Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tim’s skateboard clattered loudly against the concrete driveway when he let go, resting a foot on top to keep it from rolling away. 

“Welcome to Skateboarding 101, gremlin,” Tim drawled, aiming a sharp grin towards his little brother, who looked one theatric gesture away from just turning around and leaving. Well too bad for him because Tim had at least five theatrical gestures up his sleeve and Damian was just gonna have to stand there and take it. That’ll show him to never try and kill Tim again. “Here, I am God.”

Damian stared flatly at him. His right foot had started tapping though, which meant they were on a one-way track to failed bonding time if Tim didn’t hit the brakes ASAP. 

“By the time I’m through with you, you’ll be able to skate down this driveway, turn, and then skate back. Until then, we will not leave this area. No breaks,” Tim slapped a hand over his heart and looked off dramatically into the distance, “no surrender. It may take days. It may even take weeks.” 

“Dinner starts at six and today’s movie night,” Damian corrected. “You have two hours.”

“I’ll take it,” Tim agreed immediately, pumping his first in the air victoriously. And Jason said he wouldn’t be able to make Damian stay. Ha. He should’ve never doubted Tim’s awesome big brother capabilities.

“First thing you need to know about skateboarding is that in the beginning you will fall. So much . Scrapes on your hands, scrapes on your knees.” Tim patted his own knees for emphasis, where his baggy sweatpants hide the scars from numerous falls. “There’s a bit of a tumbling curve before you get used to moving on wheels.” That’s how it had been for him, at least. Granted, Tim also happened to be self-taught, so maybe that had something to do with it. It’s not like there had been anyone to show him the proper way to learn, to teach him the importance of knee and elbow pads, and YouTube videos could only do so much. 

But Damian had him. And Tim had years of experience and mistakes that Damian wouldn’t have to stumble through alone. He wouldn’t have to pick himself off the ground and bandage his scrapes himself. 

“This is where rule one of skateboarding comes into play: safety first.” Tim gestured to the bag beside him holding the safety equipment, ignoring how Damian scoffed incredulously. “It’s all fun and games until someone starts bleeding, and I’d rather it not get to that point.”

“I have been shot at, stabbed,” Damian listed furiously, “injected with fear toxin, held hostage by the stupidest villains this city has to offer, and you think this trivial activity requires the use of armor? Really?” 

“Safety first ,” Tim repeated, fishing out a green helmet for Damian and a red one for himself, “or else Dick will kick both our asses. Or cry, which would be worse.” Damian sighed but grudgingly caught the helmet he tossed over, pulling it on and securing it in place with a mulish click . Tim bit his lip so he wouldn’t feel tempted to coo over the way the helmet slipped over Damian’s eyes for a second before he readjusted it, but the tiny smile he couldn’t contain was enough to earn him a dirty look anyway. 

Clicking his own helmet into place, he reached for the rest. “Knee pads, self explanatory I think—” Damian had to take a tiny step back to catch them this time. He bent over to strap them into place, and then straightened in preparation for more. “—elbow pads, also self explanatory—” The sound of Damian loosening the velcro filled his ears as he ruffled through the empty bag, acting as if there was still something to pull out. When Damian looked up after he’d finished, Tim mimed throwing empty air, “—and my love and affection.”

Damian made sure to stare him dead in the eyes as he took a comically large step to the right, leaving his love and affection to go splat on the ground. What an asshole. Tim resisted the urge to give him a fond noogie. Later , he consoled himself, and moved on. 

“Now that you’ve been sufficiently protected against harm,” Tim grinned at how Damian’s scowl grew and tapped the skateboard underneath his foot, “we can finally get to learning how to ride this bad boy.”

“And how exactly do you plan to do so?” Damian asked warily even as he made his way over. Once atop the skateboard, he flushed darkly when Tim linked their hands together.

“You— Drake —how dare— what is the meaning of this ?” He screeched, voice going higher than a clown who’d inhaled helium from a balloon. Tim was kind of impressed.

He grinned cheekily, daring to swing their hands a little. “How else am I supposed to make you accept my love and affection?” When Damian struggled to pull back, Tim snickered and tightened his grip. “Relax, I’m just pulling your leg. Moving on wheels is gonna feel a little weird at first, and you’re gonna be unbalanced. If you don’t want to fall, then you need something stable to ground you.” He shook their joined hands. “You get three guesses as to what that’ll be, and the first two don’t count.” 

Damian wrinkled his nose and relented, accepting his fate unhappily but quicker than he would’ve a few months ago. Tim ruthlessly beat down the victorious smile pulling at his lips. Operation Smother-Damian-With-Affection had been going off without a hitch ever since he implemented the plan, and it wouldn’t do for the boy in question to catch on to it when he was finally seeing results. 

A childhood spent among only assassins, where positive emotions were seen as weak at best and punishable at worst, had left its scars. Even with the miracle Dick had managed to pull off in the year he spent tracking down Bruce, Damian still had a hard time unlearning a lifetime spent associating touch with pain. Sometimes the results were hilarious, like when Jason had come up behind him while he’d been sketching, laying a hand on his shoulder to get his attention and earning a sucker punch to the gut that had him wheezing. Tim would treasure the image of a 200 pound man being brought to his knees by a middle schooler for the rest of his life.

Other times were...less so. No one liked to remember the impromptu game of hide and seek that lasted three days after Damian had accidentally blown up the Batmobile and bolted in terror. Bruce had had a fun time assuring the boy that he wouldn’t punish him for what was clearly an accident. Addressing the fact that any punishment he inflicted would never serve to cause him pain had been set aside for later, when Damian was less flighty. 

Glancing at his little brother now, at the tip of his tongue poking through his lips as he concentrated on the skateboard, at the thumb tapping a nonsensical pattern against Tim’s knuckles in a move he suspected Damian was completely unaware he was doing, Tim’s fierce pride for him wrapped around his neck in a gentle stranglehold, robbing him of his breath. It was a good thing Damian was looking down; Tim didn’t know what expression he was wearing, but he suspected it would’ve made the boy scowl in an attempt to cover up any embarrassment and snap out a “wipe that pathetic look off your face,” and then Tim would have no choice but to put the lesson on hold to give him that noogie he’d set aside. And then their bonding session would turn into a wrestling session and Jason would give him smug looks for the rest of eternity and that could not happen .

So it was best for everyone that no one ever saw what face Tim was making at that moment. God forbid someone mistake his soft eyes and the small upturn at the corner of his lip for affection. Perish the thought.

“Wait a second,” Tim realized suddenly as he slowly pulled Damian along, “did you just call me Drake?”

“It’s your name,” Damian shot back with a frown, glancing up to shoot him a glare.

“But you called me Timothy last week,” he whined, huffing when his most emotionally constipated brother ducked his head and resolutely focused his eyes on the moving board beneath him. 

“Those were exonerating circumstances,” Damian said stiffly. “You appeared to be in distress, and did not react when I called out using your last name.”

“Awwwww,” Tim teased, relishing in the opportunity to tease his prickly little brother while he was unable to escape. “You were worried!”

“I most certainly was not!”

Tim chuckled and tugged Damian into a U-turn. “Sure. While the sentiment is appreciated, there was no need to be. I always cry when I watch Wall-E. It’s, like, a fact of the universe.”

Damian raised an eyebrow dubiously. “The sky is blue, the sun is hot, and Timothy Drake cries during Wall-E.”

“Exactly . Now you’re getting it.”

The wheels crunched over gravel as they made their way back to where they’d started. Damian had loosened up, limbs releasing tension the more confident he became. Tim would even dare to say he was enjoying himself. When they’d returned to their original spot, Tim let go of his hands and stepped back.

“Okay, now that—” Tim’s breath hitched, slapping a startled hand to his right side. The brief lance of pain was already retreating, there and gone as quick as Cass. He experimentally twisted his upper body, only relaxing when the pain didn’t reemerge.  

“Drake?”

Tim startled and blinked at Damian, who was watching him closely. “Ah, sorry,” he apologized sheepishly, running a hand through his hair. “Think I cramped something from holding my arms up the whole time. I’m good now though. As I was saying, you—” 

Over the course of their remaining two hours, the pain never returned for an encore. But for no reason Tim could discern, sometimes he’d find himself holding a hand to his side until he realized what he was doing. He promised himself a hot bath before bed and forcefully cast the moment out of his head, focusing back on the lesson. 

He had a little brother to bond with. 

“Alright,” Bruce boomed above everyone’s chatter, “we need to pick which movie to watch. I’m gonna say some options—” he waved a slip of paper, “—and I want you all to quietly raise your hands for your choice. No talking necessary.” 

Tim snorted into his cup of water. Quietly. Sure. 

Movie night had just started and it was already off to a good start. Stephanie and Damian were curled up on the same armchair, sharing a private bowl of popcorn because they were the only two people in the Manor that liked it made with sugar. In the kitchen, Alfred could be heard making more bowls for everyone. Dick was sprawled on top of Jason, both of them choosing the floor in front of the television as their territory. Jason had put up a fight at first, mostly for appearances sake because cuddles from Dick were healing and the reason a small part of Tim was still convinced Dick had a little bit of magic in his bloodline.

To his right, Cass laid on the couch with him, her head in his lap and her legs absentmindedly swinging back and forth as they dangled over the edge. On his left was the spot reserved for Bruce. There was a good chance he’d fall asleep in the middle of the film given how worn out he felt, and luckily for him, his dad just so happened to be pillow-shaped. 

“First up,” Bruce called out from the front of the room, clapping his hands to get everyone’s attention, “we’ve got Meet the Robinsons.”

“If there aren’t guns in it, I don’t want to see it,” Jason immediately proclaimed loudly, not even bothering to raise his hand. 

“Duly noted,” Bruce said dryly. “Anyone else? Hands please.”

Stephanie’s hand shot up. “Come on guys! It’s got time travel shenanigans!” She encouraged, looking around the room. “It’s got orphans too so I know you’ll love it Bruce. It’s—it’s got uh plot twists, dinosaurs, ummm flying ca— fruit hats . It’s got fruit hats! Who doesn’t love a hat made out of fruit! Come on, at least do it for the fruit hats.”

Damian mouthed fruit hats with utter confusion but raised his hand in solidarity. Tim supposed there was nothing that brought people closer together than the same taste in popcorn. 

Dick hummed consideringly, then raised his hand with a little shrug. “Why not?” He smiled when Stephanie cheered. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen it.”

“Tim’s input doesn’t matter ‘cause he’s gonna fall asleep anyway,” she declared, ignoring his offended protests beyond blowing a kiss at him. “Cass, don’t let me down.”

“You know I have like—” Bruce looked down at the list of titles in his hand and counted, “—five other movies here, right? Ones you might also want to watch. Also, hands.”

“Cass!” Stephanie shouted, ignoring him. “Light of my life! Stars to my moon! What’s the verdict?” 

Smiling indulgently, Cass raised her hand into the air, giggling at the excited whoop! 

“Young miss,” Alfred called sternly from the kitchen, and it was amazing how effective the tone was even when he wasn’t in the same room, “if you could attempt to act like you weren't raised in a barn that would be lovely, thank you.”

Stephanie muttered an apology, sinking into her seat before perking up upon remembering what she’d just achieved. “Majority rules, put on the movie!”

Jason scowled as Bruce relented and bent down to set up the movie. “Are there at least any guns in it? I’ll even take a laser gun.”

“...Maybe? I don’t remember.”

“You remembered there were fruit hats!”

“And? Don’t fruit shame me.”

Tim dragged his eyes away from the amusing banter when cold plastic nudged against his arm. Looking down, he saw Cass offering him a bowl of popcorn and was just able to see Alfred’s back vanish once again into the kitchen. He muttered his thanks and grabbed a small handful before pushing the rest back to her. Cautiously eating a few, he relaxed when nothing came from his stomach beyond a vague feeling of discomfort. 

By the time his skateboarding lesson with Damian had ended, the first flash of pain had evolved into a low level constant hum of irritation. Tim hadn’t wanted to spend the entirety of movie night with his stomach feeling funky, and had been more than willing to pop a few painkillers just before dinner. Seemed like that had been enough time for them to kick in, though he mourned the food Alfred had cooked that he hadn’t been able to bring himself to eat. 

Tim shoved the rest in his mouth, and stretched towards the bowl for another handful. Keeping his mouth full in a steady stream of popcorn with one hand and twirling a strand of Cass’s hair with the other, he relaxed into the cushions, perking up when Bruce settled down beside him and the movie started playing. Stuffing himself with popcorn would have to suffice for now. But when I’m better, he promised himself, I’m gonna eat twice as much of his food to make up for what I missed. 

With a plan for the future, Tim turned his focus to the screen, something warm curling inside him when Bruce settled a heavy arm on his shoulders. 

Everything would be fine.

A day later, Tim was starting to get a little worried. 

The clock in the kitchen told him it was the ungodly hour of three in the morning when he shuffled in. Holding back a groan of relief, he slumped into the first chair he saw and wrapped his arms around his waist. The pain in his stomach hadn’t eased. If anything, it had gotten worse.

What had started off as brief flashes of pain and distant aches was now a constant annoyance. Taking the pain killers had helped during movie night, but it wasn’t like he could do that everyday. No one in the household was allowed to use painkillers two days in a row without telling anyone else, a rule enforced by Jason. 

(Privately, Tim wondered if Jason still religiously counted the number of pills they had every week, checking to see if anyone had snuck any.)

Swallowing against the threat of bile at the back of his throat, he shakily leaned his head against the back of his chair, closed his eyes, and focused on trying to breathe steadily. 

Light footsteps danced their way down the hall outside, clothing of some sort brushing against the floor. Faint humming filled his ears as their owner slowly made their way to the kitchen. When the footsteps twirled to a stop right in front of him, he opened his eyes.

Cass.

She looked wide awake despite the late hour. It certainly seemed that she’d attempted to go to sleep, however. Tim eyed the way her pajama pants flowed over her feet, leaving only the tips of her toes peeking out, and smiled weakly.

“You come here often?” He joked, smiling more easily when she rolled her eyes. 

“Yes. When I can not,” she paused for a second, pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes in thought, “...find sleep?”

“Fall asleep,” he provided.

“When I can not fall asleep, I come down. Explore some nights. Dance others. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it does not.” She held out her hands. “Dance with me?”

She reached out to him and the warning bells in his head erupted into noise, screeching no-don’t-no-pain-please no-pain-will HURT-NO . Tim jerked back like she was on fire, his hands far out of reach before she could touch them. 

Cass froze. Tim did too.

“Little brother?” Cass said softly, confused but still raising her hands non-threateningly, like he had any reason to be frightened by her and wasn’t just an awful human being that should hurl himself into a vat of vomit and deserved to never again be given food cooked by Alfred.

“I’m sorry,” Tim choked out, jerking forward because god this was just perfect. He wasn’t even surprised. The night was already doomed to go to shit, why not make his favorite sibling think he was afraid of her too. “I’m not scared of you, I promise. I just—I can’t dance right now. Today. I—It’s not that I’m busy—of course I’m not, it's the middle of the night—I love dancing with you—my stomach—OW,” Tim tried to stutter out, motioning towards his stomach, hoping she understood what he was trying to say.

Tim didn’t know why he doubted her. Cass always understood him. That’s why she was his favorite.

Her eyes lit up and she nodded understandingly. “Pain. In your stomach?”

Tim hummed and rewrapped his arms around his waist. Now that he wasn’t distracted by being the worst brother in the history of mankind, the pain was making itself known with vengeance. Easy enough to breath through, but a discomfort he’d be happy to live without. “A stomach ache. Moving makes it hurt more.”

Cass stared, pointedly looked around the kitchen they were in, two floors away from his room, and then looked back at him, eyebrow arched like a batarang. Tim pouted. “I wanted tea! Hot drinks help with pain, and Alfred said I’m not allowed to have a cup of coffee more than three times a day because I have a problem. His words, not mine.” 

Which Tim didn’t. He drank a completely normal amount of coffee for a recovering CEO that moonlighted as a teenage vigilante, in addition to returning to school. Which, by the way, was completely unnecessary if you asked him. Not that anyone did. He’d tried to explain to Bruce that school was pointless anyway because he already knew most of what they were trying to teach him, but Bruce had put his foot down and no amount of consoling would dissuade him. 

And to make the whole situation worse, Jason had found out Alfred was cutting him off. 

“Don’t worry, baby bird,” Jason had said, the perfect picture of solemnity, if not for the amused glint in his eyes as he dragged Tim into a rough noogie, “we’ll help you get through this. Detoxing will be rough, but through the power of faith, trust, and pixie dust, you’ll come out all the better for it. Just you wait and see.” 

“It’s coffee,” Tim remembered snarling when he finally managed to escape from Jason’s deathtrap. The man had clearly taken down tips from Dick, no matter how much he despised being compared to their older brother.

“Addiction’s addiction, Timbit,” Jason had teased, but it was his tight smile and the worry lines carved into his forehead that made Tim back down. 

So yeah. Tim now had a limit on how much coffee he was allowed to drink. He was...adjusting.

Cass rested her hands on his shoulders and nudged him until he was leaning back in his chair. “Sit. I will make it for you.”

Relieved, he relaxed into his seat and focused on breathing as he watched his sister flit around the room. In no more than 10 minutes, he had a steaming mug of peppermint tea in front of him, sweetened to perfection. God who? Sorry, Tim only knew his lord and savior Cass. 

“Need to leave now. Go rest after,” she ordered firmly, waiting until he nodded. Satisfied, she reached to tousle his hair and he barely managed to duck away, setting down his mug in case she tried again. “Too fast for you,” he said smugly, basking in the victory of neat hair.

Dark eyes narrowed into slits. 

Cass darted forward, and before Tim could do anything, she pressed a quick kiss against his cheek and danced out of reach, leaving him sputtering and raising his arms up against empty air.

“Too fast,” she mocked, cackling happily as she sprinted away. 

“Jason’s a horrible influence on you!” Tim huffed and tried to ignore the rising blush invading his cheek, caging the smile that wanted to be let out.

“Truth,” Cass called gleefully over her shoulder, and Tim’s smile broke free.

Thing 1 and Thing 2

Stephanie: [macklemore voice] can we go thrift shopping

Tim: that’s a dead meme and u know it

Tim: u should be ashamed of urself

Stephanie: bold of you to assume i feel shame

Stephanie: also i know i phrased that like a question but it’s not a question you’re coming with me

Tim: miss ma’am is this a kidnapping

Stephanie: hell yeah

Tim: then no thank u <3

Stephanie: my liege i’m afraid you don’t have a choice <3

Stephanie: who else is gonna keep an eye out for jeans with real pockets??? not me

Tim: your majesty we  b r o k e  u p

Tim: explain why this is still my job

Stephanie: because it also gives me a chance to fill your wardrobe with literally something other than sweatpants and borrowed t-shirts 

Stephanie: how are you supposed to catch a man in assless sweats??? this is why you need me

Tim: pause when did this turn into a me-needing-u situation 

Stephanie: five seconds ago luv keep up 

Stephanie: meet up in 20?

Tim: as much as i’m obviously jumping for joy at the opportunity to shop with u, i honestly can’t come :/

Stephanie: oh my god how injured are you

Tim: why do u just automatically assume i’m injured?? 

Stephanie: but am i wrong?

Tim: >:(

Tim: i’m  f i n e. just a really bad stomach ache i haven’t been able to shake off

Tim: what’s the male equivalent of periods? because it feels like that’s what i have

Stephanie: oh big yikes :(( want me to bring you some chocolate? would that even work?

Tim: considering i’d probably just throw it back up i’m gonna have to go with no. thanks tho 

Stephanie: throw it back up- SIR????

Tim: it’s a new development :T 

Stephanie: explain or so help me god :D

Tim: i haven’t eaten anything since movie night cuz i felt like i’d throw it up

Tim: and so bruce offered to make me some waffles for breakfast cuz i love waffles and it’s the one food alfred can’t quite get right

Stephanie: but B can’t cook ALL foods

Tim: exactly

Tim: so i was like uh NO THANKS i’m good because contrary to popular belief i don’t have a death wish 

Stephanie: could’ve fooled me but continue

Tim: and then alfred decided to make me a smoothie since he thought it’d be easier to drink something and it sounded right so i drank it but then i spent like half an hour with my head in a toilet hurling so that clearly didn’t work

Tim: and bruce caught me like 15 mins in and he was all like ohmygodwhyareyouvomiting and i couldn’t answer him cuz u know i was VOMITING

Tim: but when i was done i told him i thought i had a small stomach virus or something that it made it hard to keep down food 

Tim: and bruce freaked out of course so now i can’t leave my room or get up from bed or do ANYTHING until i feel better or else he’ll take away my skateboard >:(

Tim: on the bright side tho he now thinks i rejected his offer for waffles because of my stomach ache and not because i would rather shoot myself in the foot than eat his cooking

Stephanie: you sure you don’t need to go to leslie or something??

Tim: dunno yet. bruce said i’ve got a little fever but that it doesn’t seem too bad. on the other hand i think bruce is considering whether trying to feed me himself so i don't strain anything would be worth the inevitable riot i WILL throw so who knows how true that is 

Tim: and to make matters even worse i’m not allowed on patrol anymore!!

Stephanie: babe what the fuck would you even do if he let you go on patrol?? vomit on the criminals?? ask them for some of the tylenol they’re selling??

Tim: smh it’s the PRINCIPLE of the matter 

Stephanie: uh huh ok you big baby 

Stephanie: well what am i supposed to do now

Tim: go ask Cass to come with you. i’m pretty sure she's magic when it comes to shopping. everything just makes its way to her. she’s the one that found my favorite pair of jeans

Stephanie: the ones that give you a figure???

Tim: the very ones

Stephanie: mad respect. i’ll go ask

Stephanie: stay alive king <3

Tim: that’s the plan queen <3

He fucked up. Tim wasn’t exactly sure how yet, but he knew he had. 

When he’d successfully lied to Bruce about feeling marginally better the following morning (which was so far from the truth because ow ), the first place he had zoomed off to was the kitchen, the hotspot for family activity. Tim understood his most affectionate older brother and murderous little brother all too well now. He’d be willing to stab anyone that got in his way if it meant being given at least five minutes to get out of bed, stretch his legs, bask in company that wasn’t his own. 

The only ones in the kitchen had been Dick and Alfred, the former making his way through some Lucky Charms and chatting up a storm as the latter expertly whisked up some scrambled eggs. The pointed frowns given towards the bowl of diabetes had either been ignored or gone unnoticed, though the rate at which Dick shoved his spoon in his mouth said he was all too aware he was living on borrowed time. 

Dick’s eyes had followed him when he painfully shuffled his way inside, gathering a glass and filling it with ice and water. He’d sipped his treat slowly, enjoying the presence of other people as much as he could with Dick drilling a hole into the side of his skull. Bruce had called in reinforcements close to when Tim had nearly finished vomiting his guts out once he realized he couldn’t hold back Tim’s hair and get up for a wet paper towel at the same time. 

It was reasonable for Dick to be worried about him after an incident like that, but he was fairly certain he’d done a good enough job convincing him he was getting his strength back. He’d spent the time angelically sipping his water, too occupied with clenching his teeth to contribute to the conversation. When there had been no more water left to drink, he’d put his glass in the sink, declined Alfred’s offer to make him some coffee, and made his way out of the kitchen.

Somehow—somewhere in that last bit of interaction, he’d fucked up. Majorly. Because Dick’s narrowed eyes had stayed trained on his back as he walked out the kitchen, not even faltering when Alfred, fed up, snatched the bowl from his hands and replaced it with a steaming pile of eggs fresh from the stove.

Gritting his teeth against another wave of pain, he panted softly in the safety of his room once it passed. He could handle this. The Clench had felt leagues worse; getting beat half to death by Jason had felt leagues worse. He could handle this. Soon, the stomach ache would go away and he’d appreciate the ability to sit up without curling within himself and all would be right with the world.

Soon, he chanted desperately. Soon, soon, soon, soon, soo —

From his door came a soft knock.

Shit.

Borrowing deeper into his blankets, he spared a brief hope that his visitor would take his silence as a request for privacy. 

That hope was then swiftly murdered when the door clicked open. 

“Hey, kiddo!” Dick. Damn it.

The bed bounced lightly when Dick threw himself next to Tim, and he could practically feel the man’s grin as he curled tighter in his cocoon. 

“Tim Drake isn’t in at the moment,” Tim muttered, not caring if his voice came out muffled. “Can I take a message?”

Beside him came the sound of Dick’s gentle laughter, and Tim whined as he felt hands insistently pull the blanket monster he had become until he was curled up on Dick’s lap. It took some maneuvering to hunt through all the layers for where his head was, but eventually Dick struck gold and began carding his fingers through Tim’s hair. 

Tim murmured happily and melted into his older brother as he slowly but steadily soothed the tension Tim had long since learned to tune out. “So,” Dick muttered once Tim had gone completely limp, “are we gonna talk about the Zitka in the room?”

“Don’ ru’n the mom’nt, pl’se,” Tim slurred sleepily, nudging his head against Dick’s palm when the man paused to untangle a knot in his hair. 

“Sorry buddy, but you’re not getting out of this conversation.” Dick pressed an apologetic kiss against his temple and resumed the calming gesture. “Look. I could excuse you not eating much dinner on movie night because I know you don’t like sleeping on a full stomach and you always fall asleep in the middle of the movie. I get it. I could excuse you saying no to Bruce’s waffles because that man should’ve been banned from the kitchen years ago and for the sake of your health saying no was the right option. I get it, Timmy.”

Dick’s hand stopped moving and Tim groaned when a hand softly patted his cheek. Opening his eyes reluctantly, he was rewarded with the sight of Dick’s upside-down worried face above him. “But coffee? Tim, you can’t honestly expect me to hear you say no to some coffee and not be worried. I once saw you try to sneak a cup while recovering from fear toxin, and you know what caffeine does to a not-yet toxin-free body.”

“Hallucinations are a small price to pay for feeling awake.”

“Tim.”

“I think if Jason’s allowed to make death jokes, it’s only fair that I can make self-deprecating ones.”

“Make another joke like that and I’ll cry on you,” Dick threatened. “Don’t think I’m above guilt trips because I assure you I am not.”

Tim fought to keep his face and breathing unaffected even as his throat tightened, pinned in place by stern, shiny blue eyes. Unbelievable. He’s trained with Lady Shiva, outsmarted Ra’s, lied to Batman, and yet it’s his older brother’s tears that threaten to do him in.

Said tears were quickly blinked away once Tim reluctantly nodded, and the room slipped into tense silence.

“I’m worried,” Dick finally admitted quietly, twirling a lock of hair between two fingers. “You—you’re freaking me out, Tim.” He watched as Dick let out a shaky sigh. “I know you like to keep your problems to yourself. And I try to respect that because it’s important that you learn to trust that help will be available when you ask for it—no don’t argue with me, we both know I’m right.” Tim mulishly closed his mouth and pouted, though he eased up when Dick started smoothing a thumb over his frown lines. “But something’s going on with you. Something worse than that stomach virus bullshit you sold to Bruce.”

“Didn’t wanna worry anyone,” Tim muttered. “Thought I did a good enough job keeping you worry warts from noticing.”

“We’re a family of detectives and we love you, of course we’re gonna notice,” Dick chided, yanking his ear. “So spill. What’s wrong?” Tim bit his lip, unsure, and Dick’s face softened. “I want to help, but I can’t do that unless you tell me what’s wrong.” 

Dick wrapped against his own forehead, then reached down and gently knocked his knuckles against Tim’s. “Two heads are better than one, Timmy, you know that,” Dick said. “Please. Tell me what’s going on.”

Tim blinked hard and pressed his lips together, trying to keep them from wobbling even as his vision started to blur. At least he didn’t have a clear shot of Dick’s worried-scared-please let me help face now. He almost couldn’t believe it. Dodging the observations of an entire family of detectives, playing off his persistent stomach pain so no one would worry, and coffee was what ratted him out? 

Unbelievable. Betrayed by his only constant companion. 

Tim scrunched up his face against the hurricane of emotions he was in no shape to deal with and a tear slipped out, barely having any time to trail down his face before it was swiftly caught by Dick’s thumb. “I—I don’t think I’m—something’s wrong.” Tim swallowed and breathed deeply, soothed by Dick’s nonsensical mutterings of comfort. There was nothing to hide now. And if he was going to be telling the truth, he might as well go all the way.

“I honestly thought it was a stomach ache,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut against another dagger of pain. A tear slipped through anyway, so he gave up and opened them. More followed, trailing down his cheek until he could taste salt on his lips. “It seemed like it at first. I took some painkillers when it first showed up, on movie night, and I thought that’d be the end of it. But then it just kept getting worse. I tried googling what was wrong using my symptoms, but it just said my organs were shutting down and that I had two days to live. But,” Tim hurried to say when Dick’s face went alarmingly blank, “that was three days ago, so it was clearly bogus.” 

“Okay.” Dick breathed in deeply as he struggled to keep calm. “Well we’re definitely coming back to the fact that you thought Google would be a better choice to decide what was wrong with you rather than Dr. Leslie or Alfred. But that’s for later. Scale of one to ten, how’s the pain? One being Dr. Leslie’s version of fine, and ten being the aftermath of a run with the Joker.”

“What’s the number that means it feels like someone’s digging their fingers into my side and trying to crack my stomach open like an egg?”

Dick gave a tight-lipped smile. “An eight then; I can work with that. Can you show me where it seems to hurt the most?”

“Besides everywhere?” Tim sighed dramatically. “My stomach. Lower area. Mainly to the right I think?”

Dick blinked down at him, slowly drifting his eyes to where his stomach was most likely to be underneath the blankets. “To the right?”

“To the right,” Tim confirmed. He watched as Dick looked at him a moment more before pulling out his phone to type something. “Watcha doin’?”

“Texting Bruce,” Dick muttered, absentmindedly patting his head. “Alfred can’t drive us while he’s cooking, so B needs to bring the car around.” 

Tim stared at him. Dick finished typing, shoved his phone back into a pocket, and pasted a nervous grin on his face when he saw Tim looking. “Don’t freak out, but I’m pretty sure you need to go to the hospital.”

Tim blanched. Dick sped up his patting.

“Oh my fucking god,” he whispered to himself. “Google was right.”

You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain. 

That’s how the saying goes. Take enough punches from the universe and eventually it becomes harder and harder to pop back up, to see the worth in fighting back, to stop yourself from turning around and delivering some punches of your own. 

Tim never wanted to become the villain—

“Appendicitis,” Tim breathed in disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

—but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted to burn the world to ashes when shit like this kept happening to him. 

“Language,” Bruce said automatically, and then winced when Tim turned to him. “Sorry. But on the bright side, at least we got you to the hospital before it burst.”

“Oh well, thank god for that. My own body is rioting against me but sure, let’s focus on the fact that it hasn’t done me in. Yet.”

“You’re too young to be so pessimistic,” Bruce tuts, using his hand to coax him into an upright position. “Come on, scoot forwards. We need to do something about your hair unless you want your siblings to make fun of your bedhead after the operation.”

“It’s my hospital bed,” Tim complains even as he obediently scoots forward, making room for Bruce to sit behind him. His hospital gown bunches awkwardly as he does, and it’s a pain and a half straightening it out. The only consolation is that it doesn’t open in the back. “What are you even doing?”

“No clue,” Bruce answers promptly as Tim feels him gather as much of his hair as he can hold, tucking rebellious strands behind his ears until every lock lays neatly against his back. Last he checked, it should reach the middle of his chest. It was a pain to handle, and sometimes he despaired of his decision to grow it out, especially since he was the one responsible for washing it. 

But then Jason would carefully braid flowers into his hair, just like he had apparently done with his mother during her lucid days. Or Cass would run her fingers through it during movie nights when he put his head in her lap, lulling him to sleep all the faster. Or Stephanie would practice hairstyles on his head so she’d have some experience before she did it on her own, creating results that more often than not were a thing of beauty.  He loved those little interactions too much to chop his hair, and had long since resigned himself to no more 15 minute showers in his future.

“I used to do this for my mother,” Bruce muttered behind him as Tim felt him separate three strands at the crown of his head. “She liked to keep it shoulder length, but sometimes she’d let it grow out to give time between her haircuts. She hated it when it got too long though; complained ‘till she was blue in the face.”

Tim held his breath, reluctant to ruin this precious moment. From what he could feel by Bruce’s gentle tugging, about half his head had been wrestled into a neat braid. “My father was the one that took care of it for her. Every night he’d comb her hair, and I’d watch him as he braided it down her back. When I asked, he taught me how to do it, too. My hands were small and inexperienced, but he was patient with me. And I wanted so badly to share this moment with my mother too that I stuck to it, no matter how impatient I got.”

Tilting his head forward when fingers prompted him to, Tim closed his eyes. His scalp was done, and Bruce’s fingers twisted the remaining length of his hair with ease. “I haven’t done this in a long time, but muscle memory is a wonderful thing.”

“What about when Dick grew his hair out? That was long enough to braid,” Tim said, selfishly hoping his wayward siblings would stay away for just a moment longer. After the doctor had given his diagnosis, Dick, who’d insisted on tagging along on the ride to the hospital, had left to give the rest of the family the news. Which meant soon enough the room would be filled with his overbearing but well meaning family, all itching to smother him and make fun of him in equal measures. He wanted to draw out this conversation as much as he could. Bruce rarely mentioned his parents, and any information given was to be hoarded like gold.

“That was a mullet.” Tim snorted quietly at the pure disgust in Bruce’s voice. “I do have standards, you know.”

At the light tap on his elbow, he rolled his hair tie off his wrist and handed it back. When the end had been tied off, Bruce tilted Tim’s head backwards and aimed an upside-down smile at him. “All done.” 

Tim smiled back. “Thank you.” He didn’t clarify whether it was for the braid, or the attempt to calm his poorly hidden nerves with the story about his parents. He hoped Bruce knew it was for both.

Sharp blue eyes crinkled at the corner. “Anytime.”

He held onto that moment at the front of his mind as he was rolled into surgery. His braid pressed against his spine served as a constant reminder of safety, and when one of the surgeons fitted an anesthesia mask over his mouth and nose, his earlier nerves were far beyond reach. 

Counting down from ten, Tim didn’t even reach seven before he was out like a light.

“You got the camera ready?”

“Duh. I’m not an amateur.”

“Shut up, you imbeciles. He’s rising.” 

Tim blinked. 

“Hey. Hey Timmy, look at the camera. Come on—thatta boy. Say something funny.” 

Tim furrowed his brows. Why was a skunk asking him to talk? How could a skunk talk in the first place? Should he ask him? Probably best not to. He figured if someone came up to him and started demanding to know why he could talk and insisting he shouldn’t be able to, he wouldn’t be too happy about it. 

“Come on, Timbit, let’s not waste the doctor’s good drugs. Give me something I can hold over you,” the skunk wheedled, grinning widely behind the camera in his— hands! He had hands! Skunks weren’t supposed to have hands! Were they? He was fairly sure they weren’t, but he’d also thought they weren’t supposed to talk, so what did he know? Nada. 

Oh, now that was a fun word. Nada. Naaaaaaaaaada. Nadaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

What was he supposed to be doing again?

“God, he’s so out of it,” a young man whispered beside what Tim had decided to dub as Skunkman. 

Oh yeah! He’d been asked to do something. It’d be rude not to comply. 

“Something funny,” Tim finally slurred out. Five points to gryffindor! 

The young man snorted, and Tim wondered who he was. He felt familiar. 

“You can take out the smart, but not the smartass,” Skunkman sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “If you want something done right you gotta do it yourself. Hey Timbo, share something you’ve never told anyone.”

“ Jason. Stop it,” what Tim had assumed was a shadow ordered, nearly giving him a heart attack. Turning his head though, he saw that the shadow wasn’t a shadow at all. “No taking advantage of your siblings when they’re on pain meds. You know the rules.” The person turned to him and gave him a gentle smile. Almost without even realizing it, every inch of Tim’s body automatically relaxed. “Good to see you up. How ya feelin’?” 

Tim squinted. “...Selina?”

“What,” Maybe-Selina said flatly as the room erupted into laughter. “I—how. How do you get—you’re looking right at me, Tim.  What about me makes you think I’m Selina.”

“You have short black hair.”

“So does he,” Probably-not-Selina pointed out, gesturing towards the young man beside Skunkman catching his breath. Oh! He understood now! How silly of him. 

“Selina!” Tim smiled dopily at him. “Hi! You look different! Growing out your hair?” Then Tim realized something important. “Where are your boobs?”

As Skunkman appeared to choke on air, next to him the smallest boy Tim had ever seen gave a scandalized gasp. Why was he so small? Was he sick or something? Or—or maybe that was just how he was? Like dwarves. Dwarves were small. Maybe he was a dwarf. Tim studied the scowl on his face and decided, I hereby dub thee Grumpy.  

“Drake!” Grumpy scolded. “Don’t be so crass!” Oh. Whoops. Was he not supposed to mention them? Maybe it was a sore subject. 

“Hi Tim,” Selina said blankly, voice strained as Skunkman wheezed for air between bouts of uncontrollable giggles while he desperately tried to hold his camera steady. “It is I, Selina. Thank you for your concern, but it’s all good. They were bothering me so I took them off.” 

“Grayson! ”

“Understandable. Don’t worry, your figure still looks great,” Tim reassured.

“I’m gonna have to make so many copies of this,” Skunkman whispered. “I can’t let him delete this. It’s gonna be an heirloom. I’m gonna pass it down if any of us ever have children. This is art.”

“Enough,” Not-shadow ordered as he gave them a stern look before turning back to him. “The doctors gave you some pain meds after you came out of surgery, so some things might be a bit confusing.” Not-shadow squeezed Tim’s right hand and he was surprised to realize he’d been holding it hostage this entire time without Tim noticing. “Who we are seems to be one of those confusing bits, huh. But don’t worry son, the surgery went fine, and you’ll be right as rain once you don’t need the meds anymore.”

Oh. Oh.

“Steph and Cass are downstairs getting the rest of us coffee and food,” his dad explained, waving at the two empty chairs next to him. “They’re gonna be upset they missed you waking up. I’ll shoot them a text though, if you want to tell them anything.”

“M’kay.” Tim thought for a moment. Neither of those names sounded familiar, but he supposed he should send out a message if they’d been waiting for him to wake up, too. “Tell them that the first person convicted of speeding was going 8 mph.” Tim nodded firmly. That was a good message. Interesting, short, and something to talk about when they came back. 

“Why do you know that?” Grumpy asked, baffled, grunting when Selina elbowed him harshly.

Dad stared at him for a moment, let out a heavy sigh, and then pulled out his phone. “Aaaaand sent,” he said a few seconds later. 

“Nice. Thanks dad.”

The phone clattered loudly on the ground. Tim blinked at it curiously, and then at the unmoving man beside him. 

“Aren’t you gonna pick that up?” Tim eventually asked when he made no move to do so. 

“One hit KO,” Selina winced quietly, shaking his head as Dad stared blankly into space, cheeks a bright red. “Poor guy didn’t even have a chance to prepare himself.”

“Rest in fucking pieces, old man,” Skunkman muttered in agreement.

“Good going, Drake,” Grumpy sighed, facepalming. “You broke Father.”

“I—I’m not b-broken. Honestly.” Dad cleared his throat, face calm again though Tim could see that his ears remained red. “I was just surprised.”

“Why? You called me son, so that means you must be my dad,” Tim reasoned. This was kindergarten logic; shouldn’t he know this already? Maybe there was something wrong after all because Bruce’s face twitched oddly and then dropped.

“I—” Dad hesitated, glancing at the others. “I’m Bruce, Tim. Remember?”

Tim did not, in fact, remember. “Of course I know that.”

“Okay, okay. It’s just. You said ‘Dad’ and—and I called you ‘son’ so I think you might’ve confused me with Jack. And that’s perfectly alright!” Bruce hurried to reassure.

Tim might’ve been drugged to the gills and half out of his mind, but he had enough memories to remember Jack Drake. Nonetheless, Tim gazed at Bruce through half-mast eyes. “Are you deaf?” He asked, thoroughly unimpressed. “Or just dumb?

Dad just continued to sit there looking tentatively confused, though a sliver of offense was peaking through. Shouldn’t this be obvious? Maybe being a parent robbed you of common sense. Poor Dad. In that case, Tim should probably take pity on the man and explain. Then they could laugh about how obvious it was together!

“I called you Dad,” Tim explained slowly, hoping simple terms would get it through, “because that’s who you are. If Jack was here, I would have called him Father, because that’s who he is.” 

Dad blinked, stunned into silence. Skunkman switched targets and zoomed in on Dad’s face.

“Some kids need a way to differentiate between multiple parents,” Tim explained serenely. “Gay marriage is legal, you know.” 

Dad opened his mouth, and then closed it without saying anything. Tim waited for him to say something, and when nothing came out he sighed and shook his head. “It’s a good thing you’re pretty.”

“No thoughts, head empty,” Selina nodded solemnly, lips twitching.

Dad groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Have children, they said. They’ll be the best part of your life, they said. You all are going to send me into an early grave.” Tim sucked in a startled breath when the hands were dropped. “Give me a copy of that video when this is over, Jaylad. I might make what he just said my ringtone.”

“You do realize all that will accomplish is him never calling you again, right?” Grumpy pointed out as Skunkman gave an enthusiastic thumbs up, but Tim barely heard him. Dad was looking his way again, and he watched as lips quirked up in a tiny smile, eyes bright as Dad hitched one eyebrow up.

Alarmed, Tim made grabby hands until Dad finally caught on and brought his face within distance. Smooshing the cheeks between his palms, he watched in distress as stern eyes smoothed out, face going gentle as the man gazed at him fondly. He was helpless to do nothing but witness stress evaporate, making room for the laughter lines around Dad's eyes to deepen, and felt the jaw under his hands lose tension that had been holding it rigid. Horrified, he squished Dad’s cheeks harder.

“Why is your face melting? ” Tim wailed.

“What?” Dad tried to say, but it came out more like, “W’a’?”

“I don’t know what we did to deserve high Tim but I am so, so thankful,” Selina whispered, a maniacal smile stretching across his face.

“An heirloom,” Skunkman insisted.

“I hate this fucking family,” Grumpy hissed—well, grumpily. Rising from his chair, he pried Tim’s fingers off Dad’s face, holding them firmly while Dad leaned back and moved his jaw around. When Tim tried to pull his hands back, Grumpy clicked his tongue sharply and tightened his grip. “If you could rub your two braincells together and spark a logical thought, that’d be great, thanks. Father’s face isn’t melting, Drake. That’s just what happens when he feels an emotion.”

“Hey. ”

“Stop your insistent caterwauling,” Grumpy forged on, leveling a stern look at him, “or else I won’t come with you to the new botanical garden you wanted to snag some photos of.”

The threat froze him in place, just as intended. He was a little confused right now, but the memory of that garden and his excitement was crystal clear. When he didn’t make any move to grab Dad again, Grumpy warily let him go, hovering for a second more before stepping back. As if on cue, both Selina and Skunkman burst into loud applause, Skunkman slapping one hand rapidly on his thigh to compensate for the hand carrying his camera. 

“Beautiful! Bravisimo! Stunning!” Skunkman cried. “Encore!”

“Damian Wayne,” Selina said dramatically, thrusting an invisible microphone into Grumpy’s face, “that was truly an act of brilliance. Taming the wild Drake takes talent few possess; you must feel so proud. Tell us, how did you know that threat would stop him in his tracks?”

“I used my brain,” Grumpy snapped, slumping back in his chair and swatting Selina when the fist clutching the nonexistent microphone came too close to his face, “something you two seem so incapable of doing.”

Selina mimed being stabbed in the heart as Skunkman swiveled his camera towards them, and Tim couldn’t help the smile that formed on his face. They were a little ridiculous and downright exhausting, but it felt good to have them here. He turned to gaze up at his dad, who looked down when he caught the movement. “Can we go home now?” Tim whined. 

“In a bit,” Dad assured, squeezing his hand. “The doctors just need to make sure nothing went wrong during the surgery. Then it’s just a matter of resting, but that can be done at home.”

Tim hummed happily and relaxed into his bed. It was getting harder to keep his eyes open between blinks, the brief burst of adrenaline leaving him exhausted. Going home sounded so nice. Being doted on by his family for however long it took to get back on his feet without risk of complications sounded even better. He hoped not being on a life-threatening field trip surrounded by assassins would allow his appendectomy to heal easier than his splenectomy had. What were the odds he’d have another operation to compare to? 

“If I had a nickel for every time I lost an organ," Tim slurred thoughtfully, "I'd have two nickels. Which isn't much, but it's weird that it's happened twice."

For a single, blessed moment, there was total silence as everyone else seemed to also appreciate the rare chances of that.

“Honey,” Dad cooed then, tone friendly, fond, and utterly false , which he could tell because he wasn’t an idiot come on Dad, “what does that mean?”

“It means I have two organs less than the average human being, duh.” Tim thought his statement had been pretty clear, personally. 

“Two organs?” Skunkman echoed, leaning forward with his camera now focused back on Tim. “What organs are you missing?”

“The appendix is one of them, obviously,” Grumpy reasoned, looking around pointedly at the hospital room they were all in. “But I was unaware he was missing another.”

“That’s because he shouldn’t be.” Selina frowned heavily, staring intently at his body like he had x-ray vision. “Bruce?” Dad shook his head, looking worried.

“Tim, what other organ did you lose? When did this happen?”

“I didn’t lose it.” Tim was a genius, as good of a detective as Batman. He wouldn’t just lose an entire organ. “And it wasn’t my fault! Ra’s stole it from me. A few months ago. Maybe.” Apparently genius intellects didn’t matter when foggy memories came into play. Rude.

Everyone froze. Tim yawned, burrowing deeper into his blankets.

“Ra’s?” Skunkman said sharply, lowering his camera. “Ra’s al Ghul? Immortal bitch obsessed with his lemon-lime Kool-aid? That guy?” 

“A few months ago?” Selina echoed. “Timmy, that's literally so vague. How long is a few months? Five? Six? If you went up against Ra’s recently and didn’t call for backup so help me god Timothy Jackson—”

“Drake!” Grumpy demanded shrilly. “What did Grandfather do to you? Tell me right now or—open your eyes! Drake!”

But Tim was already falling asleep. “Good night,” he mumbled courteously, but with all the yelling they were doing, there was a good chance that it went unheard. Whatever. Their silly questions could wait until later. Right now, Tim was in dire need of a nap, and absolutely no one was going to stop him.

When Tim woke up again, there was no easing into it. One moment he was asleep, and the next he was awake. Blinking up at the tiled ceiling, he took a few moments to adjust. Given the absence of any surgeons nearby, he was going to assume he hadn’t woken up in the middle of surgery and just pray he was right. 

Tim cautiously took in a deep breath, and was pleasantly surprised when he didn’t feel any pain. That was one less thing to worry about. Working his way up, he tried to take stock of his body as best as he could while remaining down.

Toes? Tim gave them a quick wiggle. Check. 

Legs? Check.

Arms? Check.

Hands? Tim curled his hands into loose fists, and then uncurled them. Check.

“Tim?” The movement must have been noticeable because Jason immediately popped into his field of vision. “Thank fuck. Don’t go to sleep again or I’ll kick your ass.” He didn’t even have the decency to notice the scowl Tim sent his way, too preoccupied with turning his head to someone he couldn’t see. “I think he’s properly lucid now, but hurry up and get B in case he falls asleep.” 

“Back in 5,” Dick’s voice said before the door opened and closed, the sound of feet pounding fading off into the distance.

Tim shook off the leftover drowsiness clinging to him and glanced around the room. The first thing that drew his eyes was the small form next to him, breaths soft and even as Damian slept soundly, his head burrowed in his arms on top of the mattress. Beside him sat Stephanie, who smiled when he caught her eyes and lowered her phone. 

“Hey Sleeping Beauty,” she teased softly, reaching out to squeeze his knee. “It’s about time you woke up. Don’t you know you’re not supposed to keep a lady waiting.”

“You call me Sleeping Beauty but you’re the lady?” He croaked out. “Make it make sense.” Stephanie snorted, playfully swatting at his knee.

“Not to interrupt this precious moment,” Jason broke in, tugging on a lock of hair that had escaped his braid, “but I’m gonna need you to give me some answers Timbo.” 

Shooting him a questioning look only earned himself a grim smile. “You were awake for a little bit a few hours ago. You remember that?” When Tim shook his head, Jason hummed like he’d expected the response. “Thought so. You started sharing some info with us, and then conked out halfway through your explanation, so I'm gonna need you to cough up the rest now.”

Tim hesitated, and then nodded. 

“Cool. What the fuck did Ra’s take from you and why didn’t you tell us ?”

So apparently Drugged Up Tim was a fucking traitor. Good to know.

“What I wanna know is how the hell you managed to hide any wounds from Alfred,” Steph joined in, wiggling her eyebrows. “Could come in handy.”

“Really? Really?”

“Oh, come on! I know you’re thinking it.” 

“Well duh, but there’s a time and place and right now is neither. We gotta figure out how Ra’s hurt Tim first before we get back to tha—

“It wasn’t like that,” Tim cut in immediately. “He tried to manipulate me into joining his side, but he didn’t actually hurt me. He...he’s the reason I’m alive right now.”

Jason sucked in a sharp breath at the exact moment Tim realized how that could be misinterpreted.

“I mean,” Tim squeaked out, waving his hands frantically when Jason's eyes gained an eerily green glow, “that’s not—he never—”

“Tim,” Steph cautiously started as Jason’s eyes flickered over his hair, hunting for any hint of stark white against black, “are—did Ra’s. Did he—? Are you—?”

“Did you dye it?” Jason demanded hoarsely, looking three crowbar swings away from a panic attack. “Or did your hair not turn white, too? How did you hide the—no, fuck, not the time. Shit. Shit. Are you okay? No, stupid question—”

“But I thought the Pit restored bodies to their peak state, how would you still be down an organ if—oh fuck. Tim, did he take it after—?”

“How long did he have you? How long have you—stop moving, you just got out of surgery, you idiot—how long have you been hiding this?”

“He didn’t throw me in the Pit,” Tim hissed as loud as he dared, eyeing Damian warily. He weakly shoved against Jason’s chest as the older boy used his hands to comb through Tim’s hair, strands falling out of his neat braid. “Jason, calm down. I’m fine, I didn’t die, I’m down a spleen but I’m still up and kicking. Calm down, or I swear to god I’ll tell Alfred you were the one that ruined the kitchen when you got distracted by your soap operas while making chili dogs.” 

“What.” Stephanie said flatly, pinching the bridge of her nose. Jason didn’t move an inch, unhindered by Tim’s attempts to enforce personal space as he settled for resting a heavy hand on the crown of Tim’s head. His breaths were shakier than Tim would’ve liked, but understandable. He subtly leaned against Jason’s hip and tried to ignore the trembling hand above him. “Rewind a bit for me. What do you mean you’re down a spleen?”

“Long story, but uh, the Sparknotes version is that about a year ago, when I was searching for evidence that Bruce was still alive, I was made into a human kebab by this spider assassin, but Ra’s was like ‘Not today, motherfucker’ and made sure I didn’t bleed out, my spleen bit the dust like a coward so now I don’t have one anymore, and then I just...went on with my life I guess.”

Tim shifted in the dead silence that settled, two pairs of eyes staring at him incredulously. “I’m pretty sure he still has it in a jar or something,” he offered. “He’s creepy like that.”

Stephanie raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, but whatever she had planned to say was interrupted when the door burst open and Dick rushed in, dragging Bruce by his sleeve and dodging the knife thrown at his head by a startled Damian (“That’ll be fun to explain to the nurses,” Bruce muttered quietly, shooting a despairing look at the weapon innocently quivering in the wall), the boy blinking sleepily at his surroundings. 

“I got him,” Dick gasped out as he caught his breath. “Is he still awake?”

“What?” Damian tried to scowl through a jaw-breaking yawn and failed miserably. Suddenly, he stiffened, and in a move that should’ve given the gremlin a crick in the neck at least, Damian whipped his head around and pinned Tim with an intense stare. 

“You’re awake,” he said, and Tim heard If you go back to sleep again I’ll gut you like a fish.

“Tim,” and Bruce must’ve developed super speed in the time he was out, because one moment he was standing by the door looking mournfully at Damian’s knife, and the next he was beside Jason. Tim offered up a sheepish smile, and was mollified to receive a relieved, if exasperated, look in return. “It’s good to see you up, kiddo.”

“Good to be up, B. Though I could do without the interrogation. How about you take pity on my poor ailing body and we ignore my little slip up, huh?” 

“You’re a riot, Tim,” Bruce said dryly. He acknowledged Stephanie and Jason with a short nod in each direction. “Were you two able to ask him anything?”

“Were we able to ask him anything?” Jason echoed, letting out a short mirthless laugh that made Tim wince. “Oh, you have no idea. Blondie, you wanna share the news?”

“With pleasure. Were any of you aware,” Stephanie started theatrically, stabbing a finger in Tim’s direction, “that Ra’s stole Tim’s spleen?” Beside her, Damian gave a soap worthy gasp.

“And as if that’s not bad enough,” Jason cried, effortlessly picking up where Stephanie had left off, “he kept this very important event from us for a year!”

“A year!” Stephanie repeated, fanning her face and swaying exaggeratedly. Tim glared daggers at her, and scowled when she shot him a middle-finger in return. Looks like he was going to be in the market for a new best friend. “He tangoed with Death and then had the audacity to not tell us? Shame! Shame for you for a million years!”

“His spleen?” Bruce said, paling drastically. “Wait— death? He almost died?!” Without waiting for a response, the man turned to Tim, who was resolutely avoiding making eye contact. “You almost died?!”

Stephanie winced. “Oh yeah, I guess we kinda just skipped over that. Sorry. He said some assassin stabbed him where his spleen was and the spleen didn’t make it.”

“But don’t worry old man,” Jason reassured, patting Bruce’s shoulder awkwardly, “he wasn’t thrown in the Pit.”

Bruce blinked. Then blinked again. “Was that a concern?” He finally wheezed out. 

“No,” Tim lied.

“Oh yeah,” Jason said at the same moment. “Timmy was totally bleeding out all over the place.”

“Looked like the aftermath of a food fight at Dracula’s house,” Stephanie cheerfully chimed in. Tim was going to dye all her clothes neon orange so help him god. 

“And he was with Ra’s so…” Jason gestured with his hands, as if that was enough of an argument. Which, to be fair, it was. 

“Time out,” Dick piped up, forming his hands into a T-shape. He’d spent most of the conversation watching Stephanie and Jason with a numb sort of horror, looking like every sentence was a slap to the face. But now there was a dawning realization in his eyes that Tim dreaded. “Just, stop. Go back. You mean to tell me he doesn’t have a spleen? The organ that’s an integral part of the immune system? The one that fights against infections? That organ?”

Total silence. And then, almost in sync, every eye turned towards Tim.

“Um.” He licked his lips and hesitantly opened his mouth again. “In my defense...yeah, I’ve got nothing.”

“Jason, get the doctor. Tell him we think there’ll be some complications,” Bruce ordered. “Steph, go call Cass. Tell her we’ve found out. She’s keeping Alfred company, right?” Stephanie grunted in confirmation, pulling out her phone as Jason gave a sloppy salute and jogged out the door. “Good. Tell her to pass on the information. Dick, take Damian home and stay with him.”

“What?” Damian burst out, distracted from drilling a hole into Tim’s skull with his eyes alone. “No! I’m staying here!”

“Damian, you have school tomorrow,” Bruce countered firmly but gently. He kneeled down to look Damian in the eye. “I promise Dick can drive you here as soon as school lets out, but you’re dead on your feet, bud.”

Damian glared up at Bruce, crossing his arms stubbornly, and Tim stifled a chuckle. Like father, like son. Reaching out, he settled a pale hand atop Damian’s head, ruffling it a little when the sharp green eyes snapped toward him. “Head home, Dami,” Tim insisted. “You’re not missing out on anything, unless you find me sleeping entertaining. It’ll be totally boring, cross my heart.”

Damian wavered, and then turned towards his father. “Promise me you’ll inform me of any news immediately,” he demanded.

“Promise,” Bruce agreed immediately, shoulders lowering minisculely.

Damian didn’t look any less mutinous as Dick led him out of the room, but Tim just counted it a win he didn’t put up too much of a fight. “You know,” he heard Dick say, “if we play our cards right, I’m pretty sure we can get Alfred to make us some of his specialty hot chocolate. How’s that sound?”

“With the cotton balls?”

A pause, and then a snort. “You mean marshmallows?” 

“Is that what they’re called?”

Their voices were cut off as the door swung shut, and Tim abruptly realized the room had been cleared of everyone except him and Bruce. He wondered if it was intentional.

“Tim, you’re grounded.”

Excuse me?

“Excuse me?” Tim said incredulously. 

“Grounded. Baby jail. I'm thinking…” Bruce hummed, tilting his head side to side, “forever? Yeah, forever sounds good. Better get used to Gotham, sunshine, because I won’t be letting you out of my sight anytime soon”

Tim could feel a smile slowly growing on his face. “Only Gotham? Bruce, I’m disappointed. I would’ve thought you’d restrict me to my bedroom.”

“You little shit.” Despite the words said, they were soaked in fondness, no trace of irritation to be found. Tim leaned into the hand that worked on smoothing back the hairs Jason had mussed up. “With all the gray hairs you give me, I should lock you up in your room. You can be a modern day Rapunzel.”

“Every boy wants to be a princess.”

“You joke, but Jason used to pretend he was Wonder Woman when he beat up his stuffed animals, who I assume were the bad guys. Don’t tell him I told you that, though, he still thinks I don’t know.”

Tim burst into cackles, his face scrunching from the force of it. Bruce’s deep chuckles joined him, and for a brief wonderful second, everything felt okay. 

When he finally calmed down, he saw Bruce looking down at him, some of the quiet joy leaking out of his eyes. “Tim,” he said tentatively, “why didn’t you tell me?”

There was so much going on, I didn’t know how to bring it up. 

It didn’t seem that important.

You shouldn’t worry about me. You love me, and that’s enough.

But Tim knew that any one of those answers would invite disaster so all he said was, “I’m sorry.” 

From the look on his face, Tim thought Bruce had an inkling as to what he wanted to say instead. 

The man didn’t voice his suspicions though. All he did was carefully tuck the blanket under Tim’s chin and give his hair one last smooth down. “The doctor should be here soon. Is there anything you want me to get or are you good?”

Tim thought for a second. “Water? Please?”

Bruce gave a soft sound of acknowledgement before he rose from his chair and left the room with a tired, “Be back soon, please don’t die while I’m gone,” before he disappeared from view. Tim mentally counted down from five before he let himself completely relax. For the first time since he’d woken up, the room was completely void of another human being, and with nothing to distract him, he found his eyelids growing heavy. 

Well, that’s just not fair, Tim mentally whined to himself, eyeing the door as if that would make Bruce appear faster. It was getting hard to keep his eyes open. I wake up for no less than ten minutes and I’m already tired again? What kinda bullshit —

Outside his room, his ears caught the faint sound of a familiar voice, growing louder as they made their way in his direction. 

“I forgot something inside.” Damian. That was Damian. What was he still doing here? Hadn’t he and Dick left already? “Don’t wait up, Grayson. I will only be a moment.”

A faint murmur he couldn’t catch, and then a pair of feet walked off into the distance. Tim fought against the call of sleep, curious enough to see why Damian had come back to resist the concrete weighing down his eyelids. Damian never forgot anything; he thought it was “unbecoming of a warrior of his intelligence” and believed himself capable of never forgetting anything through sheer willpower. 

A soft creak sounded through the room as the door was opened and then shut with a near inaudible click . Light footsteps made their way to his bed, stopping right next to his head. Tim could feel himself slipping into sleep no matter how hard he tried to resist, and strained to stay awake long enough to see what on earth was going on. 

Just as he teetered over the edge of dreamland, Tim felt Damian press a featherlight kiss against his cheekbone. “Upon my return, I expect to see you in the same condition I left you in, Timothy,” Damian whispered firmly. “There will be none of this infection nonsense, you hear me? I won’t have it.”

A small hand tangled with his own, giving it a gentle squeeze before letting go. As Damian slipped out as soundlessly as he’d slipped in, Tim finally allowed himself to fall into sleep with a faint smile gracing his lips. He had just enough time to smugly think, I knew I’d get him to call me Timothy again.

And then he knew no more. 

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Breathe in.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Breathe out. 

Beep. Beep. Beep.

He was. At home? No. No, that wasn’t right.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Oh. Of course. He should’ve recognized the beeping right away. He was at the hospital again.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Had he fallen asleep? The blanket he could feel under his fingertips said yes. Maybe that was why he felt so warm. He’d have to find which nurse left him to rest this time. Thank them for their kindness.

Beep. Beep. Beep. 

He couldn’t smell any flowers around. Had he forgotten them? Hopefully the nurses would know where they’d been placed. 

Beep. Beep. Beep. 

Wait. Wait, no. Father doesn’t like flowers. Father prefers cards. More efficient that way, he always said. Can’t wilt, doesn’t smell, and easier to organize. Father doesn’t like messy. Father—Father—

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Father was dead. Wasn’t he? 

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Yes. Yes, he was dead. He remembered now. He was here to give Dana flowers, not Father. She always liked them. Whenever he presented her with a bouquet, she’d smile real wide, looking pleased as punch, and wrap him in a tight hug. Dana should smile more often. 

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Except. She couldn’t. Because she was dead, too. That’s why there was no flower smell. 

Beep. Beep. Beep.

So who was he here to visit? 

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Had someone gotten hurt on patrol? Off patrol? Was it Dick? Jason? God, please don’t let it be Damian.

Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep beep.

Beside him, a voice muttered something too low for him to make out. They sounded worried. 

Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep beep.

Was Bruce okay? His next breath caught in his throat. The world was cruel, he knew that personally, the whole family did, but it would be unbearably cruel to go through all that effort to get him back only to immediately lose him again. He—he didn’t know if he could do that again.

Beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep —

A heavy hand cupped his left cheek, large enough to cover its entirety. A thumb rubbed slow, soothing circles on his cheekbone, and the faint smell of lavender cologne invaded his nose as the person leaned in. 

“Tim.” Deep. Familiar. “You’re alright. Everything’s alright.” He knew this man. “Calm down, sweetheart. Please. Everything’s okay. I promise.” 

Bruce. That was Bruce. 

Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep.

“That’s it. There you go. I’m here. Everything’s alright. Go back to sleep.” 

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Bangs tickled his skin as they were swept aside. Stubble brushed against his forehead as a pair of lips pressed down for one, two, three seconds. The thumb continued its never-ending circles. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

He let himself sink back into sleep. Everything would be okay.

Dad was here.

“Well would you look at this.”

“No. No. ”

“Yes.”

“Dickie, come on, please? Please? Mercy for your little brother?”

“Oh wow, I don’t think I’ve heard you willingly call yourself that in years.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures. Todd may be a buffoon, but even he must be able to sense when defeat is on the horizon.”

“Shut your face you little goblin. Please. I’m so close to Uno. Come on, I’ll do anything. That case that’s been giving you trouble? Done. You need someone to run and grab you cereal whenever you want for a few months? I’m there. Big brothers are supposed to stick together! They gang up on the little siblings, and there’s a perfectly good little sibling right here—”

“Excuse me?”

“—so really you should be trying to get him out. Please? Please please please please—”

“Hmm. You both make some excellent points. Gosh this is going to be hard. I think, purely in the name of fairness, that the deciding factor should be something simple. Which one of you made me skip the last turn? My memory you see, one concussion too many. Can one of you remind me who exactly it was that made me miss my turn? 

“...Shit.”

“Sorry, what was that? Was it ‘I didn’t expect this to come bite me in the ass oh no’? Was that what you said?”

“...I love you?”

“Who do I look like? Bruce?” Fwap. “Draw four, bitch.”

Tim groggily blinked his eyes open to the sound of Jason’s loud cursing filling the room. From the corner of his eye, he could make out Bruce to his right, face soft as he watched something at the end of his bed that he couldn’t see. Given what he’d just heard, he figured it wasn’t too far off to assume it was his brothers.

Blonde curls tumbled over his left arm as their owner snored next to him, bed dipping slightly under the weight of Stephanie’s head. She had a hand curled around his wrist, two fingers positioned to rest directly over his pulse point. His lips twitched into a faint smile, and he made a mental note to tease her about it later. 

Unintentionally, Tim found himself mimicking Stephanie’s slow, calming breaths. He’d just woken up. Now his body wanted him to go back to sleep? That’s homophobic, Tim thought sourly as the siren call of sleep sang in his ears. He still needed to question someone on how the surgery had turned out, if he was out of the clear yet, if—

A gentle tap on his nose brought his attention to the person next to Stephanie but out of his limited vision. Straining his neck, he turned ever so slightly to the left and came face-to-face with Cass’s beaming grin. 

“Morning,” she murmured, low enough to not draw the attention of the rest of the room. Tim blinked slowly up at her, trying to convey his worries without speaking. “You are good. We are good, too.”

Sweet relief swept through him, and the darkness that had lingered at the back of his mind seemed incredibly tempting to fall back into. Tim hummed softly when Cass used her fingertips to close his eyes, keeping them there and forcing his eyelids to stay shut with gentle pressure. 

“Back to resting now, little brother. You are safe.”

He knew that later on there’d be hell to pay for not telling them about his spleen. Not to mention he’d probably have to share what exactly had happened during the horrible, no good, very bad year that led to him teaming up with Ra’s of all people. Most of all, Tim dreaded the scolding Jason would no doubt make at being unlucky enough to lose two nonessential organs back to back. 

If he shed a few tears, would Jason feel guilty enough to cook for him? Food for thought.

But that was for later. Right now, his only job was to focus on healing. The fingertips hadn’t left yet, and Tim suspected they wouldn’t for as long as he remained awake. 

Surrounded by his family, it was the easiest thing in the world to slip back into sleep.