Disclaimer: He's DC's property. I'm just borrowing him.
Thanks to Komikbookvixen for medical brainstorming!
Thanks to Jules for the beta!
Desperate Times
"ARGH!" Tim swung furiously at the costumes hanging in his closet at Titans Tower, dislodging them from their hangers and sending them tumbling to the floor in a red, black and yellow heap. This couldn't be happening to him. Frantically, he pawed through the pile again.
He bit back a cry as his bare hand came up against something sharp. Great. One of the belt compartments must have opened, and spilled out his throwing knives. He pawed through the costumes a bit more carefully but bit back a curse when he recognized the faint hissing. No. Not the smoke pellets…
In desperation, he slammed his hand down where he thought the pellets should have been. "AAACK! F—" Now, he really did yell. And curse. He looked with growing horror at the palm of his hand. The poison antidote syringe had pierced clear through to bone and bent at almost a ninety-degree angle. The smoke made his eyes water as he clenched his teeth and pulled the needle free. Lovely. This was going to make one heck of a bruise. Plus, Tim would need all of Bruce's biofeedback techniques to control the alternating sweats and chills, side effects of taking the antitoxin when there was nothing for it to fight in his system.
His eyes were still stinging as he stumbled into the bathroom to run cold water on his hand. When he emerged, a few minutes later, he recommenced searching through his costumes again, this time with considerably more care. It was no use. Out of the dozen suits that he kept at the Tower, he had:
Twelve masks
Twelve pairs of boots
Eleven pairs of gloves
Ten fully stocked utility belts, and enough spare components to stock the other two at sixty and seventy-five per cent capacity, respectively
Nine capes
Seven tunics
And… not one single pair of tights! Tim groaned. How could this have happened? He'd done the laundry, he knew he had! But had he made sure that the tights were in the load? Or had he just gathered up the costumes and…
Tim ran back into the bathroom. Wadded in-between the sink and the shower stall, he found one pair. They were filthy. Now, he remembered: After a battle in the sewers, he'd been so thoroughly disgusted (and disgusting) that he'd run into his room to shower, and all but collapsed into bed after throwing his costume into the hamper. Somehow, he'd missed part of it. He found four more pairs under his bed. None were in wearable condition.
He sank down onto his bed. Now, what was he supposed to do? He couldn't go out in the field in jeans. He'd look ridiculous. Not to mention that denim didn't allow the same freedom of movement. It almost made more sense to go out bare-leg… no. Oh, no. He couldn't… Except…
Except it was somewhat traditional. And he probably could find a pair somewhere in the tower, retained for posterity. And, when all was said and done, they would be more practical than the sweats. Tim closed his eyes and shook his head slowly from side to side. He'd never dream of doing this, if he had any other options…
Rose burst out laughing when she saw him. "Nice Speedo!" She complimented. "So, does this mean we get to call you 'short-pants', now?"
Tim flushed a bright red that complemented his tunic nicely. In the air-conditioned briefing room, his legs were freezing. How had Dick stood wearing these green trunks year after year? "Please don't," he mumbled. He glanced around at the rest of the Titans, who were trying, with varying degrees of success, to keep straight faces. "What?" He demanded.
"Nothing," they chorused.
Tim nodded and tried to collect himself. "Right. Let's get down to business. Hopefully we can keep things brief—"
The room dissolved into laughter even as he realized what he'd said. Tim gave up. Next time, he was going to bring two dozen pairs of tights. Because heaven knew he wasn't going to wear the green shorts ever again!