Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ten opponents faced Tim. They were members of a new gang that had been causing problems in recent months.

They were all trained and some were armed. Two of them had firearms, simple pistols, five of the others had knives. The remaining three were unarmed, but still dangerous.

It wasn't going to be an easy fight. Besides, he hadn't slept in two days, which didn't help when it came to fighting. Tim chided himself for letting them corner him.

But under no circumstances would he call for reinforcements. He couldn't be a burden to the others and he could cope with ten opponents. He had already fought more and better opponents and so far he had obviously survived.

His opponents hadn't fired yet, most likely for fear of hitting one of their friends standing in front of them in the limited space of the dirty alley. But two of the knife fighters boldly approached him.

Tim, who had no allies to hit, drew a batarang and threw it at the first opponent, who was still standing a few meters away. The batarang hit directly into the arm holding the knife. The man screamed and dropped the knife as the batarang pierced first his leather jacket and then his skin.

The second fell to the ground after being kicked in the stomach. Meanwhile, the gangsters with the firearms had pushed their way forward.

The first grinned derisively and aimed directly at his head. But the first shot came from the second. Tim had no trouble dodging it. But now the shots followed close behind. Tim dived underneath them and disarmed the first one. The second shooter was also quickly finished off.

Unfortunately, one of the unarmed men was lucky. A powerful kick hit him on the shin. A sharp pain ran through his leg. Shit, he cursed in his head. Although his leg hurt, he didn't stop. He would get a good bruise.

He fell into a pattern. Punching, dodging, ducking, kicking.

Soon there were three more on the ground. Just as he was about to finish off another one, his head was smashed against a wall. One of the gangsters had caught him.

"Fuck," he cursed loudly this time. Worried voices immediately reached his ears.

"Are you all right?" That voice was Orakel's.

"Do you need help?" Nightwing.

"Are you dying again, Replacement?" - Jason, no doubt.

"I'm fine." It took him longer than usual to formulate the answer. When he grabbed the back of his head, his hand was covered in blood. "I just need a minute." That was an outright lie.

Tim was pretty sure he had a concussion, but he couldn't be a burden to the others. "You can always ask for help, okay?" No way was he allowed to. Nightwing had enough on his plate. Even without Tim bothering him.

His father's voice sounded in his head: "Don't bother us." He had said that to Tim before his parents went on another business trip and left him home alone with a fever of 104 degrees. By then at the latest, he had learned that people left when he was a burden to them.

Nevertheless, he nodded, which he immediately regretted when his head began to throb. That was when he realized Dick hadn't even seen it. "Okay," he also hissed through his teeth, while being careful not to sound like an injured child.

All the gangsters lay tied up on the floor after a few minutes.

Tim was finally home, he had finished the patrol early with the excuse that he had a meeting in the morning. Which was no lie. Even his injury wouldn't stop him from going to work.

He just had to find a way to hide the wound. Luckily, it was small. Hiding the concussion would cause him more trouble. He was sure he couldn't take another step without falling down or throwing up.

Just as he was about to get up, he noticed Nightwing turning off the security mechanisms on his window. Later than he would have noticed him otherwise. Tim sat up straighter on his sofa and tried not to let his headache show.

"Don't be like that," his mother had told him after he had fallen down the stairs. The next day, his ribs had been blue. Tim couldn't keep bothering Dick, he already had enough on his plate and didn't need to deal with Tim making a mountain out of a molehill.

"Hello Tim. Are you all right?" Dick asked with a worried undertone. "Dick. Everything is fine. You don't need to waste your time with me." Tim struggled not to groan. Tim had already bothered Dick enough, he would ignore him because Dick had to make the effort to come.

"You don't look well, though, and worrying about you will never be a waste of time." Damn, would waste Dick's time after all, and Dick was polite enough to deny it. But then Dick would leave him behind, like his parents had done.

One day they had been to the zoo. The next, Tim's head hung over the toilet bowl, his stomach so empty he could only dry retch. His mother said he was faking it; his father shouted that he was a disappointment. He didn't see them again for the next three months.

Apparently Tim's response took Dick too long; then he asked, "Are you hurt?" Tim suppressed the instinct to flinch as Dick turned on the light, which then seemed to bore right through Tim's eyes and into his brain.

"No," Tim hissed through his clenched teeth. "Don't lie to me, babybird." Dick sat down next to Tim on the sofa. No, no, no, Dick shouldn't be hanging out with him. That was bad, Dick would leave him when he realized Tim wasn't worth the trouble. Tim was sure he was about to throw up on his sofa.

"You don't need to bother with me," Tim muttered, "haven't we sorted this out already?"

"Helping you isn't a waste of time and you're not holding me up either." Dick looked him up and down thoroughly. Looking at his head, he said softly, "There's the problem."

Tim didn't answer him as he saw all sorts of horrors in his head. Dick swearing at him and then jumping out of Tim's window. Bruce looking at him with a cold look in his eyes. His mother with the same expression on her face.

But these scenes didn't match Dick's tone. His voice had nothing of his father's sharp voice when he shouted at him after Tim had cut himself with a kitchen knife. Dick's posture didn't resemble his mother's, who gave him an icy silence when she saw the scrape he'd gotten while skateboarding.

Dick looks worried and gentle. He didn't look like he was going to shout at him. Dick looks at the wound and then shines a flashlight into his eyes. Tim flinches in reaction to the light.

"Do you feel like you're going to throw up?" asked Dick. Tim didn't lie "Yes." Dick continued to ask and Tim continued to tell the truth. "Okay, little bird. You definitely have a concussion; we should go to the cave," Dick said firmly.

"Yes," Tim simply replied, and at last he was no longer afraid.