Chapter Text
Timmy’s cheeks have a pleasant sort of ache as he’s overcome by another boisterous giggle fit. The soft blocks scatter over the plush rug as he knocks the tower over again. He picks one up, intending to start a new stack but he gets distracted by the bumpy texture. With his pacifier hanging from the clip on his onesie, his mouth is free to gnaw on the block. The silicone feels nice against his gums, easing the phantom teething ache that his headspace induces.
“Toys are for playing, not for eating,” Jason says, voice sing-songy and sweet. Timmy loves hearing his voice even if he struggles to process the actual meaning of the words. He gurgles around the block, drool dribbling down his chin. His caregiver chuckles, leaning forward to use his bib to wipe him clean. “Here, baby, let’s build another tower.”
Timmy bounces on his knees when the excitement is too much to contain. He crawls closer to his caregiver, pressing against his side. Jason welcomes him easily, one hand landing on his back and rubbing soothingly as the other begins to help gather up the scattered blocks. Timmy nibbles on his block while he clumsily attempts to build again. When the stack falls before he’s finished he hardly has time to whine before his caregiver is cooing, “It’s okay, munchkin, let’s try again.”
This time, they get the stack five whole blocks tall before Timmy gets too eager and knocks them to the floor with a pleased squeal muffled by the block he’s gnawing on.
Jason gently pulls the block from his mouth, “C’mon, add it to the pile, darlin’. Use your paci if you wanna suckle on something.” He doesn’t relent even when Timmy whimpers, eyes wide and instinctively beginning to water. “Don’t look at me like that,” he sighs, “Look your paci is right here.” He grabs the soother, waving it in front of his eyes before pressing it into his mouth. His whines don’t have the time to turn to real cries when Jason is giving the paci a small tap, encouraging him to suckle. Timmy is about to spit it back out when the bobbing of the bulb immediately eases the worst of his overwhelming emotions. He suckles harder, relaxing back against his caregiver.
A big hand rubs circles over his back as he watches Jason build the tower much straighter and taller than he could have by himself. Timmy squirms, needy for his Bubba’s affection. He wriggles closer, fully crawling into his lap when Jason lifts his arm and welcomes him in. Breathing comes easier than ever when he’s being held by his caregiver. Like this it’s easier to see where Dick is overlooking them. He’s sitting on the nearby couch pretending to work on his laptop when he’s clearly just watching them play. Timmy doesn’t know why Dickie doesn’t just come and build with them but he’s not complaining about having all of his Bubba’s attention to himself.
He nuzzles in, forgetting all about the tower until Jason announces, “Ta da! Whatcha think, baby?”
Timmy gurgles excitedly, immediately launching forward to knock the tower over again. He bursts into another round of loud laughter to see the blocks splay out across the floor. Jason’s arm wraps around his waist to keep him from toppling over when he’s too distracted reaching for another block to keep himself upright. A bounce of the knee earns him another thrilled squeal, so loud that Dick looks up from his laptop. He grins so large that his eyes and nose crinkle, only making Timmy kick up again.
“Such a happy boy,” Dick remarks between chuckles.
“Oh yeah?” Jason asks playfully, “Are you so happy?” He presses his fingers in just right to earn himself another boisterous chortle. “Hmm, I dunno, maybe I just need to tickle you some more!”
He keeps gently jabbing fingers into his ribs until Timmy can hardly catch his breath, the paci falling out. Jason cups the back of his head to keep him from flailing and smacking it on the floor, though he’s not sure how bad of an owie he’d get since Bruce laid out the fluffy rug. It’s as colorful as it is cozy. Timmy bets that he could take a nice nap on it if Jason weren’t so insistent he sleeps swaddled in his brand new crib. Safe sleep practices or whatever they were droning on about earlier. It’s hard to keep track of all the grown-up talk when his brain feels so syrupy slow.
Jason stops tickling him just before he fears he will wet himself from the onslaught of laughter. He wouldn’t get all icky when he’s padded in a thick diaper, but it’s still nice to be able to catch his breath. He relaxes back into his caregiver’s hold, now sideways in his lap from all his squirming. Flopping over, he curls further into his embrace, lungs spasming with the stray bubble of laughter.
His big brothers keep talking, their voices a soothing lull of sounds he doesn’t have the energy to comprehend. Timmy isn’t ready for a nap yet but it eases the worst of his clinginess to be held so gently. His eyes unfocus as he starts drifting, his coherency dwindling with sleepiness. Jason presses his pacifier back into his mouth and it's a steady comfort, bobbling slowly in his mouth as he cuddles his Bubba.
Timmy lies lazily for a short while, until the restlessness begins to itch at his skin and he needs to get moving now or he’ll burst. He flops out of Jason’s lap, the caregiver ensuring that he doesn’t bonk his head when he’s too distracted to remember to catch himself. Lying on his belly, he reaches for more blocks. The silicone has different textures on each side of the cube, making it especially fun to run his fingers over each bump. Spatting his pacifier out, knowing the clip will keep him from losing it, he puts a particularly interesting block into his mouth.
Though Jason chuckles, he doesn’t actually take the toy away so he’s free to keep on chewing. He hears something about a bottle and that sounds so yummy, but this block is also yummy so he doesn’t start whining for milk yet. Not when there’s so many more towers to build and knock over.
Once his current block is all slobbery he releases it and reaches for a bright yellow one. Timmy rolls onto his back, nibbling the new toy as his mind begins to fade in and out. He blinks, his eyes feeling as if a film is slowly being removed. His chest tightens as the block suddenly seems a bit too soggy, his own saliva dripping messily back onto his face and dribbling down his neck. Dropping the block, he wipes his hands off on the onesie, the soft fabric absorbing the saliva immediately, though it does little to help with the stickiness.
Tim fervently opens and closes his hands when the icky feeling won’t go away. He whines, voice coming out all strangled and owie. He pushes the paci away when Jason tries to slip it back into his mouth, annoyance flaring when the clip won’t let it drop completely. No matter how he pulls at the clasp, it won’t unlatch. Tim whines again, louder without any barrier in the way, his clumsy fingers refusing to obey.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Jason coos.
Tim turns over and sits up, shying away from the caregivers, scared to meet their gaze. He’s hyperaware of the way his diaper shifts with his every movement, beyond mortifying. There’s hardly any relief to be found in knowing that he’s dry when that’s only because Jason changed him less than an hour ago.
A hand comes to rest on his back and despite the touch being gentle, Tim flinches hard enough to hurt. The hand retreats immediately, Jason’s voice low and cautious, “Timmy? How old are you feeling right now?”
It’s a stupid question. Even if Tim remembered how to string together the letters he needs he wouldn’t have answered anyway. Tim curls in on himself, pulling relentlessly at the stupid pacifier clip. It doesn’t actually matter that much, not when Dick and Jason have seen him do so much worse than carry around a soother, but it’s stuck and Tim wants it off and it won’t come off and frustrated tears are welling up and he can’t, he can’t and he—
“Tim, can I help you?” Jason asks. It’s not the baby voice he had been using before, still kind but not quite so humiliating.
Tim doesn’t want his help. He’s a big boy, he’s capable of picking the most complex of locks and yet he’s being defeated by a stupid fucking pacifier. He hiccups, the tears spilling over as his hands are utterly incapable of making use of the dexterity he spent years developing. His biology deciding that anything more than sucking his thumb is much too demanding a task for such a pathetic baby.
There’s a shuffle and then Dick’s quiet voice asks, “Is he coming out of his headspace?”
“I think he’s on the cusp. It could go either way,” Jason whispers. “Go get the thing,” he says, certain that Tim won’t understand. He’s not even using code, simply aware that Tim is too idiotic to decipher whatever he’s talking about. And it’s so mean of him. It’s mean and it’s not fair because Tim doesn’t want to be a dummy. Timmy wants to be a good boy, and good boys are smart. But being a little is bad and if he’s bad that means he can’t be smart and the proof is right before him, his clumsy fingers unable to solve the most infantile of tasks.
He sobs, helpless to his own fluctuating headspace. Timmy doesn’t understand why Bubba isn’t comforting him yet but he doesn’t even want the comfort, not when it’s all his fault. He’s yucky and naughty and so very sad and it’s all so stupid. It’s so dumb. He just wants the fucking clip off now please!
Timmy whines louder, tears pouring down his face, and turns toward his caregiver. He knows the sign for help but he’s pulling too harshly at the clip to make use of it.
“Do you want help?” Jason asks, just as patient as he’s been every time Timmy has come crying to him. He doesn’t make him sign the word please nor does he try to make him verbalize his desperation. The caregiver takes mercy on him, reaching forward and easily unlatching the clip from his onesie.
Timmy’s chest is just as achy even with the paci now in his big brother’s hands. There’s none of the relief he thought he’d have when he’s still wearing the most humiliating outfit. Jason had dressed him that morning in a puppy themed onesie. It’s long sleeved with extra fabric on the arms that can be turned into attached mittens, a measure Bruce had approved of to ensure that he can’t bite himself so easily. The gloves make his hands look like paws, and the matching pants have an embroidered tail on it, making him look like a baby doggie. Infantile in every aspect.
Timmy pulls at his bib next, pastel blue and humiliating, choking on his next cry when his throat is owie and he doesn’t know why just that it hurts and it’s scary and he can’t breathe—
Jason makes it all better. His Bubba takes hold of his hands and stops the ouchies. He unclasps the bib and lets it fall to the floor. The hand on his neck comes to cup his cheek, gently wiping away the tears as they come. “How are you feeling, honey?”
Timmy doesn’t know. He hiccups, wanting his caregiver to make it better anyway, even though he doesn’t know how to answer his questions. He should know how. He’s supposed to be a big boy. But big boys don’t wear onesies and diapers. They don’t use pacifiers and chew on toys. His parents would be so disappointed.
His parents can make it better though. They’re the only ones who can make it better now. Jason took away his medicine. Timmy is never going to get better without his pills. His daddy can fix that though. He has lots of them. He always makes sure to have plenty of suppressants in case Timmy loses them or misses a dose. He’s so smart. He’d know just what to do.
Timmy just needs to ask his daddy for help.
He makes eye contact with his caregiver and wonders if he’d let him use his phone. Probably not when he’s still sniffling pitifully, face ruddy and pathetic.
Timmy has a phone though. He’s not actually sure where it is but he knows he has one. Jason probably knows where it is. He’s so good at that, keeping track of all the things Timmy tends to forget. His babyish mind holds onto information no better than a sieve.
Jason has this worried sorta look on his face and Timmy is trying to remember why when he gets distracted by Dick coming back into the room. He’s holding a bottle of milk. That musta been the thing they were talking about before. But that doesn’t make sense because they would have just asked him if he wanted his milk. He doesn’t understand until he sees Dick plugging the nipple of the bottle with a finger while he shakes it, mixing it.
He put meds in it. That’s why.
The static fades with the tightening of his chest. His ribs constrict on his lungs so terribly that the organs seem to be squeezing through the bones, pressing on all the surrounding tissue. His own body suffocating him, the betrayal shouldn’t be so much of a surprise. Tim pulls out of Jason’s grasp, or rather— Jason lets him.
His body hasn’t quite caught up with his mind, still caught in the whirlwind of his rapidly shifting headspace. The growing headache is no surprise, just another thing that he ought to be accustomed to by now. Tim blinks through the pain, a familiar habit, and scooches away from the caregivers. Though the onesie does not construct his movement, he’s hyperaware that his crawling shows off the puff of his diaper. Tim will never convince his brothers that he’s big if he continues to appear so utterly infantile.
“Nuh uh,” he finally rasps, voice rusty from disuse. “No, no, no.” Tim is not begging yet but he will be if they don’t put down that bottle soon. He doesn’t need the anti-suppressants anymore. His body isn’t nearly as agonized and exhausted as it was when Jason had initially found him, so there’s no reason for the lack of energy he has now. Depending on adrenaline can only get him so far but it’s all he has to give. It has to be enough to get him to a phone. One call and his dad can make it all better. Just two little pills and this can be over. No more bottles, no more diapers, no more snuggles, or forehead kisses, or hugs, or, or—
“Timmy, can you follow my breathing? Like this, in…” He’s hardly registering Jason’s crooning over the sound of his own blubbering cries. Tim knows he mustn’t look very big right now, but he is, and he needs to show them. He’s not actually sure how long it’s been since Jason first discovered his classification but it must have been long enough for the bruises on his arms to mostly heal because he’s not in bandages anymore. If he pulled up his sleeves now he’d still be able to see the faint teeth marks from his previous chomps. He wonders how many bites he can get in before intervention.
Jason must be thinking the same thing because he moves closer, much more fluidly than Tim is currently capable of, and takes hold of both of his hands. “Sweetheart,” he starts, voice so soft, “It must be really scary for your headspace to change so quickly. You’re doing such a good job, my brave boy.”
Tim has to blink heavily to keep the soothing lull of his voice from making him slip. He’s barely getting a grasp on his big headspace and in just a couple sentences Jason is threatening to send him back down. All fuzz and static and silence. Tim’s so sick of waiting to speak when spoken to, he doesn’t want his voice to be taken away again. Maybe littlespace wouldn’t be so agonizing if he’d still be capable of talking properly.
He yanks at Jason’s grasp, fruitlessly trying to make him let go. “No,” he whines, “No, stawp- stop, no.” It takes an embarrassing amount of time for him to find the words, “‘M big, Jason,” he whimpers, his consonants coming out all slurred, “‘M big. Lemme go, let go!”
And he does. He’s careful that Tim doesn’t fall backwards, but he actually releases him. As soon as the caregiver loosens his grasp, Tim is crawling to the other side of the room. The only exit is past where Dick and Jason are still watching him, but at least when he’s pressed against the wall he has more room to think. He’s finally getting some actual words out. Anything is better than the pathetic baby gurgles he was using to ‘communicate’ earlier.
Though he expects his brothers to close in on him, force the drug-ruined milk down his throat, they stay where they are.
Tim entertains the idea of banging his head against the wall if only so the sudden jolt of pain will help keep his headspace at bay, but that will only guarantee more closely monitoring from the rest of the family. What he needs is enough alone time to be able to find his phone and call his dad, and he won’t get any of that if they fear that he’s a risk to himself. So Tim needs to stay big without biting or otherwise hurting himself. It’s a nearly insurmountable feat without the help of his suppressants, but Tim is nothing if not tenacious.
He scrubs the tears from his face more gingerly than he wants to, needing to begin proving that he’s not a danger to himself.
“‘M big,” he insists, because they’re both staring at him and that can’t be a good sign.
“Yeah?” Jason says. There’s something to his voice that Tim can’t decipher but Dick must be able to because he moves closer. They both remain out of touching distance, but Tim recognizes the patterns. They’re entrapping him, ensuring that he can’t escape without their say so. Tim won’t be able to toddle away quick enough when he’s weighed down by the thick diaper, so the only way out of this is to convince them to give him alone time. A seemingly impossible feat when both caregivers are looking at him like he might drop any second.
“How’re ya feeling?” Jason asks when Tim does nothing but sniffle pitifully. “Are you in any pain?”
Nothing worth noting. Even with the static cleared away, he still has to actively remember how to make the sounds he needs to communicate. “No pain,” he says first, because if they think he’s healthy then they’ll be more likely to let him go. He barely kept himself from saying no owies, but it’s easier to mimic Jason than come up with his own words. Tim is desperately trying to think of an excuse that will allow him some privacy, and somehow the thing that comes out is, “Gotta go potty.”
“Okay,” Jason says, like it’s not the most mortifying reasoning Tim could have given. “Do you need help?”
This is his chance. “Nuh uh, can do it.” He’s wracking his brain for the word, his memory still foggy despite the way his vision has sharpened. “Needa, pwi- privacy, please. I can do it.”
His brothers exchange a glance, successfully making his stomach church sickeningly. “There’s no shame in needing a bit of help,” Jason says, and Tim can’t help his outburst.
“No! Can- I can do it. I been…” Tim trails off, trying to think of the right excuse. “Need ‘lone time, please.” It’s as if his body is incapable of sounding anything less than infantile. He continues pushing the words out, despite the reddening of his cheeks, “Needa pro-cess. Not been able ta think, ‘n need a minute. Please,” he tacks on, lamely and more than a little desperate.
It’s Dick who speaks up this time, “We aren’t trying to suffocate you. We just want to keep you safe.”
“But ‘m big,” he whines, doing absolutely nothing to prove it. “Just needa potty, please,” he draws out the word. He squirms, realizing belatedly that he actually does have to go. It was supposed to be an easy lie but it’s soon going to turn out a horrifying display of littleness if they don’t let him go.
Dick leans towards Jason, speaking low enough that Tim has to strain to hear. “Dad and I cleared anything dangerous out of his room. You can wait outside the door for him.”
Jason takes a very slow breath, gathering himself, before he decides, “Okay. Tim, I’ll give you five minutes to go potty and take a breather.” Tim resists the urge to ask for more time, knowing that it must be grating on the caregiver’s instincts to have him out of his sight for even that long. Jason gets up and approaches him, reaching out a hand before remembering himself, “Do you need help up?”
Tim shakes his head, needing to focus on getting his feet under him. He braces a hand against the wall, refusing to lean on the caregiver even when his knees threaten to buckle. It’s almost unfathomable to believe that he’s losing the ability to walk in the time passed since Jason first found him. Though Tim doesn’t know how many days have actually passed, he thinks he remembers most of it. The memories are all soft around the edges, with the bleary sort of film over it like a dream he’s trying to recall. Tim remembers the bottle feeds and the snuggles, but the memories feel more distant than just a day or so ago.
Tim manages to get on his feet all his own, though taking a step is a whole other challenge. Jason’s hands hover without touching, ready to catch him if he falls. Despite the wobble of his legs, Tim manages to shuffle forward, feeling nothing more than the little baby they all see him as. He can suck it up, swallow down the humiliation, so long as Jason still gives him five minutes alone.
Dick does not follow them down the hall, allowing Tim to leave one caregiver and the stupid bottle behind. It’s not until they get to the stairs that Tim realizes that the mortification is inevitable. He will not be able to climb these stairs on his own two feet. Staring at the foreboding flight, the only way he can imagine being able to climb it is on his hands and knees. Embarrassingly, Tim doesn’t think that crawling is any better than choking down his pride and asking Jason for help. At least it’ll be quicker if Jason just carries him.
So he turns towards his big brother, cheeks stained red, and mumbles, “Help, please.”
“Of course, baby,” Jason breathes out, immediately leaning down and scooping him into his arms. Tim can’t deny the way his body instinctively relaxes into his hold. He knows he shouldn’t, that it’ll only make it that much harder to stay big when he’s upstairs, but he leans his head on Jason’s shoulder. His tummy suddenly feels a whole lot less yucky feeling as he’s finally able to take a deep breath.
When they get to the top of the stairs, Jason begins to put him down and Timmy clings with a helpless whine before he catches himself. Just when Jason is about to readjust his hold on him, he wriggles to be put down. He won’t be able to call his daddy if he stays cradled in the caregivers arms.
Though he hesitates, Jason does settle him on his feet. With a hand on his back, he guides him forward. Tim refuses to lean into the touch this time, biting the inside of his cheek since it’s one of the only ways he can force clarity without being scolded for it.
There’s stark relief to be found when they enter Tim’s bedroom and there’s no little supplies to be found. He was aware that the whole family had banded together to build him a nursery, separate from his bedroom, but part of him expected to see some evidence of his headspace left in their wake. There’s not even a mess, despite the disaster he had left when he initially dropped.
The hand shifts from his back to his shoulder as Jason leans down to face him head on, “Darlin’, you have five minutes. I’ll be just outside the door. If you need any help just call for me and I’ll be right there.”
Tim bites harsher into his cheek to keep from asking for more time, and nods instead.
Jason even allows him to close the door and he risks locking it, granting him a tangible amount of privacy. Though the need to go potty is more prevalent now, he can hold it. He needs to make the most of his time and pray that his phone is still somewhere in the room.
It takes longer than he had hoped, but Tim finds his phone sitting in his nightstand drawer. He can’t recall if he’s the one who placed it there or not but it’s nearly out of battery. Without the time to charge it, he goes to hide in the bathroom. It’s not that he could successfully lock Jason out, but at least with another door in between it’ll be harder for the caregiver to eavesdrop.
Not allowing hesitation, he plops down onto the floor, ignoring the way the padding on his bottom braced his fall, and calls his dad.
It rings enough times that he fears he won’t pick up at all, before he hears his dad bark out, “What do you want?”
Tears well up immediately, stupidly and needlessly, “Dadd-” he barely cuts himself off from saying Daddy, and though some part of him knows that’s not right, he’s not, it’s mortifying nonetheless. “Dad, ‘m so sorry. I didn’ mean for anyone ta find out. I- I don’ have da pills anymore.” He braces himself for the hurricane he knows to come, unable to keep his voice from coming out all babyish and small.
“You useless fucking piece of shit,” his Dad growls out, just as cruel as Tim deserves. “How dare you ruin everything we’ve built just because you can’t stop blubbering like a goddamn infant.”
Tim can’t help the sob that bursts out of him, fruitlessly hoping that his Dad won’t hear him whimpering through the phone. “I- I’ll fix it, please. I just need more susp- supwes- sup-press-ants, please, and I make it better.” He hates his tongue for rounding out all his vowels, making it unmissable how puny he is. He hates his brain for being unable to find the right words to beg. Tim hates his dynamic for ruining any chance of his daddy’s gentleness. “I- I’ll work, I’ll get a job ‘n pay you back, I-”
His dad doesn’t give him the chance to finish. He’s lucky that he managed to stammer out as much as he had before getting interrupted, “They fucking arrested your Mother and I! We only got out on bail, and where were you?” Being strapped into a diaper and forced to take meds in complete opposition to everything his parents ever expected of him. “Playing house with the Waynes?!” He snaps, loud enough that it hurts Timmy’s ears. “Where the hell did you get the audacity to ask for more after you destroyed our lives?! You’re lucky your Mother struggled to conceive or we would have replaced your worthless ass the second you presented as a fucking little,” he spits the word out like the vile indictment that it is.
“‘M sorry, Daddy, ‘m so sorry,” he wails, tears blurring his vision so terribly that he can’t see more than smeared colors.
“Shut the fuck up!” His dad shouts, the fright of it making Timmy wet his diaper, ruining that too. “Your apologies are worthless when this is all your fault,” he seethes, earning another wailing cry out of Timmy. “We’re done, Timothy. If the courts didn’t already decide we are ‘unfit’ to be your guardians then we would have disowned you anyway. You better not come anywhere near your Mother and I or the only thing you’re going to get is a bruised ass.”
Timmy can’t help the heaving sobs. He’s bawling so terribly that he’s worried he’s gonna spit up all over himself. “‘M sorry, Daddy, ‘immy so sorry,” he whimpers, but there’s no response this time. Timmy pulls the phone from his ear to find that his daddy hung up on him. He dials the number again, desperate for his forgiveness, for his help, for his meds, but he’s immediately taken to voicemail. His daddy is ignoring him.
Timmy wails, choking on his own spittle.
“Baby? Are you okay? I’m gonna come in if you need help,” Jason calls out in a terrifying recreation of just the other day. This time, it won’t end in cuddles and unrightful affection, not after the call he just had. Jason will never forgive him for asking for suppressants after he wasted so much time trying to ease him through the withdrawals.
He looks through his tear-blurry eyes to his phone and on his home screen he sees the date displayed. It’s been four days since Jason first found him surrounded by his own throw up and peepee. It’s been four days since he last had the coherency to properly comprehend the shattered pieces of the life he once had. It only took a fraction of that time to demolish any chance he had of having any sense of normalcy again.
Timmy can’t do it. His daddy doesn’t want him anymore. He hears Jason call through the door again and he knows that the caregiver will give up on him too once he realizes what Timmy did. He’s such a bad boy, and now both of his families are going to abandon him. He just doesn’t know how it didn’t happen earlier.
If this is the last few moments Timmy will have in the Manor, he wants to spend it with his kitty. His last family member left.
It takes a few tries but he manages to get the bathroom door back open. His knees wobble as he crawls forward, threatening to send him face first into the floor. He’s so close, his precious stuffed animal is hidden just under the bed. Not a clever hiding spot but it’s the only place he could keep it that’s easy for Timmy to access no matter how itty bitty he is.
He hears the click of the bedroom door just as he wiggles underneath the bed frame. He snatches his kitty stuffie immediately, sobbing into the soft fur as Jason approaches. Timmy’s keens are hardly muffled by his plushie, giving away his location right away. All Jason has to do is grab him and it’s over. Timmy is officially an unwanted little, a death sentence for the worst dynamic in the world. He can only hope that he’ll be sent to a legitimate facility, one that won’t sell him off to the highest bidder. Either way, he is helpless to his fate.