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The saying was simple: "A falling knife has no handle." And yet, somehow, Tim had forgotten it.
He'd been trying to cook himself dinner. Chop up potatoes and carrots for a little roasting in the oven, and then drizzle them with garlic butter when they were out. Tim had never made it before, but following a recipe was simple enough. Or at least, it had been, until he didn't apply enough force to actually cut the damn potato in half, and the knife had slipped from his grasp and plummeted towards the ground.
Where Tim had tried to catch it out of reflex.
And now his forearm was sporting a nasty gash that was spilling blood all over the kitchen's hardwood floor. His parents were going to be pissed.
For a moment he was frozen in shock, watching the blood drip down his arm. Then he regained his senses and quickly put pressure on it with his other hand. It stemmed the bleeding somewhat, but a few droplets still stained his fingers. Still. It was better than nothing.
He had to fix this. They had a first aid kit, didn't they? In the downstairs bathroom, under the sink. Tim turned off the preheating oven and forced his legs to move.
The kit was easy to find, right where he expected it to be. They didn't use it often enough for it to be missing. Tim flipped the lid open, and took stock of what was inside. Some Neosporin spray, a bottle of ibuprofen, a handful of Band-Aids way too small for his cut, and a thermometer.
Not exactly the most helpful for his current situation. Tim used the Neosporin to help clean the wound, and put the first-aid kit back.
What he probably actually needed were stitches. And, if he remembered correctly, his mother kept a sewing basket on top of her dresser. Needles and thread were needles and thread, right? It didn't need to be in the kit for him to make use of it.
Tim stumbled upstairs, blood dripping onto the pristine white carpet the entire way there. He made a mental note to put hydrogen peroxide on it later. Tim really didn't want to imagine the lecture he'd get if his parents came home to a Jackson Pollock of stains all over the house.
He grabbed the sewing basket, brought it into the ensuite bathroom to make the inevitable cleanup a little easier, and sat down cross-legged on the floor. There was a needle already tied with a length of black thread, which was fortunate; Tim was never the best at those sorts of tiny knots. Stitches, though, he figured he could manage. How hard could it be?
Still, the idea of piercing his own skin was… daunting. He could be brave, though. Tim was twelve now. That was plenty old enough to suck it up and get it over with. Or else he'd keep leaking blood everywhere, and that was no good. So, sticking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, Tim lined up the needle's point with the far end of the cut. He took a deep breath, summoned up all the willpower he could muster, and pushed.
And then promptly yelped and dropped the needle on the floor. God, why did it hurt so much? Was he doing it wrong? Tears sprang to his eyes. He knew there was no way he'd be able to make himself try again, not with how much his first attempt had stung. It was even bleeding itself, from the pinprick. He'd only made matters worse.
Tim wanted to cry. This was a basic problem that he needed to solve, and he'd failed. He was still bleeding, and he couldn't fix it, and he had no idea what he could do now. A hospital or clinic wouldn't work. They'd ask where his parents were, and even if (big if) he managed to lie convincingly enough to not get a social worker sicced on him, the Drakes would still see the charge pop up on their insurance and question why he had to go in at all. But if he did nothing, Tim might just bleed out and die. He already felt faint.
The question crossed his mind then of if his parents would prefer to find him dead, over him ruining their reputation by exposing the fact they always left him home alone. Tim wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.
But no. Dying wasn't an option. Besides, it would probably only cause more problems for his parents, anyway. Which meant Tim had to figure something else out. Something better than wrapping his arm in duct tape. Preferably someone who knew how to do stitches, and wouldn't ask questions. He needed someone like Batman.
And… maybe he could go to Batman. Tim was pretty sure that even feeling as woozy as he did, he could make it just next door. It wasn't a great plan—he'd barely even met Bruce Wayne before—but it was certainly better than nothing, and Batman had always seemed nice to kids when Tim had snuck his picture. He didn't exactly have better ideas.
Tim pushed himself to his feet and picked the needle up off the floor. He gave it a brief wash in the sink, then stuck it in the pocket of his jeans to bring with him. If he was going to burden Batman with his problems, he could at least not waste his resources as well as his time.
He managed to make it back down the stairs and out the door without falling, and crossed over the lawn to Wayne Manor, clutching his arm the whole time. He was dripping blood on the grass, too. At least rain would wash it away.
Somehow he was able to hit the doorbell with his elbow without removing the pressure from his forearm. Hopefully Mr. Wayne wouldn't take too long to answer.
And sure enough, the door did open swiftly—but not by Mr. Wayne. Instead Dick Grayson stood in the doorway, brow furrowed. "Hello?" His eyes drifted downwards, to Tim's cut, and his eyes widened. "Oof. That's not good, kid. You need a doctor. Need a ride to the urgent care?"
Tim shook his head. That was absolutely the last thing he wanted. "Is Mr. Wayne home?" he asked.
Dick blinked, clearly confused, but obliged. "Bruce!" he called over his shoulder. "Some kid is bleeding on our porch and wants to see you. I think it's the one from next door?"
"Yeah," Tim said softly. "I am. The neighbor. Tim Drake."
"Great. Okay, Tim." Dick ran a hand through his hair. "Where are your parents? Are you sure you don't want me to take you to a doctor? That's a lot of blood."
"I can wait for Mr. Wayne," Tim replied. "And my parents are… out running errands." He had hoped he wouldn't be asked things like this, but then again, he'd expected Batman, not Nightwing.
"Right." Dick ushered Tim inside. Thankfully, the foyer had a carved stone floor that should be easy enough to clean if any blood slipped past his fingers. "So," Dick continued, "you came here? But you don't want a ride? I promise I can drive, Tim. You don't need to wait for Bruce for that. Why the insistence?"
Tim was fed up and past the point of trying to come up with a good explanation. He was exhausted, and bloody, and needed a better excuse than 'hospitals will get me taken away from home.' So instead, he just decided to tell the truth. As much of it as he could. "Because Batman knows how to do stitches."
Dick inhaled sharply, obviously taken aback. "I—I don't know what you're talking about. Batman doesn't live here."
"Yes he does, and you're Nightwing. Now can you please get Mr Wayne to help with my arm?"
As if on cue, Wayne appeared behind Dick's shoulder. "I'll take it from here. Dick, grab me the sutures from you-know-where. Tim, follow me."
Tim obeyed, hoping Wayne wouldn't be too upset about the blood on his hardwood floors. Tim doubted he'd be allowed to stay long enough to clean it up himself.
He was led into a large sitting room, warm with a roaring fire and expensive woven rugs. "I brought my own materials, Mr. Wayne," Tim said, pulling the needle and thread from his pocket.
"No." Wayne shook his head. "You don't want an infection. We'll use mine. Have a seat on the couch and I'll have a look at it for you. …And call me Bruce."
When Tim was seated, Bruce sat next to him and gently took his arm to see the cut. He sucked in through his teeth. "That’s certainly a nasty laceration."
"I was making dinner," Tim explained. No reason to keep Batman wondering.
Dick returned with a small plastic kit, and set it on the coffee table nearby before sitting in a chair just off to the side. He was watching, worry written on his face. Whether that was because of how bad the wound looked or because Tim knew his secret identity, Tim couldn't be sure.
It didn't seem to faze Bruce, though. He opened the kit and took out an alcohol wipe, which he opened and rubbed over the cut. Tim winced at the sting. Still, he knew better than to complain. His parents had made it very clear that if something was necessary, it was rude to act like it hurt. And the last thing Tim wanted was to be rude to Batman.
Bruce reached for a needle and suture next. "Hold still," he said. "This might pinch." Tim obliged. It did pinch, a little, as he started, but it was much more tolerable than Tim's own attempt. Bruce briefly met his gaze as he continued to form the stitches. "Can I ask why you think I'm Batman?"
Tim's heart leapt into his throat. If he tried to avoid the answer, or said the wrong thing, Bruce might stop helping him and let him keep bleeding. He shot a sideways glance at Dick. The truth was probably safest. "I figured out Nightwing first, actually. He was patrolling the city one evening a couple years ago and I saw him do a flip that almost nobody else can do. But I also saw Dick Grayson do the same flip at the last Flying Graysons show, and… well, if Dick Grayson was the first Robin, it naturally follows that Batman must be Bruce Wayne." No need to go into how Tim had confirmed it with his cameras on his own afterwards. That wouldn't do him any good.
Bruce went quiet for a moment. "I… see." He refocused on the stitches. "Quite the analysis you have there." Dick, meanwhile, had gone somewhat pale.
"I won't tell anyone," Tim added quickly. "I’ve known for years. You don't have to worry about me letting it slip."
"That's good to know." Bruce finished the stitches, patted Tim's arm lightly, and stood up. "I should call your parents. I’m sure they'll want to know how you got these."
"No!" Tim shouted. He stood up, regretting how loud he'd been, but it was important. His parents couldn't know. "It's—it's okay. I can go home and tell them myself when they get back."
"Tim, it would be irresponsible of me to let you do that. I'm not letting you go home until I know someone can take care of you there. When are your parents supposed to return? I can call them then."
Tim hesitated. He was caught now. "They… won't be back for a few days." Or months. "They won't notice the stitches. It's okay."
Bruce let out a low sigh, as if he had half-expected that response. "Then you'll just have to stay the night. Dick, can you tell Alfred to make sure there's enough dinner for another guest?" Dick nodded and got up to head out of the room while Bruce kept talking. "And if you have any food allergies, please, now's the time to let me know."
"I don't."
"Good." Bruce picked up the suture kit and tucked it inside his suit jacket pocket. "Then follow me. I'll show you around the house. And when Jason gets back from his play rehearsal, perhaps you can meet him as well. He's closer to your age."
Tim lit up. "I get to meet Robin?"
Bruce smiled. "Yes," he said. "I suppose you do."