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If Bruce thought he was being subtle, then he was a bigger fool than Joker.
Tim was fine. He was so damn fine that he—his head swayed for a moment, but then he got ahold of himself because he was a grown man (at least an emancipated minor) and could handle things by himself.
Still Bruce hovered around, not actually working on anything. That was dumb, because Tim was working really hard, and Bruce could go to sleep or repair something if he actually wanted to be useful. Doing anything would require letting Tim out of his sight, though, so it wasn’t happening.
“You should rest,” Bruce suggested.
“I rested earlier.” Tim fought to keep his tone level, but he didn’t need Bruce mother-henning him anymore.
“You slept for three hours instead of two,” Bruce agreed, but he sounded kind of crabby for admitting Tim had already done what he asked.
Tim pulled up the next file. “Yeah, and I’m fine.”
“Timothy,” Bruce started, and no, Bruce did not get to run off to the time stream, leave Dick in charge, let Dick take Robin from him, and then come back and act like he still got to full-name Tim.
“I’m sorry, is this our fever?” Tim spun his chair to face Bruce, a mistake that made him dizzier than it should have. Still, he kept himself upright. “No? Then fuck off.”
Tim spun back around more slowly and drew in a deep breath to resupply. He was way too out of breath for the little amount of talking he’d done, and his head was convinced he was still spinning round and round and round.
But he wasn’t, so he just needed—Tim drew in another deep breath, but this one tickled something in his throat. Shit.
Yeah, there had been coughing fits that last day or two, but Tim hadn’t had an audience for them, especially an audience of his da—of Bruce.
Fighting to keep the muscles in his throat as still as possible, hopefully to stave off the cough long enough that Bruce would go away.
“Tim,” and Bruce was getting closer, his tone gentler and his hands, visible in the reflection of the Batcomputer’s trim, down at his side, palms facing Tim.
If Bruce hadn’t trained Tim in How to Talk to Unruly Victims 101, Tim might not have recognized that Bruce was changing tack. Since Bruce had trained Tim, it was blatantly obvious that Bruce thought Tim was being belligerent and stupid.
That was just hilarious, wasn’t it, because whenever Alfred got frustrated with his habits, he’d say that Tim was acting exactly like Bruce.
Tim just ignored Bruce and ignored his need to cough and ignored the ache in his chest. That was what Tim did these days, ignore things till they went away.
“Tim, I can handle this case,” Bruce cajoled, grabbing the back of Tim’s seat and trying to turn the chair away from the keyboard. “Let me—”
“No!” Tim swatted Bruce’s hand off the chair but lost his focus on not coughing.
Of course Bruce took advantage of his coughing fit to pull the chair away from the keyboard, but he’d forgotten Tim had legs and could just stand up.
Then Tim tried the whole standing up thing, and the floor was suddenly spinning like a top. Tim kept himself upright, so why was the floor careening towards his face?
Bruce caught Tim and lowered him onto the ground slowly. Tim wanted to struggle, but the cool stone floor felt so nice against his face. Probably should’ve taken an ibuprofen or something.
Bruce rolled him on his back, and Tim groaned. What was with the whooshing in his ears? He hadn’t even hit his head, but apparently all his ability to function had predicated on him not moving.
“Can you stand up?” Bruce asked, laying an ungauntleted hand against Tim’s forehead.
Bruce clicked his tongue in dissatisfaction, sounding exactly like Damian. Damian, who got to steal Tim’s role and Tim’s brother and Tim’s dad. His eyes stung at the unfairness of it all. He’d given up everything for the mission, and he still wasn’t good enough.
Bruce had asked him a question, but Tim didn’t care or remember what it even had been.
“J’st give me a min…few minutes,” Tim mumbled, turning his face away from Bruce’s hand and back to the cool relief of the stone floor.
“Tim…” Bruce sighed, but he didn’t immediately pick Tim up, so at least he was kind of listening.
The Batchair creaked. Tim couldn’t help the twinge of hurt; Bruce didn’t care about his health, he just wanted his turn at the Batcomputer. He could’ve just told Tim that, maybe Tim would’ve let Bruce have it for a little while.
The bitter sting of betrayal was interrupted by the whir of the printer for some reason.
Tim lifted his head, groaning at the effort, and tried to see what Bruce was doing. His body protested the movement, filling his head with pulsating whooshes and cotton.
Tim settled back down and tried to follow Bruce’s movement by sound and vibration. Clues, Tim was a detective, the second Greatest Detective in the World…or Greatest Detective in the World II…Greatest Detective in the World Jr? No, that was Damian, because Damian was the real son.
Bruce got up from his stolen chair and walked over to the printer. Tim recognized the familiar click of the spare file bin being opened and the distinctly more solid rustle of a manilla folder being opened.
Had Bruce dethroned Tim and derailed his whole investigation for a print job? Tim could’ve done the fucking print job! Eventually, once he was done working!
Bruce walked back over to Tim, probably to put Tim back where he belonged since Bruce had so unceremoniously unseated him.
“Come on, son,” Bruce said, kneeling at Tim’s side. “Let’s get you up.”
Good. Hopefully getting Tim back in his seat involved Tim also getting an apology, an iced coffee, and maybe a cold compress.
Bruce rolled Tim onto his back and place the file on Tim’s stomach, then he put Tim’s arms over the file to keep it from slipping off. Tim wrinkled his nose in annoyance; Bruce could’ve just put the file down and picked it up again once Tim was back in his seat, but he hugged the file to his stomach with only a bit of grumbling.
Bruce gathered Tim into his arms like he used to when Tim was small and still valuable as the only kid in Gotham dumb enough to volunteer to be Robin. Luckily for Bruce, Damian was even dumber than Tim, so now he had two dumb kids to pick from.
And Bruce had made his pick in the matter.
Tim’s eyes burned, but his strength had evaporated too much for him to even try to blink quickly enough to dry out the tears. He hoped the tears blended in with the sweat on his face and went unnoticed.
Bruce stood, using the motion of his ascent to guide Tim’s head to loll against his shoulder. Tim sniffled, trying not to remember the first time Bruce had carried him like this.
It took Tim a few steps to realize that Bruce wasn’t putting Tim down in the chair, he was carrying Tim away.
It’s an imposter, I let an imposter steal information and now he’s going to throw me off a cliff, or it’s Jason and he’s going to kill me, or it’s Damian and he’s going to cut my line again—
Tim inhaled sharply and tensed, his eyes flying open.
Bruce glanced down at him with a familiar sad smile no imposter could ever replicate, so why was Bruce…Tim needed to be working. He had to earn his place now, it wasn’t a given like he’d thought for a stupid couple years.
“You need sleep,” Bruce said softly. “Real sleep, and food. You’ve barely been eating.”
That was because sleep meant he had to lie there and think in the silence for a long time, and eating just sounded like so much work the last few days. Tim just wanted to read about the gruesome murders of Gotham to feel better for a little while.
To feel like he mattered.
Was that so much to ask?
Tim sniffled miserably, but he wasn’t going to be able to fight Bruce in this state. He’d just have to wait for Bruce to set him down and leave again so he could sneak down to the Batcave again and get back to work.
Just the thought of the long, arduous chore of dragging himself from his bedroom to the study and back down to the Batcave made him want to cry or throw up or both.
Bruce carried him to the elevator, shuffling Tim in his hands a bit till Tim realized he was trying to get a hand free to hit the button. Resigned to complicity in his own kidnapping, Tim flopped a hand down and felt for the button.
When Bruce noticed that Tim was trying to help, he maneuvered Tim till Tim’s hand brushed the elevator controls. Feeling distinctly like a claw machine, Tim pressed the button. He didn’t bother pulling his hand back up to his chest even though his dangling arm was uncomfortable. He’d survive.
Maybe.
At the very least, his hand wouldn’t be what killed him.
“Thank you, Tim,” Bruce said, sounding far too pleased. “You know this is for your own good.”
It was because Tim wasn’t being good enough, Bruce needed to do maintenance. Bruce was taking him off the case, then he’d either solve it himself and realize that he didn’t need Tim at all anymore, or he’d fail to solve the case because Gotham had changed while Bruce was gone and Bruce didn’t understand that not everything was the same anymore and someone would get hurt or die again because Tim wasn’t—
“Does your head hurt?” Bruce asked, his voice soft and low like when he was being mindful of Jason’s migraines.
“No.”
It did, but that wasn’t why tears were streaming from the corners of his eyes. He’d hoped Bruce wouldn’t notice, but now he had.
Shit, he should’ve just said yes. Crying over a headache would’ve been embarrassing, but now Bruce knew he was crying over something else, and he was going to think it was some more serious health concern or worse, he’d figure out it was Tim’s stupid fucking feelings.
The fever must’ve eaten away the walls between all the compartments he’d stuffed painful memories and emotions into. Tim fought the urge to sniffle, knowing that would make him look even more pathetic, but the feeling of I want to go home was just hitting him so strong.
What did that even mean? Tim knew it wasn’t right here right now, but was it back before his parents trips became near-endless? Back when Wayne Manor was a welcome retreat from his lonely house? Back when he was living at Wayne Manor while his dad was in a coma, or back before Tim had gotten his dad killed by being Robin?
Tim didn’t even know what home was, but he knew he’d felt secure and noticed at some point, and he didn’t right now.
A coughing fit gave him the perfect cover to cover any sniffing, but it was only lending credence to Bruce’s grounding of him.
He was being grounded like a little kid for just being a bit sick.
This wasn’t fair.
Bruce didn’t even do him the dignity of taking Tim to his own bedroom or even one of the unused sitting rooms. No, he marched into the living room like he owned the place, told Damian to move to the armchair so he could stick Tim on the couch.
“Is Drake diseased?” Damian’s sneer was audible in his voice as he quickly gathered his things and moved away like Tim had the fucking plague.
“He’s just sick,” Bruce said, laying Tim on the vacated sofa. “Don’t bother him.”
Damian clicked his tongue in disapproval and left the room rather than simply agreeing to not stab Tim for the next three hours or whatever. At least finally Tim got something of Damian’s instead of the other way around, even if a seat on the sofa was nothing compared to a place in the family.
“Tim…” Bruce sighed and pet Tim’s sweaty hair back from his face and was definitely trying to make eye contact, but Tim wouldn’t open his eyes and give Bruce the satisfaction. “Tim, I’m going to get you some ibuprofen and something to take it with. Don’t go anywhere.”
“Fuck you,” Tim spat, probably the clearest he’d enunciated anything all day.
Bruce squeezed his shoulder. “Understood.”
Tim tried to roll over show his frustration with Bruce, but the attempt failed before it began when he realized how damn tired he was.
Fine. He’d take the damn pills and a nap, then he was going back to work. Even if Bruce didn’t want him as Robin anymore, Tim was still a good detective when he wasn’t sick and even when he was, and he was going to prove it.
After taking a couple ibuprofen at Bruce’s request, washed down with orange Gatorade, Tim laid down on the pillow Bruce had gotten for him, closed his eyes, and fell into a fitful sleep.
Glaringly bright lights above him, the sensation of moving fast but lying down. Tim frowned up at blurry faces he didn’t recognize. What was…
Hospital.
Shit.
What did he need them to know? There was something…
“Splnn,” Tim slurred into—there was something on his face, something—an oxygen mask.
“What was that?”
Tim tried to answer, but everything was so fucking hard. Why did he feel like he’d been run over by a bus?
They didn’t need to know that badly. Tim could just close his eyes again and—
Tim woke to a rhythmic beeping and found himself staring up at a tiled ceiling with something in his mouth. He frowned in confusion and tried to reach for it, but his arms may as well not have been attached to his body for all that they listened to him.
He didn’t know where he was, but context clues said hospital. He had a vague memory of being sick and mad about something, but…
Tim was just so tired.
He should probably look around to make sure he wasn’t in danger…
Tim blinked and the pattern on the ceiling tiles changed. When he tilted his head in confusion, he realized that whatever had been in his mouth—some kind of tube—was gone.
It had felt like just one moment to the next, but he must’ve passed out or fallen asleep between closing his eyes and opening them again.
“Tim?” Bruce’s voice, rough from sleep.
Tim weakly turned his head toward the voice, finding Bruce blinking awake in the uncomfortable hospital room couch.
Bruce looked wrecked, like he’d been up for days chasing down Joker or something. A rough shadow of stubble across Bruce’s face said that Tim had been out of it longer than he’d thought.
Bruce rolled off the bed and walked over to Tim, cupping the side of his face and looking intently into Tim’s eyes, then past Tim. Following Bruce’s gaze, Tim noticed the screen with his vital readings on it.
Fuck, no wonder he felt like shit.
“What happened?” Tim tried to ask, but his voice was rough with disuse and he ended up in a coughing fit.
“I think you should tell me, Tim,” Bruce said very seriously. “You nearly died.”
Tim’s nose wrinkled in confusion and frustration. “It was just a cold.”
“It’s not just a cold when you don’t have a spleen.” Bruce’s tone was stern, but his shaky hand clutching Tim’s shoulder was what really told Tim he’d fucked up.
“Oh.” Tim glanced away guiltily. “You found out.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Didn’t want me to—Tim, a cold turned to septic pneumonia, why did you not tell me—”
“Because you weren’t here,” Tim choked out, the roughness in his voice compounding with emotion. “You were gone, and I had to handle things myself.”
“You had Dick, you had Alfred—”
“Damian had Dick and Alfred,” Tim muttered. “I had Ra’s al Ghul.”
It hadn’t occurred to him till that moment, but he and Tim had essentially swapped grandpas for a bit there. Damian didn’t trade back once everything was over, though.
Bruce ran a hand down his face. “Tim, I…I can’t speak to what happened while I was away. I know mistakes were made, but…Tim, you could have died. If Damian hadn’t found you when he did, you would have been dead come morning.”
His surprise that Damian of all people was his saving grace must’ve shown on his face.
“One of his colored pencils fell between the couch cushions when he got up,” Bruce told him. “He found you barely breathing in the middle of the night and got Alfred.”
That…made sense. Tim couldn’t help a twinge of annoyance that Damian couldn’t just wait for Tim to wake up to get his pencil, but if the demon brat had been patient, Tim would be dead, so he should probably not be too mad at Damian.
Tim didn’t know what to say to that, but luckily Bruce kept going.
“Your cold turned to pneumonia. You were in the early stages of septic shock by the time you got to the hospital. You had to be intubated and sedated for three days.”
…shit.
“I’m sorry.” Tim had lost so much time working on his case, and it seemed like Bruce hadn’t been picking up the slack based on his beard growth. “Let’s get the discharge papers and get out of here.”
“No.” Bruce was breaking out the full Dad Voice™ over discharge papers?
Tim scowled and fumbled around, looking for the nurse call button. “Well, good thing I don’t need your permission to—”
“Tim, this isn’t about permission, this is about—” Bruce grabbed Tim’s hand and forced it away from the button. “Tim, you nearly died. You are still very weak, and a relapse could kill you.”
Tim tried to pull his hands away, but Bruce kept him restrained, which was so illegal. It was just like Bruce to overpower people and force them into medical care they didn’t want!
…Tim generally considered that one of Bruce’s more admirable traits, but not when he was doing it to Tim.
“I’ll be fine,” Tim protested. “I need to get back to work.”
“Why? We can handle things for a few more days. Rest a little while longer.”
“You can’t make me,” Tim snapped. “You’re not my dad!”
Silence hung between them for several seconds, both of them stunned by Tim’s outburst.
“You know, Jason has told me that a lot of times,” Bruce started, his surprise morphing into something mortifyingly amused. “Dick has said it plenty too. Even Damian has told me I’m not his dad.”
Still holding Tim’s hands, Bruce leaned down, positively smirking. Tim tried to scowl, but he was to distracted by the sheer embarrassment of such a cliché teenage outburst.
“You sure you don’t want to add anything to that? Maybe that you hate me? Or I’m ruining your life?” Bruce added. “I hate to tell you this, Tim, but I have heard this all before, and in case you didn’t notice, the other three are still my sons.”
Bruce capped it off with a kiss to Tim’s forehead. A fucking kiss like Tim was some tantruming toddler.
With that, Bruce released Tim’s hands and righted himself, a smile so self-satisfied that it was practically daring Tim to press the nurse call button. Tim almost did, but he couldn’t tell if Bruce would try to grab him again.
“I’m not telling you to stay in the hospital because I don’t value your abilities,” Bruce told him once he seemed sure Tim wasn’t pouncing on the button. “I’m telling you to stay here till you are cleared by the doctors because I want you to live till your eighteenth birthday. Without any pauses or interruptions,” Bruce added before Tim could point out Jason had gotten to take a break.
Tim scowled and went to cross his arms, but he was still hooked up to wires and tubes on one arm, so he settled for looking glum. He could wait for Bruce to leave, then get the discharge papers.
Bruce was busy with other things. Now that Tim was awake and seemed likely to be fully operational soon, he’d go handle something at WE or go on patrol or try to keep Damian from assassinating the mayor or something.
Bruce might be able to overpower Tim, but Tim could outwait Bruce. All he had to be was less important than everyone and everything else, and he’d be free.
Bruce either loved him or was determined not to lose the argument, because he didn’t leave Tim’s side for the rest of the night.
The next morning, Alfred brought Dick and Damian to visit. Dick had clearly been worried about him and suggested they go train surfing, just the two of them, once Tim was feeling up to it. It felt like an olive branch, but…Tim had smiled and accepted.
Damian had been an awkward little butt, trying to hide what seemed to be real worry till he realized that Tim was going to be okay. Then he was immediately back to his usual self.
Alfred had brought them real food, and Dick had brought Tim his phone, his Switch, a couple books, and a manilla folder.
Before Tim could wonder about the folder, probably just his medical history, Dick had things hooked up so they could play MarioKart on the room’s TV.
They’d played for the next hour, even Damian taking a turn, before Alfred took Dick and Damian home.
To his surprise, Bruce offered to play with him once the others left, and he wasn’t half bad. Of course, Tim kicked Bruce’s ass, but the race got closer than Tim would’ve expected.
While Bruce was in the bathroom shaving with the razor Alfred had brought him, Tim looked at the books Dick had brought, but he wasn’t super interested in them.
Out of mild curiosity, he picked up the folder, remembering vaguely that Bruce had him carrying a folder for some reason when Tim was sick. It probably wasn’t this one, but…
Tim opened the folder and was met with the still, cold images of a brutal murder.
Tears pricked his eyes.
This was his case. The one he’d been working on while he was sick, Bruce had printed off all the information and put it in the folder, then he’d left it with Tim.
If Tim had just had a normal cold, he could’ve taken a quick nap and gone on to work the case from the comfort of his couch.
Tim’s eyes flicked to the nurse call button, easily in reach. Then he looked back to the file in his hands.
It was dumb. He shouldn’t be getting so emotional over a case file, but Bruce could’ve just kicked Tim off the case and taken it over himself, even if it would’ve been harder for Bruce since he’d been out of the loop.
He still wants me. He still needs me. The file in his hands was the physical proof that Tim still mattered.
Tim sniffed and swiped at his eyes and nose to get rid of any evidence of emotion before Bruce was done shaving, but he couldn’t help but smile when Bruce walked in.
Bruce nodded in approval when he saw the folder. “Oh, Dick brought it. Good. Now, tell me what’s going on here.”
Bruce sat on the edge of the bed and listened intently as Tim walked him through the case and explained the background Bruce had missed while he was lost in the time stream.
Bruce was fast on the uptake, and by the time patrol rolled around, they had a strong lead on who the killer was and where she’d gone.
“You really could go too,” Tim yawned as Bruce texted Nightwing what they’d pieced together. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He meant it, too. For some reason, the drive to get out as quickly as possible had evaporated like dew over the course of the afternoon.
“I want to be with you. I’m your dad, that’s how it works,” Bruce told him.
I’m your dad.
Tim hid a smile badly and shrugged. “Thanks, I guess. I can tolerate the old man sticking around, cramping my style for a couple days.”
“You’re a brat,” Bruce rolled his eyes and mussed Tim’s hair, a habit he’d fallen out of as Tim had gotten older.
“I’m your brat,” Tim reminded him, then awkwardly tagged on, “Dad.”
Bruce’s eyes widened before his expression softened into a smile. “Get some sleep, son. You need it.”
Given that Bruce had been right about Tim being sick and Tim needing to stay in the hospital and Tim being a brat and also his kid or whatever, Tim figured he should probably listen.
“G’night, Bruce,” Tim yawned, pulling the shitty hospital blankets up to his shoulders.
“Goodnight, Tim,” Bruce said, his smile audible in his voice. “Sleep well.”