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Someone must’ve put Tim’s brain in a blender, because that’s the only logical explanation for how utterly shit he feels. There’s a splitting pain in the back of his head and an ache behind his eyes and static in his vision.
Tim leans back against soft, cushioned leather. Where is he right now? He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care, because it’s comfy, even if his head is killing him. The purr of a motor beneath him is soothing, and Tim feels his eyes slipping closed. It helps, a bit, with the pain.
No. He’s supposed to be alert. Aware. Awake. Vigilance keeps him safe, keeps everyone safe. If Tim loses focus—
“You can rest, Tim,” says a familiar voice, rough but warm.
Oh. That’s good.
Tim’s eyes shutter and he lets himself drift.
“We’re here.” Tim feels a rush of cold air hit him as the door to the car—the Batmobile, he’s in the Batmobile—opens. Bruce reaches out, a warm arm wrapping itself around Tim’s back and helping him to his feet. Tim tries to stand, he does, but he’s hit by a wave of dizziness and collapses into Bruce’s side.
“S’rry,” Tim murmurs, his tongue feeling heavy. “S’rry, B’uce.”
“It’s alright, Tim,” Bruce says.
Tim shakes his head numbly. He’s so tired. He’s not normally this tired. That, and the pain in his head makes him pretty sure he’s concussed. Tim is not quite sure how he ended up concussed, but there’s a lingering sense that it’s his fault.
“You need to be monitored,” Bruce tells him. “For the next 48 hours, at least. You can’t go home with a concussion—there’s no one to watch you there.”
The words slip in one ear and out the other, but Tim catches the gist of it. He slips away from Bruce’s comforting arm and stumbles to a medical cot.
“We’ll go up to the Manor, Tim,” Bruce says, voice sounding tired. Tim isn’t really supposed to be in the Manor, but the protest dies on his lips as Bruce takes most of the weight off his feet and helps him stagger towards the Cave’s exit.
Time blurs, and then Tim is somewhere soft and warm, and a cover is being drawn around him.
“Do you remember what happened?” Bruce asks.
Tim searches his memories and winces at the splitting pain that goes with concentrating. “Uh,” he says. He was Robin, he thinks. There was a fight. Someone snuck up on him. And then, he saw stars. “P…patrrr’l?”
“Blunt force trauma to the head,” Bruce says, but the words don’t make much sense. They rattle around in Tim’s brain, useless. Tim is pretty sure he loses time, because then Bruce is saying, “Okay, Tim. Just rest for now. I’ll monitor your vitals.”
Rest. Tim can do that. His blended brain wants to quit on him, after all. Tim burrows into the warmth of the covers and sleeps.
Tim cracks his eyes open, only to be assaulted by a bright, piercing light. He squeezes them shut, until he senses through his eyelids that the light has dimmed.
“Better?” Bruce asks.
It’s off. Weird. Something’s…incongruous, is the word. The pieces of the world aren’t matching up. For one, Bruce is wearing a T-shirt and sweats. For another, Tim is not in a room that exists in his house. One explanation: Tim is in a guest bedroom at Wayne Manor.
Tim is not supposed to be here.
He says as much. Or, he at least tries to, but the words come out horribly slurred.
Bruce seems to understand anyway. “It’s alright, Tim,” Bruce says. “You have a concussion. You’re resting.”
Okay, Tim can buy that. What he can’t comprehend is why Bruce is here, sitting by the side of his bed. “You c’n go,” he says. “’m fine.”
“You’re not fine, Tim,” Bruce says. “You need to be monitored.”
“M’ dad c’n do ‘t,” Tim tells him.
“Your father isn’t home right now,” Bruce corrects.
“Oh,” Tim says. He didn’t know that he chose this week to not lie. It’s hard to keep your stories straight when you’re concussed. “Bat’ave mon’tor?” Bruce prepares for everything, and in fact anticipated a situation where he or another Gotham vigilante was concussed and had no one to monitor them. The Batcave has robust machinery to track vital signs and send any necessary emergency alerts. “Don’ hafda bothe’ wi’ me.”
There’s a bit of a silence, after that, or maybe Tim’s brain is just needlessly stretching time out. And then, “It’s not a bother. I want you to have someone with you, Tim. And…it’s…reassuring to see that you’re still breathing.”
Bruce’s breath stutters a bit at that, and he places a hand on Tim’s shoulder. A second later, his face shifts to a look of surprise at his own action. Bruce seems like he’s about to withdraw the hand, so Tim places his own hand over Bruce’s and curls up on his side. Bruce smiles ever-so-slightly, and it almost manages to chase away the pain in Tim’s head.
The next time Tim wakes up, he’s feeling a little more aware. Bruce, on the other hand, is asleep in the seat by Tim’s bed.
Tim is flattered. Bruce only falls asleep around other people if he deems them trustworthy. And somehow, Tim apparently fits that description. He doesn’t deserve it at all, just like he doesn’t deserve a space in Wayne Manor, but…he can still appreciate it.
A minute or so later, Bruce stirs. “Tim,” he says, voice scratchy. “You’re awake.”
“Yeah,” Tim says, glad to hear that his voice is coming out a little clearer. “Thanks for, uh.” The words still float around in his head, untethered. “Staying,” he decides. “And letting me stay in your guest room.”
Bruce nods. And then— “It’s not a guest room,” he says, and Tim’s heart skips a beat. What does Bruce mean, it’s not a guest room. “This is the family wing. My cousin, Katherine Kane, would stay in this room when she used to visit as a child. She sleeps a little farther down the hallway when she’s over now, but…I thought…Well, if you’re uncomfortable with it, you can move.”
Tim should agree and change rooms. He’s not supposed to be sleeping in the Manor at all, let alone in the family wing. And yet, he can’t help but smile.
What does he even say to this? He has nothing. He has no words. They all got blended into mush inside his brain, but even without the concussion, Tim would probably be at a loss.
“Are you hungry?” Bruce asks.
Tim blinks tiredly. His stomach, seeming to leap at the opportunity, growls. “I’m fine,” he tries again. “You can go to work. I’ll go home and eat there.”
Bruce shakes his head. “You need someone to watch you. And—” He says, before Tim can respond. “Concussions are a serious injury. I like knowing my…Robin…is alright.”
Okay. So Bruce wants his Robin functional. Fair enough. Tim can live with that.
But that doesn’t explain the room in the family wing or how Bruce tucked him in—Tim is pretty sure he remembers that happening—or why Bruce’s voice has been unusually soft, both gentle and quiet enough not to overload Tim’s concussed brain.
And it doesn’t explain how, thirty-four hours later, Bruce doesn’t ask Tim to go home.
(Maybe, Tim thinks, he already is home. It’s a pipe dream, but it’s warm, a glowing ember deep in his chest. And when Bruce gives him a half-smile at the breakfast table, lights turned low enough that Tim isn’t in pain, it seems like it might even be real.)