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Tim takes a long sip of his diet zesti cola, the soda cold enough to make a small tremor wrack through his body. He ignores the chill, relishing in the way the carbonation tricks his stomach into feeling more full than it is. There’s only a few sips left so he polishes off the can, adding it to the overly full recycling bin in the corner of his bedroom. He’ll have to take the bin out soon, as well as the garbage, before Alfred sees. He’s fully aware that he could take it out now, but it’s too close to dinner time for his liking.
Despite having taken out the garbage dozens, if not hundreds of times in his life, his anxiety still flares at the thought of touching the trash can. While wearing disposable gloves would alleviate the inherent ickiness of taking out the garbage, he’s not exactly eager for the teasing he knows will come if one of his brothers sees him. It’s the whole family over for supper tonight, Alfred somehow having convinced both Jason and Dick to stay for the evening. Tim’s relationship has undoubtedly gotten better with all three of his siblings, but that doesn’t mean that he wants to leave himself open to such easy teasing. He doesn’t think they’d be malicious, but it’s just one of those things that he has too-thin skin about.
Tim likes to think that he can take most jokes as he dishes them out, but anything even remotely relating to his food intake is too sensitive a topic. It’s a prodding that never fails to reach those soft spots inside him, ever leaving him bare and vulnerable.
So Tim will take out the trash and the recycling later, when there’s no one around to judge him for being unrightfully grossed out by it. It will never fail to make frustration burn through his veins like he just took a shot of molten metal, ready to cool and solidify— weigh him down, the way that he can handle patrol and everything accompanying it but he can’t deal with simple household tasks. Tim would rather press his hands down onto a bleeding wound to keep a civilian from losing too much blood than to do the dishes. Both are messy and make him want to wash his hands until the skin peels off, but one feels a whole lot more worth it than the other.
Opening his mini fridge reveals that he only has one diet zesti cola left. He knows for a fact that there’s no more in the kitchen either, Alfred already on his ass about his caffeine consumption, so if he wants more he’ll have to go out and buy another case himself. Frustratingly, there is no way that he’ll be allowed to leave the house now, not when Alfred is likely almost done preparing dinner. He resists the urge to say fuck it and just drink the can now, knowing how mad he’ll be with himself if supper goes as poorly as he fears and he has nothing else safe to fill his stomach after.
As ironic as it is, the euphoria of being empty is inconsistent at best. There are some days that feeling hollow and light fills him with a confidence otherwise foreign to him, but the rest of the time it just hurts. There is no pleasant buzz of an empty stomach today, just the echoing ache of hunger.
Tim should have asked Alfred what the menu was for tonight. Then at least he would be able to mentally prepare, but as it is the surprise only further amplifies his increasing anxiety. It’s so fucking stupid. It’s a family dinner, something he spent his entire childhood yearning for, and now that it’s finally within his grasp he just wants to hide away like an absolute baby. He has to bite back the urge to crawl into his bed and curl up under the blanket like he’s still that pitiful little boy his parents couldn’t stand being around. If they could barely tolerate being in the same house as him, there was no way they’d have been able to handle sitting through a whole meal with him.
As pathetic as he tends to be, a character trait he fears is ingrained into his genetics, he will not allow himself to hide away. Tim can handle a family meal. He’s done it before multiple times, there’s no reason why tonight needs to be any different. He just has to ignore the way his sweater itches at his skin no matter how he adjusts it, and the way his leggings are too tight but his sweatpants he’d worn before had been too loose. A change in wardrobe is not a terrible plan, at least giving him something to do with his restless anxiety. He stands up slowly, minimizing the risk of losing a few seconds to dizzy darkness, and heads to his closet.
Tim runs his hand over his abundant selection of sweaters, attempting to find the article of clothing least likely to make him want to tear his skin off. His closet is organized by how sensory friendly the clothing is, spanning from when he’s most sensitive to when he’s most brave.
Tim does not feel very brave today.
He picks his second softest sweater, worried that if he picks the most soft one that he’ll accidentally drip food on it during supper. Then it’ll be contaminated and he’ll have to wash it. Even though he has an overflowing basket of laundry to do, he knows that if he touches any of that right now that he’ll burst into tears.
Ripping off his current shirt does little to soothe the irritation seeming to bloom across his entire body, as if he took a bath in itching powder. It’s dramatic, he’s fully aware, but that knowledge does nothing to alleviate the pain nor calm his traitorous mind. Putting on the new sweater helps a bit. The softness is easy against his sensitive skin, a relief in itself. He debates changing his pants but he knows there are no other clean pairs that’ll be any gentler on his body.
Socks are also a no go. Despite the constant chill afflicting him, he knows that if the seam of his socks shift to the wrong spot he’ll be unable to stop himself from ripping them off right there at the dining room table, and he’s not eager for humiliating himself like that. Maybe most of his family wouldn’t care, but Alfred would. It would be awfully unbecoming of a Wayne son to be messing with his clothes during supper, so he ignores how cold he is and leaves the socks in the drawer.
He’s only just sat back down on his bed, staring at the mini fridge Bruce bought for him, when there’s a firm knock at the door. “Yeah?” Tim calls out, forcing himself back up, blinking through the wave of dizziness.
“Master Timothy, supper is ready. Please wash up and come accompany your brothers downstairs.” Alfred is not mean, but his voice is firm. It is clear that he will not be accepting any excuses.
So Tim nods, hating the way his brain seems to knock against the inside of his skull, and says, “Okay. I’ll be down in a minute.” He does not miss the way Alfred eyes the overfilled garbage can. The butler doesn’t say anything about it, but Tim knows.
Alfred closes the door behind him, granting Tim a second to force a deep breath. Not allowing dawdling, he goes to the attached bathroom to wash his hands. Best he does it here where no one can question the ferocity he scrubs at his skin with. Plus, there isn’t a brush to wash under his nails downstairs and if Alfred serves bread, as he often does, then he’ll need freshly cleaned hands to touch it with. He doesn’t understand how Jason can pick up food and eat it while having dirt under his nails, contaminating every bite he takes.
Once his hands are cleaned and thoroughly dried, careful not to have gotten his sleeves damp, he begins making his way downstairs. He briefly considers grabbing a fidget from his nightstand but he’s plenty aware of Alfred’s opinions of such impropriety.
The rest of his family is already at the table, revealing that Tim did in fact waste their time by making them wait. He can hardly force enough air through his throat to say hello, let alone apologize, when he sees the meal laid out before them. Alfred went all out; a pasta dish, breadsticks, loaded baked potatoes, salad, and a bowl of mixed berries. Even for six people it’s so much. His stomach clenches painfully just at the sight of such an abundance. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to even try everything let alone eat a proper serving.
With Damian claiming the spot beside Dick, and Bruce and Alfred at respective heads of the table, the only chair left is next to Jason. He sits down, forcing his feet to remain still despite the way his knee threatens to bounce nervously. As much as Tim would have preferred to sit closer to Bruce than to Alfred, knowing his Dad would have been gentler about Tim’s portion sizes, he can’t dare make a fuss.
So long as he stays quiet, no one should pay too much attention to what he eats.
Dick is already jabbering away about something that happened on a recent patrol, keeping the air light as everyone begins filling their plates. Alfred allows everyone to do their own servings, granting Tim the opportunity to decide how much he thinks he can bear attempting to consume.
There is no meat, which is considerate of Damian but makes it harder to justify the low protein intake versus all of the carbs. He does not understand how Alfred expects them to be energized for patrol with how heavy their meal is. He’ll have to avoid the potatoes and the bread. The pasta is nonnegotiable as it is clearly the main dish. It has a pesto sauce on it, a double edged sword. While it tastes better than most red sauces he has tried, it’s so much higher in calories. Tim doesn’t know how much flavor is worth the calories, though he’s unsure if he would eat it at all if it were a gross red sauce instead. A give and take that Tim can never win.
Jason takes a generous scoop of everything, while Damian doesn’t take any bread, and Dick doesn’t take any berries, so Tim will not be alone when he avoids a specific side dish.
He looks at everyone’s plates, making sure that he does not have too much empty space in comparison. Tim must do a decent enough job because Alfred does not lean over to add any additional helpings to his plate.
He downs an entire cup of water before even considering trying his dinner. He refills the glass.
Tim knows that it’ll be suspicious to not give his two cents to Dick’s boisterous tales, but he’s so focused on choking down small bites of pasta to think of anything worthwhile to say. It’s better he stays quiet than humiliate himself with his own stupidity anyway.
The salad takes up the majority of his plate, touching the pasta when he doesn’t have enough room to keep it separated from both the lettuce and the berries. Tim would rather eat pesto contaminated salad than for it to touch raspberries and blackberries. It’s hard to tell just from looking at them which berries will feel nice in his mouth or will be too squishy, but he can’t dare touch them with his hands. Alfred has scolded him for less.
If Tim had to pick the one thing he missed most about his life before Bruce adopted him, it would be eating alone. There was no one around to judge him for his pickiness or comment on his serving sizes. He could float without any worry of someone noticing.
He finishes off another cup of water and promptly refills it.
He misses the emptiness even as his body urges him to eat more and more, to scarf down the entire plateful. His body is hungry but every bite is a fight to bring up to his lips, to chew, to swallow. More than pathetic, he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to get through at least a half hour of this as everyone else chats so easily, eating like it’s nothing.
“I still can’t believe the size of that cat. You would have thought with how round it was that it woulda made it easier to catch but no,” Dick laughs, even earning a smile out of Damian in the process.
Tim has absolutely no idea what they’re talking about, but all the laughter makes it a bit easier to choke down another bite of pasta. As much as he wants to solely eat salad and the least mushy looking berries, he knows Alfred would never let him get away with that.
Tim actually does enjoy the taste of the pasta, but he hates the heaviness after too much to make it worth it. He takes sips of water between every bite.
“It is obviously a sign,” Damian says, with that particular cadence indicating he’s trying to be humourous. “The cat was informing you that it is your turn to get a companion.”
Jason pipes up around a mouthful of bread, “Yeah! Dami’s got a whole-ass cow, your turn to get a pet.”
Dick’s smile is so bright that Tim can’t help but wonder if it makes his cheeks ache. He knows that if he grinned for so long that he’d have at least a bit of pain with it. “Y’know, I actually have been thinking about getting a dog. But I don’t wanna go to a breeder or anything, I want it to happen naturally.”
“Oh like how Dad nabbed us,” Jason grins over at Bruce, bursting into a loud cackle at the look he’s given in return.
Damian is unperturbed. “I fear this is a common trait amongst our family.”
The jovial conversation eases the clench of his ribs enough to give Tim the bravery to grab a breadstick. Alfred always bakes it fresh and despite how completely not worth it the carbs and the calories are, he knows he’ll work it off on patrol. Besides, with the way Bruce keeps eyeing his plate this will help ease any needless worries he may have.
Tim takes a bite and his body immediately rejects the texture. Tim doesn’t actually know the last time he had one of Alfred’s breadsticks but he didn’t remember it being like this. He’ll have to check his food logs later, when this is all over. He puts the bread down, intending to take another large gulp of water, when he realizes he’s already overfull. He looks down at the plate, horrified with himself for being okay with eating all of that, even for a moment.
Subtly lowering a hand, Tim presses against his stomach and discovers just how bloated he is already. He’s going to look so ugly in his suit now.
He’ll never be able to patrol like this. He’s overfull and it hurts. It’s hurting already, and it’s only going to get worse. He shouldn’t have eaten that bread. Years of playing this sick little game and he still hasn’t figured it out. He has to fix it. Tim can not go out on patrol looking like he’s swallowed a cantaloupe whole.
Everyone else is still chatting away, completely unaware of his dilemma. He can’t comprehend how they’re all so light and airy after eating platefuls of food. Tim would rather be hungry than to feel this agonizing weight in his stomach. He knows how to fix it. Tim is fully aware of all of the health risks and complications that can happen because of purging, but it’s the only way to make it better. He hates throwing up, he hates it, but he hates how heavy his belly is even more.
“‘M sorry, gotta go to the bathroom,” he mumbles, standing up before anyone can protest.
Jason laughs, like this is just another joke, “Yeah, I’m not surprised after all that water you chugged. I dunno if you’re dehydrated or the most hydrated person here.”
Tim doesn’t have a response, he just has to go.
No one stops him, not that they ever have. Even so, he waits until he’s nearly at the staircase before he starts running. He knows that logically he has about a half hour until it makes a difference, but his brain is urging him to go, go now, get it out, make it better.
Tim locks his bedroom door as well as his bathroom door, knowing that won’t stop any of his family members should they come check on him, but at least it will give him some warning first. He pulls off his soft sweater, not wanting to ruin it with the backsplash. If he gets any droplets of vomit on his skin then he’ll have to shower but that’s a problem for after.
He grabs his second toothbrush, meant just for this. He’s heard the stories before, of people choking on a toothbrush, or other instrument meant to induce vomiting, and passing away when they can’t get it out on time. It seems to usually happen when the person vomits until they pass out, body giving out. Tim isn’t at that point yet. Besides, it’s easier to disinfect a toothbrush than it is his hands. He can’t imagine sticking his fingers into his mouth, even if he scrubbed them raw first.
Those worries run in the back of his mind, but the static is nowhere near as intense as the swollen weight of his stomach. It doesn’t matter what happens to his throat, his teeth, his body, so long as he’s empty again.
His knees are calloused.
Pulling up the toilet seat, he wishes he had cleaned it more recently. He tries not to make it a habit of purging, not wanting his dentist to out him to Bruce at his next cleaning, but sometimes it’s the only way. Not for the first time, he is grateful for his still-sensitive gag reflex. It only takes a few presses on the tongue for the first bout of vomit to come up. The water splashes him immediately, ensuring he’ll have to shower after. He hates himself for the contamination.
Using one hand to gag himself again, and the other to grab toilet paper to wipe up the mess as it comes, he vomits again. It burns coming out, forcing tears out of his eyes no matter how many times he’s done this. It’s so stupid, but he is helpless to his own vulnerability.
Flushing as he goes helps with the smell.
Another bout and he knows he’s still not empty. He pushes the toothbrush in further, hating the way it scrapes the back of his mouth. Spatting into the toilet bowl just makes more tears spill out. He keeps going until he has nothing but bile left to give.
He sits back on his heels, panting, beyond exhausted. With one last flush, he reaches for the air freshener before the stench could make him sick again. Bile never fails to burn, something his body refuses to get accustomed to. Washing his hands helps lessen a bit of the static, as does cleaning the toothbrush. The air freshener does little to lessen the horrid smell, but that’s something only time will fix. At least his fragrant body wash should help cleanse the residual stench off of him. He doesn’t know what excuse he should give if someone knew to ask.
He knows better than to brush his teeth right after purging, not wanting to add any unnecessary damage to his teeth, so he settles for rinsing with watered down mouth wash instead.
Pulling off his clothes, he kicks them towards the door, away from the toilet. It won’t do much to help with the contamination but at least it makes his mind less loud.
The water burns just shy of turning his skin an angry red. There’s this exfoliating sugar scrub he was gifted that when mixed with his body wash does wonders to help him feel clean. Tim is fully aware that there is a stark difference between what is factually clean and what his mind says is clean, but he’s finally found a solution. Scrubbing the top layer of his skin off, starting anew, never fails to release some of the tension from his shoulders.
Tim scrubs and he scrubs until not even his stupid brain can argue that he’s still dirty.
He exits the shower even colder than he was before. Tim towels off quickly, worried to find out just how long he’s been away from the table. He only hopes that Alfred won’t try to make him continue eating once he comes back to the dining room table.
Thankfully he’s able to put the sweater back on easily, but he has to fight against himself to put his underwear and pants back on after they’d been on the floor. He really needs to do laundry.
He opens the bathroom door, just to freeze in his tracks. Sitting right there on his bed is Bruce. Waiting for him.
Tim doesn’t get the chance to lock himself back into the bathroom before Bruce croons, “I’m not angry with you.” If Tim had a thousand guesses on what Bruce would have said, he’d never have gotten it right. “I just want to help you.”
He knows. Tim shouldn’t even be surprised. It was only a matter of time before the world's greatest detective figured out his secret. It’s not like Tim has been the most clever, too desperate to do what he needs to do to be exceptionally smart about it. Tim’s bones are collapsing in on themselves, suppressing his organs, more pressure. Too much weight. He needs to purge again. But Bruce is right there. He can’t vomit in front of him. He can’t be that cruel. He won’t.
But he has to. He has to make it better and he can’t because Bruce is here and he’s not supposed to be. Bruce never showed up before, even that time that he passed out in the shower and woke up to freezing water pouring down on him, or when he coughed up blood into the toilet. Bruce wasn’t ever supposed to find out.
“I am not going to punish you,” his Dad says when Tim does nothing but stare at him, teary eyed and trembling. Tim thought he had cried himself out in the bathroom but god was he wrong. “Sweetheart, how do I help support you?”
That’s not how this is supposed to go. Tim has done nothing deserving of this gentleness. He’s a liability, forcing his body to run at minimal fuel. Bruce has to be furious, insisting that he’s benched, that he won’t be allowed to help anyone until he helps himself. He’s supposed to be yelling, shouting at him for being such a fucking idiot. Ruining his body like he has the right to.
Yet instead, he sits there openly, body language insisting not a threat. Tim doesn’t understand. He can’t understand. He wasted his entire childhood waiting for his parents to notice the uneaten groceries. For them to point out him cutting up his food without ever taking a bite. He waited and he waited and they fucking died without ever asking him if he was okay.
Now Bruce is here, ready and willing to help, and Tim is cemented to the floor.
Bruce finally stands, and though the man has never hit him, Tim flinches all the same. “My darling boy, can I hug you?”
A sob bursts out of him in response, overwhelmed by the unrightful generosity being sent his way. Tim knows that he’s utterly unworthy of the comfort, but he is a greedy thing. Tears spilling over, he nods his head. Bruce moves forward slowly, telegraphing all of his movements, giving him the chance to back away if he wants. But Tim is so fucking selfish and if he truly will not be punished then he’ll lean into the comfort with both hands.
He has never been held after throwing up before. Bruce wraps him up in his arms like he’s worthy of it. As if he could still be something precious, after everything he’s done. They stand there, his Dad taking on his weight when Tim practically collapses against him. Bruce rocks him back and forth in his arms, a to and fro so gentle that it doesn’t irritate his upset stomach nor his headache.
“I’ve got you,” his Dad murmurs. “I’m here, Tim. My sweet boy, I’m here. I’ll help you, in whatever capacity that may be. I’m sorry you’ve had to face this alone for so long.”
The sobs escape uncontrollably, bursting out of him so harshly that they ache against his raw throat. Tim pillows against his chest, failing to muffle his bawling against Bruce’s soft shirt. They stand there awhile, his Dad continuing to whisper gentle reassurances while Tim cries into his chest. Eventually, his legs are quaking too terribly to keep him upright so Bruce leads him over to the bed. Tim curls into his hold right away, needy for it.
He ignores the knowledge that because his pants are contaminated that he is now spreading that plague to Bruce by contact. He’s too selfish to step away now.
With a kiss pressed to the side of his head, Bruce continues, “We’ll figure this out, whatever it takes. I’m not going to give up on you, darling.” Some sick part of Tim lights up in irritation, hating himself for succumbing so easily, but mostly he’s relieved. He didn’t realize how terrified he was of Bruce’s ire until it turned out to be a somewhat baseless fear. “I’ll be with you every step of the process. You deserve a better quality of life.”
Something inside him falls apart at that. All that’s left are jagged pieces, threatening to cut away at the underside of his skin. Tim doesn’t know who he is outside of all of his trauma and struggles, he is a mess of responses, but he doesn’t want to be. This is all he’s ever known, but maybe Bruce could teach him something different. He’s so fucking scared, but he’s even more afraid of pulling away from his Dad’s embrace.
He doesn’t know what his life could even look like outside of numbers and food and emptiness, but it’s a bit easier to breathe wrapped up in Bruce’s arms. Maybe that’s enough for now. His throat aches too much to say anything in return, whether it be to apologize or thank him, but Bruce doesn’t lose patience. He continues to rock him, softly enough it doesn’t irritate the ever-present headache. Tim leans into the warm touch, relishing in the coziness of his Dad’s shirt against his cheek. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be allowed to be held, but until he’s put down he’ll soak in every second of it.