AN: A few commenters mentioned they'd like to see more of The Bat's Out of the Bag (Chapter 7 of this fic), and after giving it some thought, I decided what the hay. There will be a few chapters to this-maybe interspersed among other actual one-shots. I'll let you know in the ANs when it's related to this mini-series.
Thanks to perish-the-thoughtless and Rehabilitated Sith for their comments and input! ^-^
TW: past canonical character death (NOT TIM OR BRUCE), grief, hospital setting
Lengthy text in italics = flashback
A Clean Bill of Health (With Skeletons in the Closet)
It's a dilemma. A very, very large dilemma.
Tim's been mulling it over for nearly twenty minutes now from the hospital bed. One would think that, with it being two days post-surgery, he'd be feeling close to normal, but the truth of the matter is that he arguably feels worse than he did on day one. Dr. Thompkins chocked his symptoms up to either the morphine or penicillin. "Give it a few days for your body to adjust to the medication," she said sympathetically, promising whatever he's feeling is better than sepsis.
Tim's not entirely convinced that's true. At this point, he feels like death put a hit out on him but turned tail before it could get the job done.
The whole thing adds up to a desperate need for distraction. Thus, here Tim is at 4 a.m., deciding between Crocky the Crocodile on channel 19 and Roy Raymond Junior on 5. Both are equally bad but infinitely more entertaining than the paid programming everywhere else.
"Whaddyou think?" Tim croaks.
Bruce, who's been diligently reviewing what Tim hopes are W.E. papers, pries his attention off his work laptop just long enough to nudge the cup that's in front of Tim. "I think you could use some more ice chips, chum."
Tim doesn't try to hide the grimace that crosses his face. Okay, so maybe it's just water, but whoever said water doesn't have flavor is flat-out wrong; just the thought is enough to make Tim lose his appetite. Bruce gives the cup one more nudge, though, the condensation leaving a watery trail on the food tray, so Tim begrudgingly decides on the local news station and drops the remote. He knocks back the cup's contents in the same way kids do cough syrup.
At the very least, Bruce looks satisfied by the effort.
"How's your arm?" Tim manages a minute later, still working through the clatter of ice against his teeth.
"Healing well. I've had worse."
"I can imagine," Tim says casually. He's seen Bruce with every injury under the sun by now, and it still strikes him that his boss has been Batman this whole time. The TV reinforces that fact as a journalist comes on talking over camera footage. The video's back-alley and grainy, but it's enough to decipher the image of Batman getting his fist in a garrote before it could close around his neck. Tim's both concerned and impressed by that, watching the silhouette of his boss (his boss) yank at the wire and send someone crashing into a dumpster.
Bruce catches on slowly; he spends a moment shifting between Tim's expression and the TV before reaching for the remote and changing it to an informercial hawking CDs. "I'll be fine, Tim," Bruce says, closing the lid of his laptop. "You're only going to make yourself stressed watching things like that."
Tim rattles the ice chips in his cup for a second before deciding his stomach can't handle anymore, regardless of how much good it'd do his post-intubation throat. "It's my job to stress, Bruce. You just make sure you're at that Board of Directors meeting on time today."
Bruce hums at that. "I should probably get headed that way, actually. Lucius wanted to get a few things ironed out beforehand, and you know how long that can take."
"Oh… Right," Tim mumbles, fiddling with the IV line that's snaking a path around his forearm into the back of his hand. His stomach feels like it's snapped into a knot, and for once, Tim knows it's not because of the surgery. "Will you be back later or…maybe tomorrow?"
Bruce hesitates in packing away his things. Tim can sense the man's eyes on him, registering the ticks and tells. Bruce sighs then and gently brushes Tim's fingers away from the IV. "I'll try to stop by during lunch, see if you're feeling better."
"That'd be cool," Tim manages, slumping back further into the mattress springs. He still feels miserable for a number of reasons, but one of them sticks out among the rest.
It's a dread Bruce must understand, because instead of standing up and leaving, he sets his laptop bag back down. Tim doesn't really process it until the mattress dips from Bruce setting his elbows on the edge of the bed. The man's looking aloofly at the TV screen when Tim glances up at him. "Well, maybe I could stick around for a while longer. Lucius knows the Board better than I do anyway. I'm sure he can tend to the details."
Letting Bruce off the hook goes against every secretarial fiber of Tim's being, but there's that one strand of him—the one that avoids hospitals like the plague—that craves the company more than anything else.
"…Thank you."
Bruce continues to take in the "never before seen" 80s footage that flickers across the screen, looking oddly content. "Sure thing."
Tim doesn't care for hospitals. Most people don't, but then again, most people don't go as far as Tim goes to avoid them. It didn't used to be that way a year, almost two years ago now. It's odd to think it's only been that long ago, but a lot can change in the course of a few months. Tim knows that as well as anyone.
Regardless, sentiment doesn't do much to change the fact that Tim's stuck where he is. The IV feels like a fetter, the pull of stitchs a straight-jacket, and as much as he'd like to sleep the week away, he keeps waking up in a cold sweat.
By the third day post-op, Tim figures the exhaustion must be showing on his face. He can't imagine a separate reason why Dr. Thompkins would insist on going on a walk with him, although he secretly wonders if she's there to keep him from making a break for it.
Either way, it's not like he could get very far.
"You seem like you're walking better," Thompkins comments. Her hair is frazzled from her most recent night shift, the deep blue of her scrubs looking vibrant by comparison. The lanyard around her neck jangles as they walk.
Or...well.
In all seriousness, the term "walking" itself is generous. Tim would argue he's more at a shuffle level of ambulance (as much as having the IV stand is a help), because his intestines continue to feel as though they fell down a flight of stairs and got tangled on the way back up.
"Doesn't hurt much," Tim lies instead. "Think I'm fine to be cleared."
Thompkins provides a tight-lipped smile, like she wants to karate chop him in the gut to prove him wrong. "I appreciate your willfulness, Mr. Drake. That being said, you still have two days left of observation, if nothing more than for my own peace of mind."
Tim cringes: Two days is a short eternity here. Sure, the staff is nice, he gets visitors, and Thompkins pities him enough to let him wear hospital-issued sweats instead of a gown. But those saving graces aside, it's still two more days of sleepless nights and being on edge.
That much becomes painfully obvious when they take another turn down the ward, the East Wing, and Tim stops.
"Where is he?"
Freezes.
"Mr. Drake?" Thompkins voice comes. It takes a second for the jingle of her keys to halt a step ahead of him, but even then, Tim doesn't move, just stares straight down the hall and does his best to ignore the memories that are blanketing his brain like frost. He can feel Thompkins' eyes shift down the corridor, then back to him. Her presence feels an eternity away, like looking through a one-way mirror to find the very person who shouldn't be able to see you actually can.
A hand on his shoulder lifts the fog.
When Tim finds the energy to breathe again, he sees Thompkins looking him over with an unnerving astuteness, asking without words. Tim doesn't offer her any. Just tries to forget the bite of disinfectant in his nose, the rattle of gurney wheels, and the sterile strips of wrap lights that race the ceiling.
It's nothing to feel nervous about, he tells himself.
Nothing at all.
After a moment, Thompkins must realize she's not going to get anywhere, relenting with a sigh, "I think that's enough exercise for one day."
Tim doesn't bother nodding or voicing agreement, simply turns and follows the jangle of the doctor's keys.
It's the same day still. Closer to night than not, but really, it's hard to distinguish time of day anymore with how bad Tim's sleep schedule is. The routine's getting old. The food, the view, the vital checks and medication times. Tim just needs something different to break the mold, something that, thankfully, seems to have appeared just in time for visiting hours.
"Come on, lady luck," Ives begs, rattling a pair of dice in his hands. "Papa really needs to pass Go this turn."
The dice clatter, and—
"Boardwalk," Tim deadpans, shaking his head at the gameboard in mock pity. "Looks like you own me rent yet again."
Ives' eye does this twitch thing a few times, which either means he's irked or really, really needs new glasses—Tim's never been sure. Either way, his friend starts counting out the cash that's blanketing the tops of his thighs. There's not enough room on the food tray for more than the gameboard, and honestly, it's pretty entertaining watching Ives scramble every time he drops something.
"I don't get it," the redhead scowls in disbelief. "How can someone with as bad of luck as you be so good at Monopoly?"
Tim just shrugs and fishes around in his bag of pre-packaged Oreos. (He's been assured that if food hasn't been packaged, pasteurized, cooked, or otherwise lit on fire, he can't have it.) "I told you," Tim says, finally finding an unbroken Oreo and twisting the cookie-part off, "you should've waited till next go around to buy Marvin Gardens. See? Now you're gonna have to mortgage it."
"Think I'll just let myself go bankrupt," Ives concedes, tossing his soupçon of savings on the gameboard before settling back in his chair. A rerun of Thundercats is on the TV, something both of them have been watching with half-baked devotion, and two nurses are chatting out in the hall loudly enough that they can hear them talking but can't make out the words.
"I'm honestly surprised," Ives pipes up later into the episode, kicking his feet up on the edge of Tim's bed as he swirls a spoon around the inside of a pudding cup—courtesy of Tim's uneaten lunch. "I figured this place would be swarming with paparazzi or something, with you being in the papers and all. Seems pretty chill, though."
Tim snorts, brushing Oreo dust off his lap. "Not for lack of trying. Security had to chase off Vicki Vale. Twice. Some guy from the Daily Planet , too."
Ives whistles. "How much d'ya think they'd pay me to go public with an update?"
Tim makes a face, and Ives chuckles. "Aw, c'mon, bud. It can't be that bad. You're a venerated hero, after all. Just wait till the awards start coming in. The cash. The esteem… Did I mention the cash?"
"No, but you forgot the Medical Alert Bracelets," Tim adds unhelpfully, to which Ives counters, "We can't have it all, Timmy, m'boy." Tim just rolls his eyes and leans over enough that he can dig through the tote bag next to his bed. Inside are a collection of Alfred-approved snacks Bruce brought yesterday along with some no-doubt smuggled Fanta cans. Tim's convinced Damian snuck them in in hopes that the sugar will put Tim over the edge. Jokes on him, though: Tim's been doing hokey-pokey with the edge for the past three days now and he's been doing just fine, thank you very much.
Ives sits up straighter. "That all from the Waynes?" he asks, and Tim does a lop-sided shrug. "They seemed really torn up about you on the news. Didn't realize you all were that close."
Tim debates between the grape and orange flavors to distract himself, weighing the soda cans in his hands like they're a pair of prized watermelons. "I mean, Bruce and I see each other at work every day, and they did let me stay at their place for a bit last year, so we're not, like, close close, but…"
"You're close."
"Well, yeah." Tim shrugs again, looking at Ives as if to say, "What do you want me to say?"
Quick to reestablish goodwill, Ives holds up his hands. "I'm not trying to pry. Just doing my part as your honorary best friend, partner in crime, et cetera et cetera to find out what's up—especially if Bruce Wayne has the Illuminati connections you think he does."
Tim shoots him a knowing look, because clearly, Ives is just trying to get a dig in. "Oh please, Illuminati was never on the table. Besides, that always felt more like a S.T.A.R. Labs' thing. Can you imagine if LexCorp had actually bought them out? Now that would be scary."
"Give the conspiracies a rest," Ives groans, nabbing the grape Fanta ("Hey!") and popping the tab. "Reality's already crazy enough without you adding to it. Plus, some of these people are so far under the public microscope that there's no way they could be up to anything too bad." It takes a second, but upon noticing Tim's look of betrayal, Ives adds, "You weren't gonna drink this one, were you?" before taking a swig like an absolute brute.
Tim shakes his head in disbelief and deposits the orange flavor back into the tote before flopping back onto the mattress, apetite dissolved.
Ives would be shocked to find out just how much Bruce did off record, although Tim would never breathe a word of it. He almost feels complicit, in a way: Sure, Tim's always had his suspicions, but to actually know… Now, he feels tied to Bruce in a much more serious sense, because it's almost too easy to piece together the rest of the Waynes' identities. The weight of those secrets is heavy in his chest.
And it's not like Tim's not glad he knows the truth. He is. It explains so many inconsistencies, sketchy alibis, and sudden escapes; it gives him a greater understanding of who Bruce is. But then again, that's the thing that's scary.
Tim throws his arm over his forehead.
Just last year, he promised himself that he wouldn't be in this position again. Getting attached is another way of getting hurt. But if the past few days have shown him anything, it's that Tim's been knee-deep for a while and has only just realized it.
What's most shocking is that it'd almost be easier if all of Tim's other guesses had been correct: Vigilantism means constantly being in harm's way. He trusts that Bruce knows what he's doing, but of course, there's always that chance. Always.
And Tim's already had to bury more people than he'd care to repeat.
Tim doesn't know how long he's been staring at the TV, but before he knows it, the credits are rolling and he's continued to watch without really seeing the names. He can hear Ives shuffling like he's sensed something in the air has changed and wants to address it. Tim kind of hopes he doesn't, but that's not really Ives' style.
"Look," the teen says, and Tim manages to look his friend's way without wincing. "I know you lost an organ and everything, so feeling kinda crummy would be an understatement. But considering what happened here…you know. I gotta ask: You doing alright?"
And okay, Tim feels a bit bad at that, because Ives looks sheepish, like he doesn't want to overstep. Their friendship is more casual than anything, where serious matters get tossed out the window in favor of the mindless and fun, and truth be told, it works pretty well for them. Tim doesn't want to spoil that with something Ives can't change.
"Don't worry about it," Tim answers, reaching for the remote. "I'm just a bit tired's all. The nurses coming in and out at odd times. You know how it is."
"...Yeah," Ives says after a pause longer than death, like he wants to push the point but can't, and he watches Tim change the channel back to the news.
People like to say Gotham is Hell.
Tim has always disagreed with that assertion. It's not so bad here, really: The schools are funded enough to be functional, only half of the parks are destroyed beyond repair, and if you live in the burbs, the summer crime wave rarely reaches far enough to impact you.
All in all, it's not the worst place on earth.
Today, however? Today, Tim continues to disagree with that assertion—not because Gotham is a good place to live—but because between Hell and Gotham, Gotham is much, much worse.
The sergeant shakes her head.
"You're still a good few miles off," she says, handing Tim back his phone. The sergeant (Nilsson, her uniform provides) is seated in the bed of a Humvee, perched a good two feet above where Tim's standing in the middle of the road—if one could even call it that anymore. The pavement is rent like a serpent has barreled underneath it, leaving thick lines of upheaved concrete and fumes. Tim's guessing most of the gas and sewer pipes cracked in the earthquake.
Nilsson shouts to talk through the gas mask she's wearing. "You're gonna have to circumvent most of downtown. Word from up top is that everything south of the Upper West Side is a madhouse. If it's not on fire, the gangs are trying to pick a fight for more territory. Not like there's gonna be much left," she adds to herself, looking over her shoulder to the crimson glow. Fire's carving out the skyline like neon lights against a backdrop of smoke. There's an eerie tranquility to it, watching something that once had such influence crumble so easily.
"Look," Nilsson says, "as much as I know you want to find your folks, it's too dangerous out here. You should really head home and wait for them to call."
"I can't," Tim pants, the air so thick that talking is a labor. "I live in Bristol, and the canyon collapsed in the aftershock. I doubt I could make it back even if I wanted to."
The sergeant pauses in contemplation, wringing her hands around the barrel of her M16—a nervous tick. She and the other people in the vehicle look exhausted already, all tired eyes that glance through soot-coated lenses. Frankly, Tim's betting he doesn't look much better.
"And you're sure they're at Gotham General?"
Tim nods.
"…Alright," Nilsson relents. "You're going to have to backtrack to Peoria, then go east down Clancy Avenue. Follow it through the Fashion District 'till you hit City Hall, and stick close to the river for as long as you can. Better to test your luck in the water than in the fire."
"Peoria, Clancy, river. Got it."
"And if you see any sign of trouble, promise me you'll high-tail it out of there. You're no good to your folks dead."
Tim nods again, mind still racing. "I will, thanks. And good luck."
Nilsson dips her head in turn before thumping the bed of the Humvee. "Let's move!" she bellows, and the engine roars hollowly through the street to take off after the rest of their unit.
Tim watches until the vehicle drives out of sight before turning back to stare down the same road he's already traveled. The whole area's become unrecognizable, barren and shadowed from the maw of smoke that devours the sky. Tim guesses that it can't be past five in the afternoon, and yet, in addition to the regular clout of pollution and grime, the entire sky is pitch as night.
It's ominous.
Foreboding.
He can hardly keep himself from looking at it.
A cough drives his head back down, though, and Tim takes the sign for what it is: Staying here isn't doing him any favors.
Burying his face in his sleeve, Tim begins his trek back to the riverfront. He still can't help the occasional coughing fit, but at the end of the day, all he wants is to see Dad and Dana. That thought alone is enough to keep him going.
He can still hear that one phone call he got in to Dad after the main earthquake. It was only for a minute, but he doubts he'll be able to forget it. He'd been at school, hunched down in the hall outside the fieldhouse where all the students were being kept together.
"Dana and I are going to volunteer at the local clinic," Dad said. "See what we can't do to help."
"Okay. I'll come too then—"
"No! No, you're staying right there where I know you're safe. Once everything's blown over, Dana and I will come get you. Until then, stay at school and listen to the teachers."
"But I—"
"Tim," Dad hissed, exasperated. "I know you like to butt heads, but please, don't argue with me on this and just do as you're told."
"…"
"It'll be better his way. You'll see. It's probably safer for Dana and I at the clinic, anyway: If anything happens, we'll be surrounded by doctors." Dad laughed awkwardly. Tim didn't join him in it, and the mirth dropped into an uncomfortable silence.
"…Don't worry, Tim. We'll be fine."
Tim bit the inside of his cheek. "'kay." His scuffed the floor with his shoe, half-watching someone walk out of the fieldhouse to find the bathroom.
"I love you."
Tim had to cup a hand to the speaker for a second, just to give himself the solitude of working out a reply. He could count on two hands the number of times Dad had said those words to him, and it left an ashen taste in Tim's mouth, something he would only later recognize as regret.
"Yeah… yeah, love you too," Tim managed. "You and Dana stay safe out there."
"Same to you. Talk to you later."
"Yeah. Bye."
And that was it.
Two days ago now.
It was only this morning that Tim found out what exactly happened at the Thomas Wayne Memorial Clinic.
It all boiled down to the police being spread thin. Crime rampant. And one, simple fact:
Clinics have drugs.
And drugs mean money.
Looking back, it was a disaster waiting to happen; Tim shouldn't have needed a radio reporter to tell him as much, but he did, and now, here he is, three hours off having burst out of school, ash coating his shoulders and cuts in his jeans from where he's tripped over loose rubble. Tim thinks he can get them looked over at the hospital, once he's found Dad and Dana and his mind can stop whirring like a loading screen that's stuck on pin pricks of small, indelible regrets.
When it comes to Dad, Tim has an army of them.
It'd take hours to list them all, and…
God, he should've made Dad swear that they'd see each other again.
Even if it was one of those half-promises the man used to give when he was a kid, those fluid ones from when the wanderlust struck. Back when two weeks until Mom and Dad came home became three. And three became four. When holidays became solitary affairs, and birthdays became things that Tim celebrated with friends more often than family.
For all it's worth, Tim would take that in a heartbeat now, because if Dad had promised to see him again and it wound up being a bit more, Tim could handle that. It'd be the status quo, and if all of this goes wrong, Tim could assign culpability to that. They're just victims of habit, victims of who they are: two people who talk past each other at best and through each other at worst.
Tim would prefer that, because it's miles better than the guilt falling on his shoulders.
He hurdles an apexed piece of concrete, still choking on fumes.
Dad was right when he said that Tim likes to butt heads. Tim's independent and clever, and it almost feels like every other week they're getting into it over something, over grades or curfews or the fact Dad's convinced Tim is up to something—purely because Tim's eyes are too shifty, too observant, and his fingers too accustomed to breaking through firewalls and digging up dirt.
Tim sometimes thinks he's a rule-breaker at his core, and it's scaring him now that he should've followed his gut instinct of finding Dad and Dana—that he should've been independent instead of obedient.
Rules have never stopped Tim before.
They never stopped him from sneaking out past midnight, partially with a purpose and partially out of spite. They never stopped him from talking back when words hit him wrong or kept him from suffusing everything he touched with that spirit of "I am who I am."
A childhood void of rules will do that.
So why now, of all times, did Tim have to listen!?
The thought has him sprinting now. He can see the top of Gotham General looming over a herd of buildings. It's only a few more streets away, the sight giving him the push to keep going; he turns a corner so fast that he nearly topples over.
He just wants them to be OK.
He'll never wish for anything else for as long as he lives.
If he can just have this.
The roar of the ambulances is getting louder and louder, churning like an ocean wave that hits him right in his midsection. It's bouncing off the buildings, coming from everywhere. Tim takes one more turn.
And then he's there. In front of the building.
And all his desperate optimism dies.
EMTs and doctors swarm the area: footsteps, yelled diagnoses, the clink of medical supplies and keys and needles. White lights leap from ambulances when medics rip open doors, gleam prowling the concrete while red flashes siren from overhead. There aren't enough stretchers—aren't enough doctors. Corpses and living alike are being wrenched out pell-mell like children from the womb, strewn across the ground triage style.
For some reason, the noise parts just long enough to hear the clean zip of black bags over bloodied hair.
And here Tim is, standing at the precipice of it, wanting to look away but finding himself unable to. The visual noise is too loud, the audible noise too blinding, and the smell is—
"Are you hurt?"
Tim's attention fractures, just enough that his eyes are still glued ahead while the question comes at him all lop-sided-like.
He thinks the voice must ask him again, lower and war-weary, because eventually Tim answers in a daze.
"I'm looking for my parents. Wayne Memorial Clinic. I…" Another pair of EMTs rush past; their arms are red to their elbows. "Please…please help."
Tim can feel the color draining out of his face, the fog clouding his brain. There are numerous black bags now. The red and white lights catch on the edges like glass.
Dana could be one of them.
Dad could too.
Tim almost goes down right there, but the stranger pats his back gently, says, "Someone's coming to help," and then there's a grating noise. Like metal on metal that drags and then catches, followed by a whicker of fabric. The sound doesn't belong, so Tim turns.
He finds himself alone.
It's the first time the gears in his brain jerk forward enough to crank out a conscious thought.
…Who…?
But then, a medic is jogging up to him, and the question dies.
"Hello," the woman wheezes, bending over someone directly in front of Tim. (There's shrapnel, and Tim reminds himself to look away just a second too late.) "Caroline Hill, thoracic surgery." Her residency badge flashes when she looks up—the only sign that she's talking to Tim and not the person she's treating. "Your legs don't look too bad. Can I ask you to wait?"
"I'm looking for my parents," Tim manages, feeling faint again. "Do you know where the people from Wayne Memorial Clinic are? I heard they all were brought here."
The part of Dr. Hill's face above her mask looks grave. "The first half of them are on the second floor. If they're not there, they must've been good enough to be treated on-site."
Tim nods distractedly, already back-peddling toward the entrance. His lungs hate him, but the second he manages to squeeze through the crowd into the door, he books it for the stairs and takes them two at a time.
Please be OK.
Please be OK.
Please be OK.
The second floor is unnervingly quiet, just low moans and stretchers lining the hallway. Everyone looks pallid from the wrap-lights—or what parts of flesh that Tim can see. Everyone's skin is too coated with soot and sweat, even his own. It makes them all look skeletal outside of the whites of their eyes. A few of those very eyes follow him as Tim scans their faces, all hollowed out and gaunt.
"Drake?" Tim starts asking—to anyone. Anyone who will listen.
They don't reply.
Eventually Tim is thinking about darting back to the first floor—Maybe they just came in? Maybe they're still coming? Maybe they're still at the clinic.
Tim hopes so. Hopes beyond hope.
But then, one of the people he asks lifts a hand, one crooked finger pointing down the hall at a door. That single direction is all Tim's life amounts to as he follows the line, skidding to a halt and through to room 282 and there's—
"Dana!"
It's a wash of relief. Immediate.
Tim's instantly across the space with his arms flung around her neck, holding on with a desperation that's only just hitting him. "Dana! You're okay," he nearly cries into her shoulder, wanting to repeat the sentiment to himself over and over and never leave that moment. She's fine. Dad's fine. They all can move on from this and go home and life can return to normal. That reality is addicting.
Tim doesn't want to let go, but eventually, he squeezes one last time before pulling back to look Dana in the eye. "You wouldn't believe what happened, Dana. I thought that something awful had…"
...
"...Dana?"
Tim's brows furrow, spine straightening. It feels like someone's blown a cool breath on the back of his neck, his skin prickling as his hairs stand on end, because Dana continues to watch the floor, unresponsive. Her bangs are in disarray over her face, and she's rocking slightly. A comfort thing.
"Dana… What's wrong?"
Silence.
"Dana?" Tim repeats, despite feeling that…that he already knows. It's the last thing he wants to think, and he hates himself as soon as the idea hits him, but…
"Where's Dad?"
Dana's bangs sway when Tim shakes her—gently, but only just so. "Where is he? Dana, please, I..."
I have to know.
As if she's heard his thought instead of his words, Dana's eyes drift. The cloud over them doesn't shift, but the change carries her chin upward. Her gaze roams Tim's face the way a newborn's does, seeing, observing, but not recording.
Dana's mouth opens, just large enough for her to be audible. "...your dad?"
Tim can't do anything more than nod, his entire body feeling like the floor's risen to encase him. "Yes. Yes, Jack Drake. Your husband. He—"
"Do I…know a Jack?"
Tim doesn't blink. His voice comes out so much shallower when he finds it again, trying to sound hopeful, like this is just a bad dream, but the words come out forced even to him. "C'mon, Dana. This—This isn't the time for jokes." He rubs his hands up and down her arms once, trying to dispel his own unease more than hers, and he hates the fact that he's communicating a smile in his face but panic in his voice. "You know who my dad is. You…"
Dana's eyes trace Tim's face with dull astuteness, and the sentence dissolves in Tim's throat, like acid, like cyanide. She isn't joking. That's what Tim is afraid of when he sees the silent query in her eyes, that prick of apprehension in the turn of her mouth.
And Tim realizes, in that moment, that his intuition about Dad must be the truth—
"...Who are you?" Dana asks.
…
—Dad's gone.
A knock.
Tim's arm flies out to his side, knuckles smacking against a cabinet and ringing pain up his arm.
He can still feel the pressure of deadened eyes on him, the need to fight them off like they're the undertaker, and he panics at the thought that he's still in the hospital.
Dana was supposed to be here.
Where is she? Where is…?
It's terrifying to realize that Tim's too stunned to move, like a sleep paralysis wherein the shadowed shapes of the furniture morph into people who watch as his life collapses around him.
He has to remind himself to breathe. He can see the heart monitor pick up in his peripherals (Ambulance sirens and bright lights and—), and he recalls there being a knock on the door, which only means one thing.
"Mr. Drake?"
Light floods in from the hallway when the door swings open, and Tim has but a split second to temper his expression before someone's head pokes into the room.
"…Still awake, huh?"
Tim stares at the figure in the door, backlit from the lights in the hall. His room splits between the places that glow touches and the places it doesn't, and it's enough to see that there's nothing amiss.
All there is is Nurse Brown.
"Tell me you at least thought about resting," the woman sighs, closing the door with a good-natured shake of her head.
Tim's still struggling to reign in his breathing, feigning calm like he's shooting for a Tony. Thankfully, his job's prepared him to be an excellent liar. "Was staying up for a murder mystery marathon," he replies cavalierly, eying the heart monitor like he can will it back to a resting rate. "Guess I dozed off, though. Now I'll never know who framed Roger Rabbit."
Brown snorts in humor, digging around in the cabinet at his bedside before she Velcroes a blood pressure cuff around his arm. Due to the dim lighting, she has yet to notice that Tim's sweat clean through his clothes.
"Probably for the best. Those murder stories keep me up all night. Don't know how you kids can stomach them." She squeezes the pump a few times until Tim starts losing feeling in his fingers. "Take my daughter, for instance. Always trying to get me to tune in for those things. That and horror movies. Let me tell you, looking at taxes is enough of a scare for me. Don't need it coming out of my TV too."
Tim laughs politely and listens as she keeps up the small talk, just enough that it makes the atmosphere comfortable but not overwhelming. She takes his temperature, checks for pneumonia, and inevitably comments on his elevated blood pressure (to which Tim scapegoats the chips from the hallway vending machine). He doesn't know if she buys it, but the nurse jots something down and finally asks him how the pain is.
"Maybe at a two," he lies.
Brown is too preoccupied finishing up his chart to notice. "Well, just hit the call button if it gets much worse, okay? And please, try to get some rest."
Tim finger salutes, a not-so-much promise, but it gets the nurse to laugh before she leaves.
As soon as the light from the door thins over his face, Tim's smile dissipates.
He really wishes he could rest. But the moment he falls asleep, he finds himself back to being fifteen and out of his depth.
And then he wakes up.
Here.
In the last place he wants to be.
Contrary to everything his brain is yelling, Tim forces himself to relax into the rock-hard mattress, counting down from ten. His stomach throbs from how tense he is, and with the adrenaline fading fast, Tim figures that ache's going to get even more pronounced.
Tim keeps counting.
When ten doesn't work, he starts back from twenty, then from thirty, and eventually decides just to count the seconds instead. While he does it, he focuses on the monitor, still beeping in the quiet, on the shadows swimming underneath the door as staff pass, and the faint rustle of late-night traffic that's coming through his window.
It's only then that Tim realizes that's not quite right.
His eyes drift over to the open window, squinting, because he could've sworn…
"I fed your fish."
"JEEZ!" Tim yelps, twisting upright. His spleen (or lack thereof) quickly reminds him that that was a bad move, because suddenly, he's crumpled over himself with a hand clutched to his stomach, taking shallow snaps of breaths—anything to move his torso as little as possible. It feels like his abdomen is drawn too tight and one wrong move will split the muscles in half.
"I thought you told the nurse you weren't in pain," Bruce's voice comes from beside him. He sounds either patronizing or concerned—mixed in with what Tim realizes must be his Batman voice. Tim doesn't shift enough to read his expression, just keeps himself wound tight around his stomach with his eyes closed.
"Yeah," he manages in an exhale. "I might've…rounded down…a bit."
"A bit?"
"…a lot."
Bruce hums condemningly—and there's an expression Tim can imagine. Tim doesn't bother looking, still; he has more pressing matters at hand. Mostly trying to keep all his mental swearing internal.
The bed shifts slightly under him (Ow, ow, ow.), and there's a hand on the small of his back now, the angle telling him that Bruce is sitting next to him. "You know," the man says, gently rubbing up and down, "if I didn't know better, I'd think that you like letting yourself hurt."
"…Thanks," Tim grits out, going for cheeky, because really, he hates everything about this. He can't sleep; he can't leave; he can't even pretend that he's fine. Tim hates that last one in particular, and he hides his face further in the mattress, because he swears if he starts crying...
Bruce sighs from above him.
"Tim, there's no shame in asking for help if you need it."
Tim's not sure how to address that. "Vigilante and philosopher?" he chokes out, loathing how weak he sounds.
Bruce snorts fondly. "Not really. Just someone who's been in your shoes."
Tim doesn't bother trying to dig up the fortitude (or air) to inquire further, instead allowing Bruce to keep rubbing away the pain. He doubts he'll ever be able to look him in the eye again, but right now, he'd die before asking the man to stop. It feels like the sensation is the only thing keeping him grounded. Like the room is space and he's been cut adrift. Just himself and an expanse of cold, dark nothingness.
"Bruce?" he asks the quiet.
"…I'm still here."
Tim nods into the mattress. That was all the answer he needed.
The air from the window continues to slip in, cooling the sweat on Tim's skin, and the heart rate monitor is dropping down to a resting pace. The pain hasn't calmed nearly as much as Tim would like it too, though.
He wonders if Bruce didn't somehow share the same thought, because shortly after, Tim can hear a cape shuffle, wires shifting, and a button click. The morphine pump, he guesses. Tim's not really a fan considering how out of sorts opioids make him, but at the moment, it's not like he's got any shame left. "Don't laugh if…'say something stupid," Tim warns him anyway.
Bruce returns to rubbing his back. "Never," he promises.
After a minute or two, Tim can start to feel the effects: His head's lighter, his limbs heavier, and he's pretty sure he'd wind up on the floor if he even tried to stand.
"Better?" Bruce prompts.
Tim rotates his face enough to stare at the wall. The visitor's chairs are waving at him.
"Yeah…?" he tries. He can't really feel his muscles anymore, like they're made of hot rubber, but on the flip-side, he doesn't want to claw open his insides anymore. He thinks that's an improvement.
Bruce hums again, and two hands enfold Tim's torso. Tim's about to ask what's going on when the ceiling rolls in front of him, and—oh. He's on his back now.
Bruce Wayne's face slides into view again, the yellow bat symbol bright on his chest, and Tim's brain lags in connecting that his boss and Batman are the same person.
It lags even more when he wonders why Bruce Wayne is wearing Batman's costume in his hospital room. He thinks Bruce could've taken time to change, at least…? Is there something urgent?
"Bruce, why—" It takes him a second to get his tongue to work right. "—why did you come again?"
The man nestles the morphine switch into Tim's hand, and that's nice. "I came to see you," he says softly.
"Oh…"
It takes another moment before that registers as an over-simplification.
"Are you sure?" Tim scrunches his face—partially just to ensure it's still there. "Nothing wrong…?"
There's a too-long pause in the room. Even Tim, doped up at he is, can sense it. He does his best to read Bruce's countenance, and he must be really out of it if "nervous" is the vibe he gets from the man. Bruce is very focused on holding Tim's hand for some reason, and his jaw is locked tight enough that the shadows cut up into his cheek.
"Well…" Bruce starts. "I also came because I had a question for you."
Tim melts back into the pillows, perfectly cold against his neck, and closes his eyes. "Shoot."
Bruce pauses again. Must be bad.
"Damian didn't get…new pet?"
"No—" Tim hears Bruce shake his head. "—No, that's not it. It's…well…"
Tim's half-way to falling asleep when Bruce finally spits out some kind of answer. "It's about what clothes I should bring."
Tim blinks his eyes back open; his retinas hate him for it. "What…?"
Bruce is stoic again, like normal, but Tim can see the relief in the set of his eyebrows, like he's just found an excuse or something. "You're getting released soon," the man explains. "I want to know what clothes you'd like me to bring for you."
They both stare at each other for a minute, Tim groggy and Bruce resolute. Tim spends a second just trying to recall what clothes he has at his place that aren't two-piece suits.
"Umm," he breathes, face contorting in drowsy confusion, "whatever's fine. But…you sure tha's what you wanted'ask?"
"Definitely." Bruce pats the back of his hand—a little too quickly. "Get some rest."
Tim's certain that, were he firing on all cylinders, he'd have been able to interrogate the actual problem out of the man (His brain stumbles through a few options, 90% involving a stock crisis at W.E.), but instead, the morphine saps the last of his consciousness from him, straight into the abyss, and his mind follows like an anchor.
Sometimes, it feels like there are two choices one can make in life. A crossroads of destiny, per se.
Tim is facing that decision right now. He's standing outside in the hallway, the disinfectant smell smarting his nose while he leans heavily on his IV stand. The teen's trying to tell himself he looks cool, like Gandalf the Grey or something, rather than pathetic, but he doubts it's working. Not with the sweats and slipper combo he's got going on.
Right now, though, that's the least of his worries.
Tim's eyes thin as he considers his current crisis. It's always these things that trip him up. One wrong move—one wrong choice—will mess him up for the rest of the night. At the moment, he's narrowed it down to two options, but this is where it gets tricky.
On the one hand, Nacho Cheese.
And on the other, Cool Ranch.
Of course, there are other options in the vending machine, but really, with those two choices, do the others even matter?
Tim's pointer and middle fingers hover over the buttons, staring down the Doritos logos like he's the cop on a crime drama and they're the suspects.
Nacho Cheese is the obvious choice in terms of taste.
But Cool Ranch is so much easier to conceal the evidence of.
He has to pick something, though, because at the very least Tim wants to make good on his lie to Nurse Brown. How many chips would he need to raise his blood pressure? Probably a lot.
In the end, Tim jabs both, and the springs unfurl, shoving both bags into the bottom receptacle while his change clatters. Fishing them out is a bit tricky, Tim bending his knees while locking his torso like he's a pregnant woman. He's beyond grateful that there's no one here to see him…Right?
Tim's head swivels both ways once he's collected everything.
Yep.
Empty corridor.
Tim breathes a sigh of relief and pops open the Cool Ranch. As soon as the salty smell hits his nose, he feels like he could devour both packages and then some. He moves to shove his hand in the bag and is surprised when he misses.
Tattle-tale, Tim huffs, aiming more carefully and nabbing a chip.
Bruce suggested to Dr. Thompkins this morning that she up his pain meds, and Tim's been a mess ever since. His hands and feet just don't do what he wants, and everything looks more saturated with color than he remembers. A few more ccs of morphine and Tim would probably be reciting "Frere Jacques" whilst claiming he could taste the air.
Tim bites into a Dorito with a frown.
At the very least, he's got an ace up his sleeve. Whatever Bruce had been meaning to talk about last night was enough to make the man squirm, and well, if Tim didn't exploit that, then he wouldn't be doing his job, now would he?
He wasn't able to get much chance today, however. Tim's slept most of the day away due to the drugs, and at the moment, he's been condemned to being wide awake at two in the morning, wandering around the hospital and hopping in the elevators just because he can. Naturally, he left a note, and the nurses have been trying to get him up and moving more, anyway; he can allow himself this small freedom.
Tim starts hobbling along, dangling both bags off the two free hooks left on his IV stand.
Freedom, Tim thinks to himself.
He's so close.
Ten more hours, and at noon tomorrow, he'll be out.
That comfort is what's making him brave enough now to search for room 282.
It's a stupid part of the building, Tim decides. He has no idea why it's been so scary to him all this time. He picks apart the décor as he goes. The floor tile's tacky, like it's emerged straight out of the 80s alongside Marty McFly, and each hallway still looks the same as it did two years ago: the same navy floor trim, wooden doors, and plaques that mark the rooms. It has changed, though. This ward is for Meta-Injuries now. Because apparently that's become a big enough problem in Gotham to warrant it.
Tim nods to Nurse Lowry, who's manning the desk, and makes himself keep going.
He doesn't want to look at anything here, but he feels like he needs to. Just to prove it to himself that he's over Dad's death.
It's been over a year.
Of course he's over it.
But his mind starts to blank as he continues deeper in. His legs twitch. We should be running, they say. This is the script. It's how it goes in his memory. In his dreams. Always running nowhere fast.
Determined, Tim walks.
Slowly, Room 282 materializes out of the wall, the numbers and door turning as if to face him. Like it's alive. Watching him. Tim stares it down.
It's just a dumb door, he tells himself. It's been months, and he hates that there's that primal part of himself that still feels helpless.
That tinge of fear gives his brain a pass to conjure up dozens of images, some real, some fabricated. He thinks about the entry swinging open, the light slithering in over the floor and up onto the bed frame, and in his head, every single person he cares about flashes through.
Mom.
Dana.
Dad.
Bruce…
Suddenly, Tim feels like he can't quite stand straight.
Bruce could be dead.
Right now.
It's a harsh truth, because his being Batman is a big red danger sign stuck in front of a cliff. Out of all the things Bruce Wayne could've been, out of all the people Tim could've gotten attached to…
Because there's no way around it at this point.
Tim's invested.
And every time someone stirs up trouble, Bruce is already there, ready to take both the bullets and the fall for a city that he's already given everything up everything for. Gotham doesn't care about that, though. She could take his life, too, without even flinching.
Tim inches backward and rests his head against the wall, trying to quell the nausea.
Why does he always do this to himself?
He thinks back to Dad's funeral, telling himself he was always going to look twice before crossing, watch his own back. He was supposed to be done with this. But it's not like he can just stop caring.
Tim rolls the back of his head against the bumps in the wall paint, looking down to the dead-end of the hall.
What am I doing? he thinks miserably.
Someone sniffs.
For a second, Tim almost considers if it wasn't himself, horrified. But then there's another sniffle, and no. It's someone else.
Tim's neck straightens out, attention snapped to the door in front of him where the sounds are coming from.
Honestly, he should've guessed the room was occupied; it just didn't occur to him until now. Tim looks both ways as if someone will phase through the floor and handle this, but of course, that's not in the cards. Awkwardly, Tim musters up the courage to knock on the door, mumbling an equally awkward, "Hello?"
The sniffing stops.
"Hi?" someone replies with a watery voice. They sound young.
Tim takes that as a sign that he can enter, slowly pushing the door inward to give the kid time to detest. The kid doesn't say anything, though, and the door shudders open, light pouring in in that way that makes Tim's stomach curl, expect the worst.
But there's nothing ominous here. Just a kid in a bed.
Tim releases the air in his lungs.
"Who are you?" the boy asks, eyebrows turning up from where he's reclined beside a cordon of machines. There's the faintest pink glow to his skin, like he's emitting ether (Meta-Injuries, Tim reminds himself.), but other than that, he looks fine. Well, excusing the red around his eyes, that is.
"I heard you crying," Tim grunts, easing himself into a chair with a level of difficulty. "You alright?"
Looking flustered, the kid swipes at his eyes, then looks away. "Wasn't crying," he asserts.
"Sure you weren't." Tim shakes the spare bag of Doritos at him. "You on any kind of diet?"
The kid gradually looks back, because junk food is to teenagers what bones are to dogs. "…No."
"Great." Tim tosses the Nacho Cheese his way. The bag is instantly enveloped with the same glow the kid's got surrounding him, and Tim tilts his head, trying to distract himself from where he is by solving the mystery in front of him. "You mind if I ask what happened?"
The kid swipes his nose—not really helping his case of not crying—and pulls open the bag. "Some guy with a teleportation thing. The cops tased him but not before he ran into me. The doctors think some of the stuff rubbed off when the electricity hit." He picks his way through the chips. "Was in a coma for a while and woke up last week."
"Sorry," Tim says, not knowing what to say. To be honest, he's not really sure why he felt the need to come in at all. Calming people down isn't exactly his specialty.
"What about you?" the kid asks, oblivious to the crumbs falling on his Dodger's jersey.
"Shot in the gut."
"Cool," the kid says, and suddenly, he stops crunching on the chips, thinning his eyes. "Hold on a second. I know you! You were on TV!"
Tim looks at him blankly.
"Yeah! You're that guy from the charity banquet! The one who got kidnapped!"
Tim chokes on his own spit. "That's not exactly what ha—"
The kid's leaned forward, eyes shining. "They said Batman was there. You met 'im, right? What was he like?"
Fiddling with his IV stand, Tim tries to come up with a vague enough answer. "He was fine, I guess. He took out, like, four guys in no time flat."
"Wicked," the kid breathes.
Tim smirks to himself. It's entertaining to see how idolized Batman is when he knows the man behind the mask can barely keep his morning schedule straight. "You're a fan, I take it?"
The kid nods, pulling an arm up like he's Rosie the Riveter. "Yeah! I wanna be just like 'im. A real Lone Ranger type. No one to tell me what to do or where to go. My own man."
Tim rests a cheek on his knuckles. "Your own man, huh?"
"You got it! Won't need anyone but me."
"Hate to break it to you," Tim says fondly, "but I think even Batman needs someone."
The kid looks at him like Tim's grown a second head. "Come on. This is Batman we're talking about. You think a guy like that needs to ask for help?"
"There's no shame in asking for help," Tim counters with a smart smile. That is, until he realizes why the sentence came so naturally, and then, all he feels like is a hypocrite. Tim sinks deeper into his chair. "Why are you so fixated on being like that, anyway?" he asks, trying to take his mind off the serpentine twist in his stomach.
It's the kid's turn to look uncomfortable. "I guess it's my parents. All of this—" He gestures to the hospital room. "—is a lot of stress for them. If I could do things on my own, I think they'd be a lot happier."
Tim hates that he asks the question: "Would you be happier, though?"
The kid is quiet. "Probably not…" he admits.
Tim's mouth pinches pensively, watching as some screens keep track of the kid's vitals along with who knows what else. The sounds burn into the quiet like a match.
"What's your name?" Tim asks eventually, attention still stuck on the monitors.
"Michael. But my friends call me Dodge."
Tim glances at his baseball jersey, managing a smile however faint. "I see you're a fan of more than just Batman."
Dodge beams. "Yeah, you play?"
"Nah," Tim says, swatting the idea away. "I'm pretty lousy, but I do like to watch. Who's your favorite player?"
And by the gleam in Dodge's eyes, that's a conversation that's destined to last to infinity, the kid already digging in to batting averages and swing speeds and the genesis of baseball as a sport. It's obvious he hasn't been able to just be his own age for a while, so Tim doesn't interject much, instead letting Dodge wear himself out until the kid dozes off.
But still, as Tim feels his own muscles unfurl against the back of the chair, there remains that nagging voice in his head.
You're a hypocrite, it tells him, even after his eyes have fallen closed.
"Tim," someone whispers, gently shaking his shoulder. "Tim."
Tim moves to knock the hand away, mumbling.
"Come on, Tim. Time to wake up."
It's Bruce's voice (Of course it is.), but whatever it is that's happening, Tim's not getting paid enough for it.
"Is'world on fire?" Tim grumbles, squinting with his eyes closed because someone had the audacity to turn on all the lights. He thinks it must be Damian's ghost.
Like a demon summoned, a new voice joins the fray. "Just leave him, Father."
That has Tim jerking upright so fast he nearly clocks Bruce in the face with his skull. "Wah?"
There are three pairs of eyes on him, two of them friendly and a third trying to make him spontaneously combust. Tim doesn't have much mental energy to think about that past knowing Damian'd kill him if it weren't for Dick and Bruce.
"Good morning, princess," Dick Grayson—Tim's guardian angel—greets. The man's perched on the bed beside him while Bruce has (wisely) leaned back into his bedside chair. Bruce is nursing his head a bit. Maybe Tim really did clip him.
"Did you sleep well?" Bruce asks, stubbornly rubbing out the knot.
Tim blinks at them.
When…had he fallen asleep exactly? And how did he get back to his room?
Dick pats the back of his hand. "The staff told us you had an eventful night last night," he says easily. "Poor Bruce looked like he was gonna have an aneurysm 'til they finally figured out where you'd gone."
"Aneurysms don't work that like, Di—"
Dick turns to shush Bruce. "Figure of speech. But anyway, next time leave a more detailed schedule of your night wanderings. Okay, buddy?"
"Oh… Sorry." Tim's shoulders hike remorsefully.
"So long as you got some degree of sleep," Bruce concedes. "Alfred says traffic's looking bad today, so it might be a while before you can see another bed."
Wait.
Tim's eyes blow wide.
Freedom. Freedom. Freedom. Free—
"What are we waiting for?" Tim asks, scrambling to untangle himself from the hospital blankets until Bruce puts a hand on his shoulder.
"About that…" Bruce starts, and Tim stops in pure existential dread.
Don't you dare—
"…there's a bit of a problem," Dick finishes. He's avoiding eye contact—not a promising sign, and Tim stares like he can yank the words from his throat with the look.
Bruce sighs. "Paparazzi," he says.
Oh.
"How many?"
"Enough."
It's Bruce code for "a lot". Tim wilts back against the bed with a groan.
"But don't worry," Dick tries, "we've got a plan."
Tim doesn't like the sound of that. Usually, he's the one who digs them out of paparazzi problems, taking on the swarm like a glorified Moses while Bruce scampers off. Going toe-to-toe with Vicki Vale's a particular talent of his, and the situation's a staple, never been changed—let alone flipped.
"Let's hear it," Tim says with an air of resignation.
Dick grins. "Earlier today, Bruce, Damian, Alfred, and I all came in the town car. It's parked in the main lot out front and everyone saw us come in. The thing they don't know is that I got special permission from the hospital to park my SUV out back. The plan is, Damian here—" He claps the kid's back; Damian looks like he wants to smack him. "—and I are gonna schmooze the camera crews some, turn on the charm, all while you and Bruce sneak out back to where Alfred's waiting."
"Why does this sound like something you got from a James Bond film? Dick, you're no Pierce Brosnan."
Dick tuts. "Oh hush. You're in expert hands, Tim."
So long as it's not Damian's, Tim supposes, shooting a withering look over to Bruce. In the meantime, Damian's continued to glare at them all. That hatred intensifies when Dick begins pulling him out the door.
"Let's get this show on the road," Dick chirps.
The only reply that comes before the door closes is Damian's: "Honestly, I don't know why I must be subjected to this over the…the secretary!"
And then, it's just Bruce and Tim.
The silence is strained, to say the least, so Tim plays the only conversation card he has. He was hoping to save it for a different time, but he needs something—anything—to break the ice.
"You…uh, mentioned something you wanted to talk to me about? The other night," Tim clarifies.
You know. When I was half-high on pain killers. That night.
"Oh," Bruce says, and as much as there are words in the air now, the awkwardness doesn't dissolve. "It was just some paperwork I was hoping you could sign. I got it taken care of."
Tim doesn't sign paperwork.
That's not his job.
"So it wasn't about the clothes," Tim presses innocently, playing with his IV line.
Bruce freezes.
"Well, that too..." the man hedges, noticeably stiff like he's aware any other body language will give him away. "There was just some stuff from financial. About your medical bills and insurance coverage. I handled it."
"I see…"
Somehow, it still sounds like another convenient lie.
Quick to derail the interrogation, Bruce pulls up a plastic bag. "Speaking of, I brought the clothes. I couldn't find much at your place, so these are on loan from Dick."
Deciding to cut him a break, Tim searches the contents. It's all pretty comfortable looking with just enough sportiness to be self-respecting. "Fair enough. Doubt anyone will recognize me outside of a suit, anyway."
Tim side-eyes his boss, who still looks lost in thought.
"I'm gonna go change…if you're sure there's nothing else...?"
Bruce snaps out of it at that and shakes his head. "No. You go ahead."
And just like that, Tim squirrels himself away in the ensuite after enduring a well-intended but hard-passed offer of help from Bruce. Dick's clothes dwarf him by a few sizes and leave an overall kicked puppy impression—which is, you know, fun.
Tim steals a glance at himself in the mirror.
Yep.
100% kicked puppy.
"Alright," Tim mumbles, stumbling back out while still dragging the IV stand. "So, how're we gonna—Oh…"
Dr. Thompkins waves at him from where she's now standing beside Bruce. Her smile is oddly sinister.
Tim's stomach drops for the second time that morning. He looks between the two. "What's wrong…?"
"Nothing," the doctor hums, still looking at him like he's the butt of a joke he's unaware of, "just here for those." She points to the IV and morphine catheters.
Tim squints at her. That doesn't sound like the job of a full-blown surgeon, but…
"Do your stuff," Tim mutters as he sits back down on the bed, letting the doctor work her magic. She and Bruce get to chatting about post-release check-ups and protocols, and Tim wonders absently if they've got time to say goodbye to Dodge. He doesn't think he told the kid his name, even, let alone that yesterday was Tim's last day. He feels guilty about that; Dodge looked like he could use a friend.
Soon enough, Thompkins pulls her hands back and moves to a stand.
"Oh, and I'll be sure to send you those pictures," she says cryptically to Bruce, which has Tim confused, and then she's gone to dispose of the pain pump.
Bruce helps him up.
"What'd she mean by that?"
Bruce shrugs as if he doesn't have a clue. "Come on," he says, and then Tim's bidding a sweet farewell to his room as they pour out into the main hallway. It's your average chaos for a hospital, someone relaying information over the loudspeaker, a river of guests and a few patients struggling to get their walks in despite the clamor. Tim notices the backs of some visitors. One of them's holding a mic, another a camera.
"Think our Sean Connerys missed a few."
Bruce sighs. "This way," he says, immediately having assessed the situation like he's Batman or something—which, well… (That's still going to take some getting used to.) Knowing there's no use fighting it, Tim lets himself be led down another hallway, and that's when it hits him where they're headed.
"Bruce, we're on the fifth floor," Tim hisses as they bulldoze their way to the stairs. "I only just got my sea legs back."
"You'll be fine."
The man's in full-on recon mode, which is just plain odd to see on Bruce Wayne's usually-ditsy face.
"Really, Bruce, it's only paparazzi," Tim placates. Sure, they're scarier than death, and they would probably do him in if it meant getting a good story out of it, and…
Okay.
Maybe the man's got a point.
Still, when the exit swings open, the stairs springing up to say an ominous hello, Tim's overwhelmed. No amount of Bruce half-carrying him is going to make his legs work on anything other than a horizontal surface—not at the speed they'd them need to, anyway. That much becomes clear by the first step, fist-to-face obvious by the third.
"Um," Tim finally says, looking over the guardrail at the dizzying spiral of flights. "I hate to be all Doc Thompkins about this, but…"
"…This isn't going to work, is it?"
"Nope," Tim agrees quickly. "No, it's not."
Bruce sighs and pats Tim's shoulder. "Alright. Plan B it is."
"What's plan…?"
Bruce looks at him, and because Tim's his secretary, he just knows.
"No," Tim says slowly, like he's training a dog. "We are not doing that."
"It's not that bad, Tim."
"'It's not that—'" Tim repeats, bewildered. "Bruce, I'm not five!"
"No. You just can't do this many stairs yet. It's perfectly normal, and besides, it's not like I haven't carried you before."
Tim balks. "What do you mean?"
"How else do you think you got back to your room this morning?"
And that does it: Mom's DNA, the strands that make Tim's cheeks go bright red, is on full display. Is there security footage he needs to burn somewhere? Phones he needs to smash? He's trying to think of how many witnesses there were, and he realizes Dr. Thompkins must be one of them. She was definitely too smug when she said goodbye, and oh no.
There are photos.
Bruce exhales.
"Tim," he says slowly, like he's staying a horse, "do you need my help?"
Tim flinches a look up. Bruce has that expression that says he can already anticipate the "no," maybe a little disappointed that Tim doesn't trust him enough to do something as simple as carry him down the stairs.
You're a hypocrite, Tim's brain chimes in, and the proud, son of Jack Drake part of him resents that with a passion—even more than the idea of having to ask for assistance.
"I…um…" Tim looks at his feet, chin against his chest. "...Yes."
Tim can feel Bruce's eyes sharpen. "What was that?"
"Yes, I need your help," Tim says louder, half-convinced he's going to die from the amount of blood flow to his face. "So, are we…are we gonna do this or what?"
Bruce looks oddly happy, just in those minute, nigh-invisible ways that Tim's memorized over the years. "Arms around my neck," the man instructs, completely immune to the awkwardness, and before Tim can even think about recanting, he's already been swept up in a gentle bridal style. It's overall graceless, not because of Bruce, but because Tim goes stiff as a board.
"I'm not gonna drop you," Bruce soothes, as if that's the thing that has Tim frozen. The man has literally no concept of the fact touch could make someone uncomfortable, because Tim's not used to this. At all. Dana and even Mom were a bit more on the huggy side, sure, but in terms of male role models, Dad was the polar opposite. A clap on the shoulder. Maybe a hair ruffle once a year. It simply wasn't in the man's repertoire, and during Tim's teenage years, it definitely wasn't welcome.
So this?
Now?
It's like being dumped in ice water.
Tim turns his face over Bruce's shoulder to hide some of the redness in his face. (Too little, too late.) Bruce doesn't say anything about it, though, merely starts his trek down the stairs like Tim weighs nothing. Maybe he does. Batman probably does something like this every night, carrying people out of rubble or fires or whatever.
Yeah. Totally normal.
Aside from the echo of Bruce's shoes in the stairwell, the beating of his heart against Tim's, it's silent as they go. That is, until they reach the third flight of steps.
"Are you alright?" Bruce asks, and Tim turns his head to look at him, because no, I'm freaking out, whatever tipped you off?
"You're not breathing," Bruce explains and…
Oh.
He finally breathes out and his lungs feel better for it. "I forgot," Tim says dumbly, as if forgetting a pseudo-involuntary body function were normal. It's cool. Just your run-of-the-mill, teenage secretary getting carried by his boss…who also moonlights as Batman. Cool, cool, cool.
Tim sends a fleeting look down.
Would a drop from this height be enough to do him in?
It's tempting.
"Just match mine," Bruce suggests as he crosses another landing, and Tim focuses on the rumble of Bruce's chest reverberating through his bones, a low, melodic thing. It's not a bad idea. Deciding there's no avoiding it, Tim buries his face in the crook of Bruce's neck and screws his eyes shut. (He thinks he saw something like that on Animal Planet once. Too much stimulation and whatnot). Without the visual, it becomes easier to just breathe.
In and out.
One and two.
Actually, it's kind of…nice. As far as nice things go.
He wonders, briefly, if Dad had carried him like this when he was younger. Too young for him to remember, maybe. Falling asleep on the couch and waking up in bed—that sort of thing. He likes to think he and Dad had shared a moment like that.
He and Bruce have, it registers.
It's a weird thought.
Tim decides not to think about it.
Before long, they must've hit the ground floor, Bruce backing into a door, popping in the push bar, and the general Gotham grime expands over them like a water balloon. Fast food, car exhaust, and peeled-out rubber. A car honks angrily from the main road.
Against the clamor, shoes clip on cement, stopping nearby.
"Taking a kip, is he?"
"Not quite," Bruce whispers. "But getting there."
It takes a minute for the voice to click.
"Alfred," Tim says, face still pressed to Bruce's shirt collar as he reaches out blindly—too embarrassed to let either of them see the gross shade of scarlet his cheeks must be. Wrinkled fingers meet his, gently tucking Tim's hand back against himself. Considering the circumstances, Tim has the mind to make the only sane request he can: "Don't tell Damian."
Alfred chuckles gently. "Wouldn't dream of it." Then to Bruce. "The car's this way, sir."
It's not until Bruce sets him down in the back seat that Tim realizes he carried him the entire way, which wasn't really what Tim agreed to, but between embarrassment and being keeled over in asplenic pain, Tim will accept the former.
"Thanks," Tim says sheepishly. Bruce just smiles and ruffles his hair.
Soon enough, everyone's buckled in (Tim loosening his seatbelt an extreme amount around his torso), and the hospital flows past the window as they turn into traffic. The inside of Dick's car is casual, magazines and loose papers crammed in the netting behind the back seats, a few stray bottles and an ice scrapper littering the floor. Alfred is visible in the front, and Tim makes an effort to make small talk with him, asking about the Manor and his latest read.
The conversation lulls naturally after a good fifteen minutes. Alfred shared that it'll probably take two hours to get back to the Manor with the traffic, and everyone's settled in for the long haul. Tim's debating between taking a nap (He's still exhausted.) or doing the same as Bruce. The man's pulled out a National Geographic from the back of a seat and is reading an article about Jackie Robinson. Tim sneaks peeks at the pictures and idly thinks that Dodge would like it.
"Something on your mind?" Bruce murmurs after a while, flipping a page to a Yellowstone article. Only then does Tim realize he's been zoning out on him.
"Oh," Tim starts eloquently. He fidgets and loosens the seatbelt a bit more. "I, uh... I was just thinking: Would you or Alfred be able to take me back to the hospital next week?"
That gets Bruce's attention.
"Are you feeling sick?" he asks hurriedly, the article forgotten.
"No, I just think I should visit Dodge—the kid I was talking to last night. I'd drive there myself, but…" Tim gestures to his torso.
Bruce and Alfred share a glance in the rearview mirror. "You want to go back to the hospital...of your own volition?" Bruce phrases it slowly, like he's unsure of his own hearing or maybe Tim's sanity.
"I mean, don't get me wrong: I still don't like the place, and it's not like I want to make regular trips, but I think it'd be…good." Tim neglects to mention who it'd be good for: Dodge or himself. He thinks he means both.
"Of course," Alfred permits in Bruce's stead, flicking the signal to change lanes. "I'd gladly escort you."
Bruce still looks concerned. "Are you sure you're feeling okay?" he asks, more quietly this time.
"I'm fine," Tim says, and upon realizing that's his usual answer adds, "Just a bit tired. Honest."
That seems to do it.
"Alright," Bruce hums, still faintly skeptical but not pushing it. He flips the magazine back open. "You should get some rest, then. We've still got a while."
Tim nods. He really is tired, and somewhere along the line, his head lolls back onto Bruce's shoulder, and he's out like a light.