Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim stands with his hands on his hips in his kitchen, trying to decide where to start.

He’s already kind of second-guessing whether or not this is a good idea, but it feels too late to turn back now. He already ventured out to the nearest grocery store and bought all of the ingredients; if he gives up now it will just be a waste. 

All of this seemed like such a good idea when he woke up this morning. 

The Waynes are wonderful people. Tim’s been wishing for years that he could find a way to give them the gratification they deserve. Yes, he understands the importance of secret identities–he doesn't go around revealing what he knows, after all–but he’s always found it slightly unfair that Batman and Robin (and Nightwing) risk their lives to keep people safe every single night, and don’t get anywhere near the amount of recognition they deserve. Heck, it wasn’t even until a few years ago that the police stopped trying to arrest the Dynamic Duo! Not to mention the fact that so many people hate Bruce Wayne (and again, Tim recognizes the value of the billionaire persona, but he knows that can’t be the true personality of Gotham’s protector). And if Tim has to listen to another rich snob at a gala gossip about Jason being a useless filthy street rat, he might just pour his champagne on them.

Okay Tim, he tells himself, pull yourself together. The point of all this is that he couldn’t exactly go up to the Waynes and thank them personally for keeping Gotham safe. There’s not much he can do, except take their secret to the grave. It’s his own personal way of protecting them, he tells himself. (Never mind that he was never supposed to know their identities in the first place.)

But now, Tim has a good excuse for wanting to show them his appreciation! Jason discovered that Tim existed after Tim helped him out at a gala a few months ago. Some waiter wasn’t watching where they were going and bumped into Jason, spilling an alcoholic beverage of some sort all over the poor boy. Tim, luckily, saw what happened and always keeps a spare shirt on him after a similar incident happened to him in his youth. He had no wish to see Jason get scolded the same way his parents had lit into him all those years ago–there’s just something about being shamed in public that makes a mistake feel so much worse–and swooped in to the rescue. 

He told himself it wasn’t just because Robin is his hero; it was simply the right thing to do.

Jason hadn’t seemed all that upset about the situation, but accepted the extra shirt from Tim. He asked Tim to escort him to the bathroom while he changed shirts, and they made idle small talk on the way. Upon some slight Robin-interrogating that Tim pretended not to notice, Jason discovered that they went to the same school, and that Tim toko the bus everyday.

“Fear not, Timbo, ” Jason had said, throwing his arm around Tim’s shoulders as they headed back towards the main room of the gala. “You’ll be a victim of Gotham’s terrible public transportation system no more! ”

Tim, to his credit, tried to turn him down. Jason insisted. “Besides, isn’t the nearest stop like, a mile from the school? ” He asked with a frown. It was two miles, actually, but Tim chose not to answer. “It’s settled then.” Tim wanted to argue that he didn’t agree to those terms, but something told him Jason wasn’t going to take no for an answer. “Alfie picks me up from school every day, and your house is literally next door. We can drop you off on our way, or better yet, you could come over sometime and hang out after school.”

From there, it was strikingly easy to fall into a routine. Mr. Pennyworth-the "Alfie" mentioned, and the Waynes' butler-drove Tim home from school every day, and sometimes even offered for Tim to come over for dinner. Jason exchanged phone numbers with him, texted him on and off all day, and even started eating lunch with him. Tim isn’t sure how exactly he managed to befriend Robin; some days he suddenly remembers that the boy sitting next to him is the same boy who takes down bad guys and saves peoples’ lives, and then he gets flustered and can’t form a proper sentence to save his life. Jason never says anything about it, just stays patient as Tim trips over his words and refuses to make eye contact. The only time he ever brings it up is to shush Tim immediately if he tries to apologize at all.

Sometimes Tim feels like he doesn’t deserve this friendship at all. 

Those thoughts strike most often when he’s following the bats at night. Taking pictures of them in action is just as magical as always, but it feels different now that he’s getting to know them as civilians. It feels… wrong. Tim never realized how intimate the moments are when Batman ruffles Robins hair, or they get food while on patrol and eat together. These used to be his favorite moments to capture on film, but now… Now Tim just feels like an intruder.

The better solution would probably be to stop stalking Batman and Robin, but even with his newfound friendship, Tim just couldn’t bring himself to do that. So instead, he googled how to show someone you appreciate them, and spent an hour trying to decide what kind gesture will help ease his feelings of guilt. He didn’t think an appreciation note or a compliment would be enough, and he doesn’t have any interesting hobbies with which to gift them something homemade. A photo album would’ve been a great idea, if it weren’t for the fact that the only photos he’s taken of them are of Batman and Robin. “Pay them what they’re worth” sounded pretty useless considering Bruce Wayne is richer than his parents, and also didn’t sound like a great philosophy to live life by.

He finally settled on making and gifting them baked goods, because baking always looks fun in the movies and should be easy enough. Plus, Jason loves food and talks about it all the time, and it just so happens that two weeks ago he was listing all of the crazy cookie flavors that Alfred has ever baked for him and ranked them from “worse than dumpster food ” to “like an explosion of happiness in your mouth.” Tim was only half paying attention to the rant, but he’s pretty sure that snickerdoodles were high on the list, and they look both easy to make and delicious! 

So that’s what led to him looking for the best recipe–literally, the recipe is called “The Best Snickerdoodle Cookie Recipe" –and going grocery shopping.

Now, though, he’s faced with a small problem.

Tim doesn’t know the slightest thing about baking.

Most of the cooking he’s done throughout his life has consisted of instant noodles and Kraft mac ‘n cheese. He can’t even remember a time when he’s ever actually used the oven for anything. It’s intimidating, but Tim takes a deep breath. He knows how to follow a recipe, and as long as he follows it perfectly, everything should be okay.

It’s just cookies. How hard can it be?

~~~

Two hours later, Tim has learned that it is in fact a lot harder than it looks in the movies. 

His kitchen is a mess. There’s flour all over the counters, along with cinnamon, dough, and a sticky substance that he can no longer identify. Scratch that, actually, the flour is everywhere; the floor, the cabinets, and even on Tim. Everything is covered in flour. It reminds him of the aftermath of a fight between Batman and Condiment Man that he witnessed one time. That thought leads Tim to imagine a version of Condiment Man who uses flour as a weapon, and what Batman would look like covered head to toe in flour, which makes him laugh.

Tim cleans his kitchen while the dough chills in the fridge for a bit. He found out the hard way that his parents don’t own an electric mixer or a whisk, and had to resort to using a large serving fork. His arms ache now from all of the whisking. He hadn’t expected it to take two hours to finish the dough, but he must’ve lost track of time while carefully measuring each ingredient. These cookies have to be perfect. He knows they still won’t be as good as Alfred’s cookies, but hopefully the Waynes will appreciate them regardless. As long as he follows every step perfectly, everything will be okay.

Once the kitchen is deemed “good enough for now” in his mind, he retrieves the dough from the fridge. Chilling the dough makes it easier to roll into balls, he had read online, but it still sticks to his fingers a bit as he works to shape the first batch of cookies. He doesn’t mind all that much, but when it’s time to put the first tray of cookies into the oven, Tim doesn’t want to get cookie dough everywhere. This seems like the perfect opportunity for a taste test, he decides, and licks his hands clean.

The dough is really tasty!

Tim instantly relaxes. If the dough tastes this good before being baked, he’s certain the final product will be just as good. All that’s left to do now is make sure they’re baked for the perfect amount of time, and that sounds pretty simple. The dough tastes so good, in fact, that Tim takes it upon himself to lick it off of his fingers every time he needs clean hands to switch out the trays in the oven. He still washes his hands too–he’s not unsanitary–it just seems like a waste to wash such tasty dough off of his hands when he could eat it first and then wash them.

The recipe doesn’t seem entirely accurate on how long the cookies need to be baked for, but Tim decides that it could be the size of his cookie balls that changed that. In the end, he ends up with a collection of cookies of a wide variety of sizes, and a wider variety of cookedness. (Is that a word? Tim doesn’t think it is, but he settles on it anyway.) It’s okay though, because Tim is able to pick out fifteen cookies that turned out pretty well, and sets them aside to delivery to the Wayne family tomorrow.

That still leaves him with way too many cookies for just him. He’s not sure what he’s going to do with the rest. He supposes that he could eat cookies for dinner for the next few days, but that doesn’t sound too nutritious.

Later that night, as he’s preparing for his nightly batwatching adventure, he’s struck by a brilliant idea. He separates the remaining cookies into Ziploc baggies, 2-3 cookies per bag, and stuffs his pockets with as many cookies as he can. His stomach twinges a little, and he prays that he’s not getting sick. This would be really bad timing. He must’ve eaten too many cookies already, he supposes.

He realizes later how suspicious it is to pass out unlabeled cookies to people, when he’s given the stink-eye several times. He feels slightly bad for giving strangers a reason to think he’s trying to drug them, but he knows that the cookies are safe to eat, and by the time he gets home he’s managed to get rid of almost all of them.

The next morning, Tim wakes up with a stomachache anyway. It seems that even with giving away most of the cookies, he still managed to eat too many.

He tries to ignore it as he goes through his day, and focuses instead on how excited he is to give the cookies to Jason later. He zones out during lunch, caught up in a fantasy of Batman biting into a cookie and deciding that it’s so delicious that he wants to adopt Tim right then and there.

“Earth to Timmy,” a voice snaps him out of his thoughts. “Dude, have you been listening at all?” Jason asks. Tim blushes furiously and asks Jason to continue his rant about the questionable necessity of mathematics that have seemingly zero real-world applications. He’s so caught up in his speech that he doesn’t seem to notice that Tim is avoiding eating his food, and for that Tim is grateful. He understands Jason’s food trauma, but the last thing he needs right now is to be lectured on wasting food when his stomach feels like this.

When Alfred drops him off after school that day, Tim asks him to please wait for a moment. He runs inside, grabs the large Tupperware of cookies, and hurries back out to the car. Jason rolls down his window, eyeing the Tupperware with a raised eyebrow.

“These are for your family,” Tim blurts, slightly out of breath as he practically throws the Tupperware at Jason in his excitement. Thankfully Jason has Robin reflexes, and catches it. Tim rubs the back of his neck. It feels difficult, but he knows he should look Jason in the eyes for this part. “Thank you for being my friend, Jason,” he says sheepishly. “You mean a lot to me.” He turns to the front of the car, where Alfred has looked over his shoulder at the boys in curiosity. “And thank you, Mr. Alfred, for giving me a ride every day.” Alfred’s eyes crinkle in amusement; he told Tim not to call him “Mr. Pennyworth”, but Tim just can’t bring himself to call the older man by just his first name. It feels disrespectful. “I really, really appreciate it.”

“Of course, my dear boy,” Alfred responds, and the endearing words that Tim hears directed at Jason so often are enough to make his heart swell with warmth. “I am more than happy to.”

“I’ll see you guys on Monday!” Tim waves goodbye and turns to head home, his heart feeling full of love and other good feelings. 

“Yo, Timbo, wait!” Jason calls as Tim is halfway to the house. He turns back, and Jason’s got his top half sticking out of the window of the car waving frantically at him. He worries for a second that something is wrong with the cookies and Jason doesn’t want them, but the other boy is grinning from ear to ear and is already chowing down on a cookie. Tim can just barely make out Alfred’s voice, scolding Jason lightly for getting cookie crumbs on the seat of the car.

“Yeah?” Tim asks once he’s close enough to have a proper conversation.

“Dick’ll be home later tonight; he’s visiting for the weekend.” Nightwing will be in Gotham for the weekend? Tim’s heart skips a beat in excitement. As cool as Jason is as Robin, Dick Grayson is the one who made Robin. He’s the one Tim first fell in awe of, the first vigilante to show Tim that even kids can make a difference. If Jason is Tim’s hero, Dick Grayson is a goddamned legend . Tim doesn’t get the opportunity to photograph Nightwing much these days, and he already can’t wait to go batwatching this weekend.

“So, ya in or what?” Oh shoot, Tim did that thing again. He got lost in his thoughts and forgot to listen to Jason while he was talking to him.

“Uhhh… yes?” Tim asks, unsure what he’s agreeing to. If it’s with Jason, it can’t be anything too crazy. At least, not since Tim isn’t supposed to know that Jason is Robin. 

“Sweet! Just head over around sevenish then, and–wait, you good with walkin’ over by yourself? I should probably ask first, cuz Alfie can always give ya a ride if ya need it.”

“Um, no, that’s okay,” Tim politely declines.

“Right, well then sevenish, don’t forget!” Jason laughs rather deviously. “Dickie has no idea what’s coming for him. Finally, we’ll strip him of his title as reigning Smash Champion of the House!”

~~~

An hour later, Tim has managed to piece together what he accidentally agreed to via context clues from the excited texts that Jason sends him. Tim will head over to Wayne Manor around sevenish, as instructed, and him, Jason, and Dick will all play video games and eat cookies and watch a movie until it’s time for Tim to go home. Jason even offers for Tim to spend the night, and Tim almost accepts, but meeting Dick Grayson for the first time (outside of a gala and the circus) and spending the night at the Manor for the first time sounds like a lot, so he makes up a lame excuse about his parents saying no. Jason, as if he can somehow sense Tim’s anxiety through the phone, reassures Tim that Dick is a fun person to spend time with, and a great big brother (“but dont u dare tell him i said that or ur toast,” the following text read), and he thinks that Tim and Dick will get along great.

Tim hopes that he’s right; he’s really nervous to meet Dick officially, more nervous than he was to meet Jason–though perhaps he would’ve been more nervous that fateful evening had the whole shirt situation not happened so quickly. The evening plan of video games, cookies, and a movie sounds really fun, and Tim is looking forward to it. It almost sounds too good to be true…

…And perhaps it is, because the stomachache that Tim has been successfully ignoring all day gets drastically worse, until Tim is rushing to the bathroom and falling to his knees in front of the toilet so he can hurl his guts out.

Tim hates throwing up. Like, hates it more than the normal person, he thinks. He knows that the general consensus regarding vomiting among the average population is that it’s not a fun activity to partake in, but Tim hates vomiting so much that if he feels even the tiniest bit nauseous, he won’t eat. He takes every precaution to avoid throwing up whenever possible. ("I've been vomit-free since I was three! ” He proudly declared to the school nurse last year when he landed in her office because of some nausea. She didn’t seem as impressed by his achievement as he expected.) 

The last time he threw up, he was too young to remember it properly now, but Mom still loves to shame him for ruining her expensive dress. Tim’s not stupid, he knows that throwing up is a normal part of life and something he wouldn’t be able to avoid forever, but the longer it’s been since the last time it happened, the more unknown and scary the thought has become. Food isn’t supposed to go back up like that; it sounds unnatural. 

Tim knew it would happen eventually. All it would take is one time of throwing up, and his ten year streak would end. He thought that maybe it’d be like ripping off a Band-Aid; once he experienced it, it wouldn’t seem so scary.

He was so wrong.

Tim knew throwing up is an unpleasant experience, but he didn’t think it would be like this. It’s violent, and it feels like he has no control over his body, and for a scary second he can’t breathe, and oh god it’s in his nose–

Tim starts sobbing. He can’t help it, he’s just so overwhelmed and this feels like the end of the world. Once the vomiting seems to have subsided, he fumbles for the handle to flush the toilet. Everything smells and tastes like vomit, and the thought just makes Tim cry harder. 

He feels disgusting. He decides to shower right then and there, but his legs feel like jelly, so he ends up sitting curled up in the shower, letting the water wash over him and trying to stop crying.

God, he feels like a little kid. This is pathetic. People throw up all the time, he should be able to handle it. 

What would Jason think if he saw Tim blubbering like this? Jason’s thrown up in the field multiple times; Tim has seen it first hand. Tim remembers the time that Robin broke his wrist, threw up because of it, and still managed to grapple away one-handed. The boy hadn’t shed a single tear, and that was because of a broken bone! Meanwhile Tim’s tummy hurts a little and he turns into a baby.

He had hoped that maybe vomiting would allow his stomach to finally stop hurting, but if anything, it’s just gotten worse. That’s a bit concerning, and he really hopes it doesn’t mean he’ll have to barf again. Now that he’s calmed down a little and feels clean, he rinses his mouth out thoroughly before getting out of the shower. He changes into his pajamas, pointedly ignoring the toilet that probably needs wiped down now, and brushes his teeth twice. 

He’s gargling mouth wash when his stomach lurches again.

Oh no.

Knowing what to expect does not, in fact, make the second time any less miserable. He cries, again. By the time he catches a break enough to flush the gross stuff away, Tim feels as if someone has zapped all of the energy out of his body. He feels so gross, but doesn’t think he could crawl into the shower at this point. His stomach still hurts. He lowers himself to the floor and curls up into a ball, hugging his aching belly. It feels like he ate a ball of fire. Despite how cold he feels, and the fact that he’s shivering, the cool tile feels good against his skin. 

Tim stays like that for awhile, until the pain in his stomach has eased enough for him to be able to sit up. He gets a little dizzy when he tries to stand. That’s not a good sign, he thinks dazedly. His head hurts now, too, probably from the fluorescent bathroom lights. Tim stumbles into his room, grabs his phone off of his desk where he left it, and throws himself into his bed. He wraps his comforter around himself, shivering. When did the house get so cold? He should go check the thermostat, but it feels like so far to walk…

That’s the last thought before he drifts off.

~~~

Tim is awoken rather rudely by his cellphone. It’s an alarm that says, “Head to the Wayne’s! ” Oh, that’s right, it’s seven. He’s supposed to be at his best friend’s house, hanging out with two of the coolest people on the planet, and instead he’s here stuck in bed. 

Tim sighs. He was really looking forward to this evening, but there’s no way he can risk spreading whatever stomach bug this is, in case it’s contagious. He’ll just have to make it up to Jason a different day, even if that means giving up the chance to meet Dick. 

Thankfully his stomach feels slightly better after sleeping for an hour or so. Tim sits up and looks through his contacts. As he writes up a text message to Jason explaining why he has to bail, his thoughts drift to where he might’ve picked up this bug. Tim rarely gets sick unless an illness is spreading through his school, and he can’t think of anything going around right now. He could’ve picked it up while passing out the cookies last night; Tim doesn’t usually interact much with other people while bat-watching, but last night was an exception. 

Unless…

…Could it be from the cookies? That’s the only thing Tim has really eaten in the past 24 hours, and now that he thinks about it, he’s pretty sure the first twinges of pain occurred shortly after he finished the cookies.

Oh no. Oh no–oh no–oh no. Tim’s mind starts racing. He must’ve messed them up somehow. He missed an ingredient, or something, and now the cookies are poison, and Tim gave them to the Waynes! What if they’re sick right now like him? Or what if they feel fine until they get out on patrol and then it hits while they’re in the field?? Images of Jason doubled over in pain, violently throwing up fill Tim’s mind as his eyes water up. He wipes his eyes quickly, deletes his text, and presses the call button.

If Tim’s accidentally poisoned them all, he needs to at least be accountable and own up to it. Or, if it hasn’t hit them yet, maybe he can warn them. Perhaps Batman has an antidote for cookie poison! Okay, yeah, that does sound a little ridiculous, but Batman is Batman and he has antidotes for everything. If anyone could fix this, it’s him. 

But he doesn’t know that Tim knows that he’s Batman, so Tim will have to handle this very carefully.

“Wayne Family Residence,” greets a familiar voice that is not the one Tim was expecting to hear.

Oh God, is Jason sick already? What if he dies from this and it’s all Tim’s fault –

“Mr. Alfred?” Tim sniffles, “Is–Is Jason there? Is he okay?”

There’s a brief pause. When Alfred responds, his voice sounds carefully controlled, yet gentle. “Yes, Master Timothy, Jason is here, and he is perfectly fine, if a little frustrated at the moment. He asked me to answer his phone, as he is preoccupied with losing to his brother in one of those… video games.” He says the words “video games” as though they have air quotes around them, and in any other circumstance, Tim would probably find it hilarious. “Is everything okay, Master Timothy? ” Alfred asks softly, and the concern and care in his voice almost makes Tim cry for a completely different reason.

“No, not–not really.” He takes a shuddering breath. “Please don’t let Jason eat anymore of those cookies, I–I think I messed them up and they made me really sick and I don’t want him to get sick.” To Tim’s dismay he’s crying again, and he wipes his eyes as if Alfred will somehow see the tears through the phone. “Please tell Jason that I can’t come over tonight after all, and–and I’m really sorry and I swear I wasn’t trying to poison him!” 

“Alright, lad, I will pass the message on to Master Jason. But first, would you please take a deep breath for me? ” Tim obeys, and he has to admit, it does make him feel slightly better. “Don’t you worry, dear boy, everything is going to be okay. I will keep a close eye on everyone, and if anyone shows the slightest sign of illness, I will handle it.” Oh no, Tim didn’t even consider that the others might’ve eaten the cookies too. It’s almost enough to make him spiral again, but Alfred’s calming voice won’t allow him to. “You just focus on resting and feeling better, alright? ” 

Tim nods, and then remembers that Alfred can’t see him. “Yes, sir.”

“You just listen to your parents and allow them to take care of you, and before you know it, you’ll be right as rain once more.” Alfred’s words are kind, but Tim’s heart sinks. 

Would this be easier if his parents were here? Would they take care of him? No, that would put them at risk of catching his germs, why would they do that? It’s okay though, Tim is a professional at taking care of himself. Alfred just doesn’t know it.

“If you need anything, please call right away. We’re right next door, and more than willing to help. I do hope you feel better soon, Master Timothy.”

Knowing that Jason isn’t sick yet, and that he’s in good hands makes Tim feel better. Jason grew up on the streets and spent a lot of time alone, so Tim knows that the other boy is like him: a pro at taking care of himself. But even professionals need help sometimes, and Alfred makes them both look like amateurs. If Jason gets sick, Alfred will take care of it, and probably Bruce too. 

Jason is safe. That thought relaxes Tim enough for him to drift back to sleep, for awhile.

Chapter Text

“You sure did talk a lot of smack, for someone losing so badly,” Dick taunts.

“I–Wha–You’re only winning because you’re spamming as Kirby like a loser!” Jason sputters.

Dick snickers, and lands a critical hit. “How can I be a loser when you literally just admitted I’m winning?” Kirby kicks Link and sends him flying off of the screen in an orange blaze.

Jason groans. “Just wait until Tim gets here, we’re gonna kick your ass!” Link respawns and Jason resorts to smashing buttons in a desperate attempt to land a hit on Kirby. 

“Language,” scolds Alfred lightly as he sets some tea down on the coffee table. Both boys groan when he dares step in front of the screen. “Ah, your phone is ringing, Master Jason. It appears to be Master Timothy calling.” 

Sweet, thinks Jason as he leans around Alfred to keep his view of the television,Timmy must be on his way over. “Any chance you’d be willing to answer it for me, Alfred? I’m kinda in the middle of somethin’ here.” He doesn’t even glance at the butler, his eyes glued to the tv.

Alfred sighs, sounding extremely disappointed. “I suppose.” He steps out of the room, likely because he wouldn’t be able to hear over Jason and Dick trash talking each other.

Jason gets lost in the world of Smash again, and Alfred returns to the room a few minutes later. Jason groans loudly as Kirby kills Link for the final time. He really thought he was going to win that one…

Jason is about to demand a rematch when he catches the look on Alfred’s face. “What’s wrong? Is Timmy okay?”

Alfred passes Jason his phone. “Not quite. He asked me to pass along his deepest condolences; he is sick and will be unable to come over tonight, after all.”

“What? But we just saw him, and he was fine!” Jason’s first thought is that Tim is using being sick as an excuse to just not come over, and he thinks through what might’ve made the skittish boy change his mind at the last second. Jason isn’t blind, he saw how nervous Tim got when he mentioned that Dick would be over, but he thought he did a good job convincing Tim that Dick was safe and fun.

“He did seem alright when we saw him earlier,” Alfred agrees. “I’m not sure what is wrong, but he did indeed sound rather sick over the phone. And,” the butler looks puzzled, “he asked me to prevent you from eating any more cookies. He seemed rather insistent that the cookies are what made him sick, and that they are… well, ‘poison’ is the word he used.”

Dick and Jason share a look, and then both glance at the empty tupperware on the coffeetable. 

“In our defense, they were really good,” Dick rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, as Jason blurts out, “How could the cookies be poisoned??”

Alfred sighs rather deeply. “I will refrain on commenting on the status of fifteen cookies being eaten by two boys within a handful of hours.” He ignores Dick grumbling about how he’s not a boy anymore, and continues. “How a cookie could be accidentally made poisonous alludes me. However, if the two of you should feel off or ill at any point tonight, I insist that you tell me immediately.”

Dick and Jason both reluctantly agree.

“Good. Now, since poor Master Timothy sounded downright miserable, I think I shall make him some chicken noodle soup tomorrow.”

Jason smiles. “That’s a great idea, Alfie! I can take it to him and make sure he’s okay.”

Dick raises an eyebrow. “You’d risk catching whatever bug he’s got?” Jason can’t be mad at him for asking; it’s a well known fact in the Wayne household that he despises being sick. 

Jason simply shrugs. “Ya haven’t met the kid yet, Dickie, but he’s worth it. I just wanna make sure he’s takin’ care of.” Jason’s had an… instinct, in the back of his mind, that something isn’t quite right with Tim’s home life. If there’s any chance that the kid isn’t sick and is lying to cover up somebody hurting him, Jason wants to find out and fix it.

“Alright, if you say so. I’ll come with you then!” Dick smiles brightly. Jason opens his mouth to argue that Tim might not want that, but Dick waggles a finger at him. “I don’t wanna pass up an opportunity to meet this kid if he’s so special, but I can always wait in the car if he’s not feeling up to having more than one visitor.”

Jason huffs. “Fine, you can come with.” He looks at the tv. “But we’re switching to Mario Kart. I need a win.”

Dick laughs, and they return to their game.

Tim is woken a couple of hours later to his stomach lurching painfully again. He whimpers and clutches his abdomen, praying it will pass.

It does not.

Within minutes he’s scrambling out of bed and to the bathroom. He doesn’t throw up this time, the misery instead coming from a different end, but he can’t find it in himself to be thankful when it’s not any less painful. Thankfully his stomach cramps have eased some by the time he’s done, and he’s able to go back to bed for a little while.

Within an hour, it happens again.

The rest of the night follows the same pattern: Tim manages to sleep for barely an hour at a time, always waking up to rush to the bathroom for one reason or another. By the third time, he gives up on the idea of being able to sleep in his bed, and instead drags his comforter to the bathroom and goes back to sleep on the cool tiles.

He soon loses all knowledge of the passing of time. He’s lying on the floor trying to convince himself to get up and drink from the sink when he hears the doorbell ring. Who could possibly be here? The doorbell never rings, nobody ever comes to Drake Manor unless Tim orders food or something. Maybe a delivery driver came to the wrong house. Just the thought of getting up and going to answer the door makes Tim’s body ache in protest, so he decides to ignore it.

Whoever is at the door seems pretty insistent. They ring the bell over and over again, and it’s really starting to piss Tim off. It’s the sheer annoyance alone that gives Tim a momentary surge of energy that allows him to pull himself to his feet. He sways a little, and holy shit it’s freezing, so he decides to bring the blanket with him, wrapped around him like a long cape. 

By the time Tim has stumbled his way to the front door, the person on the other side still hasn’t given up. Tim unlocks it and swings it open rather widely, glaring daggers at–

Jason?

“Oh good, I was startin’ to think you people were ignorin’ me– Timmers? Whoa, you don’t look so good, dude.”

Tim doesn’t know what to say. He blinks slowly at Jason and rubs his eyes. Nope, not an illness-induced halucination. Huh. “What–Why’re you here?” He asks, puzzled.

Jason holds up the tupperware in his hands. It looks suspiciously familiar. “Soup!” He declares, and then tilts his head. “Oh, by the way, Dick’s in the car. Do ya feel up to meetin’ him, or want him to stay in the car?” He gestures over his shoulder at the car parked in the driveway. Dick Grayson is waving from the driver’s seat. Nightwing is in his driveway; maybe Tim really is losing it.

Tim must’ve taken too long to answer Jason’s question, because the older boy turns to yell over his shoulder that Dick should stay in the car. Then he proceeds to march straight past Tim and into his house.

Tim follows, bewildered. What is happening right now?

“Yo, Timbo, where’s your kitchen?” Jason asks, looking around. Tim moves past him, careful not to trip over his blanket cape, and leads the way. When they reach the kitchen, Jason plops the tupperware on the counter and starts searching through the cabinets. Tim doesn’t have the energy to ask him what he’s up to, so he just climbs onto a barstool and lays his head on the counter. It’s blissfully cool. 

“So,” Jason says, as he sets something down onto the counter. “Thought your parents would answer the door. Since, y’know, it’s a Saturday and you’re sick.” Tim groans internally. He knows that tone of voice; it’s Jason’s subtle Robin-interrogation-while-trying-to-feign-being-casual voice that he uses anytime he asks Tim questions about his home life. Tim always picks up on it pretty quickly, and is usually able to use his own version of a fake-casual voice to shoot down Jason’s attempts at interrogating him.

He does not have the energy for this right now.

“You should probably be in bed right now, not answering the door.” Jason’s voice is light, but Tim recognizes the scolding for what it is. He groans–out loud this time–into the countertop.

Jason slides something across the counter towards Tim, and then walks around it, his steps loud. Too loud, Tim distantly notices, for someone who’s trained to be silent and stealthy. He must be trying not to startle Tim. There’s the sound of the barstool next to Tim’s scraping against the floor, and a moment later Tim feels a warm hand against his shoulder. 

“They’re not home, are they, Timmers?” Jason asks softly. This time he’s using the Robin-comforting-a-scared-child voice, and Tim wants to protest because he’s fine and he can take care of himself, but the hand moves to his back and rubs light circles and it feels really nice. 

Tim turns his head to face Jason, his cheek pressed against the counter. “No,” he mumbles, “they had to work today.” He hates lying to Jason, but it’s not a full lie, technically his parents are working today! 

…In Egypt.

That’s the worst part of this whole thing; Tim can’t decide if things would be better or worse with his parents here. On the one hand, he’d be confined to his bedroom so there’d be no chance of him spreading his gross sickness germs to them. On the other, it’d just be nice to know that someone was in the house other than him. He knows he’s supposed to be able to take care of these things on his own–he’s eleven for crying out loud, he’s practically a teenager which is practically an adult–but he just feels so alone. 

This is ridiculous. Tim has gotten sick before and been perfectly fine. He knows how to handle this, he’ll be fine. His parents trust him to take care of himself because he’s mature for his age. It’s a compliment that they’re not here, really. If he can’t handle being sick for a few days without them here, how are they supposed to trust him to take over the company one day?

He’s fine. He’ll be fine. He has to be.

Tim sits up and looks at the bowl in front of him. It’s one of Mom’s fancy china bowls, and he should’ve paid more attention, should’ve told Jason to grab one of the paper bowls from the pantry so he wouldn’t risk anything happening to the expensive ones, but it’s too late now. 

Jason is watching him expectantly. Waiting for him to take a bite, Tim realizes. He picks up the spoon and looks down at the soup. It looks and smells wonderful, and any other day Tim would leap at the chance to eat some of what must be Alfred’s cooking. As it is, he feels honored that they care enough about him to bring him soup, but the thought of eating anything makes his stomach lurch uncomfortably. 

A quick glance at Jason tells him there’s no way he’s getting out of this without eating at least a few bites. Tim has the spoon halfway to his mouth when a sudden thought strikes him.

“Wait, the cookies!” He exclaims, dropping the spoonful of soup back into the bowl and looking at Jason. “How are you feeling? Are you okay? Is your stomach hurting at all?” He reaches over to feel Jason’s forehead, like he sees people do on tv when sick.

Jason scoffs and pulls away. “Ya look like shit and you’re clearly miserable, and you’re askin’ me if I’m okay?” His mouth is smiling but his eyes look sad. Maybe if Tim wasn’t feeling so bad he’d be able to tell what that expression means.

“I just don’t want you to get sick,” Tim explains. “You only ate the one cookie, right? Alfred took the rest away? I really don’t want you to–to get sick because of me.” He hates the way his voice cracks, but the thought of Jason being ill and it being Tim’s fault brings tears to his eyes.

Jason’s smile still looks sad, but turns into more of a smile, so he counts it as a win. “I’m fine, Tim, ya don’t need to worry about me.”

Oh, right. Tim’s cheeks heat up. Jason’s dad is Batman , of course Jason isn’t sick. Bruce probably fixed him up the moment he started feeling ill. For a split second, Tim starts to ask if Batman could fix him up, because he really does feel miserable, but then he remembers that he’s not supposed to know that Bruce is Batman and quickly snaps his mouth shut.

The familiar guilt starts to creep back in. Jason is Robin, he shouldn’t be here worried about Tim. Tim is a nobody. Surely Robin has more important things to do with his time than care for a sick kid who can take care of himself. 

“I’ll be okay, too. You don’t have to stay. You should go spend time with Dick.” Tim doesn’t want to get in the way of brotherly bonding.

Jason rolls his eyes. “Dick can wait. We spent enough time together last night when he womped me in Smash.” That’s right, Jason had been so excited for them to beat Dick. Tim really let him down by getting sick. Before he can apologize, Jason is talking again. “‘Sides, I’m not leaving ‘til I see ya eat summa that soup. Can’t let Alfred’s cooking go to waste.”

“Erm… I’m not really that hungry?” Tim tries, even though he knows it’s futile.

Jason, as expected, lifts an eyebrow in suspicion. “Oh yeah? And what all have ya eaten today?”

Tim can’t even come up with a good lie, because he has no clue what time it is. It has been awhile now since he last had to run to the bathroom, and he didn’t eat anything yesterday. Maybe the soup will help him feel better. “If I promise to eat this bowl of soup, will you leave? I really want to go back to sleep,” He adds, hoping that playing the pathetic-sick-kid card will get Jason to finally leave.

Jason reaches over and presses the back of his hand to Tim’s forehead. Seemingly satisfied with whatever he finds, he shrugs. “Give me five good bites, and we’ll see.”

“I’m not a little kid,” Tim mutters bitterly. He pouts down at the soup and stirs it with the spoon. Jason just crosses his arms, clearly not leaving until Tim follows his instructions. Tim sighs and gives in.

The soup, as it turns out, is delicious. Tim should’ve expected as much from Alfred. Jason, true to his word, leaves after Tim’s taken five bites deemed “good enough” in size, calling over his shoulder that there’s more soup in the fridge if he gets hungry later, and to call if he needs anything. Tim never actually promised Jason that he would finish the whole bowl, but it’s so good that he can’t help but gobble it up.

It’s a terrible mistake.

Halfway through the bowl, Tim’s stomach twinges again painfully. Oh no. Tim scrambles to his feet and takes off towards the hall, but he trips over the blanket on his way. He lands painfully sprawled out on the floor, and by the time he untangles his limbs from the blanket it’s almost too late. On sheer panicked instinct alone, he lunges for the closest thing to vomit into.

Five painful minutes later, consisting of both vomiting and dry heaving, Tim is trying to catch his breath and stop crying when he realizes just what he’s done.

He puked into one of his parents’ fancy vases. Worse, this one is an artifact. Tim doesn’t remember which country they brought it back from, but he knows it’s priceless, and likely irreplaceable, and now full of vomit.

He starts crying all over again.

Tim hates this. He doesn’t want to be alone anymore. He wants his parents–no, right now they’re the last people on the planet he would want to face. 

He wants Jason. 

He thinks for a moment, desperately, that if he runs he might be able to catch their car before they’ve left the driveway. If he asks, Jason might be willing to help him more. Would maybe agree to stay a little longer, if only to make sure Tim is truly okay, and help him clean up this vase and put the soup away and get back to bed. He doesn’t want to do this by himself; he wants help.

Then Tim remembers that it’s not just Jason and Dick driving away; it’s Robin and Nightwing. Robin and Nightwing who Tim tried to poison . Robin and Nightwing who help people who are hurt or scared or lost or being attacked; not sick, delusional kids who should be able to take care of themselves. He could ask them to help, and for what? To help him walk to his bedroom? To help him clean up his own vomit?

Tim is disgusted with himself for even entertaining the thought.

He pulls himself to his feet slowly. He carefully holds the stinky vase with one hand, and the wall for support with the other. He makes his way back to the kitchen, ignoring his blanket left on the ground in the hall.

He’s a big kid. He’s practically an adult. He’s a Drake, and he will fix this himself.

He doesn’t need help from anyone else. 

He’s enough.

Jason sits in the passenger seat, silently fuming. Dick blessedly allows him to process his emotions in silence for a few minutes, without starting the car. Finally, he turns to Jason. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong, or if Tim’s okay, he just cuts straight to the chase. “Do I need to go in there?”

And it’s that question that allows Jason to finally relax a smidge. His older brother is ready to storm into the Drake’s house and fight an unknown battle, without knowing anything about the situation or asking any questions, just to make Jason feel better. To protect a kid he’s never met before, just because he’s Jason’s friend.

Jason meets his brother’s eyes. “They’re not even home,” he spits out, and the helplessness of the situation makes his eyes well up. “His parents. They left their kid at home alone, while he’s sick , without a nanny or anything, just because they have work ! On a Saturday!” Jason is so frustrated. He’s angry at Tim’s parents, for being filthy rich and having so many resources at their disposal, yet leaving their sick kid all alone. He’s angry at Tim for all-but kicking him out of his house and refusing his help. More than anything, he’s mad at himself, for not being able to help when his best friend so clearly needs it.

“I can’t help him, Dick. I–I don’t know how to help him,” Jason gasps, and all of his emotions bubble up into his voice and now he’s crying. Great. 

Before he can feel embarrassed about it, Dick’s pulling him into a hug–or at least, the best attempt at a hug he can do in the car. “He needs help, Dickie,” Jason cries into his brother’s shoulder. And it’s not really the fact that Tim is sick and home alone. It’s that there’s clearly something more going on here–his Robin alarm bells ring every time Tim avoids the topic of his parents or his home life–and Tim won’t tell him what’s wrong. 

Jason is Robin. He’s supposed to help people; he does so every night. It’s his whole job, and yet he can’t help the one person who might need him the most, because Tim won’t let him. It’s so fucking frustrating. 

How can Tim not trust him with this?

Jason’s been there before. He knows how terrible it is to have to take care of yourself when you’re sick. Especially when you’re just a kid and you don’t even know the half of how to actually take care of yourself. He knows what it’s like to not rely on anyone else; he didn’t have a choice on the streets.

But Tim doesn’t live on the streets; he lives in a big fancy house with a fancy rich family. He shouldn’t have to take care of himself. Jason has done everything he can think of to try and gain Tim’s trust, besides just shaking him by the shoulders and saying, “Why won’t you let me help you??” (That would probably be counterintuitive, which is what he tells himself every time he briefly considers the idea.)

Jason must’ve done something to make Tim feel like he can’t trust him with this. It’s the only reason Jason can think of. 

“Why won’t he let me help him??” He begs. Dick rubs soothing circles into his back with one hand and cards his fingers through Jason’s hair with the other. He whispers assurances to Jason, telling him that this isn’t his fault, and that they’re going to figure out a way to fix this, together. 

When Jason finally pulls away and wipes the snot off of his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, he can’t find it in himself to applogize for getting snot and tears all over Dick’s jacket.That’s payback for last night, he thinks with a small smile, but he knows that Dick cares way more about him than a stupid jacket.

“Hey,” Dick says softly, making Jason look at him. “I know you care about this kid, and I promise that you and I are going to do everything we can to try and help him.” His gaze saddens, and Jason is pretty sure he knows what’s coming next. “But the sad truth is, we can only help him if he wants help. You know that.”

It’s true. It’s one of the first lessons Jason learned as Robin. It’s a saying that comes up unfortunately often in their line of work, but that doesn’t make it any easier to hear. Especially regarding his best friend. 

“I know,” Jason whispers. He looks at the front door to Tim’s big, fancy, empty house. His eyes narrow in determination. “But I have to try.”

Dick chuckles and ruffles his hair. “You wouldn’t be Robin, otherwise.” And coming from the original Robin, the vigilante that Jason kinda accidentally stole the name and costume of, the man who chose to adopt him as a little brother and give him his blessing to continue the Robin mantle?

That means everything.

Dick starts the car, and they slowly leave the Drake’s long-ass driveway. Jason watches the house get smaller and smaller in the side-view mirror.

Hang in there, Tim, he thinks. I’m gonna find a way to help you, whether you fucking like it or not.

Chapter Text

The first thing Jason does when they get back to the Manor is seek out Bruce, with Dick following closely on his heels. They find him at the table drinking his morning coffee, which is unsurprising considering that it’s midafternoon and Bruce never seems to wake up before noon these days.

Bruce senses their arrival and looks up from his newspaper. “Ah, you’re back. How’s Tim holding up?”

The simple question is enough to make Jason’s insides light up, like someone pouring gasoline into a fire. He forces himself to take a deep breath. This isn’t Bruce’s fault, and it’s not fair to take it out on him. (That’s what his therapist says, at least.) After counting to ten, things feel slightly better.

Jason sits down across from Bruce. “Tim looked fucking miserable, and he’s at that house all alone because his parents are supposedly ‘at work’.” He does air quotes around the words with his fingers. Bruce must be taking him very seriously, because he doesn’t even correct him for swearing. “He was pale as a ghost, with dark circles around his eyes, and yet he was more worried about whether or not we’re all sick from eating his damn cookies.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow. “That still doesn’t make any sense. Why is he so certain that the cookies made him sick?” Jason gets the feeling that the question is rhetorical, so he stays quiet. “The more likely cause would be a bug he’s picked up at school, or somewhere else. What were his symptoms?”

This time, Jason knows it’s directed towards him. He racks his brain. “Uhh, shaky limbs–possibly body aches? Fatigue… I’m not sure what else, I didn’t think to ask…” Jason curses himself internally. Why the hell didn’t he ask Tim what his symptoms were? 

“Hey,” Dick speaks up from where he’s leaning casually against the doorway with his arms crossed. “You were upset, and it clouded your judgement. Don’t beat yourself up for it.”

Jason sighs because he knows Dick is right, but he still feels like he should’ve done better. “Oh, loss of appetite,” he remembers. “Picked at his food, despite looking like he hadn’t eaten much. I convinced him to eat some of Alfred’s soup before I left.”

Bruce nods. “That’s good, lad. It sounds like it could be a simple stomach bug. I think we should avoid jumping to more drastic conclusions until given a reason to do so.” 

Jason bristles. “So–what–that’s it? We’re just gonna sit here twiddlin’ our thumbs while he’s over there, sick and miserable and all alone?? It’s not right, B, I told you there’s something bad goin’ on over there–” 

Bruce holds his hand up, silently requesting Jason to shut up. Jason huffs and obeys, but crosses his arms and glares at the table. “You did tell me you suspect maltreatment,” he acknowledges, “and I took that very seriously. I’ve done everything that I can to get it looked into legally. I know this is hard to hear, lad, but right now there’s nothing we can do.”

“But–” we’re Batman and Robin, Jason wants to argue, we don’t have to do things legally.

“Unfortunately,” Bruce continues, “it would be too suspicious for us to pay the Drakes a visit at night. Even if we have good cause to look for evidence, it would be a risk to our identities.”

Jason looks at Dick for help, expecting him to join in and argue against Bruce. Instead, his older brother solemnly nods. “I don’t say it often, but in this case, B’s right.”

Jason clenches his hands into fists under the table. He hates this. He hates knowing that Tim is right there, right next door, miserable and all alone and with nobody to comfort him. What if something happens? What if he gets worse, and nobody knows? 

What if he’s not sick at all, and this is just the result of his parents hurting him?

His thoughts spiral further, and it must be obvious on his face because Dick and Bruce both start to comfort him at the same time.

“Jaylad-”

“Little Wing-”

Jason slams his hands on the table and stands abruptly, cutting them both off. “I’ll be in the Cave,” he mutters, and storms out of the dining room.

He doesn’t feel like their Jaylad or Little Wing right now. He’s Robin, he’s supposed to make Gotham a little brighter, and he’s never felt this helpless before. It coils in his gut–the helplessness–and twists itself into red hot anger.

He unleashes it upon the training dummies in the Cave. Alfred comes down shortly with a duster in his hand, but Jason knows it’s just his excuse to both check on Jason’s well-being and ensure he’s not going to sneak out to do something stupid.

Jason doesn’t care. He’s out of stupid options. There’s nothing he can do about this, and that’s the problem.

He shouts and punches the dummy harder.

Tim spends the next two hours scrubbing the vase until it looks brand-spanking-new, putting away the half eaten bowl of chicken noodle soup, carefully washing the fine-china bowl and returning it to its rightful spot, and then finally retrieves his blanket from the hall. He gets interrupted three times by sudden, desperate bathroom needs, and a dozen times more than that by dizzy spells that force him to sit or lay on the ground.

It’s agonizing, but worth it. He managed to take care of everything that needed to be taken care of, like an adult. See, he tells himself, you didn’t need to bother Jason. 

Still, he keeps his phone in his pocket after that, just in case any of the Waynes decide to pop back over for another unexpected visit. 

He tries to sleep on a sofa in the foyer for a while, but keeps getting rudely awakened by the urge to run to the bathroom for one reason or another. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, except with each trip to the bathroom he feels even worse. His stomach continues to cramp viciously, his legs grow weaker, his headache worsens, and his throat burns.

Eventually he fetches a trashcan to keep next to the sofa, so that he doesn’t have to run to the bathroom when he needs to throw up. It’s disgusting–he already can’t seem to rid his mouth of the taste of vomit, and now he’s stuck smelling it too–but it’s worth it to rest on the couch for longer. 

He finally finds an answer to that question he’s been mulling over all day. It would be worth the shunning and the shame, to have his parents here in the same house. Tim knows he’s being pathetic; he knows this is just a little stomach bug or something, but he feels like he’s dying. Even if it would mean staying confined to his bedroom, Tim longs desperately for another person to be in the house with him. 

If he gets worse instead of better, would anyone notice? Would he just be left here to rot until his parents got back from Egypt? Would they even care?

Probably not. They’d probably just decide he brought it on himself.

His thoughts drift to Jason. If I disappear will you look for me? Jason would definitely be concerned if Tim didn’t show up to school on Monday, but would he do anything about it? Or would he realize that Tim isn’t worth the effort and just move on?

He’s being selfish, he knows. Even if Jason realized that Tim is a creepy stalker, and decided not to be his friend anymore, he would still help Tim. Jay is just like that; he wouldn’t be Robin otherwise.

This whole line of thinking is so silly anyway. Tim knows he’s being ridiculously dramatic. He’s not dying.

But it sure feels like it, and he doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing at first. It’s like his body functioned on its own, without his brain directing it. It’s only when he hears the dial tone that he realizes he reached for his phone and called someone.

“Timothy?! ” Mom’s shrill voice answers.

Tim almost starts crying from the amount of relief he feels at just hearing her voice. “M–Mom,” he gasps.

“Do you realize what time it is here? ” She asks sharply. Tim doesn’t know what time it is in Egypt; he doesn’t even know what time it is in Gotham. “It’d better be an emergency.”

“I’m–I’m sick,” he croaks, and as he says it he realizes how stupid this is. Being sick doesn’t count as an emergency, and he shouldn’t have called. This was a mistake. Somehow, though, something deep inside of him believes that his mom has the power to make things better. “I thr–threw up.”

“Oh honesty, Timothy, stop blubbering like a child, ” Mom hisses. “You are eleven years old; you are more than capable of handling a simple stomach bug. Why on earth did you call me? ”

“I–I don’t know what to do,” he hiccups before he can stop himself.

“So google it,” she spits out.

Oh. Oh no. Tim didn’t even think of that. He’s such an idiot.

“You honestly thought it was a better idea to call me in the middle of the night and wake me up rather than handle it on your own? ” Mom scoffs. “Do you know how long of a day your father and I had yesterday? I need my eight hours of sleep every night–you know this–or else I get cranky. If I get cranky tomorrow, and take it out on your poor father, that will be your fault. Is that what you wanted? ”

“N–No.” Tim’s crying now. This isn’t what he wanted at all. 

“Besides that, did you even consider that making foreign calls costs us money? We’ve told you a thousand times to email us if you need anything while we’re gone. Honestly, did you even try calling your nanny? ”

No, Tim hadn’t. He hasn’t seen Mrs. Mac in a long time. He’s pretty sure she turned in her notice after his parents tried to deny her request for time off for her son’s wedding last year.

“Put your big boy britches on, and take care of this yourself. You’re brilliant, I’m sure you can figure it out. And for the love of god, clean up after yourself. If we return and the house smells like vomit, I won’t be able to save you from your father’s wrath.”

With that, Janet Drake hangs up.

Tim lets the arm holding his phone drop, feeling hollow inside.

Dick pops his head into Bruce’s study. Bruce glances up from his computer and raises an eyebrow. An inquiry, but also permission to enter. 

Dick plops down rather dramatically onto the couch in the corner of the room. “Jay finally granted the training dummies some mercy,” he reports. In reality, his little brother had worn himself out, but Dick’s trying to lighten the mood a bit. He knows, though, that there’s not much lightening to be done until this whole situation gets resolved.

Alfred guided Jason upstairs to the den, where Jason is hopefully relaxing with a soft blanket and a movie. This whole situation is taking a lot out of him, and Dick plans to go join him soon, if only to make sure he’s not trying to get out of taking care of himself. First, though, he needed to check on Bruce.

Bruce hasn’t been taking this well, either. It’s harder to tell with him, but Dick has become a self-appointed expert on reading his body language over the years. (Jason is quickly picking up on it too–it’s kind of an unspoken Robin thing now, a necessity in order to understand Batman’s intentions under the cowl and carefully blank face–but the kid allows his own emotions to cloud his judgement too often.) He knows by the extra crease in his brow and tension in his ever-so-slightly hunched shoulders that Bruce is beating himself up.

Dick also knows that if he’s going to offer Bruce any comfort right now, it has to be indirectly. Therapy has worked wonders on all of them, but Bruce still shuts down any time Dick tries to get him to talk about his emotions.

“How’s it going?” He asks, propping his legs up so that he’s sprawling across the couch. After Jason stormed out of the living room earlier, Bruce stated that he was going to go look over the Drake Case, as he called it, to see if he’s missed any vital information that could help. 

Bruce grunts, and Dick knows that it means he’s trying to collect his thoughts. Sure enough, Bruce speaks a moment later. “Tim’s health record is clean. Nothing to indicate physical abuse.”

Dick hums. They’ve both helped enough victims to know that abuse doesn’t have to be physical. 

“His school record is similar. Good grades, nearly perfect attendance.” Bruce clicks through something on his computer. “As far as the records show, Jack and Janet Drake have never been investigated for anything related to Tim until now. None of the adults in Tim’s life have reported anything out of the ordinary.” He frowns, and it makes him look so much older than he is. “The Drakes are powerful. Even if they were reported, I can think of many ways they could’ve gotten it to go away.”

“Ways they could make it go away this time,” Dick finished. Bruce grunts in agreement. That’s the tricky part about this case, the part that Jason can’t understand. This isn’t just a matter of proving Tim is being mistreated. It’s a fight they have to be certain they can win before they even start it.

And that’s assuming that Tim is, in fact, being mistreated. So far all they have to go off of is Jason’s intuition. Dick trusts Jason’s intuition, would bet his life on it, but it won’t exactly hold up in court.

“So there’s no proof whatsoever of anything being wrong?” He confirms. He moves his feet up to the top of the couch, swinging his body slightly so that he’s upside down.

“The only thing I’ve found so far is that they travel a lot out of the country for work, and considering his attendance record, it would seem they go without Tim. However, there are consistent payment receipts to a Mrs. McIlvaine, who seems to be the housekeeper and main caretaker to Tim while they’re gone.”

“Jason seems pretty certain that Tim was alone today, and didn’t mention anything about a housekeeper,” Dick notes. “Could be a lead. And he mentioned that Tim claimed his parents had work today.”

Bruce is quiet, doing something on the computer. After a moment, he sighs. “It seems the Drakes are on a business trip to Egypt at the moment. They found a valuable artifact last week; there’s multiple articles on it. I don’t know how I didn’t find this sooner.”

Dick shrugs. “If there’s a housekeeper taking care of Tim while his parents are home, then we have nothing to worry about for now. We could keep looking for other evidence, but Jason might feel better if he knows Tim isn’t alone.”

“And if there isn’t anyone taking care of the kid,” Bruce continues Dick’s train of thought, “if his parents are in a different country and he’s home alone, sick, with no adult caring for him…”

Dick can see the gears in his brain turning.

“...that would be grounds for neglect charges,” Bruce finishes, but he’s practically growling, so Dick knows what he really means is, there’s nothing in the world that could stop me from helping this kid.

Bruce looks over at Dick for the first time since he’s flipped upside down, and the fond smile that crosses his face makes it absolutely worth it.

If there’s one thing Dick is good at, it’s finding subtle ways to cheer up his dad.

He presses his hands against the ground and flips off of the couch. “Sounds like a lead to me. Let me know if you need any help, I’ll be in the den.” 

There’s another Wayne in this house that needs to be cheered up. Besides, he doesn’t want to be in the room when Bruce starts gathering his adoption papers together. Plausible deniability, and all that.

~~~

Tim lays still for a long time, staring at the ceiling numbly.

Any lingering energy he had left was sucked out of him by his Mom’s harsh words. He should’ve known better than to ask for help. 

The problem is that he still needs help. He feels worse than ever, and it doesn’t seem like his condition will be improving any time soon. He’s given up any hope of handling this alone. He doesn’t want to be alone anymore. He doesn’t know what to do. 

He feels so empty, both emotionally and physically. It feels like someone scooped out all of his insides and took his emotions while they were at it. 

At least he has Doctor Google.

With shaking hands, pulls out his phone again. At first he tries looking up, Why were my cookies accidentally poison? This just brings up a bunch of reddit posts, mostly about people eating moldy cookies or ones with a certain plant added in. Tim’s mind might not be functioning at peak brain levels right now, but he thinks it’s safe to rule out both of those possibilities. For a brief moment, he wonders if it’s possible to accidentally make edibles, but decides that it sounds a bit ridiculous, so he moves on.

The next thing he tries is, Why did the cookies make me sick? Most of those results talk about the dangers of using expired ingredients. He skims through the page without clicking on any of the websites.

Finally, Tim decides to just google his specific symptoms and what might relieve them. Most of it is stuff he already knew, like resting, taking over-the-counter medicine (which he tried, but all of the stuff in their medicine cabinet is very expired, and he decided not to take his chances with that ), taking a warm bath or shower, blah blah blah. He discovers that it’s probably a bad thing that he hasn’t really drank any water since getting sick. He also reads that he should eat something light, like the chicken noodle soup Alfred so lovingly provided for him, but he’s hesitant after how quickly it made him sick earlier.

Now that he thinks about it, Tim hasn’t thrown up in a few hours. His memories are a little fuzzy and the whole day feels like a big blur, but he’s fairly certain that the last time he threw up was right after eating the soup.

Right, so he won’t be repeating that.

He’s not sure if he’s making the right decision though, because his abdomen hurts so bad. It’s been hurting on and off for so long that he can no longer tell if it’s hunger pains or just sickness cramps. What if not eating is making things worse?

Even with Google telling him what to do, he still doesn’t know what to do.

The one consistency among all of his sources–the one thing that will supposedly help reduce all of his symptoms–is drinking water. Tim decides to start there. 

The first step is to sit up. Ugh, even that makes him dizzy. He leans his head back against the sofa, feeling defeated. You can do this, he tells himself, quit being a baby. You’re a Drake; you can do this.

It’s probably not the best self pep talk, but it works. Soon enough Tim is standing! One small win for Tim, one big win for Timkind. Or something like that.

The closest water source is the sink in the bathroom. It’s so temptingly close, but the thought of bending over to drink out of it does not sound ideal, considering his current dizziness levels. Unfortunately, this means that he has to go all the way to the kitchen, because that’s where the cups are.

Yikes, when did walking get so hard?? 

After what happened earlier, he has deemed his blanket a tripping hazard. This means it gets left behind on the sofa. Unfortunately for Tim, it’s freezing without it. It’s always slightly cold in the house, and even if Tim knew where the thermostat was he wouldn’t dare mess with it. Usually wearing long-sleeves is enough, but he’s wearing them now and can’t stop shivering. (Did he open a window earlier or something? He can’t remember.) He can’t even rub his arms to try and warm himself up, because he needs them to keep himself steady against the wall.

With one wobbly step at a time, Tim makes his way to the kitchen. He almost drops the cup as he gets it out of the cabinet because his hands are shaking so bad, so he decides that a straw would be best. He slides to the floor and slowly sips the water. God, it’s so cold his teeth are nearly chattering. 

For the thousandth time, he thinks about how miserable he is. He would give anything to feel better right now. (Well, not anything. There are some things he’d never give up, like certain secret identities, but he’d definitely give a lot.) He just wants to feel better again. He’s so sick he can’t even remember what better felt like. 

He looks up at the kitchen around him. To think that just two days ago he was actually kinda having fun making cookies, unaware of the misery that awaited him. Stupid cookies with their stupid poison. He doesn’t even know what he did wrong this time!

Tim is no stranger to making mistakes. In fact, he’s kind of an expert at messing things up. His parents certainly think so; they love to point out all of his flaws and insecurities, telling him to be better. 

If he wasn’t such a mess up, would they spend more time with him?

He’s usually able to distract himself when these negative thoughts whisper in the back of his mind, but there’s nothing to save him from them now. He hugs his knees and rests his head on them, as if he can hide from the fact that he almost poisoned the most important people in Gotham. 

He just wishes he knew what went wrong; which mistake turned the deserts deadly. He thought that he followed the recipe perfectly! Maybe if he just knew, he could find a way to fix this mess.

Maybe I deserve all of this, he thinks. At least it’s just him suffering. He would never have forgiven himself if he had made Jason feel like this. Tim, at least, caused this mess in the first place. He can deal with it; this is basically just a punishment for his mistakes. No different than the punishments that his parents have dished out over the years. 

Tim leaves the cup behind and makes his way back to his chosen sofa. He wraps his blanket around himself, but it does little to ease his shivering.

Tim can handle this. He made his bed, metaphorically speaking, and now he’s laying in it. It’s fine. He’ll be fine. Jason is fine; it’s just him. He’ll be fine.

Tim sits up suddenly, his heart skipping.

Oh no. Oh fuck.

Tim is such a fucking idiot.

It wasn’t just Jason who ate the cookies! Tim ran around Gotham passing out cookies to anyone who looked hungry. Cookies that were poisonous!!

Did he poison a bunch of homeless people???

Are there other people out there right now, feeling as sick and miserable as Tim is, without access to water, or a bed to rest in, or a roof over their heads?

It’s suddenly very hard to breathe.

Oh god. What if someone ate more cookies than him, and died because of this? Is Tim a murderer?? 

He fumbles for his phone. This is too much for him to fix on his own, but Batman can help them with the antidote that he gave Jason! Everything is going to be okay.

Tim hesitates over the dial button. 

He knows that he has to call Jason. He knows that he can’t fix this on his own. He knows that he needs their help. He doesn’t even care about revealing that he knows their identities; it doesn’t matter anymore, not when people are hurt because of Tim. 

But he doesn’t want to face Batman. He knows he’ll deserve whatever punishment he’s given for recklessly endangering people, but he really doesn’t want Batman to look at him the way Tim has seen him look at other criminals. He doesn’t want to feel like the scum on the bottom of Batman’s shoe.

Will he take Tim away and throw him in jail? Is this enough to warrant going to Arkham, or will it be normal people prison? He won’t get to say goodbye to Alfred. He won’t get to meet Dick. Will he ever see Jason again?

Oh god, Jason.

If facing Bruce and telling him about this is scary, Tim would literally rather die than face Jason. Will Jason vouch for him, try to convince Batman to settle on a smaller punishment? Or will he look at Tim with disgust and turn his back on him?

Tim really, really can’t breathe. He feels like he’s choking on the air. The room is getting smaller around him, his blanket suddenly feels like a suffocating restraint, his heart feels like it’s trying to escape his chest, and his vision is going dark at the edges.

Is this what dying feels like?

He can’t die, because then Batman will never know about the people who need him. 

He tries to type a message to Jason, but he can’t see the screen very well and his fingers won’t go where he wants them to. He types out what he hopes is a coherent message and hits send.

~~~

“–and that’s why it’s far superior,” Jason is saying when his phone chimes on the coffee table. 

He made the mistake of letting Dick choose which movie to watch. Dick, probably in an act of attempting to cheer him up, had put on The Great Gatsby. Which wouldn’t be such a problem, except it led to a debate on which movie is better. Jason isn’t a huge fan of the Great Gatsby anyway–he finds it hard to have any sympathy for the characters when it’s really just rich people's problems–but he will stand and die on the hill of movie adaptations staying faithful to their book counterparts. Hence the long rant on why the 1974 movie is better than the 2013 one.

He raises an eyebrow and waits for Dick to argue again. His older brother holds his hands up in a gesture of peace and shrugs. “I gave up this fight fifteen minutes ago.”

Jason rolls his eyes and checks his phone. He hadn’t been ranting for that long. 

There’s a text from Tim that makes his blood run cold.

Timberoni: J i need helf pls

Tim always texts in full sentences like a grandma. He rarely makes spelling errors and always corrects the few he does. 

Jason is off the couch and running through the halls before he can even process the situation.

“BRUCE!!!”

Chapter Text

Bruce must’ve heard him yell, because Jason is halfway to Bruce’s study when he almost runs into the man. 

“It’s Tim,” Jason pants. Running through the house is nothing compared to patrol, but the panic is stealing the breath from his lungs. He goes to show Bruce the text, but his dad is already in action, asking Alfred to set up a guest bedroom just in case, and heading towards the garage, if Jason had to guess.

A hand on his shoulder startles him. It’s just Dick, who he hadn’t realized was right on his heels the whole way. “Take a breath, Little Wing,” Dick instructs calmly. “It’s going to be okay. Wanna try calling him?”

That’s a good idea. Jason should’ve thought of it, but the brief flood of panic overrode his Robin training. He takes a deep breath, presses dial, and lets Dick lead him towards where Bruce disappeared to.

It was the garage after all. Bruce must be going for efficiency, because while he and Dick usually argue over which fancy car to take, now they all simply pile into the closest car to the garage entrance.

The phone stops ringing, and Jason’s breath catches in his throat.

“...Jay…? ” Asks a small, familiar voice. 

“Hey Timmy,” Jason greets, willing his voice to stay steady. “Hang in there, dude, we’re on our way over right now.”

There’s a strangled sound, and Jason realizes that Tim is sobbing. “I' m–I’m s-sorry ” Tim cries, “I’m s-so sorry!”

Jason’s heart sinks in his chest. “It’s okay, Tim. Whatever it is, it’ll be okay.” He hesitates. “…Are you okay? Did something else happen?”

If someone hurt Tim, there will be hell to pay.

Unfortunately, Tim doesn’t seem to hear him. “I didn’t–didn’t mean to, I s-swear, Jay, I’m so sorry!”

Jason freezes. Did… Did Tim hurt himself? “Didn’t mean to what, Tim?” He asks carefully.

“I didn’t want to hurt anybody,” Tim whispers.

Jason covers the mic with his hand and looks at Dick. “I’m not sure what the fuck we’re about to walk into, but it sounds like someone else is at the house and Tim accidentally hurt them. He’s distraught.”

Dick gives Jason a sad smile. “We’ll figure it out, together.”

They’ve already pulled into the Drakes’ driveway, Jason notices. “Tim, it’s gonna be okay. I’ll be there soon, and we’ll fix this, got it? It’s gonna be okay, I promise.”

Tim doesn’t respond, but Jason can hear him crying.

Jason isn’t sure what he expected when they enter the Drake’s home, but a dark, quiet house void of any life wasn’t it. He starts to ask Tim where he is, but realizes that he can hear him crying somewhere in the big house.

He follows the sound and sure enough, there’s Tim, curled up with his arms around his knees on the floor next to the toilet. His phone is on the floor next to him, forgotten.

Jason wants to rush over to his best friend, but he keeps his movements slow and carefully loud, to avoid startling him. “Hey Tim,” he says softly as he drops to his knees in front of his friend. He gently sets his hand on Tim’s knee. “I’m here, it’s gonna be okay.”

Tim sniffles and looks up at him with red rimmed eyes. “J-Jay?”

“Yeah dude, I’m here.” Tim looks awful. Jason didn’t think he could get any paler, or that the circles around his eyes could grow any darker, but both are true. His hair is greasy and disheveled and he’s shaking like a leaf. “Wanna tell me what happened so we can help you?”

Tim’s face falls, and he starts stuttering out apologies again. “I didn’t-didn't mean to, please, I–I swear!”

Jason tries to comfort him, but Tim won’t stop.

“Tim, we need to know what’s wrong,” Bruce says from the doorway behind Jason. His voice is both firm and comforting, in the way that Jason only ever hears when Batman is comforting a child. “Is there someone else in the house?”

“N-no,” Tim sobs. 

“Your parents aren’t back from work yet?” Jason asks, genuinely confused.

“T-They’re in Egypt!” 

“They’re what?” Jason practically growls, and immediately regrets his temper when Tim flinches away from him.

Jason turns to mouth some choice words at Bruce so Tim won’t here, but the kid is still struggling to get away from Jason. “Hey, wait, it’s okay–”

“Get out!” Tim hisses desperately. “Get out! ” Then he lunges for the toilet.

Oh.

Jason moves back to give him some space, but makes no move to leave. He looks over at where Bruce is still in the doorway and raises his eyebrows as if to say, well? Ya heard the kid, get out!

Bruce obeys, and Jason turns back to Tim, who is retching violently into the toilet. He rubs Tim’s back, hoping to soothe him, and Tim practically melts at the touch. He’s crying harder, Jason realizes. Poor kid, he must be miserable.

It takes a few minutes; even when there doesn’t seem to be anything left to come up, Tim can’t stop dry heaving. When he’s finally finished, Jason gives him a moment to catch his breath, before pulling him into a hug. Tim squirms, saying something about being disgusting, but Jason ignores him. He’s seen way worse things than a little vomit. Sure, it’s gross and the whole bathroom kind of smells, but that’s a small price to pay to make sure Tim is okay.

“It’s gonna be alright, Timmers,” he murmurs as the younger boy clings to him. “I’ve got ya, it’s gonna be okay. Come here.” He shifts them so that they’re sitting next to each other, backs against the wall, and wraps his arm around Tim. He presses his other hand to the younger boy’s forehead, and hisses. God, he’s burning up. Tim clings to him harder in response.

Jason just so happens to glance over Tim’s shoulder, towards the toilet bowl, when he sees it.

There’s blood in the vomit.

Oh fuck.

~~~

“Did a perimeter check, didn’t find any signs of another person,” Dick reports. He didn’t so much as glance up when Bruce walked into the kitchen, too busy looking through cabinets. The top cabinets, specifically–he’s standing on the counter. 

Bruce doesn’t even bat an eyelash. “There isn’t another person,” he responds. “Tim confirmed that the house is empty. It’s just him.”

Dick frowns down at him. “That’s unfortunate, but not very surprising.” He shuts the cabinet and hops off of the counter with ease. “The fridge is practically empty–except for Alfred’s soup–most of the dishes are covered in dust, and the pantry is mostly instant ramen and boxed mac ‘n cheese. I don’t think anyone’s been around to feed this kid properly in awhile, B. And that’s just from inspecting the kitchen.”

Bruce sighs deeply. “Tim confirmed that his parents are still in Egypt. I haven’t asked him yet about a nanny or housekeeper.”

“Where is he, anyway?” Dick asks, looking over Bruce’s shoulder. “Is he okay?”

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs again. Dick is suddenly struck by how old Bruce looks when he’s stressed like this. “No, he’s not. Jason is with him right now, but I was asked to give them some privacy for a moment.”

Bruce turns and starts walking back towards wherever Jason and Tim are hiding, so Dick follows. However, a startled shout from down the hall makes them pick up the pace.

“ B!!!”

~~~

Tim seems startled by Jason’s shout and clings to him tighter, despite Jason having warned him before calling for his dad.

“S-Sorry, headache,” Tim explains, voice muffled by Jason’s shoulder.

“Shhh, don’t apologize.” Jason runs a hand through Tim’s hair, and the younger boy melts into the contact. “What are your other symptoms?” Tim seems to be distracted from whatever had him so worked up moments before. While Jason wants to know what upset Tim so that he can fix it, he’s also thankful that the distraction has allowed Tim to calm down.

“Hate throwing up,” Tim whispers, instead of answering the question. Jason can’t tell if he’s purposely avoiding it or not. “So gross.”

Bruce and Dick both appear in the doorway, and Jason nods over at the toilet. They both peer in. Dick sucks air in through his teeth, and Bruce’s gaze hardens. “Tim, we need to take you to the hospital,” he says, as gently as Bruce is capable of. At the sound of Bruce’s voice, Tim tenses in Jason’s arms.

“No,” Tim mumbles into Jason’s jacket.

“Tim, you need help-” Jason starts.

“No!” Tim shouts this time. “Please, don’t make me go. Don’t take me away, I–I don’t want to go!” Just like that, he’s spiraling again. 

Dick gestures towards the door and then slips out to give them some space. Bruce lowers himself to the ground a few feet away from them. “Tim, I understand that this is hard for you. I…” Bruce struggles to find the right words. “I don’t want to remove you from your house against your will. That’s not what this is about; you are very sick and you need medical attention.” Tim doesn’t let go of Jason’s jacket, but he does finally turn to look at Bruce, who takes it as a sign to continue. “You don’t need to worry about your parents right now. We can figure out the rest of this situation once you’re feeling better.”

It’s a surprisingly eloquent speech considering it’s from Bruce, and Jason feels a little proud. That is, until he catches the look of horror on Tim’s face. 

“My… my parents?” He asks quietly. “No, no–they didn’t–this isn’t their fault!” 

Jason feels rage bubble up inside of him, hot and viscous, but Bruce must catch the murderous look on his face because he cuts in before Jason can say anything stupid. “Tim, we can discuss this later. For now, we need to leave.”

“No, no you have to understand! This was my fault, they didn’t even know!” He sounds desperate, and it hurts Jason’s heart. “It wasn’t them, it was me! I didn’t mean to, I swear, but–but I know it’s terrible.” He lets go of Jason’s jacket to clasp his hands in front of him. “I–I know I have to be punished. I’ll take my punishment, I know I deserve it, but please–please don’t lock me up.” 

Jason freezes. 

To say that he’s mad would be an understatement. He’s horrified. Tim has been sick and miserable all weekend, needs to be taken to the hospital because there’s fucking blood in his vomit, and he thinks he deserves to be punished? For fucking what? Asking for help?

Jason is disgusted with Jack and Janet Drake. They’re Tim’s parents, they were supposed to protect him and take care of him, not–not break him like this. (Later Jason will regret this thought, because broken is such a terrible word to use. But now, watching his best friend sit on the bathroom floor and say that he’ll take whatever punishment because he deserves it, with vomit still on his fucking lips, it’s the only word Jason can think of.)

Wait. Jason is so upset he almost missed that last sentence. Did Tim say–

“Tim, bud, what do you mean?” Bruce asks. He glances at Jason for a moment, his steel gaze soft on the edges with sadness. “Do your parents lock you up as a form of punishment?”

Jason inhales sharply. He’s already plotting a thousand ways he’s going to make the Drakes (minus Tim because he’s already a Todd-Wayne as far as Jason is concerned) regret ever existing, when Tim shakes his head. “No, I meant–I meant p-prison.”

What?

Scratch that, there’s no way Jason heard that right. He obviously must’ve misheard Tim. He rubs his ear subconsciously.

“Tim, why would I take you to prison?” Oh, so Jason did hear that right. Huh. Bruce’s voice sounds really strange. Jason thinks he’s attempting his Brucie Wayne persona, but it’s weak. It sounds more like barely-concealed suspicion. 

“B-Because I hurt someone,” Tim admits, “I didn’t mean to–I swear–but I don’t know if they’re okay and you’re the only one who can save them and I didn’t know what to do!” He digs his fingers into his hair and takes a dramatic breath, and it’s only then that Jason realizes how little Tim is actually breathing. Poor kid is working himself into another spiral. “Please–I’m sorry–I didn’t mean to, please don’t send me to jail! I–I’ll do better–I’ll be better, I swear– please!”

Jason has to resist the urge to pull him into a hug. It’s tempting because Jason desperately wants to comfort Tim. He knows panic attacks though–has experienced more than enough of them himself–and he knows that different people need different things. Jason personally freaks out if anyone or any thing touches him while he’s like that, but he witnessed Dick have one once, and was surprised when Bruce draped a weighted blanket over Dick and held his hand, and it worked. 

Jason doesn’t know Tim’s panic attacks. He doesn’t know if touching him would help or cause him to spiral further. But he has to do something, so he slowly reaches towards him. “Timmers, I’m gonna touch your hands, alright?” After the warning, Jason gently takes Tim’s hands into his own and rubs his thumbs in circles over the sides. “Is this okay?”

Tim stays quiet and curled up, but he nods his head, so Jason takes that as permission to continue. He takes one of Tim’s hands and presses it against his own chest. “I need you to breath with me, Tim,” he says softly and slowly. “Can you match my breaths?” He takes a slow, deliberate breath in, and Tim copies him. “Good, that’s good.”

“I–I don’t know what went wrong,” Tim mumbles, but his breathing continues to slow down. “I followed the recipe, I swear, I followed it perfectly. I don’t know what happened, I don’t know–”

“Shhhh, Tim, it’s okay,” Jason soothes. “I believe you.”

“I’m sorry,” Tim croaks. He seems to have calmed down a little, and he’s uncurled from the little ball-of-Tim that he was moments ago, but his eyes look foggy, almost glazed over. “I don’t want to go to jail. I don’t think I’d like it.”

Jason would laugh at the absurdity of the situation if he wasn’t so worried about Tim’s health. Is this hyper-fixation on jail a side effect of his illness? Is he hallucinating? “Dude, you’re not going to jail. It’s okay.” He gives the hand he’s still holding a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “We do need to take you to the hospital though, remember? Is it okay if Bruce picks you up?”

Tim freezes like a deer caught in headlights. Jason only notices because of his close proximity. Bruce doesn’t seem to notice, and before Jason can warn him against it, the man climbs to his feet. He’s towering over them from this position and he reaches towards Tim, who whimpers and scrambles into Jason’s arms. Jason shoots Bruce a dirty look that he hopes conveys all of the alarm and frustration he’s feeling, because why the hell didn’t Bruce wait for a verbal answer from Tim before moving?

“No! No, p-please,” Tim sobs into Jason’s shirt. “Please, Robin, please don’t let him t-take me away!!”

Jason’s heart skips a beat. His blood runs cold. His brain reboots. He’s afraid to meet Bruce’s eyes for a second, afraid that because of that one little word Bruce really will try to take Tim away. Tim, who is trembling in his arms. Tim, who baked them cookies and shyly thanked Jason for being his friend. Tim, who was left all alone in this giant house with nobody to take care of him.

Tim, who apparently knows their secret identities.

Jason’s hold on Tim tightens ever-so-slightly. “Never,” he whispers. “You’re safe. I promise I’ll keep you safe. Nobody is gonna hurt you anymore.” 

Jason meets Bruce’s eyes at last, silently daring him to even try to take Tim away.

He sees nothing in Bruce’s eyes but empathy, a swirl of kindness and sadness alike. He suddenly remembers that this isn’t the stoic, caped crusader in front of him, this is his dad . His dad who would never dream of hurting a kid or locking them up, let alone Tim of all people. Bruce adores Tim—Jason has a sneaky suspicion that he’s already got adoption papers ready and waiting—he would never do anything to hurt Tim.

Jason knows this, but Tim doesn’t seem to at the moment, so Jason holds him and repeats his promise over and over like a mantra until Tim’s breaths start to even out once more.

“Everything is gonna be okay, I promise,” Jason says for the thousandth time. “But we really do need to get you help.” He thinks he can probably pick up Tim. There’s not a big difference between them physically, despite the two year age gap, thanks to Jason’s malnourishment from his time on the streets. Still, he’s carried plenty of victims around Tim’s size as Robin. “B’s gonna stay over there, alright? He’s not gonna come over here. It’s okay.” Bruce looks a little disappointed, but nods in understanding. “I can pick you up myself, or we can get Dick.”

Tim perks up a little at the mention of Jason’s older brother, so Jason makes an executive decision. “Dick gives the best piggy-back rides,” he tells Tim as Bruce goes to retrieve Dick, “so you’ll definitely be in good hands.”

“Awww, I knew you loved me. So nice to hear it admitted out loud,” Dick jokes as he appears in the doorway. There’s a sarcastic retort on the tip of Jason’s tongue, but he holds it in for Tim’s sake. 

Dick crouches down in front of Tim, leaving a few feet of space in case Tim gets overwhelmed. “Hiya, Timbit,” he says softly, with a friendly grin. “Good to finally meet you. Wish it was under better circumstances, though.”

Tim gasps, and Jason thinks he’s abut to start spiraling again, but instead of fear, Tim’s expression is pure awe. If he were to look closely enough, Jason’s pretty sure Tim’s pupils would be shaped like stars right now, like the main character in that cartoon he’s heard people at school talking about.

“Nightwing,” Tim breathes.

Dick blinks at him, then turns a startled expression on Jason, who simply shrugs. Dick’s mouth opens and closes a few times, as if he can’t think of what to say–which, fair. Jason isn’t sure what to make of this whole situation either. It’s possibly the first time he’s ever seen Dick at a loss for words though, and Jason can’t wait for Tim to get better so he can congratulate him on being the first one to find a way to get Dick to shut up.

Tim’s expression crumbles. “I didn’t wanna meet you like this,” he sniffles.

Dick offers him a sad smile. “It’s alright, kiddo. I think we all wish you were feeling better, but that’s why we’re here. To take you to the hospital so you can get better.”

Tim turns to look at Jason. “I’ve never been to a hospital before,” he admits. “Is it scary?”

Jason and Dick share a concerned look. “Maybe a little?” Jason isn’t sure what Tim will or won’t find scary, especially in his current, fragile state-of-mind. “But I’ll be right by your side the entire time, okay? You’re not alone anymore, Tim.”

Tim is quiet for a moment. Then, finally, “Okay. I’m ready.”

Dick moves slowly, giving Tim ample warning before gently picking him up. Jason keeps his word and even holds Tim’s hand the whole time as they make their way through the house. Tim looks so small in Dick’s arms, and the sight makes Jason’s heart ache.

Bruce holds the front door open for them. They’re halfway to the driveway when Tim suddenly yanks his hand out of Jason’s and squirms in Dick’s grip. “P-Put me down!” He cries desperately. Dick quickly obeys and sets Tim on his feet. The younger boy sways a bit, so Jason grabs his shoulder to steady him. 

Tim shrugs off Jason’s hand, ignores Dick and Jason asking if he’s okay, and stumbles back towards his house. His toe catches on a crack in the concrete (and ouch, that had to hurt, Tim’s barefoot after all) and he tips forward suddenly. For a terrible moment, it looks like he’s going to fall flat on his face, and Jason’s mind jumps to the worse case scenario, of cracked heads and gushing blood. But then Bruce sweeps in and catches Tim before he can crack his head open. 

Tim opens his mouth, likely to thank Bruce for saving his life, and then proceeds to vomit onto Bruce’s shoes.

In the aftermath of having just thought his friend was about to die violently on the sidewalk right in front of him, all Jason can think is, eewwwww, gross. He keeps this thought to himself though, despite normally taking any opportunity to tease Bruce, because he doesn’t want to upset Tim.

Turns out he doesn’t need to upset Tim, because the poor kid starts crying again anyway. “I’m sorry, I’m s-sorry, Please Mr. Wayne, I–I didn’t mean to, please don’t get rid of me —” 

Jason steps forward to comfort Tim, but Dick stops him with a hand on his shoulder and a knowing look in his eye.

Tim’s knees buckle under him, but Bruce’s hold on him is firm, preventing him from falling into his own mess. He pulls Tim into a hug and murmurs something, but they’re too far away to hear. Jason holds his breath, remembering how violently Tim had reacted to the idea of Bruce picking him up earlier. Instead of panicking, however, Tim just melts into the embrace.

Bruce takes this as permission to pick Tim up, and gently sweeps him off his feet. "They're just shoes, Tim." He easily kicks off his shoes, and walks toward the car, leaving them behind. He continues talking softly to Tim, and as Bruce passes them, Jason just barely make out, “Shoes are replaceable, you are not.”

Tim continues to cry, but he stops apologizing and seems content to let Bruce carry him. 

When they reach the car, Jason climbs into the backseat first so that Tim can be passed to him. The younger boy immediately melts into his arms, like it’s a spot that was made just for him. Screw it, if Bruce doesn’t have the papers ready yet, maybe Jason will just adopt Tim. (Never mind the fact that he’s only thirteen, they could figure something out.)

Bruce takes the driver's seat, and Dick returns from the house a minute later with a small trashcan that he passes back to Jason. Jason sets it at his feet, confident in his ability to get it in front of Tim in time if needed. “Wait a minute,” He thinks out loud as they pull out of the driveway. “Isn’t it illegal to drive without shoes on? Why don’t you make Dick drive?”

“I would have to get pulled over first.” Bruce responds, keeping his eyes glued to the road the whole time. “And besides, it doesn’t matter,” he pauses dramatically, “because I’m Bruce freaking Wayne.”

“Because I’m Batman,” Dick says at the same time, in a bad impression of the signature deep voice.

Bruce grumbles something along the lines of, I don’t sound like that, while Dick and Jason laugh. Tim is oddly quiet though, and Jason glances over at him in concern. Now that the adrenaline from his breakdowns is wearing off, Tim looks ready to nod off at any moment. The poor kid looks exhausted, and Jason squeezes him gently to get his attention. “Ya alright, Timmers?” He asks softly, mindful of the headache Tim mentioned earlier.

Tim is quiet for a moment, staring at Jason’s shirt and tracing one of the buttons with his finger. “Is this real?” He whispers, so soft that if it wasn’t for his training Jason probably would’ve missed it.

“Yeah man, this is real,” Jason reassures him. “We’re getting you some help. You don’t have to do this on your own anymore.”

Tim’s eyes flick up to Jason for a second, before returning to the button. “I’m so tired, but I don’t wanna wake up. I really like this dream.” He smiles softly, and it’s so innocent and childlike. Tim is so mature that Jason easily forgets the age difference between them, but he’s starkly reminded of it now. Tim really is just a kid. Jason’s heart breaks all over again.

“Oh, Tim. It’s okay, you can sleep. I’ll still be here when you wake up, I promise.” 

That seems to be enough for Tim, because he sighs and closes his eyes. “Mmkay. Thanks, Jay.”

Within seconds, he’s asleep.

Jason will never admit to it if anyone asks, but he presses a kiss to Tim’s head. Neither man in the front seat seems to notice, too busy whispering about the fact that Tim knows their identities, as if Jason can’t hear them. Instead of eavesdropping, Jason’s focuses solely on Tim, and swears to himself that nothing is gonna hurt his little brother like this ever again.

Not on his watch.

Chapter Text

Tim is floating.

He’s not sure where he’s going, but he knows he’s not attached to the ground. He feels weightless, as if drifting through a calm sea. Except there’s no water on his skin, just the leftover feeling of gentle rocking. It reminds him of his mother, and for a minute he’s five years old again, being rocked gently and soothed after having woken up from a nightmare.

Everything was easier then, before he grew up.

He’s not five years old anymore. He doesn’t need silly things like comfort; he’s old enough to take care of himself. He pushes through the fog, trying to pull himself out of the liquid, but it feels less like water and more like molasses. It’s thick and he can’t escape.

He’s trapped in the confines of his own mind.

He thrashes against the darkness’ grip, trying not to panic. Whatever this is–whatever is happening to him–it isn’t right. He doesn’t like it.

“Shhhh,” A familiar voice comforts him. “It’s alright, Tim. You’re okay.”

“J’son?” Tim asks blearily, but his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. 

“Yeah, I’m here.” The voice sounds watery, and that’s not right. Jason isn’t supposed to cry, he’s not supposed to be sad. Tim needs to find out why he’s sad and fix it, except he can’t get his eyes to open. “It’s alright, Timmers, settle down. You’re safe.”

“Jason,” Tim repeats, his mouth cooperating better this time. “Don’ be sad. ’s okay.” He wants to reach for Jason’s hand, but his own only twitches in response. He huffs in frustration, until a hand finds his and squeezes gently. Oh good, Jason knew what he wanted. Jason always knows what to do. 

There’s a weird sound above him, and Tim decides that he’s had enough of this whole darkness thing. He pries his unwilling eyes open, but the room is ridiculously bright so he closes them again with a grumpy grumble. When he opens them the second time it’s slightly better. Jason’s face floats above him, and he’s smiling but crying and Tim doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean. 

Tim squints up at him. “I’m con…confused,” he pouts, almost forgetting the word halfway through.

Jason frowns at him, and that’s not right. Tim wants the smile back. “I know, this is a lot. But you’re pretty out of it right now, so howzabout we wait until you’re feeling a little better? Then we can talk about the hospital and your sickness and all that.”

Tim grumbles at him. That was a lot of words and most of them drifted right past him. “Nooo,” he whines. “Your face… ‘s confusing.” 

There’s a pause, and then Jason laughs. Full on belly laughs, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. Which is pretty rude, Tim wasn’t trying to be funny, it wasn’t a joke. But he’ll forgive the rudeness because Jason’s laugh is his favorite sound in the whole world. 

“Don’t worry, we can also talk about my confusing face once you’re feeling better.” Jason snickers again. “Just go back to sleep, Timmy.” Something runs through his hair, and Tim realizes that it’s Jason’s hand. Jason is petting him like a cat. He doesn’t know why, he isn’t a cat last he checked, but it feels nice so he won’t complain. Tim sighs contentedly and leans into the contact. “Everything will be better when you wake up. You’re safe now, I promise.”

And, well, if Jason promises, then it must be true. Tim is safe. He’s safe because Jason is with him. That’s a nice thought. He hopes Jason will still be here when he wakes up.

“I will. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

Tim closes his eyes. He’s starting to float away again when Jason’s voice brings him back down.

“Timmers?” He asks softly. Tim hums in response. “Why–I’ve been tryin’ to get you help for so long now. Why wouldn’t you let me?”

That’s a weird question. Tim doesn’t want to answer it, he just wants to go back to sleep. But Jason is his best friend, and promised that he’s safe, and said he’d stay by his side. Answering a question is the least Tim can do in return.

“You’re Robin,” he mumbles. 

“What?” Jason sounds upset. Oh, that’s right, Tim isn’t supposed to know that. Whoops. Well, he already spilled the beans, so it’s too late to take it back now. “What do you mean?”

Tim squints up at Jason, who looks… concerned? “You’re Robin,” he insists. Jason doesn’t deny it, just stares at Tim in confusion. “’m nobody… ‘m not worth it.”

Jason’s face shifts into horror, which is once again confusing. He opens his mouth and says something else, but Tim can’t hear it. He’s already floating away.

There’s grass under him. It’s soft and prickly at the same time, and it feels nice. Tim doesn’t touch grass very often, so he takes a moment to appreciate how it feels against his skin before he opens his eyes. 

The sky is blue above him, speckled with the fluffiest looking clouds. Tim can’t remember the last time he saw a sky so blue. He’s puzzled, and it’s enough to make him sit up and take in his surroundings.

He’s laying in a field–or perhaps meadow? Tim doesn’t know the difference between the two words, but considering the wildflowers scattered about, he decides that meadow is more fitting. There’s a tree line in the distance, and Tim stares at it for a moment.

He’s definitely not anywhere near Gotham, going off of the blue skies. So where is he? The thought should be frightening, but he can’t find it in himself to be upset. Instead he feels calm, peaceful almost, for the first time in… well, a long time.

“Have a nice nap?” A familiar, amused voice asks. Tim looks to his left, and Jason is sprawled out next to him. “Ya slept for freakin’ ever, dude. I’ve read like ten chapters.” 

Tim glances at the book in his hands for a moment before smiling. “Yeah, it was a nice nap. Weird dream, though.”

Jason lifts an eyebrow. “Wanna talk about it?”

Tim thinks it over for a moment, then shrugs. “Eh, don’t really remember it anyways. Just know it wasn’t very nice.”

Jason hums. “Good thing it was just a dream then.”

Tim rolls over onto his stomach and pillows his arms under his head. “Yeah,” he agrees, and looks at Jason expectantly.

The other boy rolls his eyes fondly. “Ya know, if you want me to read to ya, you could use your words and ask like a normal person?”

“But I’m not a normal person,” Tim snickers. “I’m Tim.”

Jason smiles, and it’s so full of love and affection that it makes Tim feel warm inside. “You sure are.”

Tim closes his eyes and lets the sound of Jason’s voice reading from his book soothe him. An itch in the back of his mind tells him that this is too familiar, as if he’s lived this moment before. Maybe it’s meant to be a distant memory but it feels so pleasantly real right now, with the breeze in his hair, the grass under his skin, and the cadence of Jason’s voice washing over him. Or perhaps it’s not a memory at all, but a daydream he’s basked in a thousand times before. A moment he’s waited for his whole life. A final puzzle piece slotting into place.

In the end, he decides it doesn’t matter what this moment is; past or present, real or fantasy, Tim feels at peace for the first time in years. And that, alone, is enough.

He drifts awake slowly to the feeling of a hand running through his hair. He lets himself enjoy it for a moment, before trying to gather his thoughts. Where is he? He was… Last he remembers, he was sick on the couch, and he called–

Oh.

“Mom…?” He asks, leaning into the hand. He called her, he remembers now. Did they come back from their trip to take care of him? The hand shifts to cup his cheek for a moment. It’s large, and callaused, and wait… That’s not his mom’s hand.

Tim opens his eyes.

Bruce freaking Wayne looks back at him.

What the hell– Tim tries to say, but all that comes out is a jumbled noise of vague confusion. Bruce Wayne’s eyes crinkle, and it dawns on Tim that the man is smiling softly at him. “Hey, Tim. How are you feeling?” He asks, and it’s only as he pulls away that Tim realizes it was Bruce Wayne’s hand on his cheek.

What the actual hell??

“What–Where am I?” Tim tries to look around, but he feels sluggish. It’s like his body weighs a million freaking pounds. 

“Gotham Medical Center. How much do you remember?” Tim ignores his question in favor of trying to sit up, but his limbs feel like Jello and there are strong arms gently pushing him back down. “Hold on, take it easy. Your body needs rest.” His tone is gentle, yet firm. It’s not a suggestion, but a command. Don’t get up. 

Suddenly Tim remembers that this is Batman sitting in front of him.

That was Batman’s hand on his cheek.

Why was Batman’s hand on his cheek?? Oh god, Tim wants to crawl under a rock and die of embarrassment. Why is Batman at the hospital with him? Why is Tim even in the hospital? 

With all these questions on his mind, the first one that comes out is-

“Where–Where’s Jason?”

Bruce settles back in the chair he’s sitting in, positioned directly next to Tim’s hospital bed. “Jason is at school. He wanted to stay here with you, but I forced him to go back to school today.” He reaches over and presses a button on the wall, then sighs deeply. “Tim, you’ve been in the hospital for over forty-eight hours. Can you remember any of it?”

Tim stares at him blankly. Forty-eight hours? “...No,” he says slowly. “I–I don’t.” Forty-eight hours. Two days. He’s been in the hospital for over two days. Oh god, he’s probably missed so much schoolwork. It’s gonna take him forever to catch up. 

“That’s alright,” Bruce responds calmly. “Everything is going to be okay. There’s a lot for us to discuss, but first let's make sure you’re doing okay.”

Tim furrows his brow. He starts to ask the man what he means, when there’s a knock at the door. A man enters, younger and shorter than Bruce, dressed in blue scrubs. He introduces himself as Tim’s nurse, and does a bunch of weird little test things that he calls “taking vitals.”

Being in the hospital is weird, but the nurse helps him sit up and gives him chocolate pudding, so Tim decides he’s alright. Sadly, the pudding isn’t enough to distract him from his nerves. As the nurse asks him questions about how he feels, the fog in his mind starts to clear. His memories of being sick resurface, and Tim finds himself grateful that Jason is at school. At least his best friend won’t be here to witness this part.

The nurse mentions that the doctor will be in soon, and then leaves. As soon as the door shuts behind him, Tim turns towards Bruce. “I need your help, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce smiles at him, but it’s tense at the edges, as if it’s forced. “I know, Tim. But please, call me Bruce.”

Tim shakes his head. “No, you don’t understand. I need…” He looks at the floor, Bruce’s gaze feeling too intense. He takes a deep breath and focuses on his hands, which are folded in his lap. “I need Batman’s help.”

Bruce is silent for a moment, so Tim quickly continues. “I’m sorry, I–I know I’m not supposed to know, and I’m really sorry, but I swear that I’ve never ever told anybody else. I would never do that.” His hands are shaking–Well, all of him is shaking–but surprisingly his voice remains steady. “I didn’t want to tell you, but I think I accidentally h-hurt people and they need your help, please, you have to help them–”

“Tim,” Bruce cuts him off. His voice is carefully blank, and it’s terrifying. Tim should probably look at him to try and judge the expression on his face, but he really doesn’t want to, and besides, this is Batman, if his voice is blank than his face is probably even more so–

A gentle hand on his shoulder startles Tim out of his thoughts and he flinches. Bruce pulls back instantly. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, and that’s not right. Why is Batman sorry? Tim is the one who’s sorry. “Tim, can you look at me please?”

Tim really doesn’t want to do that, but he has to be brave right now. He has to face the consequences of his actions. He has to listen to Batman so that he’ll listen to Tim and help. 

Tim forces himself to look up. Batman is kneeling in front of him, so that his eyesight is below Tim’s. He slowly reaches out and places a hand on top of Tim’s. 

“Tim, it’s alright,” Batman says. His voice is strong and firm, as if it’s the obvious truth. “Everything is okay. Take a deep breath with me.” He waits for Tim to breathe in and let the shaky breath back out. “Good.” 

It’s embarrassing to admit, but hearing Batman say that something Tim did was good makes his heart skip a beat. 

“It’s okay that you know,” Batman continues, after they’ve spent a solid minute just breathing slowly together, and Tim has to admit that it does help. “Nothing bad is going to happen to you. We’re not going to hurt you for knowing who we are.” Tim’s shoulders drop, some of the tension releasing from them. He wants to laugh, because the idea of Batman hurting him should be ridiculous, except it’s a worst-case-scenario he’s pictured in his mind before: being silenced in order to protect their secret identities. But if there’s one thing Tim can trust, it’s that he knows Batman wouldn’t lie to him. “I trust that you haven’t told anyone, and that you’re not going to. I trust you, Tim.”

It’s those final four words that break him. His eyes water before he can contain the swell of emotions inside of him. He can’t remember the last time anyone said those words to him–he’s not sure if anyone ever has. That’s not to say nobody trusts him. His teachers trust him to get his schoolwork done. His parents trusted him to be by himself this summer. Jason trusts him too; he knows that the soft, affectionate side of Jason is not one that the other boy lets many people see.

Still, it’s one thing to know that he’s trusted. It’s another to have someone say it to him. 

Especially over something as important as this. The Bats’ secret identities are the most important, well-guarded secret that Tim could ever possibly be trusted to keep. To have Batman’s trust placed in him so openly, without having done anything to earn it? It doesn’t make any sense.

Tim sniffles and wipes his face on his hospital gown. He’s not sure how to respond; this doesn’t feel real. He wonders idly if he’s still unconscious from the medicine and this is all just a vivid fever dream, but a quick poke at his knee proves that theory wrong. 

Thankfully, he’s saved from having to think of a response when Bruce continues talking. “I’m not sure how much you remember, so I’ll fill you in on what we know.” While his tone still feels more Batman than Bruce, he gently reaches for Tim’s hand and holds it in his own, and the act is so tender that Tim can no longer think of him as Batman right now or he’ll spontaneously combust of embarrassment. Despite having known them to be the same person for a while now, it’s easier to accept Bruce-Wayne-Jason’s-Dad holding his hand than it is to think of Batman-Defender-of-Gotham doing it. 

“We knew that you weren’t feeling well when you called Jason’s phone Friday night and spoke to Alfred.” Bruce pauses for a moment, and Tim nods. He remembers that, even if it feels a bit hazy. “Jason said you were getting worse when he went to visit you on Saturday. Do you remember that?”

“Yes,” Tim responds a bit hesitantly. “He made me eat some soup.” He leaves out the part where he threw it up almost immediately afterwards, though he can’t suppress a shudder at the horrible memory. 

Bruce chuckles, though it sounds slightly forced. “That sounds like Jay.” His expression grows grim, and it makes Tim nervous. “He was very worried about you, Tim. I’m afraid I owe you an apology; Jason wanted to go back and help you right then and there, but I wouldn’t let him. I was– hesitant –to jump to the wrong conclusions–though I know now that those conclusions were far more accurate than I had hoped, and had I not stood in Jason’s way, perhaps we could’ve helped you sooner.”

Tim is completely lost. The longer he’s been awake, the more coherent his thoughts have become, but he still feels like he’s missing something. “I–I don’t understand.”

Bruce offers him a small, almost sympathetic smile. “That’s alright, there’s a lot to explain. Do you remember anything after Jason’s visit?”

Tim thinks for a moment. “Yeah… I called my mom.” He withdraws his hand from Bruce’s to wrap his arms around himself for comfort at the memory of his mom’s anger. But–wait–if he had called his mom, then– “Did she call you and ask you to help me?” He asks, looking hopefully at Bruce. She had sounded so upset that Tim bothered her in the middle of the night, but if she had sent someone to check on him then she must’ve forgiven him! And that would mean that she won’t be upset at Tim for going to the hospital for something as silly as throwing up–if it was Bruce’s idea and she sent Bruce, then she can’t be mad at him!

Bruce’s face falls. 

That tells Tim everything he needs to know. 

“No. No, I’m sorry, Tim.” His voice is clipped, like he’s trying to hold something back. “Your mother didn’t call us. You are the one who asked for help.”

“...What?” Tim asks quietly. That can’t be right. He’s not supposed to ask for help–he shouldn’t have asked for help. He can’t do that. Bruce must be mistaken.

“You texted Jason and asked him to help you. He was understandably concerned, so we went to your house to check on you immediately. You–” He hesitates for a moment. “You were in really bad shape, Tim. You needed immediate medical attention. You were very sick, and a bit distraught–not entirely lucid. So we brought you to the hospital.”

Tim feels like he’s floating again. This isn’t–that’s not–he doesn’t remember. He can’t remember any of that and it scares him. He knows better than to ask for help, especially when he doesn’t need it. He had just called his mom, just gotten a reminder of why asking for help is wrong, so why would he text Jason? He was fine, he had the situation handled. It just doesn’t make any sense.

Tim shouldn’t be in the hospital right now. He was fine, he would’ve been fine. It’s not like he was dying or anything. This has all been a waste of the hospital’s time and money. It was Tim’s own fault he was sick anyway, he never should’ve baked those stupid fucking poison cookies in the first place. He was supposed to face the consequences of his actions and take his punishment like the mature (almost) teenager he is. Why did he get Jason involved? He should’ve just sucked it up–

Tim gasps and looks at Bruce in horror. That fast, he had forgotten why he needed Bruce’s help in the first place, distracted by the sweet promise of misplaced trust.

Well, Bruce would’ve realized eventually that trusting Tim is a mistake. Might as well get it over with now.

“What’s wrong?” Bruce asks him, not missing a beat.

Tim takes a deep breath to mentally prepare himself. “I’m not the only one who ate the cookies,” he admits guiltily. He hesitates for a moment, half expecting the World’s Greatest Detective to immediately realize what he’s saying and turn on him in anger. 

Instead, Bruce’s brow furrows. “I’m aware. Jason and Dick scarfed them down so quickly that I didn’t get any. Though I heard they were quite delicious.”

Tim stares at him helplessly. “No, I–not them , of course they’re fine, they’ve got you as a dad–” he ignores the confused look on Bruce’s face and continues, “–I meant that, I–I–there were other people who ate them too.” Either Bruce still doesn’t get it, or he’s doing that thing that Tim’s parents do where they force him to admit to his mistake out loud as part of the punishment. “I gave them to homeless people!” He blurts out before he can change his mind. “I–I didn’t mean to hurt anybody, I swear, I never ever would’ve if I had known, I just had too many cookies to eat by myself, and–and–”

“Tim, breathe–” Bruce instructs, except Tim can’t breathe, when he tries to suck in air it feels wrong, and there’s a terribly familiar taste in his mouth, and oh no –

Bruce reads the look on his face, and in moments there’s a small trash can being pressed into his arms, just in time for him to hurl his guts up. 

Turns out that throwing up doesn’t get any easier or less miserable, no matter how many times he does it. He’s left trembling in the aftermath, tears running down his face, and Bruce is gently rubbing circles on his back but Tim’s brain is split between finding comfort in the motion and feeling intense shame at the situation. 

He leans forward, cradling the trash can to his chest despite the stench so that it won’t slip and fall out of his grasp, blatantly ignoring the way Bruce awkwardly pats his shoulder, and sniffling pathetically because this whole thing fucking sucks–

–and that’s how the doctor finds them when she walks in.

“Mister Drake?” She addresses him, placing the clipboard in her hands on the counter next to her. She glances at the trash can in his arms, but doesn’t look surprised, just slightly disappointed. Tim hunches his shoulders, feeling his face flush with shame. He should’ve held it down better or something, this is so pathetic–

He doesn’t realize that he’s completely ignored her until the doctor is speaking again, asking him if he knows where he is. 

“‘m at the hospital,” he murmurs, kicking his feet idly and refusing to look at her. He looks at her shoes instead. They’re very nice shoes; that must be a doctor thing.

“Yes,” she agrees. “My name is Dr. Wells, and I’m going to be your pediatrician during your stay.” She says it like she’s he’s on vacation at a luxurious hotel and not stuck in the hospital. “I’m pleased to say that your vitals are looking much better, which is very good.” Tim glances up in surprise at the praise, and she smiles when he accidentally catches her eyes. “I’m sure you’re not very happy to still be throwing up, but unfortunately that’s to be expected for a little while longer. How are you feeling?”

Tim thinks for a moment, very aware of both Dr. Wells and Bruce watching him intently, waiting for his answer. It’s a bit intimidating. After a moment, he shrugs. “A little better, I guess.”

Dr. Wells smiles warmly at him. “Good, that’s good. Do you know why you’re here?”

Tim huffs, because this is all just a waste of time. He’s feeling better, he’s good to go home. They need to get a move on so Bruce can go help the other people he poisoned, not waste time asking Tim the same questions over and over. “Because I’m sick,” he grumbles.

Bruce chuckles from where he’s sitting next to Tim on his hospital bed, and it startles Tim enough that he almost drops the trash can. Bruce gently takes it from him and places it safely on the ground. Dr. Wells smiles again, amused, and Tim thinks to himself that maybe her name should be Dr. Smiley since that’s all she seems capable of doing. It’s perhaps a petty thought, but Tim isn’t feeling well and he wants to go home. 

“Yes, you were very sick.” Her smile turns sympathetic, and Tim hates it. He doesn’t want sympathy right now. “You’re lucky that Mr. Wayne and his family found you when they did, and brought you in. You were in critical condition; without receiving medical attention when you did, your life may have been at risk.”

Tim swears his heart stops for a moment. “W–What?” Bruce’s hand returns to his shoulder and squeezes it gently. Tim takes in a stuttering gasp of a breath, unable to fully comprehend what Dr. Smiley could possibly mean. How could his life have been at risk? Had it really been that bad?

“Timothy,” Tim barely suppresses a flinch at the sound of his full name; he’d almost prefer to be called Mr. Drake. “We were able to determine that you have something called salmonella. Do you know what that is?”

Tim’s breath catches in his throat as his brain lags. “The chicken disease??” He blurts out before he can stop himself. “But I haven’t even been around any chickens, alive or raw!”

He’s intent on defending himself, because he knows how salmonella works and it’s absurd that they think that’s what’s wrong with him, as if he doesn’t know better than to eat raw chicken, but for some reason Dr. Smiley is laughing at him. Tim turns to Bruce for help, but the older man is clearly amused as well, his mouth curving up into a small smile. 

“Raw chicken is not the only way to get salmonella,” Bruce says gently, patting his shoulder. “You can also acquire it from consuming raw eggs.” When the pieces still aren’t clicking for Tim, he continues to explain. “When you baked your cookies, did you eat some of the raw dough?”

Tim nods, remembering the delicious cookie dough that he couldn’t help but scarf down after getting a taste. The delicious raw cookie dough. As in not-baked. As in containing raw ingredients, like-

“Oh.” Tim exhales. Raw eggs. 

“Eating things such as raw cookie dough is one of the most common ways of getting salmonella,” The doctor explains. “Even the smallest amount is enough to make you sick if one of the eggs is infected.” Tim hadn’t just eaten a small amount though. He had eaten raw cookie dough until his heart was content like an idiot. 

Bruce nods, and the hand moves from Tim’s shoulder down to his own hand, gently holding it. “Which means that the cookies only made you sick because you ate the dough raw.” Tim gasps and looks at him hopefully. “So nobody else who ate the cookies was affected.” 

The relief is instantaneous. 

Tim’s shoulder sag as tension that he didn’t know he still had drains out of his body. It’s enough to make him slump over, right into Bruce’s side–but the man doesn’t protest, simply wraps his arm around Tim’s other shoulder and pulls him closer. 

“Everything is okay,” Bruce whispers, and Tim takes a moment to bask in the truth of the statement. The people he shared his cookies with on the streets are okay, not sick or maybe-dying like Tim thought. Jason and Dick are okay because they were never at risk of getting sick in the first place. Tim is the only one who suffered, which is okay because it was his stupid mistake in the first place, and even he is going to be okay, according to Dr. Smiley. “Everything is okay,” Bruce repeats, and Tim realizes that he’s saying it over and over in an attempt to comfort Tim because he’s crying.

Tim scrubs furiously at his eyes, and realizes with dread that he’s cried onto Bruce’s suit, but the older man doesn’t comment on it. He simply comforts Tim, like Tim’s feelings are the only thing that matters at the moment.

Dr. Smiley explains that Tim is still recovering, and that it will likely take him another couple days before he’ll be able to go home. He was severely dehydrated, which was apparently the most important thing causing him to be considered “critical condition” when first brought to the hospital. However, after being hooked up to an IV for over a day, his body is on the mend. Now that he’s awake, he can try drinking water on his own, as long as he can keep it down. Though it’s apparently normal that he wasn’t able to keep the pudding down, because food will take longer, or something like that. Honestly, Tim kind of gives up listening after awhile, as the weight of the situation catches up to him in the form of exhaustion. It’s nice that the doctor is keeping him filled in, but Tim trusts Bruce to pay attention enough to answer any questions Tim may have later. 

Neither of them say a word when Tim closes his eyes and drifts off. 

When Tim wakes up, the first thing he notices is that he’s slept for quite awhile; where once the light coming in through the window was bright, now shades of red, orange, and yellow indicate that it’s already evening. 

The second thing Tim notices is Jason staring at him.

They stare at each other for a moment–Jason looking surprised to see Tim awake, and Tim’s brain trying to catch up from having just woken up–before Jason’s face breaks into a grin. “Welcome to the land of the livin’, Timmers,” he greets, and Tim can’t help but smile back.

Tim is able to sit up on his own this time, which shows progress on his body’s part. He slept pretty well, aside from Bruce waking him up ever so often to encourage him to drink some water. Now, Bruce is nowhere to be seen, and it’s Jason who hands him a cup. Tim gulps the water down greedily, slowing only when Jason warns him that drinking too fast may cause him to throw up. Tim scowls at the thought, but heeds the advice, taking smaller sips. 

Once he’s finished with his water, and Jason has pestered him with a thousand questions about how he’s feeling and which of his symptoms have gotten better or worse, Tim finally has a moment to think.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I–I wasn’t–I didn’t–” He doesn’t know how to finish that thought. I wasn’t sure how to ask you for help. I didn’t know if you’d actually help me. I didn’t want to disappoint you. I don’t want you to hate me. All true, these are statements that are too heavy for Tim to admit to at the moment. “I don’t think I would’ve been okay on my own,” he settles for. “So thank you. For helping me. For saving me.” His hands twist in the hospital blanket, fidgeting with it so that he doesn’t have to focus on Jason’s reaction because he can pretend that he’s thanking the blanket instead of Jason.

“Tim,” Jason says softly, crouching next to the hospital bed so that he’s closer to Tim’s line of eyesight. Tim still doesn’t look at him, but Jason doesn’t ask him to, content to let him be. “I will always save you, when you need me. When you ask for me.” Jason’s breath hitches, like he’s holding back tears. “Thank you,” he continues, and those two words are enough to force Tim to look at him because why on earth would Jason be thanking him? Sure enough, Jason is crying as he smiles at Tim. “Thank you for letting me help you. I’ve been wanting to for so long now. Thank you for trusting me.”

Tim isn’t sure what Jason means. Tim has only been sick for a few days, so why does Jason make it sound like he’s been needing help for so much longer than that? Before he can ask, the door opens and catches both boys’ attention. They look over to see Bruce carrying two cups in one arm and a bunch of snacks in the other.

“You’re awake,” Bruce looks pleasantly surprised, tossing a bag of chips at Jason’s head with excellent aim–blocked only by Jason’s hand as he catches it with reflexes that come from fighting crime. “Good, because we need to talk, and I thought it would be better for Jason to be here for this.”

Tim immediately tenses up, his mind spinning with horrible thoughts of what Bruce could possibly want to talk about. 

“Great going, B, now you’ve got him all worried,” Jason grumbles, reaching to take one of the cups out of Bruce’s hands. 

Bruce turns to face Tim where he’s standing next to the hospital bed awkwardly. “I’m sorry, Tim. I didn’t mean to worry you, but I don’t expect this to be an easy conversation to have. I simply thought you would be more comfortable having Jason present.”

“–And because Bruce is still learning how to talk about his feelings,” Jason chimes in. “So I’m here to translate for him if he gets stuck or something comes out wrong.” Tim is shocked by the blatantly disrespectful comment, but Bruce doesn’t seem upset about it. He rolls his eyes, but instead of angry or annoyed, Bruce almost looks fond. “But first you oughta sit down, B. It’s rude to just loom over him like that.”

Jason holds Bruce’s drink for him while the older man pulls a chair over from the corner of the room to sit close to Tim’s bed, with Jason in between the two of them. Tim can’t deny that having Jason as a buffer brings him relief. 

“So…” Bruce begins, seemingly at a loss for words. “First, you need to know that you didn’t do anything wrong, Tim. You aren’t in trouble. None of this is your fault.”

“Okay…?” Tim means to agree, but it comes out as more of a question than a statement. 

“It’s okay if you feel hurt, but it’s important for you to understand that this is not to hurt you. Everyone involved has only your best interest in mind.” Everyone involved in what? Tim wants to scream, but he bites his tongue. It’s rude to interrupt adults. “It might not feel like it right now, but everything is going to be okay.” 

Tim can stop himself from speaking out loud, but he can’t stop his thoughts from racing, trying to imagine what could be so bad, so important for Bruce to treat him like a fragile, frightened child. Did something happen to his parents–Is he an orphan now? Or did they just extend their trip again? Maybe Bruce is trying to find a way to tell him that his parents are going to be gone for three more months, and Tim is going to have to do things on his own for even longer. Boy, that would suck. Or perhaps Tim is actually a lot sicker than they thought, and he’s going to be stuck in the hospital for even longer. How embarrassing. Maybe he’s dying–actually–can salmonella turn terminal? 

“Bruce, you might wanna just spit it out already, I think you’re freakin’ him out,” Jason says next to him, pulling Tim out of his thoughts. 

Bruce sighs heavily, like the weight of the world rests on his shoulders. “Tim, your parents are being investigated by the authorities for child neglect. While the investigation is under way, you can’t legally remain in their care.”

Tim hears the words coming out of Bruce’s mouth, but he can’t get them to make sense in his mind. “What?” He hears himself say from far away. “I can’t–I can’t go home?”

Bruce’s gaze softens. “No, Tim. I’m sorry. You can’t.” 

“What–I don’t–I don’t understand. It’s not–They’re not–” Tim knows he’s not making any sense, but neither is Bruce. None of this makes any sense. “Why? ”

Tim doesn’t miss the way Jason’s hands curl into fists in a way that promises violence. Before Tim can so much as flinch, Bruce rests his hand on his son’s shoulder and Jason visibly forces himself to relax. 

Tim looks to Jason for an answer, but it’s Bruce who responds. “Tim,” he says slowly, like he’s explaining rocket science to a toddler–and maybe that’s all Tim is in Batman’s eyes, at eleven years old, a toddler unable to understand the cruel ways of the world. “You were extremely ill, and you were left at home with nobody to take care of you. As a result you became dangerously dehydrated, and could’ve died if you hadn’t received medical attention in time. That neglect alone is enough to warrant investigation.”

“You should’ve had someone there to take care of you,” Jason says through gritted teeth. “You shouldn’t have–no kid should have to go through something like that alone.”

But I don’t need someone to take care of me, Tim wants to say. He’s old enough to take care of himself. He’s capable of taking care of himself. 

…But that’s a lie, isn’t it?

If he was good at taking care of himself, he wouldn’t be in the hospital right now. He would’ve known to drink more water while sick. He would have known better than to eat raw cookie dough in the first place. He would’ve asked for help sooner. He wouldn’t have asked for help at all.

Tim can’t argue because it’s his fault he’s sick to begin with, and now his parents are going to be in trouble because of him. They trusted him to be mature enough to take care of himself while they were gone, and he failed. His parents are going to be so mad at him.

He wants to argue that this isn’t fair; he was doing so well until he got sick, can’t one mistake be forgiven? He wants to tell them that it’s his fault, that he’s sorry he got himself sick but the cookies were supposed to be an appreciation gift, not a grave mistake. He wants to beg and plead that they leave his parents out of it because he’s the one who messed up, not them, but he can fix it if they just give him another chance. Tim wants to say so many things, but his body is beyond his control now, and all he can do is stare blankly at Bruce Wayne and listen to him condemn Tim’s family. “Additionally, your parents are currently out of the country, yet it doesn’t seem they named anyone as your temporary guardian in their absence.”

“Never mind the fact that their kid almost died and they won’t even answer their fucking phones,” Jason bites out. Tim’s never heard him this furious before, and it would probably be terrifying if Tim wasn’t already feeling so overwhelmed. His head is too full of emotions that swirl and fight for dominance for Tim to add in any fear towards Jason. Still, he feels a little better when Bruce chides the other boy.

“That’s all of the current evidence,” Bruce says, like it’s just another case to work through and not the fate of Tim’s flesh and blood. Tim doesn’t know Bruce very well, but it still hurts to think that this is all he is to Jason’s dad: a case to solve. “There are…suspicions of much more neglect–” God does Tim wish he would stop throwing that word around, “–but further investigations will have to take place later.” Tim wonders idly if Bruce is referring to the actual authorities or to himself. He glances towards Jason with a barely repressed shudder. Are Batman and Robin going to go and poke around his house, looking for evidence against his parents? Is his best friend going to try and break apart his family? The thought nauseates him. 

“However, all of this automatically puts you in custody of the state,” Bruce continues. “Of course, you’ll stay in the hospital until you’re released. What happens after that is up to you.”

“How?” Tim manages to croak. How is any of this up to him? If it were up to him, he would go home and they would all pretend none of this ever happened.

“You can come stay with us if you want, Timmy,” Jason offers gently. “Bruce could foster you while all of this is figured out.”

Tim’s heart feels torn in two. He wants to turn them down venomously. He wants to scream that he’d never choose to live with the people who are trying to tear him from his parents. He wants to wake up and find out that all of this was a bad dream. But–

But this is Jason. Asking Tim to go home with him. And isn’t that something Tim has wanted for years? 

He passed Jason in the halls at school and longed to introduce himself. 

He sat next to Jason in the car as Alfred drove him home for the first time, and wished the ride would last forever so he could pretend like they were friends.

As he crouched in the shadows of a fire escape and watched Robin through the lens of his camera, Tim wondered what it would be like if Jason knew. He thought it was all a lost cause, because Jason is Robin, and Robin is magic, and Tim is just… Tim.

But now, Jason knows that Tim knows their identities, and he doesn’t care–he hasn’t even asked how Tim found out–and he still wants Tim.

Tim has daydreamed about this moment a thousand times, when his house felt too big and too empty, and his heart longed for comfort. He’s imagined what it would be like to be born a Wayne rather than a Drake, what it would be like to have Jason as a brother, what it would be like to be– to be–

Part of his family. Tim has wanted to be part of Jason’s family since before Jason knew he existed. 

He wants to go home to his parents. He wants them to hug him and tell him that everything is going to be okay. He wants them to ask him about his school day and give him unwarranted advice. He wants them to ruffle his hair and kiss his forehead and comfort him after a nightmare like in the movies. He wants them to call him and tell him about their expeditions. He wants them to skip their expeditions and spend time with him. He wants them to choose him. He wants them to love him and trust him. He wants them to stay.

He doesn’t want to go back to his cold, lonely house.

Tim is so, so tired. He knows he’s supposed to be mature and take care of things on his own now that he’s a grown up, but he’s just so tired. He doesn’t want to do things on his own anymore. He wants help. 

He wants someone to save him from this bone-deep exhaustion, and Robin– Jason –has always been good at saving people.

“Okay,” he whispers.

Things aren’t magically fixed, as much as Tim wishes they were. Jason may have saved him from salmonella, but even he can’t rescue Tim from this stressful situation. Things do, however, get slightly better.

Tim throws up a few more times, but it’s not nearly as violent as before, and Jason rubs comforting circles on his back while Bruce gently reminds him to breathe. It still sucks, but he’s able to keep water down at the very least, so he doesn’t have to get another IV. Eventually he manages to keep down the soft hospital foods offered to him as well.

Jason stays by his side throughout it all, except for when Tim’s social worker arrives to interview him. He’s a nice man named Charles. He’s young–despite having what Tim privately thinks is an old man name–in his late twenties or early thirties, and he insists that Tim calls him by his first name. 

Tim is on edge immediately because he doesn’t want to accidentally say anything to incriminate his parents, but Charles starts the interrogation off by asking him questions about his hobbies and interests. After rambling about photography and skateboarding, Tim finds himself loosening up. It’s a little strange, because he never really gets a chance to talk about this stuff with anyone except Jason, but Charles is surprisingly chill to talk to. By the time he starts asking questions about Tim’s parents and home life, Tim finds that he isn’t so worried anymore; he just answers every question honestly. 

Some of them are easier to answer than others, like when the last time he saw Mrs. Mac was, or what he and his parents do together when they are home. Others are just confusing. He asks when the last time Tim went to the doctor’s for an annual check up was, and Tim didn’t even know that’s a thing, but he supposes that he’s just been such a perfectly healthy child that they never had reason to.

The most complicated question Charles asks him is whether or not he wants to stay with the Waynes, but Tim has already made up his mind on that one; if he can’t go home, he wants to stay with Jason.

As much as he likes Charles, the interview is very draining, so when Charles says it’s time to go, Tim is relieved. Jason returns to the room immediately, peeved that he wasn’t allowed to stay for moral support, and this time he has both Bruce and Dick with him.

It’s the first time Dick has come to see him, with Tim coherent, at least. He can’t help but feel a little bit shy–or perhaps starstruck is the better word, because holy shit Nightwing is talking to him! –but Dick is super cool about it. 

“Nice to officially meet you, Tim,” he says, shaking Tim’s hand very seriously. 

“Nice to meet you too,” Tim smiles, but falters. “Sorry, officially?” He picks his brain for what the man may be referring to. Tim knows they’ve met at a gala before, a few times actually, but he highly doubts he made enough of an impression for Dick to remember. The only reason Tim remembers is because he had been equally starstruck back then, with the knowledge that he was shaking Robin’s hand.

“Yep, hopefully you’ll remember this time!” Dick jokes, and Tim realizes that he must be talking about the circus. It’s true; Tim, having only been three or four at the time, doesn’t really remember much from that night, except–

Well, except for the image that seared itself into his brain. Tim had nightmares about that night for a long time, but surely not anywhere near as many as Dick must’ve had. It makes even less sense that Dick would bring that up now; he met baby Tim briefly for a few minutes on what turned out to be the worst night of his life, so Tim highly doubts that Dick remembers him. So then what–?

“Leave him be, Dickie,” Jason grumbles, ever-protective of Tim. “It’s probably for the best he doesn’t remember, he was so sick.”

Oh–Wait–

“You were there??” Tim nearly shrieks, horrified. Oh god, Dick Grayson was there to see Tim miserable and delirious. He can only imagine how he must’ve embarrassed himself, and it’s even worse that he can’t remember what happened to know how bad the damage was.

Dick’s expression softens. “Don’t worry too much about it, Tim. I’m just glad to see you feeling better.” It shouldn’t be nearly enough to make Tim’s shame fade, and yet it is. There’s just something about Dick, something so open and honest and easy to trust, that Tim can’t help but feel like he isn’t being judged. “Heard you’ll be staying at the manor for awhile, yeah?” Tim nods, tensing slightly at the subject, but Dick doesn’t bring up his parents at all. “Alfred will be happy, he’s been stress cleaning for days now. Haven’t seen him this bad, since–” He cuts himself off, glancing at Jason and then at Bruce before clearing his throat. “Right, well, I forgot about the elephant in the room. Or rather, the cat that’s out of the bag.” Tim can’t really keep up with the animal metaphors, but it turns out he doesn’t need to. Dick nods over at Bruce. “B over there got hurt pretty bad a few years back, I’m sure you can figure out how, and that’s the only time I ever saw Alfred dust all of the books in the library one at a time.”

Bruce chokes on his coffee while Jason whistles. “Man, he really is worried. What’s your favorite food, Timmers?”

Tim, thrown for a loop by the seemingly-sudden change of subject, blanks. “Uh, I’m not sure?”

Jason shrugs. “No worries, you’ll have plenty of time to figure it out; I bet Alfie’s gonna go crazy with the cooking for the next few weeks.”

Tim grimaces, but before he decides whether or not to comment, Dick beats him to it. “I doubt Tim wants to think about food right now, Jay.”

Jason flushes. “Oh. Right. That’s totally understandable. But uh, whenever you do wanna think about food again, just know that Alfred’s the best cook in the world.”

“I already knew that,” Tim agrees. “That soup was the best thing I’ve ever tasted.” He hesitates, before adding, “On the way down, at least.”

Everyone shudders, and for a second Tim worries that he killed the mood, but then Dick grins at him. “Don’t hold it against him, Tim. Jay always has food on the mind.” Tim freezes, eyes darting to Jason. He doesn’t expect him to take the comment well, with his food trauma and all, but Jason just rolls his eyes and shoots back his own snarky comment. It must be some sort of inside joke between the two, with how easily they fall into playful banter.

It’s like they’re speaking their own language, the way they bicker and shoot cheeky comebacks at each other with zero hesitation, and Tim wonders if that’s what it means to be brothers. His eyes drift to Bruce after a moment, and he finds the older man also watching the display with fondness in his eyes. Bruce meets his gaze after a moment, as if sensing Tim watching him, and Tim quickly looks away, flushing. 

Nothing is truly resolved. Tim has no idea what will happen regarding his parents, and it’s scary and overwhelming, and he doesn’t want to think about it.

Still, he can’t deny how excited he is to get to experience more moments like this. More glimpses of what it’s like to live with other people, to be part of a family. 

As he watches Dick pull Jason into a headlock and playfully ruffle his hair, Tim thinks that maybe, just maybe– everything will be okay.