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Dick is heartbreakingly limp in Bruce’s arms, his scent saturated with pain and fear. There’s a sickly aftertaste of despair that Bruce doesn’t think he’ll be able to get out of his mouth, no matter what he does.
“Dick,” he says softly, and his son doesn’t respond. Bruce is trying to not look at his hands, fingers broken and askew, trying not to notice no matter how carefully he moves, each step he takes causes Dick’s caramel scent to swell with pain.
Bruce pulls on every emotional management skill he’d learned in his lifetime to not let a hint of his anger hit his scent. The sight of his son, mostly naked, trembling, surrounded by strange alpha scent—
He hopes the fact Dick isn’t fully nude means he wasn’t raped. Bruce couldn’t smell it, but—the room is full of fear, it could be covered up.
It is the easiest way to brutalize an omega in heat.
Just before they reach the car, Dick murmurs, “I’ve missed you,” and Bruce’s chest cracks right down the middle even as bends his head to hear Dick’s faint voice “I’m sorry I left. I wish—” His voice fades and then he finishes, “I wish you still loved me.”
Bruce is breathless for a painful moment, and then chokes out. “Dick, I do, I love you, I’ll always love you,” but Dick doesn’t seem to hear.
“I wish you were really here,” Dick mumbles faintly, and a hand closes around Bruce’s heart and squeezes.
“I am here,” he says as strongly as he can. “You’re safe now,” he adds, and can’t keep his voice from breaking.
Dick doesn’t respond, lost inside his head, driven deep to hide from—from whatever happened before Bruce got there. Before whoever finished, and sent him a message he’s even now trying to trace.
Pick up your lost bird.
A picture of Dick as Nightwing, knees drawn up with arms wrapped around them, head bowed, vulnerable. A room Bruce didn’t recognize. A set of coordinates.
But where he’d expected to find Nightwing, he found his son in heat, mostly naked and tortured, bruises forming on his neck, tears slipping down his face, curled around hands that looked more like claws than anything human, and—
It feels like an eternity before they get to the Cave, Dick curled on his lap the entire time.
Dick is shockingly compliant, barely struggling, even though Bruce knows he’s hurting and knows their medical care is not painless. They’ll get the fingers set and splinted, start blood analysis, and then Bruce will tuck his son safely into his nest.
Bruce wishes they could just sedate him, but he knows Dick’s heat wasn’t due for another three weeks, because he never stopped tracking or worrying. The first time Dick had his heat away from the Cave, Bruce was so sure his son would come home. But…Dick didn’t.
Bruce didn’t know how to fix what he’d broken.
What that means now is that they can’t risk the unknown heat inducers interacting in a dangerous way with sedation, and Bruce curses himself letting Dick slip away from them. All they can do is numb him before they set his fingers.
“No,” Dick whispers, as Bruce holds him steady for Alfred. “No, please, I’m sorry—” He breaks off with a cry as the needle goes in.
Alfred’s eyes are over-bright as the beta murmurs soft reassurances, while Jason’s eyes are huge. Bruce knows this is the kindest option but yet—
“Please,” Dick begs. “Please, I don’t know—Slade,” he gasps out.
Bruce loses control of his scent for just an instant. Rage flares out into the cave, so sharp and strong that Jason, hovering in the background, takes a step away automatically. He knows not to be near an angry alpha.
Bruce shuts down his scent the next moment, but the damage is done. Dick’s tipped his head back, exposing his bruised neck, and he’s whining softly.
Alfred gives him an unreadable look, and Bruce thinks it could be a reproach or a silent promise to get his shotgun when he’s finished splinting Dick’s eight broken fingers. The eight fingers Slade broke while Bruce’s son was in heat.
“Shhh,” Bruce murmurs.
It had to have been about Ravager, and Bruce plans to notify the JLA to keep a closer eye on the Titans, to insist on regular check-ins. They don’t have to check in with him personally, but if Deathstroke is targeting the Titans, none of the JLA will stand for that.
Alfred inspects Dick behind a curtain, and when he comes out he looks relieved. A knot Bruce wasn’t fully aware of relaxes in his chest. Whatever happened to Dick, it wasn’t rape. Whatever else Deathstroke did to his son, at least it wasn’t that.
For the first time, he regrets teaching an omega to be a vigilante. He’s not prejudiced, or stupid. He knew the risks. And he firmly believes omegas don’t need to be coddled or have extra protection; that’s just a bunch of classist bullshit. But to see this first hand—
Bruce has never wanted to kill anyone as badly as he wants to kill Slade Wilson, and he both regrets and appreciates that Dick’s pain is going to keep Bruce close to home.
Dick settles into the nest, into Bruce’s bed, but he’s not really settled. His breathing is uneven, and he’s pulling away and pushing back against Bruce in turns, classic traumatized heat omega. Dick used to be caramel and softness, limp nuzzling into Bruce, trusting that he’d be safe.
And now—
He’d dreamed of having Dick home again, but not like this. The sound of a scuff makes Bruce look up.
“I saw,” Jason starts, haltingly, hovering in the doorway. “On the streets, if a ‘mega was stressed, they’d put a pup in with ‘em to help ‘em calm down. I could—?”
Bruce doesn’t want to leave his child, but he isn’t sure he’s helping, and Jason is right. Pups are universally non-threatening. Dick tenses when Bruce slides out of the bed, but then relaxes.
Bruce knows Dick was bracing for Bruce to hurt him.
Because Slade hurt him, because Slade took his son and—
Jason tentatively approaches the edge of the bed, uncertain but willing to try. He scrambles up on the edge, pausing before moving closer to Dick. The omega is worryingly still, and Jason carefully slots himself right next to him .
Normally an omega craves an alpha during heat, needs one close by to stay calm. But after what Dick has been through, Bruce isn’t sure what he needs. All omegas respond to trauma differently. Trying Jason is a reasonable course of action and—Bruce can see the tension leaving Dick’s body, and abruptly he can’t handle not being the one who brings him that peace.
He lost that right when he didn’t bring Dick home and keep him safe.
“I’m going to check on his labs,” Bruce says, and leaves when Jason doesn’t protest.
They can’t stop the heat, but they can shorten it and lessen the symptoms. Alfred watches the boys while Bruce writes terse notes to JLA members and waits for the closest thing to an antidote to finish processing.
When the machine finally, finally spits it out, Bruce grabs it, abandoning a note to Hal mid-word and sprints up the stairs. Not like notes to Hal do much good; Bruce isn’t entirely sure the man can read.
Outside Bruce’s room, Alfred tells him the boys are fine, relaxed, calm. Bruce takes a few deep breaths to match their calm energy, and slowly steps into the room.
“Slade, no,” Dick says, scrambling faster than Bruce expected during heat, and yet somehow not using his hands. Dick curls his body around and over Jason and says, “Please, not a pup. I didn’t run away, I’ll say whatever you want, please.”
An ugly rage rises in Bruce’s chest, the syringe creaking in his hand before he loosens his grip.
“It’s not Slade,” Jason says, voice unsteady. “Can’t you smell ‘im? It’s Bruce.”
Dick’s tense body trembles, Jason’s fear scent not reassuring, and Bruce approaches the bed with measured steps.
“Look at me,” Bruce says firmly, running a hand down Dick’s back, feeling his son shudder under him. Dick doesn’t move, trapped in a terrifying landscape in his mind, and Bruce’s worry and fear makes his voice sharper than he intends when he says, “Dick.”
In his mind, a much smaller Dick grins up at him and says, “Uh oh, you brought out the Batman voice.”
Bruce winces, because a traumatized omega, his son, doesn’t need that during heat, but—
Dick lifts his shaking head and looks at Bruce, and Bruce can see Dick’s gaze sharpen and focus on him.
“Dad?” he asks, hesitantly. “Dad,” he says again, voice cracking. He looks down at Jason under him, looks back up at Bruce, and bursts into tears.
Bruce doesn’t remember getting on the bed, but he’s holding Dick, soothing him while he cries and shakes. Jason is patting Dick’s knee, keeping up a steady stream of reassurances while Bruce just holds on, not sure how he’ll ever let go.
“You’re safe,” Jason is saying. “We’re in the Manor. No one’s gonna getcha here. They’d have to go through Bruce and me.”
Around the time Dick’s shaking is subsiding, Alfred comes in with a platter of fruit, Dick’s favorite heat foods.
“Lookit,” Jason continues. “Alfie brought you strawberries an’ apples an’ pomegranate.”
At the word pomegranate, Dick’s head lifts, looking towards the doorway.
“You’ve had a rough time,” Alfred tells him. “Let us feed you, build back up some strength.”
Jason grabs a strawberry and holds it up to Dick. Dick very carefully takes it, chewing and swallowing.
With his hands, they’re going to be feeding and cleaning and bathing him for at least two months.
“I’ve got something to shorten your heat,” Bruce tells Dick. The syringe is on the nightstand.
“Yes, please,” Dick says, voice hoarse.
Jason picks another strawberry and Alfred moves to sit on the bed. Bruce reaches over with slow, careful movements and grabs the syringe.
“Me or Alfred?” he asks his son quietly.
Dick turns so he’s leaning on Bruce’s chest, relaxing his full weight. His hands rest limply at his sides, monstrous-looking and wrong.
“You, please,” Dick says, and Alfred spoons some pomegranate seeds into his mouth.
Despite being relaxed, tremors run through Dick. Bruce carefully injects him, and Alfred and Jason spend a good ten minutes feeding Dick. Jason brightly chatters on about school, about the books he’s reading, never a word about anything that might relate back to their nightlife, nothing that might upset their traumatized omega.
Bruce thinks his heart might burst with pride.
Eventually, Alfred briskly says, “Come on, Master Jason. We need to rethink our meal plan.”
Bruce knows he’s leaving him alone with Dick deliberately, giving Dick space to speak privately.
But that means Bruce is left alone with his wounded, traumatized eldest, who thought Bruce had stopped loving him.
Dick feels—hazy. Everything feels unreal: the pain in his hands, the ache in his throat, the burning heat, the crisp, evergreen scent surrounding him and soothing him, and most of all Bruce’s hand coming around with another spoonful of pomegranate.
“You want to talk about it?” Bruce asks, gentle and concerned, but so clearly not pushing.
“I was—I was tired,” Dick says, after swallowing pomegranate down a painful throat. Slade squeezed so hard— “Someone grabbed me, drugged me, planned to auction me.” Dick can hear his voice is unsteady. “And then—Deathstroke was there.”
Bruce’s arms tighten around Dick and belatedly he realizes it’s because he’s shaking more and more.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” Bruce tells him.
“I don’t even know how he knew I was there,” Dick continues, unable to stop.
His alpha wants to know, Dick knows Bruce always wants to know everything, and Dick can’t fight against any alpha, not anymore.
Or maybe he just needs to get out as much of it as he can.
“And he—he took me.”
Dick can feel the cool metal of the gun in his hand, see the way Slade never even flinched.
“He told me he’d start killing people if I tried to escape,” Dick whispers, closing his burning eyes. “He thought—he thought we killed Ravager and the autopsy report of heart failure was faked.”
The loose shirt they managed to get onto Dick doesn’t keep him from feeling the heat of Bruce’s warm body. An alpha. An alpha who is actually safe.
Dick’s chest heaves with a silent sob.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce whispers into his hair, and Dick feels like he’s freefalling, heart breaking.
It’s not—it wasn’t—Bruce came for him and—
“I’m sorry I got angry,” Bruce continues. “And I’m sorry you felt like you had to leave, and I’m sorry you felt like I replaced you. And I’m so sorry that you being out there alone—”
Bruce’s voice cracks, he cuts off.
“It’s not your fault,” Dick mumbles, wiping his face with his wrist and forearm, hiding what those words mean to him.
Dick left, he ran away, he yelled, he abandoned—there was no part of him that thought Bruce cared, but he’s in Bruce’s nest.
Slade is gone. He’s not going to hurt Dick again, and Dick flinches at the memories too close to the surface. But it’s Bruce he smells, Bruce was all he wanted while Slade—while he—
“He told me he was going to cripple me, paralyze me,” Dick whispers, eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Break my spine. I didn’t—I couldn’t say the right thing. I would have said anything he wanted,” Dick admits, feeling like he failed in some undefinable way.
Bruce’s scent flares out in anger around him, but Dick knows bone-deep that his alpha isn’t angry at him. He basks against Bruce’s heat and safety, drifting a bit, willingly letting heat fog his senses.
“I’ll kill him.” Dick’s eyes snap open. Bruce’s voice is more strained than Dick has ever heard. “I will kill him for this.”
“You don’t—”
“He hurt you.” Bruce’s voice is dark, low. Feral.
Dick swallows. “He didn’t rape me,” Dick says, like his hands aren’t useless. He’s been carefully not looking at them.
Bruce’s hand gently smooths over his hair. “We know,” he says, voice still barely controlled.
Dick is—does he stop this? Does he encourage it? The idea of never having to face Slade again, but Bruce having to live with it—
Dick is not clear headed enough for this. He keens softly, on instinct, and Bruce’s scent smooths out the angry edges.
“You did amazing,” Bruce tells him.
Dick shakes his head fractionally. “I—my body—he’s an alpha,” Dick says. “And my body kept thinking he was going to keep me safe, but I knew—I knew better, but he—”
It’s not until Bruce's thumb swipes across his cheek that Dick realizes he’s crying again. He’s never hated being an omega until tonight. He’s never been so betrayed by his own body, so manipulated, so used.
In one way, rape would have been easier, cleaner. What Slade did to Dick—Dick isn’t sure he’ll ever get the scars off his soul. He’d never doubted being safe with an alpha before, not when he was in heat. And now, even with Bruce, he’s got a thread of anxiety running through him.
“He broke me,” Dick says out loud, and Bruce’s arms tighten for a beat around him.
“No,” Bruce says firmly. “You’re here, you’re going to be okay, you’re safe.”
“I don’t feel safe,” Dick whispers. He’s not sure he’ll ever truly feel safe again.
Bruce stiffens under him. But when Bruce moves to disentangle himself, Dick presses back into him, heart fluttering in his bruised throat. He wants to cling desperately, but his hands—his fingers—
“Don’t go,” Dick begs. “I don’t—it’s not you—please.”
“I’ll stay,” Bruce says immediately, softening back onto the bed, and Dick gives a trembling sigh of relief. “But if you would rather someone else—”
An abrupt shake of Dick’s head makes Bruce cut off mid-sentence. There’s silence for a moment, and Dick focuses on keeping his breath even.
“Is he going to go after the rest of the Titans?” Bruce asks after a while.
The idea—Dick tenses, but says, “I don’t think so. I don’t know. If he didn’t believe me—he could have killed me, he could have crippled me, he could have—” Dick swallows. “But he left me.”
“And sent me a note,” Bruce adds.
Dick blinks.
“He told you where to find me?”
“I got a picture of you, and coordinates,” Bruce says softly. “And I dropped everything to come and get you.”
Unwilling to believe, Dick bites his lip.
“I love you,” Bruce tells him. “I never stopped. I never will.”
Dick trembles in the safety of his arms.
“I’m sorry you ever doubted that,” Bruce says, and Dick—something inside of him cracks wide open, or maybe it never closed.
He turns on his side, crying into Bruce’s chest, unable to stop. The tears drip down his cheeks without stopping, tears of regret, of loss, of grief and pain and the weight of just life, and it’s all too much. He sobs, chest heaving, Bruce’s scent curling around him, soothing his heat, Bruce’s warmth reaching his core. Bruce’s hands stroke his side, slide through his hair, pet him constantly.
And Dick is tired. He’s in heat, he’s—hurt, and he’s just so tired. But he’s home, in the nest that has meant safety to him for most of his life, a place he’s never been hurt. So, between one sob and the next, he lets himself slip into the oblivion of sleep.