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Tim has made a series of mistakes this evening. He can own up to that.
He knows his tuxedo fits fine- it was custom ordered and tailored to fit not even three months ago in preparation of the winter party season so he knows it fits. Right now though it feels like it’s strangling him. It feels like a weak little goblin has wrapped its arms and legs around his throat and chest and is slowly squeezing. In Tim’s ear there’s even a distant ringing like that goblin is laughing evilly at his discomfort.
Tim sniffs as subtly as he can, raising the glass of sparkling pear juice meant to look like champagne to his lips. He’s never really liked the stuff, and he doesn’t understand how it makes a party classier to have all the grade schoolers in attendance look like they’re drinking alcohol.
Something about that thought makes Tim want to giggle, but he hides it with a sip, before jolting like he’s been shocked when he swallows and ends up gagging around an aborted cough. The juice ends up going down the wrong tube and he takes several hasty steps backwards to brace himself against the wall as he tries to keep the resulting chest rattling coughs under control.
Suffice to say: Tim does not feel good.
He has a fever of at least 99.8 (he last checked it before he put on his tuxedo) and every swallow hurts, his sore throat getting scratchier and more painful as the evening wears on.
When at last he can drag in a shallow breath, he lets his full weight sag against the sponge painted ballroom wall. The gilded wainscoting digs unpleasantly into his shoulder blades but it’s a small price to pay for a couple seconds just to rest. For one reason or another, be it low oxygen or peaking fever, the room feels like it’s doing a slow spin around him, a lazy carousel ride he doesn’t want to be on.
Glancing down forlornly he stares at the spatter of wet juice spots that are now sprinkled across the front of his jacket. He kept most of the liquid in his glass somehow, but the quaking of his coughing body was just too much physics for the fluid to overcome. He doesn’t even have the energy to find a napkin and start dabbing at them hastily before they dry and get sticky and damage the fabric.
Dad spent almost a grand on this tux. He’s told Tim that six times already.
A part of Tim wants to feel sorry for himself but the rest of him is too tired to really dredge up the emotion.
So yeah. Tim can admit it. He’s made a few mistakes tonight. No matter where or what the event is, he should know better than to try and show up with the flu.
It’s just, he got the flu shot this year when they came through his sixth grade class and gave one to everybody with a permission slip. Tim had forged his dad’s signature easily enough and that should have been that- no flu for Timmy, or at least if he got the flu, it was supposed to be no big deal.
He started feeling poorly on Thursday but he put it out of his mind- Saturday, tonight, this is the Wayne Enterprises Christmas party. This is the only gala of the year guaranteed to be held at Wayne manor. Nowadays, after a series of unfortunate interruptions from various bad guys, most galas and parties happen at more-or-less secure off-site event centers, but the Christmas party is special. It’s smaller, harder to get an invite and most importantly, it’s here.
In Batman’s house.
Tim wouldn’t have minded missing it last year, but last year he hadn’t yet figured it out.
That Bruce. He’s Batman. Has to be. If Dick was Robin, then Bruce has to be the man behind the cowl.
Now being here, being at Wayne manor, it means something to Tim that he can’t even explain to anyone without potentially revealing his heroes’ identities and he would never, ever do that.
So when he felt sicker on Friday, he told himself he was getting over the worst of it and he’d be fine come the weekend. When it was Saturday afternoon and he was taking his temperature in his bathroom he told himself to power through. When his mother had taken a look at him in the foyer, the pair of them waiting for dad to bring the car to the front steps, she’d stopped adjusting the elaborate pearl bracelet on her wrist and asked him right out if he needed to stay home.
Drakes never, ever take sick days, and kids are not only welcomed but encouraged at the Christmas party, but Tim understands of course his mother and father would have an easier time networking if they didn’t have to worry about having him along. Usually he’d be ok with staying back and letting them be happy-
But tonight is different.
He told her he was feeling fine. She didn’t ask again.
And now he’s here.
He’s on his feet, which is something, but he’s also being propped up by a fancy old wall while taking careful sips of a juice he doesn’t even like feeling miserable and more than a little bit sorry for himself.
He still thinks he’d rather be here and miserable and sorry for himself as opposed to home alone and the same, but he regrets not sneaking a bottle of Tylenol into his jacket pocket.
The tux is tailored too closely and his mother would have spotted the medicine immediately and tried to use it to pressure him to stay back so he forewent it, but he could have at least put a handful in a baggie. Geeze, why didn’t he think of that earlier?
Making a face, he drains the last of the juice that’s somehow at once too sweet and incredibly watered down- then he starts blearily looking for a place to set down the glass before he drops it.
…Aaand then he’s gonna look for a place to set himself down.
Has he mentioned he doesn’t feel good? Boy oh boy he really does not feel good.
He loses the glass somewhere as he starts to shamble his way around the room, sticking close to the wall just in case. One moment it’s in his hand and the next it’s not and he vaguely remembers maybe handing it to a server who was breezing about collecting them but he can’t be sure. He has a vague idea about trying to get somewhere that’s less overwhelming- fewer scents and sounds, fewer loud laughs and less music and not nearly so many jeweltone dresses whirling about and gemstones flashing.
Galas are a lot. They’re always a lot. Tonight it feels like even more of a lot.
Tim really wants someplace dark and quiet to sit down.
He shouldn’t have come out tonight.
But he really, really wanted to see Batman’s house.
His thoughts are wandering away from him, leaving his feet to do their own wandering with little input. He tracks the first couple corridors pretty well he thinks, absently counting doors, noting a teenager leaving what he thinks is a bathroom and giving him a long look before moving on. He passes a kitchen where servers are chattering and dishware is clattering and no- that’s too much noise, the light shining out far to bright, so he doubles back a bit and takes a right down a narrower, much more dimly lit hall that he first dismissed for… for some reason.
It seems nice now.
Something about the low light and the long corridor feels surreal and dreamlike and Tim’s heartbeat is thundering like a drum in his temples and he tunes in and out and in and out of himself for a bit, struggling to concentrate on much of anything, eventually pausing when it dawns on him that the sounds of the party are at last blessedly muted to something negligible, far far away. His eyes make the effort to focus up on the dark wood floor and thick ruby red runner beneath his feet. Both materials seem like they’re eating up the noise that’s been chasing him all night and he likes that, likes them. He rubs the carpet with the toes of his shiny black oxfords and for some reason shudders.
He sneezes loudly, stumbling a bit before locking his knees, then he swallows back a sad little whine because the inside of his nose hurts and he doesn’t know if it’s ever really done that before but it sucks.
He opens his eyes and looks around, spying an open doorway and a warm sliver of light pouring out in a way that’s so inviting it makes Tim’s insides ache.
He probably should go back to the party. This isn’t part of the party. Batman is at the party. Tim is at Batman’s party. He should go.
But it’s quiet and dim in the hall and in the room that he can only just barely see beyond the cracked open door it’s probably even quieter and it calls to Tim like a clarion. He can’t find the willpower in him to be good and go back and admit to his mother that he’s been bad and that he needs to go home.
He’s old enough to look after himself at events like this. They have an understanding. Tim lets his parents mingle and they will check in with him at occasional intervals and then they will be happy with him when they get home. That’s always nice.
If they can’t find him for a bit… well, it’ll probably still be fine. They’ll probably not get worried properly until the night is over and they have to go home. They’ll probably still be mostly happy with Tim.
Which means that Tim has plenty of time to sneak into what looks like a nice little sitting room and do just that. Sit for a while.
God that sounds so nice.
A sad little corner of his brain is crying morosely over being too sick to actually snoop around Batman’s house. He wouldn’t be overly invasive about it, but he would like to poke around- the bigger part of his brain though is throbbing with an ever growing headache and he wants quiet and he wants rest.
He stumbles his way forward before he can talk himself out of it, shouldering open the door and zeroing in on an orange velvet settee immediately.
It looks soft and regal and a bit worn by time and oh Tim wants to lie down on that very, very badly.
His feet only just barely make it the ten or so steps he needs and then he spills forward onto the upholstery with a groan, falling face first, but turning his head last minute to face the back of the couch so he can avoid getting snot on the fabric.
That would be abominably rude. And he’s not that. Rude. He tries not to be.
Holy shit it is soft- and cool to the touch only the way real silk velvet can be. He has his eyes closed as he rubs his cheek against it, letting out a little self pitying noise, indulging himself just a tiny bit since he’s alone.
This is perfect. He will just stay here a moment. This feels perfect. He will get back up in just a second-
Through the pressure in his head that makes his ears feel like they’re full of cotton, he hears a soft cough come from very nearby.
Tim opens his eyes so he can see his short life flash before them.
“Young sir?” Comes a voice after a moment’s tense stillness, male and calm and firm in what sounds like an accent and Tim heaves himself upright, keeping the groan that wants to escape tucked back tight behind his grit teeth.
He twists to face forward and after taking half a second to focus through the light spinning of his vision, Tim locks eyes on a well dressed older gentleman sitting in a wingback chair with his legs crossed primly at the knee, a book with a brown leather cover held in stark contrast to his pale hands.
“Sorry.” Tim huffs immediately, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. “M’sorry, I’ll go-“ Tim’s not sure who this man is but since he just caught Tim nuzzling Bruce Wayne’s antique furniture like a lovesick puppy it feels like making a retreat is probably the best course of action right now.
Though for the first time Tim is now noticing that there’s a small hearth in the room with a rosy little fire burning behind a modern cast iron and glass front. For some reason just looking at it sends a shiver thundering over Tim and he wants to get on his knees and shuffle closer to it and curl up like a cat on the blue and gold Turkish rug. Instead he tries to stand, cringing, embarrassed- but ends up tipping backwards and having to sit once more when he loses his balance.
Shaking his head a little, knowing his cheeks must be ridiculously pink between the mortification and the fever, he goes to rise again and with a monumental amount of concentration, he gets his feet under him and manages to stay upright.
“I’m so sorry, I’ll be going now.” He tries to say it clearly but worries he might have slurred a syllable or two, but it will have to do.
“My dear child, sit down, please, are you quite alright?”
Tim blinks and he must have turned towards the door, cuz he’s facing it now, but he doesnt think he took any steps which is for the best because after a moment there’s a gentle touch to his shoulder and it’s enough to tip him off balance once again. Blessedly, the couch is there once more to catch him. He bounces lightly, another shiver ricocheting up his spine.
“So sorry.” He mumbles. “I can go.”
“You’ll stay right there at least for the moment. What’s your name, my young friend? How did you end up all the way back here?”
One of those pale hands enters Tim’s field of vision and they’re so pristine, so clean- a weird bolt of panic hits Tim when he realizes the hand is going to touch his face.
“Don’t touch!” He chokes out, vaguely relieved when the hand stops moving immediately. He stares at those long fingers for a few breaths, gathering his thoughts. “M’sick. Don’ touch me. M’ok.”
From a young age his mother had impressed on him the importance of keeping his snot and sweat and various bodily fluids to himself, especially when sick.
Sometimes illness can’t be avoided, but it’s interminably rude to not keep it to yourself.
Tim doesn’t want to get this stranger sick. Just like he doesn’t want to leave any snot on the couch.
Tim’s made some mistakes tonight but he can be good. He can keep his snot to himself.
For another beat the hand stays hovering, then it retreats. It gets sort of blurry as it pulls away and Tim loses his focus on it. It feels like far, far too much to try and look directly at this gentleman’s face, so he lets his gaze slip instead to the dark wood arm of the couch, absently tracing the carved swirls and whorls with his eyes.
“Alright, wait here a moment, please.” The strange man says softly and Tim nods, then pauses, then tries to shake his head but that hurts, oh geeze that really hurts so he stops with a sharp intake of breath through his lips (his nose will no longer let any meaningful oxygen pass).
“I should go back to the party.” He argues. He can hardly even remember why he ended up here in the first place, honestly, he’s supposed to be at the party- at the party at Batman’s house, he should probably go keep a look out for Batman, he wants to see him- Tim wonders if Batman likes to dance-
“You should stay right here. Tell me your name, son.”
“Tim.” Tim answers because why wouldn’t he. “It’s nice to meet you.” He adds because he might be sick but he has manners.
For some reason this makes the man chuckle lightly and the vague dread that’s made it impossible for Tim to make eye contact lifts just enough for him to at least turn and stare at the crisp white dress shirt and rich black jacket the stranger is wearing.
When the man shifts, the pearl buttons on his shirt shimmer a bit and Tim can’t help but find it absolutely hypnotizing.
“Mister Tim. Stay right where you are. I need to step away for a moment but I will return very shortly.”
“I should go.” Tim slurs again, feeling like he’s not being understood… even though the couch is very soft and he would kind of like to stay.
“Mister Tim.” The gentle voice firms slightly but doesn’t get hard or mean. Tim tenses anyway, then cringes as the tension makes his headache worse.
“Mister Tim,” the stranger says once more, soft again, and Tim shivers and sniffs and feels very sorry for himself indeed. “Promise me you will stay where you are, please. I will be back in only a moment, I assure you.”
Tim thinks about it for half a second. He should go back to the party. He should apologize again. He shouldn’t be here.
But the couch is very soft and the man doesn’t sound angry and Tim thinks if he just did what he asks then the man will be happy and that would be nice too.
“I promise.” He says at last, surprised at the punch of relief he feels, the way saying the words aloud gives him permission to sink back into the couch in earnest.
“Oh.” He sighs, closing his eyes. “I like this couch.”
There’s another soft chuckle. “I’m fond of it as well. Stay where you are, I’ll be right back.”
Tim obeys.
He’s not sure if he dozes but he might because it seems like the man is back in an instant and Tim doubts he can teleport. A couple metas are known to have the ability but it’s very very rare. A part of Tim tells him he should open his eyes, that he’s being rude, but the darkness of the back of his eyelids is just much easier to look at right now then all the patterns and colors and light and shadow of the real world.
A light touch to his forehead however causes him to startle, eyes snapping open, a sad little noise of hurt and alarm escaping him before he can help it, then to his utter horror, he sneezes, only barely able to get a hand up in time to at least partially shield the stranger from his mess.
“Ib so sowwy” he chokes, one eye partially shut in deference to the pain in his temple, and as the stranger swims back into focus Tim finds himself meeting the other’s eyes for the first time.
And only his eyes. The stranger has a paper surgical mask over his nose and mouth and the relief that Tim feels is so acute it makes him dizzy.
“It’s quite alright my young friend. My name is Alfred, by the way, it dawned on me that you were kind enough to tell me your name but I had not yet given you mine.”
Something at the back of Tim’s mind itches when he hears the name, but he doesn’t have the energy to spare to dig out why.
“Sowry.” He says again, startled once more when he watches Alfred pull a handkerchief from his breast pocket and press it into Tim’s hands.
“You don’t have to apologize for being sick, Timothy. I’m not sure how you made it here, but I’m glad you found me. I’ve worked as a nurse of sorts and I can handle the basics. Will you let me take your temperature?”
Tim doesn’t second guess the request or the explanation, he doesn’t even nod, just opens his mouth and lifts his tongue so Alfred can promptly stick in a thermometer.
Usually when Tim gets sick he logs his fevers religiously. His mother has made it very clear when a fever is dangerous and what can happen when it gets too high and he likes to stay on top of these sorts of things.
He hasn’t taken his temperature since he put on his suit.
It was 99… something then. Or was it 98? 98.9? That’s not really a fever, but Tim usually runs a bit cool-
As he waits for the little beep that will signal a reading, Tim absentmindedly fiddles with the fabric in his hands- the, uh, the handkerchief, the- oh, oh god, he realizes abruptly that he still has a spray of spit and snot on his hands- oh god hes disgusting, hes absolutely disgusting- tears start to form along his lashes and he shuts his eyes, refusing to cry. Hes 10 now, double digits, 10 is way too old to cry.
“It’s alright Tim, you’ll be alright.” Alfred soothes. There’s a press of a soft cool cloth against forehead, then against his eyelids, and Alfred must be magic because where is he getting these things from?
A thumb chafes his burning cheek very gently and Tim registers now that that’s not skin hes feeling, thats latex, and he feels another wash of relief knowing that Alfred is protected from Tim’s grossness.
He wants to apologize some more or get up and run away but his body feels so very heavy like it’s been cemented to the couch and he has a thermometer in his mouth and if he talks it won’t get a good reading and they’ll have to start over and that always made mom angry when he was little and he wants to be good, he really does, hes already made so many mistakes tonight.
He doesn’t hear the thermometer beep but his hearing is all kinds of funky with his sinuses all gunked up. It must have gone off because Alfred seems very calm and capable and he takes the thermometer out of Tim’s mouth and Tim quickly reaches up with Alfred’s now ruined handkerchief to rub at the wetness at his nose and the little bit of spit on his lips and he wants to wipe at the returning wetness of his eyes but the kerchief is gross now he can’t do that.
“Sorry.” He says very, very quietly. Alfred shifts and Tim hears a faint click that must be the man setting the thermometer down on the side table because both of the man’s hands, now blue with sterile gloves, come back to cup his face gently.
“You have a fever of 101.9, dear boy, you have nothing to be sorry about. I’m sorry you’ve ended up here instead of at home resting.”
“I wanted to come to B- to Bruce’s party.” Tim panics, fumbles his words, and immediately feels weird and nervous calling Mr Wayne by his first name- but he almost just said ‘Batman’s party’ and holy crap. Panic brings with it a sharp slash of clarity that hits him like a splash of ice water in the face.
“I should not be here.” He gasps, desperate to explain. “I was just trying to find some quiet, I am really sorry, are- are you a guest as well? I’m so sorry, I’m ruining the party for you-“ Tim trails off, unsure- he wants to say more but his voice sounds weird and stuffed to his own ears.
Dad hates it when people talk while they have a cold, says it makes him sick to his stomach. Tim gets it. He understands. He tries to speak clearly at all times.
Alfred politely ignores Tim’s latest apology as well as his offers to leave. Instead he reaches out to take up a thin, folded hand towel that Tim now notices resting in a shallow bowl of water. The older man squeezes it and gives it a shake to wring out excess water then brings it up to dab once more at Tim’s forehead and cheeks and eyes.
It feels so darn nice.
Tim hates that that makes him want to cry just a tiny bit more. He's not a baby. He's not.
“I am, in fact, employed by master Bruce, so no, I am not a guest per say. It was my plan tonight to stay available but out of the way for the duration of the party. My only real duties tonight are to check that the waitstaff clear up properly once the festivities conclude.
“For the moment my time is my own.”
“So-“ Tim starts to apologize again but Alfred holds up a finger and begs him for silence.
“I am very glad you found me and that I am free to help you, my young friend. I’m not sure how you made it so far away from the ballroom in this state but it is serendipitous that you managed to find me.”
Alfred speaks low and slow and he sounds like he means it.
Tim resists the urge to apologize again, realizing vaguely that he’s apologized maybe a dozen times already and he knows adults find that annoying and he wants to cringe but he holds fast, squinting his eyes at the resulting throb of his headache.
“Can I have a Tylenol?” He asks very quietly, ashamed to be asking for anything at all, but his head hurts really really bad and a Tylenol would be nice. “Or ibuprofen or excedrin, anything’s ok, it’s just my head feels really bad.”
Alfred frowns ever so slightly but nods at the same time so Tim thinks he’s not mad.
“I can get you Tylenol or ibuprofen- but you’re rather young for aspirin, my boy.”
That’s silly. Timmy’s been taking excedrin since he was six. His dad will cut one of his own pills in half and hand it off to Tim whenever he mentions a sore head. Sometimes they even take them together.
‘Down the hatch!’ Dad will grin and Tim will giggle and then they both will swallow them dry. Sometimes it gives Tim heartburn, but his headache almost always goes away which is really nice.
“Tylenol, please.” Tim asks again, feeling bad about being pushy but his head really, really hurts and Tylenol works fine and he took four earlier today but maybe one more will be the magic bullet that finally helps him out.
Alfred nods, rising from where he’s been kneeling in front of Tim and that makes Tim feel bad in all new ways because Alfred is not young- he has more salt than pepper in his hair and his blue eyes are framed by an abundance of crows feet and Tim hadn’t even realized the man had been kneeling.
Sometimes, when he’s been home for more than just a couple weeks, Dad will take Tim outside to dig in the yard. Their house sits on land that used to be an orchard a long time ago so they can do a kiddy version of an archaeology dig together. Sometimes they find marbles or old bottles or broken crockery and these are maybe the best times Tim ever has with his dad- but as soon as they’re done dad will grunt and groan and talk sharply about his old knees and how much they hurt him and that always makes Tim feel terrible.
When Alfred stands he does so without complaint, but Tim holds his breath all the same, watching the man walk across the room and disappear through a doorway past which Tim sees soft green tile and bright, cool lights.
There’s the sound of a medicine cabinet snapping open then snapping shut, then the sink turns on for a moment before shutting off again. Then Alfred is returning, walking smoothly, and then he’s kneeling in front of Tim once more, and Tim is antsy to apologize again or tell the older man that it isn’t necessary but there’s a firm look to Alfred’s eyes that keeps Tim quiet.
“You can chew these- they won’t taste wonderful but they’ll act faster.” Alfred tips two orange pills into Tim’s hand and Tim nods once, bracing against the way it makes the pain worse, then swallows the pills whole and dry.
Just like dad taught him.
Then Alfred puts a small cup of water in his hand and Tim swallows reflexively around the dry, scrape-y feeling that pills always leave in his throat. He looks up at Alfred, looks down at the water, then takes the glass and sips it sheepishly.
This earns him a single approving nod from the older man and that makes it very much worth it.
“Tim, are your parents here with you?” Alfred asks quietly, taking up his cloth once more to kindly mop at Tim’s brow.
Lowering the glass from his lips, Tim rests it on his knees, holding tight with both hands so he can be sure he won’t drop it. He shivers, leaning minutely into cloth on his forehead.
“Yes. Janet and Jack Drake.” He blinks owlishly, eyes focusing then unfocusing on Alfred’s wrist. He has nice cuff links on. Little songbirds with mother of pearl inlay. Tim likes them immensely.
“Alright, will you lie down for me for a moment? I would like to go fetch them for you but I don’t want you to fall and bump your head while I’m gone.” Alfred says it kindly but Tim feels ashamed and weak and can’t help but pout, turning his face towards the fire still dancing merrily in its place,
What is he even doing here? Bothering Mr. Wayne’s staff, slacking on a chance to be in the same house as Batman, forcing his parents to give up on their work and come find him because he’s stupid and he has the flu and he shouldn’t have come in the first place.
“I can walk back.” He offers weakly, hardly sure if he means it because he’s stubborn but not a total idiot and his legs feel like jell-o and walking would be really hard right now although he could certainly try.
“No, my boy, no. You need to rest. Stay here.”
Tim shrugs one shoulder, feeling miserable and sorry for himself in new and ever more terrible ways.
Alfred sighs quietly and Tim winces, because he doesn’t want to make things harder for Alfred.
Alfred has been so very nice to him.
Staring at the fire, another shiver rattling his vertebrae together, Tim is struck by the urge once more to slither off the settee and crawl closer to the fire.
He feels hot and sweaty on the surface but there’s something cold in his chest, in his belly, in between his bones that he thinks only the fire can cure.
Absently he’s aware of Alfred rising once more, of the man shuffling about the room a bit, but he doesn’t say anything to Tim and Tim will take the mercy for what it is.
He knows he’ll have to face the consequences of his mistakes soon. He knows his parents will be unhappy and there’s nothing he can do about it.
But the couch is soft and Alfred is kind and the fire is warm and it’s quiet and not so bright in here and Tim feels very very bad and he would like to be still for just a few more minutes please. It’s greedy, he knows, but he still wants it.
He zones out, the edges of his vision getting hazy and a little psychedelic as he stares into the fire. Maybe he dozes off again or maybe his brain is just melting a bit because he doesn’t realize Alfred leaves until he’s back and he’s draping a blanket over Tim’s shoulders and startling him out of his reveries.
“It’s alright.” Alfred reassures, his fancy accent- English, Tim is pretty sure, but he’s not very good with these things- is pleasant to listen to and Tim finds himself wanting to trust.
“Ok.” He sniffs, reaching up to dab at his nose with the handkerchief still crumpled in his hand. Glancing at his side he fights to focus on the blanket- a blue green wool plaid that’s already making his neck and shoulders feel a bit warmer.
“I have asked for Master Jason to come keep you company while I locate your parents.” Alfred says it so casually, so easily, that Tim just nods once gingerly in agreement before the actual words catch up to him.
Tim had been listing to the side, head pulled inexorably towards the end of the couch closest to the fire like a planet falling towards a black hole, but hearing that Jason- that Robin is coming to sit with him makes Tim’s whole nervous system wake up and sound the alarm.
No way. No way, no thank you, not like this, not while Tim is gross and miserable and sorry for himself.
He opens his mouth to say… something, some smart and succinct protestation that will make it clear that Jason Todd-Wayne, Tim’s personal hero does not, under any circumstances, need to be bothered-
He tries to speak, to force something out but his heart is pounding and he feels suddenly much, much dizzier and he can’t seem to get any words out and little black stars are blinking in the corners of his vision.
“Good lord-“ Alfred curses quietly at the same moment Jason, Jason, that Jason, the Jason rounds the doorway and smiles that blindingly good, goofy, sly smile of his and Tim is going to faint he realizes. He is actually going to faint. In Batman’s house. In front of Robin.
Tim has made so many mistakes tonight, but this level of punishment just feels cruel.
He vaguely registers Jason make some sort of exclamation, but his voice sounds all stringy and stretched out like it’s vibrating back at him from somewhere far away and under water. Tim keeps blinking, trying desperately to stay aware, trying to concentrate, trying, trying, trying-
But all his senses are slipping. His vision goes grey and blown out then black then nothing, imperceivable, not even the little confetti rainbows that spark vaguely against his optic nerve whenever he closes his eyes are there to greet him. Sound becomes fainter and fainter then it’s nothing, not even his own heartbeat in his ears. Kindly he stops feeling too- the fever, the aches, the pain in his head and his nose and his throat all blip away.
Nothing left, nothing save for the dull, repeating mantra of ‘you have to stay awake, you can’t go to sleep, you have to stay awake.’
“-upposed to d- - -fie? Who is he anywa- - -ick is better with this kind of shi-“
Tim doesn’t think he’s out long. It’s weird because he knows he passes out, hes fully aware of it, but he still loses himself to it utterly. That’s frustrating. Deeply frustrating
He comes to with broken chunks of conversation wavering about him, his shoulders and head propped up by something warm and firm, the rest of him sort of tangled up (or strangled, maybe the goblin is back) by his clothes and… and a blanket? Yeah, the blanket. It’s warm. That’s nice.
He’s lying down now, the couch probably. His feet are lifted, someone is holding them in their hand, then they’re being set down on a pillow over something lumpy and hard and that’s the couch arm isn’t it, all it’s Rococo swirls. Tim doesn’t like Rococo much, but it has its moments.
His foot twitches and he realizes his shoe is gone, his feet chilly but free in just his sweaty dark brown socks and, oh fudge, he hopes they don’t stink. That would be bad. Timmy would hate that.
“Are you back with us Master Timothy?” Alfred’s soft, firm voice rings though clear and Tim opens his eyes, blinking back a few lingering spots.
“Yes.” He answers quickly, because he is and he wants Alfred not to worry. “I’m OK.”
“Bullshit.” A familiar but not familiar voice mutters directly overhead and Tim snaps his eyes shut because oh god, it’s Jason. Jason Todd-Wayne is right here, sitting next to- no, sitting with Tim’s head on his leg and Tim has absolutely no idea how to process this information.
Who’s gonna show up next: Nightwing? Batman?! Tim bites his lip almost to blood to keep from making an hysterical sort of noise.
“I’m very glad to hear that.” Alfred soothes, the voice of reason that Tim clings to desperately. “Jason is here and he will keep an eye on you while I go fetch your parents.”
“What if he passes out again?” Jason half shouts and Tim can’t help the full body flinch he makes because ow, too much, too close. Alfred makes a shushing sound and Tim feels Jason tense and sort of withdraw back against the couch cushion, the teen’s muscles bunching and relaxing under his skull.
“Right, I’ll just wing it.” Jason grumbles much softer after what must be some sort of look from Alfred and-
Oh god, Alfred, Alfred- Agent A, of course! Tim feels like an even bigger idiot than usual, and he wants to cry a little bit because he may have been spending a night or two here and there in Gotham on the hunt for his favorite heroes. He maybe brought his camera with him, and maybe he’s only gotten really crappy, blurry shots so far but he’s going to get better, he’s determined.
He’s maybe heard them talk to an agent A twice over their comms and he’s maybe wondered a lot about who that might be.
It’s gotta be Alfred. That would make so much sense.
Tim groans, Alfred making a small tutting noise before the cool damp cloth materializes on Tim’s forehead once more.
“Hold that to his head if you will. I’ll be back as soon as I’m able. Please call immediately if you truly are faced with a situation you don’t know how to handle, but I’m quite confident this will be the worst of it.”
Tim keeps his eyes shut, mind reeling, half banking on the childish notion that if he can’t see it it’s not really happening.
The gentle pressure holding the cloth to his brow disappears for a moment only to be promptly replaced with a firmer hand- though the touch is still decidedly gentle.
“I’ll watch him.” Jason reassures, sounding mostly confident and only mildly put out, and in response Tim hears Alfred’s hard soled shoes clip smartly across the floor, out into the hall, and disappear.
Leaving just him. alone. with Jason.
With Robin.
Oh god, he’s lying on top of Robin.
He's sick and he’s gross and he’s miserable and hes leaking all of that all over Robin.
Tim wants to scream and crawl into a hole in the ground and die forever and ever and ever.
He can’t do that so he settles for holding still as a board and keeping his eyes shut tight, counting desperate seconds until Alfred returns with his bound to be irate parents and even that sounds better than this special sort of hell he’s stuck in.
“How you holding up?”
Jason asks it quietly after 92 seconds have passed and Tim swallows hard against a burning lump in his throat. He still wants to cry and he hates that. His head hurts so bad and he wants to sit up but he’s starting to feel kind of nauseated and if sits up he might pass out again or worse he might hurl right onto Robin and that’s a reality he cannot live with so he stays right where he is, stiff as a plank and as miserable as any human has ever been in the history of forever. He sniffs, wanting to dab at his nose with the handkerchief he still miraculously has gripped tight in his fist but somehow that feels like a terrible idea- like he might signal to Robin how sick he really is and remind the other boy that he’s trapped with a little snot nosed brat and Tim doesn’t want to be perceived at all by Robin but he really particularly doesn’t want to be perceived as a gross wretched little thing so he sniffs again and prays to god and all his angels that his nose doesn’t start to drip.
“Kid? You still here?” Jason sounds worried now, not blustery and brash but genuinely worried and Tim doesn’t want it to be like this either.
He doesn’t want to make Robin worry about him.
“I’mb OK”. He chokes out, voice small, and wishes abruptly that he has more of that awful sparkling pear juice to sip. His mouth feels so dry.
“Flu, huh?”
Tim flinches, and dares a crack open one watering eye. Mercifully Jason isn’t looking at him. He’s got his face turned towards the same lovely little fire that Tim was so enamored with not so long ago.
He still has a hand pressed to Tim’s forehead, holding the rapidly warming compress in place.
Tim has to try really, really hard to not push into the touch.
“Sowby” he sniffs, hating the way his voice sounds, hating himself. “You shud move back, I’ll geb you sick.”
Tim isn’t prepared for Jason to swing his head around, looking down and locking his steel blue eyes with Tim’s. He isn’t ready, but when an amused smirk of a smile tweaks Jason’s lips it cascades over Tim like a warm tidal wave- a blast of unexpected warmth that chases back the chill in him every bit as efficiently as the blanket and the fire. “I don’t care about that, Timmers. A little flu wouldn’t be so bad, get to sleep for a few days, Alfie makes me soup, Bruce might even read me a bit of Austen- can’t complain about that.”
“But-“ Tim tries to protest, not sure how he can explain that he knows being sick means being benched and Tim doesn’t want to do that to Robin- but Jason can’t know that Tim knows. He’s pretty sure there are prison cells in the batcave and he thinks the batcave is probably somewhere near here and Tim really, really doesn’t want to end up in a prison cell in the batcave but that’s probably where they have to stick nosy kids who figure out their secrets as it’s the only place that makes sense and Tim does not want that to happen to him so he has to keep his mouth shut-
“Tim, seriously, don’t worry about it. So you’ve got the flu. It happens. I got the flu shot so I probably won’t catch it but even if I do, it’s ok. You don’t have to be sorry.” Jason picks up the cloth on Tim’s head and reaches over to dunk it in the bowl of water that migrated at some point up to the side table alongside the abandoned thermometer. He doesn’t do a great job wringing it out so when he drops it back on Tim’s face it drips chilly lines of water down along his temples to soak into his hair.
It feels strange. It feels nice. Tim shivers.
“How’d you end up in Alfred’s place?” Tim blinks, slow to follow the change in topic.
“I walked?” He says, uncertain, and Jason snorts, drumming the fingers of his free hand against the arm of the couch.
“This part of the house is the old servants quarters. It’s genuinely out of the way and hard to find even if you’re looking for it. How did you-“
Tim has to cut Jason off, eyes going wide as he partially lifts himself up from Jason’s lap.
“Shit, no, baby bird, you stay horizontal, I do not want you passing out on me.” Jason tries to gently press Tim back down and Tim is weak and pathetic so he collapses with the pressure on his shoulder but not without mournfully crying-
“I broke into Alfred’s house?”
As a rule he doesn’t spend a great deal of time wishing for impossible things as he doesn’t find it very productive, but right now Tim wishes more than anything in all the world that he had a time machine so he could go back and make sure none of tonight ever happened.
He’d go back to his bathroom at about 4:15. He’d take his temperature. He’d show his mother proof that he was unwell, and he’d handle her disappointment at his lack of fortitude and his own disappointment at not getting to see Batman’s house with grace. He’d crawl into bed and sleep this whole nightmare away.
He really, really wishes he had a time machine.
“Well, his rooms. His house is the manor, where we all live-“
And for whatever reason, this is it, this is the straw that breaks the camel’s back.
“Ib so sowry!” He sobs.
Alfred is so nice and he works for Batman and he was supposed to have the night off and Tim stumbled in all gross and stupid and sick and rubbed snot all over his beautiful couch and this is probably Alfred’s own blanket that Tim is sweating all over and he drank Alfred’s water and demanded his medicine and now Robin is stuck looking after him with his leaky nose and his stinky feet and his parents are going to be so unhappy and Christmas is in two days and they were all supposed to go to the ballet together but that probably won’t happen anymore because Tim is sick and he’s gross and he’s made so many mistakes.
He doesn’t want to cry. He’s 10. He’s in Batman’s house. He’s with Robin. He really, really, really doesn’t want to cry.
He shuts his eyes tight and locks his teeth together and chokes back another sob as tears leak from behind his eyelids.
“Oh shit, hey, it’s ok, shh, little dude, my dude, Timmy, it’s ok. I’m sorry you’re having a shitty night, it’s gonna be ok.”
And it’s nice of Jason to say so, but frankly, Tim just doesn’t believe him.
—-
Eventually Tim manages to rein in his tears with a little help from Jason dabbing at them with the now very warm wet towel. The older boy starts telling him some silly stories about saving animals that got themselves into weird predicaments and that helps too. Tim’s almost certain the stories are mostly lies and exaggerations but he suspects there’s a kernel of truth in each one that comes from one Robin adventure or another and Tim knows he doesn’t deserve it but it feels special to know some secret Robin stories no one else gets to hear.
He feels wrung out and salty now on top of being snotty and headache-y and sick to his stomach-y and he doesn’t want his parents to be unhappy with him but he does want to go home. He wants to wash his face and drink some orange juice and go to bed.
So it’s a relief of sorts when at long last he hears the decisive click to his mothers heels-loud even against the ruby red runner- and a blend of voices chattering as they approach the room.
“Sounds like the cavalry is here.” Jason muses, threading his fingers shallowly in Tim’s short hair and petting it back. “You’ll be home soon, bud.”
“Great.” Tim croaks. Jason shoots him a strange look but Tim is very tired and pretends he doesn’t see it.
The sitting room they’re in- Alfred’s private sitting room, mind you. Tim is still aghast- is in no way claustrophobic but it is cozy. It could comfortably seat perhaps five close acquaintances sharing tea or a glass of wine, talking amicably about common interests.
It’s not meant to hold five adults and two children half of whom don’t really know the other half at all, one of them sick as a dog, and one of them built like a brick shit house (Tim’s not supposed to know that phrase but he does and he thinks it’s funny so he likes to use it in the privacy of his own mind).
(Batman is built like a brick shit house, if Tim may be so bold).
Of course Alfred has returned and Jack and Janet Drake have come along with him, the two of them whip thin and sharp eyed, laughing meaningfully even as they enter the sitting room and join in on what Tim is beginning to suspect might be his funeral.
He feels like death, he’s laid out on his back in his Sunday best and at this point he thinks death would be a kindness. So let’s call a spade a spade.
“Oh, Timothy.” Mom says when she catches sight of him and Tim can’t help it. He feels so terrible, he instinctually needs to protect himself from feeling worse, so he shuts his eyes with a grimace.
If he sees how disappointed in him she is he might just hurl.
“Oh chum, not a very nice party, huh?”
And that’s Bruce Wayne. That’s Batman. Tim’s shaken his hand a couple times and said hello but this is the first real time they’ve spoken.
Tim can’t help it.
Against his better judgment, he peels his eyes back open and looks up and up and up at the towering figure of Bruce Wayne filling up the entry way to the room. The man does his best to slouch in on himself, looking smaller and constantly a little bit vacant and confused, but Tim knows. He knows the act.
“Hi.” He squeaks and wishes he could immediately take it back, groaning and raising a hand to cover his eyes and praying they all attribute his flushed cheeks to fever and not embarrassment.
Bruce chuckles good naturedly. “Hi yourself. I hear Alfred’s been taking care of you.”
“I broke into his house.” Tim confesses, glum and exhausted. “Ib so sorry.” He sniffs and Jason pokes him gently in the shoulder.
“Don’t start up again.” The older boy scolds gently.
Jack Drake clears his throat pointedly. “Tim broke into your… your house?” He seems deeply uncertain, turning to face the elderly butler who has taken off his surgical mask and sterile gloves since Tim last saw him and put on pristine white cotton gloves instead which Tim thinks give him a unique air of authority and prestige.
He hopes he doesn’t try to come touch Tim with those gloves. They’ll just get dirty.
Alfred makes a mild sound, unbothered. “I believe Timothy is trying to apologize for accidentally finding his way to this room which is part of my private lodgings within Wayne Manor- a matter he has no need to apologize for. I’m quite pleased he managed to find me so I could provide him with some assistance.”
“Hear that Timmers?” Jason pokes his shoulder again, still gentle, but the muscle aches are ramping up like nobody’s business so it feels Not Great.
Tim will not complain. He’s getting poked by Robin. That’s pretty awesome in his book.
“You and Alfie are fine, it’s all good. Stop beating yourself up now, ok?” He says the last part with a condescending sort of sing song and the last adult in the room who’s been quite thus far snorts inelegantly in amusement.
“Jason is somewhat lacking in bedside manner, but it really is ok Tim. I’m Dick, and this is Bruce by the way. Alfred told us what happened and we just wanted to come check real quick and make sure you were doing ok.”
Tim peels his eyelids open wide and stares up at the molded ceiling.
“I’ll neber be OK again.” He admits solemnly, and for some reason, this provokes a surprised, clipped laugh from his mother. He darts his eye over to her, worried she’s faking it to hide deeper frustration, but remarkably she looks genuinely amused.
“You’re not usually this dramatic Timothy. What has gotten into you tonight? I did ask you if you wanted to stay home.” She walks close and drops into a crouch, the long side slit in her evening gown making the maneuver possible.
It’s funny. Most women would probably look kind of silly squatting down in two and half inch heels and a slinky silver gown, but not Janet Drake. She looks powerful. Tim feels a bit like a bug under a microscope as she studies his flushed face, but at least he feels like an interesting bug: something unique and appreciated and a bit perplexing even if it is a little gross.
He can live with that.
“Sorry, mom.” He means it, sincerely. Tonight has gone to shit for him so spectacularly and he has no one to blame but himself.
She reaches out to chafe a thumb against the very edge of his temple, as far away from any grossness as she can get, but she is touching him and it feels nice.
“I think I habe the flu.”
She makes a face but it’s not as terrible as he worried it would be.
“Which means we all have the flu.” She sighs. Tim winces.
“Sorry.”
She gives him a droll look.
“Yes, I’m sure you did it on purpose.” But he can tell she doesn’t mean it and that makes him grin weakly.
They must’ve had a good night in spite of Tim’s misadventures: maybe dad cinched the deal with the Stewarts that he was aiming for. Maybe their walk here with Ba- with Bruce and Dick was productive. Tim can only speculate, but it must have been something. She’s teasing him. She’s relaxed.
The relief Tim feels is so profound he could almost faint away again, this time more earnestly, embracing the sleep that would chase along behind it.
“Let’s get you home kiddo.” Dick- Nightwing interjects. “I had the flu earlier this month so I’m probably immune, I can carry him.” He speaks as an aside to Tim’s Dad. Jack looks mildly surprised but affable and gestures to Tim broadly.
“Be my guest. You ok if Richard carries you out of here sport?”
Tim would roll his eyes if he didn’t think that the gesture might actually make his brain explode out of his skull.
Uh, yeah. Nightwing can carry him out of the house. It’s a little bit emasculating but he does feel very poorly and Dick did just offer and Tim feels giddy with relief at how well this is going with his parents so yeah. He’ll take a piggyback ride with Robin número uno.
His mom helps him get his shoes back on and then somehow he gets onto Dick’s back. If he didn’t know the man was Nightwing he might be surprised at the firmness of his body under his suit- he might be perplexed at the ease with which he moves under sixty odd pounds of dead weight- but Tim knows Dick’s secret and he’s not surprised. He just has to fight with his addled brain to remember to keep from grinning like an idiot.
“Tank you Alfred, tank you Jason, tank you Dick, sowry for ruining your party mister Wayne.” Tim recites faithfully as their whole entourage moves mostly single file down the narrow corridor. His neck hurts something fierce as he tries to keep any of his face grossness from getting anywhere close to Dick’s suit but it’s worth it.
He will not snot all over Nightwing. He will not. That is a personal conviction he will not break.
“You didn’t ruin anything, Tim.” Bruce says in a voice so terribly gentle that Tim can’t make himself look at him at all. “Just focus on getting better Chum, don’t worry about any of this.”
“But what if I got you all sick?” Tim’s not sure where he finds the courage to voice the nastiest of nagging fears that’s been brewing in him.
If he got Batman and Robin and Nightwing and Agent A sick (and oh god, Alfred is old, the flu is extra bad when you’re old right?)- he doesn’t know how he’ll ever forgive himself.
Jason is right behind Tim and Dick and he makes a scoffing noise that’s already familiar even after only knowing the boy for a half hour or so and Tim silently feels a little bit thrilled that he knows another little secret thing about Robin. It doesn’t even bother him really when Jason’s sharp fingers jab him in the shoulder blade again.
“For the last time: we got the flu shot, all of us, and Dick already had the flu this year to boot. We’re probably all fine. Even if we do get sick, it happens. Don’t worry about us, that’s an order.” Jason says particularly the last part with a smooth conviction that Tim feels helpless but to obey.”
“OK.” He agrees tiredly, eyes a bit glazed over as he watches a series of paintings slowly drift past him as they make their way down a more prominent corridor, back towards the noise and the sounds and smells of the party.
He wants to mention that he got the flu jab too and he still got sick, but Tim’s folks get weird about vaccines and they don’t know he got one at school so he keeps his mouth shut and feels bad that he can’t pass on the warning.
He shivers on Dick’s back.
Which is how he realizes he still has Alfred’s nice wool blanket bundled over his shoulders. He notices the way it tickles at this neck as he trembles helplessly from the ravages of illness.
“Alfred’s blanket.” He says sagely out loud, hoping someone will understand what he means and to take it away from him. He’s already gotten it dirty, he doesn’t want to also steal it.
Mom and Dad are ahead of him following Alfred’s lead and Ba- Bruce was walking with them too when Tim last clocked him, but suddenly there are broad hands up by Tim’s neck, tucking the blanket in even closer around his body.
That’s not what Tim meant.
“Keep it for now Chum. It’s cold outside and I don’t think you brought an overcoat, right?”
It’s 34 degrees Fahrenheit out- unseasonably warm for Gotham in December. Tim’s old dress coat is too small for him now and they didn’t have time to get him a new one and Dad said he looks sharper without his everyday pea coat he usually wears to school so no, Tim didn’t wear a coat tonight. He didn’t need one.
“You can get it back to us when you feel better.” Alfred’s gentle tones cut through the muggy confusion in Tim’s brain. He huffs and picks his head up enough to turn to face the other side, careful all the while to not let his nose get anywhere near Dick’s back. Nightwing has his fingers laced together behind his back to make a sort of seat for Tim to rest on so he doesn’t have to fight to keep his grip on Dick’s ribs with his knees and this is maybe the most comfortable piggy back ride he’s ever had (hes only had a few, but this one is really nice) and he will not be tarnishing it with snot trails on the wool silk suiting.
He simply will not.
Looking blearily at Alfred, Tim furrows his brow.
“I’ll make it gross.” Gross-er technically as he’s already been sweating on it, but he can’t say that much out loud. That would be too much to admit too- and they must all already know anyway.
Alfred’s lips quirk in what seems like a fond smile and Tim doesn’t really know how to handle that, but he likes it a lot.
“Blankets can be washed my dear boy, don’t you fret.”
“I’ll go get the car.” Tim vaguely hears his dad grumbling and announcing his quest and mom says something in reply but Tim doesn’t quite catch it.
“Can you walk a little bit now, Timbo? It’s ok if you can’t, just-“ Dick is asking him softly and Tim shakes his head before he has to stop because that still hurts (although it hurts a little less now, thank you Alfred’s Acetaminophen).
“I can walk.” He croaks, loath as he is to let go of Dick’s strength and his warmth but he’s 10, he’s no baby, he can stand on his own two feet.
And he does, when they set him down- though it takes Bruce’s steady hand on his shoulder and the supervising gaze of Janet Drake to motivate the damn things into cooperating.
He does manage.
Jason disappeared at some point Tim realizes and he tries not to feel disappointed. Robin kept him company for like 30 whole minutes and he will not be ungrateful. That would be terribly rude and Tim is not rude. He is not.
His mother would kill him.
Somehow his mother gets her coat and Tim watches as Bruce helps her put it on, her smile bright and sharp and dazzling as she slips into the deep purple mink that she picked up on a trip to Moscow last year.
Tim did not get to go, he almost never does, but they did bring him back a Batman themed matryoshka so Tim did not feel put out at all about that one. Sometimes when he gets particularly bored during Piano practice he sets a recording of him shittily playing Chopin to loop on his keyboard so he can unstack the hand painted wooden dolls and grin at Batman and Nightwing and Robin and a teeny tiny painting of a knocked-out joker that are sequentially revealed.
Suffice to say Tim is not very good at Piano.
Headlights flash through the glass of the broad double doors at the front foyer and Tim takes a fortifying breath, knowing it’s time to leave this strange remarkable mistake of an evening behind.
He sneezes. Some of it gets on Alfred’s blanket. Tim sighs.
“Take my arm, Timothy, it’s time to go.” Janet orders, her voice a little gentler than her usual crisp cadence and Tim appreciates the effort.
The party is still going full swing, the ball room not even a hundred feet away, and the waves of noise it’s sending Tim’s way feel like ushering hands on his back, urging him out the door. So he grits his teeth and obeys, shivering and ache-y and still kind of sick to his stomach (but in a “I’ll throw up later” kind of way, not “I’ll throw up now.” And that’s no small blessing that Tim can be thankful for).
“Wait a sec!” Jason’s voice rings out from behind and Tim, who had been staring down the front doors like they were a particularly challenging foe, turns with just a bit of a wobble to find Jason jogging towards him from the direction of the ballroom. Something gold and glittering is in his hands and Tim squints at it in confusion.
When he gets close Jason shoves the gold something at Tim and the younger has to reach up and grab it, but his arms are still wrapped in blanket so it looks kind of like he’s holding what turns out to be a wrapped present with oven mitts and for some reason this is a very funny idea for Tim. He giggles before he can help himself- a babyish, undignified sound, but when he glances up at Robin the boy is smiling and Tim doesn’t feel as embarrassed as he should.
“You’re leaving before Santa can hand out presents.” Jason explains, gesturing with his thumb towards Batman and Tim has a weird waking hallucination for a moment, seeing Bruce in his armor and cowl and also a red hat and a white beard and he giggles again, helplessly amused. He blinks the vision away and looks down at the box.
“What ib it?” He rasps, not even wincing at his stuffy words, and Jason chuffs him gently in the shoulder.
“It’s a present, Timbit, you have to open it to find out.”
“Which you can do at home, Timothy. Come on, let’s get you to bed. I’ll make you some tea.”
Tim turns to his mother, unaware of the look of open yearning on his face. “Promise?” He asks pleading, and Janet gives him a strange look.
“Of course.”
Janet Drake makes her own teas, bringing back ingredients from her travels all over the world. It’s just a little hobby, but she takes it seriously and doesn’t share very often.
A lot of her teas are bitter and medicinal and Tim can’t say he likes the taste on the rare occasions she brews something for him, but he always likes that she takes the time and gives it to him directly, pressing the warm teacup into his little hands, and he always drinks it dutifully.
They bid a last goodbye to the Wayne clan, Bruce already distracted by another wiry gentleman with a needsome look on his face and a drink in his hand. It’s a bit tiresome to bundle into the car, but dad is already blasting the heat and the Mercedes has very comfortable seats and it’s not longer than 5 or so minutes to get down the Wayne’s long drive, down the road a bit, then back up their own winding drive, but Tim shuts his eyes, determined to make it 5 minutes well spent.
“Well, that was unconventional.” Janet announces when she slides into the front seat and shuts the door, blessedly cutting off the cold air from getting in.
“Sorry.” Tim makes a concerted effort to annunciate for his father’s sake.
“In the future, Timothy, I expect you to take greater responsibility. If you are this ill it’s imperative that you stay home, understand? Everything worked out well enough tonight but that won’t always be the case.” She warns him with a serious tone but dad huffs a sort of laugh and she doesn’t sound angry so Tim keeps his eyes shut and tries not to feel too guilty.
He’ll feel guiltier later, when he feels better, but for the moment he just needs to feel sick.
“Yes mom, sorry.”
“It is what it is, sport. We’ll be home soon.” Dad chimes in distractedly, fiddling with the radio. Tim would appreciate the silence but it’s dad’s car and dad driving so he keeps his lips shut.
The night ends with him wrapped up in bed and an empty mug that once held woad root tea is abandoned on his nightstand. Tim burrows into Alfred’s blanket and remembers a cool cloth across his brow and silk velvet under his cheek.
At 10 the following morning- Christmas Eve, though his family doesn’t do much to celebrate- his dad will wake him and usher him downstairs in his pjs and blanket to greet Alfred Pennyworth as the man sets down a large tureen of homemade soup on the kitchen counter.
Jason and Dick will come by later with a Christmas card signed by all of them and a batch of cookies and a scarf for Tim that apparently Alfred made himself, by hand, and rationally Tim will know he must have knit it some other time and just decided to hand it off to Tim now- but Christmas is a time for miracles, so the old folks say, so he will selfishly believe, just a little bit, that maybe the man made it specially for him overnight like some kind of Christmas elf. Maybe the man is magic- Tim is building a growing pile of evidence to convince himself with.
Jack and Janet will be perplexed and vocal in their thanks and ask if Bruce wants to get lunch some time, they can talk shop, but Dick will politely redirect and ruffle Tim’s hair and wish them all a Merry Christmas and slip away just like that.
Tim will tell himself that this is officially the best Christmas ever.
But for now he’s nuzzled in against the soft plaid wool. He curls his knees up towards his chest, still shivering a bit but feeling confident he’ll warm up soon.
Tim made a lot of mistakes tonight but somehow, as he drifts off to sleep, thinking of the gold wrapped present under their little tree that he will open on Christmas morning as is good and proper, he can’t bring himself to regret them.
He doesn’t wish for a time machine or a hole to hide in.
No, as he drifts off to sleep, he only wishes that next year’s Batman’s Christmas Party will be at least as good as this one has been.