Chapter Text
For as long as Bruce could remember, he was sick.
Not dramatically, not in any way that seemed worth mentioning. Just a constant, low-grade sort of misery he’d long since learned to function around. Headaches that settled behind his eyes from doing absolutely nothing. A cough that clawed its way out of his chest after something as simple as walking up the stairs. The kind of exhaustion that never really left, no matter how much sleep he forced himself to get.
It had become background noise.
It didn’t bother him for the most part, or at least that was what he told everyone. Gotham wasn’t exactly known for clean air, and the manor was old enough to probably have dust from three separate centuries clogging its vents. Usually that explanation was enough for him.
Unfortunately, it was no longer enough for anyone else.
Dick had been after him for weeks, alternating between concern and outright annoyance every time Bruce brushed it off. Alfred’s disappointed looks had somehow become even sharper than usual. Even Jason had muttered something about him looking “like warmed-over death,” which, coming from Jason, was saying something.
And then there were the glances.
The quiet, worried looks from around the breakfast table. The way conversations paused when he coughed too hard. The subtle checking to make sure he was still standing after patrol.
It was grating.
At some point, Bruce had to give in if only to make them stop hovering. Something had to change. He was barely able to patrol these days, his body lagging half a second behind every movement, his lungs burning beneath the protective gear. He could feel himself slowing down.
So here he was.
The car idled softly in the manor’s garage, the dashboard screen casting a pale blue glow across the dark interior. A route to the nearest urgent care blinked patiently back at him, each turn neatly mapped out. The engine hummed beneath his hands on the wheel, steady and familiar.
For a moment, Bruce just sat there, staring at it.
Then a sharp tap sounded against the driver’s side window.
He looked over to find Tim standing there, hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of his hoodie, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
Bruce rolled the window down.
Tim hesitated for half a second, eyes flicking anywhere but Bruce’s face.
“Could I come with you?” he asked, voice quieter than usual, almost shy. “My stomach’s been hurting all week.”
Bruce blinked.
Tim rarely admitted when something was wrong. Usually Bruce had to piece it together from skipped meals, dark circles, and increasingly concerning amounts of coffee.
For him to ask outright was strange. Bruce’s expression softened. He offered a small smile and nodded toward the passenger side.
“Sure,” he said easily. “It saves us an extra trip.”
Tim’s shoulders loosened, just slightly, and he gave a quick nod before circling around the front of the car. Bruce watched him go, a strange unease settling in his chest that had nothing to do with the cough still lingering there.
Tim hears the soft click of the doors unlocking and crosses around to the passenger side. The garage doors rumble open above them, and they pull out into Gotham traffic, the city swallowing them in a stretch of slightly awkward silence. Bruce had long since learned not to force conversation with the Robins.
The silence lingered until they reached the urgent care, pulling into a desolate parking lot. It was nearly empty, save for a homeless stranger lingering on the far side. Bruce turned off the engine and they stepped out, the doors locking behind them with a click.
According to Bruce’s phone, the urgent care had opened only twenty minutes ago. The waiting room should have been full: children with runny noses, annoyed parents and their paperwork, the low hum of television. Instead, it was empty.
Which was strange, considering this was easily the nicest urgent care in Gotham. Most people in the city preferred coming here if they had the choice. Still, Bruce pushed the thought aside.
He wrote their names on the sign-in sheet, handed the receptionist both his and Tim’s insurance cards, and briefly explained what had been going on. Beside him, Tim nodded along absently, his eyes drifting around the room with an uneasy tension. Then he notices something.
He taps the edge of the brochure sitting on the urgent care desk, impossible to ignore. Free PrEP care, it reads. He nudges Bruce with his elbow, voice dropping just enough to pretend it’s subtle.
“What’s that for?”
Bruce barely looks up at first, following the line of Tim’s finger with a distracted glance. His eyes settle on the pamphlet, and he gives a small shrug.
“Oh. It’s a medication. Reduces the risk of HIV. marketed toward gay men.”
Before his attention drifts back to the paperwork in his lap.
Tim absorbs this information, staying silent for a second.
Then, far too loudly,
“Ohhh.”
The sound cuts clean through the low murmur of the waiting room. A few people glance over. Tim doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care.
“My Father doesn’t think gay people are real.”
Silence. A chair creaks. Someone coughs. Every head within earshot turns toward Tim Drake, who, at this moment, absolutely should not be announcing this in an urgent care waiting room.
Bruce freezes. Just for a second.
“Yeah, he thinks they’re made up by Poison Ivy,” Tim barrels on, voice carrying like he’s presenting to the entire waiting room. “Every gay couple is just Poison Ivy. It’s a whole conspiracy that’s been going around on-“
Bruce’s hand lands on his shoulder. Firm and grounding. It almost works.
Tim leans forward instead, dropping his voice only a fraction, and more people turn their heads.
“—because, okay, she’s got those pheromones, right? The plant toxin thing? Father says she could totally tweak them, make people feel things they didn’t before. Rewire attraction. He says she probably releases it through spores or something, like pollen, and it just gets into the air, and then suddenly everyone’s holding hands and they’re all on Grindr—”
“Tim.”
This time it lands. Tim blinks, words stuttering to a halt as if Bruce has physically pulled the plug.
“You should not,” Bruce says, very evenly now, “be discussing your father’s homophobic conspiracy theories at full volume in a public waiting room.”
He gives Tim a small shake. Not rough, not even close, just enough to get him back into the moment. Up close, the signs are obvious: the faint glassiness in his eyes, the restless energy humming under his skin, the way his thoughts are sprinting ahead of any filter. He’s been off all afternoon. Loopy, overstimulated, trying to outrun whatever pain he’s been pretending isn’t there.
Tim exhales, deflating a little. “Right. Sorry.”
A beat.
“…For the record,” he adds, quieter now but still unable to fully help himself, “the science doesn’t even check out.”
Across the room, a few people pretend very hard not to be staring.
Bruce doesn’t let go of his shoulder right away.
“Drake?”
The voice cuts through the moment. Both of them look up.
The doctor standing in the doorway looks like he’s already bored of them. Tall but slightly hunched, his dark blond hair sticking up at every angle. Stubble shadows his jaw, uneven and a little too grown in to be intentional. Pale blue eyes flick between them, sharp and assessing. There’s a cane hooked loosely in one hand, which he leans on. Tim feels a spark of recognition, which he files away for later.
“Please come to the exam room,” he adds, flat.
Tim pushes himself up, immediately wobbling.
“whoa,” he mutters, grabbing onto Bruce’s arm without thinking, his balance tipping sideways.
Bruce is already there, steadying him without hesitation. His grip tightens just slightly.
“I’ve got you,” he says quietly.
Tim leans into him more than he probably realizes.
Bruce notices.
He doesn’t comment, just adjusts his hold, guiding him forward as they move toward the open door together. The doctor has already abandoned them, cane clicking down the hall.
Tim shrugs off Bruce’s supportive hand with more force than necessary, suddenly trying very hard to look independent.
“I can go myself,” he muttered. “Wait for your name to be called.”
There was a tiredness to him that Bruce didn’t like, something resigned and dull around the edges.
Bruce frowned, but nodded. “Alright.”
Tim gives a quick shrug and follows Dr. House deeper into the urgent care.
The place had only just opened, the digital clock behind reception barely reading 11:07 AM, but it still felt strangely empty.
Just the hum of overhead lights and the squeak of House’s cane against tile.
“You’re awfully pale,” House remarked as they walked.
“Thanks.”
“Do rich kids get sick differently or are you people normal under all the cashmere?”
Tim snorted weakly despite himself. “I think it’s just regular sick.”
“Hm.”
The doctor pushed open the exam room door with his cane.
Tim climbed carefully onto the paper-lined table.
“So,” he said, sounding deeply uninterested, “tell me about your symptoms.”
“Dizziness. Nausea. Brain fog.”
“How long?”
“A couple weeks?”
“Sleeping enough?”
Tim gave him a flat look.
House glanced up. “That bad, huh?”
“…Something like that.”
“Hm.” Scribble scribble. “Any recent injuries?”
“No.”
“Concussions?”
“No.”
“Exposure to toxins? Mold? Industrial runoff? Fear gas? Gotham tap water?”
Tim cracked a reluctant smile. “Probably the last one.”
“Smartass. Good sign neurologically.”
House continued writing.
“Any family history of chronic illness?”
“Not really.”
“What about financial stress?”
“What?”
“Medical debt causes all kinds of symptoms.”
“We’re not in debt.”
“Right. Forgot you people have money.”
The questions drifted oddly after that.
“Do you know what insurance provider your family uses?”
“No?”
“Mm. What type of plan?”
“How would I know that?”
“God, teenagers are useless.”
“You live with Bruce Wayne, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Big house.”
“…I guess?”
“Historic property too. Bet maintenance on that place is a nightmare.”
“Flood damage would be catastrophic there.”
“What?”
“Huge insurance valuation though.” Scribble scribble. “Probably excellent asset protection.”
Tim stared at him.
The room felt too quiet.
No nurses. No phones.
The doctor’s coat was too clean. The ID badge was upside down.
“As they say,” the doctor began lightly, “an apple a day keeps the doctor away.”
He smiled. Too wide. Tim’s stomach dropped. This wasn’t Dr. House. This was someone pretending to be him. The cane hit the floor. The prosthetic peeled away. A red grin stretched impossibly wider.
“Isn’t that right?” The Joker asked pleasantly.
“Now then,” he said, tossing the fake face aside, “hand over your insurance card.”
Tim slid carefully off the exam table, dizziness immediately protesting the movement. He still shifted instinctively into a defensive stance.
“What?”
“Oh, relax.” Joker waved a gloved hand dismissively. “If I wanted to kill you, we’d already be doing a much more interesting scene.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“I’m serious! This is administrative.” Joker held out the clipboard expectantly. “Insurance card. Maybe a credit card. Any supplemental coverage documentation if you’ve got it.”
Tim stared at him.
“…You’re mugging me for healthcare information.”
Joker looked genuinely offended.
“Mugging is so crude. I’m conducting financial research.”
“Okay, fine.”
Tim let out a slow breath and opened his wallet, hands a little steadier than he felt. One by one, he handed over what he had: debit card, insurance card, and a backup credit card Bruce insisted he carry “in case of emergencies,” which, Tim thought grimly, this definitely qualified as.
Joker took each item with far too much enthusiasm, flipping them over like they were rare collectibles.
“Oho, very nice,” he said, holding up the credit card. “Gotham rich kid starter pack. Very complete.”
“I’d like to leave now,” Tim said flatly.
“Of course, of course,” Joker chirped. “We’re basically done.”
“Driver’s license or another form of ID too, please!” he added, holding his hand out again like this was a checkout counter.
Tim hesitated for half a second, then handed it over anyway.
Joker took it, glanced down.
“Hm.”
Nothing immediate. No sudden recognition. No dramatic shift. Just a thoughtful pause.
“You’re not my usual type of customer,” Joker said casually.
Tim frowned. “That’s… concerning.”
“Nah,” Joker said, tucking everything together neatly. “You’re actually easier. Clean data. Stable household. Boring but in a profitable way.”
That made no sense to Tim, but before he could press it, Joker was already turning away. He tapped the clipboard once against his palm.
“Alright,” he said briskly. “We’re good here.”
That was it.
No threat. No trap. No dramatic reveal. Just dismissal, like Tim was a line item that had been processed.
Tim didn’t move for a second, waiting for the catch that didn’t come.
Joker was already limping toward the door, mask back on.
“Tell your dad I said hi,” he added over his shoulder. “Actually, don’t. That feels like a paperwork violation.”
Then he was gone.
The silence he left behind felt heavier than anything he’d said.
Tim found Bruce in the waiting area a few minutes later. Bruce looked up immediately. “What happened?”
Tim grabbed his sleeve before he even fully stopped walking.
“We need to go.”
Bruce blinked. “Tim-”
“I’ll explain later.” Tim’s eyes flicked toward the hallway Joker had disappeared down, sharp and alert now in a way that cut through the dizziness. “Just… we need to leave. Now.”
Bruce studied him for half a second—long enough to see something in Tim’s expression that made his own shift.
“Alright,” Bruce said quietly.
They didn’t argue. They just left.
---
The drive back to the manor was too quiet.
The city slid past outside the tinted windows, normal Gotham noise pressing against the glass like nothing had happened at all. Traffic. Pedestrians. A street vendor setting up a cart like the world wasn’t full of people like Joker calmly collecting insurance data in medical buildings.
Tim stared out the window. His stomach still felt wrong. Not nauseous anymore, something colder. Behind them, the urgent care vanished into the city block like it had never been there in the first place.
Bruce spoke first.
“Talk to me.”
Tim hesitated.
Then: “It wasn’t House.”
That got a look from Bruce. Immediate focus.
Tim swallowed. “It was Joker.”
Silence.
Bruce’s grip tightened slightly on the wheel.
“…Explain.”
So Tim did.
He kept it short at first: the empty clinic, the wrong details, the questions that didn’t sound like medical questions, the insurance cards, the ID. The way Joker wasn’t really trying to scare him. Just… process him.
Bruce didn’t interrupt once.
By the time Tim finished, the car had already turned into the manor gates.
“…He let you go,” Bruce said finally.
“Yeah,” Tim replied. “After he got what he wanted.”