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Tim ignores the sharp pain in his chest when he returns from patrol. He’s wiped out and he still has half a dozen things to do, and getting checked up for injuries is something he doesn’t need to do. He’s perfectly fine and it would only be a waste of time.
So he simply changes out of his uniform and into a comfortable shirt and sweatpants and goes up to his room.
He has a few cases to finish, despite assuring Bruce he would head straight to bed. Instead of working for a half-hour like he expects, Tim ends up working until almost three-thirty. The only reason he shuts the laptop and rolls over to sleep is the headache forming and the burning in his eyes.
Tim wakes up some time later with a dull pounding in his head and his sheets soaked with sweat. He yelps when he tries to twist to check the time and lays in bed for several seconds trying to catch his breath.
Once the pain subsides, he slowly sits up and gets out of bed. He stumbles out of his room and in the general direction of the bathroom, mind foggy and arm wrapped around his painfully throbbing ribs.
The lights of the hallway are blessedly turned off which dimly makes Tim wonder what time it is. He uses the wall for support as he stumbles for the bathroom.
By some miracle, he reaches the door without encountering anyone.
His hand fumbles with the doorknob and then with the light switch of the bathroom. The bright fluorescent lights turn on with a faint buzz, the brightness of it burns away the fog in his mind and stabs his brain painfully. He hisses and covers his eyes until he can open them without blinding himself.
He shuts the door behind him and drags himself over to the sink. His mouth is dry and tastes slightly metallic and he regrets not having a glass of water on hand.
He meets his reflection’s eyes in the mirror and winces. He looks like shit. He feels like shit. His eyes are dark and look almost sunken, his face is wan and his lips are chapped. He looks like a specter. He feels more like a zombie that’s been run over by a semi.
With a sigh, he starts to shimmy out of his shirt to assess the injuries. There’s a sharp twinge of pain when he raises his arms too high and it takes longer than usual, but he finally gets his shirt off.
“Oh man,” he groans at the sight.
His entire torso is stained with black and purple bruises that wrap around his sternum and almost fully reach his back. The skin is puffy and warm to the touch. Tim can already tell the next few days are going to be absolute hell.
He doesn’t have the energy to put the shirt back on so he just balls it up and tosses it in the hamper sitting in the corner of the room.
Tim opens the cabinet and reaches for the bottle of Tylenol and after a moment of hesitation grabs the NyQuil. He contemplates going downstairs to get a glass of water but doubts he’ll manage to get down the stairs and back up. Tap water will have to do. If it kills him, fuck it, whatever.
At this point, it might as well.
If the universe was going to give him a bad day, it might as well go all in and just kill him.
Tim grabs the glass used to hold the toothbrushes, takes the toothbrushes out and sets them on the porcelain edge of the sink and rinses the cup.
It’ll have to do.
He dry swallows a pill of Tylenol and pours NyQuil in the clear plastic cup. He gags at the smell.
“Bottoms up,” he says before downing the thick liquid and swallowing.
He gags at the taste and immediately drains the cup of water. He coughs and chokes and pours himself more water and drains the cup. The water tastes slightly metallic, but it’s a significantly better taste than the medicine.
“God, why can’t they make these taste like Nutella or something?” Tim gags.
He replaces the two bottles back inside the cabinet and shuffles out of the bathroom. His vision is already blurring slightly and his limbs feel heavy with drowsiness. The temperature of the Manor feels blissfully cool against his feverish skin.
He slams his bedroom door shut and collapses in his bed. With a relieved sigh he pulls the blankets up around him and glances at his alarm clock.
It’s almost six in the morning.
With a groan, Tim burrows further into his bed.
Tim is shaken awake.
“Wha--” he mumbles. His tongue feels heavy and his thoughts are sluggishly moving through molasses.
He blearily blinks the blurriness away until he focuses on Jason’s surly face.
“What’re you doin’ ‘ere?” he asks, leaning back into his pillow.
He accidentally shifts his body and bites back a gasp of pain when his entire torso lights up with agony.
“It’s lunchtime,” Jason replies. “Alfred told me to wake you. He made lasagna.”
The thought of food makes Tim want to throw up.
“Not hungry,” he mumbles. “Leave.”
“Jeez, who ate your bowl of sunshine this morning, thundercloud?” Jason laughs.
Tim glares at Jason with as much vitriol as he can muster, which only makes him laugh harder.
He raises his palms in mock surrender. “Fine. I'm leaving. Didn’t want to be here anyway.”
He slams the door behind him and Tim buries his face into his pillow. His sheets feel stifling against his burning skin, but he’s too tired to kick them off. And he doesn’t want to have anyone walk in and see his bruises. They’ll go away on their own. Tim doesn’t need anyone coddling him about something as ridiculous as broken ribs.
When Tim wakes up again, his alarm clock reads five in the afternoon. So he’s wasted an entire day sleeping and he doesn’t even feel rested.
In fact, he feels more fatigued and sleepy than when he woke up last night. He manages to stand up and stumbles dizzily around his room in search of a clean shirt to slip over the vivid bruising.
He dissolves into a coughing fit that almost makes him lose his balance. Every cough sends rattling pain down his ribs.
When the coughing and dizzy spell subside, he runs a hand over his face and leaves his room. His throat is dry and he desperately needs water.
For some inexplicable reason, he’s craving a fruit smoothie.
Making his way down the stairs takes longer than Tim expected and he’s out of breath and clutching his middle by the time he reaches the bottom. He takes a minute to catch his breath before making his way to the kitchen. At least he feels a little less like death warmed over.
He’s sure that with a warm cup of tea and something to eat, he’ll feel more awake.
He hopes they haven’t run out of saltines.
Tim pauses on the threshold of the kitchen when he hears voices from inside. He stifles a sigh. This will be more challenging than he thought.
He steps in the kitchen and sees Jason and Damian arguing with each other at the kitchen counter, the counter an absolute mess of flour and sugar. Damian’s blue shirt is stained white with flour.
They stop arguing and look at Tim when he walks in.
He smiles. “Don’t mind me. Go back to your very important argument.”
He makes a beeline straight for the pantry.
“Look who’s finally awake,” Jason drawls as Tim ignores him and roots through the pantry in search of the saltines.
“This is why you need to sleep better,” Damian says. “You look like a corpse.”
“Kid’s right,” Jason says. “Halloween’s still four months away, you know.”
“Har har,” Tim snarks as he kicks the pantry door shut, an unopened box of saltines in his arms. “I feel like a corpse. I’m getting water and going back to my room.”
“To sleep?” Damian smirks at Tim.
“No,” Tim says. “To watch a movie.”
Actually, he was probably going to work. He missed an entire day. If he was busy before, now it’s gonna be a nightmare.
He opens a cupboard and grabs a clean glass. He sways a bit and grabs hold of the counter to steady himself as he swallows back his nausea.
Damian and Jason thankfully don’t take notice-- they’re back to trying to make... whatever the hell it was they were making.
Tim fills up his glass and takes a long drink. Water never tasted so good. He coughs, deep and chesty.
“Drake.” He looks up to see what almost looks like a concerned expression on Damian’s face.
“Hey, you don’t look so hot, Tim--”
Tim is hit by another dizzy spell and drops his glass. He hears it shatter against the tile. He makes a wild grab for the counter but misses. His vision cartwheels and stars explode across his vision when his head hits something hard.
Someone’s grabbing his arm and there’s yelling, and his head really can’t handle that right now. He winces and tries to curl in on himself. He’s stopped short by the sharp pain in his ribs that leave him wheezing.
He coughs again, and the pain in his ribs is unforgiving.
He coughs and coughs, and the coughing doesn’t subside. Tim tries to hold it back, tries to take a breath, but it tickles his throat uncomfortably and he’s coughing again, harsher and harder.
He’s half coughing half gasping for air, his vision spinning as he tries to breathe desperately.
He’s dimly aware of gripping someone’s hand, of someone talking, but he can’t hear it.
He coughs until he’s too weak, until his throat feels sore and raw, until the world starts to dim. He welcomes the darkness with open arms.
“You have a chest infection,” Leslie tells him calmly. “Most likely due to the fact that your spleen is missing. It’s easy for minor injuries to become much worse if left untreated.”
Bruce’s arms are crossed and he shoots Tim an accusatory look.
Tim scowls. “Don’t give me that look. I broke three ribs. How was I supposed to know that could lead to an infection?”
“A good start would be actually telling us you’re missing a spleen, Tim,” Bruce says.
Tim winces. “Yeah. Sorry about that. I forgot.”
Bruce and Leslie exchange exasperated looks.
“Well,” Leslie says. “Since you’ve “forgotten” to tell anyone about this, it’s safe to say you’re not taking the antibiotics a person without a functioning spleen should take?”
The question is rhetorical. Tim doesn’t answer, just sinks further into his bed as his face warms up. He shakes his head sheepishly.
Leslie clicks her pen and jots something down on her clipboard. “I’ll send some over,” she says. “Take them.”
Tim nods and Leslie drops her serious expression and smiles at him. “With plenty of bed rest, you should be back to normal in no time. Call me if anything changes,” she tells Bruce.
With that, she leaves the room, and Tim and Bruce are finally alone.
Bruce clicks his tongue. “So, when did you lose your--”
He waves his hand in a vague gesture.
“When you were-- dead,” Tim says. “I got stabbed and they couldn’t save my spleen.”
“‘They’, being--”
“The League of Assassins,” Tim says, really not liking how blank Bruce’s face is.
“I see,” he says. “Tim, I love you,” he tells him. “But you are absolutely grounded.”
Whatever Tim was expecting, this was not it. “W-- Bruce! You were literally dead! I’m nineteen.”
Bruce glares at Tim. “And I’m not dead anymore. Also, you live in my house, so my rules apply.”
Tim grumbles and sinks further into the bed. “Fine. Whatever. What’s the punishment?”
“You are not going on patrol until you’ve fully recovered. And no computer. No work. You recover. Watch movies. Sleep. Take a break, Tim. I can take care of things at WE.” Bruce sighs. “Alfred’s going to bring you dinner. And I’m sure the others are dying to see you.”
Bruce directs the last sentence at the door and Tim hears a muffled thump. Bruce smiles.
He pats Tim’s leg over the covers. “Rest,” he says, looking at Tim.
He rolls his eyes. “What else can I do?” he calls after Bruce. “You banned me from doing anything interesting!”
Bruce simply waves and shuts the door behind him. Tim sighs and pulls his covers over his shoulders. Maybe a break would be nice.