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Tim was aware of very few things in the present, grasping for his senses like a sailor tossed askew the wreckage of his ship in the tumultuous waves of an indiscriminate ocean. The world surrounding him is unsure, in the literal sense, following the quake and subsequent abandonment of Gotham's remaining infrastructure, but also in his perception of the things around him. Truths are something he tries to cling to as reminders of Who, What, Where, and When.
Who: He is currently Robin. No Man's Land is no place for Tim Drake— he hasn't even called his dad in weeks (which was definitely gonna bite him in the ass later).
What (is going on): He was sent to find the stash of goods and medicine supplies for Batman. There was heavy competition for the loot, and he suffered rat bites and a swim in the sewer water. Antibiotics had already been administered. An underground group of teenagers who seemed to find a certain novelty in the state of affairs "rescued" him and "aided" him in regaining control from Mr. Freeze and the Ratman (no relation to Batman). He had a fever, and it was a miracle that he made it to-
Where: Sidewalk above the sewer. He made it out. Job done.
When: No Man's Land day 200-and-something. As far as specifics... the days have been blurring together, but he thinks he remembers it being nighttime. Everything was- is dark, but then again, that could be the sewers.
But, no. He was above ground.
Far? Above ground.
Being carried, he realized as he turned into the stony coolness of the body holding him up.
This was Batman, who had plagued his fever dream earlier in a cruel disservice of his true nature. Tim tried to cling to this truth more than the others, tried to siphon the goodness he felt from being held and taken away, even if each step exasperated the dormant nausea that had been plaguing him in a dull sense ever since some time between his first and second fever dreams.
"Sorry," Tim murmured, and he wasn't sure if he was apologizing to the Batman who had expressed disapproval over his earlier actions, which endangered his former classmate or the one who was so kindly carrying him now, "they... they found me n' ice but I din' know." He wasn't sure what was compelling him to speak, especially with the soreness in his throat, only that he needed to explain... something. It was very important.
"You did a good job, Robin," Tim could feel the vibrations in Batman's chest as the praise warmed his cheeks. Or it was the fever hugging his face. Whatever it was, he could feel the warmth rising within his chest, swelling into something tangible.
The muddled haze of his mind didn't realize how tangible until a heave curled his body in on itself.
Within a fraction of a second, he was on his knees, shielded by Batman's cape as his stomach turned itself inside out on an already thoroughly abused slab of concrete. Tears sprang to his eyes from the strain and the woe of it all. He kept balance with his hands, distantly grateful for his gloves creating a barrier between his palms and whatever substances had graced the surface in the past few months. He was sure his puke was not the worst thing. Though on that thought, he had been submerged in the sewer only hours prior, so he hadn't a leg to stand on when it came to cleanliness. There was no respect for anything anymore; the streets were susceptible to piss and shit and blood and paint and truly anything in between. Which accounted for just about any nasty thing in the world.
A firm hand was between his shoulder blades, another one was holding him steady (contrary to the warmth, his body was shuddering and a freeze began to seep to the core of his bones). An unpleasant feeling filled him; his uniform was sticky and slightly damp, and the smell of sewage filled his nose, and bile lingered on his tongue, and everything was wrong, and he let as much be known by a low whine that came straight from his throat. It was immature, he knew he was better than to whine and groan, but he truly couldn't help it. He was allowed to act his age on rare occassion, he deserved it.
"We're almost to one of the caves. Can you make it a little further?" Batman asked, his voice low. The very small amount of spatial awareness Robin had left was aware of distant voices, potentially (and likely) foes.
Spitting as much of the taste from his mouth and choking a bit on his leaden tongue, Tim nodded.
"I 'lready took... antibitic," he mumbled, "cuz' the rats," he waggled his fingers, like the rats.
"You did everything right," Batman nodded firmly, scooping Tim back up, "close your eyes."
It wasn't hard for Tim to close his eyes, not when they were so heavy and when having them open exposed him to a dizzying blur of wreckage that churned his stomach and filled him with a fresh grief for the state of his home. As much as his father seemed to be already anchored in Keystone, Tim knew where his heart belonged. So, he listened to the slight rasp of oxygen filling Batman's lungs, the audible effect of a life in smog and filth coating his respiratory system, the rhythmic pounding of his heart and how he could almost strain to hear the hope and fear as it was pumped throughout his system.
It was safety, in Batman's arms.
He smelled the change in location before anything else. The hair-shriveling smell of the septic street became muted and masked by a mildewy earthen scent. A chill passed over him, though the room was warmer than the rest of Gotham only by a degree or two.
"You poor boy," a familiar voice tutted as he was lain atop a cot. Tactile hands went to work removing his cape, allowing breath to come in easier. It wasn't good breath, not with the sharp stench of sewer clinging to his fabrics, "let's get you cleaned up."
"Nn," he moved slightly to aid in the removal of his uniform, but his extremities weren't responding to the impulses his brain fired and he wasn't sure he wanted to move much anyhow, "tried... when I was..." or was that imagined? Tim wasn't quite sure anymore, not of anything.
He was lying down.
"Augh!" Something frozen touched his skin, dripping and wet and- Mr. Freeze! He was fighting Mr. Freeze, he was down on the floor, moments away from certain death or at least serious frostbite. He had to get up, had to fight.
He mustered all his strength to locate his hand and swing it.
Something wrapped around his wrist, holding it still. Desperate, Tim thrashed his legs-- horrified when he found them to be restrained as well. He was going to die. Alone, in the sewers, and he never did get those supplies for Batman who was looming in the corner, the ears of his cowl towering over him like the long shadows of dusk.
Tim squeezed his eyes and swallowed down the shame of failure, unable to justify himself to Batman, unable to admit he wasn't good enough for Gotham, or even just to be Robin.
"You're alright, Master Tim," the coldness spread from his forehead, a comforting temperature this time, and he found the sting of sewage no longer permeated his senses, "might I get you to swallow some water?"
And that didn't sound much like Mr. Freeze at all.
Something was pressed against his lips and he couldn't refuse, his throat seemed to accept the liquid on impulse, and he supposed his instincts knew what was best for him.
But then the cup was pulled away, and the next words were muddled and far-off and Tim knew the world was distant once again. He saw his mom this time, though he couldn't quite make out her face. Her features seemed to blur and blend, and her skin was red with sun exposure.
He stepped towards her, something resembling how he remembered her voice sounded out, echoing against the nonexistent walls of this imagined world.
"You didn't..." she warbled, her cheeks puffing, "...save me..."
Her skin began blistering.
“And now you lie!” She accused sharply, “you shun your father and lie!”
"Mom!" He ran towards her body as it began to boil and bloat, as poison and fire overcame her and mutilated her skin, melting it to the ground in big globs of gore. He grabbed her, only for her to turn to goo beneath his hands.
Suddenly, he was upright, retching into a bucket as someone rubbed his back. He clung to the plastic bin, almost scared of it melting away like his mom, of the poison that had claimed her life to affect inanimate objects to the same extreme. He never saw his mom's body after she died, and his imagination was a wild thing.
"Breathe, my boy," Alfred's worried voice instructed, his aged hands directing Tim's breath as they ran along his back. Tim was shuddering over the rim of the bucket, mouth ajar and drool hanging from his mouth. Extreme heat and unbearable cold ran down his body in a war with each other, his organs nothing more than a battlezone for something beyond him.
The bucket was coaxed from his hands and he was guided back down on the cot.
Time passed in an unmarkable manner.
It could have been minutes or days until his ears picked up conversation, hushed and whispered-- not intended for his ears.
"...medicine."
"I understand, but he's not the only one. We're in a dire shortage, and if he can't keep it down, then we can't afford to waste it on him."
"If he can't keep it down, he dies."
Silence stretched on after that, and Tim could feel the burn of eyes on him.
"One more dose."
The response wasn't audible, but the next thing he remembered was a sleeve of stale crackers being placed in his hands.
"Just a few, then we'll get you your next round of medicine."
And Tim knew he had to keep it down, no matter how much his stomach wanted to reject it. He had a priviledge to be given this sort of medical treatment; he wouldn't allow bacteria to make a waste of anything more.
So he swallowed the crackers.
Then he swallowed the pills.
And he kept them down.
He saw his old school next, not any specific one but an amalgamation of everywhere he had ever been educated. Even bits of the old cave made their way into his new world. But school never really stressed him out, even so was tentative as he walked the figmented halls.
"Is that you?" Someone asked him, Tim followed their fingers to a poster on the wall. It was a photo of Robin and a photo of Tim side by side, same angle, same expression. Undeniably the same person.
Tim gawked.
Murmers filled the halls.
Everyone knew.
His identity was compromised, the world knew Tim Drake was Robin.
A firm hand grasped his wrist and pulled him aside. A darkness loomed over him, shapeless and lean with significant bulk in his shoulders.
A paralyzing fear welled up within Tim, growing into its own parasitic monster that feasted upon all the goodness of his being.
“Hey look, it’s Bruce Wayne!”
But didn’t they know that was Batman? Or- of course. They used his identity as Robin to deduce Batman’s. It was all his fault. He should have… should have prevented it.
“Breathe, young lad,” he thinks he was moved onto a sheet of ice at some point, “yours and Master Bruce’s identities are safe, you’ve done well in your duty.”
Tim smacked his lips. He was dehydrated and disoriented— not yet fully sure this wasn’t another dream that teetered too close to reality.
“Master Dick seems to have caught his own sickness, if it helps to know your suffering is shared.”
“He got Blackgate?” Tim rasped, shocked at the state of his own voice. A glass of water was thrust into his hand, and he gratefully accepted it.
“Not too quickly, your stomach hasn’t been unsettled for a few days now but that’s not a blessing we should take lightly.”
“Wait- days?!” Tim exclaimed, blinking and quickly taking stock of the room for any evidence of the missed time.
“You’ve been out for a while, Master Tim,” Alfred stood up to wash his hands the best he could without running water, “we are incredibly fortunate your fever has gone down finally. As for Dick, he got through Blackgate.”
Tim groaned, pressing a hand against his head. If he were any judge he’d say the fever wasn’t fully gone yet, but the fact that he was cognitive was good enough.
“The stronghold you seized has helped dozens in the clinic,” Alfred assured, returning to the stool beside Tim’s cot, “a significant amount of bandages and antibiotics were recovered.”
Tim thought briefly of the conversation he overheard, though much of the memory had been corrupted from the intense circumstance of his mind.
“I sure hope no one else kept their apocalypse stash in the sewer,” Tim grumbled, feeling the weariness bloom within him once more.
“I’ll advise Master Bruce to send another person to claim it,” Alfred’s smile was audible in his voice, “you’ve done enough, rest more.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” and though Tim was distantly wary of the anxiety-laced dreams brought on by fever, he had no trouble drifting from a state of wakefulness. At least he was in better control of this time, he could probably stay awake if he wanted to.