Chapter Text
Tim’s eyes somehow cracked open. It was a miracle considering how both blinding his surroundings were, and due to the amount of sleep that had built up in their corners. Despite this, and the overall feeling of immediate and total nausea that raked through his body, Tim kept his eyes open for a solid ten seconds. Far too long for whatever he was feeling. Ah, right .
Hangover.
Shit. As soon as he could semi-consciously understand the concept of existing he also understood that last night he had been incredibly drunk. Timothy Drake-Wayne, the normal teenage boy, the world’s greatest detective, Red Robin , was also a massive idiot. God, Bruce is going to kill him.
A surge of panic struck through him as he fumbled with the cobweb of bedsheets he had been draped in, his hand blindly whacking against his bedside table. Where was his phone? Fallen into the 823rd dimension apparently. Just perfect.
As he slowly began to become more aware of body, the horrible, never-ending drumming in his head, the blinding brightness of his room, the waves of pure sickness that sent bile surging up his throat, Tim decided that he hated his past-self just that extra bit more. Questions of what exactly that slightly younger and definitely happier person had done bubbled in the distance, dancing around with the magical concept of a coherent thought.
What happened at the party? How drunk did he get? How had he gotten home?
Tim squeezed his eyes shut and tried to will himself back into unconsciousness, that peaceful, oblivious state, but his body had other plans. The pounding in his skull was relentless, a jackhammer behind his eyes that made even the thought of movement unbearable. His stomach twisted violently, as if punishing him for every bad decision he had ever made, particularly the ones from last night and particularly the ones involving vodka. A sharp inhale burned his throat, the remnants of alcohol still clinging like a bitter aftertaste. He groaned loudly, pressing his palms against his temples in a weak attempt to stop the room from spinning. At this point he had forced himself to squint rather than open his eyes, a gentle stepping stone, he reasoned.
He never should have gone to that party. And if he had, he definitely shouldn’t have let himself drink. Bruce had one rule, one simple rule, getting drunk only created problems (how awfully right he was). And Tim had broken it without a second thought. It wasn’t like it was the first time he had gotten drunk, far from it. Usually, though, his drinking habits tended to only be indulged in with either some far too expensive, strangely named cocktail that Steph had ordered for him or the increasingly more common variation, involving himself alone at his apartment and something that tasted like a cleaning product. His heart clenched as shame coiled in his chest, wrapping around his ribs like a vice. Bruce was going to be disappointed.That was somehow worse than the possibility of him being angry. There was no way he could avoid being benched after this, even if the hungover voice in his head cheered at that thought. The man already had so little trust left to give, and Tim had just thrown away another piece of it. Stupid. So unbelievably stupid.
He let out another loud groan, frustration building in his hands. Clenching and unclenching by his sides. His phone buzzed from somewhere in his room, startling him out of his pool of guilt and regret. Where was his fucking phone?! It buzzed again, muffled by something laying on top of it. He wished in that moment he had laser eyes to blow it up, leaving him in a slightly more peaceful state. If only.
Tim barely registered the faint vibration of his phone, still muffled, still buzzing. there were probably a dozen missed calls, an equal number of texts, and at least one very stern message from Bruce waiting for him. Once again his hand blindly patted his immediate surroundings, whatever was in his reach without having to move anything other than his arm, in search for the device but stopped. The thought of facing reality, of knowing exactly how badly he had screwed up, made his stomach lurch worse than the hangover already had. Maybe he could let it wait just a little while longer.
Bart’s party. Right. It had been for Bart’s birthday, another excuse for the speedster to turn a simple gathering into a full-blown event. Distantly, Tim was sure he could still hear the thumping bass and smell the ash of fireworks. The details were hazy, but Tim could remember the energy of it, the way the music had been way too loud, how the lights had blurred into a dizzying swirl of color. By the time that the party was at its largest Tim had already been decently drunk. He could still hear Bart’s laughter, high-pitched and unrestrained, the way Kon had slung an arm around his shoulders and teased him for being too stiff at first. If only he could punch Kon in the arm enough to hurt him just a little, revenge for handing him that first cup of god knows what. The fuzzy memory of Bart egging him on, playful but not pressuring, and how the heat of alcohol had burned in his veins, making everything seem easier, funnier, less… complicated, played over in his mind. But beyond that, the night blurred into a mess of half-formed memories and indistinct voices.
Everyone had known that Tim didn’t drink. Never sharing a beer or taking shots at celebrations with friends, maybe that's why everyone had looked slightly relieved when he began to show the flush of alcohol in his cheeks. Maybe they had enjoyed seeing the usually immovable Tim, actually relax a little.
The phone buzzed again, insistently, like it knew he was avoiding it.
“Alright! Alright!” He huffed, voice ragged and hoarse. His eyes snapped open fully, much to their dislike, scanning around his room. Early afternoon light filtered through his half-closed blinds, sending warm slots of golden sun pooling across the floor. One of the shoes he knew he wore to the party lay on its side at the foot of the bed, the matching half no-where in sight.
His phone was nested a top a jumper all the way across his floor, the darkened screen displaying 3% battery. A slight miracle it was alive at all. Groaning, Tim sat up, attempting to push away the tangle of sheets encasing him. The walls spun and Tim became aware he was definitely tilting, swirls of his stomach bitterly splashed against his throat.
Bracing himself, he pushed up from the bed, stumbling slightly as the room shuddered violently around him. He caught himself on the nightstand, cursing under his breath before taking slow, cautious steps toward the abandoned phone across the room.
He winced as he turned it over, the harsh glow of the screen like a dagger to his no longer there spleen. Notification flooded the screen; missed calls, unread messages, alerts stacking on top of each other in an overwhelming display of concern, irritation, and, undoubtedly, disappointment. The most recent included a few from Bart, Kon and Cassie, even for some reason Tim didn’t want to know, Damian. Tim’s throat tightened. The logical part of his brain knew he should open them, start figuring out what the damage was, but he hesitated. There was no way to avoid this, plus the uneasy thought that many people worried about him made his headache intensify. There were close to 40 calls, 10 belonging to dick alone, the stupid, goofy upside smile of his profile staring into Tim’s hollow eyes with a knowing look.
His gaze flickered to the side, and for the first time, he noticed the chair beside his bed. It was slightly pushed back, like someone had been sitting there for a while and left in a quiet retreat.
“Fuck…” Tim whispered under his breath. It was a 50/50 between Bruce or Dick, both equally as bad. Tim’s stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with the hangover. For a moment, Tim just stared at the empty chair, a lump forming in his throat. He could almost picture Bruce sitting there, arms crossed, face unreadable. Or perhaps it was that worried restlessness that Dick always succumbed to, a disappointed frown hammered into his skin.
But someone had been there, someone had stayed.
Tim squeezed his eyes shut, jaw tightening. He hated that. Hated that he had made whoever it was feel like they needed to. That he had given him another reason to worry. Another reason to be disappointed. The weight of it all pressed against his ribs, suffocating. A small gasp escaped his chapped lips, the chokehold of panic teasing up his throat.
His phone buzzed again in his grip, dragging him back to reality. Bart again. A simple “U still alive there?”, followed quickly by “R u okay?”. God if that's the kind of messages he was receiving then something really bad must’ve happened.
Unlocking his phone and pulling up the group chat between the four of them he sent a, probably blindingly bad, selfie of himself lying back across his bed. Anyone could see the obvious scene before them.
“Still alive… barely. Sorry if I did something stupid. Don’t remember anything.” Tim mumbled as he typed out the messages, sending them in quick succession. The immediate swarm of vibrations hummed against his hand. Cassie, concerned and frustrated, Bart, some exotic meme of a laughing dog that was probably a mask of relief, and Kon, precious Kon, asking if he needed anything.
The soft and now very annoying dinging of a new phone call echoed in his room, the picture of Kon in a middle-aged man disguise, flipping off the camera, filling the page. Against his better judgement, and the strong pull to sit alone in silence for the next few years, he answered the call, bringing it to his ear.
“Tim…” Kon sighed immediately. Just perfect… that tone of concern, attempting to be hidden in the familiar warmth of Conner’s voice.
“Hey…” Tim hated how raspy and horrid he sounded in comparison. He also hated how, now in thought, Kon couldn’t really get drunk, nor the subsequent hangover. Wincing at his own voice he stumbled over his words, “Uh… sorry. I think I-”
“Are you okay?!” Kon blurted impatiently.
“Uh, yeah. I mean mega hangover…” Tim croaked playfully.
“Do you even remember what happened?” Kon interrupted, his voice tinted with a strange worry.
Tim swallowed. “Not… really?” he admitted, leaning back against the wall. “I mean, I remember the party. Kinda. Bits and pieces. Why? What stupid thing did I say?” He laughed nervously.
There was a pause on the other end of the line. Tim could hear Kon breathing, could picture the way he’d be running a hand through his hair.
“You were really sick, Tim… You really shouldn’t have drank that much, why didn’t you-”
“I don’t need another lecture, Kon.” Tim sighed, slightly frustrated. “I’m fine now, alright?”
“...You don’t remember kissing me?”
What the actual fuck.
“I- what?” He stammered, wishing Jason would have some lapse in coherency and shoot him right in the head.
“You kissed me,” Kon repeated, and this time there was something sharp in his voice.
“Oh, Kon, I’m so sorry… I was drunk out of my mind,”
“Yeah.” Kon replied harsher than usual. “I know.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again, utterly at a loss. His pulse was roaring in his ears, drowning out everything else. It meant nothing. It would have to mean nothing. They were best friends, sure, but Tim would never in his right mind do something like that. Oh right, he hadn’t been in his right mind.
“We can just pretend it never happened right!” The nervous chuckle returned, weaker, wobblier.
“God, you can be such an idiot sometimes…” Kon sighed, the phone crackling slightly. “How can you just kiss someone like that? Drag them away to the roof… Confess your love… Tell them all they want to hear… And blame it on a drunken mistake.”
All the words in Tim’s vocabulary disappeared. “I was absolutely wasted Kon! I didn’t know what I was saying, of course it was a mistake!” He shouted, why, he didn’t know.
“Wow, Tim. Real mature. In denial of your ability to feel as always. I know you. I know it was real.”
Silence. Sharp, horrible, silence.
“Kon, I didn’t mean it. Please can we forget about it?” Why did he have to sound so unsure of himself? His grip on his phone faltered, the device falling to the pillow near his head in defeat.
“ You make me feel wanted. And I want you more than anything. That’s what you told me.”
“Well I-”
“Didn’t mean it.” Kon finished for him, “Yeah, keep telling yourself that. I’ll wait Tim… I will, until you’re fully sober and realise that maybe this is more than you’re telling yourself. But I won’t wait forever. I do mean that. I mean it because I love you. Unlike you though, I at least love myself for that as well.” The call beeped to a silence. Leaving Tim alone staring at his ceiling.
Was he an awful person? Maybe. Did he hate himself for confessing some dumb crush to Kon? Yes. Did he mean everything he had drunkenly spilled last night? He wasn’t sure yet.
One thing he did know for sure was he needed to get a hold on the actual events of the party first. With a groan he sat up again, taking notice of the small tray on his bedside table, some painkillers and a tall glass of water. Condensation spilling onto the shining metal. It must've been brought in by his mystery protector. Whoever they were at least they weren’t so upset to punish him to hangover hell. He popped two of the pills into his mouth, swallowing a large sip of water, and flopped back onto his sheets.
It was memory restoring time.
*****
Arriving at the party he could already smell alcohol and feel the vibrating floor of horrible music, he was doing this all for Bart, he told himself. Cassie immediately swallowed him in a hug, breathing in her latest fruity perfume and shampoo. The smile that crept onto his face was too toothy to be fake. Pulled into the current of the crowd he began the search for the birthday boy himself.
The interlinked tangle of limbs that hummed and swayed began to be filled with faces he recognised, mostly heroes and vigilantes his age, some older and younger too.
“…Timbo! Over here!” Bart’s unmistakable voice rose above the thundering music, and before Tim could fully process it, the speedster had zipped to his side, a grin stretched wide across his face. He was wearing a ridiculous party hat tilted at a precarious angle, and a bright yellow sash with “Birthday Boyyy” printed in bold, glittering letters.
“Bart, you look like a human disco ball, oh and happy birthday!” Tim quipped, a small smirk tugging at his lips despite the overwhelming chaos around him.
“And you look like you’re about to leave!” Bart exclaimed, eyes narrowing with mock suspicion as he tugged Tim further into the crowd. “Nope. Not tonight, buddy. You’re staying, you’re drinking, and you’re having fun. Those are the rules.”
“You know how I feel about drinking… how Bruce does too,” He attempted to give his most convincing bruce impression.
Tim opened his mouth to protest further, but Bart was already shoving a red solo cup into his hand. The liquid inside sloshed dangerously close to the rim, emitting a smell that was equal parts fruity and ominous.
“What’s in this?” Tim asked warily, raising an eyebrow.
“Liquid courage,” Bart said with a wink. “And, like, maybe a questionable amount of punch.”
He would definitely throw this into some poor pot plant as soon as Bart turned his back, but oh well for now.
Then there was the first real drink. Another plastic cup, this time handed to him by Kon. And who was he to turn down those blue eyes. It was awful, no doubt about that, but for some reason it made his eyes crinkle with his smile. Maybe this was the teenage life he had missed out on.
The next few hours blurred together in a haze of laughter, music, and increasingly questionable decisions. Tim lost count of how many drinks he’d had after the third one, his usual careful demeanor slipping away with each sip. He felt lighter, freer, like the weight that constantly pressed against his chest had lifted, if only for a little while.
He danced with Cassie, who spun him around until they were both breathless and giggling. He arm-wrestled Kon and lost spectacularly, then demanded a rematch, only to lose again. At some point, someone handed him a sparkler, and he spent a solid ten minutes mesmerized by the tiny bursts of light, grinning like an idiot.
And then there was Kon.
Tim didn’t remember exactly how they ended up on the roof. One moment they were inside, laughing at something stupid Bart had said, and the next he was pulling Kon along with him up the stairs, whispering pleading whines. Then they were alone under the stars, the cool night air sobering him just enough to make him acutely aware of how close they were standing.
“You’re staring,” Kon said, his voice low and teasing. Tim blinked, realizing with a start that he was, in fact, staring.
“Sorry,” he muttered, looking away, but Kon just chuckled.
“It’s okay,” he said softly. “I don’t mind.”
“You’re just like… totally gorgeous,” At this point he couldn’t tell if the pink dusting his cheeks was purely substance induced.
“And you’re just like… totally drunk,” Kon teased, copying his little slurs and giggling.
“Am not!” Tim giggled back. Had Kon always been that good looking? Woah, where did that come from?
Kon just rolled his eyes, “You look good like this Tim… Carefree. Smiling. Not drowning in cases you’re too good for.”
“ You… are perfect. My Superboy.”
“You’re even more wasted than I thought-”
“I’m being serious. I’m basically sober.” He most definitely was not. Kon just smiled softly, his side profile a perfect silhouette as he gaze up at the moonlight. There was something comforting about it, the way Kon always seemed so unshakably solid. Like no matter how messed up Tim felt, Kon would be there, unwavering.
The thought made Tim’s chest ache, in that sharp, bittersweet way it always did when he looked at Kon too long. He blamed the alcohol for that. And for what he said next.
“You know,” Tim slurred, his voice rough and a little too loud in the quiet. “You’re, like… my favorite person.”
Kon turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Tim nodded emphatically, his head lolling a bit with the motion. “You’re… you’re just… you’re so… good, Kon. Like, really good. And strong. And funny. And- God, you’ve got that stupid smile that makes me wanna…” He trailed off, making a vague hand gesture that didn’t clarify anything.
Kon chuckled, but there was a softness in his eyes, a gentle curiosity that made Tim’s heart do a weird little flip. “Wanna what, Tim?” he asked, his voice low and careful, like he already knew the answer.
“You make me feel wanted. And I want you more than anything. I hope you know that. That you’re my best friend in the entire world. No matter where you are or what stupid band you’re currently obsessing over. I wanna be there. I wanna be there to…”
“C’mon Tim. Finish your sentences,” Kon shoved his shoulder gently.
“I wanna kiss you. Real bad. In a ‘not just friends way’,” He blurted out before any rational thought could counteract it.
The words hung in the air between them, heavy and raw and terrifying. Tim’s breath caught in his throat, and for a second, he thought he might actually throw up from sheer panic. But then Kon’s eyes widened, his mouth opening slightly in surprise, and that made Tim keep going because, apparently, drunk Tim had no self-preservation instinct.
“I mean, like… I’ve always kinda wanted to,” Tim rambled, his words tumbling out in a messy rush. “But I didn’t… because, you know… you’re you. And I’m me. And I’m, like, a mess. And you deserve better. You deserve someone who’s not, like, constantly spiraling. But… but I can’t stop thinking about it. About you. And it’s driving me insane.”
He laughed, a hollow, shaky sound, and dropped his head into his hands. “God, I sound like an idiot.”
“Tim,” Kon said softly, and when Tim dared to look up, he saw something in Kon’s expression that made his breath catch. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t confusion. It was something warmer.
Something hopeful.
Without thinking, without giving himself time to talk himself out of it, Tim leaned in, closing the small distance between them. His heart pounded furiously in his chest, but he ignored it, focusing instead on the way Kon’s breath hitched, the way his eyes fluttered shut just before their lips met.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like they were both afraid of breaking whatever fragile thing had just formed between them. But then Kon’s hand came up to cup Tim’s jaw, and Tim melted into the touch, his fingers tangling in the fabric of Kon’s shirt as he deepened the kiss. His tongue licking along Kon’s lip, seeking entrance like it was his right. Which it now was. The party hummed distantly beneath them, their legs dangling off the rooftop in a way that would make any normal person nervous.
Kon pulled back slightly, his eyes hazed over with want. “Tim you’re-”
But of course this was no Disney channel romance. The credits would not roll, instead, Tim would turn to throw up all over Kon’s shoes and down the side of the building. A round of applause please?
“Oh shit!” Kon immediately switched into his more alert self, holding Tim up slightly by the back of his shirt. “Tim?” Kon’s voice was immediately laced with concern, his hands steadying Tim as he swayed. “Are you-”
“No…” Tim groaned, his throat burning as he coughed.
“Shit. Okay, okay, come on.” Without hesitation, Kon scooped him up, cradling him against his chest as he carried him down the narrow stairwell, pushing through the crowds of dancing drunks and into the nearest bathroom. Tim barely registered the movement, too busy focusing on not throwing up all over Kon’s shirt.
Kon kicked the door open with his foot, setting Tim down gently by the toilet before turning to grab a towel and run the faucet. Tim clung to the edge of the counter, taking deep, shaky breaths as the nausea swirled angrily in his stomach.
“Really don’t feel good…” Tim whispered painfully.
“You really don’t look too good either,” Kon replied, dashing over to wipe the wet towel across his forehead, “-In the nicest way possible!” He quickly added.
The next few minutes swam for Tim, heaving into the toilet, his breath a stinging breath of alcohol. When he rested his head on the seat, the cool porcelain whispering for him to close his eyes, he knew he was done for the night. Behind his eyelids the bright, white lights of the random bathroom they had ended up in, highlighted the frantic figure of Kon, the shadow shifting from crouching next to him, to standing up restlessly. In the back of his mind he was aware that Kon was talking, fast and concerned. What about, Tim had no clue.
*****
Wally West had always been quick on his feet, but that didn’t mean his reflexes saved him from every awkward moment. He learned that the hard way when he accidentally walked into the wrong bathroom at Titans Tower. It wasn’t like there was a neon sign warning him away, and to be fair, he hadn’t exactly been paying attention. He really needed to piss. But still, nothing would have made that sight easier.
Tim Drake was slumped on the tiled floor, pale as a ghost, his head tilted awkwardly against the wall. His light grey graphic-tee was stained with something that looked suspiciously like blood, and his half-lidded eyes fluttered as though he were barely clinging to consciousness. Kneeling next to him was Kon-El, Superboy, looking unusually frantic as he pressed his hands against Tim’s shoulders, trying to steady him.
“Uh yikes!” Wally blurted, freezing in the doorway, why had that been his chosen phrase? No one really knew.
“Wally, thank God,” Kon snapped, his voice thick with a mixture of relief and panic, eyes darting between him and the mannequin of Tim. His normally cocky demeanor had vanished, replaced by sheer worry. “I need you to call Dick. Now.”
“What happened? Is Tim okay?” Wally asked, stepping closer, his eyes darting from Tim’s pale face to the red smear. “Is that blood?”
“Just- call Dick!” Kon cut him off, his voice sharp, though his hands were gentle as he shifted Tim to rest more comfortably against the wall. Tim’s head lolled a little, and Kon grimaced like it hurt him to see his friend like that. Wally recognised that look, and upon further reflection there was no worry for a ‘friend’, in Kon’s eyes, “I don’t know what's wrong with him! He drank too much. Dick needs to come get him.”
Wally fumbled for his phone, his fingers moving slower than they usually did. He wasn’t used to seeing Kon like this, always grinning like he had the world on a string. But right now, Kon looked shaken, and that was unsettling.
“Tim?” Wally asked hesitantly as he dialed. “Can you hear me, man?”
Tim stirred slightly at the sound of his voice, but he didn’t seem fully aware of what was happening. His lips moved, but whatever he was trying to say was too quiet to make out.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Kon said softly, leaning closer to Tim. His voice dropped to something gentler, more soothing, as though he were afraid Tim might shatter if he spoke too loudly. “Dick’s on his way. You’re gonna be okay.”
Wally pressed the phone to his ear, feeling like an intruder in the moment.
“Hey bab-” Dick began in his usual sing-songy tune, slightly muffled by the hoarseness of recent sleep. Of course he had been asleep, it was nearly 3am, it was honestly strange how unbothered or concerned Dick appeared by being woken up by his boyfriend this late. Maybe that was something they should work on in the future… Shit. What was he doing again?
“Your brother needs help!” Wally blurted, unreasonably stressed for how calm he had been, not even five minutes ago.
“Uh- what? Which brother? Where are you?” The switch in Dicks voice to alert almost startled Wally, that interrogation tone inherited from Bruce.
“Tim. I’m at Titans Tower. He really doesn’t look good right now…”
“I’m on my way,” The sound of keys jingling and a door slamming echoed through the phone.
“Thanks, Dick. I—thanks.”
“Just keep him safe until I get there.” As the line went dead, Wally exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging. He turned to Kon, who was still holding Tim close, running a hand through his hair anxiously.
“Dick’s coming,” Wally said quietly. Kon just nodded, tapping Tim’s cheek repeatedly.
*****
Everything after that felt like a dream. Shapes and colours and sounds, fading in and out as did Tim. He vaguely remembers Dick bursting into the bathroom like it was on fire, Kon rambling nervously as his brother scooped him up, cradling him against his chest. He was pretty sure Wally had stayed with them until they were in Dicks car, a hand on Dick’s shoulder as a grounding pressure.
Tim was 85% sure he threw up in the car, which now that he's thinking about it, was probably Bruce's.
Kon had been right. He really had been sick. Maybe that horrible bile taste in his mouth was slightly more metallic than he originally thought. Alright, that little flashback cleared up maybe half of his questions. Added a bunch more too, though.
Firstly, the chair must've belonged to Dick, maybe that was slightly more bearable of an idea compared to Bruce. Tim curled up on the bed wishing he was anywhere but there, he held the quilt tight in his fingers, pulling it over his head with a groan. The dark, self-created cave felt warmer somehow, golden light filtering through the cover to cast a yellow shadow onto his mattress. He sighed deeply, running a hand over his face with a lot more force than necessary.
As he shut his eyes lightly, soothing himself into a hazy rest, he heard his bedroom door creak open and soft pattering footsteps rhythmically sound off the carpet. Tim winced, his muscles tensing as the guilt flared brighter than the hangover. He didn’t dare open his eyes.
“Master Timothy,” came Alfred’s calm, measured voice, far too kind for what Tim deserved. “I brought you some tea.” Tim cracked one eye open and looked up, eyes bloodshot and full of dread. Alfred, in all his unflappable grace, stood at his bedside with a silver tray and a porcelain cup, steam curling gently upward like a lifeline. He had never seen Alfred look even remotely disheveled, every greying hair on his head combed with precision, every fold of his clothes ironed to a crisp edge.
The silence stretched before Tim finally whispered hoarsely, “Thanks… Does he know?”
Alfred hummed softly, setting the tray by his bedside, “It would appear so, yes. It is not as if you are unaware of his feelings towards intoxication, he is not exactly pleased with how you handled yourself last night.”
Tim took the tea with trembling hands, wincing as he sat up. “God. I’m so screwed.”
Interrupting his tortoise-like sip at his tea, a sharp voice echoed through the halls, an argument to which he held a front row seat.
“He directly disobeyed me! I have one rule when it comes to alcohol and he broke it! Do you even know how drunk he was!?” Bruce’s firm voice cut through the stillness like a whip. Tim flinched. He couldn’t see them from his room, but he could hear every word and maybe that was just as bad.
“I called Leslie, he was vomiting up blood Bruce!” Dick shot back, his voice tight, more defensive than angry. “She said it was probably from stress and his stomach being completely wrecked. I took care of it.”
“He never should’ve been in that condition to begin with!” Bruce hissed. “He knows better. You know better.” There was a pause, just long enough that Tim’s stomach twisted again, but this time it had nothing to do with the alcohol. He could picture it: Bruce pacing like a storm cloud, jaw clenched, and Dick standing between him and the fire, arms crossed, protective in a way that made Tim’s chest ache. He hated knowing they were yelling because of him, both equally upset and disappointed.
“He’s not stupid, Bruce,” Dick said, softer now. “ Something’s wrong . He didn’t just go out and get wasted for fun. He drank enough to hurt himself. He barely knew where he was. He looked scared out of his mind.” Tim shut his eyes, pressing his palms against them forcefully. He couldn’t bear to listen to Dick’s aching voice. “I’m just glad that Wally called me when he did. I’m glad he had someone there with him… And when I got him home, he just kept apologizing. Even while he was throwing up blood, he was apologizing.”
Silence followed that. Heavy, suffocating. Tim could imagine Bruce standing still, his frown deepening, weighing guilt against disappointment and anger. He didn’t want to know what conclusion Bruce came to. Tim sank deeper under the covers, shame pressing down like a second blanket. Beside him Alfred paused, calm and steady as always.
“I would suggest you try to talk to them…” His voice settled against Tim’s chest, “Postponing it won’t do you any good,” With that he turned swiftly and walked out, shutting the bedroom door gently behind him. Once again Tim was alone in his room, too tired to focus on the still yelling voices from downstairs. He couldn’t deal with that right now.
He couldn't survive another minute in the manor. He could make that decision, no help needed. He struggled out of his sheets again, knocking into the tray that carried the now cooling cup of tea. Apologies to Alfred but it would remain undrunk. One glance at the door and the slightly muffled yelling still echoing from behind it, made it abundantly clear that he would have to (in true Wayne fashion) go out the window.
Every creak of the floorboard, every rustle of the wind outside, it all sounded like Bruce’s footsteps. Like judgment coming closer. Dick had defended him again . And that made it worse. He didn’t want to be a problem for Dick. He didn’t want to make Bruce furious. He didn’t want to be seen like this at all.
He scrounged around his room as fast as he could bear to pack a small bag. A change of clothes, burner phone, painkillers, cash. He scribbled a note and immediately tore it up. No note. That would only invite someone to come looking. He wasn’t sure how long he would be gone. A few days at most, just until things had calmed down.
The window opened with a faint creak, and the cold air rushed in like freedom. Tim climbed out onto the roof with practiced ease, despite the way his limbs still ached and his head swam. Crawling against the crevice his window sat in, he took a quick breath and slid down the wall. Thank god his room wasn’t too high up.
It took him over an hour to reach the safehouse. One of Jason’s. Thankfully he had brought his grappling hook and of course his suit, if not for being able to cross Gotham by rooftops his trip length would have doubled. A squat little apartment tucked above a boarded-up laundromat. Not many people knew about it. Tim had helped patch it up once, when he had been staying in the area for a case. It was close enough to Crime Alley for Jason so to him it didn’t really matter if it wasn’t a five star hotel. He picked the lock and slipped inside, sagging against the door once it was shut behind him. Tim didn’t bother turning on the light. He dropped his bag by the door, shrugged off his jacket, and made his way to the worn-out couch in the corner. He snatched a small knitted blanket from the couch’s arm and wrapped himself in it tightly. This was one of Jason’s most decorated safehouses on the account that he stayed here quite often, or at least to Tim’s knowledge, they didn’t exactly discuss it.
It was a semi-nice place, second floor, no working elevator, windows reinforced with blackout curtains and cheap aluminum locks that Jason had probably reinforced himself. The main room was a mashup of quiet clutter and strictly organised bookshelves. Surrounding these were battered secondhand furniture, a sagging couch covered in mismatched throw blankets, and a scratched coffee table that doubled as a weapons-cleaning station (as seen by the scratches Tim recognised to be from knives). Despite its obvious flaws it carried a comforting feeling of being lived-in, someone had loved this couch, or at least tolerated it. That knowledge was strangely calming.
A cracked TV sat on a low stand, half-draped in a hoodie that had been left there who knows how long ago. The kitchenette was surprisingly well-stocked as per Jason’s living standards, being Alfred’s protege came with the benefits of never forgetting how to cook. Against the wall laid many bizarre looking appliances that Tim would definitely ask about later.
As he curled his legs inward, holding them tightly he wiped at his eyes. He didn’t cry. Not exactly. It was more like a series of sniffling gasps, hiccups maybe. Whatever it was he was doing, the mire time that went by, the stupider he felt. Curled up on his brother's couch and yeah, now he was definitely crying, this was maybe a new low. In perfect Gotham fashion, it began to drizzle softly outside, the sky a dark and unwavering grey, starkly contrasting the previous sunlight. The room got dramatically darker as the rain began to intensify, leaving blueish-grey pools of light filtering through the gaps in the curtains.
Tim sat in the suffocating silence, crying himself to exhaustion for just under an hour before his eyes slipped shut. He wasn’t asleep, but pretty close to it when he heard footsteps approaching the door. Jason was finally home.
“Why the fuck is my door unlocked?” Jason hummed to presumably himself, voice deeper than Tim remembered, more tired too. He didn’t bother reopening his eyes, too much effort.
“Dumb robber?” Suggested an unfamiliar voice that made the hairs on Tim’s arms stand. Maybe this was a good time to actually turn to look at whoever was about to walk in on him, tear stained and shivering. If only his stupid eyes would follow the rational side of his brain.
“They better not have taken any of my groceries, only bought them yesterday,” Jason replied, significantly more annoyed, still standing in the doorway cautiously.
“Only you would be worried about your precious groceries,” The other voice, definitely male, snorted and began to walk into the apartment, flicking on the buzzing overhead lights.
Tim flinched at the sudden brightness and finally cracked open his eyes, vision blurring before settling on two shapes behind him. Jason’s familiar silhouette froze in the doorway, confusion hardening his features the moment he registered the lump of Tim curled on the couch. Behind him, a redhead leaned in, hands in his pockets, blinking at Tim like he hadn’t expected a sobbing teenager to be breaking into Jason’s safehouse. Because he hadn’t.
“…Tim?” Jason’s voice dropped the irritation instantly. “What the hell?”
Tim didn’t answer. His throat hurt too much and the words felt stuck, congealed somewhere between shame and exhaustion. He tried to sit up straighter but didn’t get far. The blanket slipped off his shoulder, revealing how badly he was still shivering from the sudden cold that had crept into the apartment.
“Whoa,” the redhead, Roy, his brain finally supplied, stepped forward with hands raised like he was approaching a scared animal. “Hey, hey. It’s okay.” He paused to glance towards Jason slightly confused. “Brother?”
“Brother.” Jason nodded back, confirming him.
“Whatcha’ doing here mate?” Roy asked gently, still hovering slightly restlessly.
“Didn’t want to stay at the manor, didn’t want to be alone,” Tim whispered back, hating how desperate he sounded.
“Could’ve called,” Jason stated firmly, shifting slightly as Roy turned to glare at him like he had offered to shoot Tim to put him out of his misery.
“Please Jason… just for tonight, you said I could stay here if I ever needed to.” He whined, playing it slightly dirty by feigning a soft sniffle. Jason could forgive him later.
Jason scrubbed a hand harshly over his eyes, pinching his nose with a sigh, “I did say that, didn’t I? Yeah, alright, take the couch… just- will you actually tell me what’s going on for once?” Tim shrugs in a noncommittal way that makes Jason’s forehead wrinkle slightly. Whatever he’s thinking though, he doesn’t say, instead stripping off his jacket onto a nearby armchair and walking off to the small bathroom down the hall.
“This conversation isn't over!” He shouts though his voice has a strange fondness to it. “I just gotta piss real bad!”
Still standing beside him, Roy picks at his sleeve for a moment before excusing himself to the bedroom, nodding at Tim before hurrying off to avoid any awkwardness. Tim felt slightly sorry for him, being ambushed by his, whatever Jason was to him, ‘s brother, crying and upset.
Tugging one of the fuzzy bright pink throw blankets over his face and trying his best to mold his body into the gap between the couch cushion and the armrest. He pretended like he couldn’t hear Jason and Roy talking in low, hushed voices, peering down the hallway at him like a washed up fish, flopping helplessly on the dry sand.
“I’m calling Dick! He probably has no idea Tim’s snuck out. He’s a sneaky guy when he wants to be,” Jason pressed in a half-whisper, biting on a hangnail on his thumb.
“Look at him Jay… he’s come for your support, not Dick’s,” Roy replied, equally hushed and worried.
“I don’t know how to support him! I don’t even know what’s wrong. Good ol’ Brucie probably fucked up like always!” Jason hissed, a sharp bite to his tone.
“Just, I don’t know- talk to him, yeah? Dick would want you to keep him safe,” Jason huffed and tapped his foot against the floor in thought, mumbling an annoyed ‘ he is safe ’, before heading back towards the living area where Tim was transforming himself into a fuzzy pink rock.
A lot of sights in Jason’s life had scared him. But watching Tim Drake tremble on his couch like the world had chewed him up and spit him out, shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself small enough to disappear, was something else entirely. Jason wasn’t good at this part, the quiet, messy emotional cleanup that came after someone’s life fell apart. That was usually Dick’s gig.
He sat down with a sign on the other end of the couch, the fabric sinking under his weight. Tim shut his eyes again, dreading the impending conversation and threat of a phone call to Dick. Jason patted his thighs rhythmically, popping his lips to fill the stretching silence.
“You gonna tell me what happened now? You don't uh- have to, or anything. But I would appreciate it.” He finally blurted, willing his hands to a stop. Cautiously, Tim raised his head slightly, staring at his brother sitting beside him, at least the uncomfortableness was mutual.
“Yeah, okay,” Tim mumbled, picking at his ring finger under the blanket. What did he have to lose, it’s not like Jason would be unable to relate to disappointing Bruce. (ouch). Once Tim had opened his mouth it was like he couldn’t stop the words from spilling out. He told Jason everything from the party to Kon to Dick to Bruce. Repeating everything out loud just made his head hurt more and the drowning realization of how much he was doomed increase ten fold.
“So you’re sitting here thinking you ruined your chance and friendship with Kon, disappointed your surrogate dad, and scared your older brother half to death, all in one night. Did I miss anything?”
Tim gave a humorless little laugh. “No. That’s the full disaster.” He once again buried his face into the fabric, pleased at the familiar smell.
“Well B’s stupid drinking policy was dumb from the beginning, it’s not like you weren’t at a. A party and b. Surrounded by people who already know you’re a vigilante. He shouldn't be pissed off just because you wanted to have fun once in your life.” Huh, Tim supposed that made sense, but it still didn’t stop his body from wanting to rip itself into a thousand guilt heavy pieces. “Think about it, yeah?” Jason patted his knee gently as he stood pulling a spare toothbrush from a backpack nearby. Most likely prepared for an emergency escape but equally important as an impromptu sleepover.
“Yeah,” he croaked softly, catching the flying toothbrush and setting it down on the coffee table across from him, a peace offering.
“Alright wll, you know where everything is so help yourself to food or anything. Roy and I have already eaten so we’ll just be down the hall if you need us. ‘Night kid.” He gave a small, awkward wave as he shuffled down the hallway, running a hand through his hair at least three times.
“Goodnight.” He didn’t really feel like eating on the case of still decently hungover and the lingering fear of messing up Jason’s kitchen so instead opted to lie in the dimming living room in total silence, rethinking every life choice. It wasn’t really night either, just dark and gloomy, but that was good enough for Tim who pressed close into the couch’s crevices and covered his ears in an attempt to block out Roy’s muffled giggles.
“C’mon… it’s been so long since we hung out,” he whined playfully.
“My emotionally collapsed younger brother is literally in the living room.” Jason snorted back, trying to sound firm but failing. Yeah, Tim really didn’t need to hear where this was going.
When Tim was awoken by yelling he was thankfully positive that it was far too early for Jason to shoot anyone.
“No call! No text! If you had seen what state he had been in that night you would understand why I am reasonably upset!” Dick paces the floor in front of him, fully suited up and using his hands to talk in the exaggerated way that Jason usually makes fun of him for. Now, Jason stands behind the couch, closer to the kitchen pointing a finger out at Dick accusatory and offended. Beside him, Roy sits at one of the seats by the countertop, wearing nothing but boxers and an impossibly white singlet. He looks tired but with the same sort of peace he always carries. He was trapped between three people he did not want to witness fight right now.
One look out the window confirms Tim’s guess of the time, it’s threateningly dark with a slow gradient into a milky grey just beyond the horizon. 5 am. Maybe 6. Wiping away his grogginess, a thought occurs to him, he previously could not even see out the windows. What?
Glass shards lay scattered across the tattered rug centering the couch, smashed out dramatically by presumably the blue and black vigilante now standing before him. So that’s one of the reasons why Jason looks so pissed, excluding the obvious early hour. Roy nods at him gently, a strange look of apology in his eyes. If this were a different situation Tim would have smirked at the purpling hickeys flowering down his neck.
“You break into my house at the ass crack of dawn accusing me of kidnapping our brother! How am I the one in the wrong here?!” Jason snapped back, his eyebrows held tight. His voice was sharp again, cutting through the moment like broken glass. “You think you’re the only one who gives a damn about him? He came here, Dick. To me . That should tell you something.”
Dick stood up fast, too fast, shoving Jason back into the counter. His hands curled into fists at his sides, jaw clenched so tight Tim could see the tension ripple all the way up his neck. “Don’t pretend like this is some noble thing, Jason,” he bit out. “You didn’t call. You didn’t even check in. He was throwing up blood less than twenty-four hours ago and you just let him crawl into your bunker like everything was fine?” Roy stood up, more alert and ready, raising his arm as a barrier between the two.
“Stop it.” He demanded, voice level and frustrated. “Calm down alright? The kid’s safe, he’s..” Roy paused to glance over at Tim, bundled in that blanket, now with the bits of fuzz in his hair. It was not an overstatement to say he looked like shit. “Uh, fine.” Thanks, Roy. “Now why don’t we sit and talk this out rationally, hm?”
Jason sighed, seemingly diffused by the redhead beside him enough to drop his still pointing hand to his side. Mumbling a string of curses Alfred would not appreciate. Dick nodded like a scolded puppy, shuffling to lean on the back of the couch. He gazed down and if only now realising that Tim was still there, awake and watching, practically stumbled over himself to grab onto Tim’s collar, yanking him forward, squished against the poor, poor, sofa.
“Do you have any idea how worried I was?” Dick questioned, mouth gaping like a goldfish. Tim began to prepare a mumbled apology when he was cut off. “Bruce and I-”
“Yeah that’s enough, save the lecture for out of my house please,” Hummed Jason, deciding it was his turn to interrupt.
Dick glared at him, still clutching Tim like he was afraid he’d disappear again if he let go. “You don’t get to tell me when I can be worried about my brother.”
Jason narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms as he leaned against the counter. “No, but I do get to call you out when your idea of ‘worried’ is making everything about you and Bruce. You stormed in here, broke my damn window, and woke up the entire neighborhood because you couldn’t stand the idea that maybe he came to me instead of you.” Tim winced, trying to disappear into the couch again. He hated this. Hated being the reason they were yelling. Hated that both of them were kind of right.
“Oh, I’m sorry, ” Dick snapped, turning on Jason. “Should I have sent a polite text before busting in? You don’t have the most positive history with Tim.” Now it was Jason’s turn to wince, something in his eyes softening slightly. Regret, maybe.
Dick’s hands unclenched slowly, his face crumpling the way it always did when he was tired. “I am listening. I just… he was gone, Jason. He didn’t say anything. I thought-” He didn’t finish, leaving Tim with a strange swirling feeling in his gut. “It’s been a long night, or two nights, I might add,” He sighed, letting his tiredness infect his usually sparkling eyes.
He glanced over at the broken window and then at Roy, who just raised his brows like, yeah, that one’s on you, buddy. “I’ll pay for the window,” Dick muttered, to which Jason nodded in approval. Then, hesitating, looked at Tim again. Making Tim try his hardest not to cry for the god knows what time. “Move over,” he said eventually, gesturing to the couch. “I’m sitting with you. And you’re not getting rid of me until I’m sure you’re okay.”
“Fine,” Tim mumbled, shifting with minimal protest, he didn’t look like he was going to yell at him again, which was a good sign, but he had another far off sort of glance that made Tim worry.
“B, wants you home,” He muttered quietly, his tone indicating little resistance desired.
“That can wait,” Jason cut in, voice still flared, eyes trained on his two brothers like a hawk. “It’s like 3 in the morning,”
“5:30,” Dick corrected quickly, trying to hide the slight upwards stirring of his lips.
“Whatever, I need my sleep,” Jason scoffed and took Roy by the arm, tugging him back into the bedroom. Dick slung his arm over Tim’s shoulders and pulled him close by his side.
“You are like, genuinely okay though, right?” He asked softer, squeezing Tim’s arm gently.
“Yeah, and I’m sorry I scared you, by the way,” He mumbled back, trying to find the hard Kevlar suit he was leaning on, comfortable.
Dick hummed, taking a few seconds to collect himself, “I’m sorry for tracking you down and breaking into Jason’s apartment and all that,” He smiled weakly, not really reaching his eyes.
“Is Bruce going to bench me?”
“Yeah… probably. He’s pretty upset Tim,” Guilt pooled in the back of his throat. He had made things ten times worse, not just between him and Bruce, but also between Jason and Dick who had been reconnecting recently. He nodded, hiding his face in the blanket and signing deeply.
“Why don’t you get some more sleep and we’ll head back to the manor before lunch?” Before Tim could shift nervously or groan or any of his usual reactions Dick ran his hands through Tim’s scalp, scratching through his hair carefully. It was better than any kind of drug Tim had been on before (mostly anesthetics and pain killers, thanks Gotham).
“Okay…” He whispered back, curling up against his brother’s warmth.
“Oh, one last thing though,” Tim paused, eyes flicking open cautiously, “How long have Jason and Roy been… uh, together?”