Tim wakes up feeling like his head had gone a few rounds with Killer Croc. And then a few extra more.
Swallowing thickly, he squeezes his eyes shut. His stomach rolls unpleasantly, neck clenching in pain. He groans into his pillow.
He almost never wakes up with a migraine.
He tries to remember what happened the night previous, but everything that happened was pretty routine, nothing out of the ordinary...
He had patrolled with Batman, both of them swinging by their usual haunts. They had stopped a mugging, and located a man they had been looking for, who was trying to get a new drug out on the street. They had caught him just in time before he met up with some dealers. He finished his evening by celebrating with Nightwing, both of them cooling off by practicing handstands on top of an old warehouse. He got home just after two.
It was Friday, meaning he had school. Algebra test today. The shrill morning alarm from his nightstand, confirmed his thoughts much to his chagrin.
The noise was absolutely ear splitting.
Tim winces, clenching his eyes shut, and delicately raises his hands up to cover his vulnerable ears miserably. Getting up to shut off the ringing alarm was nigh impossible. He couldn't uncurl from his position.
Eventually it shut off by itself and the young vigilante whimpers in relief into his pillow, tears gathering in his eyes. The ringing echoes in his head.
Looks like he wasn't going to school today.
He blindly searches for an extra pillow, and when he does find one, he sets it over his head. It helps block out the light assaulting his eyes. He knows this will be better if he gets some medication inside of him, but the thought of getting up and leaving his bed right now was, again, nightmare inducing. He probably couldn't get up if there was a fire.
The light from his window was tortuous enough, even with his eyes firmly shut and covered. He wishes he knew where he stashed that eye mask, he had bought a year ago. The black one that had soothing gel beads inside. He wishes it were already on his face.
The only thing to do in these situations is try to relax and sleep. It both passes the time and is a heavenly respite from the worst headache imaginable. He stubbornly lays there in complete stillness, wishing the migraine to just go away. He tries to fall back asleep but he knows pretty quickly that it's in vain. It's hard to sleep with a migraine even with medication, let alone without any. His head is thumping and he lifts up his hands to sigh into them, not daring to move lest he make it worse. This was his life now. He was going to forever be one with his bed and never move again. He doesn't know how long he's laying like that, when he feels a vibration under his pillow.
The tremors make him grind his teeth, and he slavishly creeps up a hand under his pillow to locate the source of the shaking.
Of course it's his cell, the one his dad had bought him so he can communicate with him better while he is away, and for him to use during emergencies.
Well technically not this exact model. The original phone his dad bought him was probably at the bottom of the Gotham river. Bruce always helps buy him a new one whenever his inevitably gets soaked or smashed to pieces.
He finds the red 'End' button and pushes it, internally sighing in relief when it shuts it up.
He moans when it goes off again, vibrating under his head not a minute later. Why did he stash his private phone under there anyways? He does the same thing as before, but this time he holds down the button to completely turn it off.
It was either that or throwing the phone.
He goes back to the limbo state he was in before; half conscious and half not. Everything is dark and swirly behind his eyelids. He thinks he's finally in a comfy position where he can fall asleep, when his bladder tells him he has to get up.
He really did not want to do that.
If he gets up, that means the pain will grow tenfold and he will most certainly get sick.
It's a battle already forfeited however and he knows it. He tries laying there for as long as possible, delaying the inevitable, but eventually biology wins out.
He keeps his eyes firmly shut as he slowly sits up, trying not to cry. If he's slow enough, he might not trigger the nausea.
After both feet are on the ground, Tim knows it will be a hard endeavor. Everything is dialed to eleven. He stays there, seated on his bed, eyes closed, till he finds the willpower to move again, head pounding. He knows he must look like a state: wearing a baggy basketball team T shirt that he's sure is Dick's, and boxers. His bathroom was only a few steps away, but to Tim it might as well be miles.
He sucks in a breath and breathes it back out. This was manageable. He could totally do this. He was Robin. Just don't focus on the pain.
He slowly gets up and shuffles.
When he's inside the bathroom, door closed, he takes care of business painstakingly slow while leaving the light completely off; pitch black. Thankfully he knows the environment like the back of his hand, so he can navigate it no problem much to his relief.
It's while he's moving over to wash up at the sink, eyes closed, does the pain suddenly hit the bracket.
He chokes, blindsided, and falls down to the cold bathroom tile to curl into the fetal position. Heavens, his head. He makes pitiful noises as he wraps his arms around his skull, laying there at its mercy.
It's brutal.
He stays there, completely still like a wounded animal, until the smell of the bathroom becomes way too much. The feeling of saliva pools in his mouth, rousing him, and he can't make it to the trashcan in time. He sits up and miserably gags off to the side, onto the cold tile.
He's so glad the lights are off.
His aching head spins in and out, thoughts sliding and wavy like a ship at sea which just makes him nauseous again, delirious. His hands feel numb.
He wants it to stop. He wants everything to stop. Thinking hurts. It feels like an icepick was lodged and hammered through his eyes and into his brain.
He moans, drifting. It was all too distracting and overwhelming.
Go away go away go away. Please.
He doesn't realize he's making any noise or rocking, till a hand (?) is on his shoulder stopping him, startling him, but he doesn't stop. He can't. He hears some other sound in the distance. Someone's shushing him. He doesn't dare open his eyes.
"—im. It's going to be okay..."
He whines lowly at the volume, roped arms squeezing to conceal his head further. The sound was like piercing daggers. He tries to focus on his breathing. In and out.
"...found him like this. I don't know…!"
He sobs.
"—nk. Yeah. Okay…"
Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop.
He wants to pass out.
Some grueling time passes in silence and then he suddenly feels a towel on the floor beside him and a chillingly cold pack get placed and held against his forehead. Or at least the part that wasn't buried in his arms. It's nice. He moans in relief, without meaning to.
A smooth hand is rubbing up and down his arm, and he barely categorizes it.
Everything is lost to him. He can't tell what's going on or how much time has passed. All he can do is not cry out. He wants to tell whoever was with him that it was too severe. Too much. His cheeks feel wet.
Then he can tell another person has entered the bathroom. A hand on him, someone touching his shoulder again. They're speaking to him. A deeper voice. He doesn't care.
"Hold on Tim."
Something is touching his thigh, and oh it's sharp and cold and it gets pushed into his muscle, but the pain is nothing compared to the agony in his head. His leg spasms anyways, and he whines while his hair gets brushed back from his face. The cold pack is still resting against his forehead.
He feels himself slowly get lowered till he's lying down on something, head still secured in his straining arms, unwilling to unlock or move them.
His tears petered out after a while, the all encompassing ache that was his head, starting to fade after a few minutes...hours? As he lays there. He quiets down.
Tim feels his brain start to buzz. The pain was still there, but it was easing up. He keeps his eyes closed, and his mind blank. Thinking wasn't good.
When he tunes back into the present he can tell someone is rubbing his back, and laying perfectly still beneath him. He feels tears well up in his eyes again, but this time not from the pain.
He knows exactly who is with him.
His breathing was slowly getting back to normal. He could feel himself calming down. His head was significantly better than it was earlier. However long ago that was, although it was still tender and heavy.
He knows he should show some signs of being okay pretty soon, if he wanted to keep his caretaker from sitting on the bathroom floor any longer.
And knowing him, he'll stay and wait there forever till he knows Tim's okay.
His head is sore when he lifts it up, his eyes still wanting to be closed. He opens them up just a little anyway. The hand stops rubbing his back but stays there.
"Tim." Bruce says, voice low and soft. Like he was afraid speaking louder than one decibel would hurt him.
The teen turns slightly around to squint at the bathroom entrance. Dick was standing there, motorcycle boots on, and all, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed.
He smiles down at him, bittersweet. "Hey kiddo."
Tim sighs and turns back around, lifting up a hand to shield and cover his eyes. "How long?" He croaks out, not knowing what he was asking exactly.
"Dick found you an hour ago." Bruce answers. He was sitting up against the tub. His eyes look weary, but alert. "I gave you Sumatriptan about a half hour ago."
Tim blinked heavily.
...Sumatriptan. Huh.
"Oh."
Dick takes that as his cue to come in closer. He gets down on one knee, and moves some hair out of his face. "You were pretty out of it."
He remembers, mostly. "Yeah."
"This was a pretty bad one, huh?" Dick guesses.
Tim nods slowly into his hands. He feels more of his hair get brushed away.
"I tried finding your Excedrin in its usual spot in the kitchen, but couldn't find any," Dick explains, resting his arm on his jean clad knee. "So I found a cold pack in your freezer. I remembered you saying something once about how you like being cold when you have a migraine. Then I called Bruce."
Tim feels himself warm up at the statement; at the fact that Dick would remember something like that. That he would care.
"Bruce said he'd be right over with something to help. I didn't know he'd bring a migraine epi-pen."
Tim huffs out a feeble laugh, part delirious and part relief, but it hurts his still sore head so he stops, and groans.
"Feel good enough to travel to your bed?" Dick asks, rubbing circles in his shoulder blades. Tim nods.
"Okay then."
Before he can ask to walk, Bruce is lifting him up like he's nothing and exits the washroom, while Dick jaunts ahead to pull back the covers. When he gets settled in, he notes his bedroom being a lot darker than he could recall.
Chancing a glimpse of the window, Tim peeks open a leaden eye and sees to his surprise, something black and heavy blocking it.
...His dresser?
"Totally bummed by the fact you don't have black-out curtains in your room yet, Timmy." Dick says, voice still soft. "Maybe we could steal a pair from the manor for you? We both know Alfred stocked up on them last year, after he outfitted your room."
Tim feels a stupid weak smile grow on his face against his wishes. "Did you move my dresser in front of my window?"
A scoff. "Obviously. You didn't have anything else."
He hears Bruce sigh, but it's the kind he does when he's amused but also tired by his children's antics. Tim just grins.
"I'm going to go call Alfred. He's likely wanting an update. He's probably out of his mind after seeing you run out of there in your pajamas." Dick says to Bruce, grinning wickedly. It's not till after he steps out did the sentence process for the fourteen year old. Tim pulls open his eyes and immediately looks over at Bruce.
Sure enough, the man was wearing his sleep clothes.
Bruce sighs, as if reading his mind, and pulls out a chair from his desk to sit in it. "You don't have to say anything." He says.
"Okay." Tim replies back obediently. He feels his chest warm.
"When you feel up to it, I want you to come and recover at the manor." Bruce states.
Tim sinks his head further into his pillow. "Alright."
Bruce sighs again, but this time, it's in satisfaction. Then he leans back against the chair and settles in.
Once it's obvious that he's going to stay, Tim peels down the blanket from his face. "Hey B?"
A grunt.
Tim smiles, closing his eyes. "Thanks."
The unfaltering and tender reply he gets back is all he needs to hear.
"Anytime, Tim."
The end.