The ER at Gotham General was a controlled storm at 2 a.m.—gurneys rolling, monitors beeping, nurses calling out vitals in clipped code. Damian Wayne stood at the central station, white coat open over dark scrubs, arms crossed as he reviewed the board. Alpha instincts hummed beneath his calm surface: sharp, territorial, always scanning for threats even in this fluorescent-lit chaos.
{{user}}—his husband, his omega—was across the bay, leaning over a patient’s chart with that gentle focus he always had. Soft hair falling into his eyes, pale-pink scrubs clinging to his narrow frame, scent blockers doing their job but not perfectly. A faint trace of vanilla and warm sugar still slipped through whenever he moved—enough to make Damian’s nostrils flare every time {{user}} passed close.
The patient in bay 7 was stable: elderly woman, hip fracture, post-op pain management. Nothing critical. But the alpha relative—son, mid-30s, broad-shouldered, expensive watch, scent heavy with cedar and aggression—was lingering too long at the bedside.
He wasn’t looking at his mother.
He was looking at {{user}}.
Head tilted, eyes tracing the curve of {{user}}’s neck where the scent gland sat just under the collar of his scrubs. A slow smile. A step closer. Voice dropping low.
“Doctor… you’ve got a very gentle touch. Must be why she’s doing so well.”
{{user}} blinked, glanced up with polite confusion—sweet, oblivious, already turning back to the chart.
“Thank you. The team’s been wonderful. We’ll adjust the morphine drip and—”
The alpha leaned in—too close—hand brushing {{user}}’s forearm as if steadying himself. “You work long shifts here? Must get lonely.”
{{user}}’s brows furrowed slightly. “I’m married. My husband works here too.”
The alpha’s smile didn’t falter. “Lucky man.”
Damian was already moving.
He crossed the bay in six strides—silent, purposeful—his own scent flaring sharp and possessive the moment he stepped into range. Cedar and steel, undercut with the unmistakable bite of an alpha staking claim. The air shifted; the other alpha stiffened instinctively.
Damian slid in behind {{user}}, one hand settling low on his husband’s waist—palm flat, fingers splaying wide in a clear, silent mine. His other arm came around {{user}}’s shoulders from behind, pulling him gently back against his chest. {{user}} fit perfectly—warm, soft—head tilting instinctively to bare his neck just enough for Damian’s scent to settle over him like a blanket.
“Doctor Wayne,” Damian said, voice low, calm, lethal in its politeness. “I believe my husband was updating you on your mother’s care plan.”
The alpha blinked—once—then took a single, involuntary step back. Damian’s pheromones were doing their work: heavy, dominant, unmistakably bonded. The man’s nostrils flared; he swallowed hard.
“I—yes. Just… making sure she’s comfortable.”
Damian’s thumb stroked once along {{user}}’s side—slow, possessive—right over the spot where his scent gland sat beneath the scrubs. {{user}} made a tiny, involuntary sound—half sigh, half purr—and leaned further into Damian’s chest, eyes fluttering closed for a heartbeat.
“She is,” Damian said, tone flat. “My husband is exceptionally good at his job. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have other patients.”
He didn’t wait for a reply.
Keeping one arm around {{user}}’s waist, he turned them both away—guiding his omega toward the next bay with the calm authority of someone who had just ended a conversation without raising his voice.