Chapter Text
When Gotham Academy unexpectedly closed down early due to a nasty norovirus epidemic, Tim was concerned.
When Duke started puking his guts out after dinner that evening, Tim knew he was screwed.
His family tried to help, of course. Duke retreated to his bedroom in a self-imposed quarantine, and Alfred started frantically cleaning every surfaced the teenager had touched, armed with industrial-sized bottles of Lysol and Clorox. But none of that mattered, Tim knew. His lack of spleen didn’t technically make him more susceptible to viruses, but he always seemed to catch single every bug that came along anyway.
This, of course, proved to be no exception.
Tim woke up the next morning scrambling for his trash can. His stomach cramped painfully as he retched forcefully into the bin again and again. He felt awful.
There was a small knock on his bedroom door.
“I was really hoping you’d dodge this one,” Bruce’s voice said with a sigh. Even with his face buried in the trashcan, Tim could practically see the worry on his father’s face.
He knew exactly why Bruce was concerned. This was the first illness Tim had contracted since getting diagnosed with hypertrophic cardiomyopathy almost six months ago. His cardiologist, Dr. Bruins, had warned them that getting sick could make Tim’s cardiac symptoms worse. Now, they were about to find out exactly how much worse.
Lucky him.
When the bout was over, Tim set the soiled can on the ground beside his bed. He was eager to get back underneath the covers. It was so cold in his room.
Bruce sat down on the edge of Tim’s mattress. It was then that he noticed his father was carrying a thermometer. “C’mon, bud, let’s see what we’re working with,” he instructed, holding the metal probe up to Tim’s mouth.
Tim decided to cooperate for the moment. The sooner he pleased Bruce, the sooner the man would leave him to his misery.
“102.4,” Bruce read aloud. “I’ll have Alfred bring you some Tylenol and maybe some Zofran if Leslie says it’s okay.”
“M’kay,” Tim rasped, shivering. Zofran sounded wonderful.
Bruce tucked the covers in around his son. “I’m sorry you’re feeling bad, bud. Hopefully, it’ll pass quickly.”
Tim also hoped that. “How’s Duke?”
“He’s okay. He’s been able to keep down some Gatorade this morning, so I’m hoping last night was the worst of it for him. You’re the only other one showing symptoms so far.”
“Good.” Of course, Tim was pissed that he’d gotten sick, but he wouldn’t wish what he was feeling on Cass or Damian.
Bruce stood up. “I’m going to call Leslie and let her know we’ve got another victim. Alfred will be in shortly with some medicine for you.”
Tim only hummed in response, his eyes fluttering closed. He was so tired…
“Master Timothy.”
Alfred’s gentle voice jolted him awake. He hadn’t even realized he’d fallen back asleep. The butler was standing over him with a tray.
“I‘m up,” Tim moaned.
“Very good, sir. I’ve brought you some medications. Along with your morning metoprolol, I have some Tylenol for your fever and a small dose of Zofran for your nausea.”
Tim pushed himself to sit up, wincing at how achey his muscles were. “Thanks, Alfred.”
“Of course, dear boy. Dr. Thompkins has also instructed me to keep a close eye on your blood pressure. May I?”
Tim acquiesced, allowing the butler to wrap the cuff around his upper arm. Getting his blood pressure taken was something he was quite used to at this point. It was just part of having a heart condition.
“It’s holding steady at 108/64 for the moment,” Alfred said, nodding his approval.
“Wonderful,” Tim muttered. He took his pills with a swig of Gatorade, wincing at how his stomach cramped in protest. Hopefully, the liquid would stay down.
“Try to finish that bottle, Master Timothy. Maintaining your hydration is of utmost importance.”
Tim looked back down at the Gatorade, the blue liquid sloshing menacingly in its container. He definitely didn’t think he could drink it all. But he also knew that Alfred wouldn’t accept that answer, so he offered, “I’ll try.”
“Good man,” the butler praised. “Now, I’m going to go check on Master Duke. Should you need anything at all, do not hesitate to call for me.”
“Thanks, Alfred.”
Tim did not finish the bottle.
He managed to drink about half of it before falling back asleep once again. The Zofran allowed him to rest for a few hours, but then he was rudely woken up by the nausea returning with vengeance. He at least made it to his bathroom this time before his stomach started purging its contents.
Man, this sucked.
His entire body was soaked in sweat, but Tim couldn’t stop shivering. His retches were even more violent this time, like his stomach intended to punish him for every single drop of Gatorade he’d sent its way.
It just wouldn’t stop.
Tim lost count of how many times he’d gagged into his toilet when his body finally granted him a reprieve. He was trembling terribly—the spell had left him light-headed and out of breath. Still, he was desperate to return to the sanctuary of his bed, so he did something very stupid:
He stood up.
Or, rather, he attempted to stand up. He shifted off of his knees, using the closed toilet lid for support. But as soon as he tried push himself upright, an overwhelmingly wave of dizziness washed over him. The bathroom tilted on its axle, and Tim’s vision went blurry as his knees buckled.
He went down like a sack of potatoes.
When Bruce heard a loud THUD coming from upstairs, he immediately made a beeline for Tim’s room.
He’d taken the day off from work to help Alfred with the kids. Duke, thankfully, seemed to be on the mend already, but Tim had been hit pretty hard. And with his HCM, his illness could get very serious, very fast.
When Bruce burst into his son’s bedroom, the bed was empty, its sheets drenched in sweat. The next logical place to search was, of course, Tim’s bathroom.
And that’s where he found him.
Tim was laying on the bathroom floor, blinking slowly up at the ceiling. He looked dazed, his brows knitted together in confusion.
“Tim, what happened?” Bruce asked, kneeling in front of his son. According to his phone, Tim’s Implantable Cardioverter-Defibrillator hadn’t delivered a shock, which was at least somewhat reassuring. Maybe he just slipped?
“‘M fine…” Tim said, his voice slightly slurred. “I think…I think I stood up too fast. Blacked out a few seconds, maybe?”
Bruce felt his stomach drop. Tim had been losing fluid all morning, either from vomiting or sweating as his fever went up and down. If his oral intake wasn’t keeping up (and, based on the half-full Gatorade on Tim’s nightstand, it wasn’t), then his son was likely getting very dehydrated. Dehydration was a major concern for Tim as it could worsen the obstruction in his heart and cause hypotension. And if he was vomiting forcefully, he could have potentially triggered a vasovagal response as well, which would have dropped his blood pressure even further. Regardless, it was pretty clear what had happened:
His son had fainted.
“Don’t try to get up,” Bruce ordered gently. He reached for Tim’s wrist and pressed on its pulse point. Tim’s heart rate was elevated—in the 120-130 range by his count—and he was much paler than he had been earlier. “I’m going to check your blood pressure.”
“But ‘m cold,” Tim complained, looking miserable.
“I know, buddy,” Bruce soothed as he opened the cabinet beneath the sink. Thankfully, there was a blood pressure cuff and thermometer in the first aid kit Alfred kept there (each of his kids had one under their bathroom sinks just in case). He wrapped the cuff around Tim’s arm and slipped the thermometer underneath his tongue.
He didn’t like the results.
“Your fever’s up to 103.1, bud,” he said with a grimace, “and your pressure’s down to 88/52.”
“Sorry,” Tim murmured with a shiver.
“It’s not your fault, kiddo,” he assured, “but it does mean we need to change strategies. Let me call Leslie really quick, okay? Just stay right there.”
“Father? Is everything alright?”
Bruce looked up to see Damian standing in the doorway, looking at Tim with obvious concern. He must have heard the fall, too.
“Tim is just feeling a bit dizzy after throwing up so much,” he explained. “Could you actually sit with him a bit so I can call Leslie? I don’t want to leave him alone.”
His youngest nodded fervently, accepting his mission. “Of course, Father. Has Pennyworth been notified?”
“Not yet. I think he’s with Duke right now. Would you mind texting him for me?”
“I will do so immediately.”
“You guys are overreacting,” Tim moaned. “I’m fine.”
Damian narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Timothy, if you attempt to move, I will sit on you.”
With Tim in good hands, Bruce stepped out, dialing Leslie’s number as he went.
“Hello?”
“Hey Leslie, it’s Bruce again. I’ve got an update on Tim. I just found him on his bathroom floor. I’m pretty sure he fainted after throwing up. He’s not tolerating oral fluids, and now his fever’s back up to 103.1. His pulse is in the mid 120s, and his blood pressure’s dropped to 88/52. I’m sure Alfred will want to start him on IV fluids, but I wanted to see if there’s anything else you think we should be doing.”
The doctor was silent for a moment as she processed the information. When she spoke, her tone was serious. “You’re not going to like this, but I think you need to take him to the hospital.”
Bruce felt cold dread bubble up in his chest. “The hospital? Is that really necessary? We can give him IV fluids here.”
“I know that, and if it were any of your other kids, I’d be much more comfortable treating them at the Manor. But Tim’s HCM complicates things. From what you’ve told me, he’s already showing signs of significant volume depletion, and his oral intake can't keep up. Repeated vomiting can also throw off his potassium and magnesium, which is particularly concerning in someone with Tim’s history of ventricular arrhythmia—he just had an episode requiring an ICD shock three months ago.
“Beyond simply needing fluids, I'm very concerned about his syncopal episode. It may very well have been caused by hypotension from the dehydration, or possibly a vasovagal response from all the vomiting. But with his cardiac history, we can’t safely assume that from here. His cardiology team needs to evaluate him, and he needs continuous telemetry while they correct his volume and electrolyte abnormalities. I know it’s not what you want to hear, but right now, the hospital is the safest place for Tim to be treated.”
Bruce sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. She was right, as usual. But that didn't make the situation any easier. “He’s not going to like it.”
“He sure isn’t, but that’s why he’s going to need you there. I’ll call the hospital and Dr. Bruins’s office and give them both a heads up that he’s coming in. Do not let him try to walk or use the stairs. Carry him to the car if you have to.”
“I will. Thank you, Leslie.”
“Of course. Tell Tim I hope he feels better. Duke, too.”
Alfred hurried into the room just as Bruce hung up the phone.
“Leslie wants me to take him to the ER,” he explained after filling the butler in on the entirety of the situation. “I was just about to go tell him.”
“Oh dear,” Alfred frowned deeply. “I shall pack you both a small bag, then.”
“Thank you, Alfred.”
Now came the part Bruce was dreading. He returned to the bathroom where Damian still stood guard over his brother. Tim was still lying down, though he didn’t look happy about it. At least he didn’t look like he’d deteriorated any further.
“I didn’t let him get up, Father,” his youngest assured.
Bruce put a hand on his son’s shoulder and squeezed. “Thank you, Damian.”
“Can I please get up now?” Tim begged. “I just want to get back in my bed. I’m freezing.”
“Actually, son, I have some bad news,” Bruce explained gently. “I just spoke with Leslie, and she thinks you need to go to the hospital.”
Tim’s eyes widened. “What? No! I’m fine! I just got dizzy for a second. Watch, I can-”
He pushed himself to sit up, which quickly proved to be the wrong thing to do. Bruce watched as all of color drained from Tim’s face, leaving his lips nearly white. He started blinking rapidly, and his head started bobbing unsteadily up and down.
“You idiot! Father told you not to move!” Damian snapped as he scrambled to catch his brother’s head before it could hit the ground. He carefully lowered Tim back onto the tile floor.
For a few seconds, Tim didn’t say anything. He never fully lost consciousness, as his eyes were open, but he wasn’t exactly responsive, either. Finally, his gaze seemed to focus somewhat. “…I’m okay. I don’t…need a hospital."
The second near-faint evaporated the last of Bruce’s hesitation.
“This isn’t a discussion. You’re going,” he said firmly as he knelt beside his sons. He gingerly gathered Tim in his arms and lifted him up slowly, trying to keep him as level as possible. “Damian, please get the keys to the SUV and make sure it’s unlocked for me.”
Damian nodded and fled the room to follow his orders.
“I don’t wanna go,” Tim croaked, burying his face in his father’s chest. “Please, I don’t want to go.”
“Tim, sweetheart, I know you want to stay here, but it’s just not safe anymore.”
“It’s just a stomach bug. I’ll be better by tomorrow, just like Duke.”
Bruce swallowed thickly as he carried Tim down the stairs to the main floor. “Maybe you will be better tomorrow—I really hope that ends up being the case. But today, you need some extra help, and that’s okay. It’s not your fault.”
Tim sniffled. “I hate my stupid heart. It’s ruined my life.”
The statement broke Bruce’s heart. He understood exactly why Tim felt that way. His HCM had already taken a lot from him—Red Robin, his physical endurance, and now, the ability to weather out a stomach bug from the comfort of his own bed. It wasn’t fair. Bruce knew it wasn’t fair.
And yet, there wasn’t a single thing he could do about it.