Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first strike came like lightning, sudden, brutal, and impossible to anticipate.

Jason’s breath ripped from his chest in a wheezing gasp, fire burning through his lungs as though molten stone had been poured straight into them. His wings beat erratically, ragged edges catching the wind and dragging him sideways. The pain tore across the membranes like lava, every movement only deepening the wounds.

God, it hurt.

He hadn’t heard them approach. He hadn’t seen the glint of scales or felt the warning rush of displaced air. One moment he’d been gliding above the storm clouds, watching the sun’s light fade into bruised purples and grays, the next, talons like iron had slammed into him from beneath.

Caught off guard. Dragged down. Claws digging for the softer, thinner scales of his belly.

Whoever it was, they were either desperate or stupid. Jason’s chest was plated in thick scales too strong to pierce, but his wings, his wings were another matter. And when the other dragon realized brute force wouldn’t break him, they’d gone for the cheap shot.

He’d roared. He’d thrashed. He’d felt the membrane of his left wing rip under the enemy’s claws. Hot, wet pain exploded down his side, and panic swallowed thought whole.

The skirmish hadn’t lasted long. A minute, maybe two. His attacker broke off once it was clear Jason wouldn’t go down easily, disappearing into the storm with the satisfaction of damage done. But the wounds they’d left behind…

Every beat of his wings was agony, the holes stretching wider, blood slicking his scales. And now the storm was breaking over him in full. Rain lashed against his body, salty and stinging, seeping into every torn edge. The wind tore at him, threatened to shove him back, to drag him down into the churning sea below.

And worse, there were sounds. Shapes in the storm. The whisper of wings that weren’t his own.

Chased. Hunted.

He didn’t even remember when he turned his flight toward familiar skies. His mind was a fog of pain and instinct, one desperate, grasping thought beating louder than the storm, home.

He wasn’t supposed to go back. Not like this. Not as the dragon he’d become, darker and harder than the bright-scaled hatchling who’d once left that nest behind. His father had said he would always be welcome, yes, but instinct whispered warnings of territory and rejection. He was bigger now. Sharper. Different.

But the hatchling in him, the part that still longed for the warmth of his sire’s coils and the safety of a family piled together, drowned out every warning. That hatchling cried out with broken, mindless sounds he barely registered escaping his jaws:

Hurt. Father. Hurt. Scared. Please. Need you. Sire. Please.

On and on, ragged calls that slipped between teeth without thought.

The storm blurred the world until he didn’t recognize the cliffs, didn’t see the familiar outline of rock until it was almost too late. The mouth of the cave loomed in front of him like salvation, and Jason angled downward, every ounce of strength going into one final push.

It wasn’t a landing. It was a crash.

Stone shattered beneath his weight as he hit the ground hard, skidding across slick rock, wings folding against him in a convulsion of pain. His vision swam black at the edges, his chest heaved for air, and still the helpless cries tumbled out of him,

Hurt, father, please, sire.

Then the dark swallowed him whole.

Chapter Text

Alfred paused mid-motion, a half-folded length of cloth still between his claws. His ears flicked, catching a sound that had no business echoing through the stone caverns of the nest.

A cry.

Not the call of a stranger, nor the challenge of a rival. It was rawer than that, thin and ragged, the sound of a dragon in pain. And beneath the torn edges of panic, familiarity. Recognition rooted deep in his chest.

He knew that voice.

It was the second oldest.

For a long time, Alfred had feared he might never hear it again. But now it reached him, frayed and cracked, breaking apart into half-formed pleas: scared... hurt... sire.... please...

The cloth slipped from his claws. He was already moving.

In the main cavern, Bruce had frozen mid-step, massive head tilted toward the sound. His pupils were slits, wide wings dragging against the stone as his body readied itself to launch. Alfred could see it in every line of him, the moment recognition hit, the way the great beast trembled on the knife’s edge between control and feral instinct.

“Jason,” Bruce breathed, a low growl shaping the name.

Another cry, closer now. And then, impact. The very walls shuddered under the sound of it.

They didn’t wait. Both dragons surged toward the entrance, claws biting into rock, air whipping around them as if the storm itself was being dragged inside. The scent of rain and blood hit Alfred’s nose before the sight did.

And then he saw him.

Jason was a crumpled shape at the mouth of the cave, half-collapsed on his side. His wings, oh, his poor wings, were torn and twisted, membranes slick with blood that dripped onto the stone in steady streams. His scales had darkened since Alfred last laid eyes on him, no longer the vivid hues of a hatchling but deep crimson and black, hardened with age. A stranger’s colors, perhaps, but the boy beneath them was theirs.

Bruce’s roar ripped through the storm, so loud it seemed to tear the air apart. It was rage distilled into sound, a vow that any who had done this would be hunted and destroyed.

But when he reached Jason, the fury shifted.

Bruce lowered himself slowly, lowering that massive head until his snout nearly brushed the ground. A deep, rumbling sound rose from his chest, not a roar now but a low, steady growl, comfort, reassurance, the same sound he had used to calm hatchlings fresh from the shell. His great jaws opened, teeth gleaming in the stormlight, yet there was nothing violent in the motion.

He lifted Jason carefully, delicately, as though holding spun glass. He didn’t use talons, didn’t risk tearing already-ruined wings further. Instead, he cradled the limp form in his jaws with impossible gentleness, one breath away from panic but refusing to let it show.

“Bring him inside,” Alfred said firmly. His voice was calm, even, the same tone he had used a thousand times to steady Bruce before. “I’ll fetch what I need.”

He turned sharply, claws scraping stone as he doubled back into the cavern. Shelves carved into the walls held what he required: rolls of cloth, jars of salve, poultices prepared in advance. Alfred seized them all, piling them against his chest. He did not allow his claws to shake.

Behind him came the sound of stone scraping under Bruce’s weight, deliberate and measured. Alfred glanced back once, just long enough to see Bruce carrying Jason into the heart of the cave, every step controlled, as though sheer will alone could keep the boy tethered to life.

The storm raged on outside. But their boy was home now.

And Alfred would see to it that he stayed.

Chapter Text

The main nest was quiet but for the sound of rain dripping from Jason’s battered body and the low rumble in Bruce’s chest.

He had set his son down on the thickest bedding, a wide platform of woven reeds and cloth softened with shed feathers and furs. Jason’s body sagged into it, limp with exhaustion, blood seeping in dark stains beneath him. His chest rose and fell, too shallow, too uneven. Each breath dragged a new growl from Bruce, as though the sound alone might steady it.

Alfred moved with practiced efficiency. Cloths unrolled in neat rows beside him, jars uncorked with claws careful not to spill. He did not rush, though urgency pressed against his spine. Rushing led to mistakes, and mistakes could cost lives.

“Hold him steady,” Alfred said quietly.

Bruce lowered himself beside the nest, curling massive forearms around Jason without touching the wounds. His tail arched protectively, his head hovering close, one eye fixed on every flicker of movement. He radiated a restless energy, every muscle tight, but he did as Alfred said.

The first touch of cloth to torn wing drew a twitch, a shudder, a faint hiss of pain from Jason even in unconsciousness. Bruce snarled low in his throat, teeth flashing, but Alfred did not flinch.

“He feels nothing compared to what it would be if we leave the wounds open,” Alfred said, tone even, clipped. His claws worked steadily, pressing clean cloth against bleeding edges, blotting, wrapping. “You must let me work.”

Bruce’s growl softened, but his eyes burned bright, unblinking.

It took long minutes to staunch the worst of it. The wounds began at the wing’s edge, claw rakes that tore inward toward the bone. Blood oozed heavy at first, then slowed under Alfred’s steady pressure. When the cloth darkened beyond use, he replaced it with fresh, never faltering, never letting his hands shake though his heart twisted tight.

When the bleeding was under control, Alfred dipped claws into the jar of salve, the pungent scent filling the chamber. “This will sting, even unconscious,” he murmured more to Bruce than to Jason. “But it will keep rot from setting in.”

Bruce shifted closer, nose brushing lightly against Jason’s side as if to shield him from pain he could not stop. Jason stirred faintly, a broken sound slipping from his throat, half a word, half a cry. Bruce’s answering growl was soft, almost a purr, though it trembled with fury and grief.

“Easy, my boy. Easy now,” Alfred said quietly as he smoothed salve into torn flesh. Jason whimpered once, then sagged again into stillness.

When the worst was done, Alfred sat back, wiping his claws clean. The wings were bound, salve layered thick, cloth wrapped snug to hold torn membranes together. It would not heal fast, it might never heal perfectly but it was enough to keep him alive, enough to let his body do the rest.

Bruce had not moved. His body curled close around the nest, head resting near Jason’s, one great wing arched over them both like a living shield. His eyes never left his son.

“Rest,” Alfred said softly. “He will sleep for days. There is nothing more we can do tonight.”

Bruce’s only answer was a low, steady rumble, vibrating through the floor. A vow, unspoken but unmistakable: nothing would touch this nest, not while his son lay within it.

Alfred let him be. For now, vigilance was all Bruce had to give.