Chapter Text
Physical touch was a foreign concept to Timothy Drake.
Of course, it’s not like he was never touched. The shake of a hand at a gala, a pinch of the cheek by the elderly, the push of sweaty kids during gym class. But nothing like what they show in movies or write about in books.
His parents were as distant as they could get. Most of the year they were out, traveling the world on a dig in butt-fuck nowhere, only showing up maybe twice a year for a week. Two weeks if Tim was lucky.
Even when they were briefly there, they didn’t touch him at all. Actually, they barely touched each other. No hugs, no hand holding, not even a slight pat on the shoulder, a kiss on the cheek. If they weren’t wearing their wedding rings you wouldn’t even know they were married. They were as emotionally distant to Tim as they were to each other. It was the only example of a family Tim had. Even the nannies, who were few and far in between until they just stopped coming, were strictly instructed to show no affection towards him under any circumstance.
On a completely unrelated note that has nothing to do with that: Tim hated the discomforting hollow feeling that kept growing inside of him as the days went by. Unknown of the cause, unknown of its cure. Whether it was in relation to the lack of human touch remained a mystery. It’s not like he could test it out. What was he supposed to do? Just walk up to his parents and ask for a hug? Who even does that?
It’s not like he had time to experiment, or anyone around to experiment with. He had a simple routine. Go to school, do homework, take a power nap, change into less “proper clothes fit for an heir”, grab his camera and satchel and follow the heroes of Gotham’s night from a safe distance.
It didn’t take long for him to learn Batman and Robin’s identities. It wasn’t hard, really. Tim was surprised no one else had figured it out sooner.
When Robin died and Tim watched Bruce fall apart as both Batman and “Brucie”, Tim saw an opportunity. Timothy Jackson Drake was the definition of “I can fix him”.
After begging and prodding and bothering and failing to get Dick to return to be Robin, Tim knew what he had to do. Against much protest from Bruce, Tim stepped up as Robin.
Being with Batman wasn’t all too different. Ridden with grief over the loss of his son, Batman was even more emotionally distant than his parents. Or maybe it was the same amount, just felt enhanced because he was around more often. A lot more often. Batman needed a Robin. He needed balance. He almost killed someone the other night out of rage blinded by the stinging pain in his heart. Robin needed to bring Batman back to the ground. Tim needed to bring Bruce back to the ground.
That was his mission. Batman brought justice to Gotham and Robin brought sense to Batman. That was his job. To help Batman.
So when fighting Poison Ivy, and he got hit with a face full of pollen without Batman realizing, he didn’t mention it. What Batman doesn’t know can’t hurt him.
Back at the batcave when asked for a report, he said that everything was fine, no injuries aside from a scraped elbow. Usually he would hide every and all injuries he had, but the wound on his elbow was already visible, so he couldn’t lie. He didn’t mention the scrape on the side of his leg, nor his bruised side. Not a word about the pollen. Not a word about the cold that was slowly seeping into his veins.
The pollen worked in stages. It took at least 30 minutes before its symptoms started being noticeable. After that, slowly, within the first hour, coldness will start to take over. Pour into your veins and take every ounce of body warmth away.
When Alfred offered to help him patch up his arms, he refused. It’s just a scrape. He can handle it himself. He was fifteen, and lived on his own. He knew how to take care of himself. He wasn’t a little kid who had to cry for their mommy at the slightest bruise.
This was all a test. Every injury was a test. How well can Tim deal with his injuries without breaking down? The moment he would ask for help, he’d lose his title as Robin, he was sure of it. No Robin should be bested by their minor injuries. This was a test, and Tim wasn’t going to fail.
He quickly wrapped the bandage around his arm and grabbed the bare minimum amount of band aids needed to wrap himself up. Who cares if Bruce was a billionaire. You don’t waste more supplies than absolutely needed when it comes to other people’s stuff. He may be rich himself, but his parents taught him manners thank you very much.
“I’m heading home.” Tim announced as he put on a long sleeved shirt to hide the bandage from the outside world. His body got progressively colder, and he shouldn’t stay in here for much longer. Who knows how long he could keep this charade up?
“Tim, you're injured. I don’t think I’m comfortable with you going home alone.” Bruce explained, not bothering to look at Tim as he wrapped his own arm in a bandage. Tim knew that Bruce had just said that to be polite. “You can stay in your room here.”
His room here. It barely counted as his considering how little he stayed at Wayne manor. There was a little pang in his heart either way. A desire to take Bruce up on his offer. Spend the night, enjoy a home cooked meal by Alfred, maybe get held through the effects of the pollen.
But that was the pollen speaking. Or another test to see if he would falter. Or both. Either way, he was not giving in. He had to get out of here. Now.
“Thanks, but no thanks.” Tim couldn’t come up with an excuse as to why and was glad Bruce didn’t poke around for one either, “It’s just a scrape. See you tomorrow.” He swung his backpack over his shoulder, bit his lip as he fought a wince, and hurried out of the Batcave without looking back.
It took for-fucking-ever to reach his house. The moment he closed the door, he leaned against it and slid through his knees onto the floor. The cold had taken full effect. It was only a matter of time stage two would commence and he had to get to his room. Now.
He crawled over to a plant pot in the corner and used it to hoist himself up. With shaky legs he made his way to his room. He pulled himself up the stairs that kept getting longer every time he returned home.
He didn’t bother closing the door once he reached his bedroom. He shrugged his backpack off and all but collapsed onto his bed. His arms were resting on the mattress as the rest of his body hung from his bed. He couldn’t move. The second stage had arrived.
Stage 2 of cuddle pollen: pain. The ache in your limbs. The feeling of someone pinching and twisting the most sensitive part of your arm was distributed throughout your entire body. Your legs feel heavy and you feel paralyzed like you cannot move them. The cold stays and lingers, making the pain just so much worse. All joints, but mostly the knees, start to ache. If left untreated, the effects will last 36 hours. The effects get enhanced if someone touches you and lets go.
Tim screamed. He was alone now. He was allowed to be pathetic. He was allowed to feel small. He was allowed to scream his lungs out. He was in the comfort of his own home. His empty, hollow home. Alone.
None here to see him. No one to witness his weakness.
One night. He was allowing himself one night. One night to be and act as pathetic as he feels. Then the next morning, get up. Spend the Saturday morning trying to get used to the symptoms. Then put on his uniform and go on patrol like every other day as if nothing was wrong. He got hit around 11pm, It was currently almost 2 AM. He’ll sleep off at least 10 hours. Not too many otherwise he won’t be exposed long enough to grow to tolerate. Good plan.
He wailed and cried and screamed till he nearly lost his voice. Screamed for his mother. His father. Anyone. Knowing full well no one was going to come.
He wanted someone to hold him. Cradle him, like they did in the movies and books. He wanted to be held like the toddlers he held when he saved them from buildings laced with fire and fear toxin. He wanted to be held, told that everything was going to be alright.
He wanted to chop his legs off to stop the pain. His legs were aching so badly. Like something was clawing at it, trying to devour it like how bacteria digest dead leaves and birds. He wanted to stick his body in boiling water to just make it stop.
He so desperately wanted somebody to hold him. Pick him up in their arms, hold them, tell them everything was going to be alright. That he wasn’t weak. That it wasn’t a test. That he was allowed to feel weak. He wanted his mother to hold him like the ones in books and movies. To hum him a lullaby till he falls asleep, safely wrapped in her arms. Protected from the world.
Somewhere deep down inside of him, he had hoped Bruce had followed him. That Bruce hadn’t believed Tim and would come to check up on him. To hold him and tell him this wouldn’t mean he’d lose his role as Robin. To take him under his cape.
But no one came.
Tim woke up four hours later curled up on the floor. His ribs were screaming in pain and the coldness and aching hadn’t gone away. He counted to three, pushed himself up and clambered onto his bed. He pushed his back to the wall his bed was against.
He placed a pillow in his neck to level his head, one between the dip of his ribcage and hips for support, a long one between his knees to his ankles and a big pillow in his arms to keep his other shoulder from caving. That way he supported all his joints. That way he ensured that he’d wake up with at least a little less pain.
That way, he could pretend he was holding someone in his arms as he slept.
He didn’t remember falling asleep. He just knew that he was staring at his door, waiting for someone to open it, scoop him up and hold him for all remaining 30 hours.
And yet again, no one came.
Tim had gotten scary good at waking up the exact time he wanted without putting an alarm. It was the power of anxiety and a little voice in his dreams telling him he’d been suspiciously sleeping for a little too long.
He woke up, sun blaring through the window, in the exact same position as he had fallen asleep. In the exact same empty, cold, dark, manor.
His limbs still ached, screaming for some relief, but it’s not like that was an option. He forced himself out of bed and slowly stumbled his way to his bathroom. He passed his mirror and caught a glimpse of himself.
He looked like absolute shit. Red puffy eyes, tear stained hollow cheeks, terrible posture (“one that could rival the Hunchback of Northerdame” his father would say), shaking so hard it could count as hyperventilating.
He stepped into the shower and turned it on the hottest setting. He would step out flushed red, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. He scrubbed himself as fast as he could. Which wasn’t very fast considering just washing his face took a whole 2 minutes of shaky arms and trembling fingers lightly brushing one cheek at a time.
It took way longer than he would have liked, but he had gotten to a point where he could move slightly faster than before. A win is a win. He slowly bandaged his ribs, spread ointment on his bruises, stared at his toothbrush, and decided he’d brush his teeth before patrol.
He spent the rest of the day constantly moving. Trying to perfect normalcy. He didn’t want to chop all his limbs off to stop the pain because that would be easier than asking for help, what are you on about?
That night he went on patrol like any other night. He still hadn’t perfected his mask, so he stayed carefully at all times just in the corner of Batman’s eyesight.
The desperate need not to be touched became his defense. If any of these goons even laid a finger on him, the pain would spike and he didn’t know how well he’d be able to hold his composure if that were to happen.
He became scarily good at dodging and at quickly moving from one place to the other. When Batman asked, Tim chalked it up to spending all day training. What kind of training, Batman didn’t need to know. Again, what Batman doesn’t know can’t hurt him.
Tim was so exhausted after patrol he collapsed on his bed the moment he came into his room (this time with his whole body, not just the upper half). He rolled on his bed, and started at the ceiling.
If he woke up with tear stained cheeks again, he didn’t mention it to a single soul.
The second time Tim got hit with the pollen he only allowed himself to scream for 15 minutes. He wiped his cheeks, drank a glass of water, took a spoonful of honey to ensure his throat would hurt less in the morning, and crawled under the sheets.
The more he was exposed, the more bearable it became till he was able to fully ignore it.
It was a miracle Batman never noticed that he was ever hit with the pollen. That or Tim got really good at lying that the rebreather worked oh so well.
Little did Tim know that there was a side effect to prolonged exposure to cuddle pollen without treatment.
Even weeks after he had last been hit, he’d still feel a light distant, constant pain, somewhere. Sometimes it was his right thigh, left ankle, both wrists, his left shoulder, his entire left leg. Every now and then the pain would peak and be as terrible as his first night. Most days he could ignore it, to the point he wouldn’t even notice how much it actually hurt him lest he focused on that specific spot.
He thought it was because of the fighting. Because of the bruises, the falling, getting hit with all sorts of weapons. Not that it was a pollen side effect. That link was never made. And to think he was under the care of the “World's Greatest Detective”. Care was loosely used. Training was more like it.
Tim still avoided touch like it was the plague. Ducked out of the way when someone tried to pat his head, or lay an arm on his shoulder. He didn’t even high five people. It helped with bullying, Tim told himself. They can’t torture him if they can’t catch him. They reached and before they could even touch him he had already sprinted to the other side of the room. Worked like a charm.