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“...’s okay, breathe through it, bud.”
There’s a hand on his forehead, and another on his back, flat as he sits up, perched at the edge of– a cot, he thinks.
He can’t– Tim can’t really see much. Or, anything at all.
His body and brain hurt, he can’t make sense of the swirling of thoughts and memories and fears in his fuzzy head, he feels– heavy. The throbbing behind his blind eyes doesn’t seem to be even remotely willing to abate, and the shaking in each and every part of his being only seems to get more and more intense as seconds– not even hours, not even minutes– go by. Tim feels like his lungs are in a necrosive state already, dry and empty and– he can’t breathe.
It hurts. Breathing hurts, and so do blinking and thinking and just being there.
Pinpoint, shaky pupils attempt to focus on the bowl underneath him– he feels it through tingling fingers, he’s sure it’s there on his lap. Tim lets his numb hands touch the cool metal, he runs them across the surface to make out the shape of the bowl, trying to ground himself, to tell himself that he is fine, that he doesn't need to puke anymore.
“Hey, sweetheart?” Bruce’s voice cuts through the haze like a scorching knife through butter, “Still with me? Tim?”
He doesn’t nod, he doesn’t shake his head, he doesn’t– he can’t move.
Tim lets out a choked gasp and gulps like a fish out of water, his grip on the bowl so tight that his cold knuckles go white. The mere thought of throwing up leaves him breathless, makes his head spin faster, makes him want to stomp his feet like a toddler and yell that none of this is fair.
He’s been good– taking his meds, getting at least six hours of sleep almost every night, eating veggies and drinking water, cutting back on caffeine– he’s been good, God fucking damn it.
A sudden hand placed on his thigh, hidden under a thin blanket, makes him flinch so hard that he sees stars– he barely leans forwards as he brings up another mouthful of sick, gagging so loud that Bruce is sure his son can be heard upstair, too. Carefully, the man sweeps Tim’s damp hair back with his free hand, smoothing the sweaty bangs away from his eyes.
“There you go again. It’s okay, you’re okay, Tim.” he reassures, firm. “You're doing great, sweetheart. It’ll be over soon.”
But– the migraine has been going on for over forty-eight hours, now, and Bruce has half a mind to give Dr Thompkins a call. Only, he knows she won’t come, he knows there’s no way of getting her to the Cave, not with the storm that’s raging outside, not when not even Alfred had managed to find a way back in the thick blizzard, stuck in Blüdhaven with Dick who’d needed his assistance.
“B-Br’ss?” Tim calls, sudden, evidently disoriented, “Pl’se, h-hur’s. Br’ss? I–”
Everything blends together in a dizzy swirl of white and black. Tim burps, loud and deep, and his trembling shoulders pitch forward as another thick splatter of viscous vomit spews out of his mouth and nostrils, and into the metal bowl. Bruce keeps rubbing his son’s quaking back, cringing at the damp shirt sticking to the kid’s clammy skin.
Every breath Tim takes is like pulling teeth, head spinning as his aching lungs inflate and deflate. Sweat beads trickle down his face as if he were standing directly under the rain, mixing with the exertion tears that leak from his closed eyelids, and Tim– he’s exhausted.
“Br’ss, d-dad?” he calls, sounding so small, so lost, “M’head– ’s tilting. Th-the–” he’s cut off by another bout of vomiting.
He doesn’t have anything to bring up anymore– not after two days of constant vomiting, not after two days of his head hurting to the point that chewing was out of the question.
Tim doesn’t actually remember eating, not since the beginning of the episode– he thinks Bruce fed him apple puree earlier, or– maybe yesterday, he’s not sure. The only thing he remembers, despite not being able to pinpoint exactly when the memory’s from, is throwing the sweet-turned-sour puree right up immediately afterwards and blacking out for an undetermined amount of time after that.
“M’feeling– bad." he gasps, unaware of Bruce wiping snot and residues away from his chin. Then, quieter, “M’scared.”
He can’t see how Bruce’s scowl softens at that. A cool cloth is wiped across his face, and another one is carefully folded to rest on his forehead and eyes.
Tim coos at that.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I promise you’re going to feel better soon.” Bruce whispers, leaning over to plant a soft kiss on Tim’s forehead.
He whimpers. “It w-won’t s-sto-op.”
Another kiss, “I’m here, Tim. I promise it’ll stop soon.”
The man then stands up, taking the dirty bowl and emptying it in the nearby trashcan before rinsing it under the medbay’s sink. He’s quick to set it back into Tim’s lap.
“Why wo-on’t it– st’p?” Tim breathes out, voice wet, eyes not tracking.
Bruce lets his hand wander towards Tim’s forehead again, then to his hair, carding it, hoping to soothe.
“Sometimes,” he starts, soft, “sometimes meds don’t work, but we’re not giving up, Tim. You need to sleep.”
“I–” Tim heaves, numb hands instinctively clawing at his head, then at his eyes, thumbs trying to push the orbs back into the sockets they seem so eager to pop out from. “C-can’t.”
“Let’s try anyway, okay, sweetheart?” Bruce hums, gently prying Tim’s hands away.
The teen whines, low. There’s a pair of big hands on his shoulders, gently manoeuvring his body to lay on the side, slightly elevated, the arm with the IV in it resting above the blanket.
“Computer, dim lights to twenty percent.” the man calls, and barely a second passes before the Cave is plunged into darkness.
Tim vaguely registers as his father props two thick pillows against Tim’s shaking back and sliding a hand under the blanket to grab at the back of Tim’s leg and bend it at a ninety degree angle, to put him into the recovery position.
A gag rips through his throat, then a sob, pained, airy.
“Pl’se, ma-ake it– sto-op? M’head- pl’se!”
“Tim,” Bruce whispers then, calm as he rubs at Tim’s shoulder delicately, careful not to jostle him, “sweetheart, I can’t give you anything for another two hours at least, it’s not safe. I’m sorry.”
Tim doesn’t bother blinking the tears away.
“I c-can’t br’the, Br’ss. Hur’s.”
He doesn’t need to get up to fiddle with the IV, checking the saline bag, still half-full. Content, he hums, and turns his attention back to Tim.
Only a couple of minutes pass before the Batcomputer’s screen lights up suddenly.
The teen flinches, hard, and Bruce is quick to throw a hand over his son’s eyes– because even if Tim can’t see what’s in front of him, he can still see when the light changes, and it hurts, it hurts his eyes and brain and–
Thin bile squelches in the bowl as he brings up a mouthful, shuddering against Bruce’s hold.
It doesn’t last long– only a minute, maybe less, but it leaves Tim spiraling.
He doesn’t even feel when the thin mattress dips and then lifts, Bruce sprinting towards the screen to dim it, then hissing audibly. Tim doesn’t register that Bruce’s on the other side of the Cave, now, suiting up.
He doesn’t register when his father’s gloved hand caresses his cheek softly either, teeth still rattling under the feather-light touch.
“Tim,” Bruce calls quietly, and if Tim were slightly more cognizant, he’d cry at how afflicted, at how broken Bruce sounds, “will you be okay if I leave for an hour? I have– I don’t want to, but I must go. Jason can stay in the meantime, alright? I’m sorry, sweetheart, I really am.”
Tim blinks, swallowing thickly, “Jay’s h’re?”
“Yeah, kiddo, he’s here. He’s upstairs. I’m going to go get him.”
His head spins, he feels sick and miserable and– and sad.
In the haze, he hears footsteps and a revving engine and voices that won’t stop talking to him, about him. He raises his hands again, thumbs pressed against his eyes until it hurts– he jerks tears with that, but he doesn’t care, he just pushes down until his stomach twists, until his lungs wither, he presses and presses and–
“...get it up, you’re alright.”
And oh, he’s throwing up again, isn’t he?
He hadn’t realised.
Ah.
A hand runs up and down his spine, rough and– not Bruce’s.
“Ja-as’n?”
“Oh, he lives.” Jason snorts, voice barely above a whisper, “Listen, you’re going to have to actually drink something, got it? We’re– we’re out of saline.”
“C-can’t.” Tim protests.
But he knows Jason– the bastard won’t give up, won’t pity him. And so, Jason holds a cup of sweetened lemon tea to his lips, and Tim manages to gulp down a total of half a sip before it trickles back down his chin, not having made it past the pharynx. Jason doesn’t relent– he opens a sleeve of saltines and breaks one into four tiny pieces, coaxing Tim to chew slowly.
It takes twenty-five minutes for Tim to swallow two whole crackers.
At that point, Jason holds the cup back to his lips, and forces him to drink half of it– that’s another ten minutes, between dry heaving and Tim fainting for a couple of minutes each time.
And Tim– he always comes to Jason patting his cheek delicately, or to him running a hand through his hair, calling him ‘Tim’ and not ‘pretender’ nor ‘replacement’ nor ‘Timothy’–
“Aw, come on, don’t get all sappy on me.” Jason grunts, not sounding as annoyed as he was hoping for when Tim whimpers and whines, hand still carding through the kid’s damp locks.
“Just close your eyes for a bit.”
Tim tries.