Filled the "Hiding an Injury" square on my Bad Things Happen Bingo. Originally posted on AO3. No slash.
Tim sighs heavily as he rides back into the Batcave, looking forward to sleep. It's been a long ass day, and he's more than ready for it be over already. Parking, he sits for a second, leaning his head against one of the handlebars.
Steph rides up next to him, the borrowed batcycle near silent. He still notices her, but doesn't bother to lift his head, knowing it'll be an invitation to talk. And as much as he loves her, he can't handle talking right now, much less the sorts of conversations Steph likes to have.
She dismounts and pats him on the back as she walks off, and he has to grit his teeth against the pain it brings. His torso is a mess of bruises, which isn't wholly unusual. But today, it's different somehow—the goon who'd done it had had the foresight to strip off some of Tim's armor. Not all of it, of course not—only the other Bats know how to do that—but enough to really make it hurt. He'd also been wearing steel toed boots. And he'd had great fun attempting to stomp Tim's fingers to nothing. So, yeah. Ow.
"Timmy, you good?" Duke asks as he walks past, helmet in his hands.
"Leave me to die," Tim replies, but this time he does sit back up. His eye is blackened, his lip split. Duke looks the same—he's not used to how god awful the bad guys get once the sun is down, only joining them because Bruce needed him for something. Tim had a different route and wasn't asked to help, so he's honestly not sure what it was. The past few days have been full of back-to-back obligations, so he's had no time to look through Bruce's files.
Groaning, he moves off his bike. And then stands there for much too long. But the effort to get his feet moving is more than he has in that moment, so he just stares at them instead, willing them to work.
Duke doesn't offer to help, just steps around to Tim's side and nudges an arm over his shoulders. Tim's fingers smart painfully as they smack against Duke's suit, but he forces himself not to react. "C'mon, man."
They walk to the main part of the Cave together. He lets Duke slip away to the locker room, where their other siblings are bickering loudly about some TV show. On his own, he stiffly moves to the computers, sinking down into his chair. Yeah, he's tired, but he just wants a moment here. He'll have to wait to shower, anyway. Too many people in there right now, too many people he'd be stuck in between.
A moment at the computer won't hurt anyone. In fact, it'll make it easier on everyone, himself included.
Just a moment.
With the voices washing over him, he looks up at the screen, wondering what he can do that won't take too long. The file for Duke's thing with Bruce tonight could be good—it's likely taken care of completely by now. He can read it, take a shower, and then go to bed, easy peasy.
It hurts like hell to pull it up, tapping the keys so gingerly they barely respond. Contained in his gloves still, he isn't sure how bad his fingers are, and has no desire to look yet. They're broken, he thinks. But really, it's no big deal. He's broken plenty of bones before, plenty of fingers too. He can push past the pain, and it'll be fine.
Finding the file is easy, and he settles in, carefully resting his hands in his lap.
It's long, but maybe he'll just read half of it before bed. Yeah, that sounds good.
Vaguely, he hears people talking behind him, a presence to his right, laughs and taunts and Alfred demanding everyone go upstairs and to bed. Tim isn't the only one who doesn't, Bruce sitting a few paces down from him. Bruce never can sleep until all the kids are in bed themselves.
It'll be fine, Tim thinks. After all, he's only going to read for another minute, then take a shower, and then go upstairs to sleep.
He loses track of time, eyes scanning over the details and compiled lists of the case. He loses track of himself, too, slumping down in his chair and letting a little grunt of pain escape him when he puts pressure on the bruises.
It's when he taps the keyboard too hard sometime later, attempting to get to the next page, that he comes back to awareness. His fingers ache sharp and bright and hot, and he snatches his hand back to his chest. Curling them in an attempt to make it stop really only makes it worse. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," he curses at himself.
"Tim?" Bruce's voice comes, and Tim snaps his head up, staring over to his dad. He looks tired and suspiciously blank, eyeing Tim and his hands. Literally suspicious—that's the face he always makes when Damian's broken another training dummy and blames it on Jason.
"B," Tim replies, trying for nonchalance. Anyone else, and he could say he achieves it—but Bruce won't be fooled by him.
With a small sigh, Bruce stands, and Tim mimics him without having to be asked. They move over to the medical area, and Tim struggles up onto one of the beds. Bruce rummages through a first-aid kit, and asks, "Damage?"
"Steel toe to fleshy bits. Stomped fingers." It feels weird to joke a bit, suited up as he is, but Bruce is just wearing sweats, so it's not too bad. "No shower. Exhaustion."
"Where are the bruises?" He comes over with splints and ointment, and gently peels Tim's gloves off one by one. Tim bites his tongue trying not to cry out at the pain it causes.
"Back," he says some moments later, voice thin. "One of fuc—freaking Penguin's goons."
"And why didn't you inform one of us when you got here that you needed this." He puts one of the splints around the worst of Tim's fingers, his right index as he says it. To anyone else, he'd sound annoyed, but Tim can hear the concern.
"I was tired," Tim answers. "I am tired. I was just gonna sit down and read for a minute until everyone left and I could shower in peace. Deal with all this in the morning, move on from it. Some broken fingers aren't really a big deal."
Bruce doesn't reply, just keeps fixing up Tim's fingers. They still ache, but it's duller now, more from the pressure than because they're being moved wrong. He has Tim strip off the top part of his suit, and applies the bruise cream on his back, making sure to be gentle. Tim appreciates the effort, aware that he's actively trying. It's nice.
Once that's done, Tim doesn't bother with a shower, just goes and changes the rest of the way out of his suit and into pajamas. According to the clock, it's nearing breakfast time, but it's not uncommon for him to miss it.
He lingers outside the locker room, watching Bruce across the Cave. He's back at the computers, but he's not engrossed. If Tim wants to say anything, now's his chance.
"Bruce?"
"Yes, Tim?"
"Um. Goodnight."
"Good morning," he corrects, turning. He meets Tim's eyes head on. "And next time, tell one of us. Broken fingers are a bigger deal than you might imagine."
"'Cause they'll affect how I hold my bo staff?" He can't help a little bitterness coloring his words—because of course Bruce cares more about that than anything else. Of course he does.
"Because they hurt like hell," Bruce replies. "Now go on to sleep. I'll see you in a few hours."
Tim nods and heads to the stairs, pausing at the bottom. "You should, too. Just for a few hours."
"I'm fine."
"B."
Bruce holds steady for just a moment, but in the end, Tim wins. His dad stands and joins him, and they go up to the Manor together. In the hallway, Tim darts forward for a hug, and though it makes his back ache and his fingers feel clunky against the man's back, it's a great way to end the night.
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