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All told, it takes about five hours to get Tim’s thumb stitched back in place—the vast majority of that time being spent in the ER waiting room—which only further confirms Tim’s belief that this wasn’t actually an emergency at all and that they totally could have just wrapped it up themselves and waited for Bruce to get off the phone instead of interrupting him mid-call.
But you know, it’s not like anyone ever listens to Tim these days.
The worst part of this whole mess though (besides the fact that Tim’s pretty sure they’re never going to get that rust color out of Alfred’s favorite cutting board), is that it had to happen not only on a day when Bruce Wayne was terribly busy, but on a day that Batman surely had evening plans as well.
See, it’s a well-known fact that crime rates in Gotham always surge in the days surrounding any federal holiday, and Thanksgiving is no exception. Each year, the city’s criminal masterminds take advantage of citizens’ busy schedules, stressed-out minds, and upcoming travel plans to scam, cheat, and lie their way to fame and fortune.
And that’s just the big box stores.
Which is why, as dinner draws to a close and the boys offer once again that tonight could finally be the night they watch the most beloved president in American history slay a few dozen vamps in cold blood, Tim politely declines.
“Oh, no thank you,” he says with a small sheepish smile. “I have a pretty bad headache, so I think I just want to go to bed.”
Like any good excuse, Tim’s claim is simple, succinct, and rooted in a half-truth; his head does hurt, though he wouldn’t really call it ‘bad.' It’s hurting about the normal amount for someone who’s spent the last eight hours as a tightly coiled ball of anxiety. It should have worked perfectly.
Unfortunately for Tim, he just forgot one small fact: the Waynes are literally the most dramatic people on the planet.
“You have a headache?” Bruce asks, his brow furrowed in concern. “Since when?”
“Uh…” Tim shrugs a little. “I dunno. Like, since the ER?”
(Actually since he’d made a fool of himself blubbering in Bruce Wayne’s kitchen, but close enough.)
“You should have some more water,” Dick advises, reaching across the table to refill Tim’s glass from the carafe. “It’s probably dehydration from the blood loss.”
Tim gives him a skeptical look. “I didn’t lose that much blood…”
“Sure. Tell that to the half a bottle of bleach we had to use to clean up,” Jason scoffs, and Dick flicks his arm.
Bruce is still looking at Tim contemplatively. “Is it your whole head, or just one side? Around your eyes?”
“I don’t know, why does it matter?” Tim asks as Dick sets the water down in front of him, a bit uncomfortable at the sudden attention. “It’s just a headache.”
“Certain pain medications, like the one they gave you at the hospital, sometimes trigger migraines in individuals who are prone to them,” Bruce explains patiently. “Are you having any other symptoms? Sensitivity to light, nausea…?”
“He didn’t eat much,” Jason pipes up, as if anyone who’d just ruined four people’s days with his own ineptitude would have much of an appetite.
Dick is looking at him funny now too. “Are you feeling sick, Timmy?” he asks softly.
“It’s not a migraine,” Tim says, a little exasperated now. “It’s just a normal, everyday headache. I get them all the time.”
No sooner are the words out of Tim’s mouth than he’s regretting them as Jason whirls around on him. “What do you mean you get headaches all the time?” he demands.
Tim barely suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. Why didn’t he just say he was too tired for a movie and leave it at that?
(Then again if he had, the Waynes would’ve probably tried to diagnose him with mono or something…)
“Not all the time,” he backtracks quickly as three pairs of worried eyes bore into him. “Just like, a couple times a week? I dunno.”
“That’s not normal, Tim,” Bruce says, looking even more concerned now. “Have you ever been to a doctor about that?”
“No?” Tim’s head is swirling. “Why would I? I’m fine.”
“Have they increased since your concussion?
“I… don’t think so?”
“What about memory problems? Trouble sleeping?”
“No, it’s not—”
“Maybe he needs glasses,” Dick interrupts, looking thoughtful. “I used to get headaches all the time until I got my contacts.”
“I don’t need glasses!” Tim exclaims in frustration. “Look, I just need to go to bed, okay?”
And with that, Tim gets to his feet, his chair scuffing against the hardwood floor as he storms off to the guest room.
It takes only a few minutes of Tim sitting on the edge of his bed, his chest heaving and hot tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, for the frustration to fade, making way for the overwhelming sensation of guilt.
He shouldn’t have snapped at them. He knows that the Waynes were only asking him all that stuff because they care about him. And isn’t that what Tim’s always wanted, deep down? Someone to actually give a crap about how he feels? To treat him as though he truly matters?
And if this is supposed to be what he wants, then why does it feel so fucking suffocating?
There’s a soft knock at the door.
“...Tim?” Bruce calls softly. “It’s just me, bud. Can I come in?”
“Yeah,” Tim says, scrubbing roughly at his eyes with his palms. He isn’t crying—not really—but his throat is tight and his eyes are hot and stinging.
Opening the door, Bruce steps inside and makes his way across the room to Tim. “I brought you some water and an ice pack,” he says quietly. “I can’t give you any more painkillers until that dose wears off, but if it is just dehydration, this will probably help more anyway.”
The ice pack is shaped like a penguin and it has googly eyes on the front, which makes this whole situation feel that much more idiotic.
“Thanks,” Tim mumbles, taking it from him. “And I’m sorry. Um. About before.”
Bruce shakes his head. “It’s okay. I know the boys and I can get a little…overbearing, at times.” He smiles that sad, half-smile of his. “Alfred is much better at this kind of thing.”
Tim should probably deny it to be polite, but it’s definitely the truth. Alfred is the only one of them who seems to have any concept of balancing someone’s personal dignity with his own concern.
He shrugs instead.
Bruce takes a seat in the chair beside Tim’s bed. “You’re doing okay, though?”
“Yeah,” Tim says. “It really is just a headache, you know.”
“It probably is,” Bruce agrees, nodding. He pauses for a moment, then adds, “But can I be honest with you, Tim?”
This definitely sounds like a trap, but Tim’s always been too curious for his own good. “Sure?”
“The part that worries me,” Bruce says, slowly, “is that I’m not sure that you’d ever tell anyone if it wasn’t.”
Tim frowns. What the hell is that supposed to mean? He’s not stupid—he just doesn’t like to bother people about dumb stuff. Isn’t that what growing up is all about?
“You know you really don’t have to worry about me all the time,” he says, a little indignant. “I’m actually pretty good at looking after myself.”
“You are,” Bruce agrees as he stands up from the chair. “But just for tonight, I’m taking first watch.”
He gives Tim’s arm a little squeeze on his way out.