Work Text:
Tim walks down Crime Alley, his steps shaky and unsteady as he hugs himself tightly, trying to ward off the fever that’s been gripping his body for two consecutive days, despite the fever reducers and antibiotics that Dr Thompkins had immediately pumped him with as soon as he’d collapsed at a meeting, with a temperature of one hundred and three degrees.
Dr Thompkins had allowed him to be discharged from Gotham General a little over four hours after they had admitted him, however imposing total bed rest for the following three days, independently from his temperature potentially dropping under ninety-eight.
And he’d complied, surprisingly.
For the most part, anyway.
Tim had diligently stayed in his bed, only leaving to use the restroom, never taking the IV out, leaving the oximeter clipped on his index finger for Bruce’s peace of mind.
He hadn’t been injured on patrol, wasn’t hiding an infected wound, and his lungs were fine, but Bruce had insisted anyway, and Tim had been too tired and out of it to complain about the unnecessary coddling.
Tim’s immune system had merely decided to act up, despite Tim being extremely careful with his meds ever since after his splenectomy.
Despite the sun, up high in the sky, he can’t seem to stop trembling, teeth chattering so loudly that his jaw aches with the effort– he almost bites his tongue off when a particularly violent shiver makes him trip on his feet and stumble.
A cat scurries behind a dumpster at the noise, and he jumps.
He needs to get to Jason.
Although he still has approximately twenty-one hours of forced confinement left to endure, Tim had taken advantage of the free time in the past days to research and investigate into an underage prostitution rink that Jason had asked him to look into.
Actually, Jason hadn’t asked explicitly, per se, but he’d casually mentioned that he was having trouble tracking down one of the rings of the chain he’d been investigating, exhausted between his work with the Outlaws and all, and Tim had made a mental note to have a look himself.
And he’d managed to find something– a lead, or more, possibly. But it wasn’t something he could tell on the phone, and there was no way he could’ve convinced Jason to visit– not when Jason hadn’t set foot in the Manor in over three months, and not when he’d been explicitly against Tim, or any of them, working at all when injured.
He hadn’t asked for Tim’s help, so he would never have accepted to go to the Manor of all places for the purpose of getting help.
So that’s exactly why Tim is slowly making his way towards the far end of Crime Alley, where Jason’s most-stacked safehouse is located and where Tim supposes that his brother has been staying– he hopes he’s right.
The streets are eerily quiet, the only sound the echo of his own footsteps.
Tim tries to push past the fog of sickness that clouds his thoughts– he’s fine, he’s fine.
The fever had gone down to one hundred and one last time he’d checked, a few hours prior, and although he’s now reconsidering the idea of leaving the house in this condition, he had to seize the unique chanche that had presented itself.
Bruce had left for in a hurry for a meeting at Wayne Enterprise– one that Tim was supposed to attend, too.
Alfred, after having verified that Tim was still properly tucked in and had no intention of leaving the bed, had gone off to run some urgent errands.
Then Dick, who had come back from Blüdhaven the night prior, totally not to check on Tim himself, had passed out on the couch after assessing the situation, an arm thrown over his eyes, one leg up the backrest. Dick had left for Gotham right after an eighteen-hour shift at BPD, preceded by a night spent patrolling, so Tim hadn’t been worried when he’d spotted Dick napping, and hadn’t woken him up.
A light breeze almost knocks Tim over– he clutches the collar of his jacket, pulling it tighter around himself in a futile attempt to ward off the chills.
He surprisingly crosses a group of three people– dressed in tailored suits and dishevelled, drunk. Tim averts his gaze, but when one of them ‘accidentally’ bumps into his shoulder while they pass each other on the sidewalk, Tim is forced to look up, already raising a hand to apologise.
“Hey!” one of the guys calls, spitting.
“M’sorry,” Tim mutters, “Didn’t meant to hit you.”
And that could’ve been the end to it, but the same man is quick to grab at Tim’s collar– he’s taller, so Tim stands on his toes when the guy’s face comes into view, barely a few inches from his. His breath reeks of alcohol, and under normal circumstances it wouldn’t have made much of a difference, but to his already-queasy stomach, the stench hurts.
“Idiot,” the guys sneers, “watch where y’re goin’!”
The others with him don’t move, leaning one against the other, visibly struggling to stay upright.
Tim swallows, thick. “Sorry, I–”
“Wait,” the woman of the group calls, her hair hanging loosely from a messed-up bun, “Ain’t that the Wayne brat?”
The man leaning against her blinks, slow, and Tim sees the recognition sitting in. “Yeah, yeah, that’s him! I remember–” a hiccup, “I remember him, from one of the meetings, ah– the Bhandari-Auclair deal, for the– the fuselage.”
Tim lets his eyes fall shut, willing himself to take a few deep breaths. Engaging is out of the question– he’s Tim Drake, and not Red Robin, so he can’t knock these idiots out.
He’s also not at his prime, admittedly.
“Look,” he croaks out, “I really need to get going, please. M’sorry for bumping into you.”
The three leer at him, their faces twisted with malice as the one that’s holding his collar pulls him closer, then forcibly shoves him towards the ground. Tim lets out a chocked huff as he falls with practised ease– the gravel digging into his palms hurts, but he knows how to take a fall, so the rest of his body remains mostly uninjured.
Before he can get up, the three surround him.
He doesn’t get a warning– when a foot connects with his ribs, his head spins, and he’s sent reeling towards the ground again, head knocking against the pavement before he curls onto himself with a muffled, pained hiss.
“We lost a fuck ton of money because you,” the woman sneers, the high heel of her boot jamming into Tim’s throbbing ribs again, “couldn’t keep your damn mouth shut.”
Tim blinks the tears away. He doesn’t remember their faces, since he’d been fairly uninterested during the meeting they’d mentioned– which he only vaguely remembers, anyway. All he remembers is that Wayne Enterprises had won the tender at the expense of a couple of other big corps.
“I’m s–”
Fueled by visible hatred, possibly heightened by the alcohol in their system, all three simultaneously start to snarl and kick Tim straight in the ribs– a few kicks land on his legs and arms, and he hisses, tears pooling at the corner of his eyes. They show no mercy as they deliver blow after blow, causing him to writhe in pain– he curls in on himself reflexively, shaky arms protectively wrapped around his head and neck as he tries to shield himself from the vicious blows.
And– maybe he’d underestimated the three boozers, maybe he should’ve fought despite only being Tim Drake. The pained sounds he inadvertently lets out are muffled by those of violent fists pounding against his body.
He forces himself to breathe in, and breathe out, to get his mind to stop racing, his heart to stop trying to claw its way out of his ribcage.
The beating goes on– Tim tastes copper, and his head swims. He’s not sure they hit it with a kick, maybe it’s just from the impact when he’d first fallen, or maybe it’s the fever that’s making it hard to see, to think.
But– but then, then it stops. He realises that he’s lying limp on the concrete, in a pool of coppery crimson– his blood, that’s his. He doesn’t open his eyes, and instead opts to stay there, just long enough to find the strength to stand back up again. He hears heavy breathing– three sets of lungs pumping oxygen hungrily.
“Did we–” a voice shakes.
“Fuck.” comes another.
“Hey, hey, calm down, there’s no CCTVs around here.” the first voice says.
“Let’s scram, before some caped freak breaks our necks!” a third voice yelps.
And after a minute, they’re gone. Tim blinks one eye open, exhaling shakily as he clutches at his ribs, then at his head, doubling over when a bout of nausea almost makes him pass out, vision whitening.
He supposes that, given how empty the streets are now, letting his eyelids droop, just for an instant, right there and then, in the middle of the sidewalk, wouldn’t be frowned upon. A while passes, or so he thinks, because the air gets colder, and the sun gets lower.
He feels– marginally better, but still not good enough to stand. So, he briefly ponders the idea of just– laying there for the foreseeable future.
But then– then a familiar set of footsteps makes him exhale, whole body quivering as the adrenaline coursing through his veins begins to fade at last, now that he knows he’s safe.
“F’n’lly.” he breaths out.
“Did you really have to come here of all places?” Jason’s mechanical voice mutters, sounding fairly exasperated.
Tim begrudgingly cracks an eye open.
“Ah, so you’re still alive. Spared me a whole lotta paperwork.” Jason says inside the helmet. “You okay?”
“Hn.” Tim huffs, letting his head loll. He then moves and, with shaky fingers, slick with blood, he extracts a USB pen from his pocket, holding it up for Jason to grab.
“T-take–” Tim breaks off with a cough.
Jason shifts, glancing at the specks of blood. He grabs the USB, saving the questions for later as he stares at his brother with a worried frown.
“My men caught three fuckers stumbling down the road and harassing passersby a few blocks out, bragging about a showdown with ‘the Wayne brat’. Would it be correct for me to assume that said ‘Wayne brat’ is none other than the Timothy Drake himself?”
Tim rolls his eyes, and Jason doesn’t ask before he starts to feel for broken ribs, touch feather-light– Tim still hisses and moans, trying to swat his brother’s hands away.
“Also, a little bird– a big, big bird, actually, told me that someone left their bed when they weren’t supposed to.” Jason continues, “So, you’re sick as a dog, delirious, and decided to come to Crime Alley of all places? I mean, I don’t judge, but the name of this hellhole is pretty self-explanatory.”
“M’fine.”
“You sure look it.” Jason snorts, then, more serious, “Did they get you in the head? Neck?”
“J-just back and ri-ribs.”
A nod. “Then up with you.”
Tim wails as Jason gently drags him into a standing position, supporting his brother from the elbows. His stomach rolls and he lets out a wet, low burp.
“Puke on me and I’m dropping you.”
Tim, despite himself, chuckles, raw.