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He couldn’t walk.
Blinking past the tears welled up in his eyes, Tim stared up at the ceiling of his room. If he looked at the floor, he’d find blood. A lot of it, too. A lot of his blood. That his dad had spilled. Not great. Definitely not something he would like to have on his floor. The wood planks were going to warp.
Grimacing, he bit his lip and then closed his eyes. Alright, Tim, think. You need to get to your communicator. He couldn’t really feel his legs, or his fingers. Blood loss, undoubtedly. Get to the communicator and call someone for help. Maybe Bruce? Someone else? I need—I need someone to help me, anyone who can respond. But I have to get to my communicator first.
Slowly, agonizingly, he got one arm beneath him. Come on, Tim. Push, push, keep pushing—the world tilted, and then he was lying on his side. It was just a matter of tilting himself forward until he was facedown on the floor.
Then, he worked through each thing. Normally, it was easy. Normally, he could move like this without even a first thought, let alone a second. Now, though, he was dragging himself across the ground with his legs dragging behind him. The wounds to his stomach and back lashed out, striking at him like shocks of electricity. Grimacing, he made his way to the window seat. Come on. Come on. Almost there. Almost there—
He reached the window seat.
Fumbling around, he pulled his communicator out of his hiding place. His thumb slipped off the button several times. Grimacing, Tim squinted at the screen, nose scrunched up to try and clear his vision. He immediately went to the emergency signal, though, firing it off.
There was a pulse in his head. Blinking, he tilted forwards. Snapping his eyes open, he gasped weakly. The communicator buzzed again for a few more seconds. Then—
“What happened?” Bruce’s rough voice grunted out. Blinking hard, Tim sucked in a breath. It came out as an audible wheeze. Apparently, it was loud enough to hit the microphone. “Is there anyone with you?”
“I—no. I’m alone.” Head tilting forwards, Tim groaned. His forehead thunked on the wood-plank floor. Closing his eyes, he let out another wheezy shudder. Downstairs, he couldn’t hear any noise. He hadn’t heard any noise since his dad, angry, had stormed downstairs and slammed the door.
His back hurt.
“Alright. Tim, I’m coming over. Can you get to the door?” Bruce asked, tone softening now that he was out of Batman mode. Shifting, Tim sucked in another wheezy breath. He jolted on the floor, letting out a pained groan when it jostled the wounds on his back.
“I could—barely get to the—” Tim closed his eyes. Just for a second. Only a second.
When he opened his eyes, he was still lying on the floor of his room. Now, though, he wasn’t alone. Instead, he had someone kneeling beside him, pressing their fingers into his neck, his pulse point. A hand settled on the unbroken skin between his shoulders.
“Tim.” Bruce’s voice grunted, dipping back into Batman’s typical register. Sucking in a wheezy breath again, Tim twitched his fingers. Then, he tried to turn his head. Tried to move. “Stop moving, you’re alright. Do you have wounds on your side?” He opened his mouth, tried to respond. Nothing came. Gentle hands carded down his left side. Then, Bruce shifted Tim onto his side, fingers slipping under his chin to cup his cheek.
“Hey, Bruce.” Tim whispered, choking on his own breath. There was another wheeze, and Bruce held him when he coughed again. A hand soothingly stroked over his hair.
When the coughing finally stopped, Bruce hummed. “You are far too calm for this situation. Has this happened before?”
Swallowing, Tim looked up at him. The silence stretched on for a little too long, long enough for them both to know what the answer was. Then, weakly, Tim spoke, “I plead the fifth.”
It didn’t help, but it made him feel slightly better.
Even as Bruce’s mouth drew into a thin line as he grimaced, Tim closed his eyes. A hand cupped his cheek, soft leather smooth against his cheek. Eventually, Tim opened his eyes again. “Do you have any pressing injuries I need to know about?”
The message was clear enough.
We’re going to talk about this later.
“I can’t feel my legs.”
The admittance came hesitantly, even Tim would admit it. Swallowing, Tim opened his eyes and looked back up at Bruce, who frowned. “You can’t feel your legs.” He murmured. The white lenses of his mask narrowed slightly.
“No. I—I think I’m going into hypovolemic shock. I’m sure you’ve seen—the state of my back.” He didn’t want to say it. He really didn’t, because he knew that half the blood on the floor came from his back, and so did half the blood that had been on his dad’s hands when he went to wash them in the bathroom. Something about washing himself of what Tim had done. Closing his eyes again, Tim briefly went over what he remembered. “I—my chest. I think I have broken ribs. Maybe some internal bleeding.”
“Okay.” Bruce paused, hands skating over his spine carefully. Wincing, Tim tried to move again. He must have kicked. He saw the shift of his jeans, the toe of his shoe, in the corner of his vision. “I don’t think you have any spinal injuries. I think it’s the shock. We’re—we need to get you to Leslie. Or a hospital.”
“I know, I—” Tim dropped his mouth open. Gasping, he squeezed his eyes shut. Pain shot up his back, across his shoulders and down his chest. “Get the—the necessary evidence. Please. I can’t—I—” Bruce cupped his cheek. Somewhere, muffled, he could hear Bruce continue to speak.
He opened his eyes in the Batmobile, cradled to Bruce’s chest.
Gasping, he twitched his fingers. Somehow, he managed to tangle them in Bruce’s shirt. He’d changed into something else. “Les—lie?” Tim croaked out.
“We’re taking you to a proper hospital. The authorities are at the Drake Manor collecting evidence. Gordon is with them.” Bruce explained. Staring at him, Tim nodded once. His ribs screamed in pain. Sucking in a ragged gasp, Tim dropped Bruce’s shirt and then grabbed for his own chest. His fingers met actual fabric—another one of Bruce’s shirts. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Tim. I know it hurts, it’s clean and it should keep stuff from getting in the injuries.”
“Silk?” Tim prompted. This is so—
“Silk has properties that make it beneficial for dressing wounds. It’s better in this situation to stain a shirt than get cotton fibers in them.” Tim nodded once. With that came a nasty burst of dizziness. Tim’s stomach flipped. Squeezing his eyes shut, he grabbed the shirt tighter. Bruce’s hand surrounded his own, startlingly warm.
"How—are you going—to explain—” Tim gestured with one hand to the Batmobile.
"Ah." When he cracked his eyes open, he could see Bruce smiling down at him. The world was blurring, almost vibrating. He wasn’t sure if it was the car or his blood loss. “Our friend the Bat may not like Bruce Wayne, but he’s not against helping out the Drakes. I just happened to be the one at home.”
“And—the Batcave—” Tim winced. The world blurred again, spots of black dancing in the corners of his vision. Panting, he grabbed for Bruce’s hand. Bruce held onto him, cradled his head closer.
“You need blood transfusions, and probably a lot of them. We don’t have the ability to treat some of your other wounds, either. You need a proper hospital. Even Leslie advised it.” Nodding, Tim gasped again. The world—he needed it to stop for a second, he needed to catch his breath. He couldn’t—he needed—
He woke again briefly to Bruce carrying him into the hospital, face tucked into the side of his neck.
Then, he was lying on his back, sheets tucked around him, and it was cold. Way too cold. Shivering, he tilted his head to the side. There was a mask pressed to his face, he tangled his fingers in those sheets. Someone touched his cheek. “Hey, Tim.” Someone murmured softly.
Cracking his eyes open, slowly, Tim searched for the speaker—for Bruce. His eyes landed on him, and he cracked a weak smile. “Bruce.” Slowly, he tried to look around the rest of the room. The others weren’t there, but he could see enough evidence. Jason’s leather jacket was left on the footboard, thrown over one of the—the leg things. He didn’t have the mental capacity to remember what they were called at the moment. As for Dick, he had left his own jacket right beside Cass’ favorite hospital book—The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe—and Steph’s pink Stanley cup that Duke had gotten her as a prank on the chair beside Bruce. Duke’s tie had been left on the arm of the chair, and one of Damian’s stuffed animals was tucked into the crook of Tim’s side, blocking his view of the IV stent. A litany of coffee cups were scattered across the room, the bedside table and tucked into the trash can by the door. “How bad—”
“You’ve only been out for about four days. Lacerations to your back, chest, and shoulders. Three broken ribs on your right side. Some mild internal bleeding. A lot of bruising. Thankfully, no concussion; you got lucky.” Nodding, Tim sighed. “You’re on some antibiotics, as per usual. Because, well—”
“My spleen.” Tim paused. “Lack of spleen. Has someone talked to Bernard?”
“We have. Jack has been caught, he’s currently trying to fight his way out of jail.” Lips cracking into a smile, Bruce noted, “Ivy got arrested over the weekend. It’s odd, really, she stole a cash register from that one gas station back on Third.” Snorting, Tim looked at him. Bruce nodded.
“And—how? Why?”
“Apparently, she liked your last showing that featured the botanical gardens.” Bruce shrugged. “That, and Ivy’s never been easy on child abusers.”
“I’m not exactly a child. I’m eighteen.” Tim argued. “Nineteen, now. I think. What day is it?”
Pain split Bruce’s features. “It’s July twenty-second.” Tim blinked a few times. Turning away, he studied the wall, the curtains drawn over the window. A shaky breath left him. Reaching out, Bruce touched his forearm gently, “Do you remember what happened before Jack…”
“Got violent?” Tim sighed, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back against his pillow again. “I—I—”
He closed his eyes again.
Eventually, quietly, Bruce prompted, “Tim?”
“He wanted me to break up with Bernard. There’s this girl that he wanted me to…consider.” With his free hand, Tim gestured. Bruce’s grip on his other hand tightened. “She’s from a rich family, and I guess they also have some influence over some pretty valuable archeological digs that he wouldn’t otherwise be able to get to, so…he thought he had the right to mess with my romantic relationships. I said no. Guess he didn’t exactly like that.”
Bruce’s face fell, and he looked at Tim pityingly. Glancing over, Tim cracked a weak smile and shrugged.
“I survived, though. So, I guess I won.” He yawned. “I want to curl up and take a nap. You mind—sticking around for me?”
“Of course, Tim.” Bruce murmured, using his other hand to brush Tim’s hair back. “Get some rest. Let us handle things from here—and I’ll make sure to wake you when Bernard gets here. You want to see him?”
Already drifting off, Tim nodded and hummed softly.