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Objectively, it's a horrifying wretched rotten scent.
Subjectively though, Bruce likes it a lot.
Because this is Bruce’s horrifying wretched rotten scent to take to bed, time and time again.
Rationally, there is probably some kind of justification to be made as to why he can stand it when no one else does. He's a beta in a family of alphas and omegas who can pick out a single scent in a line up of many. He's a beta that probably has what can be considered as a very severe case of nose-blindness if put to the test. But even with all that in mind, this here remains Jason's horrifying wretched rotten scent.
People say that alphas and omegas have a possessive streak that is innate to them.
But Bruce wants to propose that there is nothing like a beta that can keep a pragmatic mind and still want the way that he does. Because that's his son to claw his way out from the dead just to come back into this alcove of Bruce's arms. In all honesty, he doesn't care what the reviews can say about Jason's alpha scent. Bruce is selfish enough to want it all for himself.
Because he has dealt with death all his life, so much of it too.
Even if it’s more of a regurgitation, it's only fair for death to finally give something back.
Kevlar peels back to show skin and flesh, and Batman is being rendered into just another man.
It has been a very long night, and as Bruce strips down, careful of the deep tissue bruising beginning to bloom, this is when Jason comes tearing into the Cave on the back of his motorcycle. The alpha doesn't look any worse for wear but he does look pissed before he even takes off the helmet. It's in the body language, the way he dismounts, kicking out the stand on his bike with a lot more aggression than he ever treats the things he loves.
And he loves that bike.
Bruce is pulling off his gauntlets as Jason stalks over on heavy steps, like there is any need to announce his presence when there is no one else here save for them.
“You didn't call me in.” Jason takes off his helmet, shakes out his hair as he comes right up to Bruce. Every bit accusatory short of stabbing a finger into the chestplate of the Bat when that comes off next. “Why.”
If Bruce is any other designation, he might even feel that compulsion to flinch. Maybe bow his head or even show his throat, submit in all the ways that a beta should to his alpha. But their dynamic and their pack has always been an entangled sort of mess. Displays of dominance and acts of submissions do not matter here when the power imbalance has long been flipped onto its back with its thighs splayed wide apart between them like one more invitation.
Bruce is within Jason's reach but the alpha doesn't cross that final threshold even if he could. Maybe especially so. Instead, Jason holds himself back.
It would be easier, but Bruce doesn't get to read it in his scent. Instead, Bruce is forced to learn to read from all of Jason's other tells on full display for him.
“You were off-world.” Bruce answers, matter of fact, eyes slipping down past the hard set of Jason's down-turned mouth to the bare line of his neck. Case in point, Jason didn't even put on his scent patches before storming here, and he knows how Jason gets about having his scent out in the open like this.
“I got back three hours ago, you knew that. I could've helped.”
Now it's absolutely an accusation when Jason is standing up to his full height where they are toe to toe. And it could very well be a full blown fight, but.
“I also know you haven't slept in more than forty-eight hours.”
“It was barely forty-nine.” Jason grumbles, like that's any better, and it almost is when he knows Bruce has done far worse before. It's not a competition. But Bruce takes gold.
“You're no good to me when you're compromised in the field from sleep deprivation.” Bruce says, and it takes conscious effort to properly explain himself even if he's kind of abysmal at it. Jason waits him out, because the real truth in that is this: "What I mean is that I'm no good to anyone if you get hurt." Jason's eyes go to the blooming bruises already taking shape across Bruce's torso, scoffing at obvious hypocrisy in Bruce's words. "We had the situation handled. You didn't need to be there. You're already running on fumes, you should be resting."
They deal with breakouts from Arkham every other month. It's practically marked down on the Batcalendar in a bright red marker.
It should grate, and it does in some hind brain reaction that hasn't learned to read Bruce through every misleading sentence he admits to. But the thing is, Jason has learned to read between the lines, much like Bruce has come to navigate Jason's own body language without any help from his scent.
Jason doesn't deflate, but he does let that agitation seep out of him bit by bit on a long drawn out exhale before he makes his declaration.
"I'm going to scent you now, B."
He doesn't wait for Bruce to assent, knows it in the way Bruce doesn't move away, standing steadfast in the face of Jason and all that he is. A final step, and Jason closes the distance between them to bury his nose into Bruce's neck. He inhales deeply first, and there's not much more than the usual post-patrol musk. Bruce is more Kevlar and leather than even sweat, but there is a touch of drying blood that might just be hints of Jason's scent that never left.
It has never been easy between them. But he wants to try, he always does. They are worth the pain of whatever they may face.
A tilt of Bruce's neck and he is granting him more room to get in closer. They are both going to need a decontamination shower after this, except that's probably not even going to get much of the scent off when Jason cannot stop himself from making it worse.
But when Bruce is doing his backhanded roundabout way of making sure Jason is okay, Jason gets so incredibly stupid about it.
They can both see the GPS map on one of the Batcomputer screens tracking the rest of them as they make their way back across Gotham City to come home to the Cave. But Jason doesn't let go and Bruce doesn't ask him to.
Jason just wraps his arms tighter around Bruce, turning the inside of his wrists to drag them across every surface of the man that he can touch. Bruce doesn't fight him on it and that's really permission enough. Jason's mouth is pressed against the underside of Bruce's jaw, the flat edge of his teeth pushing into the soft pulse of his carotid artery, and the words spill over like he's bitten down hard enough to draw fresh blood. "Next time, you can just say you were worried about me, B."
Warmth flooding at every point of contact even without the taste of rust.
"I did." Bruce points out, and this is not an olive branch being extended but the whole tree being uprooted from the ground. It's in the obvious confusion in his expression when he adds. "I always am."
As Bruce keeps learning, Jason's arousal is a lot like his agitation. It leaves his scent on absolutely everything, and Bruce is no exception. If Bruce is reading all the signs correctly, the alpha before him is either so thoroughly pissed off at him or right about ready to go into rut.
It really could go either way, it's what keeps things exciting.
It's overpowering.
That's the first thing anyone ever notices before being hit in the face with a myriad of very visceral reactions.
For a lack of a better description, it's akin to the smell of days-old roadkill scraped off of the burning asphalt in the middle of a humid Gotham summer. It's comparable to the permeating stench that settles into the walls of the room until it induces nausea in every single occupant unfortunate enough to be handcuffed to the radiator of this same space.
The Cave's ventilation system is good enough where any scents stronger than the average alpha even at their most heightened tends to get washed out until it is almost negligible.
This smell is not negligible by any means.
It's a great big explosion of death in all its decaying stages distilled onto a single man, and the effect is physically staggering.
Tim walks in, stopping abruptly in his steps, and his brows are wrinkling, nose is crinkling, and he might or might not be turning slightly green to ask. "Why does Bruce smell like a morgue that's eight hours deep in a power outage?"
Dick comes out from between the shelves where the spare equipment is kept, looking ill even with a rebreather on. "To be honest, I nearly threw up when I got the first whiff of it.”
He doesn't answer the question, but at least Tim knows he is not crazy when Duke is taking a rebreather from Dick's offering hand with a gasped out thanks. Duke gets it on in record time, secures the strap before he can properly exhale through his nose again. Eyes a little watery still, he adds his own two cents. "I personally think it's more like if someone tried to chemically engineer blood and vapourized it through an exhaust pipe straight into my brain."
Stephanie perks up from where she is restocking her own utility belt, mask fully covering her mouth and nose when she is still in her full Spoiler suit.
Tim cuts in before she can come in with her own take, trying to find an explanation before they all decide they want to analyze the smell for what it is and not where it's coming from. “Can someone tell me why Bruce smells like someone died and decomposed all over him?”
They are all alphas, and alphas have their sensibilities when it comes to certain scents.
Competing alpha scents are definitely a major cause of it, but that is accounted for. They are used to that when they all share a space here. The Batcave is neutral territory, has been when this space was just Bruce and Alfred's. But this, well, this feels like something very different when they have known Bruce Wayne as a beta all their lives.
And there is no world where betas smell Like This.
“Don't say that about your brother.” Bruce says, finally turning around from where he is seated at the Batcomputer, finally joining in on all the commotion like he isn't the man of the hour.
He is changed, even looking freshly showered.
He also looks absolutely ambivalent to the revolting scent draped on him. They can all chalk it up to him as a beta with the nose-blindness to match. But it still feels like some kind of superpower when everyone else is a breath's distance from throwing everything in them out.
"Yeah, Tim. You could really hurt my feelings with that kind of insensitivity." The brother in question is striding in from the communal Cave showers, shirtless, scent patches gone without even the sticky residue to show on each side of his neck. It's a dawning moment where they put together the scent with the new alpha that has been here all along, stinking up the place.
For a long few seconds, they all look genuinely apologetic about it until Dick lowers his rebreather to try again, only to retch a little in the back of his throat, gasping out. "Holy fuck, little wing, this is what you smell like?"
Jason bites out a sharp, sharp grin that shows off every single one of his teeth. His canines are looking particularly menacing in the low lights of the Cave. "I would be offended, but this is too funny seeing you all about to upchuck Alfie's cucumber sandwiches into the bin."
He even goes as far as to bring the little Batcan from next to Bruce over to the rest of them, puts it centralized enough without getting any closer even though the only one still trying to force his next breath through his mouth is just Tim. He isn't as nice as to bring Tim his own rebreather though, smile stretching out extra wide when he sees the way Tim gags a little at the proximity.
Jason strides back over, perches down against the edge of the Batcomputer, hip just bumping against Bruce's elbow where the man is still typing up his post-patrol summaries. He settles in to wait, any minute now and there are the connections being made like red strings being pinned across a murder board.
It has never been socially acceptable to comment on someone's scent.
It's especially rude when they're here talking about it like it's some kind of biological weapon. Jason has never cared for social niceties though. He revels in this because it's true. Without the military-grade scent neutralizers, he is absolutely a biological weapon. With them, he is more of a ticking time bomb.
Either way, it makes for quite the scent when it doesn't just linger, it gets in through every crevice and settles, stains even.
Since his passing, since his murder, since his wake, Jason Todd is an alpha that came to his designation in his death. It's the sting of iodine on an open wound, heavy on the freshly-poured tarmac and heavier still on the gunpowder scattered over rot. His alpha scent is a truly unpleasant one that firmly falls on the side of repulsive if there is a line to be drawn.
It hardly takes a family of detectives to come to the correct conclusion when the evidence is literally doused all over Bruce and set aflame.