Chapter Text
Days passed before Jason dared to leave his apartment. He didn't have any gigs lined up for another five days—thank fuck—so he spent the next three cooped up in his office elbow deep in research, only leaving to make food when the alarms he set went off. He didn't dare to go back into his bedroom to sleep, not when he knew the temptation it would bring each time he heard a creak on the fire escape. So he slept at his desk, desperately trying to keep his head clear.
Dick had broken through his defences like they were nothing, but he didn't deserve to. Not yet. He'd only given a morsel in the full scope of what Jason was owed. He was worth more than a few whispered words, he was an entire fucking person. Dick should be on his knees grovelling and begging for Jason to even glance in his direction. Yet here he was, acting like some stray cat in heat all because Dick said a god damn nickname.
Jason chastised himself for hours over it. He was so far gone it was pathetic. It was worse than puppy love, it was a devotion that spanned two lives. Something first born in the streets of the Alley all those years ago, when Jason looked up in awe each time he saw Robin and Batman leaping across the rooftops of Park Row. He'd loved Dick before he even knew his name, and he'd never stopped loving him, not even when he hated him for never answering a single call. If he wasn't careful, Jason knew it would be his undoing. He needed to harden his resolve; he couldn't slip up. The clown had to die first, because if Dick found out, if Dick learned the truth and tried to stop him…it would be a final betrayal that Jason wouldn't be able to take, not when he was so pathetically in love with him. If Dick spared the clown over him, it would be better to tear out his brother's throat instead of giving him a pretty mating bite.
Or maybe he'd leave him with a ragged, painful one. A constant reminder of his choices.
Regardless, Jason needed to remain firm. There were still too many unknowns, and he knew it would be fruitless to get his hopes up. No point in setting himself up for failure, especially if it would jeopardize his entire plan.
Speaking of, Jason additionally kept his hands out of his pants. He didn't want to goad a heat, especially a sexual one. Though that wasn't exactly up to him, and it felt as if his slip of control was a warning. The only two sexual heats he'd ever experienced were both awful, only manageable because Slade was there, keeping him scruffed for a majority of the ten agonizing days. Never touching anywhere else on his body, just remaining there, keeping vigil and watching with a smirk each time Jason wrung out a climax without the relief of a knot.
Jason knew the pervert got off to it.
At least Slade had the decency to finish himself off in the bathroom, spare the single time Jason let him finish on his face. The bastard had aimed for his eye and the privilege had been promptly revoked.
As annoying as Slade could be about quiet literally everything, Jason was also immensely grateful to him. Without him, he wasn't sure how he would have survived any of his heats, sexual or otherwise. At least after the first, after knowing his comfort and the safety of a carefully guarded nest. It wasn't exactly something he'd experienced during his four years under the League's 'care'.
To put it mildly, before Slade came into his life, his heats been hell.
Jason's first was probably the most haunting, the one that had driven him to claw his way out of his own grave, possessing his sluggish mind with only fear. A need to run and hide, to avoid the threat he couldn't see, leading him to wander Gotham and crawl into any nook he could find in his fugue state. His brain damage had been extensive, not to mention the fact he had fucking autopsy wounds, so he'd been in no state to try and navigate his own body or the distress it was in.
That was when that thing showed up, when it kept him alive.
Jason didn't know how long his first heat lasted. Maybe months, maybe an entire year. An unknown span of time wherein that thing began to tentatively explore the world in his body. He couldn't remember much and the green pits in his mind had never offered any insight either. It was only after he pulled himself gasping and terrified from the pit that he'd regained clarity—that he could process thought and memory once more. He was promptly delivered a chilling reality check.
Sometime between the bomb detonating and pulling himself out of the pit, Jason had become a pack-less, dominant omega trapped in a den of vipers. It was a demented psychologists wet dream. Nearly every heat Jason had during his time in the League was purposefully triggered and violent, spare the few times he'd been driven to nest—though those had all turned bloody in the end. Afterall, they were all taken advantage of by Talia, an excuse for her to travel worry free for several days while he guarded the pup in his nest. He was nothing more than a guard dog, one that bit. However, those were fonder memories, mild in comparison to the violent heats, the aggression they poked and prodded from him until he was nothing but a blood hungry, wounded beast.
Considering the circumstances, it wasn't all that surprising that the thing inside him grew too powerful for him to easily control. It was a miracle he could maintain any semblence of control at all. Not many in his situation could say the same. Of all secondary characteristics, dominant omegas were the most unpredictable. They presented in only two circumstances—either a parent possessed the gene and one of their offspring won the genetic lottery or an environmental trigger caused the mutation, a response to an overwhelming outside threat. Given the extreme environmental stressors that triggered his specific brand of omega…
Well, it was no surprise most of his initial heats were violent in nature, driven with the sole purpose of self preservation. His first sexual heat didn't happen until he was nineteen, just a few weeks after Slade had abducted him. Maybe it was because he was easing into the idea that he might be safe, that the assassin who'd kidnapped him actually wanted to help for whatever reason, or maybe it was simply because he found the Asshole attractive for a man even older than Bruce. It didn't help that Slade was always letting his damn robes slide open to reveal his chest hair and chiselled pecs, usually glistening with sweat after hours of training.
Regardless on the reason, Jason hadn't realised what was happening until—from one second to the next—his fangs dropped and he lunged for Slade's throat in the middle of sword practice.
Slade must have been expecting it, smelled something in his scent change, seen a shift in his posture. He moved just in time to avoid Jason's teeth by a hairsbreadth, and he'd chuckled when he scruffed Jason for the first time on the mats lining the dojo floor. Within just a few weeks of gentle coaxing, he'd secured complete victory over Jason because, for some ridiculous reason, that thing saw Slade as a courting alpha and approved.
Despite how it had initially terrified Jason, almost sending his heat in the opposite direction, Slade had proven himself capable. Even with a heat-brained, coveted omega trying to bite at his mating gland, Slade hadn't let him, nor had he tried to bite Jason in turn. He simply muzzled him and proceeded to help him ride out his heat. For ten days, Slade scruffed him, fed him, bathed him, watched him, and told him about different hits he'd done across the globe—twisted bedtime stories after Jason finished coming his brains out for the day.
As much as Jason loathed the idea of trusting his abductor, he'd come around to the benefits of trusting Slade as his mentor by the end of their first heat together. They were courting but they weren't, and Slade retained the privilege to scruff him once Jason surfaced from his heat. All these years later and another shared sexual heat between them, the thought of accidentally setting one off alone was foreboding. Had he not taken those overseas suppressants, he probably would have set one off last night considering that thing was on a hair trigger, much like himself.
He was such an idiot. Jason hadn't let himself fantasize about Dick like that since he woke up in his grave. As for before, well, he didn't have a cunt then. It was more intense than he'd expected, though he hadn't had time to expect anything before the sound of Dick's voice had his cock half hard—as if he were a horny teenager all over again.
He was royally fucked. If he reacted like that over something so minor, how in the hell was he supposed to actually face him? Before he set out on this mission, Jason had assumed his body would react to Dick, that it might override his rational thought. It was the whole reason he'd taken three syringes worth of illegal suppressants, that he'd told himself to keep his distance for as long as possible. Yet it seemed that nothing could stop both Slade's incessant meddling and Jason's own biology, an unfortunate draw back of his extremely rare sex manifestation.
Those very characteristics were going to drive Jason insane. He waited with baited breath for a sudden heat to hit him in the days after, but nothing happened. There was no feral instinct making his fingers twitch or an incessant warmth spread under his skin, and the heavy fog he was trapped in finally dispersed. But there was no telling when it would return, and that was the daunting aspect. What would do it? It could be anything, something as simple as seeing his stupidly hot brother in that godforsaken skintight suit.
Was he really so hopeless that he was doomed to fail this entire scheme? Was he still incapable of killing the clown—?
That thought had sobered Jason on the third day of his self imposed confinement. Because at the end of the day, even if he lost everything else, he wouldn't lose that. He wouldn't fail.
By nightfall, Jason was donned in his suit.
Thankfully, his self confinement had its benefits besides simply clearing his mind. After stowing away for the weekend—time spent combing over all the information he'd gathered and messing with several firewalls to occupy his brain—he knew what he had to do next.
The second step Jason took as Red Hood was to uproot one of the notorious sex trafficking rings in the Alley. Over the last few weeks of roughing up or outright killing problem clients and acting as muscle for the girls who didn't have the backing of a pimp, he'd been able to form connections to the older women. Elena had been the one to secure him a foot in the door after she informed her mother, a prostitute on the other end of the Alley, about his intentions at Jason's request. While the older woman had been apprehensive at first, in the end she'd given him the contact information for several women rumoured to know a thing or two. It had taken time to go over each and every interview he'd conducted, to cross reference and clarify, but it paid off.
The older sex workers knew more about the Alley than most everyone, from stories listened to during their time with clients or while they were carted around by their pimps. They'd heard it all. Seen most of it themselves. Jason spoke to over half a dozen different women regarding the ring, and it was easy to peace together a starting point after connecting each of their stories or anecdotes together. Their base of operations was still a mystery, but he'd narrowed it down to several different properties after he learned the names of a few of the traffickers. Monitoring them was tedious work, especially when Jason would rather take them out of the equation with the pull of a trigger, but it was necessary. He had to root the ring out carefully, dig out the dirt around it until he could yank it all out in one fell swoop.
So presently, from his position on the rooftop across from his current mark's apartment, Jason kept watch and listened to the police radio channels. He was sure Bruce was on the hunt for him now, trying to figure out where he was operating after disappearing like a ghost, but he was also undoubtedly preoccupied with the Joker. There had already been an emergency call to the clown's turf, so Jason was certain Bruce would be off dealing with that for now.
While Jason debated calling it for the night and checking in with Monica—who was trying to get him in contact with her cousin who was forced to run drugs for one of the local gangs—the police scanner suddenly lit up with activity.
"10-23, Dispatch. Approaching building now."
"—be advised, 10-33, Uptown—"
"Dispatch, requesting back up—!"
"—fled the scene—"
"Suspect is crossing bridge into Old Gotham—"
"—10-31 east bound—"
"—this is Dispatch, a 10-89 has been reported in Park Row."
As he listened to the rapid fire chatter, Jason crawled up the fire escape to the roof of the building. The bracing autumn breeze was cold, the sharp whisper of rain on the horizon, and it was there, against the dark clouds looming in the sky, that he saw a familiar symbol in its full glory. He didn't know how to feel, looking up at the bat signal now. It felt hollow, a mirage—nothing graspable, just like the clouds themselves. The child who'd once looked up at it as a beacon of hope had long since been buried. He didn't follow Jason out of that coffin.
Jason knew heroes didn't always make it in time. There were no guaranteed happy endings. He'd even felt sorry for Bruce in the end, laying bloody and broken on that cement floor, sick with the guilt of knowing what his death would do to Bruce. Or at least thinking he knew what it would do to him. He'd accepted his death; he'd accepted that heroes were sometimes too late. He just hadn't expected Bruce to prove that a father who spoke of justice was nothing more than a fraud in the wake of his own son's brutal murder.
Ten years later and Bruce was still chasing the clown through the streets of Gotham—where was the fucking justice in that?
The sound of wailing sirens echoed through the streets when the chase finally neared. With ease, Jason descended from his vantage point and pulled his bike out of its hiding spot. He took his time as he slipped onto his seat, listening to the radio and the sirens that grew louder and louder. Only once a sleek car zipped by followed by several police cruisers did Jason revved the engine to life and zip out of the alleyway.
It was time to remind himself of the reality; it was time for him to accept that Bruce would never do what needed to be done.
It was another factory warehouse, one that stored meat. Jason didn't understand the joke the clown was pulling on Bruce between fish factories and this, but it made his skin crawl all the same as he pulled up to the facility. The cops surrounded the property but weren't entering, likely wary of more bombs undoubtedly planted inside. Commissioner Gordon was with them, keeping his eye on the warehouse while ordering the other officers to evacuate any nearby buildings.
It wasn't too hard to get past Gordon's police line, nor was it that hard to crawl through a window into the attached administration department along the side of the building.
Jason wasted no time as he began looking around, searching for anything that could clue him into what the clown was planning. There was nothing noteworthy, just files of shipments regarding pork and beef and a calendar that noted an administration staff party in a week. There wasn't anything that outwardly pointed towards any involvement with the clown, at least any that would have caused him to chose their facility over all the warehouses in the entirety of Gotham. Though that didn't mean much. Joker wasn't like the average hit, his brand of insanity was unique to him and him alone. It was nearly impossible to decipher his intentions most of the time, not until he wanted you to know, anyway. Though Jason could assume that he'd either chosen this place due to logistics—it wasn't exactly easy to hatch a scheme to plant explosives in an up and running facility—or it was simply because of the elaborate joke he was playing.
The thought made Jason grind his teeth in disgust.
After reigning in his anger, Jason cleared the area of explosives, finding none here, and moved on to find a better vantage point. No doubt the clown had an entire screen play written out on how he wanted this to go, and Bruce would play his part perfectly as usual. While Jason already knew the entire story from start to finish, he decided he should still get a good seat if he was going to watch this play out for the umpteenth time.
There was a short hall outside the administration room, with a wide double doors that led out to the factory floor, but Jason ignored it to instead enter the stair access. He assumed a control room for the facility would be above administration, and the clown likely had a scheme that would involve turning off a refrigeration unit to prevent someone from freezing to death—the sadistic bastard.
The door to the second floor access was already cracked open when Jason silently ascended the stairs, and he drew one of his pistols with practiced ease as he stepped out into the short hallway. There were two doors, one that led out onto a catwalk and the other led to what was indeed a control room, though it's door was also already propped open.
Quietly, Jason drifted closer and peeked inside, keeping his ears perked for even the smallest of sounds. The constant hum of the refrigerator units throughout the building drowned out most sound so that what a bust, but he couldn't see any shadows moving through the dimly lit space. At least no hulking, tall pack-alpha he'd rather not run into tonight—at least face to face.
Finding nothing amiss after a courtesy glance, Jason got low and slipped inside to look around the room, cataloguing what he could initially. Monitors displaying camera feeds, switches for an assortment of freezer units, a water bottle someone must have forgotten when they clocked out for the day. If there were any security guards who monitored the facility at night, they weren't here, meaning either they were the ones trapped or they were Joker's own goons. Considering there was no sign of a struggle, he was leaning towards the latter.
Jason was pulled from his mulling when he spotted another access door, one that lead out onto a second catwalk along the work floor and loading bay. If he wanted a good seat to the show, that would be as good as any.
When Jason neared the windows to map out the layout, he noticed the sleek car from earlier parked in the bay. While its occupants weren't nearby, the doors were left open and the engine running, and it wasn't long until some henchman or another rushed over to load a duffle bag into the car followed by a second and third. They were talking amongst themselves, so Jason snuck out onto the catwalk to eavesdrop, keeping himself hidden in the shadows.
Crouching low, Jason watched the three men rush around, and it wasn't long utnil he let out a sharp huff of laughter as he listened to their conversation. It appeared he'd found the security guards—
It was then that Jason realised four different things within the span of a few sparse seconds.
Firstly, he could hear the distant, familiar hum of voices—tones and inflections he knew, one that brought forth a complex mesh of emotions that left his mind in tangles while the other…the other wrought terror. He couldn't even make out words, just the faint echoes of laughter, and it was enough for Jason to vanish from his body for a brief instant. It sent him back a decade, to when all he knew was the taste of copper and iron, the pain of each blow with no end in sight, all just from the mere sound of the clown's vicious laugh.
The second thing he noticed was that he wasn't alone on the catwalk. He could feel eyes on him. There was a piercing nature to them, the sharp stare of a hawk or similar bird, circling and biding it's time, waiting for the perfect moment to swoop down and snatch it's prey. Jason knew who that stare belong to long before he looked up, before he made the mistake of locking his gaze with the whites of Nightwing's domino mask. Jason could hardly make him out in the shadows, could just barely see where the dim warehouse lights highlighted his muscle and lithe figure. He was all predator, closer to his instincts than he ever was outside his suit, and it sent both a warning chill and a thrill of excitement through Jason, leaving goosebumps over his skin.
The third thing Jason noticed was someone else entering the control room, sneaking up to turn off the freezer units that the clown was taunting Bruce about somewhere below. Jason turned to see who it was, finding none other than his replacement slinking into the room, only to come to a sudden halt when he finally noticed Jason. And it was then that Jason was struck by how truly young Drake was—an adolescent barely past his eighteenth birthday, filling out his body with muscle but still possessing the lankiness of a teenager. Young enough to still be startled enough to miss the fourth thing Jason noticed.
A faint blinking red light, tucked neatly away in the shadows of the control room.
From one blink to the next, Jason was on his feet and running, uncaring of the noise he was making or that he was giving away his position. It wouldn't matter anyway, not with what was about to happen, and Jason gritted his teeth as he lunged towards Drake, narrowly avoiding the staff that came swinging at him. He swept downwards, ducking below its trajectory and using the momentum to kick himself up, hoisting Drake over his shoulder and swiping his staff in the same breath. His replacement didn't even have more than a second to let out a noise of surprise before Jason slammed the staff against the windows of the control room, shattering the glass just before he leapt through the jagged frames, keenly aware of the rapid, quick succession of beeps at his back.
—Jason could feel the swell of defeat crash over him, washing away every ounce of hope that remained inside him despite each break and bruise. Because he could see it, the seconds ticking by in red digital font, counting down the last moments of his life, and he knew Bruce wouldn't make it in time. That even if he rushed inside now, it would only result in both of them being buried below the rubble.
Jason didn't want that, he didn't want Bruce to get hurt, but he also wanted him here. Needed him here, to tell him that it was going to be okay, that this was all a horrible nightmare. He needed him, he needed his pack-alpha, his father—
The heat and power of the explosion crashed against Jason, leaving his skin near blistering and his ears deafened by its destruction. A wave of fire licked upwards and smoke billowed throughout the facility, choking Jason before he even crashed to the ground, barely able to cushion Drake as they rolled and bounced over the cement floor. It was then that Jason's head hit the ground with a sickening crack.
For a brief second, the world went white, blinding him with an intense pain that radiated from the back of his skull, and it left his vision dotted and swimming even after the blinding white light dimmed and the world returned. As it did, the first thing Jason noticed was that he could taste blood—had he bit his cheek?—and he groaned, a mess of limbs and bruised skin. There was a symphony of stimuli around him, too much for his rattled brain to take as he tried to reorientate himself. His ears rang and he could hear the muffled crash of beams, the muted crack of the building crumbling, but when he tried to look back at the explosion, he noticed he was seeing double—no, triple. It sent his head spinning and nausea swam in his gut, but he swallowed it down as Jason forced himself to stand, staggering twice before he got his feet under himself.
Amidst the disjointed sensations his brain was trying to decipher, a streak of clarity cut through it all. The blue of a suit, the weight of his brother's eyes.
Jason turned his head so fast he nearly vomited, but he didn't care, not as he desperately searched the catwalk—or what remained of it. Fire was spreading like a river across the ceiling, licking away at the flammable material while the feeble sprinkler system turned on, doing nothing against the raging inferno. Within the chaos, Jason couldn't see Dick anywhere, but that was more of a relief than anything.
Dick managed to get out of the way. His older brother was okay.
Unfortunately, Jason's relief was short lived. It was then that he noticed the three men from earlier pulling themselves off the ground, having been thrown down by the force of the explosion. They seemed to have noticed him too.
"Great," Jason hissed between his teeth. Then he turned to glare at his replacement, still in a heap on the ground. "This is all your fault."
Drake could only groan. Clearly he hadn't gone through the same exposure therapy as Jason. Probably for the best, considering Jason hadn't survived it.
Shaking off the final dredges of his disorientation, Jason positioned himself between the three lackeys and Drake's half conscious body. That thing inside him rattled at the bars, already over agitated from all that had happened and now eager to rip out the throats of the men that dared to approach the young little alpha that he'd just risked his life to save.
The gall.
Chuckling bitterly under his breath, Jason unlocked that thing's cage and unsheathed his katana, having lost his pistol at some point during the explosion. It was no matter—he might as well have some fun.
The fun was short lived. It wasn't even like a cat batting at mice, it was a lion squishing flies, and he had the three men gutted like pigs and Tim Drake propped up against the bat-mobile before Bruce could even drag the clown from the burning rubble. A courtesy that, unlike Drake and the clown, Jason had not been given the luxury of those ten long years ago.
Shortly later, Jason sat on the roof of the building opposite the warehouse, watching fire crews fruitlessly try and put out the flames as the warehouse crumbled to ash. The wail of sirens bounced between the alleyways and the lights of emergency vehicles painted the buildings along the street. Three people were getting medical attention from the EMTs on scene, likely the victims that had been trapped in the freezer units, now bundled in emergency shock blankets while the cops jotted down notes as they conducted their interviews. It was a cut and dry case regardless. An armoured vehicle from Arkham had already arrived to transport the clown back to the Asylum, a place where he would inevitably break free of again. Perhaps in a few weeks, maybe a few months, but surely nothing longer. Never any longer.
The heat of the flames fanned out through the streets, and Jason let his eyes flutter close behind his mask. There was a morbid comfort in its warmth. He could almost pretend he was a young again, that the heat of the flames was nothing more than a fire in the hearth, warming Jason while he lazed in front of the fireplace. The crackle of fresh logs splitting, the sound of shuffling paper as Jason flipped a page in the book he held, enjoying the steady weight of Dick's stare on him—
Slowly, Jason opened his eyes. He didn't bother looking over his shoulder, to the shadow watching him. "Glad you made it out safe," he said, uncaring what Dick might make of his words. He was too relieved to care, knowing that he'd escaped unscathed—or at least well enough to stalk after him.
When there was no reply, Jason swallowed down his trepidation and glanced over his shoulder. It was then that he finally laid eyes on Dick under the glow of Gotham at night. The second he did, his mind drew a momentary blank. Dick was devastatingly handsome with his windswept—explosion-swept?—hair and sharp features, cutting a striking silhouette against the backdrop of the city.
All Jason could do was stare, taking in the curves of his muscles, the grace and poise he possessed even in a suit so tight Jason had little left to the imagination. Somehow it was worse—better—than his old suit.
"Nightwing," Jason greeted, a little colder. He tried to go for indifference, even as he felt a part of himself stir, eager to see just how strong and lithe Dick was, to feel his power and remember why he so desperately wanted him—
Oh for fucksakes!
He had to keep himself on a tighter leash.
"We finally meet," Dick—no, Nightwing—answered. There was an overwhelmingly oppressive aura to him, one that exuded a power that few could oppose. It even made a part of Jason want to submit, to lower his gaze and bow his head for him, though that was soon shattered by his next four words. "You killed those men."
Of course the first thing he said to him was a lecture, his voice dripping with a sharp accusation that made Jason's stomach twist and curl. At the same time, a snarl built in his chest, his anger winning out over the painful sting left behind by Dick's tone. "What does it matter to you? This isn't your city. Go back to Blüdhaven—"
"Why?" Dick interjected, his voice commanding, sending a chill down Jason's spine.
The domineering displays were throwing Jason's instincts in an array of directions. Part of him wanted to growl and snarl and bite, to prove who the more powerful one was. Another part of him found it attractive, a show of strength that was worthy of his attention and consideration. But mostly, it left Jason feeling hollowed out, knowing Dick was doing it because he already disapproved of him, already saw him as some murderous monster, no better than any other villain on these streets.
He'd always known that it was inevitable, that his actions would garner this exact reaction. It still hurt.
"Why what?" Jason growled.
Dick squared his shoulders, clearly meeting Jason's own challenge. "Why save Robin?"
That brought Jason up short, and his usually quick tongue tripped over itself in his mouth. He tried to think of an answer, something to excuse what he'd done, but what could he say? He couldn't really understand his own actions either, considering how starkly they contrasted with each other. After his first display of antagonism towards the bats, suddenly he was saving them from dire peril. There really was no answer to it besides—
"He's just a kid," Jason said truthfully, daring to meet Dick's gaze.
A heavy silence followed. A long pause as Dick studied him, cutting and gutting him under his stare like he was a hunk of meat. Debating if he was worth it—if his words held any merit. It left Jason feeling even more vile, as if he were no better than the gum under Dick's boot, and an even more painful ache grew within his ribs, making it harder to breath. However, before Jason could snap at him again, Dick's plush lips parted.
"Help me kill the clown."