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It all started on one of those strange mornings when the entire family—and quite a few others—were gathered for breakfast after a patrol.
Bruce sat at the head of the table, half-asleep over his plate of scrambled eggs and whole-grain toast. Dick, to his right, cheerfully ate pancakes and drank a protein smoothie. Jason preferred fried eggs, bacon, and juice; Cass usually didn’t linger at breakfast, but when she did, she’d typically ask for just a little fruit with honey. Stephanie always ordered chocolate waffles, and Duke did the same, only with honey.
Tim normally just had black coffee, staring absentmindedly at his laptop on the table, until Alfred scolded him for breaking the “No work at the table” rule—which, ironically, wasn’t the case that day.
He himself leaned more toward tea and vegan yogurt with granola and nuts.
Breakfast went on as usual, as mundane as ever.
The only real difference was that it was the first family breakfast Tim had joined in the past week, due to… well, he had been indisposed. Tim presented as an omega at seventeen, almost two years later than the usual age, so almost everyone in the pack had assumed he was simply a beta.
Dr. Thompkins had clarified that his late presentation was the result of a combination of factors: accumulated stress during critical years of his development; poor emotional bonding caused by emotional neglect and prolonged isolation (thanks to Jack and Janet Drake); vitamin and mineral deficiencies; medication for depressive episodes that disrupted his natural pheromone production; and a behavioral and neurobiological mutation affecting the expression of social and affectionate behaviors typical of omegas—like the ability to form emotional bonds or respond to stimuli. A genetic mutation possessed by less than 4% of the omega population.
In short, it had been a crazy week for Timothy.
As a consequence, he now had new, highly controlling restrictions imposed by Bruce, which even Dick supported, despite usually being the first to complain about the older alpha’s overprotectiveness and constant need for control.
For example, along with Alfred, and to address the “vitamin and mineral deficiency” part, Drake now had a very specific diet. His usual breakfast of black coffee and work was completely out. Instead, he had a plate of fresh fruit, oatmeal pancakes with agave honey, and chamomile tea, not forgetting the little glass of vitamins next to a glass of water.
And Tim… well, he was adapting.
He still looked back and forth between his breakfast and Bruce in disbelief.
“This is too much, I won’t finish it,” he finally said.
“It’s a normal portion. Being used to eating air and Zesti doesn’t make it too much, kid,” Jason teased from the other side of the table, ignoring the annoyed glare Tim shot him.
Bruce didn’t even glance at Drake as he said, “Eat everything, Tim. And don’t forget the meditation session in the gym at three.”
“Remind me why I need that?” Tim muttered, clearly annoyed.
Bruce, either not picking up on the tone or choosing to ignore it, answered matter-of-factly:
“It helps reduce cortisol, relax muscles, regulate pheromones, and lower stress and anxiety. Need more reasons?”
Drake didn’t respond this time; he just sighed heavily and began picking at the fruit on his plate with disinterest.
Damian and Tim sat side by side, a decision made by Dick in what he called “exposure therapy,” which basically meant forcing them to sit together without trying to kill each other. Damian ate without much interest; he wasn’t very hungry that morning but knew he had to finish his plate, or Alfred would have something to say.
He barely noticed when Drake started taking fruit from his own plate and putting it on Damian’s. He frowned, looking at Drake with some confusion.
Sure, he understood not wanting to finish his food, but there was no reason to throw it onto his plate.
He was about to complain when he felt Timothy’s hand on his cheek… Was he… stroking him? Damian almost recoiled instinctively, expecting maybe a pinch or something. But no, it was definitely a caress.
From the position and proximity, Damian could clearly smell Tim, emanating from the scent gland in his wrist. It was sweet, warm, and slightly strong due to his recent heat, and Damian felt a little dizzy for a moment.
The touch was quick—one moment there, the next it was gone. Damian froze. The entire family, in fact, froze.
“Why are you giving me your food, Drake?” he asked, when he probably should have asked why he was touching him.
“You need to eat more, pup…” Tim fell silent, suddenly aware of what he had said, yet he didn’t stop putting fruit on Damian’s plate.
Bruce, who had also been watching the scene with a puzzled frown, finally reacted.
“You too, don’t give your food to Damian. He can ask for more if he wants.”
Tim seemed about to argue, but Dick quickly intervened.
“How are you feeling, Tim? How was your heat?”
“Terrible,” he answered, without specifying which question he was addressing.
Richard studied him silently, clearly expecting more. Timothy exhaled and sipped his tea before speaking.
“It wasn’t the best thing that’s happened to me, but honestly, I don’t remember much. Dr. Leslie said that because of all my… issues, I have stronger reactions to pheromones, heat, physical contact, well… everything. So most of the time, I was in this weird mental fog where I understood absolutely nothing. Bruce says I was basically acting purely on instinct.”
What he said was worrying enough, but even more concerning was that, while speaking, he casually stroked Damian’s cheek again. Tim didn’t even seem aware of it, almost as if he were acting on instinct, just like he’d said.
Damian stayed still. Very still. He didn’t know what to do—he couldn’t push Drake away or shout at him to stop. His father had been very clear with everyone about Timothy’s situation days ago. Due to his condition, his emotions and instincts were more intense than an average omega’s, making him particularly vulnerable to rejection, pack conflicts, and stress.
His father had been explicit: under no circumstances should anyone do anything that could trigger Tim until he was fully adapted and recovered.
Would pushing and shouting trigger him? Probably, Damian thought. So that wasn’t an option. He simply stayed still.
Besides… Tim smelled really good.
It was a relaxing scent, if he had to describe it. Maybe too relaxing, because he quickly began feeling sleepy and started yawning uncontrollably. Tim caught the gesture from the corner of his eye and smiled softly.
Tim Drake-Wayne smiled at him.
As Damian saw it, there were only two possibilities:
Either he’d woken up in an alternate reality where he and Drake got along.
Or he was losing his mind.
He barely reacted when Tim finished recounting what had happened during his heat and stared at him, as if expecting a response to something Damian hadn’t heard.
“Excuse me… what?” he asked, confused.
“I asked if you’re sleepy, Dami.”
Damian was going to answer—he really was—but the words died in his throat when Timothy leaned toward him and brought his face close to Damian’s hair. In that position, with the scent gland in his neck nearby, Damian noticed that Tim’s aroma was even stronger there. He clumsily nodded.
“Finish your breakfast, then we’re going to sleep.”
Damian said nothing, simply nodded again. Tim leaned back slightly and returned to his meal. Dick, sitting across from them, couldn’t even hide his surprise and bewilderment at the situation. Truthfully, he couldn’t blame him; he was just as shocked, maybe more, because… since when did Tim treat him so affectionately?
Dick and Damian shared a look of utter confusion.
And they hadn’t even processed the implications of what Drake had said. “Go to sleep,” he said… like, together? The two of them? Maybe Damian was just overthinking it; perhaps Tim was also sleepy and would go rest after breakfast, not implying they’d sleep together.
No one said much after that. Everyone seemed busy making their own theories about Tim’s behavior, and when he finally finished eating and got up from the table, everyone just watched as the omega leaned over Damian, sniffed the scent of milk on the younger boy, and murmured something about making a nest.
“He’s gone crazy,” Jason said, the first to speak once Tim left the dining room.
“What the hell was that?” Stephanie asked. Cass, beside her, was even quieter and more thoughtful than usual.
Duke hadn’t even finished his waffles, staring at Tim’s empty chair as if it held all the answers.
“He wants to steal Dami,” Richard said, in that overly dramatic tone he sometimes used.
Bruce cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention.
“I’ll consult Dr. Thompkins about what happened. Until then, nobody says anything to him or makes him feel uncomfortable.” Everyone nodded without complaint, leaving Damian staring at them in disbelief.
“And me? I’m the one on the receiving end of all his weird behaviors!”
Cass, who had stayed quiet until then, spoke.
“They’re not… weird. He’s basically acting the way a mother would with her pups,” she said, probably trying to reassure Damian—but it just scared him more.
“I’m not his pup! I’m not even a pup!” he exclaimed, consciously keeping his voice low because it would probably be bad if Timothy heard him say that.
“First… I have nothing to say about that. But second? You are definitely a pup. You’re eleven, Dami. You literally smell like a pup,” Richard said, much to his younger brother’s dismay.
“Damian,” their father said, drawing the youngest’s attention. “I understand this might feel strange or uncomfortable for you, but Tim’s going through a rough time, okay? Try to be patient with him.”
Very much against his will, he finally huffed in annoyance and accepted it.
Bruce was on the phone with Dr. Thompkins that same day, and after several evaluations and hypotheses, they arrived at a conclusion.
“So… Tim just… claimed Damian as his own..?”
Leslie let out a small, nasal laugh. “Not exactly ‘claimed,’ but yes, something like that.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, frowning with that mix of worry and exhaustion only his children could evoke in him. “How does that happen? I thought those responses were more… controlled, at least at someone his age.”
“In someone with a normal presentation, they would be,” she replied. “But Tim never developed that part on time. His body spent years without producing pheromones consistently, without the hormonal patterns that teach the nervous system how to respond to secure bonds. Simply put, his brain never learned to recognize his pack.”
“And now it has,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.
“Now that his system has stabilized and he’s surrounded by familiar pheromones, his body did everything at once,” Leslie explained calmly. “Damian was probably a trigger; his limbic system responded like any omega would when identifying their own pup. Oxytocin release, prolactin, partial cortisol inhibition. His body is protecting him.”
Bruce frowned. “And that’s dangerous?”
Leslie hesitated a moment before answering.
“Not necessarily. But it’s intense. Tim is overloaded—emotionally, hormonally, even physically. He doesn’t know how to regulate it yet, so he’s going to feel drained, more anxious, and probably more territorial. He’ll want Damian nearby all the time. Take him away suddenly, and he could go into crisis.”
Bruce pressed his lips together, serious.
“A crisis?”
“Acute anxiety, rapid heartbeat, pheromonal dysregulation, insomnia,” she enumerated. “Classic omega overstimulation. It’s not your fault or his, Bruce. It’s his biology.”
There was a silence. Bruce nodded slowly, not looking up from the floor.
“So… what do I do?”
Leslie smiled faintly.
“Nothing. Don’t force him to control it, at least not yet. Just give him time, a safe space, and stability. His body will learn to self-regulate. And when that happens, his bond with Damian will become something stable, not an overwhelming impulse.”
Bruce drew a deep breath, nodding again, even though she couldn’t see him.
“Understood.”
Leslie paused for a moment longer, her tone tired but tender.
“Believe me, Bruce. It’s normal, and everything will be okay.”
Or at least that’s what she said. Bruce wasn’t so sure how long Damian’s patience would last. He had explained everything to him, and Damian had reluctantly agreed to try to be empathetic—but he did say try.
The boy had a confused, nearly defeated look as he tried to sketch something in his notebook but kept getting distracted, noticing that Tim was inching closer and closer. At first, the three of them were in the living room: Damian on the armchair by the window, drawing, and Tim typing absentmindedly on his laptop at the other end of the same couch. Bruce sat on a separate chair a few steps away, pretending not to watch.
It was obvious to him that, minute by minute, Tim was creeping closer into Damian’s space. But Damian simply kept his gaze on his drawing, and when he looked up again, Tim had inched even closer.
At some point, they were shoulder to shoulder, and Tim rested his head on Damian’s shoulder as if it were the most comfortable pillow in the world.
Damian froze completely.
“What are you doing?” he muttered under his breath, not moving.
“Nothing,” Tim replied, voice muffled, not stopping his typing.
Bruce raised an eyebrow from his chair.
The atmosphere in the room shifted into something strange: neither uncomfortable nor relaxed, somewhere in between.
Damian tried to shift a little, but even the slightest movement made Tim make a soft noise, a nearly sleepy murmur, and snuggle closer.
“Don’t move so much, Dami,” he murmured in a low, husky voice.
“I haven’t even moved,” Damian replied, offended, but he didn’t push him away.
Bruce had to stifle a smile. Not because it was funny—but… well, because it kind of was.
Jason was leaning against the doorframe, watching the two younger ones with a half-smile.
Tim sat on the couch, checking something on his tablet and glancing at Damian from the corner of his eye, while meticulously cleaning one of his swords with his usual intense focus.
“What a picture,” Jason commented, crossing his arms. “The family baby playing with knives and the other pretending he doesn’t care.”
Damian looked up for barely a second.
“I’m not a baby.”
“Uh-huh. Sure,” Jason laughed, shrugging and popping a fry into his mouth.
Normally, that would have triggered a sarcastic response from Tim, or at least a knowing smirk. But instead, he slowly lifted his gaze and fixed it directly on Jason.
It was a sharp look. Not angry, more like a warning.
“Don’t bother him,” he said quietly.
Jason blinked, taken aback.
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t call him ‘baby,’” Tim repeated, setting the tablet aside. His tone was flat, but something in his posture—the straight back, tense shoulders, the faint tremor in his jaw—put Dick immediately on alert.
From his spot, he looked up, assessing the atmosphere.
“It was a joke, little bird,” Jason said, trying to sound relaxed.
Tim didn’t answer. He just stared for a few more seconds, until Jason felt the urge to look away. Then, without warning, Tim let out a low hiss, more instinctive than conscious.
Damian turned, surprised.
He looked at Tim for a few seconds, confused, before smirking slyly and turning to Jason, as if daring him to keep teasing.
“That’s all you got?” Damian said, voice firm but playful, resting his chin on Tim’s shoulder with an air of casual ease.
Jason raised an eyebrow, amused and slightly off-balance.
That damn kid, he thought.
Tim felt Damian’s contact, and almost immediately, his body responded without thought. A gentle warmth spread through his chest, and a low purr escaped his throat, barely audible. His fingers moved almost on their own, sliding through Damian’s hair, smoothing loose strands with care. His nose brushed close for a moment, inhaling the familiar scent instinctively.
At first, Damian frowned, puzzled, but he didn’t pull away. The warmth and calm radiating from Tim made him stay still, a faint, amused, and challenging smile tugging at his lips as he kept his gaze on Jason.
Tim said nothing. He just stayed there, breathing, purring, and running his fingers through Damian’s hair, completely absorbed in the sense of closeness and safety.
It was a moment of absolute calm for him, and even though Damian wouldn’t admit it out loud, he felt it too.
Tim woke with a start in the middle of the night. He didn’t know why—he just felt a pressure in his chest, a cold that made it impossible to stay still. The bed felt too hard, the air too cold, and every shadow in the room made him curl in a little more. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and began moving the blankets. One, then another. Folding them, arranging them, stacking them, turning them over… he thought maybe tidying up would help him sleep better.
The pillows came next, disheveled, twisted, uncomfortable. He lined them up, turned them, caressed them carefully. Even the clothes he had tossed on the floor found a place among the blankets, forming a small refuge.
Then his gaze fell on a blanket left on the chair at his desk—the one Damian had left in the living room that afternoon. The boy’s scent was still on it. Tim grabbed it almost without thinking and carried it to his corner, placing it on the mattress, inhaling delicately. The aroma calmed him. A low purr escaped his throat before he could stop it. Warmth spread through his chest, and his breathing slowed.
The blanket smelled like Damian, but it wasn’t enough. His body needed more. Needed him. Without thinking, he got up, leaving the blanket perfectly arranged, and walked toward the boy’s room.
He found him in bed, curled up among the blankets. Objectively, he knew it was impossible to catch a child trained by the League of Assassins by surprise, so it wasn’t a shock that Damian was awake when he opened the door. Still, the boy said nothing as Tim approached and, without hesitation, lifted him carefully and hugged him to his chest.
He thought he heard a sigh, as if Damian were slightly tired or annoyed.
Why was his pup upset? Unacceptable.
It wasn’t hard to carry him back to his own room. Damian had plenty of complaints about it, but eventually, he exhaled and leaned against Tim’s chest, frowning.
Tim lay back on his bed again, gently adjusting Damian on top of him, running his fingers through his hair, inhaling the boy’s scent as his own breathing calmed. The anxiety that had woken him hours ago dissolved, replaced by a feeling of having the world under control.
Damian was awake, sleepy, and confused, but he didn’t pull away. He just shifted slightly, letting Tim continue stroking his hair.
Damian sighed again, this time longer, a mix of sleepiness and mild irritation. Tim raised an eyebrow, amused and a little affronted. How could his pup be annoyed while he was just trying to take care of him?
“Shh…” he whispered, barely audible, adjusting the blankets around them. “It’s okay. Nothing can bother you here.”
Damian’s brow remained furrowed, but his eyes slowly closed. His body, without his mind’s permission, responded: his shoulders relaxed a little, his breathing slowed, and a faint shiver ran down his back as Tim stroked his hair. His half-open eyes watched Tim’s gentle movements, not fully understanding why his instinct told him to stay there, pressed against him, relaxed despite everything.
In the midst of his drowsiness, he was vaguely aware of the strong scent of Tim—stronger than usual. He felt the soft fabrics of blankets, pillows, even clothes layered over the bed; if he weren’t so tired, he might have realized he was inside a nest.
Timothy’s nest.
But well, that he would discover in the morning.
His new and very strange dynamic with Drake was still recent—only two months had passed since his father’s call with Dr. Thompkins—and although he’d assured them that Timothy’s instincts would gradually stabilize, the truth was that things seemed just as chaotic as before, if not worse.
In the mornings, Tim made sure Damian finished his entire breakfast, and if he decided he needed to eat more, then he had to eat more. After that, Drake was forced by Bruce to participate in his strange meditation sessions in the cave, giving Damian at least two hours of peace and solitude to draw, play with his pets, or sharpen his katanas.
Later, Drake would find him again, and Damian—clever as he was—took advantage of the time in the living room to do his schoolwork. Convenient, since Timothy was something of a genius in almost everything he did, so Damian could always ask him for help with anything he got stuck on. He could probably manage on his own later, but Drake always seemed especially happy when Damian asked for assistance.
A major perk of homeschooling was that he didn’t have to leave the mansion often—but the rule didn’t apply to Timothy, who held the position of majority shareholder at WE. So, at some point in the afternoon, he always had to go to work, dragging Damian to the front door with puppy-dog eyes, as if he didn’t want to leave him alone. Damian always let his older brother sniff him a little before leaving, feigning annoyance with masterful skill, though he never tried to pull away.
Damian used those moments away from Tim to go down and practice sparring with Cass or Richard, even Jason if he happened to be around. He was strictly forbidden from engaging in any combat or strenuous activity near Timothy, because his father insisted it could unsettle him—or worse, trigger an impulsive reaction if the omega interpreted the training as a threat.
The point was, for one reason or another, Damian had to be incredibly careful with everything involving his training and his brother. His practice hours were meticulously scheduled for times when Tim wasn’t home, and the session had to end exactly when the omega returned. For safety, they said.
The thing is, when your older brother is giving you a beating in sparring, you don’t always notice the time.
The sound of punches echoed sharply against the mats. Richard moved with his usual agility and precision; Damian relied more on a mix of stubbornness and pride, refusing to give an inch. Neither spoke much. Only the echo of footsteps, short breaths, and the brush of sweat hitting the floor.
Dick dodged a blow, barely smiling.
“You’re getting distracted,” he said, twisting his body and pushing Damian back with a clean kick.
Damian rolled, landed on his feet, exhaling sharply in frustration.
“I’m not distracted. I’m just measuring your mistakes.”
“Ah, sure,” the older boy laughed. “Then measure this.”
The next exchange was faster. Damian threw a direct punch at his stomach; Dick blocked, twisted, grabbed his wrist, and immobilized him with a lock. Nothing serious. Just practice.
But the snap of the body hitting the mat sounded louder than expected.
It was just as the gym door opened.
Tim was in the doorway, a folder in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. For a moment, he said nothing.
His eyes locked on Damian’s body, on the sudden movement, on the sound of the hit.
The change was immediate.
Dick noticed it before Damian could even recover.
“Tim,” Richard started, raising a hand, “we were—”
“What are you doing?” Tim interrupted, voice too low, almost a murmur.
Damian frowned.
“Training. The usual.”
Tim set the cup on a nearby table with a soft thud, not taking his gaze off the spot where Damian was still holding his forearm.
He approached slowly. The scent of his pheromones shifted, unmistakably obvious since he wasn’t wearing any patches. Not aggressive, but tense.
“You shouldn’t…” he started, but didn’t finish.
He simply crouched in front of Damian, gently taking his wrist, checking the arm carefully, fingers trembling.
“I’m fine” Damian muttered, annoyed, trying to pull away.
Tim didn’t respond. He just stared. Clear, dilated eyes fixed on him.
Dick saw the instinctive movement before Tim even realized it himself: his body leaning toward Damian, his nose brushing the dark hair, breathing in, recognizing.
A long exhale, almost a low purr.
The silence stretched for a moment.
“Tim,” Dick called again, feigning calm with that steady tone of his, though probably hiding his own nerves. “Really, it’s okay.”
Finally, Tim looked at him. He didn’t seem particularly angry, but he was tense. A warning look. The kind of look that said stay away from my pup without words.
Dick swallowed, not averting his gaze. And at some point, for no reason he could explain, he stepped back one pace.
Only then did Tim seem to relax. He lowered his head, resting his forehead against Damian’s shoulder for a moment, letting out a sigh that sounded more like relief than breath.
Damian glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, confused.
“Tt. Ridiculous,” he muttered, but his voice was low, almost soft.
Tim didn’t respond. He simply wrapped an arm around him, making sure he was really okay.
Dick watched from a distance, unsure whether to laugh or worry. Definitely, Bruce would need to hear about this.
Tim arrived shortly after six.
The sound of keys clinking echoed briefly before he dropped them into the bowl by the door. He took off his jacket, folded it over the back of the armchair, and loosened his tie with a tired movement. In one hand, he still held a small paper bag with the logo of a vegan grocery store. He had picked it up on the way home, without thinking much, part of a routine he didn’t even know when it had started.
He climbed the stairs slowly, not even noticing where he was going until he was standing in front of Damian’s slightly open door.
He knocked once, out of habit, and pushed it open.
Damian was on the couch by the window, hunched over a sketchbook. The evening light fell across him, tinting the edges of his hair gold.
Tim approached without saying a word and placed the bag beside him on the couch.
“Thanks,” murmured Damian, distracted, without looking up from the paper.
The gesture was so natural that Tim didn’t even realize how habitual it had become.
Sometimes oatmeal cookies, amaranth bars, or small packets of dried fruit. Always something he could eat without needing to explain where it came from.
Damian didn’t ask. Tim didn’t offer explanations.
Not that there were really explanations to give. It was just… something in the interaction, in that small exchange, that somehow made him happy. When he saw Damian wandering the mansion, casually eating what he’d brought him, he felt that little warmth in his chest that he didn’t know where it came from.
“You’re welcome,” he murmured back.
He ruffled Damian’s hair as he passed—a brief, automatic gesture—and only then noticed the boy sitting on the bed.
“Hi, Jon,” he greeted with a slight nod.
“Uh, hi, Tim,” the boy replied, a little surprised.
Tim nodded and left just as quietly as he had arrived, gently closing the door behind him.
For a few seconds, silence filled the room again.
Jon broke it first.
“What did he give you?”
Damian lifted the bag and checked its contents.
“Oatmeal cookies and a cacao-chia bar,” he said, shrugging.
Jon watched for a moment, frowning curiously.
“Tim brings you food? I thought you guys… didn’t get along that well.”
Damian just huffed, opening the cookie package.
“We don’t,” he replied, as if that explained everything.
When he broke the first cookie in half, he left a piece at the edge of the bed without looking.
Jon smiled, accepting it. Then he pouted, though he’d never admit it was a pout.
“Kon doesn’t bring me food.”
The room smelled of calm.
And warmth, and something sweet that Bruce recognized without needing to name it.
Tim was curled up in his nest—blankets piled high, his clothes mixed with Damian’s and some of the family’s. Bruce suppressed that proud alpha instinct when he noticed a piece of his own clothing in Tim’s nest.
The air was heavy with that scent that only omegas gave off when their bodies were in heat. Sweet, warm, but strong.
Damian slept next to him, pressed against his side, one small hand clutching his shirt. Bruce stayed at the edge of the bed, moving as little as possible, just watching.
Jason leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, with a mix of mockery and something close to tenderness on his face. Dick, as always, had taken the liberty of bringing a cup of tea, which he held in his hands, stirring it without drinking.
Tim opened his eyes slowly when he felt movement. He didn’t seem agitated—just tired, with the heaviness that came after too many days without proper sleep.
“You feeling better?” Bruce asked softly.
Tim nodded, slowly.
“A little,” he murmured, voice a bit hoarse.
In theory, this should be his last day of heat, so consciousness was gradually returning. Dick approached to set the cup on the nightstand but paused at the low growl that escaped Tim when he shifted one of the blankets.
“Easy there, little bird,” Dick said, raising his hands.
“Don’t take him,” Tim whispered, not taking his eyes off Damian.
Which was a bit of an unfounded fear—Dick clearly wasn’t going to snatch Damian. But none of the three adult alphas present were going to argue with the logic of an omega in heat protecting his pup.
The boy hadn’t moved. He slept deeply, brow relaxed.
Jason snorted softly.
“We should put an alarm on him, so we’d know when he’s about to go ‘hands off my pup or I bite.’”
Tim ignored him.
Bruce shot Jason a sharp look and a low growl—a small warning to leave his brother alone.
Tim might be protecting his pup there, but Tim himself was Bruce’s pup.
The omega’s breathing deepened as Bruce brushed his hair, a gesture as subtle as it was delicate. And, for a moment, Tim allowed himself to relax—letting the contact anchor him, as if something inside him needed to be reminded he was safe.
The contrast was almost comical: the protective omega, surrounded by three adult alphas who could take him down effortlessly, and yet it was he who was setting the boundaries.
Dick moved again, more carefully this time.
“I’ll just leave the tea here, okay?”
Tim nodded, eyes still closed, face buried in Damian’s hair.
Bruce rose silently.
Jason followed, though he paused for a second before leaving.
“You’re going to spoil him,” he muttered, barely audible, clearly referring to Damian.
“I don’t care,” Tim replied, not lifting his head.
Damian, who everyone had assumed was sound asleep, peeked out from under the blankets and stuck his tongue out at Jason in a gesture so childish it was easy to remember he was only eleven.
Tim let out a small laugh and planted a kiss on his forehead without thinking, completely instinctively.
He stayed very still afterward; he had never done something like that before despite the unnerving closeness they had developed, and he didn’t know how Damian would react.
Damian simply pressed closer to his side, burying his face in Tim’s chest and began to purr softly, releasing that scent of his own pup, of milk and sweetness.
Bruce smiled gently from the doorframe, finally feeling a bit of peace now that his babies weren’t trying to kill each other.