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Tim had been back for a week, and he was already fed up with everyone fretting over him. He was perfectly fine.
He was fine.
And yet, nobody seemed to believe him.
Bruce spent most of the day hovering nearby, looming in the corner of whatever room Tim happened to be in. Alfred kept appearing out of thin air to offer him food, or to check the bandage on his leg despite having just checked it less than an hour before. Even Dick had happened to swing by from Bludhaven to "consult on a case," as if he wasn't more than capable of handling it alone.
Sure, Tim had been dehydrated as fuck when he got home, but a couple hours of IV fluids had that pretty much rectified. And yeah, the wound on his thigh had looked scary, but he'd suffered so much worse before—antibiotics, a couple of stitches and gauze and he'd be good as new in no time. And so what if he hadn't been sleeping well? He never slept well—that had nothing to do with the…with that.
Nothing to do with…they told him it had been two months. Two months in that cave, on that godforsaken planet. Two months in the dark, red sunlight barely peeking over the horizon in the distance. Two months stuck, injured, cold.
But not alone. Never alone.
Tim wasn't sure if he would have survived without Conner there with him. They'd wound up there together after a mission gone awry had them both on the wrong end of a faulty teleportation beam. Tim landed on a rocky outcropping, a sharp edge tearing a gash in his thigh.
He'd thought, for a terrifying moment, that that was it. He'd never see his loved ones again. In that moment, he had accepted it.
And then Conner appeared, pulling him up from the edge, carrying him to the cave, using scraps from his suit to bandage the wound.
If it wasn't for Conner, Tim wouldn't be here.
It had been strange, honestly—being in Gotham. He'd spent every night, by whatever definition of night there was on that planet, huddled close to Conner, curled up inside his TTK field where the air was a few degrees warmer, where they were safe.
By the third night, it was easiest to just sleep in each others arms.
And now Tim lay awake every night, alone in a bed with a mattress so soft he couldn't figure out how to get comfortable.
He just wanted to leave it behind him. It was in the past, and the best thing to do was to get back to normal. Back on patrol, back in the fight.
It was over, and he was fine.
He got out of bed and went down to the cave. If he wasn't going to sleep, at least he could get something done. There were some data searches he'd set earlier in the day, tracking trends in the purchases of chemicals required for the production of fear toxin. The computer should have finished running the script by now.
He sneaked through the cave entrance and crept down the steps, still in the boxers and oversized shirt he'd worn to bed, energy drink from his mini-fridge tucked under his arm.
He was fine.
The data was there, all neatly arranged into a spreadsheet, but he stared at it, uncomprehending of what he was seeing. None of the words made sense, and the numbers bled together into nonsensical glyphs.
He hit a few keys, trying to make it line up.
"Oracle?" he asked.
"I'm asleep," she responded after several minutes.
"You aren't. You sleep as much as I do."
"Usually, true. Lately, I'm not so sure. How much have you slept since you got back?"
Tim scoffed. "Not you, too."
"Answer the question."
Tim sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Can you just look at what's wrong with the computer?"
"Not until you answer my question."
"Including micro-sleeps…about four hours."
"In a week?"
"Oracle, please." The words were slurred.
She tutted and Tim heard keys clacking as his focus drifted, brain fuzzy.
"—Tim?"
He sat up with a start, knocking the drink flying. "Huh?"
"There's nothing wrong with the computer, Tim."
"No, it—the screen's all—"
"It's not the computer. You need sleep."
The screen went black, and Tim was left alone.
Alone. In the Cave. In the dark, cold…
God damn it.
He was fine. He just…he needed a change of scene, that was all. Bruce and the rest of the bats, they were smothering him, that was it. The cold and gloom of Gotham wasn't helping.
He scrawled a note and hopped into the Batplane, programming co-ordinates and setting the auto-piloting program to take him there—he was fine, but he accepted that piloting the thing himself was probably not the best idea.
He stared into space as the plane flew across the country, finally landing in a hidden spot behind a nondescript barn. He stumbled out, dew soaking through his socks. He looked down at them. Huh. Where were his shoes?
When he looked up, his face broke into a smile. "Conner. What are you doing here?" he asked. Then Conner was picking him up, and carrying him somewhere, and Tim was warm and comfortable and safe and—
He woke up with a pounding headache, a dry mouth and a full bladder.
He pushed himself up to sitting, hearing a muffled grunt from beneath him. He looked down.
"Hey there, sleepyhead," Conner grinned up at him. There was an edge to the smile, though. He was worried.
"What…where am I?" Tim asked, looking around.
"You don't remember?" Conner asked.
Tim shook his head, then winced. He pressed his hands to his eyes, trying to think.
Conner handed him a glass of water and two pills, which Tim swallowed without question. He looked around him, cataloguing the posters on the wall, the barn and the pasture and the distant cornfields outside the window.
"Why am I in Smallville?" he asked.
Conner shook his head. "You flew here." He started counting on his fingers. "Alone, barefoot, half dressed, looking almost dead, without telling anyone where you were going."
Tim frowned. "No, I…I left a note. I definitely left a note."
Conner hummed, then reached for his phone. He could just about reach the bedside table, and Tim realized he was still pretty much sitting in his lap. He cleared his throat, slipping off the bed as Conner showed him the picture.
It was a note, barely legible, with nothing but the words need sleep scrawled on it.
"Oh." Tim rubbed the back of his neck.
"What the fuck were you thinking, man?" Conner asked. Tim shook his head. The headache was fading.
"I don't know, I was…I haven't been sleeping, really. I don't know what I was thinking." Something occurred to him—if Conner had the note on his phone, then that meant someone had sent it to him. If they sent it to Conner, then they were looking for him. If they were looking for him, then…
"How long have I been here?" he asked.
Conner looked thoughtful for a moment, then sheepish. "About… eighteen hours? Give or take. You passed out right after I found you. Wouldn't let go of me when I tried to tuck you in, so I just…"
Tim shook his head. "I…I need to pee. I'm just gonna…" he turned and left the room, locking himself in the bathroom.
By the time he came back out he'd managed to talk himself down, rationalizing what had happened as he washed his hands. His face was shiny with sweat, skin pink and clammy. There was a crick in his neck, and his hair was sticking up in a way that was, frankly, ridiculous.
He'd been severely exhausted, that much was obvious. He hadn't been thinking straight, hadn't been able to think logically.
And he had come here. He'd come here, because he couldn't sleep in Gotham. He couldn't sleep without Conner.
He sighed and dried his hands off before emerging into the hall. Conner was waiting for him.
"I should warn you," Conner said.
Tim crossed his arms, knowing what was coming. The plane had a tracker. If he'd been AWOL for eighteen hours…someone would come looking for him.
"Yeah," he sighed. "I know."
"Want me to come with?"
Tim shook his head. "Nah. Wait up here, I'll handle it."
Sure enough, when he made his way downstairs into the Kent's living room, Bruce was sitting there holding a cup of coffee and speaking quietly with Mr. Kent.
"Hey." Tim announced himself, standing at the door, waiting for the judgment. For the yelling, and the worry-disguised-as-anger which had always been a trademark for Bruce's parenting.
Bruce stood and crossed the room, resting his hands on Tim's shoulders. He stared for a long minute, searching for something in his face. Then, his shoulders dropped and he stepped back. "I'm sorry," Bruce said.
Tim's jaw dropped. "What?" he asked.
"I apologize. I should have been more vigilant on your return. Had I paid closer attention, perhaps—"
"Don't be stupid, Bruce. I just…couldn't sleep there. I'm fine, now. Promise."
Bruce looked doubtful, but he nodded. "Okay. If you're sure."
"I'm just gonna…" Tim pointed upstairs, and then bolted back to Conner's room.
"All good?" Conner asked, sitting up in his bed.
Tim shrugged. "I guess? Look, I just want to say sorry for rocking up like this. I shouldn't have—"
"Dude, relax. Honestly, I…" He was staring down at his hands, not looking at Tim. "I wish you'd called for me instead of flying a plane halfway across the country on no sleep. I'd have come and gotten you."
Tim winced. "Yeah. Wasn't my brightest idea." He stepped further into the room and shut the door, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You really don't mind me…?" He gestured vaguely at the bed, and at Conner.
"I don't need as much sleep as a full human, but…I honestly haven't felt so well-rested in weeks."
Tim looked at Conner, seeing the tiredness around his eyes for the first time. "I know it's ridiculous, and it makes no sense. I'm glad to be home and safe, but…I miss falling asleep with you."
Conner held an arm out, and Tim let himself lean into it, falling with Conner back down to lie together against the pillow.
"I miss it, too." Conner whispered into his hair. "It's nice."
"Nicer here than in that ca—cave," Tim joked, interrupting himself with a yawn. "Sorry," he mumbled, curling sideways to wrap himself around Conner. How was he still so tired, after eighteen hours of sleep?
Someone knocked on the door, and Tim felt Conner shift, felt the TTK field around them move, and then the door creaked open.
Tim turned his head to see Bruce standing in the doorway. "Oh, I—" He tried to sit up, but Conner held him close.
"Stay." Bruce held up a hand. "Rest for as long as you need. When you're ready, come home, and we'll talk."
Tim knew that talk would probably include a lot of raised voices, knew that Bruce was holding back some strong feelings about this whole thing, but that would wait.
Conner made the blanket move to cover them both, and Tim settled back against him.
"'Night, Bruce," he mumbled.
"Goodnight, Tim."
Tim closed his eyes and fell back asleep, safe in Conner's arms.