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Bruce pressed the bandage harder into Tim’s abdomen. He shushed and soothed, dragging his fingers along the sides of his hair. A call for reinforcements rang in his ear piece. Tim had heard it too. He fought the bandage out of Bruce’s hand and winced at his own pressure.
“Just go.” Tim spoke through gritted teeth.
“Go where?”
“They need backup. They need you– go on.”
“No.”
“Go you idiot– come on! They could be hurt!”
“You already are hurt.” Bruce spoke without his Batman gravel, but still as flat.
“I’ll be okay.”
“I’m not leaving until I’m sure of it. Just breathe, hun.”
“Go– B.”
“Shut up, Tim.”
“Code names—“ Tim grunted, too weak to put full annoyance in his tone.
Bruce shifted from crouching down to fully sitting beside him. He unlatched his cape and balled it up so there was something soft for his head to rest on. He’d regained the bandage, admonishing Tim for moving it and messing with clotting. His other hand never left Tim’s skin either, soothing him through the holes in his suit, brushing the dirt from his face.
He was there, and then, the hard ground turned softer.
He could hear murmuring. The light was burning even through his eyelids. He ran through a quick check of his extremities, all fingers and toes fully operational. The voices outside the door were equal parts alarming and familiar. He listened for anything else, building up the world around him before he had to open his eyes.
Soft breathing hid underneath the other noises, a heart monitor beeping in tandem. It didn’t have the same rasp as Bruce, nor was it fast enough to be Damian’s, there was no whistle on the exhale like Dick usually had, so unless it was a curveball in the hospital room, he was pretty sure Jason sat beside him. His knee had connected with the bed and shook the whole thing as he bounced it. It was slight, and not bothersome to Tim, but the anxiety and the small click of his heel made Tim almost certain of his company.
Bruce opened the door soon after. He clapped a hand down on Jason’s shoulder and took the seat beside him, the chair squeaking a bit under his weight.
“He’s awake. Just not saying anything. Might still be out of it.” Jason assessed, annoyingly accurately.
Tim would not be caught like a child pretending to be asleep in the back of a car.
“‘M fine. Just didn’t want to talk.” Tim shifted in the bed, but kept his eyes closed until the very last moment. Bruce was kneeling at the bedside and cupping his arm, ready to brace him.
“Easy, easy, bud.” The sudden touch made Tim’s eyes finally relent to the brightness of the overhead lights in the med bay. “Stay back for me, please.”
“I’m fine, Bruce.”
“Let him baby you. He’s much easier to put up with if you just give in.” Jason scoffed. Bruce shot him a half-hearted glare.
“Go check on your brothers.” Bruce chuckled, shooing Jason out of the room.
“Yes sir.” He called sarcastically as Bruce shut the door on him.
“Did I lose a lot of blood?” Tim was still trying to sit up, Bruce having to shove a pillow under him to placate his attempts at sitting fully vertically.
“Yeah, hence the whole passing out thing. The IV will have you hydrated soon enough, and if you stop trying to jump out of bed the stitches Alfred made will heal up that puncture quite nicely.”
Tim hadn’t been wearing a shirt, but he still pulled the blanket down to see the overall damage. The knife dragged across his skin before he felt them go deeper, a hole left like his very breath would leak from it. Neat, perfectly spaced stitches sewed him up, work so clean only Alfred could have done it.
“Mmm. How long?”
“How long, what?”
“How long am I out?”
“As long as it takes to heal.”
“Are the others–?” He didn’t even know what he wanted to ask, but Bruce still answered.
“Their biggest worry is arguing who gets first watch over you.”
“I don’t want them to watch me.”
“Duly noted.” He chewed his lip. “But you’ll have to pin them down to keep them out and in this state—you’re a great fighter Tim, but you won’t win this one.”
“Then you tell them they can’t.” Somehow he achieved something between intimidation and the rantings of a pathetic child. He was commanding, but petulant.
“I am the last person your brothers listen to.”
“They’re not– They’d cross the world for you. You can get them off my back.”
“Nothing could stand between those boys and their care for you, myself included.” Bruce folded his arms, leaned farther back in the chair.
Both Bruce and Tim seemed to fall asleep after that, for a long time it seemed, the crick in his neck aching as Bruce regained consciousness. Tim was already awake, staring at him with wide, glassy eyes like a frog.
“Yes, Mr. Drake?” Bruce yawned. He leaned his elbows on his knees to get closer.
“You should have checked on them. Back there.”
“They can handle themselves.”
“You didn’t know that. What would you have done if one of them got hurt?”
“You were hurt.”
“It’s different.” He winced as he scooted to sit against the headboard. Bruce leaned to help him, but he was already upright.
“How?”
“You know how.”
“No I don’t.”
“Come on B.” He was still whining like Bruce had asked him what color the sky was. “Dick’s your baby, no matter how grown, the first, the favorite. Jason is the prodigal son, you lost him and mourned, just for him to make his way back to you. And Damian— that one’s easy, he’ll tell you enough. He’s the blood son. He’s the heir.” Tim couldn’t help himself but roll his eyes in his best attempt at a Damian impression. “They're all– yours.”
“And you’re chopped liver?”
“I don’t need all that attention. I get things done just fine without it.”
Bruce exhaled. Tim didn’t listen well to emotions, didn’t operate well outside of statistical values, and Bruce knew what he was trying to say. They’re high maintenance, in need of care. He had survived without it, proving he didn’t need it.
“Right. Okay. You're ever the thinker, so let’s play this through.” He sat on the edge of Tim’s bed, his back just barely resting against his legs. He turned his torso to face him. “You get stabbed, instead of tending to you I answer Dick’s call for backup– which Jason already responded to and you bleed out on the rooftop.”
Tim scoffed. “I would have stopped the bleeding, walked it off.”
“You would have walked off a puncture that was a quarter of an inch away from all your major organs?”
“I’ve taken care of myself before, Bruce.”
“I don’t want you to ever be left alone again, Tim.” Bruce widened his eyes like he was underlining his point with his expression.
“Please, the boys are needy, I can keep up just fine.” He sat even further back, ignoring Bruce’s judging look and crossing his legs in front of him. If he was in pain, he didn’t show it on his face.
“The four inch hole in your abdomen tells a different story.”
He pulled his blanket back up and over his body. “Well I’m sewn and fine, so leave me be.”
Bruce resigned. He slapped his palms down on his knees and stood. “Sure, hon. Damian’s on guard anyway.” He added the last bit to prove he’d still left the victor.
“Tell him to leave.” Tim practically snarled.
Bruce glanced back before he could open the door. “You tell him, since you already seem to have a death wish.”
After a week, Tim had finally slept in his own bed, in his own room, with no pesky Robin breathing through the crack in the door. It seemed they got bored quick enough, and his healing process no longer intrigued them. Tim was relieved to get rid of the annoyance, finally surrounded by a gentle silence.
He promised Alfred he would not remove the stitches on his own, but Alfred had also said they needed to stay in for another couple of days. Tim knew he was perfectly fine without them now, having tested the wound for tears. If he could prove Alfred wrong, he could certainly convince Bruce to let him back out on patrols. Breaking a promise to Alfred wasn’t one of his best plans by far, but he knew he’d be forgiven, and he knew he was right.
He’d gone through all the right procedures, sneaking down to the infirmary for some pain medicine, using the sterile tools to avoid infection, adding on a handful of butterfly band-aids for posterity, and his stitches were out in less than an hour. Only a thin, albeit jagged, scar remained, skidding along his ribs and into the soft side of his stomach. It joined the littering of scars across him, some pink and faded and others more recent.
He twisted only slightly to ensure there was no chance of the wound opening. There was a twinge of pain as he turned back, but the cut stayed closed.
Bruce was rooting through the fridge when Tim came back upstairs. “Feelin’ good?” Bruce hummed, offering one of the two oranges he had in his hand over to the boy.
Tim accepted the fruit, digging into the skin with his thumbnail. “Great, actually. Think I’ll be ready to go out tonight.” He played it off as routine.
“If you mean go out to a movie, then sure.”
“Patrol.” Tim narrowed his brows.
“No shot. No patrol with stitches. No patrol when you’re still–”
“I don’t have any stitches.” Tim pulled up his shirt and offered a sneaky grin.
“Timothy Drake I could kill you.” Bruce stared at his pale skin.
“Batman has a rule about that.” Tim was trying to placate Bruce with humor, distracting him well enough after poking the bear.
“Bruce Wayne has no such hangups.” Bruce lifted the boy’s arm, keeping his shirt high so he could inspect the injury. He mumbled something angry under his breath and traced the line with his fingertips. “Why the fuck would you–”
“It was done. Alfie was being too cautious. I’m sealed up.”
“He was being cautious because patrol is a recipe for you to rip yourself open. You’re grounded, clip your wings, I don’t care. You’re not going out like this.”
“How am I supposed to be useful if you won’t let me go? You cut me off from even looking at cases!”
“I want you to get better, kid! You’re jumping head first into things when you could have been– You were a hair away from a coma– or worse. Now you can’t even respect your life enough to listen to Alfred?”
“Fight me then.”
Bruce drew both of his hands to his face. “He’s fucking crazy. My fucking kid is crazy. Fight you?”
“See if I’m up to it. If I win, you let me go.”
“If I fight you, you’ll end up more hurt than you already are.”
“And I’ll stay in bed for two weeks. More– if Alfred says so. Promise.”
“Oh, like you promised to let him take out your stitches?”
Tim was already headed downstairs when Bruce managed his rebuttal. Bruce followed, unsure he had any real choice in the matter.
“No weapons.” Tim declared. He fussed with the baggy t-shirt he wore, making sure it was tucked out of the way.
“Sure.” Bruce rolled his eyes. This was pointless. It was all pointless. Tim couldn’t beat him at 100%. Sure, he’d grown stronger, he was really excelling despite not having the backgrounds the others did, but Bruce knew his limits. He was always calculated, always ahead of you. If Bruce didn’t outweigh him leaps and bounds maybe it could be a fair fight, but Tim knew all of this. He knew he was destined to lose against Bruce nine hundred ninety nine out of a thousand times.
He knew better than to bet on such awful odds.
“When you’re ready.” Bruce sunk into his stance. He was going to have to be even more calculated than usual. He sparred with the boys all the time, and as they grew, it became closer and closer to giving his all. Training was part of keeping a good team, but it was also fun for them. He adjusted to each of their needs every time they fought, handicapping himself to train particular elements, coaching based on his own strengths and weaknesses.
Tim watched the way Bruce balanced on his feet. He was marking his steps, trying to find the right angle to attack and not harm the boy, but Tim wasn’t worried about that. He lunged to him, aiming his injured side right to Bruce so he would have no choice but to hold his counter. He was too smart for his own good.
Bruce dodged the attack still, turning away so Tim just narrowly struck his side. Bruce winced, even if he could have ignored the pain. He reached a hand to grab Tim’s but the boy had already retreated. Bruce advanced and jabbed a quick hit to his shoulder. Tim was too slow to avoid it entirely, but Bruce could see hints of Dick’s nimble style rubbing off on him. He could feel the air of the attack before it came and swerved like a ripple in the water.
Bruce was too mad with him to be impressed, but the emotions fought to show over each other. He had to protect him, had to remind him that recovery made him stronger. And the only way that was getting through to Tim was through force.
On the boy’s next move, he seized his arm and tugged him into colliding with Bruce’s chest. Tim pushed back with his free hand, writhing and fighting to shake Bruce’s hold, but he was tired of this charade.
“Tap out.” Bruce all but growled.
“No.” He pulled every dirty move, reaching for Bruce’s eyes, his ears, the soft skin of his arms, but Bruce wouldn’t let him.
“Tap.”
“No!” Tim shouted. He raked his nails across Bruce’s skin, making him actually wince for the first
time.
“Timmy.” He showed no pain despite the parallel cat scratches on both arms.
“No!” Bruce grabbed his other arm and Tim relented to using his feet. He kicked at Bruce’s knees, coming off the ground because of how tight Bruce had him. He had one more good kick in him before he gasped out in pain. Bruce watched the pain ripple across his face, his eyes squinting down and retreating into his skull.
The boy crumbled down onto his knees. Bruce followed, not letting go of him as they both felt the full effect of gravity all of the sudden. Bruce reached for the hem of his t-shirt.
“No!”
“Tim, please. I need to see.”
“No!”
“Because you know it’s torn.”
“I’m fine. I’m–”
“Please, kiddo. Please. I know you want to patrol, I know you want to be out there, but the worse you get hurt the longer you’re out.”
“Gotta help.” He threw his head back in exhaustion. “Gotta–”
Bruce stroked back Tim’s sweaty hair. “Please, darling, just let me look after you.” Upon the second attempt, Tim let him check the injury. He could see immediately where the wound split onceover. His pale skin flashed a sharp red and burned against Bruce’s clammy touch. He scooped the boy up in his arms, careful to not move him any more than necessary, setting them up in the med bay and paging Alfred.
Before the butler could list all of his grievances, Bruce took the blame. “Some of the stitches were popping so I took them out.” He clicked his tongue. “We were meant to be stretching, but everything went well and well, we just– I pushed it.”
Alfred made quick work of the repairs, leaving out where the skin had set better and replacing only half of the old stitches. Bruce held onto Tim’s hand all the way through, the boy flitting between complete awareness due to the pain and a dizzy haze from the medicine.
When Alfred left, Bruce let go. He pulled a chair to the bedside, where previously he’d only kneeled on the hard tile.
“We need to talk.” His hand returned, clutching overtop Tim’s.
“ ‘m sorry, B.”
“I don’t care about that.”
Tim made a groan of confusion, turning his neck to look at the man.
“You think you’re expendable. You think you’re a member of a team, not a family.”
“I–”
“Let me finish. I know what things were like before. I know your family was– I know that you have been through a lot. And I get that your situation is not the same as the others in a lot of ways.” Bruce chewed his lip in thought. He didn’t want Tim to have the chance to interrupt him, but he couldn’t risk saying the wrong thing.
“You belong here. Not as a vigilante, as a kid. You are so brilliant and so clever and those things make you a great detective, but more importantly, they make you a wonderful person. Needing help, or rest, or needing to be the center of attention for a moment– all of those things do not diminish your value. Taking two weeks off ensures your safety, which I prioritize much higher than your ability to fight.”
He brushed a piece of hair behind Tim's ear. “You were conditioned by your parents into not making a fuss– because it made their lives easier. I don’t want you to ever worry about making anything easier for me." He kept his hand laid across the side of his face. "I don’t want you to feel like you have to apologize for taking up space. It makes me feel like I fucking failed as a dad. Or a whatever you want to say-- Regardless of how you see me, baby, you are mine. You are just as important, as loved– Do you know how often your door was left unmanned in the med bay? Not a breath. Dick and Jason would trade off and neither would leave until they’d shared a full report on every move you made in your sleep. Damian fell asleep leaning back against Titus and refused to move when we woke him.
“Dick had to promise to send hourly texts to him while he was sleeping for him to head up to his room. He refused to go to bed until we figured out a way to broadcast your vitals into his comms system. He told Titus to stay at your door so he would hear any signs of trouble.
“You are ours. You can fight it, you can claim to not see it, but you’ll be every bit engrained in our lives as long as you live. We will never stop until you realize that– that your parents did not treat you the way you should have been treated, that being self-sufficient is not the only way to be.”
Tim looked like he was going to say something when the door burst open, all three of the boys fighting over one another to get through first.
“Are you an actual idiot, Drake?” Jason was first. He pushed over and sat himself on the bed. “B you’re pushing him too hard.”
“I know, bud.” He reached out for Jason’s knee. “I promise I’m done.”
Dick followed, draping his arms around Bruce’s shoulders. “Feel okay, T?”
“I’m fine.” Tim groaned. “I just can’t stand you guys fawning all over me.”
“Then stop fucking getting hurt, idiot.” Damian made his way through last. He was wearing one of Tim’s old sweaters, not that he would admit that to anyone. It swallowed him up, already being large on Tim and Damian had his fingers balled up in the sleeves.
“Dames–”
“Language.”
Bruce and Dick spoke at once.
Dick laughed. “He’s right though. We’ve got you covered, sit home and watch some movies. I’ll cover B, you guys just hang out.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
Jason leaned back on top of him. “You need company dude, you’ll lose your mind alone.”
“Probably.” Tim laughed, leaning up to swat at Jason to move from directly on his hip. He shifted down farther, throwing both his hands above his head like he was downright exhausted.
“If you haven’t already.” Jason scoffed.
Bruce tugged on Damian’s sleeve to come in closer. “We can all take off tonight. I call in a favor from the league.”
“And break your precious meta rule?” Dick gasped dramatically. “Oh Tim, he does love you.” Dick grinned.
“Whatever.” Tim turned to try and shove his face into the pillow.
“I meant what I said, Tim.” Bruce played off brushing through his hair as he squashed his face harder into the pillow.
Tim turned back, an evil smirk across his lips. He leaned up halfway, Jason still across his legs, and lunged carefully at Bruce. “You’re so screwed Bruce Wayne. In two weeks, I’ll kick your ass.”
“Okay, kid. It’s a date.”