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“Bruce is in a mood today.”
The words are spoken lightly, accompanied by an eye-roll and a little snort as Jason emerges from the cave. He’s dressed in his workout clothes, a small towel wrapped around his shoulders and a sheen of sweat to his skin, like he’d just finished training.
Tim pauses the game he’s been playing on his Switch and gives Jason his full attention. “What do you mean?”
“You know that drug smuggling case we’ve been working on? That shit with the mob that was finally gonna take down Carmine Falcone?”
Tim nods, because duh. That case has been the Waynes’ main source of dinner table conversation for the last three weeks. Batman finally tracked their operation headquarters down to an abandoned meat locker in the warehouse district, and he and Robin had received a tip from a reliable source that Falcone himself would be making an appearance that evening to settle a score with another big name in the crime industry.
(The whole thing is honestly thrilling; Tim’s had to work to keep from bouncing in his seat with every update. If he plays his cards right, Agent A might even let him sit up with him tonight on the comms.)
“Well, Gordon just called while we were down there. The Feds swooped in and did a bust on the place about twenty minutes ago,” Jason says with a bitter huff. “Recovered a shit ton of Drops and arrested, like, seven low level thugs, but there’s no way any of them are gonna be dumb enough to narc. Falcone’s totally gonna walk. Again.”
Tim feels like a balloon that someone’s just stuck a pin through. “Oh man…” he breathes out, imagining all those weeks of hard work down the drain. “That’s horrible.”
“Yeah, it sucks,” Jason agrees, wiping his sweaty brow with the end of his towel. “Anyway, B’s taking it hard. He’s probably gonna spend the rest of the afternoon sulking in the cave and making sweet love to his favorite punching bag.” He says this with a snort, like it’s all some kind of joke, but Tim barely registers the words over the sudden ringing in his ears.
Bruce is in a mood.
Tim has been around his parents enough times after business deals gone wrong or travel plans falling through at the last minute to understand the gravity of that statement. When adults are ‘in a mood’ it’s anything goes. Tim’s been sent outside or banished to his bedroom for infractions as minor as playing the TV a couple notches too loud or spilling his Froot Loops on the kitchen floor. His parents aren’t really the type to yell at him—not unless Tim really screws up (like that time he’d accidentally broken their antique Peruvian vase and Jack shouted himself hoarse, then blamed Tim for the next two days for giving him a sore throat)—but they’re definitely not above making scathing remarks about his manners, or his grades, or his appearance, or his overall work ethic. The worst is the stuff they say under their breath—the barely audible murmurs of “why’d I have kids again?” and “to think they said this one was supposed to be smart…”
Those are the times when Tim wonders if it might hurt less if they just slapped him.
To be fair, Bruce hasn’t pulled any of that stuff on him yet, but Tim has also not known him for all that long—certainly not in a parental capacity. It’s been just over a month since the Waynes started fostering him, and so far he’s been careful to stick to the rules and stay on Bruce’s good side as much as possible.
But of course, that can’t always be the case. Try as one might to avoid upsetting anyone, upsetting things are still bound to happen. Plans get canceled, deals fall through, dinners get burned… and apparently, sometimes, the FBI just shows up and butchers your month-long vigilante investigation in a single afternoon. Inevitably, something always happens to disrupt the equilibrium, so for times like these, Tim has a system.
It’s a system he’s used ever since he was little. He thought he’d invented it, until Dick insisted they marathon the Harry Potter movies a while back (after learning Tim had neither seen the films nor read the books, the latter of which seemed to cause Jason physical pain), and Tim heard that odd British boy wizard articulate the very strategy that Tim’s been employing since he first learned to recognize the signs of his parents’ frustration at the age of four:
I’ll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I don’t exist.
It’s a solid strategy—one that’s seen Tim through company merger fails, parental fights, his mother’s migraines, and that one horrible time Jack tried to cancel their family’s TracFone Wireless contract and ended up on hold with customer service for over four hours. It’s a strategy that has never failed Tim yet.
So for the rest of the afternoon, he follows Harry’s lead and does his best to disappear.
Tim is lying on his bed with headphones in, staring up at the spinning ceiling fan and listening to a podcast about F-15 fighter jets. He’s just debating whether or not to risk tiptoeing down to the kitchen to snag a couple protein bars for dinner when a knock on his bedroom door pulls him out of his reverie.
Uncovering one ear, he props himself up on his elbow. “Yeah– or, I mean, yes?” he calls, remembering his manners just a split second too late.
“Hey kiddo! You decent in there?” an overly cheerful voice greets, and Tim instantly frowns. This was certainly not part of tonight’s plan.
“Dick?” He’s up and moving in an instant, headphones abandoned on bed. Reaching the door, he opens it and stares in confusion at the older boy’s grinning face. “What are you doing here?”
“Wow,” Dick deadpans. He places a hand over his heart and shakes his head slowly back and forth. “I’m really feeling the love tonight, Timmy.”
“Oh, wait’ll you see Bruce,” Jason pipes up, emerging from his own bedroom across the hall. “I don’t think he’s said two words since hanging up on Gordon.”
Tim’s stomach twists at the reminder of Bruce’s mood, but Dick just laughs and says, “Oh my god, did he go full caveman?”
“Full caveman,” Jason confirms. “Pretty sure Alfred only invited you to dinner so you can interpret his Gruntish to English.”
Dick hums solemnly. “The hardest part is differentiating between ‘hn’ and ‘hnn.’”
Jason snorts. “Don’t forget ‘hhnngg.’”
“You gotta roll your G’s more,” Dick quips, then ducks, laughing, as Jason attempts to whack him over the head.
Tim just stands there, watching all of this unfold from his bedroom doorway, utterly baffled. So… Bruce is apparently in a mood bad enough that he’s not speaking to anyone, and–
And Alfred invited Dick over for dinner?
Why would he do that? Literally, why? It makes no sense. None. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Adults don’t want company when they’re pissed off—they want to be left alone. They want peace and quiet, and maybe a couple glasses of wine and a pint of super premium ice cream and a stupid HGTV program to aggressively shout their frustrations at (“The bungalow's got an ocean view, idiot!” he can still hear Jack hollering from the den after a particularly bad day at the office, “That trumps indoor jacuzzi any day!”).
The last thing in the world they want is kids bothering them.
Then again, Dick isn’t really a kid anymore. He’s twenty-two, making him a whole-ass adult (even if he still sprawls out on the sofa with Tim and Jason every other weekend to watch Spongebob reruns), and somewhere underneath all the jokes, Jason is kind of implying that he knows how to handle Bruce when he’s like this... Maybe he’s here to play buffer or something?
No. That doesn’t seem right.
Unless…
“...Hello! Earth to Tim.”
Tim blinks, suddenly registering that a hand is waving up and down in front of his face. Jason, the owner of the hand, is giving him a funny look. “You good, man?”
“Yeah,” Tim says, shaking his head to clear it. “Yeah. Sorry, just zoned out for a sec.”
“Well, you’d better zone back in.” Dick grins, nudging him toward the stairs. “Alfie’s making croquetas de gambas to cheer B up, and they’re about a million times better fresh out of the fryer.”
Tim has no idea what ‘croquetas de gambas’ are, but it’s not like fried food is ever bad. Especially if Alfred makes it. He’s mostly just hung up on the first part of that statement. “Wait, so… we’re still eating dinner together?”
“Uh, yeah?” Jason blinks at him. “Why wouldn’t we?” he asks, like it’s absurd that Tim would even question such a thing.
Dick’s smile has faded a little too, replaced with a look of mild concern. “You feeling okay, Timmy?” He reaches a hand out like he’s going to press it to Tim’s forehead, but Tim steps backwards, evading him.
“I’m fine,” Tim says quickly. Dick and Jason getting all dramatic and making a scene out of absolutely nothing definitely will definitely not improve anyone’s mood. “You just woke me up from a nap, that’s all.”
Jason’s brow furrows. “Since when do you take naps?”
But before Tim can so much as open his mouth to retort, the Manor’s seldom used intercom system buzzes, making him jump.
“Boys,” Bruce’s clipped voice grunts over the wall panel speaker. “Dinner.”
Dick reaches over and presses the button. “Ayy, it speaks!” he exclaims into the mic while Jason snickers in the background. “Didn’t know you had it in you, B!”
“Hn,” comes Bruce’s only reply.
Dick releases the intercom button and turns back around to the other two. “That one means ‘hurry up, the croquetas are getting cold,’” he translates sagely.
Tim nods and takes the stairs two at a time.
Dinner is… stressful, to say the least.
Jason was right, Bruce does seem pretty down—though, granted, he doesn’t really look like he’s two seconds away from lashing out the way Tim’s parents always do when they’re upset about something. Nor is he making a bunch of snide remarks at everyone around him to keep them in their place. He mostly just sits there, looking deep in thought and chewing his food slowly and methodically, like he’s going over every detail of the case in his head, line by line, trying to figure out where exactly he’d gone wrong.
It wouldn’t be so bad, Tim thinks, if Dick and Jason didn’t keep on purposely bothering him.
“More croquetas, old man?” Jason asks, holding up the basket full of deep fried… whatever they are. They kind of remind Tim of hush puppies, except that they’re filled with some kind of minced up meat (chicken? fish?) suspended in a creamy white sauce. They taste fine, and apparently they’re one of Bruce’s favorite foods, but it’s kind of hard to enjoy them with the way Tim’s stomach keeps twisting around nervously.
“Hmph,” Bruce grunts back, gaze still fixed straight ahead of him.
“‘No thank you, I would rather stare at this wall and ponder why it is that the powers that be take such delight in afflicting my poor soul with nothing but suffering and pain,’” Dick translates in a deep parody of Batman’s signature gravelly voice, earning a very unamused look from his father, “‘but see if Timmy wants another.’”
Without missing a beat, Jason stabs one of the fried objects with the serving fork and whirls around to hold it out to Tim. “Croqueta?” he offers.
Tim shakes his head wordlessly. He’s still on his first, and unless his stomach starts behaving soon, he doesn’t think he’s even going to get that one down.
“Suit yourself,” Jason shrugs. Reaching across the table, he deposits the rejected croqueta directly onto Bruce’s plate. “All yours, Grumpy.”
“Hn.” Bruce sighs heavily, but picks it up anyway and takes a bite.
“‘I am only eating this because I do not like to waste food, but know that it does nothing to appease my mental anguish,’” Dick interprets, voice rumbling, and Bruce just gives him a glare that makes Tim’s insides twist again.
It must not have the same effect on Dick, however, who merely grins and adds in his gravelliest voice, “‘Alexa, play the song of my people.’”
“Now playing ‘In the End’ by Linkin Park,” the automated voice replies over the room’s speakers, and Jason dissolves into cackles.
(Tim, meanwhile, would rather be literally anywhere else than at this table.)
Alfred clears his throat. “Boys,” he says sternly, “that is quite enough, I should think.”
Jason’s shoulders are still shaking with mirth, but Dick at least has the decency to look a little sheepish. “Sorry, Alfie,” he says. Then, at the butler’s twin raised eyebrows, he turns to Bruce and adds, “Sorry, B.”
“Hmn,” Bruce acknowledges, resuming his mostly silent dinner.
After that, Dick and Jason launch into a heated debate over which mid-2000s emo bands are classic and which are simply cringe. Bruce occasionally adds his two cents in the form of vague grunts, but Dick stops providing translations, so Alfred quits glaring at them.
Overall, the tension in the room seems to be dissipating, but for whatever reason, Tim’s body hasn’t gotten the memo. The longer he sits there trying to eat, the more his chest and throat keep constricting, to the point that he’s expending most of his energy just trying to keep his breathing even. The next bite of croqueta seems to stick to his throat, and Tim nearly gags when he tries to swallow it down.
The others are caught up debating whether Evanescence or MCR are the true lords of emo, so they don’t pay any mind when Alfred leans in close to Tim’s ear.
“Not a fan of prawns, I take it?” he whispers kindly.
“...Prawns?” The word triggers a vague memory somewhere in the back of Tim’s mind, though he can’t quite recall why.
“A type of crustacean, belonging to the same family as shrimp,” Alfred explains, inclining his head minutely to the half eaten croqueta on Tim’s plate. “The Spanish call them gambas.”
Oh no.
In horror, Tim’s mind flashes back to an incident when he was eight. It was his father’s birthday, and his parents were actually in town for once. They’d gone out to dinner at a local seafood restaurant with a few of their friends and taken Tim along with them.
Tim hadn’t eaten much for lunch that day. Mrs. Clemmings, his nanny at the time, had packed him a liverwurst and sweet pickle sandwich to take to school. He’d told her several times that he didn’t like liverwurst or pickles, but either it was her age making her forgetful, or else she just didn’t care. Either way, Tim was ravenous by the time they’d made it to the restaurant. He’d cleared half his child sized plate of shrimp fettuccine before the dinner rolls were even gone—earning him a few glares from Janet and a hissed reminder in his ear to mind his manners. He couldn’t help it; he was hungry and it was so good.
Ten minutes later though, he was kind of regretting it when his stomach started hurting. He didn’t tell his mother at first—he knew she’d only scold him and tell him that’s what he gets for eating too quickly—but then his lips started feeling sort of weird and tingly, and his skin got kind of itchy, and even as a little kid, Tim could tell that wasn’t normal.
Urgently, he’d tugged at his mother’s sleeve, but she was busy relaying some story about a dig in Cambodia, so she just held up a finger to say ‘don’t interrupt me right now.’
(Unfortunately, that’s exactly what Tim did when he’d vomited all over her designer dress a few moments later.)
His stomach churns at the memory, and along with the nausea comes a wave of pure panic, and nope, nuh-uh, not happening, Tim is not about to make Bruce’s terrible day even worse by vomiting the man’s favorite comfort food all over the dinner table.
“No, no they’re great, uh– ” Tim stammers, getting to his feet. His stomach clenches, protesting the sudden movement. “Sorry, I’ll be right back, okay?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer from Alfred before stiffly fleeing the table.
He makes it into the bathroom and locks the door behind him, then hunches over the sink, gripping the basin with both hands and breathing as evenly as he can to try and quell the growing nausea.
This is all his fault. Why didn’t he think to ask what the heck ‘gambas’ were before eating them? He’s usually so careful to avoid shrimp, always looking up the ingredients in restaurant dishes online before ordering them and reading labels on packaging when he tries new foods. On nights when his parents order takeout and forget to specify “no shrimp,” he’s always the one to notice and then make himself a PB&J for dinner instead. But Alfred hasn’t served shrimp even once since Tim arrived, so he just hadn’t been expecting it.
God, he’s so stupid.
At least he didn’t eat very much. Half a croqueta is nothing in the grand scheme of things compared to a whole plate of pasta, right? He just needs to get his stomach under control and he can go back to the table and everything will be fine. No one will have to know.
His gut rumbles in warning. Shit shit shit. He takes a deep breath and it catches in his throat, strangling him. If he throws up, someone is going to hear him, and if someone hears him, someone will get Bruce, and that is probably the worst thing that could happen to him right now.
C’mon Tim. In through the nose, out through the mouth, he mentally chants. Just calm the fuck down, you’re not gonna throw up…
Bruce is gonna be angry. No, worse—Bruce is gonna feel guilty. He’s gonna blame himself for Tim getting sick all because Tim is an idiot who freaked out like a baby over Bruce’s bad day and didn’t pay attention to the one thing he’s supposed to pay attention to.
In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth…
The sound of knuckles rapping against the bathroom door startles him back to the present.
“Hey, Tim?” Dick’s voice calls gently from just outside. “Are you alright?”
“Y-Yeah,” Tim forces out, even though he’s feeling about the furthest thing from alright at the moment. “Sorry, I– I just need a few minutes.”
He can almost hear Dick’s frown. “That’s fine. I’m not trying to rush you. You just left the table really fast, and you looked like you weren’t feeling well, so we got kind of concerned.”
(Great, they’re all talking about him now. So much for not making a scene.)
“I’m totally fine,” Tim says around shaky breaths. “You don’t– don’t have to worry.”
“Are you sure?” Dick sounds skeptical. “You’re breathing kinda weird...”
Tim sucks in another breath through his tightening throat, “Yeah. I’m just, uh–”
I’m just, what? Freaking the fuck out? Regretting my life choices? Trying not to puke everywhere?
“...I just don’t think the food is really agreeing with me,” is what Tim finally settles on.
“Oh, okay. I’m sorry,” Dick says, a little awkwardly. If Tim wasn’t so preoccupied trying not to throw up at the moment, he’d probably feel embarrassed. But there are far more pressing matters than his personal dignity. “How about I get you some water?”
“S-Sure,” Tim agrees distractedly as the back of his jaw starts tingling and he wills his stomach contents to stay down. Anything to get him to leave. “Thanks.”
“Of course,” Dick says. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
Before Tim can answer, another voice comes from a little further down the hall.
“Is he alright?”
Jason, Tim registers, and his heart starts hammering faster. If Jason’s checking on him now, then it’s only a matter of time before Alfred comes, and then Bruce is going to feel obligated to see if he’s okay and it’s not like Tim can say, ‘Yeah, no, sorry, your completely justifiable pissiness was wigging me out to the point that I wasn’t paying attention to what I was eating and now I’m pretty sure I’m about to ralph everywhere, so I think I’ll just hang out here until everyone stops having emotions, alright?’
“He’s not feeling very well,” Dick replies, quieter now. Or maybe it just seems that way because the anxious thoughts swirling in Tim’s head are drowning everything else out.
“Oh.” Jason’s voice is low. “Is that why he was being weird before?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he’s been like, hiding in his room all day…”
Tim opens his mouth, fully intending to reassure them that he’s totally fine, and that they can definitely just go back to dinner, but that’s as far as he gets before his stomach lurches again. He stumbles over to the toilet, barely managing to flip the lid up before he’s throwing up everything he’s eaten that day.
Vaguely, he’s aware of Dick and Jason’s worried voices, but between the sound of his retching and the ringing in his ears, Tim can’t make out much of what they’re saying. The doorknob rattles a few times, but it doesn’t open.
Tim just stays hunched over the toilet, gasping out breaths and trying to force his stomach to calm down. He wishes it would stop. He wishes Jason and Dick would go away. He wishes he hadn’t come down for dinner at all.
“–does not sound good to me.”
“He’s just throwing up, Jay. No one sounds good when they’re throwing up.”
“He’s hyperventilating!”
“Okay, okay…” More knocking, a little harder now. “Hey Tim? I know you’re sick, but do you think you can open the door? We just want to make sure you’re okay.”
Tim clutches the toilet seat to ground himself. “Good – I’m good.” He tries to suck air in and feels it get stuck in his throat. His words come out hoarse, painful. “I’m – fine.”
There’s more back and forth whispering, from which all Tim can make out clearly is Jason’s hiss of “–lying through his teeth!” and then there’s a pause outside the door so long that Tim can’t tell if his audience has left, or if the sound of his heart pounding frantically in his ears has finally made him go deaf.
Suddenly a new voice, gruffer, deeper, says, “What are you doing?” and Tim goes cold all over. That’s Bruce. That’s Bruce speaking a full sentence for the first time today and of course it’s when Tim is hurling his guts out in the bathroom and didn’t want him to know about it.
Shit.
“Picking the lock,” Jason says, like it’s obvious. “Didn’t think you’d appreciate me breaking the door down. I can, if you want. I am absolutely fine with that option actually.”
Bruce sighs. Someone else says something in a low, urgent voice, and Tim rests his forehead against the toilet seat as tears start to spill down his cheeks.
As a kid, Tim always used to cry when he threw up. It was one part the awful misery of his stomach cramping and one part some automatic bodily response he couldn’t really explain. Usually it was his revolving door of nannies who’d deal with him when he was ill, but a particular image has still managed to burn itself into his brain: his parents standing in the doorway, their noses scrunched up and a pile of suitcases behind them.
“Honestly, Timothy, don’t you think you’re getting a little old for all the hysterics?” his mother had said.
“She’s right,” his dad supplied, checking the time on his phone. “What would your friends at school say if they saw you like this? You’re a big boy now, aren’t you? Big boys don’t cry.”
“Right,” nine-year-old Tim had agreed, wiping snot from his face, and then threw up all over the floor and made his parents late for their flight.
(He’d thought he was over his tears after that, but it seems old habits die hard.)
“Tim?” someone murmurs. “Bud, can you open the door for me?”
It’s Bruce again, his voice filled with a forced kind of calm. It’s the same tone he uses as Batman when he comes across spooked victims, which only makes Tim feel more pathetic.
“I’m – I’m okay,” Tim wheezes. He will be, if he can just get everyone to stop standing outside the door and let him calm down.
“I’m sure you are,” Bruce says, placating. “But you sound like you’re having some trouble breathing. I just need to check on you.”
“Got it!” Jason cheers, and Tim hears the click of the doorknob opening.
A split second later, Bruce is in the bathroom and kneeling beside him. He cups a warm hand on the back of Tim’s neck, making him shiver. “Hey Tim, can you tell me what’s going on?”
Tim wipes his sleeve over his mouth. “It’s – Sorry,” he chokes out through the tears and gaspy breaths. This is so dumb. Tim isn’t a baby anymore, so why on earth is he still crying like one? “Sorry. I’m – fine.”
“Yeah, clearly,” Jason scoffs from just outside the bathroom.
“We think he’s got some kind of bug,” Dick offers, addressing Bruce. “He was taking a nap earlier, and Jay says he’s been really quiet all day.”
Tim shakes his head fervently. The last thing he needs is Bruce thinking he’s sick and needs help or something when this is all just some stupid mistake on Tim’s part. “No. It’s not–” He gasps. “It’s just the shrimp.”
“The shrimp?” Bruce echoes.
Tim bobs his head. “It always makes – makes me sick,” he explains. He heaves in a breath, air rattling loudly in his chest. At the same time a sharp hiss issues from the doorway.
“Shit,” Jason says, and then he’s gone, his footsteps echoing against the hardwood as he runs.
Tim glances up, blinking through his tears. “I’m – sorry, I’ll stop,” he says, cursing his stupid emotions. “Sorry. I’m just – it’s nothing. It’s dumb.”
Bruce gives Tim’s nape a reassuring squeeze. “Buddy, are you maybe allergic to shrimp?”
“What?” Tim’s stomach recoils. His fingers are starting to feel a little numb, almost detached from him entirely. They knock into the front of Bruce’s shirt and twist for a second before Tim realizes what he’s doing.
And what was he doing?
Oh. Right. Bruce asked him a question.
He swallows. “Uh – yeah. Kinda. But not – uh, not – bad like this. This is–”
Shifting into a calculated voice, Bruce asks, “Your allergy isn’t normally this bad?”
Tim shakes his head, which is exactly the wrong thing to do. He opens his mouth to explain that this whole thing is just him being childish and way too dramatic over nothing, but something moves into motion, and before he can process it, Bruce is helping him up enough to sit him down on a closed toilet seat. He squats in front of Tim, fingers prodding along his neck, tilting his jaw up.
“It doesn’t look like you’re swelling anywhere,” Bruce says, and pulls out an honest to god penlight to shine into Tim’s mouth.
Dick, at least, seems to be as perplexed about it as Tim. “Do you just carry that around with you?” he asks, leaning over Bruce’s shoulder to watch. The movement is laced in false ease, but Tim can see what he’s really doing: analyzing, taking stock of symptoms, switching so subtly into Nightwing that if Tim wasn’t paying attention he might have missed it.
“Hush,” Bruce mutters gently. To Tim, he asks, “How bad are your allergies normally? Do you have an EpiPen?”
“N-No,” Tim says. Even if his allergy had ever been bad enough to warrant one, his parents would’ve probably scoffed at the idea. It’s not like Tim even got officially diagnosed anyway. Why would he? A doctor would just tell him what he already knows: look out for foods with shrimp in them, check in with waiters at galas and restaurants, kindly remind his confused parents why he can’t eat the Tuscan butter shrimp being brought to their table when they forget.
(“Since when don’t you like shrimp, Timothy?”)
“Um. I usually just throw up,” Tim admits around heavy breaths. “But not–” He gestures at his messy face, hoping Bruce gets the message.
“B,” Dick mutters, leaning into Bruce’s ear. He whispers something, but all Tim can make out clearly over the sound of his own gasping breaths is “anxiety.”
Bruce nods back. “Okay. Tim?” he says calmly, “Why don’t we all try taking some deep breaths together?”
“A breathing party,” Dick chimes in, and grins at the way Bruce fondly rolls his eyes. “Here I’ll lead.” He inhales—a big, dramatic sound—motioning for Tim to follow along.
Tim blinks a few times. “What –?”
“Just humor me, Timmy,” Dick says, and takes another big breath.
It’s weird, but Tim does what he’s told, trying to match Dick and listening to the way his own breaths come out shaky and stuttered. No one seems to mind. Bruce just murmurs encouragements his way, every few seconds saying things like, “You’re doing great, Tim,” and, “Good job, bud.”
It’s weirder yet that it does start to make Tim feel better, despite how mortifying this whole situation is. But Dick keeps breathing with him, and Bruce keeps nodding along. Tim comes more and more back to himself, and as he does, he realizes he somehow missed the fact both Jason and Alfred are standing in the doorway.
“I got the Epi from the cave,” Jason says, panting.
Oh. Tim hadn’t been paying much attention to why Jason left. Was he running around this whole time?
“And I have brought oral medication,” Alfred chimes in. He’s got a tray full of different colored bottles. Dick takes them from him with a quiet thanks.
“I’m okay now,” Tim insists, swallowing hard and feeling his cheeks burn with embarrassment. “I – I was just freaking out. I don’t know why.” It’s a lie, but Tim doesn’t have the heart to tell Bruce the truth right now. Honestly, he’s kind of hoping he’ll never have to explain the full reason for his little freak out at all. Bruce might let it go. Tim is kind of a disaster anyway, so he probably wouldn’t push it.
Dick nudges his shin with the back of his wrist. “Tim, I don’t know how to tell you this, but you are actually having an allergic reaction.”
“Huh?”
Bruce picks up Tim’s arm and turns it over. “You’re getting a rash,” he says, showing Tim the red bumps on his skin. Oh. That explains the itchiness. “Though I don’t see any evidence that your airway is swelling. Your breathing sounds better now. What do you think? Should we just try some Benadryl?”
Tim hesitates for a moment. His throat definitely feels tighter than usual, but it’s not all that different from other times Tim has gotten really upset. Sure, he’s still a bit nauseous, and there’s a headache pounding behind his eyes—likely from the mortifying cry-fest he just had—but all things considered, he’s pretty sure he’s through the worst of it now.
“Uh, the Benadryl should be enough,” he says.
“Like hell!” Jason blurts.
Bruce glances over his shoulder at him. “Jay,” he chides, but the boy is paying him no mind. His eyes are sharp and serious, and he’s clutching the EpiPen like a sword, waving it back and forth in the air.
“Sorry, but are we really gonna believe him when he says he’s fine? Like he’s been so honest about his health before?”
“Jay,” Bruce tries again. “I know you’re worried, but–”
“Nuh-uh,” Jason interrupts. “No way. This isn’t about my feelings. This is about trusting Tim’s incredibly skewed judgment when it comes to keeping himself alive! I mean, are we forgetting about that time he literally hid a stab wound? Remember when he didn’t tell anyone he was fucking dying of sepsis? Cause I sure haven’t forgotten!”
No one bothers to reprimand him for the language. Bruce shares a look with Dick, a hush fallen over them like everyone has realized something Tim hasn’t. Dick gives a small nod of acknowledgment. He silently passes all the medicine back to Alfred and stands to throw an arm around Jason’s shoulders.
Jason scowls. “Stop it, Dickface,” he says, and swats him away.
Dick laughs. It’s fake, Tim notes, which is strange. He raises his hands in surrender, but he leans in a little closer and says, softly enough that he must think Tim can’t hear, “It’s okay, Jaybird. Use your Robin eyes and analyze the situation. What do you see?”
Jason’s lips purse together. Tim can’t tell what he does end up seeing in him, because Bruce chooses this moment to measure out a cup of the sticky pink liquid and pass it to Tim. It tastes horrible going down, and Tim coughs a few times, wincing. His throat feels wrecked.
“We’ll need to monitor you for a while,” Bruce says, capping the Benadryl bottle and setting it on the counter. “To make sure you don’t get any worse.”
Tim squirms, fists clenching at his side to stop from scratching. This is so embarrassing. He just wants to go to bed and pretend this never happened. He’s already made Bruce’s night so much worse. Having to babysit Tim for the next few hours is a nightmare. “Really, you don’t have to–”
“Tim,” Jason says. “Timmy, Timbo. Just shut up, okay? We’re not letting you pull this shit again.”
Again. The word hangs heavy in the air, and suddenly Tim remembers. He remembers lying on his bed alone in a tangle of sweat soaked sheets, half delirious with fever and pain. He remembers hearing someone sob and not even registering that it was himself. He remembers a voice, a hand on his brow, urgent questions that he’d been too out of it to even comprehend, let alone answer. He remembers the stench of the wound when it was finally uncovered, remembers the utterly inhuman scream that had torn out of his own throat. He remembers the way Jason had sworn in shock.
He doesn’t remember very much after that.
On some level, Tim’s always been aware that it must have been upsetting to find him like that, but only now as he sees the quiver in Jason’s lip, the terror in his eyes, the way he’s clutching that plastic auto injector like it’s a lifeline, does it register for Tim just how much he’d literally traumatized his best friend.
This is great. In trying so hard not to upset Bruce, Tim ended up upsetting Jason instead. Now he’s ruined not just one, but four people’s nights. This is all his fault. If he hadn’t been freaking out about Bruce he would’ve checked what he was eating, and then he wouldn’t have made a scene, he wouldn’t have scared Jason, and no one would have to be huddled around the bathroom with him when this whole night was supposed to be about making Bruce feel better.
He just keeps messing everything up.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, and all heads turn sharply in his direction. He might not be able to fix this now, but he can at least try to make one thing better. “I know you– you don’t believe me,” he addresses Jason, “but–” He takes a shuddery breath, eyes filling with fresh tears. “I wouldn’t do that to you again. I wouldn’t.”
Alfred makes a tutting noise, and Jason’s face crumples, but it’s Dick who moves first.
“Come on, let’s go,” he murmurs, and starts physically pulling his brother away. Jason opens his mouth to protest again, but Dick cuts him off with, “B’s got him. We can always stab him later.”
“That’s not how this works…” Jason’s voice gripes back, but it’s from halfway down the hall already, so Tim knows he must not be putting up too much of a fight. He isn’t sure if that makes it better or worse.
Alfred places his tray on the counter and gives a small nod. “Please alert me if anything changes.”
“I will,” Bruce promises.
Once they’re alone again, Bruce turns back to Tim, whose throat now feels at least as tight as it was before.
“Tim,” he says. “Look at me.”
Tim feels a warm hand rest on his shoulder. Bruce is kneeling in front of him again, eye-level, his expression so raw and kind it almost makes Tim start crying harder just on principle.
“No one is mad at you, okay?” Bruce says. “You did nothing wrong. We’re monitoring you because we care about you and don’t want you to get worse. This isn’t a punishment.”
“Jason’s mad,” Tim says thickly.
“No, Jason is upset,” Bruce corrects gently, “which means it’s hard for him to look at things objectively right now. But he’s got Dick and Alfred out there to talk things over with, and once he calms down again he’ll be just fine. Same as you.”
“I just…” Tim starts.
“Just what?” Bruce prompts softly.
Tim presses his lips together and shrugs. He can’t really explain it to Bruce without making him feel bad in some way. It’s a no win situation. Tim has had enough interactions with his parents to know one when he sees one.
“Okay,” Bruce says. He waits a long moment and lets go of him, giving him that sympathetic half-smile Tim is becoming all too familiar with. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Well, maybe Tim can pretend to be tired and fall asleep right away so Bruce won’t have to stay.
It doesn’t have to be all bad, right?
As it turns out, Tim doesn’t have to pretend at all.
He’s completely exhausted by the time Bruce guides him out of the bathroom and into his own room. “Monitoring” ends up being a pretty loose term. All Bruce does is prop him up on his bed with some pillows to ensure his airway stays as open as possible, make him drink some fluids, and clip a small device to his finger to measure his heart rate and oxygen levels. Bruce flips on the TV and pulls up some kind of nature documentary about jellyfish, which Tim appreciates because it gives him something to stare at besides Tim.
Gradually, the numbers begin to improve as Tim settles down, and the numb, tingly feeling in his hands starts to subside.
“I’m sorry I freaked out so bad,” he murmurs over the sound of the Australian narrator on TV.
“You don’t have to apologize,” Bruce says gently. “It was a scary situation. It’s perfectly natural that it would be upsetting for you.”
“That’s not– ” Tim glances at him, and then back to the TV. He’s coasting on fumes right now, wrung out by the aftereffects of his meltdown and the drowsiness of the Benadryl. There’s no filter at all to stop him from saying, “It wasn’t that.”
“Yeah?” Bruce asks, leaning forward in the armchair he’d dragged in earlier from down the hall. (Tim had heavily protested that. Sure, he might have freaked out like a baby, but that doesn’t mean they need to treat him like one.)
“Yeah,” Tim mutters. “It’s just– my parents always hated when I threw up, you know? And I get it. I mean, throwing up is really gross and it’s kinda inconvenient when your kid gets sick all over the place. Especially when you’re at a restaurant or something.”
Somewhere in the back of Tim’s mind he knows he’s gonna regret telling Bruce that, but he’s too tired right now to care. It’s getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open, and Bruce is giving him that look, the one that means he’s pitying Tim, and Tim is fully aware his parents were awful, but not, like, all the time. Some of the things they did made sense, and being disgusted by someone puking their guts up definitely makes sense to Tim.
“Tim,” Bruce says softly. “You’re not an inconvenience.”
“I’m usually better at paying attention to what I eat,” Tim points out around a yawn. “I was just kinda distracted this time. But I’m usually better.”
“What were you distracted by?” Bruce asks.
Tim is distantly aware questions like this are often traps set up by adults, but the cautious part of his mind is more preoccupied by the soft rumble of Bruce’s voice and how it makes him feel warm and sleepy.
Without thinking, he says, “The bad day,” and pauses. “Your bad day,” he clarifies, turning his face into the crook of his arm to hide another yawn. “Didn’t wanna get in your way.”
Bruce sighs and it sounds sad. “Is that why you didn’t tell us about your allergy?”
“Huh?” Why would Tim have mentioned it anyway? This is the first time Alfred has ever served him shrimp, and even if it wasn’t, Tim has been used to taking care of this himself since he was a kid. Telling them wouldn’t change the fact that Tim needs to be more careful.
“Bud,” Bruce says, sounding even sadder.
(Uh oh, Tim must have said that all out loud.)
“I know you’re good at being independent,” Bruce continues. “But it never should have been your responsibility to monitor your allergy that strictly. Parents are supposed to be the ones looking out for things like that.”
“But lots of kids watch out for things they’re allergic to,” Tim says, confused.
“Sure,” Bruce agrees. “But most of those children’s parents don’t place the entire responsibility on them. It’s one thing for a child to go to school knowing they need to be careful about trying new foods. It’s a different thing for that child to have to call the school directly and set up an allergy plan.”
Tim frowns. “Well, I didn’t– I mean, I didn’t go that far. I just checked the ingredients in things at lunch and stuff. It wasn’t a big deal.”
The look on Bruce’s face says he thinks it was a very big deal. But it’s not like Tim has a severe peanut allergy or celiac disease or something else he needs to keep constant watch over like some of the kids at school. Gotham Academy is nice, but they’re not serving three course seafood meals for lunch. Tim can count on one hand the amount of times he’s come across anyone in the cafeteria even eating anything shellfish related at all.
Bruce places his hand on top of Tim’s, and some hard wired reaction makes Tim’s eyes sting.
“It wasn’t supposed to be your responsibility,” Bruce says, firmly enough to make Tim know he means it.
Guilt twists in Tim’s stomach. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
Bruce tightens his hold on Tim’s hand. “You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Tim uses his free hand to scrub at his eyes. He’s absolutely not going to cry again. That would be stupid. It’s just the Benadryl and adrenaline crash messing with him is all.
“I upset you,” he says. Not to mention Jason, who is probably gonna need a whole mess of therapy now.
“You didn’t,” Bruce assures him. “I’m concerned that you felt like you couldn’t tell us, but I’m not upset with you. You dealt with things the way you’re used to and I understand that.” He hesitates, like he’s choosing his next words carefully. “But Tim, you can always come to me. I want you to know that. Anytime you have a problem, even if I’m having a bad day, I will make myself available. Family comes before everything else. I won’t get mad or upset with you just because I’m frustrated over something else.”
Tim drops his gaze to his lap, cheeks burning. He knows the Waynes keep saying things like this to him, but it’s just so hard to make his mind really believe them.
Bruce reaches over and gives his arm a little squeeze. “We’ll work on it, okay?”
Tim shrugs a little. He might have added something else if he wasn’t so exhausted and if the other boys hadn’t picked that exact moment to come barging in.
“Knock, knock,” Dick says cheerily as he nudges open the slightly ajar door with his foot. His hands are full balancing one of Alfred’s large serving trays. “We come bearing gifts.”
“Since you ate like, three bites of dinner, then promptly un-ate them again,” Jason adds, following him into the room.
“Oh, wow,” Tim says, blinking a few times at the tray. There are rice cakes, pretzels, applesauce, ginger ale, water, and a dish of… is that pudding?
“Alfie offered to make soup too, but he told us to check if you’re still hurling first before he wastes his time,” Jason says.
“Uh.” Tim blinks again. “I– I’m done with that, I think.” He certainly hopes so anyway.
Jason huffs out a short breath. “Yeah, well, given your laughably unreliable history of self-reporting medical information, I’m gonna just make my own observations, thanks.”
From anyone else, the words would have come off as passive aggressive, and Tim almost takes them that way. But then he notices that the corner of Jason’s mouth is tugging to the side a little, not quite a smile yet, but somewhere in the family of one, and Tim recognizes the olive branch for what it is.
“Fair enough,” he agrees, returning the hollow smirk. Jason nods approvingly.
Dick passes the tray off to Bruce and the two of them start unloading some of the items.
“Budge up, Timmy,” Jason says, nudging Tim’s legs with his knee, and Tim shifts over to make room for the other boy to climb up onto the bed. “What are we watching?”
“Uh. I dunno, something about jellyfish.” He hasn’t really been paying attention at all. As far as documentaries go, Tim’s more of a true crime kind of guy.
Jason snorts. “Little soon for the marine life docs, isn’t it?”
It’s an innocent enough remark, but Bruce looks strangely chastised by it. “I… I was just trying to find something simple to play in the background. I certainly didn’t intend for–”
“Yeah yeah…” Jason says, waving his hand dismissively. “Just gimme the remote, old man.”
Dick climbs up on the other side of the bed while Jason queues up Top Gear.
“Oyster crackers?” Jason offers, holding out a bag of tiny round crackers that Tim hadn’t noticed before.
“Uhh–”
“They’re a sick-people food classic,” he adds on, taking a handful himself. “My mom used to swear by ‘em.”
“Despite the name, there is definitely no shellfish,” Dick throws in, stealing one of the crackers from Jason. He tosses it up into the air and catches it in his mouth. “We checked.”
Around another yawn, Tim complains, “You guys are gonna get crumbs all over my bed...”
“Tough fucking patooties, kid,” Jason retorts, eyes glued to the screen as he grabs some pretzels. “Shouldn’t have almost died on us.”
“Language, Jay,” Bruce grunts.
“What?” Jason asks innocently. “Patooties?”
“No, the other word.”
“Died?”
Bruce rolls his eyes. “Never mind...”
Tim isn’t sure at what point he’d drifted off, but when he wakes again, the room is dark and a black screen on the TV is prompting them to respond if they’re still watching. Dick and Jason are still sprawled out beside him on the mattress, both of them sound asleep, and Bruce is sitting with his elbow on the armrest, his chin propped up on one fist as he dozes lightly in the chair.
The bowl of pretzels that Jason had been holding earlier is resting precariously on his stomach, so Tim lifts it, very carefully, to set it back on the nightstand.
Jason doesn’t wake, but he stirs a little at the movement, and it’s enough that the hand that’s been resting inside the front pocket of his hoodie slides out and back down onto the mattress. That’s when Tim sees it: a yellow plastic object clutched loosely in the sleeping boy’s fist.
The EpiPen.
Tim sighs lightly and sets the bowl down before curling back up under the blanket and letting his eyes drift shut again.
He’s never going to live this one down.