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The night in Gotham was heavy, thick with humidity and that electric tension that signaled a coming storm. The mission, in theory, was simple: intercept a shipment of illegal weapons at the docks. Bruce had decided to bring Dick, Jason, and Tim, while Damian was left at the mansion against his will, grounded for insisting on patrolling without permission.
At first, everything went according to plan. Dick moved with his usual grace between the containers, Jason covered the flanks with a pair of pistols loaded with non-lethal rounds, and Tim followed the signals on his tablet, marking the position of each guard. Bruce, always one step ahead, gave short, calculated orders from the shadows.
It was in the middle of the confrontation when a smuggler, much bulkier than expected, managed to catch Tim off guard. The boy barely had time to turn when he was struck brutally in the temple with the butt of a rifle. He dropped to his knees, ears ringing, vision clouding with bursts of color.
But Tim, stubborn as always, forced himself to stand. The sounds of the fight surrounded him, and he didn’t want to be a burden. He moved unsteadily, trying to keep up with his family, until the dizziness became too much.
“Red Robin, are you okay?” Dick’s voice came through the comm, laced with concern.
“I’m…” Tim tried to respond, but the words came out slurred and thick. The world spun unbearably.
“Tim?” Dick asked again, noticing the boy clutching his head.
Tim opened his mouth, but instead of words, only a low groan came out. He took a step forward, stumbled, and leaned toward Jason, who instinctively reached out to catch him.
“Hey, Replacement, what the hell’s wrong with you?”
Tim looked at him as if he didn’t recognize him. He managed to raise a hand to his head before suddenly doubling over and vomiting onto the ground, the harsh sound cutting through the noise of the fight. Jason stepped back half a pace, surprised, just before grabbing him by the shoulders as the boy collapsed, unconscious.
“Damn it!” Jason growled, holding him carefully. “Bats! We’ve got a problem!”
Bruce rushed over immediately, eyes wide.
“What happened?”
“He took a hit,” Jason replied, his voice tight with anger. “I saw him stumble, but I thought he could handle it. He’s got a damn concussion!”
“Tim!” Dick called, gently patting his cheek. “Come on, little brother, answer me.”
Bruce knelt beside the boy, checking his vital signs with apparent calm, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him.
“He’s breathing. Pulse is steady. But we need to move him now.”
Dick couldn’t look away. Seeing his younger brother lying on the ground made his stomach twist.
“This is my fault, I should’ve been more alert…”
“No,” Bruce cut him off, voice low and firm. “This is no one’s fault. But we can’t waste time — he needs to get out of here, now.”
Jason adjusted Tim in his arms without waiting for instructions.
“I’ll take him. You guys clean this up.”
“No, Jason,” Bruce stopped him with a firm tone. “I’m going with you. Dick can coordinate the prisoner pickup.”
Dick nodded, though his face was full of worry.
“Take care of him. And let me know the second he wakes up,” he said, even though he knew he wouldn’t rest until he saw Tim safe and sound.
...
The trip back to the Batcave was tense. Jason carried Tim in his arms, trying not to show how nervous he really was.
“Don’t you dare die on me, Replacement,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “You’re not dumping this stain on me.”
“Stay calm,” Bruce replied, piloting the Batjet. “What matters is that he’s breathing and his pulse is stable.”
“Yeah, but he’s way too pale,” Jason lowered his voice, almost to himself. “Feels like if I let go even for a second, he’ll break.”
Bruce glanced at him sideways but said nothing.
---
Back at the mansion, Alfred was already waiting, alerted through the comm. Damian stood beside him, arms crossed, wearing an expression of false indifference that barely masked the tension in his jaw.
“What happened?” Alfred asked, taking control at once.
“Blow to the head, followed by loss of consciousness and vomiting,” Bruce reported in a clinical tone.
“Put him on the stretcher, quickly.”
Jason laid Tim down on the medical bed with far more care than he’d ever admit. Alfred examined the boy swiftly, fitting him with a neck brace as a precaution and preparing the tools for a more thorough check.
Damian took a step forward, fists clenched.
“Is he going to die?” he asked, voice hard but eyes wide.
“No, young master,” Alfred replied calmly. “But he’ll need complete rest and constant monitoring.”
Jason huffed, trying to break the tension.
“Complete rest. That’ll be torture for Timbo. The idiot can’t go a day without sitting in front of a computer. Who wants to bet he’ll try to sneak out of bed in less than twenty-four hours?”
No one answered.
Dick walked in at that moment, still in his Nightwing suit, dusty and worn. He rushed to the bedside, eyes flicking over Tim with a mixture of guilt and fear.
“I didn’t see it. I didn’t realize he was in trouble until…”
“No one saw it,” Jason cut in, crossing his arms. “That’s the damn problem with him: he always tries to act fine, even when he’s falling apart.”
Bruce stayed silent, eyes fixed on Tim, who was now breathing a bit more steadily under Alfred’s care.
---
Hours later, Tim woke up in the medical bay, his head pounding like a drum. The first thing he saw was Dick, seated beside the bed, eyes red from exhaustion, and Jason on the other side.
“...Dick?”
“Hey!” Dick immediately grabbed his hand. “Don’t move too much, okay? You’ve got a concussion.”
“I-I don’t feel…” he stammered, and before he could finish the sentence, he leaned toward Jason’s side.
Jason barely had time to react before Tim threw up directly onto his jacket and part of his pants. The sound made Dick jerk back and Damian wrinkle his nose in disgust.
“Gross!” the boy exclaimed. “I knew Drake would find a way to ruin everything.”
“Oh, perfect,” Jason raised his hands, glaring at the stain. “Of course, he pukes on me. Why not?”
Dick quickly stepped in, helping Tim lie back down and wiping his face with a damp towel.
“Shhh, it’s okay. That’s normal after a concussion.”
“I don’t feel normal…” Tim whispered, shutting his eyes tightly.
Jason stood with arms crossed, clearly unamused.
“You passed out on me, puked on my boots, and now again on my clothes. If you think I’m letting this go, dream on.”
Tim closed his eyes, embarrassed.
“Sorry…”
“Eh, don’t worry about it,” Jason smirked slightly, hiding real concern. “Now I’ve got a solid excuse to ask Bruce for new boots and that leather jacket I saw the other day.”
That’s when Damian decided to speak up.
“You’re an idiot. You scared all of us,” he muttered.
Tim, half-asleep, managed to whisper,
“Damian? What are you doing here?”
“Making sure you don’t die from your own stupidity,” the boy replied, turning his face so no one would see the blush creeping into his cheeks.
“What were you thinking? You got hit — why did you keep fighting like nothing happened?” Bruce growled, in that stern tone that mixed concern with command.
Tim groaned softly, turning his head to avoid his adoptive father's gaze.
“I didn’t want… to slow you down.”
“Slow us down?” Dick repeated, incredulous. “Tim, you nearly died. Do you know what a concussion is? It’s not a scratch, it’s your brain. Your brain!”
“Look on the bright side,” Jason chimed in, peeling off his stained jacket with visible disgust. “If he scrambled something in there, maybe he’ll stop talking about statistics and probabilities all the damn time.”
“Jason,” Alfred said calmly, handing him a damp cloth at least to clean himself.
“Your recklessness doesn’t just endanger you,” Damian pointed out coldly, though there was a slight tremor in his voice that gave him away. “If you fall in the middle of combat, the rest of us might be distracted trying to cover for you.”
Tim let out a tired sigh.
“Great. A concussion and a group lecture. Just what I needed.”
Bruce leaned in slightly, his shadow falling over Tim.
“You’re going to listen, Timothy. Because I’m not going to see you in this situation again. Understood?”
The boy shut his eyes, biting his lip. He didn’t have the strength to argue, but he didn’t want to give in either.
“…Understood,” he finally muttered, barely audible.
Dick sighed, adjusting the blanket over him.
“Look at us, Tim. No one’s mad because you’re human. We’re mad because you push yourself harder than your body can take.”
Damian huffed from the corner.
“You’re worse than a child. At least a child knows when he’s hurt. You prefer to collapse on top of people.”
“Thanks for the support, Damian…” Tim mumbled, eyes closed again from exhaustion.
Bruce lowered his voice — still deep, but gentler.
“Next time you feel something’s wrong, say it. We don’t care if a mission is delayed — what matters is that you come home alive.”
Tim swallowed hard, his gaze glassy. He finally gave the faintest nod, sinking deeper into the pillow.
---
Later, after everyone stepped out for a breather, Jason lingered at the door for a moment. He glanced at Tim, who was already drifting off again under Alfred’s careful watch.
“You know,” he muttered with a half-smirk, half-serious look, “next time you feel like puking on someone… aim for Dick. Don’t even think about picking me.”
Tim gave a faint smile. He knew his family might be a mess — but they cared, and for now, that was enough.