Work Text:
Tim has decided that watching an apple oxidize is far more asinine than watching paint dry. He would much rather be sitting in the studio with Damian, observing the way he crafts his color palette and agonizes over every brush stroke than to sit here swallowing down his guilt with as minimal success as he did his snack. Tim stares at the sliced apple, knowing it will only get more brown from here, and he can’t help but think that he could have cut it himself.
It is an act of love, he knows, for Alfred to painstakingly prepare his every meal and snack, diligently following the food plan his new dietitian laid out for him, but that doesn’t make it any easier to choke down. He tried, he really did, he managed to eat two whole slices before he noticed the bruise marring the skin. It’s so pretentious to turn his nose at such a small imperfection, but now that he’s noticed, it’s all he can think about. The apple is not rotten, only the best produce ever entering Wayne Manor, but it’s brown and he won’t be able to chew it. His body will refuse, threatening to spew bile if he so much as tries.
So Tim sits and watches his own failure, doing nothing to stop it. Like a child, he is no longer allowed to leave the table without being dismissed. Not even Damian, the only actual kid in the family, has such limitations. He’s not even allowed to have his phone until afterwards, as if he will somehow forget the amount of food he just consumed and be unable to log it. Thankfully, Bruce is yet to try banning the app from his phone, knowing he’ll be able to out-hack him if need be.
The only bit of entertainment he’s found at this nearly empty table is that once he polishes off the one can of diet zesti cola he’s still permitted, he has learned how to manipulate the aluminum to make designs. He pinches and creases the metal to make diamonds across the can, the only somewhat productive thing he can do until Alfred comes back. It should be soon, they can only force him to sit for so long before he decides fuck it and gets up. Tim is only being so obedient because while Bruce has not outright threatened to bench him from patrol yet, he knows it’s only a matter of time. If Tim continues to fail his check-ins and goals then it’s only inevitable for him to lose the one thing that still brings him real joy.
Tim is getting better at his new little hobby, which while mildly impressive, if what Dick says is anything to go by, means that he’s finished the can before anyone’s come to get him. He doesn’t need a babysitter, it only makes it more difficult to eat if he has an audience, but simply sitting here means he can no longer keep his leg from shaking. His knee bounces hard enough to jostle the table, an impropriety that before all this shit went down, Alfred would have scolded him for.
Alfred has gotten gentler since his diagnosis. It’s not that Tim ever thought him to be mean, but ever since Tim began seeing both a dietitian as well as a therapist every week, it’s like Alfred is handling him with kid gloves. A double edged sword, since he’s no longer commenting on his nasty habits, but his displeasure is still there, simply left unsaid. Sometimes Tim thinks that’s worse.
The clicking of shoes against hardwood is purposeful, a warning for his imminent interruption. Tim realizes that it’s not Alfred approaching just before Bruce asks, “How’s it going, sweetheart?”
“‘M done,” he says, refusing to give into the horrible urge to hide. There is no point in covering the evidence of his barely-eaten snack with crumpled napkins when his Dad has none of the qualms he does about such contamination.
Bruce hums, and Tim already knows where this is going. He barely ate anything at all and he’s already ready to purge. Despite how thoroughly he chewed up the apple slices, his stomach roils all the same. “Is there anything else you’d be willing to try? Alfred got a new case of those protein drinks you liked.”
Like is an incredibly inaccurate word and Bruce knows it.
He shakes his head, staring down at the can in his hand as if he can’t so clearly picture the disappointed expression his Dad is making.
“Okay, that’s fine,” Bruce says, and it really doesn’t sound fine. Tim isn’t planning to argue until Bruce continues, “How about you pick out a protein bar to bring with you? We can just add one of the drinks to your supper. Alfred is making pizzas tonight. You can choose your own toppings.”
Alfred has been doing that more often lately, either making easily-personalized meals or cooking two options altogether. Once Tim’s dietitian realized that meat is an easy way for Tim to actually consume non-liquid protein then she encouraged him to inform Alfred. As soon as he sucked it up and actually told him, the butler promptly began making two versions of any given meal, once vegetarian to cater to Damian, and one with meat for Tim’s preferences. Admittedly, it’s a bit easier to justify the calories when he knows he’s actually getting something other than carbs from it.
Tim has no doubt that Bruce knows all about his secret stash of uneaten yet shelf-stable snacks, yet he still gives him the opportunity to do the right thing and actually eat what’s been granted to him. He’s so fucking ungrateful, and yet he can’t get that through his stupid head. Bruce is yet to lose patience, despite them being months into this ‘recovery journey.’ Tim didn’t realize how much of recovery was just waiting for it to be over.
He will not argue this time, resignation clinging where it’s meant to wash over him. “Okay. Thank you,” he mumbles, if only so he doesn’t sound as rude as he feels. Tim knows that one wasted apple won’t make any tangible difference to those in the world forced into starvation, and yet the guilt makes his stomach church the same way it does just before he throws up. The apple could have gone to Damian, or to Jason, or Dick, any of them would have eaten it bruise and all. They’re not so entitled as to complain about something so minor, so much more worthy than Tim could ever be.
Jason knows true hunger. He suffers the consequences of his childhood malnutrition to this day. Tim has no excuse for such blatant selfishness.
It feels like a humiliation ritual for one of the grown-ups of the house to check over his uneaten food and then watch him throw away whatever isn’t salvageable. Tim washes his hands in the kitchen, knowing he’s not supposed to go into the bathroom until at least a half-hour post eating. There is no brush to scrub under his nails here.
His new restrictions are a combination of unofficial monitor duty placed upon one of his family members and simply the honor system on Tim’s part. It’s a new game for him to play, waiting to see which of his siblings is forced to keep an eye on him and how quickly until Tim can get away.
Maybe Tim should have anticipated that being forced to consume several times his previous normal caloric intake would lead to new and worsening behaviors, but he never considered how much he would come to depend on purging. Tim would not consider himself bullemic, he doesn’t binge enough for that, but he doesn’t know how well these new habits are aligning with his shiny new diagnoses. He won't ask, he’s not foolish enough for that, he can’t even look it up with how Bruce must be monitoring his online activity, but his toothbrush has seen better days.
Bruce doesn’t stop him even when he pockets the protein bar, knowing it’ll remain uneaten. At least they stay good for a few months yet, able to be given away or otherwise rid of later on without suspicion.
Tim has hardly escaped the kitchen before his little brother is approaching. “Timothy,” Damian calls out, and that answers that question. “I wish for you to accompany Titus and I on a walk around the gardens.”
It’s easy enough to agree, relieved to have an activity that actually allows him to move when he’s otherwise been severely limited. Tim can’t even patrol on his own anymore, too much of a liability when he’s ’prone to fainting.’ It’s not like Tim doesn’t know his limits. He didn’t go an entire childhood without anyone so much as batting an eye at his unusual habits just for every white-knuckled aspect of his life to be ripped away now.
There is a grief he is not yet ready to acknowledge when he sees the way Damian looks at him.
“Okay, lemme just grab my shoes,” Tim says, voice raspy from his ever-sore throat. Damian follows him, which is of little surprise. He momentarily debates trying to pawn the protein bar off on him, but his brother is hardly foolish. He will have to wait, despite the weight of the bar in his pocket seeming to leave him lopsided and off-center.
Tim is not wearing the right socks to wear outside. Despite his increased food intake lately, he’s as cold as ever and therefore wore some of his thicker socks today, not anticipating needing to go outside before patrol tonight. He refuses to embarrass himself by forcing Damian to wait to walk his dog until Tim has changed socks, so he sucks it up, hating the way this particular fabric feels against the insides of his shoes. He can ignore it, he has to. Sit with the discomfort, or whatever bullshit his therapist keeps telling him.
Despite it being cloudy, it’s a decent enough day for Gotham. Since it’s yet to rain this week, it’s hardly muddy at all. These shoes are already stained, so it wouldn’t actually matter that much if they had gotten muddy, but he is grateful nonetheless.
Titus is well-trained. He stays right at Damian’s heel until given the command otherwise. Tim watches as Titus bounds about the yard, his mouth open and panting in such open excitement. Damian walks at a measured pace, far slower than he ever used to, before. Tim does not actually know how much information his brother has been entrusted with about his situation. They don’t talk about it. It’s nice to have one family member he can still play pretend with, a familiar game.
Dick and Bruce are always trying to talk with him now, asking his feelings, seeing how they can help. Alfred and Jason are quieter about it, yet just as doting. It’s simpler with Damian, able to just be in each other's presence without the topic of food hardly ever coming up at all.
There’s a bench on the far side of the garden. They never used to stop and take a break.
Damian sits first, knowing Tim will follow. Titus does too.
There’s a chill to the breeze. Tim can’t stop shaking. Damian notices of course, but he doesn’t remark on such embarrassment. Tim is grateful for it.
Eventually, Damian speaks up, “I would like to accompany you on patrol tonight.”
“You don’t have to,” Tim says, a reaction. It’s too defensive and they both know it.
Damian hums, sounding far too similar to their Dad. It’s quiet for a moment, the only sound being the padding of Titus running through the yard. Voice soft, insecure, Damian continues, “I feel as though we spend time in the same vicinity and yet are not together.”
Tim wishes he had purged if only so he had the proper room in his body to handle such immediate devastation. He hates himself for it. He never wanted this pressure placed upon his little brother. He never meant for Damian to hold onto his burdens for him. They’re far too heavy.
Yet, his problems have never been about Damian. They’re not even about Bruce or about Alfred. They’re about Tim, and they’re about his Mom (Tim might not be spiritual but his mother haunts him all the same). They’re about that time Mom had finally taken him to the department store just for her to pick out clothes too small. You’ve gotten bigger, Mom had said. Tim had known what she meant, he knew, but still, far too hopeful for a kid his age, he had asked, like taller?
No, his Mom had said, and then she had gestured to his stomach. He was still small enough then to be able to tuck under her chin if she decided he was worthy of an embrace. She did not buy him a bigger size of clothing that day, saying that this is the size that he should be. Tim learned to fit.
“I’d like to patrol with you,” Tim says. It’s not a lie. He only regrets that Damian will need to slow his pace to keep from leaving Tim behind.
/
There are protein drinks in the place where diet zesti cola used to live.
/
Tim doesn’t know what hurts worse, his eyes, his throat, his traitorous stomach, or his head. The pain trickles down his body even more fluidly than the bile drags its way out. He sticks the toothbrush in again, mentally cursing himself for not more thoroughly cleaning it before beginning this session. He sobs on the vomit as it comes out, choking.
Tim is choking.
Flushing the toilet only amplifies the ache of his head, and it hardly eases the stench. He fears that the puke smell will remain plastered to the walls like badly applied wallpaper.
There’s a knock on the door and another horrible sob rips from his throat.
“Tim? You okay in there?” It’s Dick, thank god. Far better than Dad, Alfred, or Damian finding him like this. The fear still curdles his stomach, helping another bout of throw up come out even without the need of his toothbrush.
“‘M fine,” he calls out, knowing the watery-raspiness of his voice does nothing at all to prove himself genuine. He doesn’t want his brother to hear him vomiting but it is an inevitable sort of affliction. It’s the only way to feel better.
He is not surprised yet dismayed-relieved-terrfied that Dick doesn’t take him at his word and leave him to his own devices. “You’ve been in there awhile,” Dick says, and Tim wonders how long he’s been keeping track. “Can you come out or do you need help?”
Tim knows he’s not actually allowed to say no but the word sticks to his tongue with the same stubbornness as the phantom calories of his last eaten food. His family are a stubborn bunch and Dick is hardly any different.
“Just,” Tim gasps, “Just gimme a minute.” He won’t shove the back of his toothbrush down his throat again. He will not allow himself such cruelty when Dick has no reason to react so gently.
“I’ll be here,” Dick soothes, far too patient than Tim deserves.
There’s splashback freckling his bare chest. His clothes are in a heap on the counter, half-contaminated. He needs to shower. He doesn’t know if Dick will allow it.
Swallowing down the leftover bile, hating the taste just as fervently as he always has, he finds the courage to say, “Dickie, I needa shower.”
There’s a pause, and it’s clear his brother is debating. The sigh is not audible but Tim knows it’s there.
“Okay. I’ll be waiting for you.” Be quick, is left unsaid.
It is hard to be thorough and timely but Tim does his best. His skin is all red and angry from his furious scrubbing, but at least his body no longer trembles from the ickiness of contamination. He wishes he had brought a change of clothes with him but Dick is waiting, so he sucks it up and puts his sweater back on. It helps with the cold, at least.
Opening the door feels none too dissimilar to when Bruce caught him here, promising love and safety even as all of Tim’s comforting familiarity was dragged away.
Dick smiles at him, it feels like forgiveness for something Tim wouldn’t dare to ask. He opens his arms, and Tim crashes into the embrace. He shoves down nearly-all worries about contamination, too relieved to be met with grace even after yet another relapse. They curl up on the bed together. Dick doesn’t say anything about the tears staining his shirt, even when it only further contaminates him. He whispers sweet nothings and Tim lets the low crooning soothe him into an undeserved rest.
/
Alfred allows him to touch his food now. Tim doesn’t, unless he’s sure that he’s alone, but he’s no longer scolded for the impropriety. He doesn’t know what to make of it. It’s easier to eat fruit now, so that helps him meet his ever-increasing meal plan without feeling as utterly shitty. He pokes at every strawberry before he takes a bite, inspecting it for any squishiness. He keeps peering over his shoulders, as if any of his family members would be waiting for an open opportunity to taunt him. They wouldn’t, not about this. But that doesn’t make the looming anxiety easier to stomach.
/
Tim doesn’t think he’s any better at all.
His dietitian keeps telling him how well he’s doing, but she doesn’t know about all of his new behaviors. She sees he’s met his meal goals and he is just waiting for her to discover he’s succeeded failed succeeded in his next weigh-in.
Tim is supposed to be gaining. He knows what the trajectory looks like.
He is waiting for the crash.
/
It is more morbid curiosity than anything that forces him off of his calloused knees and towards the door. He only pauses to wash his hands. There is no brush in this guest bathroom, so he has to use his nails to dig at the invisible dirt marring his skin. The stains are there, even if he can’t see them.
The scratching picks up and so Tim forces himself to stop washing. He dries his hands quickly before tossing the towel onto the sink, careful for it not to touch his pile of clothes, left waiting as well. Opening the bathroom door reveals Alfred The Cat. His paw was still raised, prepared to scratch again, and the kitty instead leans forward into a big stretch.
“Hi,” Tim rasps, the word catching painfully in his raw throat, “Hello there,” he tries again. Alfred The Cat enters the threshold and immediately begins rubbing against his leg, undeterred by the putrid stench. Tim crouches down, not wanting the itty bitty kitty to be contaminated by any splatter of toilet water that may have sprayed down onto his body during his bouts of vomiting.
At least his hands are clean.
“What are you doing here?” He asks the kitty, holding a hand out for him to sniff. Alfred The Cat nuzzles against his hand without hesitation, as if Tim doesn’t surely reek of sickness. Tim had chosen this particular guest bathroom because of its distance from the family wing, knowing that it is inevitable to be found but at least he’d have more time. His throat is never without ache and yet he can’t imagine continuing to purge when this cat is sitting here, watching him, eager for pets. His touch is cautious, giving the kitty every opportunity to escape if he desires. The cat only leans into his touch, greedily and without trepidation.
Tim glances over his shoulder to the mess he has made. He wishes that not even Alfred The Cat had to see the evidence of such failure.
Turning back towards the kitty, scritching at his cheek, careful of the whiskers, he says, “I need to take a shower. Will you wait for me? You don’t have to.” He doesn’t expect the kitty to listen, let alone understand, but he saunters into the restroom just like that. Tim can’t help but wonder what tasks Damian must have trained this clever animal to do. “I’ll be so quick.”
Tim keeps his word, periodically peering out the glass shower door to see the kitty patiently laying on the tile. He knows it’s ridiculous, but somehow he thinks the cat knows just what he stopped him from doing.
Once Tim is all clean, dry, and dressed in his new outfit— mentally reminding himself to come back for the dirtied clothing later on, when he doesn’t have a kitty eager for affection, rubbing against his legs— he is finally able to properly pet Alfred The Cat. His purrs are so loud that Tim can feel the vibration against his trembling fingers. Tim really ought to relocate to a less damming room of the Manor, but how could he when the kitty had flopped onto his back practically begging for a belly rub.
Tim did not think that most cats enjoy their tummy being touched but when he gives a feather-light rub, the purrs only increase in magnitude. He pets him more confidently after that, trusting Alfred The Cat to show his displeasure if Tim is to do something wrong. He would never forgive himself if he hurt his little brother’s beloved pet.
/
Tim lies awake at night and wonders how much he’d weigh if they surgically removed all nonessential parts of his body. Take his appendix, a kidney, his tonsils, his wisdom teeth. Shave his head, cut his nails, anything for another pound, another ounce. He wants to know how low he can get. Tim wants to put it in his will that after he’s dead they need to weigh his bones. Even in the afterlife, he needs to know how much more he had to lose.
He thinks that his Mom would have wanted to know the exact same thing.
/
Tim is so sorry. He never wanted Damian to see him like this. But, but, but he can’t help his sickening pride when he looks at the mirror. His meal plan keeps going up and his scale keeps going down.
Jason said it could be therapeutic if they went outside and smashed the scale with a hammer. Their own little rage room. He can’t, he won’t. He can’t. He told Jason not today, he’s too tired. Tim is always tired. At least the exhaustion helps distract from the cold.
/
“I’m not mad,” Dad says, far more gentle than Tim deserves.
“But- but you know,” Tim sobs, much too loud for the otherwise quiet of his bedroom. “You’ve wasted all this time, and this money, and resources, and food, you’ve wasted it all on me! I’m not worth it, I’m not gonna get better.” The tears are hot as they pour down his face, a stark contrast to the ever-present chill encasing his entire body.
His voice is firm but not harsh. Never cruel, no matter what the most horrid parts of Tim like to accuse. “You are not a lost cause.”
Tim raises his hands, ready to pull his hair, needing an outlet for the overwhelming swirl of emotions threatening to burst out of him at the seams. He feels as if his body has been sewn with expired thread, unable to contain all the stuffing inside him, ready to pour out all over the floor. He wonders what color it’ll be. His Dad is there, gently grabbing his hands and guiding them to his own chest, preventing him from hurting himself further.
“But Dad,” Tim cries, fruitlessly attempting to pull his hands away. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Bruce actually stops, but he tugs and tugs and he confesses, “I’m not even trying! I don’t want to get better.”
Bruce takes a deep breath, and Tim waits for the scolding. He waits to finally be given up on. Instead, he asks, voice tender, “But what could happen if you did try?”
Tim stops pulling. He doesn’t lean in yet, he won’t let himself. “I don’t know,” he sobs, “I don’t know, Dad, I- I don’t wanna know. ‘M so fucking scared.”
“I know, I know. I’m here, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere,” he soothes, so much kinder than Tim has earned. “I’ve got you. Can I hold you?”
Tim cannot allow himself to give in so easily. “Why- why would you want to?” Tim is sick, despite having access to all of the resources and treatment in the world, Tim’s just as sick as he was when he lived with his parents. It’s unforgivable the measures he has gone to just to stay as ill as he’s ever been.
His Dad doesn’t even need to think of his answer, it seems to come to him so naturally. “Because you’re my son. I love you, in every moment, in every day. No matter where you are in your journey, or how many relapses you have, my love for you will not diminish.” He keeps both of Tim’s hands held firmly, but not painfully, in one of his, his other hand coming to card through Tim’s hair. Tim leans into his touch, similar to the way Alfred The Cat does.
“But ‘m gross,” it comes out so childishly, his voice all wet, but Bruce doesn’t judge. His nose does not wrinkle at the tears or the snot. He continues to thread his fingers through his hair, reverent.
“Not to me. You won’t contaminate me.” That’s a phrase he learned from Tim.
Hearing it, despite knowing it’s not true, it can’t be true, it’s enough to get Tim learning forward. His Dad holds him, despite all the waste. He doesn’t scold him, he doesn’t shame or ridicule, he doesn’t even keep talking. The silence isn’t nearly as oppressing as Tim feared— another weight on him. Tim melts into the embrace. He knew he was starving, but he didn’t think it would be like this.
Eventually, Tim whispers, “I want to try.” It feels like a confession, an indictment against his mother. It’s voluntary, and yet the words feel half-stuck to his teeth.
His Dad won’t let him choke. “I’m so proud of you.”
/
Tim is no longer allowed to use a metal water bottle. He’s not sure if they found out about the diet zesti cola he’d been filling it with or about all the other things a water bottle is good for. He can only use the clear plastic ones now. Tim didn’t even know that Alfred was capable of buying disposable.
/
His plate is half-full.
(half-empty)
His stomach is half-full.
(half-empty)
It’s not enough. For Tim, for his Dad, his dietian, or for the fucking demons in his brain.
/
“I got you Batburger,” Jason says. It’s a kindness that feels more akin to a cruel joke. Tim is waiting for the punchline.
Numbers rush through his brain automocally. He already knows how he’s going to log it. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want the numbers to go up.
He doesn’t want to face his brother’s disappointment head on.
But, he told Dad he’d try. He doesn’t want to be like this anymore.
He doesn’t know any other way to be.
Tim is his mother’s child and he doesn’t finish his plate.
Jason doesn’t say anything, but he knows. They all do. Tim is so sorry for the waste.
/
“No, no, no, please,” Tim begs. There’s no one around to hear. He made sure of it, and yet the loneliness is a weight so cloying he almost fears it’ll affect the scale. The tears stream down his face and he can’t help but think that it’s more water he’ll need to consume and lose, consume and lose, consume and lose, it never ends. It never ends.
They keep telling him he’s going well. He’s gaining, he’s more energized now. Tim can keep up on patrol better. He’s faster. He’s been finishing nearly his whole plate. He’s doing so well and yet he still lies awake at night and runs the numbers through his head. Even through the brain fog, Tim has always been good with numbers. He doesn’t want to lose that.
He didn’t know recovery would be this constant war between pleasing his family and his treatment team and pleasing himself. Tim spent his entire childhood waiting for his parents to care, to finally show him the attention he was dying for, what he was so cold for, and now he finally has all these people- all these fucking people just waiting for him to get better and Tim just can’t.
He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to lose the chill, or the desirability, or the attention. He doesn’t want to keep gaining. Tim knows that recovery is more a mental battle than anything and he gives up. He never wanted this. He started for Dad but he has to end it for himself. Tim knows the only prize to anorexia is a smaller coffin but god some sick part of him wants it. He wants it. He hates himself for it, but he already hates everything else so what’s it matter.
He doesn’t take photos anymore. And he doesn’t see his friends, but he’s on a streak with his logs and he has a whole collection of tabs from his soda cans. When his hands aren’t shaking so much, he’s able to continue folding the cans into art. Damian said they’re pretty cool, not his exact words, but the sentiment was there.
Tim isn’t trying to die. Starving would be an awfully painful way to do it. He’s got it under control. Tim’s so good at being in control.
/
Tim isn’t allowed coffee anymore either. He doesn’t even like coffee but caffeine is a hunger suppressant and without his diet zesti cola he was willing. Tim is always willing.
/
“Tim, I wasn’t expecting you to be perfectly healed, I just didn’t want you to be suffering so much.” Sometimes, Tim wishes that Bruce would just snap. That he’d stop being the loving parent and just treat Tim how he deserves.
“I suffer either way!” Tim shouts, hoping that if he prods hard enough he’ll finally get a worthy reaction.
His Dad doesn’t take the bait, never one to give in so easily. “It’s like putting in stitches without numbing it first. The gash is bleeding out and the stitches hurt, but it’s the only way to stop the bleeding,” he explains, and Tim hates how much his brain lags nowadays. The underlying static threatens to drown out every other thought. “You only have so much left to give, Tim, and I’m not going to sit and watch you bleed out.”
“I don’t know what to do!” It comes out far more jagged than it should. “I don’t know how to make my brain shut the fuck up already.”
Bruce doesn’t recoil. “Then let me help you. Please, let me help you.”
“How?” Tim gasps, far too close to crying. He’s so sick of all the constant waterworks. He didn’t used to be like this.
“One step at a time. You don’t have to do it all in one day. You don’t have to clear every plate. My darling boy, I want to support you. I want to sit with you through this, whatever that may entail.”
The tears spill over then. Tim curls into himself, all alone in this big bed. Instead of coming straight to the bed, Bruce goes towards the windows.
His Dad opens the curtains. It doesn’t fix anything, but at least Tim isn’t in the dark anymore.
It’s a bit easier to let his Dad into the space when he can better see the mess about the room, knowing that despite it, he’s choosing to step closer. Tim can’t fit in his lap anymore, not the way he used to. He’s not small enough anymore. But that doesn’t mean his Dad won’t try. Once he’s nodded his head in permission, Bruce wraps his arms around him and pulls him close. Tim curls up as tightly as he can.
His Dad begins humming a song. The tune familiar, even if Tim can never remember the lyrics.
Somehow, it gives Tim the courage to ask, “I just, I still don’t get why you want to waste so much on me. You could spend this time with Dami, or Jason or Dick, any of them, and yet you’re here.”
“My love for you does not have any conditions or exceptions. I don’t need a contingency plan for spending time with you.”
“God,” Tim sobs, “This isn’t fair.” He doesn’t have the right words, but he thinks his Dad gets it anyway.
“I know, I know, sweetheart. I’m here.”
/
Tim doesn’t know if he wants to get better. But he’s so sick of feeling like this. Worse doesn’t feel so light anymore. It’s so fucking scary.
Tim is used to being scared though. It’s as familiar a feeling as hunger. It’s just so much heavier.
/
Tim has to sit with the discomfort. But he doesn’t have to sit alone anymore. They’re all waiting for him.