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Ra’s al Ghul is an old-fashioned wolf.
He believes in a hierarchical pack with dominance determined by strength. A pack that preaches absolute loyalty to the Pack Leader. A pack that prioritizes itself above all, treating anyone who does not share their scent as an outsider and an enemy.
Which means Tim spends 70% of his time on League bases fighting.
The first attack catches him off guard. A masked grunt jumping him as he heads to his quarters after returning from a mission. Tim fights them, defeats them, without shifting. Just like Bruce taught him.
And then two more League assassins emerge from the shadows.
There are aren’t a lot of other wolves in Gotham. And of those few, the handful that cause enough trouble to earn a Bat beatdown are never trained or particularly strong. Easily defeated by weaponry and martial arts, no shifting of any kind needed.
But the League of Assassins is a wolf-pack trained in lethality. And they are very much trying to kill Tim.
Never shift in a fight. There are claws tearing his costume, beginning to cut through his armour– Shift at home, with your pack, when there are no threats. Tim is pinned, can't move, can't counter as the claws slice into his skin– Never full-shift during a fight. Never fight as a wolf. Only fight as a human. That is the Wayne pack rule that must be followed. Teeth bite through his gauntlets, try to pull his arms away from their protective shielding of his throat–
Wolf at home, human at war. That is the Wayne pack way.
Tim snarls.
A storm of black and white fur explodes out of the Red Robin costume, flinging assailants off in a rolling move. Back on his feet, he lunges for one assassin, teeth dug into its shoulder and hefting its body around to use it as a flailing cudgel against its two allies.
Bruce never taught Tim to fight as a wolf. Forbade him from it.
Lady Shiva was a different story.
In the end, there are three unconscious League wolves, a hallway covered in blood and fur, and Tim in the tattered remains of his costume, dripping.
Ra's is, of course, unrepentant about the attack when Tim limps into an audience with him.
“Are you a wolf, or aren’t you?” he asks, arching an uncaring eyebrow. “The pack defends itself from outsiders, and that is what you are. An ally, yes. But only so far as you are useful. And if you cannot hold your own here, if you are not as strong as I presumed, then it is likely you will fail in accomplishing the task I have set for you. Survive or don’t by your own merit, Timothy Drake. My wolves have a right to defend their home, and I have no need for an ally who cannot defend himself.”
It's a struggle for Tim to keep his lips from curling back over his teeth.
I can't fight like this again. It's the opposite of everything Bruce taught him. It's everything Bruce hates about wolves like Ra's. Wolves that act like the full-shift means you can throw away all human morals, all human constraints. If you wouldn't bite someone as a human, you shouldn't use the wolf as an excuse. Tim's teeth are stained red, and Bruce might never forgive him for it. But I can't fight as a human. They'll kill me. And then no one will find Bruce, and Tam will be–
The smart solution, the Robin solution, is to avoid the scenario entirely. To lean on stealth and tread lightly in the bases. Avoid detection to avoid attack. But Gotham stealth is no match for a den of wolves. Especially not a den of wolves that have all been scent-marked by Ra's, recognizable to each other as pack. Tim's outsider scent makes him stand out like a sore, extremely attackable thumb. A beacon, a homing missile, a target on his back. His own natural smell is a blood trail to the sharks that are the League.
There is no hope of avoiding the fights. All that's left is to try and survive them.
Tim tries to keep to the Wayne way. He tries. To stay human, to fight with his hands and feet and weapons, to keep his fucking mouth out of the battle. But every time without fail, Tim has to shift to survive. Without fail, Tim has to let the restraint that Bruce taught him fade away, and allow the instinct and ferocity that Lady Shiva urged him to harness surge to the surface instead. And it doesn't take long for the shifts to become automatic, immediate. On all fours and growling the moment he smells another wolf approaching.
Even so, as the months wear on the fights get harder. The lower level grunts stop trying, and the more experienced wolves join the ring instead. Tim still wins, but he is always exhausted, always injured, always running a low-level fever. Werewolves heal fast and are resistant to illness. But the constant wounds, new and reopened, make trying to stop infection from taking root in his spleenless body a game of goddamn whack-a-mole. By the time Tim’s werewolf metabolism actually manages to fight off an infection, he has new wounds slashed open across his skin.
But he can’t die here. He cannot die here. Because if he dies, so will Tam.
She’s human, and so the League wolves don't care about Tam in terms of scent and intrusion on territory. She's never in danger when Tim's being attacked. But she's also a civilian in a stronghold of assassins who aren't in the habit of leaving witnesses. Ra's has guaranteed her safety to ensure Tim's cooperation, but if Tim dies, Ra’s will have no reason to keep Tam alive. Hell, if Tim becomes too injured to be useful, Ra’s will dispose of him and her without a thought.
The fights get harder. Tim's overtaxed body starts to heal slower. Grievous injuries increase in number.
I can’t die here.
Tim starts fighting vicious.
An assassin jumps him as he comes out of the server room and Tim clamps wolf jaws around their throat hard enough to draw blood, slams them against a wall, then withdraws his mouth from throat to crunch down on each foreleg, breaking bone. Another wolf lies in wait outside the training area where he is set to meet Pru, and Tim goes low and immediately shoves his shoulder beneath them to knock them off their feet and flip them over, then brutally slashes through tendons and connective muscle, leaving them twitching and immobile, blood spilling beneath the door cracks into the training room.
“Never fight like an animal”, Bruce said. What he called the most important lesson after he first turned Tim. “You are not one. Never let the base instincts overrule you. Predator animals need to kill to survive. We do not. We have the choice, the one we must always make. If you let yourself fight like an animal, you will begin to think like one, will begin to see the world only in three shades - pack, prey, and threats. Everything that is not pack will become something to be eliminated. Never fight like an animal, never look at the world as one. Always rein in your wolf.”
He used to flash teeth. Used to growl warnings with ears pinned back. Used to use only the amount of violence necessary to end the fight. But by month three with the League, Tim doesn't bother with any of that anymore. He attacks first, attacks brutally, and only stops short of killing his assailants.
Rein in your wolf. Bruce's uncompromising, unforgiving order. Never give it free range.
Tim starts spending most of his time full-shifted.
A wolf more than he is human, stalking through halls with his ears back and his tail held high in warning. It's a strategic move– keeps him always at the ready, no longer having to spend the first few seconds after sensing an impending attack to change forms. He is only human when in the server room or when giving a report to Ra's. Even at night, he stays shifted. Lying at the foot of Tam's bed, head towards the door. Ra's has promised her safety, and most wolves avoid attacking Tim when he's with her to avoid the possibility of her getting hurt accidentally. But most wolves is not all.
And Tam, as afraid as she is of everything about the situation, stops being afraid of Tim pretty quickly. Helps clean and bandage his wounds in both human and wolf form. Will point out when he still has fur and flesh stuck between his teeth, shaken but not afraid. Starts refusing to let him sleep on the floor, having him curl up beside her feet on the bed instead. Even endures his scenting, only looking a little weirded out when he first rubs his wrists over her hair and back, and eventually leaning in to it. She is scared and out of her depth, but she is a Fox, and can roll with the punches. Even surrounded by wolves.
It's almost a relief when the situation with the Council of Spiders intensifies enough that Tim’s rarely on League bases. Tam is safer when he’s not there, and he gets more sleep in hotel rooms and stakeout vans than he does in a League compound. Pru has never had a problem with him; won’t defend him from her packmates of course, but never joins in. And the other League members they work with also don’t attack Tim while on assignment. He’s not an interloper in their home base, and killing him could compromise the mission at hand.
Everything is easier when Tim’s not on a League base. So when he has to return to one after the completion of a mission, he’s bracing the moment he steps off the plane.
White Ghost meets him at the disembarkment point. Which is a mixed blessing. On one hand, Tim is never attacked when he has a high-ranking escort. On the other hand, now he has to walk with the White Ghost.
As is usual when he has the personal escort, Tim is led straight to meet Ra’s in some kind of appropriately villainous parlour, with poisonous green drapes and subtle opulence in every ornate piece of furniture and carpet. The White Ghost bows his head, then retreats, shutting the door behind him.
This is different. Tim knows it immediately. This is more than Ra’s just wanting a report from him. White Ghost doesn’t usually leave for that. And if he does, it’s with clear irritation, never wanting to leave his leader alone with the outsider, hating the idea of the outsider being in his leader’s confidence while he is not.
But this time, White Ghost left without fuss, without a hint of annoyance. And for some reason, that makes Tim's stomach twist with unease.
He tries not to show it though. Giving his report in crisp, undetailed summary. Ra’s stares back impassively, communicating neither approval nor disappointment. But his gaze is unwavering; he does not look away from Tim for an instant.
“Much time has passed, Timothy," Ra's says after Tim finishes his report. "And while you have made progress, I tire of the affront this Council makes of me, and wish to see them eradicated sooner than later. You are clever Timothy, and strong. And you have proved that your cleverness and strength extends to both sides of you. I know you can destroy the Council of Spiders, and I know you’ll do it faster if you’re no longer weathering…distractions.”
Tam. Tim tenses. “I’m not distracted, I can–,”
Ra’s moves.
Tim reacts instantly– but not fast enough to avoid Ra's al Ghul. The Demon's Head hits him, grapples him. Every Batman-taught method fails to get Tim out of Ra's hold, but he manages to twist away with a move from Lady Shiva. Barely dodging as Ra's lunges at him again.
What the fuck. The worst part is the scent. Ra’s is still human-formed, but his scent is filling the room in a way that’s making Tim’s adrenaline spike more than it would in a normal fight. And all his experience in the League is telling him to shift to a wolf. But wolf form does impair judgment, and he’s not about to test teeth and claws against the sword at Ra’s belt. The one that he hasn’t drawn yet. It doesn't seem like Ra's is trying to kill Tim, but what the hell is he trying to do? How is this solving distractions?!
Ra’s lunges again.
Tim dodges this time, ducks, rolls, runs for the door. Is grabbed by the hair and pulled back, thrown across the room to slam into the far wall. He doesn’t let himself be winded, rolling back to his feet to dodge Ra’s next lunge.
I’m not faster than Ra’s al Ghul. I know I’m not. But Ra’s is letting Tim dodge now, keeps just missing him as Tim runs around the room. Only bothering to grab him if he gets too close to the door. What is he trying to do?
Tim’s instincts are screaming at him to keep moving, but running is clearly playing into whatever it is that Ra’s wants. So he stops running. Chest heaving, face sweaty as he faces the Demon’s Head. “Ra’s. I don’t know what this is about, but I’m not going to keep playing tag–,”
And then he’s on the ground.
This time, Ra’s moves so fast that Tim doesn’t even really see it. He's just suddenly flat on his back pinned down, Ra’s heavy scent filling his nostrils, full of threat and predator and satisfaction.
“I am well aware that you are faster and stronger than me,” Tim manages to grit out, ignoring the way the unease in his stomach has shifted to real fear. “Did you really feel the need to put on some kind of dominance display–,”
Ra’s flips him over.
Words cut off, suddenly face down against the floor, Ra’s pressed against his back, pushing his hair aside, baring the back of Tim’s neck—
Ra’s al Ghul is an old-fashioned wolf.
Animal fear takes over.
Tim twists, snarls, snaps and growls, partially shifting forms in an attempt to get out of Ra's hold. He thrashes wildly until he escapes out from beneath the older wolf, paws scrabbling at the polished floors as Tim dashes for the door again.
Ra’s crashes into his side, sending him off his feet and sprawling.
The chase resumes.
I have to think. It’s nearly impossible beneath the animal panic, but Tim focuses on the tools available to him. He hasn't fully shifted, not enough that the League clothing specially designed for shifting has fallen away, so he still has access to his belt, his weapons–
Ra's easily disarms him of his staff. Twists a smoke bomb out of his grasp. Takes the taser shock like it's nothing. Green eyes glittering with amusement as he lunges for Tim again.
He’s tiring me out. But Tim can’t stop running, can’t let Ra’s catch him again. There has to be a third option, there has to be some way out of this. He tries to feel around for secret passageways when he’s slammed into walls. Tries to feint and mask his movements towards the door. Fails, is caught, every time.
Fawn, play dead. The next time Ra’s catches and pins him, Tim goes limp. Sags as Ra’s exposes his neck again, hot breath against his skin. Then he slams his head backwards into the man’s face, twisting one arm free to slash back and up with a knife pulled from his sleeve. Pulls free, dashes for the door again, because while Ra's is stunned by the smashed nose maybe this time–
A hand grabs Tim by the scruff and throws him across the room.
He hits the wall. Slides to the ground. Struggles to get back up, horrified at the trembling in his limbs. Exhausted. Tim doesn’t know how long he’s been running, fighting free of grapples. Too long. His whole body is sweaty and shaking.
Ra’s licks away the blood dripping down his face.
“Drawing the blood of the Demon,” he says, in a low growl that is anything but displeased. “You are indeed an exceptional wolf, Timothy.”
Tim snarls, showing all his teeth.
Flight, fawn, and freeze are all out. Which leaves him with only one option.
The fight doesn't last long.
Only a few exchanges of blows before Ra's grows tired of even pretending to block Tim's sloppy, sluggish movements and grapples him again. And Tim twists, and writhes, and shifts from wolf to human and back again to try and get free and–
Can't.
Can't get free. Can't get away. Can't get out of the grapple, out of Ra's hold. Tim keeps trying, desperately, uselessly, until he literally can't anymore. Until his whole body is slumped in utter exhaustion.
When Ra's releases him, Tim drops to the floor and doesn't move.
Get up. He’s not been hit with a nerve strike, hasn’t been drugged or poisoned. But Tim can’t move. He’s gasping for breath open-mouthed against the floor, body drenched in sweat. Human now, tangled in his League clothes more than wearing them after all his quick shifts of form. Tim can’t even lift his head when he feels Ra’s on top of him, pressed against his back and pushing his hair away from his neck. Can’t move even when he feels the bite.
Ra’s is an old-fashioned wolf.
Scent-marking is distinct from scenting, among werewolves. Scenting is casual, just sharing scents with other wolves by cuddling or grooming, something surface level that will fade in a few days or when washed off. And it's basically like spraying cologne– you can have as many people scent you as you want, can smell like multiple other wolves.
But scent-marking is different. Scent-marking is when another wolf's unique scent is embedded into your scent glands, so that the scent you produce is completely intertwined with theirs. The scent is semi-permanent, lasting months before it begins to fade. And you can only be scent marked by one wolf at a time, can only have one other scent intertwined with yours. That’s how scent-marking is used to identify pack members; every member of a pack is scent-marked by the pack leader.
In the modern day, this involves the leader pressing their wrist scent glands to a pack member’s wrists or neck. Sustained, persistent pressure to embed the new scent into the pack member’s system. The practice of biting, of transferring the leader's scent through the glands in the mouth, strengthening the transfer through the mixing of saliva and blood, is considered archaic, borderline abusive.
But Ra’s al Ghul is an old-fashioned wolf.
Blood runs down the sides of Tim’s neck. Pain throbs through his head and down his spine, radiating outwards from the fangs pushing deep into his flesh. He can feel each pulse of Ra’s moving through him– can smell the effect. The way Ra’s scent becomes less of a terrifying threat and more something terrifying but familiar, terrifying but safe. Pack. The sense of kinship rising in tandem with the urge to vomit.
When Bruce scented him, marked Tim as Wayne pack the first time, it had been a little awkward but warm. And the light daze that had set in as Bruce’s scent flooded his system had been like being sleepy in bed on a winter’s day. A little disorienting, but comfortable, cozy.
Bruce's scent faded months ago. And under Ra’s, Tim feels like he’s been drugged. The floaty daze and vague sense of pleasure twisted by the feeling of invasion and violation. The complete helplessness as his body has no choice but to lay there and take it. Let Ra’s mouth keep working at his neck, pushing his essence in deeper.
Tim doesn’t know how long it goes on for. Can barely feel his body by the time Ra’s pulls his teeth free. Only knows that the Demon’s Head’s scent is everywhere, and every part of Tim but his mind stubbornly refuses to register the man as a threat.
“Your training will commence when you awake,” Ra’s says from above him, clawed hand running through his hair. “For now, rest. And know you are safe, now that you are mine.”
Out of sheer stubbornness more than any actual sense of self-preservation, Tim tries to keep his eyes open. But Ra’s grabs him by the collar and drags his boneless body across the floor, unceremoniously dropping him in a pile of fancy pillows that are absolutely drenched in Ra’s scent— a scent that is safe and den and at rest and—
Tim’s eyes slip shut, and he obeys his first command as a member of Ra’s pack.
***
It turns out the impressive synergy and pack dynamics of the inner League is not, in fact, due to their slavish and unwavering loyalty to Ra’s al Ghul. But is instead the result of intense, punishing training. Conditioning to respond instantaneously to the most minute changes in Ra’s scent.
The acrid taste of impending violence to immediately shift into battle readiness. The scent of slight caution to shift defensively instead. A sudden lessening of scent to conceal yourself. The sharp smell of hungry anticipation to close in on an enemy or threat. An almost parental twist to the air to call you directly to Ra's side. And the scent of deep, unmistakable displeasure to stop what you're doing and drop to your knees, neck bared to await orders or punishment.
Ra’s doesn't let Tim out of the room until he reacts as instantaneously to Ra's scent as any of the inner League ninjas do.
It takes four days.
Tam and Bruce. That's what Tim reminds himself; he needs to find Bruce, he needs to get Tam home. The sooner the training is done, the sooner Tim can return to planning on how to end his time with the League. That's the reason he lets the conditioning sink in. That's the reason he lets Ra's scent become his master. Bruce. Tam. Escape.
It has nothing to do with the pleased feeling that curls through him every time he smells Ra's approval in the air.
***
“I’m fine,” he says to Tam.
The bruises from every time Ra's punished Tim for making a mistake or not responding fast enough to a command are hidden beneath Tim’s clothing; new League robes, specially tailored and much better made, with a lower collar to show more of his neck and throat. And while the torn muscle isn't completely healed, still throbbing beneath the skin, the actual puncture marks on Tim's neck have closed. There are no injuries visible to Tam. And she’s not a wolf, so she can’t smell how his scent has completely changed.
But there's something deeply afraid on Tam's face anyways.
“What did he do to you,” she whispers. A note in her voice that makes Tim thinks she’s jumping to all the wrong conclusions about why Tim was locked in a room alone with Ra’s for 4 days.
“I’m fine,” Tim repeats. But he can’t force a smile or a reassuring expression. It’s all he can do to keep his face completely blank. Hollow. Even as his skin crawls, even as the need to shower away the memory of Ra’s pinning him down becomes overwhelming.
“I’m fine,” he repeats tonelessly, but doesn’t resist as Tam pulls him close, as she tucks his head against her shoulder and cries for him.
***
When Ra’s sees them off for their next mission, Tim falls to his knees in perfect unison with Pru and the others. Rises as part of the same synchronized entity when Ra’s scent bids them to do so. Doesn’t notice the grief-stricken horror on Tam's face until Ra’s is gone and Tim can think of anything other than obeying him.
***
“The pack leader,” Bruce had said, in the tone of someone who was very purposefully and intentionally not using the world alpha, “can’t control the actions of the pack. There is no mind control. Not unrefusable submission. No inability to disobey orders. That is a myth. You don’t lose your free will when the pack leader scent-marks you. There is a stronger desire to align with their orders, yes. But it’s not mind control. You can always disobey.”
“It’s like smelling chocolate,” Dick had elaborated later. “You’re not mind controlled by the scent. You have a choice to not eat it. You’ll just really, really want to. But the impulse, the desire, can be ignored. Alpha mind control is absolutely a myth.”
Sure, after getting turned and scent-marked it was a little harder for Tim to ignore or disobey Bruce. But he could still do it. He just hesitated for a few seconds longer, and felt physically uncomfortable the entire time he was doing whatever he wasn’t supposed to be doing. It was still clear that Bruce and Dick were right, and the whole werewolf alpha mind control thing was a myth.
Now though, Tim suspects it’s only a baseless myth in the modern day. That the myth probably had a very credible foundation when scent-marking through bites was common.
“Submit Timothy,” says Ra’s, and it takes every ounce of strength left in Tim’s body to stop his knees from buckling. He’s drenched in sweat, not from physical exertion but from the sheer effort of staying on his feet when Ra’s scent is telling him down. Trying to keep his teeth bared instead of his throat when every instinct is telling him to drop to his knees and submit.
But Tim stays on his feet. Snarls and reveals how he thwarted Ra’s every plan. How nothing could make him part of Ra’s pack, no matter what the old wolf did to him.
Green eyes glint, as sharp as a fang. “Well done, Detective.”
For a moment, there’s a paradoxical pleased note in Ra’s scent. Confusing, and making the well-trained beast inside Tim want to wag its fucking tail–
And then Ra’s kicks him out a window and the moment, like the glass, is shattered.
***
When Tim wakes up, Damian is practically on the other side of the cave. Pupils blown out and nostrils flared.
Dick and Stephanie, standing at Tim’s cot, don’t look as freaked out. But the questioning expression on Steph’s face and the strained concern on Dick’s makes it clear that Damian’s told them what he’s recognized. The pack mark completely embedded into Tim’s scent.
“It was necessary to protect Tam Fox,” Tim says shortly. Which is close enough to the truth. “When Bruce is back he’ll take care of it.”
If Bruce can take care of it. There can be only one pack scent at a time. If Bruce can’t overpower Ra’s scent, then Tim won’t be able to carry Bruce’s scent until Ra’s fades on its own. 3-5 months.
Dick doesn’t look any less strained. “I can–,”
“I’ll wait for Bruce,” Tim says sharply.
Dick didn’t offer to scent Tim, before. Dick had lost Bruce’s scent pretty soon after Bruce was gone since he wasn’t scent-marked that regularly. But Tim and Damian had both still held Bruce’s scent up until that day in the cave. When Tim had found Damian in the Robin costume, holding Dick’s scent instead of Bruce’s.
Maybe Tim would have said no, if Dick had offered to scent-mark him then. Maybe he wouldn’t have let Bruce’s scent be erased. Maybe he wouldn’t have been willing to accept it, when it would have felt like giving up on the idea that Bruce was alive and accepting Dick as his successor.
But Tim never had the opportunity to be conflicted, because Dick never offered to scent him.
And Tim doesn’t want it now. Not when it’s certainly only being offered because Damian’s on edge with his grandfather’s scent in the cave. That’s the only reason Dick is offering. Tim’s sure of it. And it's not like lacking Dick's scent will make Tim an outsider with a target on his back. Damian is the only one scent-marked by Dick. Barbara and Steph smell like each other, but just through regular scenting. Cass, wherever she is, probably smells like nothing but herself.
So it’s fine that Tim’s stuck with Ra’s scent for a bit. Damian’s the only one who can recognize it for what it is. And there’s no reason for anyone else to care that he smells different. They all smell different. The pack isn’t whole.
His decision is validated a few weeks later, when Damian cuts his line. Tim reacts instantly; twisting in the air, shooting another grapple, and then, when they’re both on the ground, full-shifting and slamming Robin to the pavement. His teeth bite down on the boy's throat, snarling around skin and pressing in harder until blood bubbles up between his teeth, until he hears a whine of submission.
He was right to not let Dick scent-mark him. He was so fucking right. If he and Damian smelled like pack, Tim might not have reacted fast enough, might’ve taken too long to register Damian as a threat.
Or maybe Damian wouldn’t have considered me one.
It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that Damian’s terrified of him. It doesn’t matter that Bruce never believed in submission, or pinning, or pack hierarchy, or teeth. It doesn’t matter, because Tim’s proved he’s strong enough to defend himself and Damian knows better then to attack him again.
"Tim, what the hell?!" Dick says when they're back at the cave, somehow as baffled as he is angry. "What's wrong with you? Rein in your wolf!"
Tim stands silently in the shreds of another ruined Red Robin costume. Damian has stormed – fled – up to the manor, but his fear-scent lingers in Tim's nose, just as the taste of his blood lingers on Tim's tongue.
Rein in your wolf. Rein in the animal that stalks instead of walks, that keeps its head low and forward in any form. Rein in the beast that radiates warning, that causes the smell of nervousness-panic-fear to fill Wayne Enterprises boardrooms. Rein in the monster that sits too still, muscles coiled beneath skin and eyes always watching, waiting, for threats.
Rein in your wolf. But the wolf is the only reason Tim's still alive.
"Tim," Dick says, and he's still angry but trying to hide it now. "Talk to me. Damian was wrong, but your response wasn't proportional and you've never lost control like that before."
"He cut my line," Tim says flatly.
"Which was wrong. But if you thought he was a threat you should have subdued him as a human. Tim, you know that."
"Yeah." Tim stares at the ground. "Sorry."
He was right, not to be scent-marked by Dick. It means he can leave the cave without discomfort, completely ignoring Dick's calls for him to stay.
***
Rein in your wolf is the Wayne pack code of conduct. Wolf at home, human at war is the Wayne pack way. Full-shifting only when at rest, in the safety of your den.
Tim can’t imagine feeling safe with Damian right now, and there’s no chance of full-shifting with Dick without Damian there. No chance of play fighting like they used to, wrestling until they collapsed in a pile of limbs, human embarrassment forgotten as Dick gave Tim’s ears and head a vigorous tongue bath. None of that, now that there’s Damian.
After Dick, the pack members Tim most often full-shifted with were Bruce and Cass. Neither of them are in Gotham. He's been a wolf with Barbara before, but only ever when Dick or Cass were also there. He's full-shifted once or twice in front of Steph, but Steph wasn’t a werewolf then. And now the lingering hurt and anger between them is a wall of awkwardness that feels impenetrable.
There is a crushing loneliness in being a wolf alone. Of not having the option to curl up with pack members, to groom and be groomed in a form unrestrained by bashfulness. Missing the affection that flows freely, shared without restraint in a pile of wolf family. And maybe trying to escape that loneliness would have been enough for Tim to push past his hangups. To full-shift with Barbara and Steph, or to swallow his pride and ask Dick for an afternoon of just the two of them.
But he doesn't want anyone to see the scars.
Wolves heal fast. But Tim had the same wounds reopened again and again over a period of months. There are patches where the fur doesn’t grow anymore. Pink skin showing on his flanks, sides, neck, around his mouth. It’s not that visible when he’s human, when injuries that healed supernaturally fast have left scars that are slim and subtle. But as a wolf, the fur just stopped fucking growing in several places. The patches around his mouth are the worst, the most damning, because it's proof that he bit. That he and other beasts had snapped at each other's faces, dug teeth into muzzles and jaws. It's undeniable proof that Tim had fought, repeatedly, like an animal. Proof that he had broken with the Wayne pack way and been a wolf at war.
It’s Bruce’s anger, shame, and disgust that Tim’s most worried about. But he’s not looking to have an early preview of that by full-shifting in front of Dick or Barbara.
So Tim only full-shifts in front of Tam.
Probably, it’s a bad idea to compromise his place in Lucian’s good graces by semi-frequently sneaking into his daughter’s bedroom. But she’s the only person Tim can full shift in front of right now. The only person who can soothe the need for closeness, for the warmth of others, for pack.
Tam lets him in through her window every time. Lets him shift wolf and curl on her bed with her, running her hands through his fur, working out any matts on his back that he can’t reach. Smoothing the fur around the tender, bare scar tissue.
This was something Cass and Steph did before Steph was turned. Human-grooming-wolf. Human in a pack cuddle. But Tim has never done this with a human, never did this with Steph. Vulnerability was a problem for both– no. Not for both of them. Steph always had something to prove, but she’d been vulnerable with Tim nearly from the start. Asking him to be her birthing partner kind of necessitated that. But Tim always had his masks, his walls, his secrets.
He’s too tired to have any of those with Tam.
It’s not that she knows him better than Steph does– that’s blatantly not true. Tam knows basically nothing about Tim. But the only Tim she knows is the real one. Steph had to meet Robin, and Alvin, and a Tim Drake still caught between his civilian and vigilante lives. Tam has only met Tim as he is. Red Robin but unmasked, no separation between civilian and vigilante. Tam hasn’t met a single one of Tim’s many personas; she’s only met the worst, most broken-down version of him. And that doesn’t mean she knows Tim better than Steph does, it just means that the only him Tam knows doesn’t require effort to maintain.
Things would probably get…messy and complicated if Tim was ever human in her bedroom at night. It’s not even that the nakedness is an issue really; before he switched to shift-friendly League clothing, Tim would hobble back to their shared rooms basically nude after exploding his previous outfit off his body when fighting the League assassins. And Tam got pretty up close and personal with his bare skin every time she had to stitch it shut.
But now, back in Gotham, Tim being human in Tam's bedroom feels...fraught. Dangerous. Makes the silence, everything between them that they're not talking about, much harder to ignore. Being a wolf is easier. Safer.
There’s a night where Tam asks him something that requires more than a Yes or No answer. So Tim shifts human to reply, squirming under her blanket first to preserve the illusion of modesty. Except maybe he’s overestimated how casually he could be naked in her bed, because the next thing he knows he’s pressing his face to her stomach, hearing the quick thrum of her heart and feeling her sharp intake of breath. Tasting something something tangy and tantalizing in the air as his nose brushes down her navel, lower.
But Tim really, really doesn’t want to get in Lucius’s bad books. And also, would probably embarrass himself if he tried to...if he kept going. So they stop there and he never makes the mistake of being human in her bedroom again.
***
By the time Bruce returns, Ra’s scent has almost entirely faded. Almost.
Bruce must catch it, must smell the Demon’s Head on his son, but doesn’t comment. Nor does he comment when Tim flinches back as he lifts his wrist. Though something flickers on Bruce’s face when Tim offers both wrists instead of his neck.
Bruce doesn’t ask about it though. Just presses their wrists together and pushes his scent into Tim’s system, chasing away the last traces of Ra’s. Pack once more.
It means that Tim is sharing a pack scent with Damian again, which doesn’t rankle as much as it would have two months ago. Tim has more important things to worry about anyways.
***
“You saved him tonight, Tim. But what about tomorrow?”
The wave of disapproval-anger in Bruce’s scent hits like a freight truck full of bricks.
Tim falls to his knees immediately. Head bowed and back of his neck bared in perfect submission pose. This is not a wait for orders scent command, but a wait for punishment one, so Tim’s palms are face up atop his knees, showing that he understands.
The anger in his alpha’s scent spikes, disapproval shifting into something like fury.
Tim resists the urge to cringe, to flinch back or brace himself, instead making sure his own scent is sending out submission - compliance - shame - submission.
“I have failed to understand your will,” he intones in League Arabic, “I await your punishment and orders.”
But the fury scent gets worse.
Tim doesn't move. Waits for the first blow. Waits for the fury in his alpha's scent to turn physical. He doesn't move, even as he dully registers the arrival of another pack member – heir - senior - higher in hierarchy - brother? – some kind of conversation muffled by the roaring in Tim’s ears.
And then, shockingly, his alpha’s scent retreats.
“Tim,” says pack heir - Nightwing - Batman - Dick? “Tim. You’re in Gotham. You’re with Batman- Dick. And you're safe, I promise you're safe. Tim, I need you to come back, okay? You're not there anymore. Listen to my voice. Follow it to your body. You’re with Dick, you’re in Gotham, and you’re safe.”
Tim blinks.
Then rears backwards, stumbling to his feet.
Fuck.
Fuck.
***
Bruce’s visit to the Nest the next day is completely understandable and absolutely expected. He knows Ra’s al Ghul. He knows what League conditioning looks like, sounds like, smells like.
“I understand you must be concerned, and you’re free to run whatever tests you’d like to confirm I’m not being actively influenced or compromised,” Tim says in his perfectly rehearsed speech. “Additionally, I want to assure you that I’ve resisted direct scent commands from Ra’s in close proximity. Yesterday was–,”
Just the memory of Bruce’s displeased scent makes Tim queasy. But he hides it. Tries to. “It’s just been a few months since I was last subjected to a– to what my mind perceived to be a scent command. But when Ra’s attacked Gotham I was able to resist his commands and ignore the conditioning while in the same room."
Bruce’s stone-faced expression hasn’t changed. Tim swallows.
“I'm...sorry for not telling you. As I said. I resisted Ra’s, so I thought…I wasn’t aware it was still an issue. Which was an oversight. I think if we practice, if we have some sessions of you being– of you aiming your angry scent directly at me, I’ll be able to overcome the conditioning faster.”
“He bit you,” Bruce says.
Tim doesn’t flinch, somehow. “Yes.”
“Did you strike a deal? Was being bitten…conditional on something? Did you agree to it?”
It kept me alive and kept Tam safe. But that’s not what Bruce is asking. Bruce is asking if at any point Tim had a choice. Even if the choice was at metaphorical gunpoint.
“I.” He swallows again. “No. But it was beneficial in the long run. It allowed me to–,”
“Ra’s forced the pack bite on you.”
Tim doesn’t care for that phrasing. It reminds him too much of the way Tam looked at him, that day. “I. Yes. But–,”
His words cut off as Bruce bulldozes forward towards him. Tim nearly shifts defensively, nearly loses the reins of the wolf entirely. But he forces himself to remember that he’s trying to show that yesterday was an anomaly, that he’s fine, that he’ll get over this quickly–
–and then Tim's choking on a version of Bruce's scent that he hasn't smelled since his father died.
All comfort and consoling, all home and pack and safety. It surrounds Tim as Bruce's arms come up around him, smothering him like a warm, weighted blanket. Hitting harder than fear ever could.
“You’re safe,” Bruce rumbles. And he pulls Tim close, tucks Tim’s head into his neck. “He will never touch you again. And I will never, ever demand submission from you. Ever. I never want you to bare your neck for me.”
“I know that,” Tim whispers. Except he’s not sure he does, because the urge to protect his neck is still so strong. But Bruce doesn’t touch it, rubs his wrists up and down Tim’s back.
“I’m fine,” Tim insists. Even as he buries his face more into Bruce’s neck. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” says Bruce. “But I’m here now.”