Tim: the reigning champ of the game 'How Difficult Can I Be?'

I have zero regrets. This chapter was the most fun to write because it's a little silly. But - hey - we all need a little floof in our lives.

Floof does not immediately come, though. You have to work for it. But only for, like, two minutes depending on your reading speed.

No regrets for medical inaccuracies. Part of HelloHai charm.

It's two hours later before they collect the rest of the Blackout Geocache, and another three before Tim and Oracle can track down the escapee robotic hornet for Nightwing. It's nearing light when it's all "done", excluding the new case they have on their hands.

And Tim just…

Crashes.

He thinks his eyes might be twitching. Maybe his whole face.

Oh god, he messed up.

Don't screw up the pain pills, they said. It'll be bad, they said. Seriously, Tim, don't screw up your fucking pain pill medications.

Take it easy, Tim. Don't fuck yourself.

Tim had brilliantly, stupendously, titanically fucked himself.

His nose tickles. He twitches it, tries to resist the oncoming sneeze, but he fails epically and -

- "Tim? Tim, baby, you with me?"

His mouth tastes metallic. He rolls over and spits pink into a cup of melted crushed ice. Stares at it for a while.

Some sensical corner of his brain recalls his research on tonsillectomy complications. He is 70 percent sure spitting blood was a huge no-no.

There's a hand on his shoulder. Dick, frowning, and Bruce just behind him, with a frownier frown, and Damian with a twin frownier frown.

Yeah. So not good.

He thinks he might have some snot on his face, too. From when he sneezed and then blacked out. He goes to wipe it with his shirt, and when he brings his shaking hand away, he realizes that it's a lovely mixture of snot and specks of blood.

Because why wouldn't the universe hate him.

"Shit," he breathes.

"Yeah." Dick nods. Tries for a reassuring smile that falls flat. "Shit."

Jason, leaning above him, heaves him up by the armpits and sets him on his feet. "Field trip to Leslie's. Who's driving?"

"I've got it," Dick says. "You were out in the rain all night."

"Yeah, well, so were you, so what are you tryin' to say, huh?"

"If I'm not needed, then I'm headed up the stairs."

"Good idea, brat, you can go tell Alfred -"

"No! Don't wake Alfred up, Dami, he'll be up soon anyway -"

"Exactly! He's the best driver in all of Gotham. Wait, I take that back - the United States. No, the world. The Milky Way."

"But I can drive -"

"Am I getting Pennyworth or not?"

"No." "Yes."

"Dick, you drive like it's first time you've been behind the wheel ever."

"It's better than you!"

"I don't even want to drive, I think Alfred should -"

Bruce meets Tim's eyes and jerks his head outside. Tim follows him. They're getting in the car when Dick runs after them, shoving his feet into tennis shoes and grimacing as his socks hit the wet grass.

"I can drive," he calls.

But Bruce doesn't get out of the driver's seat, and Dick jogs around the side and opens up the passenger's side. He unbuckles Tim and slides in beneath him. Tim thinks he should protest - two people in one seat isn't safe - but Dick's arms are around him and he leans his head on Dick's shoulder with a shuddering sigh.

"I thought I was good," he whispers.

He doesn't think anybody hears him until Bruce says, "Not until I say so."

The stitches at the back of his throat tickle his gag reflex. His stomach, already roiling from anesthesia, empties itself on the floor. And it burns and burns and burns and somebody rubs his back and somebody cooes and he cries, just a little, because this sucks.

This was why he didn't want his tonsils out in the first place. It was more trouble than it was worth. He should have stood his ground more - he knew he should have stood his ground more.

He sniffs into a lilac-smelling t-shirt. He thinks it might be Bruce that scoops him into his lap and secures him there. Dick drives.

"It's tough to raise families these days in the wilds of South Africa. Two lionness sisters are single mothers with two cubs each…"

He blinks.

"Spotted hyenas are searching for food. They will follow lions, especially groups…"

"I came into the clinic this morning -"

"- I worry about arthritis -"

"- and he was screaming his head off."

"American bison are…"

"Jeez, Little Timmy looks like he catapulted down into a well." Jason snaps his fingers beneath Tim's nose. Waves a hand in front of his face. Stands in front of the T.V. and rotates his hips.

"Let him be," Dick says in a hushed tone.

Alfred had been waiting for them when they had come home. He looked disappointed. He'd given Tim's shoulder a consoling rub before he disappeared.

Jason's just come down the stairs. He doesn't look so concerned as much as he does confused.

Damian pokes his head around the corner. "He's sleeping with his eyes open."

Jason's lip curls. "Well, it's creepy as fuck." He moves as if to close them, but Dick swats away his hand.

"He's not sleeping. I wish he was sleeping, but he's watching National Geographic -" Dick leans forwards and squints at Tim's face from over his shoulder - "I think."

"He looks pretty zonked out to me."

"Yeah - painkillers. Leslie gave him stronger ones."

Jason flicks Tim's forehead. "Hey, Babybird, knock, knock. Anyone home? You're drooling on Dickie's shirt."

"Don't drool," Tim tries to say, but his tongue feels heavy and an offending drop of saliva lands on Dick's chest. Dick makes a little noise but Jason laughs.

"Somebody get the kid a bib. That's disgusting. Why don't we let poor Dickie go, huh?"

Dick shifts beneath him, and a moment later his warmth is gone. Tim makes a mewling noise.

"Somebody's greedy when he's high, isn't he?"

Jason's bulk presses up against his side. It's not as comfortable as when he was on Dick's lap, and a few frustrated tears slide down his face. Dick was nice. Why -when did he leave?

He lets out a little huff.

"Alfred won't care if you're sick if you get all your spit on those pillows."

Tim blows a spit bubble and Jason makes an over exaggerated groan before sliding him onto his lap.

"Bruce shouldn't have given you your laptop back," he says. "Can't trust you on any kind of technology. I think he's in a brooding mood about it. I don't really get it - we're Bats. Murphy's Law is, like, a given."

Tim makes a humming noise not so much of assent so much as just a reaction to how Jason's voice reverberates in his chest.

"You don't understand a single word I'm saying, do you?"

"His brother turns to his mother and invites her to play…"

"Red Hood is the best. Don't blink if you agree. Ah, atta boy."

Someone else enters Tim's field of vision. Alfred, setting down a plate of food. And a pint of raspberry sorbet, which Tim thinks might be his favorite, but he's not really sure.

"Breakfast, Master Jason. Master Tim."

He looks really meaningfully at Jason for some reason, and Tim can feel Jason nod over his head as he salutes. "On it, General." He reaches past Tim and Tim swears he eats a muffin in a single bite. Tim doesn't know what happened. One moment, it was there, the next: gone.

Jason shifts beneath him with a grunt, says something about losing the feeling in his legs and then scarfs down an omelet. Honestly. It's just...mesmerizing. Tim stares at Jason's plate and swears that the napkin moves. It's getting bigger. Yes, it is. No, it isn't. Yes. Yes. It has to be.

"Timmy," Jason coaxes. "Timmy. Your turn."

Tim's eyes blow wide. There's a spoon in front of his face. Jason's hand is holding it up, but then where's the rest of Jason? He - where's Jason?

"Tim," Jason repeats.

Tim presses two fingers to Jason's forearm and slurs, "Where'sss...where's the rest of you?"

Jason snorts. "You're higher than a kite."

Tim's still staring at the floating arm. "I can't...sssee you."

"I'm behind you." The arm waves up and down, and the spoon with it. "Now eat your breakfast."

Tim reaches for the spoon. It jerks away. Tim chases it.

"Hey," Jason clucks. "No grabs. You'll drop it, and Alfred will have both our heads. Just - open your mouth. Wider. Wider. Tim, open your mouth or so help me -"

He wedges the spoon into Tim's mouth. It tingles on his tongue but tastes the way gasoline smells.

"Good?"

Tim smacks his lips and watches a pack of wolves ruthlessly maul a young musk ox in the brutal winter of the Arctic. "Tastes like…"

He doesn't know how long it is until Jason prompts, "Tastes like what?"

"Shit," he replies after another while, it the syllable hisses through his teeth. It's unbelievably funny, because he can't really feel his tongue very much at all. Maybe there are Oriental hornets all up in his brain. Could they do that? Maybe when it was dark, they crawled inside his ears and made a home inside his head.

He thinks of hornets buzzing out his ears and laughs. Jason shushes him, but it only makes him laugh more.

"Oookaaay, then." Jason sets closes the sorbet. "You've exited the stratosphere."

Tim throws his head back against Jason's arm. It sends dim jarring pains down his neck, and Jason frowns and shrugs his head back straight. "I think I have bees in my ears."

"Yep," Jason says. "I think you do, too."

He doesn't sleep then, but he only feels half-awake, anyway. Damian comes in sometime and hands Jason - hey, so that's where the sorbet went -

"Did you know that your eyes are green?" Tim blurts.

Damian freezes and stares at him like he's not speaking English. He is speaking English, isn't he? Why would he not speak English? Wait, Damian knew some Farsi, maybe he was supposed to be speaking Farsi? But he didn't know Farsi! He's forgotten it! Now no one would be able to understand him!

"Excusez-moi," he says. "Ich bin verloren. Sto cercando un soldo. Gracias."

"What," Damian starts, "are you doing?"

Tim sniffles, and then cries. Jason bounces him. Damian's face twists into an expression mildly pained and extremely confused.

"You know English," Tim says, and his tongue fumbles to form the syllables. "I'm sssooooooooooo -"

"High," Jason finishes.

"-proud of you."

Damian's eyes slide upwards to Jason's. "And this lasts how long?"

Jason shrugs. "Why, you want to take over?"

Damian's upper lip curls.

And Jason is plopping Tim down on the couch cushions and getting up. "Great, thanks."

Tim whines. Damian gives him a disdainful look and, still staring at him, tells Jason, "And what requires me here to stay?"

"Just make sure he doesn't do backflips off the coffee table in the two minutes it'll take to brush my teeth."

Tim pats the couch and clucks his tongue in an effort to coax Damian down beside him. Damian does not appear to notice the offer, so he clucks louder. His couch pats become quick staccato.

"I'm not staying," Damian growls. His face is a little pink. "I came here to deliver oxycodone, which is already below me."

"You're mean," Tim mumbles, and rubs the side of his face against the arm of the couch. "Mean, mean, mean. I'll tell Alfred. I'll tell Bruce. I'll tell - I'll -"

Damian leans against the far end of the couch. "Compose yourself, Drake."

"It's cold," Tim complains. He points his foot and brushes his toes against Damian's arm. Damian jerks out of the way, and Tim frowns.

"It's cold," he repeats.

"You're sitting on the other blankets."

Tim looks down and pulls at the end of one, surprised. The blanket does not appear from beneath him. He leans forward and pulls harder, and when the blanket doesn't come, gives up.

Afghan, 1. Tim, 0.

"It's hiding," Tim says. "I don't think they trust me, yet."

"I'll be avoiding you as much as possible."

"I'm back," Jason announces. He holds up something in his hand and waves it around. "And I brought my phone, so we can have High Tim in our memories forever."

Tim presses his forehead into Bruce's neck. "And then, my second grade teacher wouldn't let me get the gecko out anymore. But it wasn't even my fault."

"Why don't we sleep, Tim?" Bruce asks hopefully. "Doesn't that sound better than talking?"

"The last time I tried falling asleep I remembered that goblins lived under the beds. I had a dream once where -"

"Quieter," Bruce pleads. "Quieter."

Tim lowers his voice. "Are we whispering?"

"Yes. We're whispering. But you should sleep. You were up all night last night, and most of the night before that."

"But I'm not tired," Tim whispers loudly. "And Wicked Tuna is on."

"You're sick."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not. You gave my tonsils away so I don't get sick anymore. I remember."

Bruce sighs heavily enough to ruffle Tim's hair.

"Don't argue with him," Jason says. He shoves a pretzel into his mouth and pinches Tim's side. Tim kicks his feet out with a huff. "It's impossible to win when he's high."

"Even more impossible than when he's not?" Bruce asks.

"Even more. Hey, Tim, we've already seen this episode of Dr. Pol."

"I don't remember it."

"Well, I do." Jason gestures towards the remote. Bruce hands it to him, and then the T.V. switches off.

"Hey," Tim forces out. He stretches forward with a scowl and makes a clumsy grab for the remote. Jason dances away.

Tim makes as to go after him, but Bruce keeps a tight hold on him and forces his head back down against his chest.

"Please, Tim. Sleep."

"No."

"Sleep."

And it's in the Batman voice, so the Robin still in Tim takes over and obeys.

In the following two days, they wean him off oxycodone, Tim gains sanity but loses the ability to tolerate life in general.

Would have thought he'd lost the use of his legs, too, by the way everyone zeroed in on him when his foot so much as twitched. He would get up to go to the bathroom and Bruce would ask him where he thought he was going, Dick would just happen to be wandering around the hall, Jason would ask him how high he was, and Alfred seemed to be vacuuming the living room all the time. Sometimes Tim will check behind the shower curtain, just to be make sure Damian isn't lying in wait.

He wanders around the house when he's sick of Nat Geo Wild (yes - it is possible to get sick of Nat Geo Wild). He carries a spit cup with him, which disgusts him more than he thinks anybody else. Swallowing at the moment is an obstacle barely hurdled, and it's funny how much people don't realize they swallow their spit throughout the day (spoiler alert: more often than you think). He lets miniscule slivers of ice, popsicle, low calorie ice cream, and sorbet melt on his tongue. It's been his diet for the past week, which is fine and all, but he overheard Bruce calling Leslie earlier about his weight, and Bruce tried to get him to drink a protein shake. Tim refused. Dick came by and tried to get him to take two sips. Tim refused. Jason came by and tried shoving the straw between his lips. He considered biting Jason's fingers.

"Oh, woe is you," Dick said. "Your family cares about your health and well-being."

And...maybe Tim felt a little guilty about that. But he's going stir crazy, here. He swears he's seen the same Dr. Pol episode seven times. The cat with a cold. Not to mention that he still feels like shit.

Everyone needs a little alone time - even around the family. Sometimes especially around the family.

He's tried scoping for his laptop a few times, but was unsuccessful, and he hunted around his room for the few old phones in his drawer. They'd been taken, which was just a complete invasion of privacy, and other ones he had hidden were in the most secreted place in Gotham - a.k.a the Cave, which was still off-limits.

Tim feels like the family has gone a bit overboard.

Damian, at least, acts mostly normal until Bruce or Dick give him an 'assignment'. Which means he doesn't antagonize Tim so much and goes for disdainful glares instead. He makes particularly loud complaints about Tim's spit cups, which Tim doesn't understand. Tim doesn't want to use the spit cups. They're disgusting. But he can't help himself.

He takes to finding the best hiding places around the mansion. This is obviously time-consuming because there are hundreds of suitable ones. But only a few best ones. So far, he has yet to find a spot to beat the servant's half-door on the fourth floor. It's concealed behind a desk. The passageway that might have been there has been blocked off, but there's just enough room for him to squeeze in (and hide things).

The best places to hide are the really obvious ones. Like under beds - classic hiding space. Just laying on the floor is - well - pretty obvious, but if the bed was high enough, it's possible to suspend himself over the floor by fitting himself between the slats.

Keeping low while on top of things is just part of Bat family nature. The library is great. Plenty of places to creep around, and Tim's still sure that there's a secret sliding bookcase somewhere - because, come on. Old mansion? Large library? A secret room was a given. He'd find the book that triggered it one day.

For now, he's attempting to avoid all forms of human contact. If Alfred brings a protein shake to him, Tim will have no escape.

So he has skedaddled from the living room and a documentary on Alaska. He's okay for now, and wants to stay that way. Without fifteen grams of protein.

He's in the middle of reading some old classic he'd pulled on a whim (in the hopes it was the trigger book) when he hears footsteps and presses low on top of the bookshelf he's claimed (good spot. High and shadowed by the second level, behind the ladder staircase).

Damian enters. Rounds two rows of shelves before apparently finding what he's looking for - some book that is actually horrendously large and could probably be better at blocking bullets than a bullet-proof vest - and sitting primly in a velvet loveseat.

Good. Tim's apparently escaped detection.

He's another two pages in The Scarlet Pimpernel when Alfred pokes his head in and inquires, "Master Damian."

Damian doesn't look up from his book. "Pennyworth."

"I was hoping you might have seen where Master Timothy has gotten to."

"Haven't seen him."

Alfred hums. "It was a try. Will you be wanting tea?"

"No, thank you."

Alfred leaves. Tim lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, and then nearly chokes on it when a few moments later Damian says, "You're safe, Drake."

Tim doesn't respond.

"You're reading The Scarlet Pimpernel on top of the fiction bookcase behind the stairs."

Damian really creeps him the hell out, sometimes.

He hops down and flops in the chair opposite to Damian.

"The books were leaning five degrees to the right. If you want to hide, actually make it entertaining, Drake."

Uh. The last Tim had a brilliant hiding place, he lived in fear for the following two days that Damian would never stop giving him the Killing Glare. The vents have since then been compromised.

Damian flips a page. "The family has been more irritating than usual as of late. Father has continually been cutting patrols short. Grayson's approaching in eleven seconds."

Tim hops out of the chair and whips around a bookshelf.

Dick's eyes rove around the room when he stops in the doorway. "Hey, Dames. You haven't seen Tim recently, have you?"

"No."

"You're sure?"

Damian sighs loudly. "You think Drake would escape my detection?"

"No, but - well, I -"

"I'm insulted, Grayson. Do you truly doubt my powers of observation this little?"

Dick rubs the back of his head and laughs. "No, I'm sorry. If you do see him, will you send him my way?"

Damian doesn't say anything. Flips another page and doesn't look up. Dick taps his fingers on the doorway and says goodbye, and Tim waits another minute before slinking back into his chair.

"Are you turning me in or not?" he finally mutters after deeming Damian unreadable. Honestly. It's like studying a statue.

"Grayson didn't specify when to send you his way."

"You're being nice."

Damian's nose scrunches. "I'm not being nice."

"Yeah. You are. Do you need something from me?"

Damian's head lifts, and he holds Tim in a steady glare. "I came here for peace, quiet, and Tolstoy. Interpret it as you will."

He looks back down. Tim studies him for a few more moments - seriously, the kid barely blinks - before keeping his mouth shut.

They manage a half-hour in delicate silence before Damian's fingers tense on the pages of his book a half-second before he jerks his head to the side. Tim drops his book and dives behind a bookshelf.

"Hey, brat," Jason starts.

"He's not here."

Jason huffs. "You didn't even know what I was going to ask you."

"I didn't have to."

"Isn't it always a pleasure," Jason mutters under his breath, and then comes into the library. Tim inwardly cringes where he spots his book abandoned on his chair. At least he'd closed it. "Maybe I was going to ask what you're reading."

"The presence of 'maybe' makes the purpose of such a statement invalid."

"Fine." Tim flinches when Jason spots his empty chair and picks up his book before settling himself into it, hiking his boots on the table. He shoves the book under Damian's nose.

"You tag-teaming on classic novels, or something?"

Damian pushes Jason's boots off with a foot.

"The Scarlet Pimpernel is fantastic. Very French, for an author named Emma Magdalena Rosalia Maria Josefa Barbara Orczy. And very…" Jason twirls his finger in the air. "Very Gothamite, I might say. About a dashing young vigilante with an affinity for drama and the color red."

"Does he go around with AK-47s shooting drug dealers out of alleys?"

"Perhaps if it wasn't 1792. And you're not reading this."

Damian pushes the book back towards Jason. "No. As you can clearly see - at least, if your occipital nerves function the way they should - I am currently occupied with Tolstoy's War and Peace."

Jason waves The Scarlet Pimpernel up and down. "So, I should leave you alone, then."

"An astounding conclusion."

"Was Little Timmy in here, yes or no? Lassie's looking for him before he falls down another damn well."

"I'm sure Drake is fine."

"Alright." Jason gets up. "I'll just...sit here, then. And spoiler alert, Sir Percy is -"

Tim plugs his ears, even though he already knows the rest. Kind of hard to read mystery novels and not figure out what's going on. It's annoying. He always expected more from Sherlock Holmes. But The Scarlet Pimpernel was a mystery novel with French ladies in it and a flair for dramatics, so it was juicy, and -

"At the end of the book, Sir Percy dies!"

What? No! No, no, no! Sir Percy is dumb and lazy, but he's funny in a not funny way, and he doesn't deserve to die!

"Chauvelin -"

"Do you mind, Todd?" Damian spits.

"Not at all, thanks. Tim. Tim. Tim. Tim. Tim. Tim T -"

Damian decides that he's had enough. Instead of feeling betrayed, Tim feels a little touched he's lasted this long.

"He's back behind the second bookcase."

Jason whistles. "Atta boy. Here, Timmy, Timmy, Timmy!"

Before Jason's ugly Starry Night socks can come into view, Tim climbs up the shelf and flattens himself at the top.

Jason throws his head back and groans. "Get down."

"Make me."

Jason reaches for his foot. He kicks out once and feels a moment of satisfaction when Jason stumbles back. He receives a rude gesture for it, and a "Fine. Stay up there all day", but - key word - he stays.

Or so he thinks. He doesn't come down for a while for fear of someone staking out nearby, so when he does hop down, he thinks he's safe.

Who is he kidding? It's a mansion occupied by vigilantes, a badass butler, and a cow. No one is safe.

"Babysitting duty, huh?" he mumbles to Bruce.

Bruce's face is impassive. He holds a protein shake bottle in his hand. "Babysitting duty."

Tim eyes his hand warily and crosses his arms. "Don't you think this is getting maybe a little out of hand?"

"No."

Wow. What an argument.

One more chapter left!