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"It isn't that big a deal," Tim said mumbled. He tried to push himself upright ut his elbows buckled almost immediately. The room lurched, the bathroom tile tilting in nauseating waves until Jason's hand landed squarely against his shoulder and shoved him back down.
"s'fine," Tim insisted. "Really, I've got it covered. You can just… y'know…"
His eyes drifted shut.
"…go away."
"What did I just tell you?" Jason barked. "Shut the fuck up and stay the fuck down."
Despite his words, his hands were uncharacteristically gentle.
One stayed braced against Tim's shoulder to keep him from "trying anything stupid," while the other other threaded though his hair, working patiently through knots that had probably been there days.
It was unnerving. Jason Too. Red Hood. Being gentle.
Someone should alert the press.
He'd been meaning to get his hair cut three weeks ago. Maybe four. Somewhere between ending his global search for Bruce, dealing with the Council, the Ra's Al Ghul of it all, WE meetings, Titans business, patrol, and avoid his family like the plague….
Well.
It'd just become fine print on the list.
"I mean," Tim slurred. "I can handle it. I just need another Monster and maybe…" He frowned. "…food?"
Jason stared at him—his helmet was on the floor beside him but his domino was still up.
"You seriously think more caffeine is going to fix this?"
"…yes?"
"No," Jason said flatly. "I think you're body has had enough of your bullshit. In fact, I think you've actually exceeded that."
"Jay," Tim slurred, the name dragging across his tongue that no longer seemed interesting in working. "I'm fine. I'll show you, see?"
He planted a hand against the tile before Jason could stop him once more.
"Tim—"
Tim ignored him.
He pushed himself up right.
For half a second, nothing happened.
Then the ringing started. It was just a faint, high-pitched whine that he almost mistook for the safe houses ancient plumbing. Then a feeling spread before he had a chance to think about it.
A strange prickling crept up the back of his neck, racing along his scalp and down his shoulder blades until every hair on his body seemed to stand on end. Goosebumps ripple over his arms despite sweat dampening the collar of his shirt.
The bathroom suddenly felt much too hot. Or much too cold.
It was hard to tell.
Jason was saying something. Tim watched his mouth move but he never caught the words. The ringing swallowed him whole.
Huh.
That was….
His chest burned.
Tim jerked violently, a groan tearing itself out of his throat before he understood where he was. His entire body felt wrong—heavy and boneless all at once. Something kept digging into his sternum hard enough that he tried to twist away from it on instinct.
"…stop…"
He couldn't tell if the word made it past is lips.
His ears were still ringing.
Not as violently as before, but enough so that the rest of the world sounded distant and underwater. A voice reached him in warped fragments, rising and falling without ever quite becoming language, male and familiar.
Jason, he realized.
Jason was talking only not to him. To someone else Tim couldn't hear.
"…yeah…"
A pause.
"…out…"
Another.
"…awake…"
Tim blinked.
He immediately regretted it but the rubbing stopped.
The bathroom wall swam sickeningly before settling back into place. His heart was hammering in hammering in his chest, he could feel every beat in his throat. Sweated dripping down his temples, but he couldn't stop shivering.
His skin itched beneath his uniform. Every seam of the sweat-wicking material suddenly roo rough against his overheated skin. It was too tight. Too restrictive. His stomach rolled unpleasantly, and his moth tasted like stale coffee, Mango Loco Monster, and stomach acid.
Jason was looking at him. But not just looking at him—watching him. Tim knew that expression.
He'd seen it on Bruce's face when patrols went sideways. One Dick when one of the Titans got hurt. On Alfred standing in the med bay waiting for someone injured to be returned home. Although it had never been directed at him.
"…what?"
Jason said something.
Tim frowned.
His own voice sounded small and farther away than it should. Jason leaned in closer this time. Tim caught his own name but nothing else.
He swallowed.
His throat felt raw like he'd been gargling gravel.
Jason's fist disappeared from his chest. Tim hadn't even realized what had been hurting into the pressure was gone. A second later, warm fingers—gloveless now—settled against the pulse point beneath his jaw. Jason's thumb rest lightly against the side of his neck while the other fingers took count.
Tim blinked again.
At some point he'd been rolled onto his side—the recovery position.
Right. That made more sense. Or at least it probably did. He couldn't remember getting there.
His cheek was pressed against Jason's leather jacket instead of the cold bathroom tile now. He wasn't entirely sure when that had happened either.
Jason's lips were moving again.
Tim watched him for a second, trying to make the sounds match the movement, but the ringing was still too loud. It was softer now, but still made it difficult to hear anything else.
His eyelids drifted shut.
He was so tried although it wasn't a normal tired. It was a bone-deep exhaustion that had settled deep inside of him until even breathing felt like it was more effort than it was worth.
Something nudged him. Then again. More insistent this time.
Tim made a noise of protest and forced his eye open just enough to glare up at Jason.
He just wanted to sleep. Jason should understand that, right?
Only Jason glared right back.
Well, it wasn't really a glare.
His jaw was set hard enough that the muscle ticked, his brows drawn together beneath the edge of his domino. His expression still looked annoyed—because of course it did—but there was something beneath it Tim hadn't expected to find.
Worry.
Real, authentic worry.
Tim's brain stalled.
Whatever sarcastic comment had been lining up quickly dissolved before it ever reached his mouth. He wanted to ask what was wrong. But the question never came.
Instead there were foots steps.
Heavy ones that rattled through the apartment, each impact vibrating through the bathroom floor under his cheek. Jason's head snapped toward the hallway. His mouth moved.
A shadow swallowed the door way—cape and pointed cowl and dark armor.
Tim's sluggish brain reached the obvious conclusion—Batman.
Dick.
Damn.
He was never going to hear the end of this from Damian.
Except the figured stepped into the light and Tim frowned. He was slightly taller than Dick and significantly leaner Tim's stomach lurched.
That didn't make any sense.
Bruce was wearing the suit.
Bruce was Batman—his Batman.
Tim stared at him, his thoughts grinding to a halt. Bruce wasn't supposed to be Batman right no. Bruce wasn't supposed to be anywhere except the manor. Recovering from being lost in time.
Dick was Batman. Dick had been Batman for months. So why—
His brain refused to go any farther.
Bruce was already kneeling beside him, one armored knee hitting the tile with a dull thud that Tim felt more than heard.
Jason was talking. Bruce was listening. Tim couldn't make out his deep baritone.
Then Bruce was looking at him—watching him.
The expression normally well hidden while he was in the cowl wasn't one of anger. Or disappointment. It was something much, much worse.
Concern.
Tim couldn't remember the last time Bruce had looked at him like that.
Bruce nodded once.
An armored hand settled briefly against Tim's forehead before sliding away, fingertips brushing beneath his jaw to find his pulse, exactly where Jason's had been a moment before.
Tim watched through half-lidded eyes.
Bruce's expression tightened but not by much. Most people probably wouldn't have noticed. But Tim did.
The faint crease between his brows deepened. His jaw set a little harder.
It didn't make sense. Bruce should be more worried about himself—not Tim. He wasn't supposed be in the suit yet let alone out of bed. He wasn't supposed to be kneeling on the grimy bathroom floor in the middle of the night checking Tim's pulse like Tim was the one worth worrying about.
He'd barely made it back as is.
Dick was supposed to be Batman.
Bruce was supposed to be resting and recovering.
Instead he was here.
Tim wanted to tell him to go home. To goo back to bed. To stop looking at him like that.
But the words never came.
Instead, his eyelids felt impossibly heavy again.
Honestly, if Jason would just let him sleep for a couple of hours, this would sort itself out. He just needed a little sleep. That's it. Seriously, guys.
But Bruce was having none of it.
Whatever Jason had said earned a single, sharp nod before Bruce's hands were moving. The clasps holding the cape in place clicked open, the heavy cape slipping free from his shoulders. A second later it settled. Over Tim. Cocooning him in the thick black fabric that smelled faintly of leather and smoke and Gotham after rain.
It was warm.
Tim barely had time to register it before one arm slid beneath his knees, the other carefully bracing his shoulders. Then he was moving. The sudden shift made the room tilt all over again.
Tim squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will the nausea back down where it belonged.
Instead, his stomach lurched violently.
His mouth flooded with saliva.
Oh.
Oh no.
He tried to shove against Bruce's chest. He tried to warn him. Or maybe Jason. But nothing came out except for a weak, miserable sound.
Then everything he'd managed to keep down for honestly, he couldn't remember how long, came back up.
It splashed hot against the the back of Bruce's suit before soaking the cape wrapped around Tim's shoulders. He wanted to be horrified. He'd just thrown up on Bruce. But then it was happening again.
Bruce didn't even flinch.
He didn't stop or sigh or so much as loosen his grip.
Instead, he simply tightened one arm around Tim. Enough to keep him secure and kept walking, long strides carrying them through the apartment while the front door stood open to the stairwell beyond.
Tim wanted to apologize and disappear.
Instead he could only dry heave against Bruce's shoulder again and pray he passed out again before he had to see anyone else's reaction.
Tim didn't remember much after that.
The nausea never really went away. Instead, it only got worse.
His stomach had long since emptied itself, but his body hadn't gotten the memo or simply didn't care. Every few minutes another wave rolled through him, leaving him curled in on himself as another painful, hollow dry heave wracked his stomach.
Somewhere in the middle of it, he vaguely remembered being passed from Bruce to Jason. Or maybe Jason had taken him from Bruce. It was hard to tell. Everything blurred together in disconnected snapshots.
Cold winter air against his face.
Jason easing him onto the bench seat in the back of the Batmobile.
A plastic bucked being pushed under his chin.
Bruce climbing into the passenger seat.
Jason said something he couldn't quite make out while another dry heave left tears stealing down his cheeks.
After that—
Nothing.
Or at least nothing that stuck.
The steady purr of the Batmobile became part of the ringing still lingering in his ears until he couldn't remember where one ended and the other began. Time lost whatever meaning it had.
Minutes could've passed. Maybe hours. He wasn't sure.
The next thing he remembered with any certainty was the vehicle coming to a stop.
Voices and doors and cold air again.
Jason's hand were under his shoulders again, steadying him just long enough for another pair of arms to take his weight.
Bruce again.
Time recognized him this time without having to think.
He let himself sag against the familiar armor, too exhausted to do much more than vaguely register the echo of boots across stone.
The Cave.
Somehow they were back at the cave.
By the time Bruce carried him across the cave, Alfred was already waiting.
The medical bay light had been switched on sometime before they arrived, bathing everything in a harsh white light that made Tim squint. Stainless steal gleamed. Instruments had already been laid out in neat rows beside the gurney as though Alfred had known exactly what was coming through the doors.
Bruce's voice rumbled low beneath Tim's ear.
Despite it all, Bruce sounded calm.
For the first time since Jason had found him on the bathroom floor, Tim felt some of the frantic knot in his chest begin to loosen. Then Bruce bent.
It took Tim's sluggish brain a second to register what was going on.
No.
He couldn't—Bruce wouldn't—
The mattress touched his back and the panic came flooding back all at once.
"No."
The word scraped painfully out of his raw throat.
He lurched forward on instinct, fingers fumbling clumsily for the first solid thing he could find. They caught on the armored plating across his chest, before sliding higher clenching around his shoulders.
He wasn't supposed to be here.
He wasn't supposed supposed to be in the medical bay under glaring light while Alfred and Bruce went to work on deactivating his suit and Jason hovered just outside his field of vision.
He needed—He just needed…
Bruce.
His grip wasn't string but it didn't have to be.
Bruce stopped moving immediately.
One gauntleted hand settled over Tim's where it clung to the front of the batsuit.
"I'm not leaving you."
It as the first time Tim could hear the words.
But it didn't help. Not really. His breathing still came too fast. The room spun.
He tried to hold on tighter. But something cool brushed against the side of his neck. A brief pinch. His fingers loosened before he'd consciously told them too.
The bright lights overhead blurred together.
Bruce's face was the last thing he saw.
Coming back was…difficult.
Every time Tim thought he'd reach the surface, something dragged him back under again. Thoughts refused to stay connected for more than a few seconds at a time before dissolving into heavy, dreamless nothing.
His body felt… strange. Not bad necessarily. But distant.
His mouth was dry.
His head throbbed dully behind his eyes.
He felt vaguely hungover despite not remembering drinking anything stronger than stale coffee in… honestly, he couldn't remember.
Opening his eyes felt like and impossible feat. So, he didn't. Instead he floated, bobbing along the stream. Half asleep. Half awake. Content to let the darkness keep him for a little while longer.
Something brushed along his knuckles. Once. Then again. Slow and rhythmic.
A thumb.
The sensation was so soft it almost didn't seem real. It traced lazily over the back of his hand before retreating, only to return a moment later in the exact same place.
Steady and warm and calloused.
Time found himself unconsciously leaning into it.
The ache in his chest eased. His breathing settled. And, for the first tie in what felt like forever, he wasn't cold.
The it stopped.
The absence was immediate.
Tim frowned.
A quiet, thoroughly miserable whine escape him before he could think better of it.
There was a pause. Then a low chuckle so close that Tim felt the vibration more than he heard it. A moment later the thumb returned, brushing gently over his knuckles once more.
"There you are," Bruce murmured. "Go back to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."
Time never quite managed to open his eyes.
He didn't need to. The voice. The touch. They were enough.
He let out a long, sleep sigh, and curled his fingers weakly around Bruce's hand before sleep claimed him again.