Archive of Our Own

Tim just wants this night to be over already.

It’s no secret that he hates being sick. Ever since the Clench incident, illness has been one of those things Tim would prefer to avoid at all costs. His body must not have received the memo, for his stomach aches and his head throbs in time with his thready pulse. His hair sticks to his forehead with a thin sheen of sweat.

The only reason he can think of for feeling this way is that the universe hates him. Which is so uncalled for. Especially because, for a while there, Tim thought things might turn around sooner or later given how much he tries to do good. But here he is, feeling like utter shit for no reason other than that the world wants to laugh at his misery.

When he first started to feel sick, Tim didn’t think much of it. A sore throat is nothing when getting horrifically injured is just another Tuesday in your line of work. The next day, however, it upped the ante and sent cramps coursing through his gut and supernovas exploding in his skull every time he looked too directly into a light.

Fun, right?

He’s almost positive it’s the flu, but Tim can’t afford to take it easy—not when the demon they call Damian is putting all of his energy into proving himself a better Robin than Tim ever was. If he wants to keep from getting pushed out of this family for good, Tim needs to get his ass in gear and stop letting a little cold render him useless. That’s not what Robins do, ex or otherwise.

Tim hasn’t eaten anything all day, not wanting to invoke the high risk that anything that goes down will surely come right back up given how nauseated he is. And no amount of dinosaur vitamins and herbal tea has done a thing to alleviate the full-body ache making every movement hurt.

What’s worse is knowing full well that Dick is suspicious, but for whatever reason he hasn’t confronted Tim about it. Yet. Still, Tim misses neither the calculating stares nor the Worried Big Brother face—Dick’s trademark. Tim doesn’t know why he’s being seen as some irresponsible delinquent, which is completely unjustified.

Because, like, fine. So maybe Tim forgets to take his antibiotics some days. And maybe he gets the exact amount of sleep he needs to stay alive and not a minute more. And maybe his regular nutritional intake is a combination of granola bars, sour patch kids, and gum. But he’s still kicking, so being monitored under such scrutiny is uncalled for, missing spleen be damned.

At least no one knows, for the most part. As far as Tim can recall, the only people aware of his lack of a spleen are Alfred and Dick. Not even Bruce knows, and Tim would prefer it stay that way.

Not that he’s embarrassed about it. Tim simply happens to be in the business of keeping his weaknesses a private matter from no one in particular but especially Damian.

Tim coughs into his arm, trying to focus on the mob gathering he’s supposed to be staking out from the rooftop ledge. Nightwing and Robin are chatting somewhere behind him—arguing the merits of watching Dick’s entire Barbie movie collection in one night.

Tim struggles to keep his eyes open. He’s boiling alive in the heavy leather of his suit—who even convinced him that would be a good idea? He gives off more “super sweaty BDSM” vibes than “I’m a cool superhero I swear” vibes. Beads of sweat roll down his back, and he’s eighty-five percent sure someone messed with the top portion of his suit because his lungs are feeling way tighter than usual.

He longs for when he gets to go home and spend the rest of the night the way he’s spent the last week: curled up under three layers of blankets with the curtains drawn and a stagnant bottle of gatorade on his nightstand. Heaven.

He would have avoided patrolling tonight if he could, but staying cooped up for three days in a row rather than two would certainly draw attention. So, against his body’s desperate begs to be granted rest, Tim is here, bi, and ready to die.

He realizes he’s zoned out and forces his mind to focus. To keep himself from going all foggy-brained again, he tries to keep track of the conversation behind him while keeping his eyes on the meeting below.

“I’m not calling you sexist,” Dick is saying, “but any dude who refuses to watch the Barbie movies just because they’re pink is weak as fuck.”

Damian clicks his tongue, clearly exhausted. “Don’t think me so insecure. I just don’t want to waste my time with films that have stupid plots and terrible characters.”

“Excuse me? Rapunzel is a lovely movie and if you even try to say otherwise I will kick you off this rooftop.”

“Then explain to me why the dragon doesn’t just eat the weasel? Poof, one problem solved.”

“Why doesn’t your dragon just eat you?”

Their voices begin to sound distant and garbled, like they’re being spoken from underwater. Or like Tim’s brain leaked out of his ears and has been replaced with cotton balls. He swallows, wincing at the pain in his throat.

“Red?” Tim jumps when a hand lands on his shoulder. When did Dick get so close? Tim could have sworn he was talking to Damian just a few seconds ago.

Tim wipes the sweat from his brow and squeezes his eyes shut when that action alone makes his temples throb. “Yeah?”

“You good?”

Tim forces a smile. “Swell. Right as rain. Healthy as a rhinoceros.”

Dick arches an eyebrow. “Really.” Tim nods. “You sure? Because you’re like...super pale. Actually, shit, you look even worse up close. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” He raises a hand to press it against Tim’s forehead, but Tim bats him away.

“I’m fine, really. Just a headache. I have painkillers in my belt if it gets worse.” Which is a total lie. Tim finished off those pills hours ago.

Understandably, Dick’s worry doesn’t lessen. He frowns and says something more, but that watery interference comes back, and all Tim hears are muffled vowels. His head swims and he struggles to focus, but the more he tries the more his vision blurs.

Tim’s legs wobble, and the last thing he’s aware of before he collapses off the edge of the roof is Dick calling his name.

Then he’s gone.

Tim comes back to himself slowly. The first things to filter in are sounds; muffled conversation taking place somewhere far away, but also really close? Weird. Also Tim’s cold. Freezing, really. Why is it so cold? He’s pretty sure fevers are supposed to make you hot. Or is it the opposite? It might be the opposite.

Tim lets out an involuntary groan as he forces open his eyes. He blinks repeatedly, slowly realizing over the brightness that he’s back in his own room. Someone’s opened the curtains, and Tim does not care for that shit at all.

Before he can stew over it for much longer he catches a silhouette by his side and reaches out, fumbling until he finds a knee. He swats it weakly. “Can you...turn off the fuckin’ lights, ” he grumbles.

There’s a breathy laugh—Dick? That’s gotta be Dick—before Dick gets up to close the curtains. Tim sighs as darkness falls back over his eyelids. He burrows deeper into the blankets someone’s covered him with, which are a gift from God Herself.

He opens his eyes as Dick is coming back around to Tim’s bedside. “Thanks,” he says. His voice is raspy and it hurts to talk, but quitting is for...well, quitters.

Dick nods to Damian in the doorway—when did he get there?—and says, “See, Lil D? I told you he’d be fine.” To Tim: “You’re fine, right?”

“I can feel my soul migrating from my body all the way to hell.”

“Perfectly fine.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Damian says, but his face is pink. “Try not to die again, Drake,” he says as he turns and vacates the room as fast as his little legs will carry him. Bitch baby.

Dick shakes his head and sits back in the armchair by Tim’s bed. His gaze targets Tim, humor fading, and dread pools in Tim’s gut.

“Look, I’m—”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?” Dick asks. Not angry. Not pleased, either.

“I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.”

“Not that big of a deal? I don’t know how to break this to you, kid, but you have no spleen. At all. You know, that super important organ that keeps your immune system working? You don’t have one. Which means you have to be extremely careful with your health.”

“I know,” Tim says. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Then why weren’t you more careful? Because I know for a fact you’re smarter than this.”

“I was careful,” Tim mutters before plunging into a coughing fit.

“You passed out and fell off a building. Do you have any idea how lucky you are?”

“Yes I do, and your complaints have been noted. Next time I’ll be more careful. Conversation over.” The more he talks, the more a steady thrum builds in his head.

Dick squints at him. “You’re not taking this seriously.”

“What do you want me to do, Dick? I’m ill. You’re scolding a sick kid.” He pulls the blanket over his head, only for Dick to snort and pull it back down, making Tim’s hair poof in all directions.

“We’re talking about this when you’re better.”

Tim rolls onto his side, coughing. “I’ll make a reservation.” Despite how tired and shitty he feels, he manages a small grin.

Dick shakes his head, but he’s smiling as well. “I swear, you guys are going to have me gray by the time I’m forty.”

Tim sniffs, closing his eyes when his headache pounds his skull with a mallet. “Good. ‘S the goal.”

It isn’t long before he drifts back to sleep, knowing that tomorrow he’s going to go right back to resisting anything remotely healthy. But for now? He’ll take it.