingNest, taking a running leap and burrowing into the soft, cool blankets. 

"Hi Terry," comes Dam's warm voice, and when he pops his head up, Dam is reading a book, not looking, but also looking wildly amused. 

He frowns. "Rip was being loud again." 

Because he was. Rip screamed and cried and cried and it bounced and echoed in the halls and it was so loud, and Carrie ran off to hide outside, and he ran to Dam because neither of them knew whelps could be that loud. 

The last one they saw was so quiet as it laid limp in the crib, in the nursery of TheLeader's domain. Carrie, then as Red, would peek in and marvel at the barely moving creature, and he got it, to a point. Then one day, there was no whelp or crib or nursery. Just another room with a desk and chair and notouchComputer. 

Rip wasn't like that whelp. Rip cried and gurgled and apparently "blew out his diaper" on a fairly regular basis. Rip smelled so stinky that at first he was concerned that there was something wrong with him, but Dam said that this was normal, and Dam was smart about things like this.

"He's so loud," he repeats. "Why does he have to act like that?" 

Dam just hums and pats against his side, still reading. "He's a baby, Terry, he's going to act like that." 

Terry wrinkles his nose, but still he clambers next to Dam. 

He settles, burrowing against Dam's side, inhaling the calmingcomfortclean scent of Dam, the way Dam's personal sheets feel against his skin, and the only sounds being the breathing of Dam, the wind in the open window, and the sounds of outside. 

It's quiet; after all, this is Dam's personal Nest, not like the pack den downstairs; this one, Dam has to give permission for Pack Head or Alpha or any of the others to come inside. Even Damian has to ask permission, and he's a pup- a big one though. Only Carrie and he have unlimited access to Dam's Nest, permission to enter and burrow their bodies underneath calm smelling sheets, with or without Dam in the room. Only they get to have full access to Dam's warm fingers carding through hair and running gentle palms down the back of necks, covering them with his nurturing scent.  

He feels something relax inside him. 

For a moment, he's not TerryneedsThink or TerrydontBite. He is a pup, next to his Dam.

"Just," he mumbles, the scents and soothing fingers easing out his nerves. "Rip is getting attention." 

"Babies need attention, to grow," Dam calmly replies. "They're helpless and need the Pack to help them until they're ready." 

But it's not fair, Terry wants to shout. Because- Because Terry didn't have Pack, didn't have anyone but JunkRedCarrie, and RedCarrie needed him for protect, for help most of the time. 

He feels a surge of something, well up inside him. Rip has MichaelOmega, and JackPack, and Alpha, and AlphaSister and HeadPack, and DukePack, and even DamianPack. Rip can't get Dam or RedCarrie too. He growls, feeling the something rise, tears flowing down his cheeks. 

 "Dam was ours first." 

And it was true. After all, Dam was the first one to open up their arms, to continue holding them, both him and Carrie before they were even Carrie-Terry, back when they were Junk-Trash, Red-Black, when RedJunkCarrie would lick their bleeding wounds and hum to sooth the jitters after a beating, when BlackTrashTerry would leap in front of handsfeethurt to protect his other own. For the longest time, they didn't have anyone but each other, as far as their memories would allow. For the longest time, they couldn't trust.

And then there was Dam. 

And Dam opened his arms. Dam held them even when they bit and hissed and pissed because hands had always meant danger. Dam scented them and groomed them, made their food for them, keeping them close to his body and snarling anyone else away, even HeadPack. Dam helped them see beyond TrashBlack and JunkRed, gave them names and different words and food. Dam read to them, sang to them, kept silent for them. Dam gave them the sensation of love, the feel of a Dam's purr against their shaking bodies and never, ever, demanded or forced submission. Dam gave them a life. 

Dam brought the light into the dark little room of his life, and for that, he would follow Dam to the grave.

He hears the shift of the blankets, which is why he only yelps when warm, but familiar arms wrap around him. 

"I have enough room in my heart for all," Dam murmurs, and that's not what Terry is saying, he thinks as the emotion wells in him, cause Dam is Head Omega, of course he can love everyone in the Pack, that's- 

"But you and Carrie are special, because you're my pups," Dam continues. "Ripley is Michael's and Jack's. You and Carrie are mine and my own, my little treasures, and I will always love you so much, my little treasure, remember that." 

And he feels- 

It's steady and warm and brightcalmingbright. It's the bond between him and Dam, and he knows there is no lie in Dam's words. 

"Now," Dam said, settling so that Terry is half lying on top of him, stroking his hands through his hair. "I believe it's time for a nap." 

Terry doesn't feel tired, but he surprises himself with a yawn, blinking as Dam chuckles. 

Well, whatever, he thinks as he closes his eyes and inhales Dam's calming scent, his steady heartbeat ringing in his ear. It doesn't matter that Rip is loud and sometimes really stinky, or that he didn't think he needed a nap, or that he doesn't really have memories of before, of only time of being TrashBlack. None of that matters in the end. He curls up against his Dam, feeling both of their breathes slow and shallow, slipping into sleep. 

He's Dam little treasure; for that, he'll gladly follow Dam beyond the grave. 

Chapter Text

"I've been told that you're the best." 

Talia does not gape. She does not let her bag slide off her shoulder in shock, or screech, or do any of the many things that one would assume when having assumed that a secure, discreet hotel room in the heart of Moldova was not, in fact, secure or discreet. She is an al Ghul. She has trained those impulses out of her 

She clicks her tongue, her only admission, and locks the door behind her without turning her back. 

"Granted, even your son admitted that apparently a woman by the name of Lady Shiva could potentially best you in a fight, but that she's infinitely more likely to betray me at a moment's notice," Janet Drake continues, looking supposedly enamoured with a rather ugly looking lamp. "My god, I haven't seen this type of Soviet lamp in such a good condition since my college years." 

"Anything of value?" She asks, settling her bag onto the chair, another ugly thing in this ugly room, but she wasn't here for pleasure, she was on business, and even though it was ugly, it was necessary, and originally, thought to be secure, and so she booked it, adding a hefty "tip" to make sure that her hotel room was secure and undisturbed. 

And look what that brought her, she thought sourly, glaring at the woman holding the lamp like it was something worth fascination. A mongrel in her room. 

“Absolutely not, unless you like sentiment,” the woman remarks, placing it back. “And lack of sentiment is why I sought you out. I want to learn how to fight.”

Talia raises a brow. “From our last meeting, you can handle yourself fine.” Granted, they were interrupted, but the woman was decent, though not anything worth standard- Talia's been against superheroes and demigoddesses. A random Gothamite was nothing. But for a supposed civilian, Janet Drake could hold her own.

And could recognize worth, Talia mulls, letting her eyes glance over the ease of her stance, the flex of the woman’s biceps. She wasn’t soft- yes, there was a bit of fat, but it was the healthy type, the living well type. And yet there was a sense of leanness, of hunger in the woman’s clear blue eyes, the edge of her jaw. A hint of simple, strong, aggression in the silhouette. She was dressed in a simple, nondescript button down and pants, and yet the way she held herself, as if she was dressed in finery. What an interesting woman.

Talia mentally bats that thought away. She must be more exhausted than she thought. 

The woman does not move. “I want to learn how to properly fight. You nearly killed me twice over; don’t try and be nice; my husband and his Omega are nice. You aren’t built for nice.”

It is exhaustion, she will blame later, for a comment- a innocuous comment- to make her temper flare up at the Beta. 

“Oh, you know what I’m built for, then?” She hisses, drawing up to her length, letting her eyes warn this mongrel what she’s truly dealing with- after all, Janet Drake is nothing more than a coyote against a tiger, a cockroach against a snake. She's interesting, but Talia could care less about being interesting in the face of disrespect. The al Ghuls have honorable blood, blood that most men and women would weep to be. She’s the Alpha of the Elite, the Shepherd for the Sheep. Janet Drake is a daughter of a whore, and a Beta. She willingly lets her husband bed another, an Omegan male nonetheless, and let bastards be sired and birth and live in her Pack. 

Janet stares back, matching her gaze. “Nice, is for the plebians, if you want more clarification,” she says, and bares her teeth. “And you’re far from that, Talia al Ghul.”

Talia scoffs, but goes to her bag, letting herself turn a bit away from the blond- if only she knows she can kill the woman easily if she tried anything, and not because there's a spark of- something when the blonde speaks her name. "What do you want?"

"Train me. Teach me. Show me how to fight, how to teach my heir, how to protect my Pack." Blue eyes catch hers. "Teach me how to go against Batman and survive." 

She's surprised- so much that she actually does let loose a bark of laughter. The Beta against her Beloved? Absurd. 

"You win against my Beloved?" She lets her mirth, the sheer ridiculousness of the situation show on her face. "Are you insane?" 

"I didn't say win, I say survive," the Beta retorts. "Train me how to stand up to the Bat; for my children. Train me to fight for my Pups." 

"Why?" She stands tall; Talia al Ghul does not waver for a woman. "Why should I care? Why should I even help you?" 

"Because you love your son," the blue eyes flash. "Because if you loved your Beloved more than your son, I wouldn't be here alone. I wouldn't be here at all. If you so desire your Beloved, Damian wouldn't be at my house, with my Omega, in my Pack."

Blue eyes meet green. 

"Because you hate that your Beloved made your Pup into cannon fodder for his inane Mission." 

And that. That. Curse that wretched, dreaded woman, curse her eyes and her tongue and her insight. She's right. She's right and curse her like Cassandra in front of Apollo, curse her like the prophets that spoke the truth, damn the consequences. Damn that woman; that cock-sure, correct woman. She's right, she's right, she's right: Talia hates it. Hates it like the humiliation of losing, the pain of a weapon, of lesser men, roaches, thinking she's weak. 

Damian is her son- her Pup. She held him against her breast, trained and nurtured and protected him for years, until she couldn't, so she sent him to his father because he's Batman, he's Bruce, he's her Beloved. She thought he would understand her meaning, sending their son to him. Understood that she still considers him Pack, that they have a Pup to raise and protect. 

Instead she's been getting word of an old mantle being reborn, a clownish idea rising up once again. Instead she sees a bright colorful target, whose movements are intimately familiar. Instead she sees images, videos, of her son being attacked every night, and her Beloved does nothing to prevent this. 

A new costume. A weapon. Even forbidding Damian from his world of vigilantism- nothing. He does nothing and so her Pup is shot and stabbed and gassed, unable to fight back, only defend, and she knows that the Bat is forcing her son to bend to his rules, his justice. Degrade Damian to be a fool. A distraction. A mark. 

Her son is this so-called Robin, and she despises that.  

She looks at this woman, this coyote who's willingly wandered into the tiger den, all to protect a Pup that isn't her own. Who's willing to injure her pride, her body, for the sake of a Pup. Talia's Pup. 

"I demand compliance," she states. "I won't lower my standards for you. This isn't some civilian course- I train only the best." Though, privately she admits, it has been a while- her father has chosen her for missions than training, preferring to keep his acolytes close to his own ideals. She's truly had only two students in the current past.  

A man seeking justice, a dark man, an honest man, a powerful man. And a little Pup that was just like him. 

Talia blinks, tilting her head slightly. Strangely, the woman mirrors her expression, cocking her head as well. 

"Damian said you don't really take students," Drake says lightly. Talia huffs, brushing away a strand of hair, noticing the way Drake's eyes follow her movement. 

"Most leave, as I can't stand their sniveling. Or they die," she shrugs, as it's a fact of life. She's Talia al Ghul- there's only been one person she would put her dignity, her soul, her patience, on the line. 

And it's that one person that this woman has claimed as part of her Pack. 

"I will be in contact with you to confirm the details," she straightens. "Do not contact me first. Do you have any other inane demands from me, Drake?" 

The woman hums. Irritation rises within her, but she tamps it down, waiting. 

"Very well," Drake says, finally, finally starts to leave, actually stopping and bowing, not too deep or shallow, a graceful movement of her muscles, hidden, shifting into appreciation, her hair falling across her shoulders as if the tresses themselves are showing gratitude at Talia's acquiesce. It's the first time Talia can smell her, the scent faint, but triggers in her mind. A faint scent of something earthy, something with a citrus tang. And another, deeper scent, reminding her of what she once smelled before when they first fought. 

Gratitude. Appreciation. Want.

She blinks and her gut flutters, and once again she tamps it down.

"I will be waiting for your call, teacher," and how curious, she speaks Mandarin, not Cantonese. The accent is off, but the inflections are impeccable. Talia does nothing but watch as Drake saunters out, casually strolling as if at some store in the upper gentrification of Gotham, and not in a random, dingy hotel in Moldova. 

She lets her shoulders unwind as the door closes behind that woman, going to turn on the very same lamp that woman was admiring, that coyote, that new student of hers. It doesn't look like much- it's a rather ugly lamp, too harsh yet plain, much like Drake- who thinks to fight Batman, how strange, how stupid- and why on earth-

Her fingers close around paper, and instinctively, she pulls out. 

Foolish, she chides in her brain, foolish. One would say it would be luck that didn't cause the slim manila envelope to be dangerous, or deadly. But somehow, Drake managed to slip it up there during their conversation, and she highly doubt Drake would attempt to murder her after her request. A contract perhaps. Paltry blackmail. 

It is neither. 

Inside is a tri-folded piece of paper, and a photo. The paper had weight, stable, reliable paper, folded over and kept closed by an old Greek stamp- one of her favorites, Goddess Hygeia, feeding a snake curled around a tree. 

And on the front, written in League writ, a bit slanted, slightly rushed title of Mother, as Damian's custom. 

She let her eyes glance at the photo, glossy and new. 

It's a candid- by someone who had an excellent eye for composite, and knew how to handle a camera, certainly- but it was the subject that captured her attention. 

It was Damian, out in a garden. He was leaning against a tree, the leaves' shadows creating patterns on his skin as he reads, his eyes downcast and focused on the book. Yet there's no tension in his shoulders, no strain in his jaw. He looks peaceful, content. 

Safe. 

"Train me to fight for my Pups." Drake had said.

Talia opens the letter.

Chapter Text

Twenty minutes. 

The clock ticks in the living room, a Metrodome, counting down his patience.

Jason isn't a patient man. One may assume that due to his dynamic, patience came to him easily- that one expects a Pack Omega to be brimming with patience, like a follower of Saint Monica. One expects the Pack Omega to be some plump, patient person, exuding domestic charm and matronly wisdom. 

One does not expect Jason Peter Drake. 

Patience never came easily to him. Never has and never will. Patience wasn't exactly a survival skill he'd learn, as patience meant another bruise, another cut, another chance of dying. You didn't need patience if you learned how to plan, and how to plan right. Strength, determination, and sheer ruthlessness kept you alive. 

Jack and Janet had smiled when he'd first admitted this, saying nothing but just scenting him, leaving behind twining scents of pride, pride, pride. 

Still, he waits for twenty minutes, reading his book as four pairs of eyes keep locked on him and not even saying anything. 

The bigger shits even managed to wrangle the twins into their stare-down. Oh, Jason had no hesitation about whose idea this was- this had Duke and Cass written all over. While Cass and Tim were still practically twins, Duke and Cass got along famously- usually roping the twins or even Damian into one of their shenanigans. 

Jason had no issue calling them "the bigger shits"- he loves them, they're his family, but they're still shits. They're the loving, asshole younger packmates who simultaneously treat him like the Head Omega and older brother at the same time. He'll fight gods and rip apart the universe for them, and in the second breath, knock sense into them when they act like idiots. 

He turns to look at the four. "Yes?"

"Tim's being a butt," Terry, ever blunt, replies. "Like a big, pooping one."

"Terry," Duke wrinkles his nose before his face smoothes out looking apologetic. "But yeah, he's right. Tim's in a mood and…" 

"He needs hush time!" Carrie, always wanting to be helpful, replies. "Or like, a nap and a cuddle, cause he looks gross." 

"You can tame him," Cass finishes. "He's making it unbearable to be around now. And make him take a shower." 

Jason gives his siblings (his, always his, his precious ones) a long, slow blink. 

He sighs. Long. Loud. He sighs and hems and haws and still they look at him, pleading. Little shits, he thinks, looking how all three make their eyes wider and more innocent- Carrie just does it naturally. But all of them, little shits with their Puppy-dog eyes and the pouting lips. 

He loves them so much. 

"Alright," he sighs, getting up. "I'll go find him." 

He's easy to find, Jason grants him that. 

Tim, as he learns, tends to gravitate towards certain areas depending on his mood. He reclines on the sofas in the living room when he's feeling lazy. He plays board games with Duke in the study, or spar with Cass outside by the eastern wing when he's feeling playful. Both Damian and Tim enjoy time together in the small "art room," close to Damian's own room, with Tim often showing Damian the art of film photography, or even Damian letting Tim admire some of the younger Alpha's sketches when he's either feeling creative or nostalgic, though sometimes just because Tim's feeling good. And of course, he can also be found spending hours in the garage tinkering and modifying his cars and bikes, his "girls," making them true one-of-a-kind beauties when he's in a good mood.

Though, when he's in a bad mood, he likes the quiet, out-of-the-way places. The gloomy, forgotten places. 

Perhaps it's a throwback to before Jason arrived- a time that Tim rarely spoke of, keeping the memories locked tight between his teeth. A time spent more with silence, and shadows, loneliness hanging in the air. 

He finds Tim in the attic, mindlessly scrolling through his phone, shoved in between boxes of holiday gear. They were right; Tim's hair is limp, oily, the beginnings of acne starting around his chin and jaw, his jawline darkened by a five-o-clock shadow, sure signs of the Alpha not taking care of himself- and probably not for a while. Tim's mood was usually the last thing to plummet when he was stressed. It was insidious like that- he would be fine and fine and rapidly, he wouldn't, pulling up walls and hiding himself in shadows, miring in his own misery. 

He stands in front of Tim and waits. 

“The twins?” Tim grunts, everything in his body, in his scent, screaming ignore me, ignore me. 

“And Cass and Duke,” Jason agrees. "Budge over." And Tim, grumpy, growling, glaring, scoots over, letting Jason wrap himself all around the brooding young man. 

"Do you wanna talk about it?" Jason feels Tim shake his head no. "Alright."

He feels Tim settle against him, curling his arms around Jason's body to practically melt against the Omega. 

"It's just." And Tim's voice was raspy, quiet. "It's been. Long. I don't want to." He quiets. Jason can read between the lines; he's been with Tim for so long, it's clear as day for him. "I don't want to go down yet." 

Please don't leave me behind. 

"Then we won't." Jason's words were immediate. "I'm not leaving you. Take all the time you need- I'll be right here." Tim cuddled himself tighter against Jason, shoving his face against the point where the Omega's neck and shoulder met. Jason merely hums, letting his fingers card through oily hair, soothing the shudders and silent sobs wracking the young Alpha's frame. 

That was fine. Jason wasn't a patient man- but for his family, for Tim, he could wait. 

Chapter Text

"Do I want a what?" 

"A Dynamic Ball. Do you want one." 

Jason stares at his Mother, uncomprehending as she continues to give him the same look. As if she asked something sensible, like passing a report or book, and not- that.

"Usually Dynamic Balls happen around thirteen to eighteen," Jason starts slowly. "I'm twenty-two." 

"That doesn't answer my question." 

"I've been known as Head Omega of our Pack for years." 

"This is a strange work around for a yes, Jason." 

"I didn't say that," he immediately responds. "I just want to know why before I give my answer." 

For he'd been asked once- around he was newly adopted, when Jack was slowly becoming Dad, yet Janet had already become Mother, and Tim was his stable, solid, pain-in-his-ass little brother. Jack had asked him once, off hand, if he wanted a Dynamic Ball. 

Jason had stared at the man, worrying his bottom lip, yet the man continued to look down at the piece of pottery, writing down the description in his logs, not even looking the least bit tense.

"If I say no?" He asks, curling around his novel, as if could shield away from Jack's potential wrath- for even though everyone said he was the Head Omega, there was a voice that kept muttering, what-if.

Jack had shrugged, but looked up, dark eyes open and earnest. "Then you don't have one," he said, "But you should have a celebration- it's something that needs to be celebrated. What would you want to do instead?" 

So they discussed and planned for a trip, a trip meant for Jason- to anywhere he wanted, wherever he wanted. Eventually, he settled on visiting DC. DC had the Library of Congress, and Pro-Omegan Reproductive Right Rallys, enough museums to please anyone in the Pack, and also live theater, and Shakespeare in a Park. He was even lucky enough to meet Wonder Woman when some villain tried to break up the Rally. 

Honestly, it was the best celebration he'd ever had. Even if Tim was such a fanboy and whipped out his autograph book for Wonder Woman to sign. And tried to wheedle Wonder Woman to take a photo with Jason and even let him wear her tiara.

Actually, it didn't matter, because she did sign the book, and she did let Jason wear her tiara and let them take a photo. The photo is right next to his nest, so he can see how proud and happy his family is, even if his grin looks a little maniac, due to being overjoyed about how he got to wear Wonder Woman's Tiara and stand right next to the demigoddess, which was fucking amazing. 

"You're thinking about Wonder Woman, again, aren't you."

"Maybe," he says, blinking out of his reverie to stare at Janet. "Wait, how-"

"I'm your Mother, Jason," she rolls her eyes. "Also, your scent is through the roof with endorphins, which only gets that way for several situations- the memory of meeting Wonder Woman is the most logical conclusion, as we're talking about you having a Dynamic Ball, which would have you thinking about our trip to DC-" 

"Fine, fine you caught me," he waves a hand, smirking at her bemused snort. "Though I am wondering what other ways you've mentioned." 

"When the Twins finally complete a milestone, when a pack member completes a challenge or milestone, or when Timothy builds you another blasted motorbike for you to run around town." 

He snorts at the irony- as if he didn't know how much she spent on custom modifications on her cars. "What about Cass and Duke? I could be thinking about them."

She gives him a flat look. "Cass and Duke are the reason why the Twins are in their outside den right now. Apparently they decided to subject Ripley and the Twins to...infant sensory videos," she grimaces. "Apparently they attempted some coconut video but that was "like drugs but worse" so now all three of them are watching cartoon clouds bouncing around in the living room. It's ridiculous." 

He notes that she doesn't say anything about the Twins hiding, and feels a twinge of relief- recovery isn't a straight forward path, and recovering something as traumatic as Theta training is a hard, near improbable journey. Terry and Carrie had several outside dens throughout the property, carved out small spaces lined with mud and leaves, rags from old clothing, spaces that were quiet and dark, with the only scent of earth and themselves, their preference when they got overloaded by the world. 

Then her words catch up. "Coconut video?" 

"Mm," she turns a page, back into her book. "Something like that."

"You mean Cocomelon? That's stuff is like crack," he leaps up. "Studies find that it can damage a developing brain, why on earth-"

"Jason, Michael already chewed them out for that," Mother sighs. "Really, who knew that pregnancy would actually cause the man to actually mature." 

She keeps talking, but there's a pit suddenly in his stomach, his blood rushing in his ears, and Jason swallows, his mouth feeling dry. 

Pregnancy. 

Ever since Rip was born, it feels as if that word has been following him around- he'd thought that after Rip's birth, all the attention and focus would be on Michael and Rip, but. 

He knows Janet, knows she's blunt as a fist to the solar plexus around the family, knows that she wouldn't lie to him, but. 

There's always a but, a maybe, ringing in the back of his mind. After all, it's tradition that an Omega has at least one Pup, one child for the pack. Not only that, but the Head Omega- it's almost a rule. He's seen his peers with rounded bellies, wearing the tell tale stained nursing shirt in and out of his courses. Even at his high school graduation, there were at least three Omega students in various states of pregnancy. Advertisements everywhere, hocking the best pills, lotions, panaceas that declare they're the best for getting pregnant. 

It chills him, to his core. 

He thought it was because he lived on the street, because of his childhood. Living in Crime Alley, being an Omega was a target, and being pregnant was a curse. He'd seen more Omegas die in birth than live. And even those that lived? 

No, Jason doesn't want to get pregnant. 

That doesn't mean he hates kids; when Terry and Carrie showed up, it was like something in him clicked, something that said 'mine.' He didn't mind helping Michael with taking care of Ripley, plus he volunteers at the library to read to children, sometimes, like a proper Omega.

But the thought of his womb growing fills his throat with bile. He likes kids, even babies- he likes (loves) the idea of a full pack, of kids running around, cuddle time, raising them to flourishing adults. He enjoys the idea. He wants that. 

He just doesn't want to get pregnant. 

"Jason." 

Mother is in front of him. She's silent, and his Head is in front of him. 

"Head," he acknowledges, his mind slowly struggling up from the mire he was in. Head gives a slow, awkward smile, one without teeth and fire- her attempt to be a gentling mother, a coddling mother. 

Mother is slowly stroking the sides of his head, not scenting him, not without his permission, but just slow and careful strokes, from temple to the base of his neck. He sighs, bowing forward to chase that nice feeling, letting himself rise from the spiral. 

"Are you alright?" 

"I am now," he confirms. 

"Good." Head sounds content, neutral, which even lessens the tension even further, letting himself lean against his Head. She, in his mind, has been more appropriate, more fitting as a Pack Head- leading, striving, protecting. Wary of the unknown, but ready to leap and fight for what is theirs. Nurturing, in that guiding way, than a motherly-henning attitude. Gruff, but warm, tones than a cloying syntax. Janet isn't really a typical mother, like the ones he's seen in other Packs- Janet lost that part of herself on the streets of Gotham, lost parts of herself just like he did. 

He wonders if that's why he finds himself appreciating Janet so much. Her acknowledgement of the underside. Her understanding. 

Her determination to fix it; not change Gotham, not "make it better" but just fix it. 

Update apartment complexes but still keep the structure, the look. Kicking out slumlords and make sure the rent is controlled, affordable. Hell, even fixing up the crumbling roadwork of Crime Alley. 

Do everything in her power to make it right, not-new. That's something that Wayne will never understand. 

He sighs, and continues to feel protected by his Pack Head. 

"It's almost time, isn't it?" And she speaks lightly, slowly, yet he groans, leaning back. If it wasn't for the fact that his brain had been whirring from thought to thought, emotion to emotion- her standing so close to him that she could easily smell the pre-Heat scent on him. 

"Yes, I think I accidentally mis-scheduled, so I'm due next week," he admits. Which is a bitch, because he hates it- hates having to reschedule things because of a mis-planned Heat. "I already let the college know I'll be out for the week- had to get a reassignment date for a test," he grimaces. 

"They didn't give you any trouble, did they?" She frowns. "Because Heat is a-"

"-A natural process, one that modern day Betas and Alphas should understand and adapt for, much like their forebears, rather than demanding the evolution process, and nature itself, to change on a dime as to maintain their own simple-minded, and plebeian views of what they call "civilized society," the absolute ingrates," I am aware Mother," Jason recites, smiling slightly at her responding sniff. "And they were fine. I'm more pissed about having to reschedule." 

She hums. "I should've guessed. The only time I've seen you go through so many emotions this quickly was when Petunia Howe tried to flirt by using underhanded insults with you during the Wayne's Christmas Gala when you were seventeen." 

He laughs. "God, I'd nearly forgotten that- it didn't help that she then face-planted right into the buffet table after giving me that atrocious pick up line, and then said I did it on purpose." 

"God," Janet rolls her eyes. "I remember that. The audacity of that whelp."

Jason snickers. "If it makes you feel any better, Tim and Cass had a blast with their reminder." He smirks. He remembers how Howe nearly flew out of his way at the next Gala, with Tim and Cass flocking his sides. He could never really get a straight answer from both of them, but the smiles they shared at the way Petunia Howe darted away were positively malicious. 

After all, unlike a Kane, or a Wayne, a Drake is dangerous. 

"No Dynamic Ball," Mother murmurs. "Understood."

"To be fair, I wasn't ever going to say yes," he responds. "Also, you never answered my question: why?"

Mother stills. And steps back. 

"We're working with Wayne Corporation on a business deal- more of a temporary partnership, honestly," she says. "It went fine, but in the end, Wayne let it "slip" that apparently he's in preparation for Damian's Dynamic Ball," Janet spits. 

Jason can piece together the rest. "And then he "innocently" asked about ours, right? Knowing that none of us had one, else he would've gotten an invitation." He can practically see it- the way Wayne would widen his eyes, relax his jaws, making himself look like an ingenue instead of the crusty old Alpha that he is- probably still in the boardroom, with the other partners milling about, watching, waiting for Mother to react. A good portion of them would be Alphas themselves- ones that didn't think "two Betas" should be running the business, already eager for Tim to step into a "proper" Alpha's role. 

"It was just- petty," she practically spits out the last word. "Petty, underhanded- all because the deal didn't went his way, but mine." She pauses. "Except."

"Except?" He blinks up at her. 

"You know my stance about those specific things," Janet looks off to the side. "However- I know that you…enjoy media where those specific situations are part of the plot, even dominant in the narrative. I may have pondered that you may enjoy those types of things, and perhaps, we influenced your decision at that time, as you were still settling into our pack." She's cracking her knuckles, one by one. "So I thought it would be best to suggest it again, now that the original variable that had potentially influenced your position is no longer there." 

He blinks, parsing together what she’s saying and- “Mother, no, I really don’t want a Dynamic Ball, I like the idea it represents, not- not the actual thing.” 

The actual thing would be tedious- Mother would be like a shark, gliding through the waters with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue, while Dad would play the affable “Jacky boy” and ignore the barely concealed barbs about his status and comments about Michael. Practically all of his family would stay for the mandated hour, maybe a little more, but otherwise would go and hide in the attic, or perhaps the garage in the far off area of their property, where Tim created a small gaming space in a corner. 

And Tim-

Tim would be plastered by his side the entire night, friendly and social while secretly miserable; society events were never his favorite, not by a long shot. He would stay, stay for the entire thing, growing more and more tense as the night went on, his "society mask" practically congealing into place, from trying to balance the horrors of being "societally friendly" and making sure to keep the dregs away from Jason, the ones trying to use Jason for a variety of reasons; for clout, for bragging rights around the clubhouse locker room or wherever rich dumb dandies go to congregate, all because they were rich and Alphas. At least one would try and use a Command on him, and then it would be Jason trying to settle the waters as his little brother would remind the fucker why one should never do that to the Drake Pack's Head Omega. 

And even worse, Wayne would probably come with Damian, and Jason would be forced to deal with idle chit-chat with Wayne, all the while resisting the urge to snatch Damian away from that bastard's heavy paw and never let him go. 

No, Jason doesn't want a Dynamic Ball. 

Janet blinks at him. 

"You seem surprised."

"Given your predilections towards gothic fiction, theater, and historical romance; yes," she admits. "And you have an entire bookcase filled with novels in the literary subgenre of 'novel of manners,' Jason." 

"I have other favorites as well," he snipes, before frowning, rubbing at his eyes. "Ah, hell." He wipes away the random surge of tears prickling his eyes. Blasted hormones. 

"The reason I like Dynamic Balls is the idea of it," he starts. "It's- in the stories, the protagonist is surrounded by their Pack, and the dialogue supports the idea that the protagonist is this, important focal of the pack, that they bring pride to the pack," Jason explains. "They're loved, treasured- and everyone knows it. That the person has a special place in the Pack. And yes, maybe if you asked me when I was younger, I would've said yes- but I don't need that now, Head," he smiles. "I know my worth, and my stance in this pack." 

She bends down, running her wrist once more, from his neck gland to his temple, covering him in the scent of love, the scent of pride, the scent of treasure-I-will-keep-close-to-my-heart.

"I should hope so, Jason. You," her eyes are blue, and clear, and just like Tim's. "Are so precious to me, Omega of my Pack. There is no one else worthy of being Piece-of-my-Heart, our Head Omega- no else I would want to stand by my side. The fact that Timothy found you, brought you to our Pack- every day," she hisses. "Every moment, I am filled with joy. I hope that you know this truth every day of your life, Head. " 

And oh, her voice is low and trembling; perhaps to another it would sound as if Pack Head was on the edge of anger, that the scent bright in the air was the precipice of cold rage- but he knew. He knew the scent to be fierce, possessive love, that like in his stories, he's one of her many treasures. He's the Drake Pack's Head Omega, the Heart of this wondrous, fierce pack. He doesn't need a Dynamic Ball to know that. 

She's affected by his scent, his pre-Heat hormones; but her words, her words and her scent. They speak to him. Connect to his heart more than a thousand balls or parties would ever do. The scent of- he smells something beyond possession, beyond love. 

You-own-part-of-my-soul, the scent seems to scream. Mine-own-part-of-my-heart. 

It's the same scent Tim spreads over him whenever he can; this pure, possessive, familial love; how could Jason even think that he isn't part of the pack, unworthy of his status? 

Tears are running down his face, a stream, really, as he curls around his Head and lets himself be cradled in her arms, surrounded by her I-will-burn-the-world-for-you scent, but he's in pre-Heat; hormones, and all. 

Screw Dynamic Balls and showcases; this is the best celebration of them all. 

"My baby," his Mother growls. "My precious, precious son." 

Chapter Text

Michael wakes up to a body slamming down on him. 

He knows this, knows this as well as the memories that jacknife into his brain- he knows the feeling on deadweight slamming against him, the scent of sweat and blood sharp in the air, he knows it, knows it like the feel of a suit, the adrenaline screaming in his veins during a battle, and god, oh god, Teddy-

But he also smells the scent of Jack, of the scent that says Drake-Home- along with, strangely, Janet's scent, as well- hears Jack’s quiet snores intermingling with Rip's quiet snuffles, and his mind muddles its way out of the past. Not completely, but enough. 

Enough for him to rise his head up, to squint at the woman spread eagle over both of his and Jack’s bodies, her grin bright and sharp even with-

“Jesus,” he shoots up, to fully stare at the absolute shiner on Janet's face, obvious even in the dim light. “What the hell happened to you?”

Janet chuckles, grinning her not-grin. “Training.” She stretches, highlighting the other bruises, scabs dotting her body, the drying sheen of sweat, the limpness of her hair. She looks as if she’d been through the wringer. She looks like she was in a brawl and lost. 

She looks like Barda, the thought muddles into his brain. Like Barda after a battle, still Fury-high, giggling and smiling innocently, covered with the blood of others- they, the rest of them, were bleeding and exhausted, but something about Apokoliptians apparently didn't feel pain, or like, got off to it or something, for even Scott, who would act aloof at first, would run after her eventually, eyes bright and alive, and later they would come back out, covered in each other scents and matching grins, satisfaction practically pouring out of them. 

Most times after a fight, he'd been glad that he'd survived. 

He watches as the woman rolls over, maneuvering herself until she’s between him and Jack. He hears Jack snort, the familiar grumbling murmurs of him starting to stir, before settling again, and Michael sighs, letting himself be man-handled into some half-chokehold, half-hug, embrace, with enough movement to allow himself to pat Janet’s head. 

“God, you’re soaked,” he grimaces, feeling her damp hair.

“That’s what training does,” Janet hums, moving once again to bury her face into his neck. “Works up a sweat.”

Michael brushes his cheek against her temple, thoughtless, friendly. You're completely crazy, he thinks with fondness. You would've loved Barda and Tora. I bet Bea would've gotten on your nerves, and you would've slapped the shit out of Guy if he tried anything. 

 “And the bruises?” he says instead. 

“Works up a tolerance.” 

“Of what?”

“Of having my ass kicked.” 

He hums, letting it lengthen into a low purr as he feels Janet sigh, practically melting into him.

It's strange; in front of the rest, the world, everyone sees Janet as the face she puts on- cold, aggressive, controlled. A woman knowledgeable of manners, status- "a bitch with an iron pole in her ass" Guy would've said. 

But in moments- in moments, small moments, hidden moments- she peels away the curtains and shows glimpses of someone who didn't keep a pole in her ass- rather kept it between clenched fists, ready to strike anyone who tried to fuck with her. 

Michael has met a lot of women, both in cape and civilian, who act like that; but Janet Lynn Drake takes the cake. 

It's bizarre, he muses to himself. If you had told him, years ago, that one day he’ll be a house Omega, an assistant to a multimillionaire businessman who moonlights as an archivist/archeologist, letting one of the most terrifying Betas he’d ever met lie on top of him and cuddle him, in Michael’s own bed, with the businessman/archivist/archeologist, who's his lover, who's also the husband of said terrifying Beta, and also the father of Michael’s child- well, he would’ve stopped you beforehand, since everything just sounded impossible, even to him. 

Teddy would’ve laughed. 

God. Teddy. 

Not Blue Beetle, not Theodore Kord- Ted. Teddy. The one that only few saw, Michael's Ted- Ted reclining on his Lay-z-boy, with a plate of nachos balancing on his stomach, watching a film or television show- Ted at the bar, six sheets to the wind as they bitch about Batman, about the Justice League- Ted, laughing, as they pull some dumb sort of heist, some scheme, running beside him- Ted, his back strong and warm in the heat of a battle, solid and sure as they take down foes together- Ted, on the day he said “I love you.”

Teddy, dying in his arms, the blood staining the suit a muddy color, cool and tacky to the touch. 

Michael grunts at the harsh press of a chin on his neck. “What’s wrong?” she demands. This close, it's obvious she can smell his grief, distant, but still present. Stronger, probably- always did when he thought about Teddy. Always more obvious. 

“Nothing,” he sighs, ears prickling as Jack finally rouses. It’s not a question where Tim gets his tendency to be a slow riser in the mornings- or where the young Alpha gets his coffee addiction. Michael has never met another man who could put down caffeine as easily as Jack Drake can. 

“Wasist?” Jack rolls over, starting to lie his head on Janet’s side before rearing back, disgust plain on his face. “What the hell?”

“I was training.”

“And you didn’t shower?”

“I’m tired.”

“You could’ve showered, Janet,” Jack growls, and maybe a different Time, Michael would’ve tried and mediate, except he knows that Janet and Jack are Just Like That. Maybe he also likes how Jack’s voice gets, not exactly Alpha, but the perfect amount of low and growling.

Also maybe Michael's a bit peeved as well; Janet does smell strongly of sweat, of blood and cock-sure Beta and fading aggression. It's not a bad smell per se- but it's not one he wants to have on his sheets. He'll have to wash them in the morning. 

“Probably,” Janet admits, and then immediately rolls over, wrapping her arms around Jack. 

Jack howls, flailing to get Janet off, but he’s sleep-slow, and Janet has the better reflexes, so it’s nothing for her to pin his arms, rubbing her head against his. “Janet! Geroff!” 

Janet cackles. “What? Can’t a wife enjoy the presence of her husband? You’re in legal matrimony with me, Jacky-boy, you have to be dutiful through sickness and health-”

“Duty nothing! You fucking reek! ” He growls, and they start to tussle, moving closer to the foot of the bed.

“Can’t handle the scent?” she taunts. 

“Janet you are covered in sweat and gunk- ” he gags as Janet hooks an arm around his head, shoving his face into her armpit. Janet laughs. 

Michael re-settles, wrapping the blankets around him and propping himself up on the pillows as he watches the two Betas wrestle, snapping and snarling almost like two wild Alphas. What a wild world, he muses, watching. What a wild time. 

Though. 

“Guys, please don’t wake-”

A thin wail breaks in the night. 

Jack, at least, scrambles out of bed to sooth Rip, knowing that he's messed up, giving Michael a quick apologetic glance; Janet just tries to lay her sweaty body on top of Michael's, more as a way to annoy Jack than out of affection. 

"No," he shoves her head away, glowering. "Go take a shower and actually get ice on that eye, otherwise you're just going to be cranky about it and- holy shit you're fucking ripped." His hand is on the front of her shoulder; he knows that Janet had some tone, but now- now there’s a solidness against his palm that he never felt before on her, a certainty without any give.

“I’ve increased how much I can dead-lift,” she preens. “Talia has noted that my grappling and hand-to-hand combat simulations are progressing very well."

She’s becoming stronger, he’s realizing. Not just that- she’s becoming vigilante-strong. It's the same weight he would feel if he'd laid a hand on Canary's shoulder. 

Why, he wants to ask, not the first time the thought has flitted through his mind. Why are you doing this, why do you want this?

Who are you doing this for?

"Why are you groping my wife's boob?" 

They both turn, see Jack cradling Rip, a brow raised high on his head. 

"First all, it's my body and I chose who and who can't grope me, Jack- don't frown at me, you know I'm right- second, if Michael was actually attempting to grope me, he wouldn't still have his hand intact, it would be broken in an instant."

"Rude," Michael yanks back his hand, stung. 

Janet just rolls her eyes. "Third- don't use the word 'boob;' it sounds so juvenile." 

"Boob," Jack immediately repeats, watching as Janet shudders, eyebrow giving a twitch. "Booby. Tatas. Titties. Hooters. Baps. Bazongas- "

"You," Janet starts as she gets off the bed. "Are an obnoxious ass. And I, am leaving. Good night, Michael." She stalks past, brushing purposely against Jack as she leaves, closing the door with an indignant 'click.' 

Only Janet, Michael thinks, chuckling to himself, could make a closing door sound indignant. 

Jack chuckles, sliding back into bed with Rip gurgling in his arms. "Thank god; I still can't believe that works. I would’ve thought she’d trained herself to not get affected by that.”

“Honestly, I'm just glad that she hasn't; else it would've taken longer for her to leave," Michael admits, before making grabby hands at Jack. “Now, gimmie my puppy.”

And Jack, good-natured, sweet Jack, smiles and hands over Rip, their Puppy, their precious one. Michael coos, gently scenting the babe, smiling as Rip leans into the ministrations, burbling back up at him, nuzzling against his chest, still sleep-warm. 

“He’s probably still tired from earlier,” Jack says. “Tim was doing another baby photography session with him again.”

"I thought he was helping Damian out with his art project?" 

"He was. Two birds with one stone." Jack smiles. "Damian is now the proud artist of Pup chewing on foot , done in oil pastels on paper." 

"That honestly sounds adorable," Michael says, looking down on his baby. “What did Tim dress him up as?” Jack didn’t say anything. He turns to look at his lover. “Jack?”

“Blue Beetle.” Jack hurried on. “Tim doesn't- should I have said something? I-”

“No, No, it’s- I know," Michael smiles at Jack, and it doesn't feel like a facade. "I'm sure Tim means well. And- I kind of want to see those pictures." He glances back down to Rip, who's in mid yawn, his little hands curling and uncurling close to his chest. "Look at him," he whispers. 

“He’s wonderful,” Jack murmurs, leaning against him, and Michael knows Jack's not talking about Tim at this time. 

“Of course he is,” Michael responds. “He’s our son. He's a Drake.” 

"And a Carter," Jack adds. "He's wonderful because of that too." 

Michael beams at Jack, and lets their mouths meet, slow, quiet- their kisses, this love, wasn't grand or made Michael feel like he could take on the world. 

This love is quieter, slower. Bursts of white hot passion- or adrenaline, because there's a reason he was hired in the first place- but Jack is not Ted, and will never be Ted. Jack loves to figure out the puzzles of the past, not tinker in the future- that's all Tim and Janet. Jack isn't the replacement of Theodore Kord, Blue Beetle- Michael's Ted. Couldn't if he tried. 

Jack prefers watching the game over films. Prefers quiet evenings at home, than in bars. Jack keeps a placid visage on his face to the world, keeping a shrewd eye on a deal, a barter, to help further his goals of both research and family- but oh, does his eyes turn bright,  and hands fluttering, eagerly chattering about a theory or clue, a fact about how something is made when he's with family. How he keeps himself in front of Michael, always putting himself between Michael and danger. 

Jack, eyes crinkling as he lays on his side curled right next to him in a cot, camped somewhere in Norway, confessing his love for Michael. How much he adores Michael, his capability and kindness. 

No one has ever said that to him. He's been called pretty, or friendly. Open-minded. Affable. Handsome. Funny. Fuckable. Better looking with his mouth shut, a common compliment, thrown at him often, before. He's more attractive when he doesn't talk. Maybe he should get a gag, that would make him likeable. Were the voices, laughing to themselves, as if he couldn't hear them.

Ignore it, Ted would soothe. Walk away. 

Arrogant dumbass. Vapid blonde- oh handsome, but god, his personality. Obnoxious buffoon, but he's probably a good lay. 

Don't choose him, don't partner up with that unlucky bastard, he already had his partner die, would practically echo in the hallways of the League, in the break rooms, the Watchtower. How he would stare at denied request after denied request, or how he would watch the rest of the heroes do complicated bartering systems as to avoid being on the same schedule as him for Monitor Duty- not wanting to even breathe in the same space as him.  Booster Gold? As a partner? No way.  

Thanks for helping, Jason says, smiling, honestly smiling, exhaustion in his eyes, but he's still standing strong, the Heart of the Pack. Couldn't do it without you. 

Glad I know you, Duke will grin. Tell me again, tell me how Gotham is, in the future, in your past. 

Packmate, Cass says, fingers soft against his shoulder. Please help me. 

Packmate, Damian, will hold out his injuries, look up at his face, intense and earnest. Please fix me. 

Lifesaver, Tim has groaned, when all Michael would do is bring coffee, a file, or even just a grinning Rip to the office, the Alpha taking a needed break to grab the file, chug the drink, or even a quick scenting of both the babe and the Dam, while swimming in paperwork. Thank you, Michael.

Safe Michael, little hands will crawl over his back, his shoulders. Kind Michael. Love Michael. 

Idiots, Janet will hiss in his ear. Walking away from the tittering socialite, and their honeyed, hidden poison. They're idiots, how dare they try and insult us. Let me handle this, Michael, they will realize how unlucky-

My lucky little coin, Jack often croons. Best assistant ever- so kind and capable and Jesus- how did I ever get so lucky with you? 

Meeting you, Jack has whispered, has been one of the highlights of my life. Thank you for being my partner, for staying by my side.  

Not even Ted called him- called him capable or even thought that the most miniscule of his actions warranted praise. And- that was okay, Michael didn't, doesn't need that. He knew his place in the blue & gold partnership. He didn't need it. 

But Jack calls him capable and a good Dam, and relies on him. Thinks he's a reliable guy, a worthwhile one to know. When they would travel, when they would be out in the field, Jack would rely on him for support. Jack relies on him to help Jason keep the Pack stable, be the support then young Omega Head needs to flourish. The Pack relies on him for help, need help, from him. 

Kind. Capable. Helpful. 

Wanted. 

It's a comfortable lifestyle. It's an easy lifestyle- not boring, not with any of them, with their varying personalities and moods, and how eager all of them are to defend the Pack- but he stays at home and watches the Pups and helps out wherever he can, and everyone is so damn grateful for it. He gets smiles of gratitude instead of mocking laughter. The eyerolls are good natured instead of condescending. 

Useless, Batman would mutter under his breath, about Ted, about him, about them. Utterly useless. 

Best assistant ever, Jack will crow. My lucky little coin.

"Whatcha thinking about?" Jack asks as he curls around him. "Your scent is sweet." 

You gave me back my life, he thinks.

"Nothing important," he says. Jack, sweet Jack, doesn't press- he'll find out eventually, he always does, but for now- 

Now he lies so, curling his body protectively over Michael's and Rip's, a low humming purr vibrating out, soothing a part of Michael, even as the man rubs his scent across Michael's mating glands. 

Pieces-of-my-Heart, it seems to say. 

Slowly, steadily, Michael feels himself start to head back to sleep, Jack already back to sleep, and Rip's little cries have softened into baby sleepy mumbles. 

He's lost his cape, his mantle, his team, his Teddy. He's pretty much a priarah in the superhero community. He shouldn't feel this way, this- comforted. 

Sometimes it feels as if the other shoe is going to drop. That he'll be in the kitchen or living room and the windows will shatter and Superman or Green Lantern or even Batman will be looking above, glaring at him, saying that he's betrayed the JL, needs to be locked up and forgotten. That he's not worth this comfort, doesn't deserve this comfort.  Sometimes, as he helps Damian with his bandages, the knowledge that Batman is literally next door is all too clear in his mind. As much as everyone wants Damian to join the pack, as much as the pup wants to as well- Michael knows. He can't time travel- doesn't know the past, can't skip ahead to the future, not anymore. Not the way he used to- but he knows that, inevitably, eventually, there will be an end. 

And God help them when it finally does. 

Jack curls up closer to him, shoving his nose into Michael's neck. The Omega laughs, settling into warm eyes, curling around a tiny warm body. It's late. Morning is almost here and a new day, a new present, will come and he'll live and laugh and cry and be exasperated and in love with this crazy, beautiful Pack. 

God, he prays, gazing down onto a tiny body, eyes slipping close. God, if you exist, protect my pack. Protect my crazy, possessive, loving pack, even Janet. Protect them from danger, from death, let them live as long as they will. God, please, protect my pup as long as he’s alive. Keep him safe. Keep him alive. God, if you’re out there- please, let my Pack live a long, full life. 

And also, if you can- let Teddy know that I’m doing just fine. 

Chapter Text

He came on a Thursday.

He'd been aware. 

Of course he'd been aware; unlike his first ward, he wasn't blind. 

And as much as his first ward (his first Pup, his lonely Pup) declared himself to be "The World's Greatest Detective," Alfred found that Master Bruce sometimes couldn't find his own arse with his own two hands, as the saying goes. 

Unlike the Alpha, who seems to forget about such things if it wasn't about Justice, or striking the fear of others in a bloody Bat costume, he'd been aware of Damian's comings and goings. Alfred had watched how the Pup, quite suddenly, almost became a different person in a span of several short weeks: no longer snarling and sneering, bloodthirsty, he was one that was solemn and thoughtful. Oh, the ruthlessness was still there, but it was subtle, sharper, tempered. Overall, the Pup had been growing. 

No longer were they getting reports and phone calls from the school for Damian's behavior; no, now instead of the angry, snarling pup, there was a quiet one, a smart, if sardonic one. One that had all the seriousness of his father and the passion of his mother. One that helped him in the kitchen, where he wouldn't before, learning the artistry of the culinary world, or even lending a helping hand on things he'd once declared were "beneath" him. One that held the hands of scared street pups with the same kindness and gentle hands as he would an injured bird. One that stopped snarling insults and prejudices, and while still had a sharp tongue, it was rare, nowadays, for him to unleash recklessly.

One that regularly took frequent showers, as to hide the fact that another Pack often scented him.  

Alfred had no doubts that there was a reason why the western wall's alarm kept getting mysteriously "broken." 

Oh, Alfred knew; of course he knew. He was a spy before he'd became the Second in the Wayne Pack after all, a dowager head, in a sense, since Master Thomas and Miss Martha died. 

So he knew. And didn't breathe a word. 

He also knew why. Why Master Richard ran off for greener pastures, why Master Damian would eventually fly away to warmer arms as well.

It's because he failed. 

He failed at maintaining the Wayne Pack. 

In the early days, it sounded so simple, so easy, to agree to stay for Master Bruce, to keep the Pack alive, even in their heartbroken bodies, to try and stay. Together. After all, Master Bruce wasn't just- Thomas and Martha's. Master Bruce was his own. It was simple. 

Leave? Bloody hell no. Why wouldn't he? He had their (his) pup to raise. Their Pack to survive. 

But therein lay the issue.

They survived, but did not thrive. It was hard, raising a pup, and he was hard when he should have been lenient and lenient when he should have been hard. He made so many mistakes. So many, that he let his shame keep his silence, and watched as Bruce systemically drove those close to him away, covering himself with his grief and rage and fear to the point of being blinded about how Damian was struggling to find stability in the pack. Alfred tried- he tried to be supportive and present, ways that he wasn't really, when Bruce was Damian's age and needing the exact same thing, and yet he could tell it wasn't enough. 

It couldn't be enough. A pup needed a full Pack, a family to help raise and teach and guide, to grow and- 

In his private moments, he would confess his darkest truth: what they were wasn't Pack. Far from it. 

Alfred tried to be Father and Mother and Parent and Pack yet Butler and failed. He tried to be supportive and strict and leading and nurturing all while maintaining a status quo and failed. 

And after this last patrol, where he saw Bruce a fully grown Alpha, growl and debase the child on mere mistakes, turning his back on his pale quivering child, Alfred felt something within him- give. He failed. He failed, and all he could do is atone.

So he tried to talk to Bruce, tried to reason. Tried to atone. But this so-called Alpha, this-pup, had the audacity to try and Command him, order him about like as if he was really just a butler. Him, as if he didn't help change the whelp's nappies and collected his baby teeth and dealt with the turbulent time of Alpha puberty with him. As if he didn't bow his head and balanced the lies and masks Bruce kept. As of he didn't clean up his messes, patched his body, scrubbed his fucking sheets, and Bruce still had the gall to try and Command him? 

And then there was nothing but righteous fury. 

In short, he had no qualms about marching up right to the Drake's front door, with his five, efficiently packed suitcases behind him and his updated resume tucked safely under his arm, and knocking on said door. 

He doesn't expect what he sees when the door slams open.

Inside is a mess. There's bits of singe in the corners, and bits of ceramic on the floor, a terrified young man jogging down the large staircase, making a beeline for him, or more accurately, to the outside, and in front of him, a tired, wide-eyed Omega male wearing only a pair of sweatpants and holding a wailing baby with one arm close to his swollen chest.

Both of them regard each other as the other young man runs out the door and probably to the hills. 

"You're that- I know you. I've seen you. Bruce Wayne's butler. Alfred Pennyworth, yeah?" the blonde Omega says hoarsely, and he's about to agree when the baby wails louder and a most repugnant smell wafts up. He wrinkles his nose as the Omega twitches. He remembers that from when- he remembers that smell. That was definitely a "blow-out." 

"Yes, I...was...his butler," he starts. "I am-" 

"You're hired," the Omega interrupts, and with his other hand, pulls him right into the fray.

He came on a Thursday. 

Janet only remembers this since Thursdays were unfortunately the busiest of the day for the Drake Pack. Thursdays meant early breakfast and rushing out at the crack of dawn; Thursdays meant the Twin's behavior specialist agency sent another doomed therapist to be terrorized, all the while valiantly trying to help. Thursdays meant meetings and finishing deadlines without Tim, her Heir Apparent, as he was in courses all day, along with the others. Thursdays meant Damian, her little secret Pup, couldn't come by at all, stuck in after-school activities before being transported back into that insufferable Manor, where he would stay, stuck, until Thursday night Patrol, and come dragging his sore and bruised body into the common Den room, and which would become Friday morning Pack cuddles. Even she would join the massive pile in the Den, unhappy, just like her Pack, about the new bruises and broken bones and the fact that Damian was being used as a target once again, but satisfied that her wayward pup had come home. 

Let Wayne caterwaul all he wants; this one is hers. 

Thursdays also now meant that now Michael was caring for an infant, along with his other duties. Jack stepped in and helped when he could, but there was only so much that Jack could do. So Thursdays were usually his day in the office as well, with back to back meetings and luncheons and placating the board as they bleated their terror over Janet Drake. If they had their way, Jack would've been their little puppet with a docile, ornamental Omegan wife, the type with the slim waist and big eyes with very little brains. 

If Janet had her way, she would've had them dead in a gutter years ago. 

As such, Thursdays were busy and irritating with everyone working, and it also meant Janet took extra time after work for an after-work, de-stress spar session at her dojo, which meant that it was late that she returned home to see that they had a new member in their household. 

"Good evening, Pack Head Drake," Alfred Pennyworth, the fucking Second of the Wayne Pack says in her kitchen, looking all the world at home with rolled up sleeves and an apron tied around his waist, as if he belongs here. 

She feels her hackles rise, and a growl escapes her throat. 

Pennyworth doesn't blink. 

"Michael," she turns to the Omega, currently busy with a mixture of plating food while cradling a suckling Rip against his nude chest. Michael doesn't even twitch. "Michael." 

"Michael is busy at the moment, you can leave a message after the beep," the Omega says tartly, and then proceeds to make said noise. 

"Michael, why the hell-" 

"Alfred Pennyworth was kind enough to help out because I am also currently dealing with a newborn baby," Michael replies. "And maybe, since you know, I've recently given birth, I'm not really able to cook and take care of stuff as well as I used to. Since I've recently given birth." 

Pennyworth nods. "I can prepare and serve a variety of meals suited for the utmost and specific of palates."

"That's not the point," she snarls. Michael doesn't budge. "Michael Drake Carter." 

He whirls around to her. "Janet Lynn Drake, you are going to let the nice old butler make the damn food and serve us the damn meal and you will enjoy said meal while I'll deal with feeding an infant who is too much upset to even eat, along with having to deal with two Theta pups who are having a truly terrible day since after breakfast. I am tired, and sore, and today has been a very long day, so you will let the butler buttle, Head. Drake," Michael hisses, voice dipping into that brand of Omegan anger, and Rip starts to whine. She growls, but she's tired and wasn't expecting strangers in her home. 

She's also hungry and still a bit frustrated at the unproductive meeting from earlier and honestly, doesn't want to argue with Michael, especially not when he's nursing and Rip is snuggled against his breast. She's not a barbarian.

Perhaps she was hoping that Michael would be fine with her standing by him and letting her inhale his scent for a bit, just quietly enjoying the calm and soothing scent of a nursing Omega. 

And maybe she wasn't an Alpha, not really, and couldn't technically fully "appreciate" the scent of a nursing Omega, but it did make her feel better. Especially since- 

She's dredged out of her thoughts from a quiet clear of a throat. 

"Head Drake, dinner tonight will be New American. The appetizers will be tomato bisque with fresh cream and basil, alongside with a salad of locally sourced lettuce and sun-dried tomatoes, topped with marinated feta, pickled red onions and the option of toasted bread crumbs. For the main course, We have two options; pan seared flank steak with garlic butter and a red wine marinade and petite herbs, or the vegetarian option of grilled portobello mushrooms with pineapple pears, brulee'd figs, marinated almond cheese and pecans. For dessert, a stone fruit galette with drizzled honey and cardamom has been prepared, Ma'am." 

And, curse her, her traitorous stomach growls. 

"The Twins have been passed along to Pack Omega Jason, with all three currently in the family Den, Ma'am," Pennyworth continues. "And I do believe that Master Damian is there as well, along with Master Timothy and Miss Cass." 

She stares at him. "It's Thursday." 

"Yes," the Beta says. "it is."

"Thursdays-" 

"-Are when Master Damian has his extracurriculars, yes. That is when I drive him back home after," the butler gives her a slight nod. "Which I did, Head Drake."

She stares, unblinking as the Beta keeps eye contact. 

She is Head of the Drake Pack, CFO of a growing, multi-million business, expecting to make their first billion soon. She has a Pack that looks for her to guide, to lead, to protect. And she earned every damn piece of it. 

She may be CFO, but she started out as an assistant, and worked her way up. She and Jack may be more friends than lovers, but she didn't make him propose, or forced him to waive away Head rights, only child of the Drake family. That was all Jack's choice, wanting more freedom to pursue his passion for the past. She was given opportunities and chances and yes, she took them, but she wasn't handed them because of something pedantic as a secondary dynamic. 

She's the reason Drake Enterprises is growing. She's the reason that more free clinics are appearing, better roads, more chances for Gotham to thrive. She's the reason, not an Alpha. 

But she is a Beta. 

Pennyworth is a Beta. 

They're both Betas. They're both Betas and in theory, in the supposed hierarchy of Alphas and Omegas, Betas and in between, they should be on an even playing field. After all, Alphas are the top, the lords, and Betas are the servants. She expected this man, this man who screams of tradition and old-ways, to believe in the hierarchy as well. 

She stares at the wayward Beta Second, long and hard. He stares back, relaxed, open. 

Submitting, a voice whispers in her mind, and, yes there it was- the slight tilt of his jaw, the minute bow of his head. It was vague and subtle, easy enough to dismiss, but- 

Here was a man who had been serving the Waynes for years, who had status in being Second. Here he was, presenting food and telling her that her little Alpha-Pup was safe at the right home and deferring to her. 

A potential. 

She straightens her shoulders. "What time is dinner planned?" 

Pennyworth doesn't move an inch. "Appetizers will be served in ten minutes." 

"Perfect," as if she planned it; the elder Beta says nothing. "Michael, Pennyworth, if you'll excuse me." 

She isn't retreating; she's accepting. This is a trial, a scenario she's going to play. Michael already is appreciative, and Damian has mentioned him enjoying the elder Beta's company. She'll accept; for now. 

Plus, there's something delicious about how Wayne's second came to her Pack. 

She heads to the group den, striding, opening the door and-

It's a meld of scents, of happy-home, of tired-lonely, but the overwhelming scent of Pack, Pack, Pack. 

Jack isn't here; unsurprising, as he probably got sidetracked by a project of his or some other; however everyone else is. Cass and Duke are on the edges, the young man pretty much conked out on the Alpha's chest. Cass herself is letting her head rest on Tim's clavicle, purring slightly as she keeps her face shoved into his scent gland. She can see where on one side, the Twins had dug themselves out of their den, muddy and half naked, their bodies half on top of their Dam, and half on top of Damian, who looks to be dozing as well.

And in the middle, in the heart, her first two boys: Tim and Jason, with Tim’s head knocking against Jason’s, both purring deeply, exhaustion clear on both of their faces. 

Janet steps closer to Jason, tilting her head and waiting until he looks up from where he was running a hand and wrist through the Twin's hair. 

"They had a setback," he whispers, still stroking their soft hair. Closer she can see the dried tear-tracks, the redden scrapes from where they had clawed at their arms, their faces. "Meltdowns- pretty bad ones."

She hums. Michael has already implied that. As well as when she came home, she had noted the missing phony "antiques" and the scent of lemon wafting about. 

"Are you ok?" She asks, keeping her voice quiet. Not soft, but understanding. 

"Yeah- just a long," he yawns. "Day. How about you?"

She hums, stepping so that she settles her body between the mass of pillows and blankets at the head of the nest and her eldest son, tight and somewhat uncomfortable being against the wall, but her son is a warm press to her legs and front, and it allows her to rub her wrists against Jason's scent glands. By the way the Omega leaned back and let out a low continuous purr, he had no qualms about it. "Long," she says. 

Jason hums. "Pennyworth seems alright." 

"Well, you'll let me know the soonest he crosses a line, alright?" 

"Of course. I'm not trusting him with the Twins or Rip just yet." 

"Smart," she mumbles, the day finally catching up to her. She's tired, and Jason smells like tired-Omega, happy-Pack, and a scent her brain always registers as Pup-mine-own. He's an adult in his own right, but somehow, he still reminds her of the wary, half-starved Omega holding the shoulders of Tim, eyes fierce as he stood his ground, already protective of her little Alpha Pup. 

She reaches down to run a hand through Tim's hair, Damian's hair, as she cradles Jason's head close to her chest and finally, closes her eyes, if just for ten minutes. Let Michael come fetch them. Let Jack come. Let the meal, Pennyworth, the entire world, wait- for the moment, she will spend time surrounded by her Pack, her precious Horde that she calls her own. 

Chapter Text

"What?" 

"For the last time, Dick." B's voice was harsh. "It wasn't my fault." 

"Bullshit," Dick snaps, and there's a twinge of regret, but he's positive that it's completely B's fault. Ever since Dick woke up on the medbay in the Tower after the latest battle with Brother Blood, woke up with a definite lack in his chest, he knew who, exactly, made Alfred step away from his bonds.

Not a gaping, horrible feeling, as it felt when his parents died, how it feels to have a bond suddenly break. This was more muted- shielded. With an undercurrent of anger-hurt running through the bonds, a sense of potency, but still muted. 

So not completely broken, but fading. A plant kept in the dark, wilting, dying, but still trying to live. 

He called Bruce as soon as he could grip a phone. 

"Alfred wouldn't walk," he growls, shoulders rising. "Alfred wouldn't leave unless he had a reason, Bruce." 

The Alpha has the audacity to grunt. 

"What the fuck did you do?" Because it's Bruce. It's always Bruce's pride, Bruce's paranoia, it's has to be Bruce- 

"I am not apologizing," Bruce says. 

The phone smashes beautifully against the wall. 

Great, Dick feels his anger deflate, logic and regret taking up the anger draining away as he stares at the shattered technology, bits of broken glass and cracked metal. He broke his phone, because he got too angry at Bruce, once again, too angry because the Alpha all just admitted it was his fault, his fault for causing this, for making the manor into some…mausoleum, all for the man's single grief and rage at losing his- 

Damian. 

"Shit." He darts out of his room, snatching his mangled one in the process. 

It's relatively empty in the Tower, tonight. Wonder girl and Donna are back over at Themyscira. He's sure that Superboy took a bunch of the other younger, lower-tiered heroes out for some karaoke or sushi thing, for a victory party/bonding experience- he knows Gar and Raven went with them, to be chaperones, and that's so strange, seeing Gar be somewhat responsible. It makes Dick feel fond. 

 Impulse is somewhere with Wally and Barry, some awkward painful attempt at bonding once again. Dick can sympathize with Bart, somewhat; the youngest speedster gets along with nearly everyone, loud, open, adaptable, exactly like an affable Beta, even one from the future. But he's a single Beta in a sea of Omegas and Alphas that populate the West-Allen family trees and there is a gap, with information, with Bart sometimes accidentally calling Barry "Grand-Dam" or attempting to slip into Wally's bed after a rough night for scenting and hugs, because, of course Wally was-is-will be Bart's surrogate Dam, even claiming Bart as his Pup, in the future. It makes sense, but it doesn't mean that it doesn't make it awkward. Doesn't mean that they're those people right now. 

He walks past the massive living area, through hallways and corridors. Kori is in space. Or something with the League. Maybe she went out with Superboy and the rest? Dick's not sure as he stopped trying to follow Kori's wearabouts years ago, but it's a rare day off though he's sure that if he enters the lab he'll see-

"Hey man," Cyborg looks up, half smile on his face. It freezes when he sees what's in Dick's hand. "Oh wow." 

"Vic," he smiles, even though he knows it's a wan, pale smile, not a true Nightwing grin; no, this is Dick-after, a regretful Dick special. "Hey man, I know you're busy-"

"Pass it over here," and it speaks to age that Vic is gentle, gathering the pieces of the smashed glass and cracked case. "Let me guess, had a fun conversation with the Big B?" 

"Can you tell?" He grimaces. "Can you at least save the sim card, or-" 

"Have a backup of your contacts? Updated since last month," Vic passes an older phone, less new but at least working, into Dick's hand. "Can't help you for your last Tuesday night hookup, but you should still have your regular contacts," Vic gives him a half smirk.

"Thanks Vic," he absently opens the contact folder, scrolling down to Damian's name. 

Not for the first time, a tinge of regret hits him as he sends a text to check in with the Pup, just a line of inquiry. He should, he could, text Alfred- no, no, that hurts too much right now. Dick's positive if he tries to reach out to Alfred, he's going to start sobbing and never stop. 

Damian- Damian is an easier, manageable route. He can communicate with Damian, right now, even though he knows he's dropped the ball with Damian, like, a lot. Too many, one might say. 

But for the longest time it's been him and B and Alfie, or just him and Alfie against B, or B and Alfred against him, in some weird, fluctuating dynamic bullshit. For the longest time, he had the sole focus for B's neurotic ways, for the Beta's kind, grandfatherly attention. That everything was tangled and a mess but it worked. Except the tangled mess was so fragile that Damian unintentionally caused it to come crashing down. 

Damian arriving was…surprising. Shocking. Flabbergasting. 

Dick knows…he knows that B didn't adopt him because of Dick. That the Alpha brought it up once to Dick, just once, when the pain of losing his parents, his pack, was still new and hurting that the unassuming adoption papers felt like a slap in the face. As if Bruce was trying to shove into his Dad's role. Dick definitely got more than a little offended, ripping the papers to shreds in front of the Alpha's face before wordlessly snarling and storming off, running to the training mats to beat away the whirling mass of emotions inside of him.

 They eventually agreed to an official pack adoption, with Bruce being Pack Alpha since Dick needed the bonds and structure, not a father, a Pack leader, but. 

But time showed that Bruce has also became mentor and brother and father, some mash of all four that it's easier to just call Bruce "B," a label only for him. That it's simpler to call him "my B" or "the old Bat" than a specific title. And it was- perhaps, not actually easy, or simple, but it was working. Dick was B's ward, and B was Dick's B. 

And then Damian arrived. 

Damian is- not only legally, but biologically B's son, something the Pup stiffly informed all of them when he arrived, stoically acquiescing to the many paternity tests and stint in the holding cell as soon as he said those words. Not only is he Bruce's biological son, he's also Talia's. As in Talia al Ghul. As in, Bruce, who gave Dick a three hours lecture that basically boiled down to "Don't stick your dick in crazy," which is a joke because Bruce is the fucking King of sticking his dick in crazy, he did exactly that, and now there's a Pup with the skill set of a League-trained assassin wearing his old colors, wearing Dick's mantle. Yeah, Dick quit, because he grew up, but Robin wasn't Bruce to give out like some paltry piece of candy-

Silver covers the screen, and Dick blinks, realizing that he's been gripping the phone so tight that the case is starting to crack. 

"Dick." Vic is frowning. 

He grins, turning on the affable Grayson charm. Unfortunately, it seems to only make Vic frown harder. "I'm fine," he reassures. "I- Big B, you know?" He adds with a laugh. Vic doesn't laugh back, and actually leans against the counter, crossing his arms. 

Oh goody, a dark part of Dick's brain pipes up. A Cyborg special. He waits for the sigh, the shake of the head, the start of a story that's a metaphor into whatever-

"Do you want to get an emancipation?" 

That actually causes Dick to jerk, just a bit, blinking rapidly at Cyborg. That. That is not where he thought Vic was going. 

The Alpha's face is neutral, nothing showing. "Roy probably knows more about pack emancipation from dealing with his own, but we-"

"No! What? No," Dick shakes his head. "No, it was just- what brought this on? Is it because of the phone? I break them all the time- hell, Wally and Donna breaks them more than me-"

"Yeah, because they're out fighting and forget to take them out of their pockets before wrestling with the big nasty of the week," Vic rolls his eyes. "They're not breaking them because they threw it against a wall, or a concrete beam, or into the ocean." 

"I did not throw my phone into the ocean." 

"No, you threw it at a trash can at the pier, and you overshot it into the ocean after you and Big B had that phone call about that one space mission he said that you "were just overreacting, Dick." Same result," Vic says. "This is the third phone in the past three months, the third phone that's been completely ruined. And not only that, but-" He stops, hesitating. 

"What?" Dick doesn't mean to sound snappish, to snarl- or perhaps he does, as he hates it, hates when one of the other members try to "help" him. He's Nightwing, not only that, but he was Robin, the original Robin; he's been the leader of the Teen Titans since he was flying in his old show colors, doling out kicks and quips. He doesn't need help.  

"You've been off, dude. Quieter. Sadder." And Vic's eyes kept on him. "Distant. We've all been picking up on it. Impulse, Beast Boy, even Superboy," he continues. "It's concerning. Kori and Donna have been fielding the questions, but everyone has been getting worried. And- and we're just worried, man." 

Vic meets his eyes, and Dick is reeling. 

Has. Has he really been that bad? 

"I didn't realize." He looks off. "Shit, Sorry Vic, I swear." 

"No." There's two cool hands embracing his shoulders, turning him, having him face the taller man. He obliges, only because there's an unfamiliar strain in Cyborg's voice, an undercurrent of panic that Dick's never heard directed at him before. 

"No, no swearing, or promising, or any of the Dick Grayson Patented Distraction Maneuvers. None of us want any of that, Wing. What we want is a change; something's got to change, if not now, then soon. Pronto. You're spiraling out, and sure, a couple of years ago, I wouldn't have said anything, none of us would've said anything but it was just us as a team, before," Vic says. "Now it's different, man." 

Vic's right. Before, it was just the Team- Donna, Roy, Wally, and Garth. Then Vic joined. And Kori. Gar and Rachel. And it was still the Team- only bigger. Each of them had their trials and tribulations, some of them graduating from under a mentor's mantle, and into their own hero. Some of them, like Rachel, like Kori, were fledgling heroes that all of them help guide into their own, supporting each other as equals, as friends. 

After all, that was the whole point of their Team- that unlike the Justice League, they were friends, not co-workers. They had each other's backs and they knew that. 

But that was before. 

Before, when it was half serious missions and half goofing-off on the weekends. Before, they got a bigger tower and bigger budget, and a bigger reputation.

Before, when they were trying to fill in the big shoes. When they were just starry-eyed kids looking up to their mentors. 

Now. Now it's different. Now they have a bunch of starry-eyed kids looking up to them, other beginning heroes with hopeful ideals. Now Wally is married and Roy has a kid, and now there's Impulse, and a new Wonder Girl, and a new Aqualad, and a Superboy and-

A new Robin. A second Robin. 

They weren't kids anymore. 

"Fuck," Dick mutters, then, louder, "Fuck!" 

"Yup," Vic agrees, popping the 'p.' "Fuck." He looks closer at Dick. "So what's the plan, boss man?" 

Dick scrubs a hand down his face, letting go of a muffled shout into his hand briefly. "Okay. First, I'm going to go and check to make sure B hasn't let Damian in the lurch, because something tells me that Bruce didn't let his fucking son know, and probably en route of fucking off to another country or space for some mission." He thumbs open the phone again. "Because absence makes the heart forget or something like that."

"More like he comes home half dead and you and Alfred both pity-forgives him, 'cause of the blood loss and broken bones," Vic retorts, snorting at the half-shrug Dick gives him. "Also, doesn't Damian have Alfred?"

Dick blinks. "Oh, fuck," he says. "Fuck I didn't say, did I?" He groans again at the other man's confused look. "Vic, Alfred quit. Not only that- he- he's blocked the pack bonds and just up and Dear John'd Batman." 

Vic gapes. "What the absolute fuck did Batman do?" 

Dick throws out his arms. "That's why I was calling!" He shouts. "That's why B and I were arguing. He wouldn't say, he just kept repeating it wasn't his fault and that's just-" he growls, his anger starting to leak out of his scent. "His head is sometimes so far up his ass that I have to bend over backwards doing damage control because he can't fucking even admit that-" a wordless snarl rips out of his mouth, and he's angry, angry, angry. 

A cool metal hand clasps Dick's shoulder, loosely, and there's a hint of anger at the gesture before he recognizes what the gesture is. 

Even though Vic is an Alpha, Dick's never known the Alpha to scent others- can't scent others. Vic admitted in the past that originally, his dad created cybernetic scent glands for Vic, but in terms of pheromones, of the actual scent, of Vic actual scent- it could never be recreated properly, he said into that quiet night. Couldn't trick his brain, never could make himself think it was "him." Too artificial, too "off." Eventually, he got his father to stop pushing the fake scent, Vic said. 

"It felt like I was still trying to be the old me, that he was trying to have me be the old me," Vic said. "But that man is gone. It's sad, and a tragedy, but that man isn't me anymore." 

"Do you miss it?" Dick asked. 

"Obviously," Vic rolled his eyes. "But being here, with everyone-" He'd broken off, looking out into the city line of San Francisco. 

"Yeah," Dick had said, and that had been when he let his fingers undo his mask, dirty and ripped as it had been, let Vic see him, actually see him. "I'm glad I know you as well." 

Eventually, Vic had the artificial scent glands removed- in their places, specific pads that were temperature based, letting Vic leave streaks of warmth or coolness as a way of soothing with packmates, still connecting to them in the base way. 

After all, Vic is an Alpha and still had the urge to help packmates, to protect, to provide, to be an Alpha. And right now, as the man rubs cool circles around Dick's neck with his wrists, the ex-acrobat knows this gesture- this familiar I-am-here, I-hear-you sensation- and Dick releases, letting some of the tension bleed out of him, letting the anger dissipate away under the repetitive, cool circles, letting himself lean on his close friend. 

"Shit, sorry," Dick leans back. "I know, I know, that it's B fault, that everything can be fixed if he can just let go of his ego and just apologize-"

"But he won't, cause he's Batman, I know," Vic says. "We've done this song and dance before, remember?" He gives a wry grin, eyes knowing. "I remember you and I going off on each other cause of that." 

Dick laughs- 

-and takes the out. 

"We really would- butt heads until Kori or Garth stepped in, or worse- Donna." 

"Man she does not hold back on her punches," Vic laughs. "Man, you know how many times I've had to pop out dents from my shoulders? At least she went softer on you!"

"Barely," Dick chuckles. "I swear I think there was a month where I was walking around half drunk from all the submission bites she would put me in, not to mention the bruises she can leave. Though God knows if it wasn't for her, half of our arguments would probably end in challenge battles." 

"Good ol' Donna, being the Pack Heart that we all need," Vic solemnly agrees as he nods to the door. "So instead of keep doing this merry go round of emotions- You wanna go and get something to eat? Maybe blow off some more steam?" 

"I think," Dick starts, feeling himself relax at the thought of food. "That sounds like an amazing idea. You wanna do Lin's and then the arcade?"

"Hell yes sounds like a plan- I am more than down to demolish some of Granny Lin's amazing pork and scallion dumplings," Vic grins as they walk to the Garage together, side by side. "You paying?" 

"Nope," Dick pops the "p," letting the black Amex card glint in his hand, somehow matching his toothy smirk. "Big B is." 

Vic laughs. "Definitely going to go wild tonight."

Dick chuckles along. Bruce's wallet could withstand it- and if maybe Dick tips each of the servers a couple of thousands, and perhaps comps the meals of the night rush- well, he'll probably hear from Bruce again, tomorrow, but that's a future Dick's worry. Current Dick is more concerned about- 

"Ah shit," he grabs his phone. 

Damian had replied, only four words:

Yes. I am fine. 

Dick blinks. Huh. That's…surprising. He was sure that Damian would’ve…maybe not ask, but at least complain. He was close to the older Beta; it's not like the Pup would be getting any socialization from Bruce, and that's probably also on Dick's fault; most of the time he's over at the Manor it's to yell at Bruce. 

Maybe he should go over there soon. Check up on Damian, even if he is "fine." 

"You good?" 

He blinks out of his thoughts. "Yeah," he smiles, slipping the phone into his pocket. He'll make plans to visit Damian soon. To find out why Alfred left. To once again, pull his dumbass Pack Alpha's head out of his ass once more. 

But right now. 

"Yeah," he repeats, wrapping an arm around the other Alpha. "I'm doing just fine." 

Chapter Text

"You shall teach me the art of fighting."

It's a warm spring day. The day that had wrested Gotham's gloom from its claws, chasing away the overcast clouds, brightening the sky to a clear yet deep blue, bringing warmth to the otherwise chill air. Especially out in Bristol, where one could spend hours out on grassy knolls and under trees and not have to worry about the strange of Gotham. 

 It was the type of day, Cass decided, to spend time out under a tree near the patio in the prefix of "studying" when in actuality, she had spent a good time just dozing, taking in the sense of the warm sun under shade, the smells of honeysuckle and wintergreen, the sounds of wind through grass, the chirps and twitters of robins. 

And here was one now, chirping at her with such a commanding tone, from hopping away from the Quiet Manor on the Hill.  

She waits. 

"You will teach me, I said." 

She waits.

"Cassandra, did you hear me? I will not repeat again." 

She lets her eyes open, just a hair. He glares at her, all fluffed up and chirping, The Biggest Robin of the Yard.

"Cassandra Gideon Drake." 

She doesn't move. 

"Cassandra." 

She hums, fighting down her grin.

When she first arrived here, in the house with the patio and scent of honeysuckles and wintergreen wafting through open windows, she was nearly out of her mind. So much of her childhood spent training and killing and fighting, and then surviving and living, and living, without a Pack to keep her close and stable, she half thought she had actually died and gone to hell like a priest she had once killed cursed her with his very last breath. The woman glaring down at her seemed like it- her body screamed judgment, anger, much like her Trainer had once. Like her Trainer, the woman's scent was locked down tight, not giving a hint as she gazed down at Cass. 

It took a while for her to realize that Janet wasn't meant to be a new Trainer. Rather, Janet was meant to be her Mother. 

"Cass, did you hear me?" Ah, so impatient; all now-now-now with his interests, his desires, wanting the mastery almost instantaneous, yet turning to a more sedate pace for his disinterests. Subtle things, minute tells- but enough for her to see, to notice. 

She hides her wry smile at the thought of another young Alpha that does the same thing. 

"Yes." She pats the ground beside her. The way he slightly takes a step back means he's surprised at this, that he wasn't expecting it to be now. But that's the first lesson. 

 "First lesson: learning to be present," she says, ignoring his glower, keeping her face placid. "Sit."

"We are meant to be training, not meditating," he snipes, but she hears him sit, arranging his body in a classic League Lotus- straight spine, arms on knees, fists clenched tight. She knows the sound, the adjusting of that body. She grew up with it, forced into it- emblazoned in her mind, that specific pose. "I know how to meditate." 

"Patience," she soothes the little one, and the Pup acquiesces, his stare a steady hold on her as she rearranges her body into her own relaxed Lotus, a familiar habit, not one she needs to open her eyes for- Trainer taught her that. Unlike Trainer, she will be better with training others. She won't cause harm.

You will always be better, a voice in her mind says, and it sounds faintly of Mother. 

"Listen," she continues. "Listen to the breeze in the leaves, the grass. Hear the birds, their individual calls to each other. Smell the plant life, of the earth, the faint scent of Gotham on the edges. Be present, let go of the future, of the past. Be focused on the now. Inhale. Hold." She steadies her breath. Feels the way the world is bridged to her body. 

see-oh-ehn-ehn-ee-see-tee.

"Exhale. Let go. Breathe." 

"Again." 

He grunts, sprints towards her. A swipe of the legs to her own, a specific twist as he drops down that's League, but Upper League. Talia leans too far forward.  Perhaps the Ghost? She wonders as she parry's his blows. Not Batman- or maybe Batman, she admits to herself, dodging his sudden kick, lighting fast but abrupt, and she grabs his leg in mid-strike, snatching the other when it goes to kick her, and lets him dangle upside down, keeping him away from his body. 

"This is ridiculous," And he's frustrated, moments away from grinding his teeth, even upside down. "This isn't even really sparring. This is just- playing." 

She doesn't say how playing is a beginning block to training, to learning. She doesn't say how cubs play when they're young, to understand their siblings and to get better at hunting. She doesn't say how playing can be beneficial, both to an animal or human Pack. 

She hums. She knows that annoys him, angers him, and good, it's meant to. He is a decisive little pup; making a choice and steadfastly going with it. Which isn't a bad thing; in fact, she appreciates the steadfast nature of him. The problem comes down to his tenacity and not being able to break away from a bad choice. 

Right now, in the close quarters of the east wing training room, the place with the open rafters and solid beams, a place where he could shift the fight from the ground to the air, adding an advantage, and yet he keeps his feet on the ground, not even looking up.  He doesn't even make a single attempt. 

She doesn't think he's getting the guidance to grow away from that flaw, to change and adapt- rather the opposite. 

There's always a tinge of dust in his scent every time he comes back from that Quiet Manor. 

kəˈnɛkt.

"Maybe." She shakes him, just a little, if only to see him growl and squirm, twisting enough to head butt her in the stomach and they continue on. 

"You're doing this for a reason. Aren't you?" 

It is a question. It is a demand.

She only hums, and tosses him over her shoulder. 

"Again." 

He waits, blocking her strike when she moves, the bend of his arms saying Batman, his footwork saying League, the stiffness of his spine telling a different, worrying story. 

"Is it because of Cain?" He asks a bit later, and how much she's grown that the name doesn't even cause her to flinch. 

The sleet beats against the glass. Spring has moved away, Summer following close behind and already Cass can see that it will be a dreary autumn shuffling into a miserable winter as usual in Gotham. Already the days are gray and sleety before twisting and becoming gray and oppressively humid. 

Verb.

"Yes, and no." She dodges his fists, to the left, responding with a nerve strike that gets blocked almost as fast as she. Smart Pup. "Cain was a taskmaster, and demanded humans to be tools. I am not a tool. You are not a tool." 

At that sentence, he falters, and it's child's play to land a strike to his side. He darts back, the familiar feet pattern of Nightwing. "I am Robin," he counters. 

"And I'm a Drake," she responds calmly. "My family is with the Drake Pack, not whatever Cain thought I was. I am Jason and Tim's secondary." 

The two. 

They were the two that found her- gnawing on a half cooked fish, stilling as she caught their eyes. 

Jason was the first to croon to her, holding out his open hand. The first to clutch her face to his neck, to cover her with his scent of Omega-possession, mine-own. The first to nurture her, to scent her as Janet Drake stared down. The first to guide her into a bath, into a bed, making everything soothing and home and Omega. 

Tim was the first to rub her wrists in what she would eventually learn, an Alpha-sibling claim. The first to place a palm on her back, soothing her, settling her with the overwhelming sensations as the bonds start to form. The one who stood guard as she trembled in her Omega Brother's arms. The first to be her protector, to stand for her, standing against the Drake Pack Head, determined and strong and Alpha.

The δύο. Alpha and Omega.

The admittance has the Pup jerking back, and she takes the opportunity, two light punches to the side and sweeping his feet out from under him. 

"Match. Again." 

He twists, rolling up to his feet a few steps away-she sees Mesi in the twist, sees Shiva in the roll. The stance is Talia, the strength of the feet. 

But the shoulders. The shoulders speak of Batman. 

"If you reject Cain's ideals, then why even spar? Maintain your skill set?" He asks again, and this time they're circling- this time they're looking for an opportunity, an opening. This time- this time it's an ask, not a demand. It's a want of knowledge, an opening. He is lacking the tether-thought. 

He does not want to be ignorant. 

She keeps her body open, loose. A bit vulnerable, as being honest truly is. "I miss it," she states. "Not all of it. But enough." 

"You miss it," he repeats, and she can see the wheels turning in his head. "Sparring?" 

"No. Missions." She pauses, then corrects. "Not missions, but- I miss fighting, properly fighting. Running the rooftops at night. Restoring," she says. "Restoring Justice. The in-between times." 

Carefully, they circle, still in their defense, still watching the other. 

"I've been told that you got saved by Alpha and Pack Omega," Damian says slowly, face cloudy. He's trying to make the bridges, she knows- he has all of the pieces. Now he needs to tether them together. "That you were living under a pier." 

"Some of the in-between times," she corrects once again. "Not all, but- there were. Occasions." 

Damian's face clears. "You know," he breathes and he stops moving, rocking a bit on his feet. "You know."

"You know what it means to fly." 

She nods as she stills as well.  

To fly- that is a good metaphor. Occasionally, yes, she flew. Raced on the rooftops, sliding down the squints, bounding over the dormers. She flew- but even that, she helped. 

Rescuing people from muggings. Stopping assaults. Being wild and aggressive- and yet able to finally, finally, not kill  Watching young Pups walk alone and making sure they get to their destinations safely. Watching the tired adults head back to their houses in the hours before dawn, making sure they get home safe. She misses that. She misses the ache of her knuckles, the blood surging in her veins. She misses gratitude in people's eyes when she scared off their would-be attackers. She misses the satisfaction that settles in her chest as a person locks the door behind them, unbothered in the night. 

She misses flying. 

"I do," she says. "Very much. It was- satisfying. In a bone-deep way." 

"Yes," and Damian's voice is breathless, airless. She has taken the wind out of his sails, but in a good way, Duke would say. "Yes, it's- it is." He swallows. "I don't want to really stop." 

Cass hums. She had a feeling. 

Oh, the vigilantism- it makes Mom rage. Makes Dad wrinkle. It rankles against Tim and Jason, their bodies and scents going tense at every new bruise. It causes Terry and Carrie to whine and lick and scent and cling. It causes Duke to fall into rants about labor and justice and never-enough. It makes Michael nervous and sad and something else, some bone-deep terror and grief combination that haunts his eyes, his scent, something that even herself is afraid to ask. 

But her? She understands. She knows the feeling, regrets ever stopping it. 

Because yes, Damian comes home with bruises and cuts and battle-weary wounds, but he also comes home free. She sees it in his step, in the rise of his shoulders. He comes home alive, soul singing. 

It makes her teeth ache. 

"Why don't," he pauses, cocking his head, eyes narrowed. Nyssa's look, that is Nyssa's look. "You stopped because of the family." 

"Yes, and no," she says. "No, I stopped because I found out how amazing it feels to learn to do more than just punch and stab people. And how great hot showers are. Soft beds. The luxury of being present. The luxury of a Pack." His eyes skitter away from hers, and she relents, as she did not meant to injure him. "Yes, because." 

"Because?" Damian eventually prompts. 

She gives him another smile- bright, painful. "Because I know Tim would want to follow me."

It's why she's their secondary, even unofficially- once Janet passes the mantle to Tim, Jack will be doing the same to her. Sometimes that happens - one meets someone and it's as if something clicks inside one another. For when she locked eyes with the young Alpha, it was an instant bond, a click that went "brother-soul."  She looked at Jason and saw her heart. She looked at  Tim and saw her soul.

"And if Tim went-" 

She knows- she knows that in the early stages, that if she went out again, if she relieved the ache, Tim would've followed her, filled with bright ideals and newly-Alpha puberty in his veins. He would've followed her in that cocky, self-sure way he was as a youth, before Mother's guiding hand directed and tempered it, before the Twins helped tame it. 

And if Tim followed her-

To fasten, or put together two or more pieces.

"Jason would follow," Damian echoes her thoughts. "And wouldn't take any refusal. Tim would follow you and Jason would follow Tim, and they will ruin their lives because of your choice." 

She smiles, bright, painful, proud- befitting of an al Ghul, understanding the situation. 

"I love them," she says. "I love them both for being too overbearing and annoying yet still always willing to listen and be present. I love Jason because he's a punk with a heart of gold, and Tim for being aloof and yet so willing to do anything for the people he loves. I love how they love this family, and try to bring so much joy and stability to the pack. I love that they love me and I love them because…" 

"Because you can see how much they love and care, for the pack, and for their own selves. How much they would burn for all of us." 

She looks at Damian. Damian looks back. 

"You love them, and so you'll bind yourself so you won't ever see their souls die." 

"Yes," it's a sigh, a breath, but still it slips out of her mouth. "Yes." 

He nods. Jerking, abrupt. 

"I've seen it," it's hushed, this confession. He creeps closer to her and she bends, letting her body protect the smaller. "I know the look when- they're alive but not alive and it's-"

"Wretched," she regards his shuddering. "Awful isn't it?" 

"Yes." He glances at a window. "They no longer look human." 

And she knows what he means- inhuman, with limp or tense body movement, an overwhelming tang of apathy in their scent, and how their eyes, still seeing everything, looks dull and faded and dead, dead, dead. 

It is horrifying, seeing a human with a broken, dead soul. 

Damian shifts closer. Carefully, cautiously, he leans into her space, resting his forehead on her chest. She breathes. 

"Sometimes Father looks like that," he admits. 

She hums, wrapping her arms around him and rocking, a slow, strange pantomime of a waltz. She's done this before with Tim, this strange act of comfort, and for Tim, it has soothed, done its job. Something about the humming and the movement and how she's never seen Tim be still unless it for an advantageous opportunity. Or he got sucked into one of his many interests and/or hobbies again. 

For a minute, a moment, they rock back and forth, slow dancing in twirls, before Damian plants his feet, tension lining his shoulders, his spine. 

"Sometimes," his voice is low, confessional. "Most of the time. Grandfather looked like that. His eyes. They were like viridescent shards, piercing and yet- they weren't alive," he is trembling. "No humanity. Sometimes," his voice is a whisper, and she strains to hear over the cry of the rain. "Sometimes I hate what my Grandfather has done to me." 

It is pouring. It is autumn. 

"It's your spine, isn't it?" 

It is autumn in Gotham. 

"It was a reward," is said in an exhale, and she can see the pain wracking his small frame as his body relaxes, showing her how much damage Ra's al Ghul as done. "That's what Grandfather told me, after. A reward of having a stronger spine, as mine was originally so weak." 

She clamps down on her scent, her blood, her tongue, forcing herself to show gentle eyes, gentle movements, gentle, gentle with the Pup that has been shown violence too early. Gentle her own self and let the weather outside be the face of her emotions, as she hears this violent, bloody, unnecessary confession.

"... It's probably why Mother pushed me to be here. She was not aware of the- modification. And was- not happy." He sighs. "Grandfather wasn't happy about the aftermath as well, but said it was "understandable" given "women's natures."

Frankly, Talia is still on her "do not like" list, but the fact that Talia got justifiably upset, and Ra's…Ra's-ness, to borrow a phrase from Duke, makes Cass quietly decide to reconsider Talia. At a later date, at least. Not now. Not- 

Synonyms: join, tether, tie, daisy-chain, conjoin, attach- 

Not when one of the Pack's Pups needs her. 

They breathe, slowly, as Cass makes sure to slow her breathing, as a way for Damian to match hers. 

Vengeance will come later. Later, she will tell Tim, Jason. Later she will flit on the edges as the Pack comes together, as Mother and Dad and Michael will learn, and be angry- and they will be angry, they hate children hurting, they hate unnecessary modifications, and they especially hate anything done to hurt a Pack Member- and Alfred will try and soothe, soothe, as they temper themselves for Rip, for CarrieTerry, for Damian's own sake- there, Cass will be plan. Will get Duke and Jason and Tim involved in a plan, for vengeance, for justice. 

Right now, though, is for the time of comfort, of hugs. 

So she softens, gentles herself once more. Shows her soft body and soft side and gentle hands for other's comfort. 

Because she's better than her Trainers, than the League, than even Batman. Because Mother showed her once, gentle hands and soften body, even if it comes as easily to Mother as a sapling poking through the concrete. Even if being soft is still somewhat foreign to Cass, she'll still do it, because she is Better. 

She's goddamn Cassandra Drake. 

So they hug, letting breaths match and time pass on by. 

"I can't believe you called our Pack Omega a punk." Damian mumbles and she can't stop the grin on her face. 

"He's the biggest punk in Bristol. Gotham, probably," she says, and there is giddy elation bubbling out of her. Ours. 

Connect.

Definition: 

Ours. 

He said Ours. 

Damian laughs, and she smiles as they walk back to the mats, but for a moment- 

For a moment, for forever now, they are brother and sister. 

United. 

Chapter Text

It had been several weeks and, privately, Alfred thought he had settled in somewhat. 

There was a thin vein of unease, especially with Pack Head Drake, and yes, most of the others, were still wary with him, but Omega Carter -(- “Michael, please, call me Michael, God, I can't stand-”)- Michael, liked him, as did the Young Carrie was warming up to him. 

And of course, it felt good to have Master Damian around. 

He hadn't realized how much the young boy grew on him until he left-

…

-Until he came here and took up residence. How much it soothed him to still be able to see this grumpy, yet kind pup wander into his car after school, to still have him seated on the kitchen counter as he prepared supper. 

He’s found that he even likes the fact that he's not staying in the main house; rather, his living accommodations are in the mother's-in-law suite that's located across the pool, a one bedroom-and-bath, with a decent kitchenette and modern facilities. He’s found that he doesn't mind the separate place, the short walk to the main house. He's able to appreciate the morning light, or the evening rays as he bids the family adieu for the night. 

He has found, or re-found, the slow process of transforming a house into a home, to adjusting to an unfamiliar routine. Sometimes he does miss the Manor, creaks, groans (and being able to be there for-) warts and all. But this new routine is, fine, he's realized. Acceptable. All right. 

…He’s not quite sure if he enjoys the “spying” Master Duke Thomas and Young Terry are doing; he's still on the fence if it's all an act, or they're absolutely trying to be covert and merely failing horribly. 

But either way, it seems to be going well. 

Alfred is actually in the middle of preparing tomorrow's lunches for the young twins and him- really, only just the young twins and himself, but Michael had been pleased about the salad he made a week ago, and the dressing was better after resting a day, so it was no problem, really, to mix that dressing when he was already in the middle of lunch preparation- but he had been in the middle of food preparation when the Omega had strided in with a pile of flyers in his hands. 

“Everything okay?” 

“I,” Michael starts, beaming at him. “Have just successfully put Rip, Carrie, and Terry down for a nap. They are completely conked out, and by my guestimation, there's at least 20 minutes where neither of us need to worry about small people getting into things or biting things or eating things that should definitely not be eaten.”

“Congratulations,” Alfred finally says, unsure of why the statement- which was, impressive, granted- meant that the Omega had collected a variety of newspapers and flyers as a result of that feat. “Why-”

"We," and the Omega drops the pile of flyers on the table with a resounding thwap. "Are going to be cutting coupons in that duration. Because we need to stock up for Thanksgiving." 

Alfred wants to laugh. In fact, he does give out a bemused scoff- except Michael is sitting down and passing over another pair of scissors and oh, lord, the man is serious. 

“Look for any specials on O’Lears canned peaches and spiced apple slices," he says, ignoring Alfred's stunned look. “I want to do a peach crisp and I know Jason wants to make his apple crumble. We also need nutmeg, cinnamon, all spice- ah, and both regular and gluten free flour- trying to see if that helps the Twins,” Michael mutters. “Especially cause Carrie seems to have a mild intolerance. Also molasses and white sugar- Terry got into our supplies and now we're out. Of molasses.” There's a pause and then. “And butter, canned corn, and canned green beans.” 

“Canned?” And God help him, he cannot control his time- because canned apples? Canned peaches? Next, Michael will be saying to look for coupons on granola bars and beef jerky. 

 "Also granola bars, but not the weird crumbly ones- no one will eat them or at best, Tim will eat them when he's out in the garage working but leaves crumbs all over and it attracts pests. Also beef jerky- but only with the low sodium and plain, and nothing in weird flavors because if Jack or Tim want to get the weird flavors, they can buy it themselves.”

Oh, my god. 

“Granola bars and jerky are not food.” He cannot believe he has to say this. He mind recalls back to his-

To His-

…to his previous employer, and how he’s had to tie up that man once or twice for him to stop slurping protein smoothie and just eat. Alfred looks down at the other man.

Michael looks up. 

“Food is food, end of story. There is no such thing as “not real food;” it might be unhealthy food, it might be filled with preservatives to give it a longer shelf life, it might just be food you don't like or can’t eat. But food is food, and we do not shame food in this household, Mr. Pennyworth.” 

The words are said calmly, neutrally, but there's an intensity to the Omega’s eyes, an intensity that Alfred's only seen on one other person. 

He sits back down, shame flooding his senses. 

“I humbly apologize, Omega Drake-” 

“Please, just Michael,” the Omega grimaces, the intensity broken. “As much as I love Jack and this family, I’m not a Drake; just Michael, or, I guess Carter, if you need to use a surname.” He taps the table with a pair of scissors. “Chop, chop; The faster we get to it, the faster we get done.” 

“We're couponing.” Alfred cannot believe this. 

Michael hums, opening a flyer and starting to cut. 

Alfred…

Takes the pair of scissors next to his arm, and begins to do the same. 

He's never done this. As a pup, he remembers ration coupons; he has vague memories of his Dam and other family members cutting out slips of paper, but he has been too busy herding his younger siblings, or working. As an adult, he was either in the service, with his own set of rations and meal tickets, or with the Waynes, and their generational wealth. He's never really had to take care of couponing- budgeting, yes. Couponing?

No. Not really.

It's calming. Repetitive. Much like polishing silverware but less hard on his joints. 

“How’s Damian?” Michael asks, after a while.

“Well,” he puts another coupon into the steadily growing stacks; this one was for canned corn. “He has texted me that he is doing alright in training.” 

Michael hums; there's a faint tinge of sadness in the air, and even Alfred misses the older pup dearly. He can guess why Master Dick took Damian for a “Robin trip” and flew the boy to San Francisco (and oh, does it pang his heart, but he can't yet see his other pup, he just- he can't. Not yet.

Not when he knows- he’ll just go back to the same tired motions, if he does.) 

Damian had also texted him for a favor; it seems the teachers were hesitant to give him makeup tests, and required permission from an adult, due to the sudden disappearance of him. 

Luckily, Alfred was still on the school list, and familiar with the secretary. 

“He also said that he misses us.” Not explicitly, but the implication was there; even via a limited emotive response like a short message service, there was an ache in the words; Master Damian had spent more time complaining about the crowded nature of the tower and the “distasteful” way the other teens and adults didn't wear scent patches in the common spaces. Alfred has seen the way the young man usually burrows himself into the Pack scent-soaked nest every single time he could, gladly accepting Scentings and casual touches as a sunflower to light.

It was plain to Alfred that Damian was sorely missing his secret family. 

“We miss him too,” and this is said plainly, without force, and Alfred knows which pack will actually help Damian thrive into a wonderful man. 

The conversation dies down quickly after that, but it's a companionable silence, filled with the sound of scissors through paper and the rustle of coupon piles. Outside, ever so often a bird chirps. 

 It's quiet, mundane. 

Alfred's surprised how much he appreciates this. How much he missed this, as it reminds him of those halcyon days with a full house of other co-workers and a small Pack, with a quiet, mischievous little pup. A pack that had an Omega Heart of their own. 

Which does remind him-

"I'm surprised Jason isn't helping,” he says, after a while of clipping and organizing. 

Michael gives him a look. "Jason already took care of the first half of the week's coupon. Plus, he's currently out with Cass and Duke with the van." 

"Doesn't he have class today?" 

"Classes aren't in today."

"Whatever for?" 

"Sale day." 

That makes Alfred blink. 

Sale day was somewhat of a Gotham tradition- at least, he had never heard of another city having it. A city-wide, 1 day every 3 months, in which every single small business grocer or small grocery chain has everything go on sale at a very hefty mark down. 

It somehow benefits- food doesn't go to waste, and it actually draws customers away from the big chain stores, and anything left over will be donated to the main food drives and donation locations- but it's a bloodbath. Police are focused on traffic control, riot, and damage prevention, not even bothering with attempting arrests. The ER gets overrun. Petty crime skyrockets, but not as badly as the assault charges. Alfred remembers looking at a video clip on fateful Sale day, of an old woman effectively stabbing the Second of the Triads in the shoulder with a pair of knitting needles over a frozen duck marked down to 25 cents a pound.

And given that Sale Day has happened so close to Thanksgiving, Alfred is sure that the GCPD and- other associates- will be busy in the aftermath for days after. 

"They're at Sale day?” And then it registers who is in the van. “Omega Drake is-” 

“More than capable of taking care of himself,” Michael cuts in, tapping his scissors once more. Alfred dutifully- and not guilty, he isn't a young pup- picks up the scissors and begins cutting once more. 

“Also Cass and Duke are there with him. I’m just hoping we don't have to do any blood tests because someone decided biting was better than punching.” 

“Hail! Hail! The Hunt has ended!” Duke crows as they barge into the kitchen, arms ladened with reusable bags stretched to the brim with groceries. There's blood across his face and several bruises on his face; already one looks to be turning into a spectacular black eye. “Meat and more will be on the table!”

“That's not the proper prayer,” Jason adds wryly, but he's smiling even with the blooming bruise on his cheek and blood splatter across his face. “But you are correct.” 

All of them have been in better shape- adding to the image is the fact that Duke seems to be favoring his left leg and singed in some places, a cut on his right eyebrow is starting to congeal, and is almost completely missing his shirt. Jason’s right pant leg is missing, and has blood dripping down his knuckles. and the only thing covering Cass’ modesty is her sports bra and a pair of bike shorts, which is definitely not proper clothing for the dismal November weather. Adding to the look is the fact that Cass has tissue paper shoved up her nose and a nasal splint already on, a black eye herself and blood on her teeth. 

Michael clicks his tongue, looking unimpressed at Cass. 

“Cass-” 

“It's my blood,” she rolls her eyes, “Lucky strike.” 

“She got sucker-punched in the face by an old lady’s bag that had a frozen duck and a brick in it,” Duke explains as Jason by-passes them, bloodied hands carrying the rest of the groceries. 

“Like I said, lucky strike.” 

“You mean amazing,” Duke counters, embellishing his story as they walk back to the kitchen. “Cass was leaning down to grab at 5 pound catfish marked down to like, three dollars, and all of a sudden- Bang!” He pantomimes the bag swinging, much like a player at the bat. “Cass’ head snaps back,” and here the Beta dramatically snaps his head back, his right hand motioning at his face as if water spurting from a fountain as he continues,” “A river of blood flows up into the air like an arc of life, glistening in the fluorescent lights as if a macabre fountain-”

“Stop with the similes,” Omega Drake grumbles, roughly scenting the Beta as the younger man merely grins and lightly shakes off the hand- only after he got a proper scenting, Alfred noticed, as the Omega rolls his eyes. “You also seem to have forgotten about how you got your black eye.” 

“Hey I don't hit pups or Omegas, you know this!” the young man complains, high over the resulting giggles, absently letting Young Terry climb up into his arms. “I have my morals!”

“Naive of you, Duke,” and Head Drake walks into the kitchen, the only sign of a long day is the lines on her forehead and under her eyes, and her own bloodied knuckles and bruises- a consequence of going to the city on a Sale Day. “Admirable, your dedication to your morals, but still, very naive.” 

“If that's naivete, then I don't want to learn otherwise,” Duke huffs, as Drake passes, and Alfred catches a glimmer of a sad smile before she scoffs, rolling her eyes.

“So which one was it?” Duke huffs at her question, ducking his head and mumbling his response.

“Omega female. Duke was distracted and got sucker punched in the eye. He fell back into a bunch of discounted seltzer water, and someone managed to rip his shirt before we got him back up,” Cass grins. “Also, someone tried to use fire, but I shut that down very fast.” And here her grin turns knife sharp; there's something familiar to Alfred about that grin.

“I was distracted because you got distracted by her!”

“I got distracted because of her fantastic right hook. Which happened after you got punched.” Cass sniffs, gracefully dodging Duke’s swipes as he started chasing her around the kitchen, much to the obvious delight of Young Terry, still clinging onto the Beta.

The mood was light, even injured- no one was skulking, moody, even with a concerned Omega clucking over their bruises, and even the young ones had started playing with Duke and Cass, filling up the air with light hearted growls and laughter. Michael had placed Rip into his walker, and the kitchen was alive. 

Alive in the most mundane, yet wonderful way. 

Alfred can't help but think of past days, of sullen bodies slipping into the kitchen, lost in thoughts in that Manor. Of the silence. 

How strange; the longer he stays here, the more he remembers the gloomy days, than the good.

How much his heart hurts, looking at the way this Pack is so fitted well together. 

“Is Jack in his office already?” Head Drake huffs. “I know he was excited about those documents Professor Sandsmark sent, but-”

Michael cocks his head. “Jack went out earlier, he said he was stopping by the office.” 

Head Drake scoffs. “On Sale Day? He would have-” she stops. “Jason. Where's Tim?” 

Jason looks up from what he was doing. “Wait. He didn't come home with you?”

All come to a dead stop. Alfred is surprised to feel a chill in the air, as Head Drake croaks out, “Are they out there- together?” 

“I’m texting them,” Duke is saying as Cass leaps to grab the landline. Everyone is in a flurry of movement, seeming terrified at two reasonable competent men, in Alfred’s opinion, on being outside with each other. From his observation, Jack and Tim get along fine- much better than the strained relations with Damian and his own Sire. To his assumption, there was no reason for the family to be panicking. 

“Am I missing something?” Alfred murmurs to Michael, who’s calling on his own phone as Jason darts off to apparently commander some other form of messaging. “Forgive me, but I can't see the issue if Master Jack and Master Tim are late.” 

“It's not that, it's that they're alone, together,” Michael mutters, cursing as he’s brought to voicemail again and again. “Tim and Jack have this unnatural charismatic ability, and they're both rather oblivious about it, and both will be hospitable if they find someone interesting, which means-

The doorbell rings. 

Everyone groans. Even Head Drake, who presses a hand over her eyes before dragging it down her face. 

“Not it,” chorused Cass and Duke together, and Head Drake rolls her eyes again as the two started arguing. 

“I’ll go ahead, Head Drake,” Alfred says as he passes her. It's a relatively quick trot to the front door, and unlike the historic, imposing double front doors of the Manor, the front door of the Drake’s where a rather outdated privacy glass block window is on the side of a large oak door, with a stained glass window at the top, a scene of prairie gentian, zinnias, and dahlias intermingling with heliotropes in their array of colors, and casting a rainbow on the floor in the afternoon light. 

“My phone got smashed,” is the first statement from Timothy Drake, when Alfred opens the door who’s apparently searching for something in his pockets. “Also, we apparently lost our keys- I know, I know- but- oh.” The young man finally looks up. “Oh. Sorry, I thought.” 

“It's still an adjustment for all of us.” Alfred gives him this out. At least this time. “May I ask who are your…colleagues?”

Jack Drake is apparently in intense conversation with a tall, blonde-haired teen girl and shorter brown-haired teen boy, both clad in the semi-familiar grab of superheroes, talking about Mesopotamian literature, from the sound of it. There was another teen boy who looked remarkably like Superman, gazing at Tim’s head before snapping his eyes away with a blush at the question of colleagues. 

Next to the boy, is another blonde-haired young woman looking out onto the landscape, albeit more bruised than the other, and obviously not related to the other teen girl as well. For one, this teen girl looks like she's from one of the suburbs of Gotham, whereas if the other isn't a demigod, Alfred will eat his shoe. 

Both the blonde and the Superman-like young man are staring at Alfred like he grew another head. 

“You didn't say that you had a freakin’ butler,” the Superman-alike hisses, as if Alfred couldn't hear him, which was quite rude. 

“It is a recent development,” Alfred says, before glancing over at Jack- still focused on the conversation, and not looking at the door- and saying the magic words, the very phrase that Alfred had found, that can snap Jack back into the present. "Master Jackson.” 

It does the trick; they all watch as Jack does a full body cringe, actually rolling his back as if trying to avoid the touch of something unpleasant. “Oh God, not that,” Jack shudders. “It's Jack, good god-” 

“Good Afternoon, Jack,” Alfred interrupts, nodding his head. Jack swivels his head, blinking as he registers the Beta. “Oh! Alfred. Hello- why are you answering the door?” Alfred blinks back. 

“It is customary for a butler to answer the door, usually,” He responds, as he moves out of the way for the others to pass him. However, before they can even start, a loud gasp cuts through the air. 

The blonde girl (the not-demigod)’s eyes widen as she looks past him, showing her deep blue, almost violet, irises as she points, shock and offense clear on her face. “You!” 

“You!” Master Duke shouts, and Alfred turns to see Duke mirroring her, both adolescents sharing the same sense of outrage on their faces and body languages.

“You.” Is said quieter, but Miss Cassandra is leaning behind Duke, and while shock is definitely there, the shine in her eyes is far from outrage. 

“Me,” the Superman clone says. 

 “Jenga!” That was shouted from the brunet, who included jazz hands in his shout, effectively dissipating the rising tension. 

There's a moment of silence, bar the sound of the evening crickets. 

There's the sound of heels on the floor, a sound that is becoming familiar to Alfred, a new sound in a new routine. 

“Well, then,” Head Drake says, flanking Alfred's left, her tone wry and dry, and as he glances over his shoulder, he can see how the sunlight makes her hair golden as she gazes at the strangers- the caped, adolescent heroes- at her doorstep. She is not shocked. More amused. Or, rather, not amused. 

Intrigued. 

Janet Drake smirks as she gazes at what Alfred is sure to be a new routine. 

"Why don't you come in?”