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Tim slips into the manor on quiet feet, tugging at the band around his wrist, while Kon strides alongside him without a care in the world. Whereas Tim makes no sound, Kon’s boots slam against the finely polished floors of the foyer. Without a doubt, everyone knows they’re here, which is exactly what Tim was hoping to avoid.
“Can you be any quieter?” he hisses, peeking into the kitchen. Alfred’s nowhere in sight. “Come on. I’m pretty sure Alf bought bananas last time he was out.”
Kon stuffs his hands into his pockets and, with much less worry, joins Tim by the counter. Gesturing to the plastic bag clutched tightly in Tim’s hands, he asks, “I thought you didn’t like the way bananas taste? That’s why we bought that, right?”
The countertop is bare of any distinctly yellow fruits. The wire basket typically filled with apples and oranges is nearly empty. Tim spends a long moment trying to think of what day it is: Alfred does all of their shopping on Sunday mornings, while most of the manor is still asleep, so it has to be nearing the weekend. Alarmingly enough, he can’t think of which week day it could possibly be.
“Well, good news. There aren’t any bananas.” Tim frowns and reaches for the basket instead, tossing an orange to Kon. “Anyway, we didn’t buy them - Cassie made me.”
Kon throws the orange between his hands instead of peeling it. Tim gives him a sour look, which is neither returned nor commented upon. “Tomayto, tomahto. At least she didn’t come with us.”
Small mercies. After Kon grabbed him from the hospital, she’d immediately made them go to the nearby drug store for supplements, despite the fact that Tim could probably just ask Alfred to start putting more potassium in his meals. It’d do just as much as the supplements would, ultimately. The supplements, Tim decided, were useless and needless. Even if his blood test said he was low on potassium, it wasn’t like having more of it would fix whatever the hell was wrong with him. Not completely.
As Tim ducks down to start searching the cupboards, Kon begins peeling the orange. Hopefully he’ll actually share it - all Tim wants is to get something to eat and then to go the hell to bed. Even if it’s not the first time he’s stayed up for twenty four hours, it’s been an awfully long night. Or, day. Whatever.
“Thank God. And now we don’t have to talk about this ever again.” Under his breath, he adds, “Seriously, where the hell would the bananas be?”
“There aren’t any,” a voice, irritating and haughty, says.
Tim whips up into a standing position, pain shooting through his body. He nearly slams his head against the inside of the cupboard. Safe from another hospital trip, he zeroes in on the voice, fist clenching around the plastic bag. “Jesus - what the hell?”
At the island sits Damian, carelessly munching on an apple slice. There’s a plate in front of him with the rest of the fruit on it, along with a clump of peanut butter. He looks cozy, which only serves to make Tim angrier - not that it’s Damian’s fault, he’s just been in his freaking binder for a little too long and a hot shower sounds really good right about now.
“What?” Damian asks, meeting Tim’s gaze. “It’s not my fault you didn’t notice me. That’ll get you killed, you know.”
“I noticed you,” Kon throws out.
Damian glares at him and Kon throws an orange slice in his mouth, promptly shutting up.
Tim slams the cupboard door shut and moves over to the island, standing on the other side of it. Arms crossed, he settles against the cool marble. “Who cares. Do we have any raisins? Avocado, maybe?”
Eyes flitting around quickly, Damian looks Tim up and down, before concentrating on the bag in his hands. Even if he doesn’t say anything, Tim knows exactly what he’s trying to ask. Everything is a question: what’s in the bag, why’s Tim looking for potassium-rich foods, yada yada. Realizing he isn’t going to get an answer about either snack, Tim just pushes away from the island and holds out his hand towards Kon. Dutifully, Kon places an orange slice in his palm.
There’s a burst of flavor in his mouth when he bites down, successfully covering up the previous dryness that’d come accompanied with the lack of water and teeth-brushing for the day. He winces belatedly. He’ll have to brush his teeth, too, before retiring to bed. God, the list just kept getting longer. Does an orange slice count as dinner?
“Great, loved the conversation,” Tim says, drily. “I’m gonna go take a shower and pass out real quick.”
He turns for the doorway, only for the shriek of wooden chair legs against the floor to ring out. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t hear Damian’s weight hit the ground as he leaves the stool or his footsteps. He does, however, feel Damian’s eyes staring holes into his back. If he had Kon’s superpowers, Tim’s convinced he’d be dead.
Tim stops walking, waiting for whatever Damian’s about to throw out. Kon just pops another orange slice into his mouth, eyeing them both.
“You’re limping,” Damian points out, gracelessly. The words more or less spill out; that’s the only sign that he’s worried and that fact is enough to make Tim actually turn around. “What did you do?”
He puts up a hand in hopes that it’ll show it’s no big deal. “Chill out, dude. It’s nothing patrol-related.” After a pause, he adds, “Or bat-related.”
Maybe that’ll make him back off and relax. Part of Tim’s still surprised Damian cares; it’s been a long time since their first meeting, but sometimes Tim has a hard time seeing past it, even if they’ve grown as people and gotten closer as brothers.
“So?”
Damian wants to know. Unfortunately for him, Tim doesn’t want to disclose.
He shrugs and pulls a Damian - the silent treatment in response to stupid questions is always a family classic. Making a quick escape, he leaves the kitchen, and apparently Kon, behind. As long as Kon doesn’t betray the last twenty-four hours to Damian, Tim could care less. He can eat his orange - or all of them, for that matter - while Tim goes and gets some well deserved peace and quiet. Namely in a room where there’s no one around.
Climbing up the stairs is a feat of its own. Having Kon nearby probably would’ve made it easier, even if Tim’s pretty sure he’d have declined the help. Damian was right, though: Tim’s limping and it’s awfully noticeable. Each step sends a pang up his legs and, if it weren’t for the fact that any family member could walk down the stairs at any moment, he’d probably sit his ass down and take a breather.
For once, he’s thankful for the fact that his room is the closest to the stairs out of everyone’s. Heedless to Kon’s presence in the manor, Tim all-but slams inside of his bedroom and locks the door behind him.
No matter how badly he’d like to shower - he’s been in a hospital for over half of the last day, after all - he’s more exhausted than he is conscious of the germs and grime. The first thing he does is strip off his binder and throw it aside. His jeans are soon to follow.
Then, Tim hits the bed. He’s out like a light, before the pain can even start.
No matter how heavy the sleep, he still wakes up no less than seven hours later. The first thing he registers, just like always, is the pain. A terrible, buzzing feeling permeates his calves, just edging on the side of stabbing. He's flopped out on his stomach, toes just peeking out over the edge of the bed - it's his normal wake-up position and the one that helps best with the pain.
Waking up like this after just having come from the hospital is still frustrating, though. Tim presses his entire face into his pillows, wrapping his arms around them, and screams. ‘ Nothing’s wrong’ my ass.
It’s been months since he started waking up - and falling asleep - like this. Laying or sitting for more than a handful of minutes always called on what Tim liked to call ‘the static’: a concentrated feeling of advanced pins-and-needles in his legs that almost always drove him to tears. The best way he knew how to explain it was like a buzzing pain deep beneath the skin that prevented him from being able to move his legs at all. Even wiggling his toes was a terribly difficult feat. To make it worse, lately the feeling had been spreading to his hands and wrists.
He had a theory of the cause, though it completely differed from what Cassie and Kon were claiming. Last summer had come with pervasive cramps in his calves from all of his running and jumping around on patrol. Eventually, the cramps started dissipating and Tim was left with this horrible static instead.
Cassie and Kon both subscribed to the theory the doctors had given him. Tim, however, swore that this horrible buzzing was in no way, shape, or form connected to low levels of potassium. Sure, he already had a complicated relationship with food - most food tasted terrible and felt like cardboard on his tongue, he couldn’t be blamed for that, right? He was just… really picky - but there was no way it was just a lack of potassium.
Thankfully enough, he’d abandoned that little jar of potassium supplements Cassie had sent them home with back in the kitchen. If Tim were lucky, Kon would’ve accidentally taken the entire shopping bag home with him when he left last night.
Tim doubted it, but a guy could hope. With a groan, Tim turns his head off to the side and draws in a long breath. His legs hurt, but not as bad as they had last night. Last night had been terrible.
He’d been hanging out with Kon and Cassie at the latter’s house - just the three of them left alone, no suits and no heroing to do. At some point after settling down for the night, the static started acting up again. It’d been bearable for the first five minutes. After that, Tim had to press his face into the multitude of pillows on Cassie’s bed just to suppress his tears.
Sometime between Kon asking him what was wrong and Cassie’s return to the room, Tim had started wailing. He couldn’t move his legs at all, without unbearable pain, and it all hurt so bad that all he could do was continuously sob, It hurts, it hurts!
Given that they were all in civvies, there wasn’t much more that they could do other than go to the Emergency Room. The trip down the stairs was unbearable; Tim wouldn’t let either Kon or Cassie pick him up, so getting outside took almost an hour. By the time one a.m. rolled around, an ambulance was called and Tim was shipped off to the hospital.
He hadn’t gotten out until five p.m. - over twelve hours later. Kon picked him up, having stayed with him until about five a.m., and after grabbing Cassie, they all headed to Walmart so Cassie could enact the doctor’s master plan: forcing more potassium into Tim’s bloodstream.
Other than the complaint about potassium, the doctor had nothing to report. Tim’s book of health was clear. All he had was a suggestion to go see a neurologist and the order to go eat some bananas. Great.
Shaking his head, Tim puts forth all his energy to wiggling his toes. When they don’t move, he screams into his pillow again. He knows that he’s probably just making it all up - for heaven’s sake, even a hospital couldn’t find anything wrong with him. But, then why can’t he move? If it’s all in his head, he shouldn’t be feeling this much pain.
He lays there for another minute, exhausted and content enough to just give up, when he hears a short burst of knocks on his door.
“Go away,” he shouts into his pillow. No one other than Damian knows he’s home, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Damian ratted him out to someone. “I’m not in the mood.”
“Uh,” comes the intelligent response at the door. “I don’t think I’m supposed to care.”
It takes Tim a moment to register the voice as Kon’s - he must not have gone home like Tim thought. Odd, but not overtly so. Kon probably crashed on the couch or something after talking with Cassie. Tim wouldn’t be surprised to find that Cassie had blown up his phone during his seven hours of sleep, yelling at him for ditching Kon so soon.
“Can I come in? Or?” Kon’s knuckles must brush the door again, because there’s a half-knock when his voice trails off. “I heard you scream. Twice.”
“Door’s locked.”
Tim doesn’t lift his face from his pillow, so his voice stays muffled. There’s some murmuring behind the door that he can’t hear, so he just tunes it out and closes his eyes. If he’s not getting up anytime soon, maybe he can just sleep for a little longer.
After a bit of silence, there’s a deft click - and then Tim’s door swings open, revealing a sheepish Kon and a furious Damian.
“Sorry,” Kon says, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s been badgering me since you went to sleep.”
“Seven hours ago?” Tim asks, skeptically. He lifts his head for all of a minute, before relaxing back into the bed. “Good morning, I guess.”
Upon realizing that Tim’s not getting up, Kon’s nervous smile fades into thinly veiled worry. “Legs again?”
“Can’t move,” he agrees.
It’ll pass - it always does - but it’s a little nice to see the immediate concern and attention Kon gives him upon hearing the news. He had hardly told anyone since the cramps started; in fact, he’d brought the cramps up to Bruce exactly once and never talked about any of it again. At least, until last night. Still, Kon knows how long it’s been since the static had started; that doesn’t seem to quell his obvious worry surrounding it.
Damian, on the other hand, suddenly seems a thousand times angrier at the admission. Without knowing how much Kon told him, there’s no knowing how much Damian understands about the situation - but even the little that Damian obviously does know isn’t exactly comforting. Damian’s always been the first one to point out Tim’s faults and flaws. Why wouldn’t this just be another one?
While Kon crosses the space between the door to Tim’s bed, Damian stays rooted in his spot. He looks dwarfed in the door frame, shoulders hunched in and fists curled up.
“The clone told me everything,” he says, suddenly. He glares wickedly, as if daring Tim to complain. “I told Father. He’ll be home shortly.”
“Oh, great.” Tim’s laying the sarcasm on thick, but with the buzzing pain still dancing around his lower legs, it’s not like being nice to the demon brat is his first priority. “Just what I wanted - Bruce to know.”
A little regretfully, as the bed dips beneath his weight, Kon admits, “He was going to hear about it either way. I think there’s a couple news articles out there already. I mean - you are the son of a multi-millionaire.”
“Multi-billionaire,” Damian promptly corrects. He still doesn’t dare to enter the room any further. “I’ll discuss with him your situation when he returns.”
Damian’s pompous attitude is frustrating. Tim’s first reaction is to snap back, what, I can’t even rat out myself?, before the little Dick Grayson in his head tells him to shut the fuck up. The words carry a second meaning - Damian’s not threatening him, though it feels like it; Damian’s just worried. Otherwise, he wouldn’t even bother to be here, letting Tim know. He’s just warning Tim that he’ll tell Bruce because he doubts that Tim will.
Tim groans a little louder and longer than before, tension bleeding out of his shoulders when Kon settles his hand between his shoulder blades. He’s a little embarrassed that he’d suddenly leapt to the wrong conclusions about Damian again, but the pain makes it hard to think. Of course Damian’s just worried. The little brat’s horrible at showing he cares at the best of times.
“Find me a neurologist while you’re at it,” Tim grumbles. Lord knows he won’t.
Kon’s hand tightens a little in his tee-shirt, but Damian nods sharply and turns on his heel. Before he vanishes down the hall, supposedly to do just that, he looks over his shoulder. “Make sure Drake doesn’t die in the ten minutes it’ll take Father to return,” he says, shortly.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Kon smiles, but Damian doesn’t even see it. He’s already gone. “Weird little bro you’ve got there, man.”
Drawing his arms a little tighter around his head, Tim mutters, “You’re telling me.”
“At least you don’t have to break the news to Batman.” He’s trying to sound sympathetic, Tim knows, but it’s not exactly helping. “Telling Clark about stuff is hard enough. I couldn’t imagine having to tell Batman I just got out of the Emergency Room.”
Kon’s a-second-too-late wince is paired with his fingers gripping Tim’s tee-shirt again. They relax a second later. If Tim had any more sleep in his system, he’d let the haphazard joke go.
“You really know how to make a guy feel better, you know that? In fact, I suddenly feel so relieved about this entire conversation with Bruce now.”
Miserably, Kon says, “You don’t have to be so sarcastic about it.”
“Of course I do,” Tim contradicts. “I just got out of the hospital. I’m allowed to be a little bitchy. Besides” - he smiles a little too himself - “you’re not the one who has to ‘break the news to Batman’.”
“You aren’t either!” Kon’s hand vanishes. The weight on the bed by Tim’s head disappears, so Tim tilts his head to keep his eyes on his friend. “Damian has to. I’d feel a little relieved about that if I were you.”
Considering that Tim hardly feels like he just sent his little brother off to war, he has a hard time sharing Kon’s sentiments. He tunes his friend out for a moment, concentrating solely on moving his toes again. Miraculously, after a few minutes of concentration and a surprising length of silence, Tim’s toes begin to wiggle. From there, it’s short work of moving the rest of his body; pushing himself up and out of bed, waving off Kon’s attempts to help steady him. The pain starts to subside - it’s this that’s always made Tim skeptical of his own condition. If the pain fades so quickly after he starts moving, was there ever an actual problem in the first place?
“Have you heard Bruce pull up outside yet?” Tim asks.
He focuses only on standing for a while. There’s this pervasive ache in his legs, which is par for the course, but he’s confident that he can walk now. He still takes a moment to relish in the feeling of wiggling his toes, though, before setting out on a side quest to go and find himself a pair of socks and, hopefully, some clean pants. It’s only a little embarrassing to be caught in just a shirt and some boxers in front of Kon. It’ll be more embarrassing to have a long conversation with Bruce in his current outfit if he doesn’t change quickly.
Kon, as if reading Tim’s mind, holds up a pair of jeans that Tim had left draped over the back of a nearby chair forever ago. Considering that they seem clean enough, Tim snatches them up. Wiggling into them is a bit of a challenge on it’s own. By the time he finds some socks, Tim simply plops onto the ground and starts wrestling them on.
“He’s already inside, by the way,” Kon finally answers, once Tim’s mostly dressed. All that’s left is to grab his binder - though Tim knows that if he grabs it while Kon’s still looking, he’ll only get a lecture on ‘proper binding safety’ or something. Damn Cassie for explaining binders in length to him. “Damian’s talking to him right now. He sounds worried? Which I think is good. That’s good, isn’t it?”
“No better time than now,” Tim tells himself. He spends a full minute staring at his feet, telling himself to stand up before the static comes back. Kon holds out his hands again, now holding Tim’s ratty pair of converse. “Up we go.”
Once he’s on his feet, Tim borrows Kon’s shoulder in order to tug on his shoes. He doesn’t bother with tying the laces and, surely enough, Kon winds up making him sit on the bed so he can tighten them instead.
“You sure you’re still against me carrying you? I can get you down the stairs if you want. It’ll be easier. And faster. Just call me Kon Airways-”
“I’m not calling you that,” Tim interrupts. “And I’m fine. Just - help me up.”
He holds out his hand for Kon to take. Almost alarmingly, Kon’s gentle with his approach - Tim’s on his feet easily, a stark contrast to Kon’s normal too-strong attempts. He tends to misjudged his strength at the best of times, pulling whoever he’s helping up a little more roughly than he means to. Bart loves it - Tim not so much.
“Alright.” Tim breathes in again, trying to beat back the thoughts swirling in his brain. Bruce isn’t going to be mad. He’ll be disappointed that Tim didn’t tell anyone, sure, but he won’t be mad. Even if he is, Tim will just use his pity card. It’s a win-win situation. It’ll be fine. “You might want to go home.”
“What? Who’s going to make sure you take that gross multivitamin we picked out?”
Tim swallows his response of no one, because there’s no way he’s taking them, and instead tells him to try texting Damian. “He’ll threaten me into it and then you won’t have to worry. Happy?”
Kon’s expression has turned the most sour it’s been since yesterday morning, when Tim ordered him to go home and get some sleep. “It’s like you’re preparing for the worst. Look, the worst that’ll even happen is that Batman calls up some fancy neuro-whatever and you get an appointment. Plus, if you’re that concerned about all this, shouldn’t I be there for moral support?”
“You are literally the worst choice for moral support,” Tim says plainly. “I really hate to say it, but it’s true - when it comes to Batman, anyway.” He sets his hand on Kon’s forearm and gives it a slight squeeze. “You’re a great cheerleader otherwise. Thanks for staying the night and keeping Damian away from my room.”
“I would've waited longer,” Kon replies, immediately. “Whatever. Good luck, I guess. Me and Cassie are going to stop by later anyway.”
He turns away, clearly upset at having been told to leave. Before Tim can get another word out, he’s off - flying straight out the window that Tim hadn’t even realized was open. The curtains stir at the disturbance and Tim watches them until they settle.
“It’s Cassie and I,” he says, to the empty room. “If you even care.”
He’ll probably get a text about it later, but there’s no point in worrying about that now. Tim’s still tired and upset over yesterday. He knows that that entire conversation warranted an apology - but if Kon’s going to show up tonight regardless, he’ll just have to treat him to dinner to make it up to him. Kon understands. Probably.
Tim’s stomach turns.
“Whatever,” he echoes.
Mimicking Kon’s sharp turn, Tim heads for the door. Damian hadn’t even closed it on his way out. It only serves to make Tim more frustrated when he realizes that Damian probably picked the lock on his door to get in. If he hadn’t butted his head in the conversation, Kon would’ve broken through the door, though - small blessings. He’ll just have to update the lock on his door or something. Not that Alfred would let him.
Tim makes it down the hallway and stairs faster than he had last night, but he still takes the steps slowly. It’s easier to go down the stairs when there’s close railings on either side. Using the railings as crutches takes the pressure off of his feet and legs, making the entire ordeal easier, but the manor has nothing close to that. The main stairs that spill out in the foyer are wide and grand, so Tim takes every few steps slowly, sometimes planting both feet on the stair before moving on.
Eventually, he makes it to the bottom. It’s then that he suddenly realizes that he has no idea where Damian and Bruce are talking - and therefore has no idea where he’s meant to confront Bruce. Instead of wandering the entire house - that sounds both exhausting and painful - Tim just heads for the kitchen. At the very least, he can make himself something to eat and write down bananas on Alfred’s grocery list. Maybe he can even ask Alfred to make banana muffins if he runs into him soon.
A few feet from the entryway to the kitchen is when he starts to hear voices - low and hushed as they are, Tim’s still surprised he hadn’t heard them sooner. He already feels tired and out of breath from his small trek from his room to here, though. If he’d gotten more sleep, maybe he would’ve been aware enough to realize it earlier.
He stops just before the doorway, pressing his side up against the wall. As much as he hates to admit it, Tim knows he’s more-or-less bracing his weight against it. The urge to sit is insane. Still, he tries to push the urge back, focusing all of his attention on the conversation happening in the kitchen. The voices are easy to set apart: Damian and Bruce, talking quietly.
“-Timothy’s doctor claimed he was low on potassium and Timothy himself requested I find a neurologist,” Damian is saying, tersely. He sounds as if this isn’t the first time he’s repeated the information.
Tim pulls short at hearing his full name come out of Damian’s mouth. It’s a huge change from hearing Drake, that’s for sure. Then, Bruce sighs all heavy and Tim cards the thought away to concentrate again.
“Dick sent me an article on it shortly after you called,” Bruce says, sounding weary. Damian and Dick must’ve talked to Bruce almost seven hours ago - where the hell had Bruce been? It sounds almost like he’d rushed straight from wherever he’d been, but if the trip had taken seven entire hours… Tim bites his lip. He’s probably gone and interrupted an important Batman mission or something. “Do you have any clue how long this has been going on?”
“No, Father.” Damian’s words are minced. He’s clearly done with this entire conversation - not that Tim would blame him.
Taking pity, Tim raps his knuckles against the door frame and slips inside. “Morning, B.”
“Finally!” Damian’s seated at the island in a pale imitation of last night, sans his midnight snack. He slips off of the stool and slips around the counter, pausing only at Tim’s side. “I don’t care about this anymore,” he confides, shortly. “Do not tell Father any lies or I will know. I will not be as patient as he is.”
“Okay, weird flex, but.” Tim shrugs. He’s pretty sure that Damian still cares. Though, if he were Damian, he wouldn’t care that much anymore either. “Did you find a neurologist, or-”
Damian turns his nose to the air. “I already sent you a complete list of adequate neurologists in the area. To your email,” he tacks on.
“Cool. Thanks. I guess I owe you.”
“You always do.”
With that, Damian disappears down the hall again. Tim, oddly endeared with how freaking odd his little brother is, turns around just in time to catch Bruce’s fond little look. He thinks he’s so smooth and emotionless all the time, but Tim knows the truth - Bruce is an old sap when it comes to his youngest son. You’d have to be blind to think otherwise.
It takes a few seconds for that look to melt away, before Bruce’s fingers start tapping against the counter. Tim looks straight at his face, intent on meeting Bruce’s eyes, but Bruce evades eye contact and instead looks deftly to the left of him. Fair enough - eye contact is weird anyway.
“So,” Tim says.
“So,” Bruce agrees.
Maybe Kon or Damian should’ve stayed. If only to help the two of them navigate this conversation, anyway. Bruce is about as emotion-literate as a nail and Tim’s hardly doing great himself. At least he knows what needs to be said.
Tim tells himself it’s like a briefing. All he has to do is give Bruce the rundown on where he was yesterday and what happened so Bruce can bench him for a week and they can move on. Easy peasy.
The silence stretches on while Tim takes Damian’s abandoned stool. Bruce isn’t sitting, yet; instead, his forearms are anchored on the countertop of the island while he stands, half folded in on himself. Maybe he’d like the conversation more if he was sitting, Tim thinks. He’s certainly enjoying the prospect of it a little more now that he’s off his feet.
“So,” Tim says again. “Where to start.”
Bruce’s voice is as terse as Damian’s had been when he speaks, no longer as exhausted as he’d sounded moments before. “Why didn’t you call me, Tim?”
“To be honest, I didn’t even consider it.” That’s a lie. Tim just hopes that Bruce doesn’t pick up on that fact. The truth of it is that Tim cried for a solid twenty minutes about having to call his dad while he traversed the stairs, taking the steps one at a time. Cassie told him that they’d get to that later, but later never came. “You just… weren’t on my list of priorities at the time. I was a little more concerned with, I don’t know, the pain?”
“Damian said you had friends with you,” Bruce stresses. “They didn’t think to call me, either?”
Not really, but Tim’s not going to say that either. “Again - I was more concerned with the fact that I couldn’t move my legs. Crazy, right?”
“Tim.”
“What?” Sullenly, Tim looks off to the side. One of the good things about Bruce’s aversion to eye contact is the fact that he never has to feel Bruce’s kicked puppy look concentrated on him. “Look - I really don’t want to talk about this. I’m tired, I just got up, and my legs hurt. I’ll send you all of the hospital paperwork and I’m sure you’ll be getting a bill for it soon anyway.”
“Did you take any painkillers?” Bruce tries, instead. His voice is softer now, laced with a promise to have a full conversation about this later.
“I take painkillers all the time,” Tim replies, honestly. “They don’t work anymore. At least, they don’t work on this.”
At this point, all of them have developed an immunity to most types of painkillers - a fact that Bruce knows better than anyone. Even though they get the heavy duty stuff, it normally leaves no affect on Tim. It’s definitely never had an affect on the static in Tim’s legs, either. It’s one of those things that leaves Tim thinking that he’s making it up all over again. He’s got quite the amount of evidence towards this entire thing being fake at this point.
As if he can hear Tim’s thoughts, Bruce drags a hand down his face and sighs even heavier than before. “I’ll set up an appointment with Dr. Thompkins so she can get you a referral for whatever neurologist Damian chose for you.”
Both Bruce and Tim make the same face after hearing that. Tim’s pretty sure it’s not supposed to be normal to have an eleven year old choose your prospective doctor, but it’s not like Tim knows how to chose one himself. Do they have online 5-star reviews for neurologists? How did Damian even choose him one? It leaves him a little curious as to what his criteria was.
“Is this because of patrol?” Bruce asks, quietly. There’s a long moment where Bruce looks concerningly grim about the thought. “You’ve got so much going on, maybe it’s time we shelf Red Robin aga-”
“No,” Tim quickly interrupts. “It doesn’t matter what this is because of. I’m fine.”
“You went to the Emergency Room.”
“And the doctor,” he stresses, “said I was fine. The neurologist is just a precaution. It’s all in my head, anyway. No reason to get all concerned or anything.”
Okay, Tim lied about the kicked puppy look. Even if Bruce isn’t looking at him directly, it’s still super clear to tell that he’s being hit with it at full force. In fact, Tim probably just broke Bruce’s heart with that one. Whatever. It’s not like he told a lie or anything. It really doesn’t matter. He probably doesn’t even need a neurologist, but it’s better to be safe than sorry in their line of work.
While Tim’s trying to turn away from Bruce’s full-forced sad-and-soppy expression, Bruce pushes off of the counter and takes a few steps closer to where Tim’s seated. Tim only looks up when the silence continues, catching Bruce’s stare for as long as he dares.
Bruce’s hands are held out, like a peace offering. Tim’s stomach swirls again, but he lets Bruce take his hands into his. Bruce’s hands, like always, are cold and rough with callouses upon callouses. Tim wonders briefly that if, in another life, there was ever a chance that they’d be soft and unmarred. Nothing about Bruce was soft and unmarred anymore, though.
“Tim,” says Bruce, carefully. “I need you to listen to me for a second. Okay?”
Skeptically, Tim nods, and stares down at their hands. Bruce is rarely touchy unless Dick goads him into it, so he must think that whatever he’s about to say is terribly important.
“I love you,” he says, first. Tim almost says, weird flex, but okay, again. “I also worry about you. I know you don’t like that I worry about you, but I do.”
Of course he doesn’t like it. It’s unneeded. That’s another response that Tim takes care to swallow back, instead replacing it with a deft nod.
“If you’re hurting, that matters. It matters to me a great deal. I’d hope it’d matter to you, too, but - that’s not a conversation for right now. I just - if you’re hurting,” he repeats, “that matters. I’m glad that you sought out help when it got bad. I just worry. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Tim whispers. He pauses when he registers how choked up he feels. There’s a lump rising in his throat and tears welling in his eyes to match, which isn’t a great sign. Still - how else are you supposed to react when someone tells you that all of those dark and horrible things that you’ve been feeling matter? “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Bruce echoes. He continues. “I’m not pleased that I heard about this from Damian and the news first. But - we have a course of action, now, and we’ll figure out what’s hurting you so badly. But I need you to remember that it’s okay if all of this isn’t fine, or if all of this is a lot to deal with. That’s okay, Tim.”
Oh, God. Tim chokes out something that sounds halfway between a laugh and a sob. “You’re way more emotionally literate than a nail right now,” he grins. A tear slips down his face and he hiccups a real sob, too late to try and silence it.
Bruce nods gravely and squeezes Tim’s hands twice. I love you. Tim squeezes back in the same pattern and sniffs inelegantly.
“Damian told me I’d better be understanding about all of this,” Bruce reveals. “He was a little upset hearing this from Conner of all people.”
That second part, Tim already knows. He leans forward, withdrawing his hands, and buries his face in them to hide the oncoming tears. He knows it’s not just this conversation with Bruce that’s bringing them on, which is only more mortifying. Of course, as soon as he talks to his dad he starts crying in the kitchen like a little kid.
“I see how it is,” he mumbles into his palms. “You go easy on me ‘cause your son threatens you into it?”
Bruce, terribly slowly, reaches out and pulls Tim’s curled up form against his chest. His lips press against Tim’s temple for no more than a millisecond, horribly gentle for a man who’s meant to be Gotham’s biggest nightmare. Tim can hear his heart jack-rabbiting in his chest from this close. This conversation isn’t easy for either of them, apparently. It’s probably all of the emotions.
“I go easy on you,” Bruce says, near-silently, “because I love you, and you’re my son.”
“Oh.” Tim tries not to tremble when he sobs again. “That’s kinda crazy.”
Bruce hums this time, not saying a word - and that’s all it takes for the floodgates to break open. Like a switch, Tim lets all of his reservations go and begins sobbing anew, like he’s still trying to make it down the stairs twenty-four hours later. The pain’s still there, getting louder the longer Tim sits, but he barely pays it any mind.
His dad’s finally here, arms wrapped around him. Suddenly, none of it matters - the pain, the Emergency Room, the fourteen hours spent waiting and the ten spent on his own, the terror he’d almost choked on when they loaded him into the ambulance. Tim knows that this isn’t all of it: they’re going to have to talk about patrol and taking it easy, and Damian’s going to have to painstakingly explain each neurologist with him before he even talks to Dr. Thompkins, but.
It’s easier, when Bruce is holding him tight. All of it is easier to think about and easier to deal with, even if it won’t be later.
“Thank you,” Tim says, through his tears. “If I could do it again, I would’ve called you. I swear I’ll call you next time.”
Bruce laughs; a soft, unmarred thing.
“Let’s hope there isn’t a next time,” he replies, pulling away. “Now” - his face contorts into confusion, eye-line still trained far from Tim’s actual gaze - “Damian said something about vitamins?”
That brat.