Chapter Text
Tim’s pretty sure that Jason hates him.
Granted, Jason hadn’t seemed to hate him yesterday and Tim has no idea what he did to cause Jason to come to this conclusion today—and it’s not like Tim hasn’t been racking his brain for the answer to that very question ever since he woke up—but the signs have been there all morning and the signs never lie. The sullen mood, the closed off body language, the vague grunts and one word responses to Tim’s few attempts at conversation… they all point to a singular conclusion.
Jason has finally gotten sick of him.
Of course, it had to happen at the absolute worst time for it. Alfred’s away on his yearly sabbatical, spending ten days visiting some old friends back in England, and Bruce got called in two nights ago by the Justice League for an emergency off-world mission (and honestly, how cool of a sentence is that? The furthest Tim’s parents ever traveled was New Zealand, and that was just for another one of their stupid digs), leaving Tim and Jason home alone. They’re supposed to be leaving for school sometime in the next few minutes, but with the way this morning’s been panning out, Tim’s starting to think he ought to just try and catch the bus.
Jason’s been standing in front of the open refrigerator for over a minute now. His gaze is fixed blankly on the middle shelf, like if he just stares long enough, something more appealing might spontaneously manifest.
“Did you, uh– did you want a bagel?” Tim tries, holding up the bag on the counter. “I can’t remember if you like sesame seed or not, but I think there are some blueberry ones left in the pantry…”
Jason shakes his head wordlessly, continuing to stare into the open fridge.
“...Or, cereal?” Tim offers when the awkward silence stretches on. “I saw Cap’n Crunch in the cabinet. Well, I guess it’s not technically Cap’n Crunch. Alfred got it from Whole Foods, so it’s called something dumb like ‘Quartermaster Crispies’ and it’s got puffed millet instead of corn, and coconut sugar instead of—”
“I don’t want cereal,” Jason cuts him off, and Tim’s mouth snaps instantly shut. “Where’s the juice.”
“Oh, uh...” Tim’s gaze flits guiltily between the glass of orange juice in his hand, and the recycle bin containing the empty container. “I kinda took the last of it? But I only had like, two sips, so we can totally split it! Just let me grab another glass and–”
“It’s fine,” Jason says. “I’ll just have water.”
“Are you sure?” Tim asks nervously, watching as Jason retrieves a metal water bottle from the fridge door. “Because I really don’t mind splitting it. I’m sorry, I should have asked if you wanted any before I–”
“Just drink your juice, Tim.” He shuts the fridge, causing Tim to wince as the rows of condiment bottles and jars lining the door rattle with the force. “I’ll be in the car.”
That’s the way the whole morning has been going. Tim doesn’t know what he did to deserve this unprecedentedly cold treatment from Jason, but something has obviously occurred and whatever it is has Tim’s stomach tied in knots. He has to force himself to choke down the rest of his breakfast (Jason hates when people waste food, and Tim’s not about to give him any more ammunition), then shoves his plate and cup into the dishwasher, gathers his things, and hurries out to the garage.
Jason’s already sitting in the driver’s seat of the car Bruce got him for his birthday, which honestly is another red flag. Yesterday morning, he’d swiped the keys to Bruce’s Jaguar, a mischievous grin on his lips, declaring that if the old man was going to be off gallivanting around the galaxy, surely he could stand to let them ride to school in style.
Today he doesn’t so much as turn his head when Tim climbs into the passenger seat.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” Tim says, hastily tossing his bag into the back seat and buckling himself in. It’s still a few minutes before they’d normally leave, but he figures it’s best to cover all his bases. Can’t be too careful when people are mad at you, after all.
Jason acknowledges the apology with only a vague grunt. Then he puts the key into the ignition and–
Does nothing.
After a few seconds of stillness, Tim risks a sideways glance at the older boy. Jason’s just sitting there, the car still in park, key unturned, staring straight ahead out the windshield.
Tim has no clue what he’s waiting for.
The awkward silence stretches on for five seconds, ten, twenty. Then without warning, Jason leans forward and rests his forehead against the steering wheel, eyes closed.
Nervously, Tim clears his throat. “Um, Jason...?”
Jason doesn’t lift his head. “I can’t drive,” he mutters into the wheel.
Tim just stares at him, his brain trying and failing to compute this information. “You… can’t drive?” he repeats dumbly. “Why can’t you–”
“Because I can’t fucking see, alright?”
The snapped retort seems to hurt Jason as much as it does Tim. Both of them flinch, Tim instinctively gripping the door handle, ready to bolt. But then Jason groans and digs the meaty part of his palm into his left eye socket, kind of like his mother always does when she has a—
Oh.
Lowering his voice to just barely a whisper, Tim asks, “Um, are you getting a migraine?”
“I don’t know,” Jason mutters, forehead still pressed against the wheel. “I'm just really fucking dizzy.”
“Okay, uhh…” Tim chews his bottom lip. He’s not usually on this side of the caretaking equation—and honestly, it's only in the past year that there's even been a 'caretaking equation' at all. Prior to the Waynes, Tim just kinda... dealt with stuff. He’s completely out of his depth here.
If it were his mother who was ill, there would be no question about what Tim ought to do: stay the heck out of her way. Janet never wants him around when she’s not feeling well. She just wants peace and quiet, and maybe a dark room to disappear into for a few hours while Tim tiptoes silently around the house—or better yet, leaves the house entirely. In public, she can paste on a smile and power through anything, but her home is her sanctuary. The less anyone interrupts her there, the better.
Jack is a little different. He’ll ask Tim to do things for him sometimes when he doesn’t feel like getting up himself, but his instructions are always super vague and he hates it when Tim asks follow up questions. Simple stuff, like fetching his dad’s laptop charger or starting the coffee maker, Tim can handle just fine, but as soon as Jack asks him to bring him his medication and Tim has to clarify "which kind?" and "how many do you take?" and "where do you keep them?" and "wait, the 200 milligram pills, or the 400 milligram pills?" Jack just gets frustrated and tells him to never mind, he’ll just do it himself.
When it comes to stuff like this, Tim’s most helpful quality has always been knowing when to disappear.
Still, Jason isn’t his parents, and the Waynes tend to have funny ideas about how much help people need when they’re sick. He should probably at least try, right?
“Do… you want me to get you some water…?”
(Water’s good for dizziness, Tim’s pretty sure. Hydration and all that.)
Jason shakes his head slightly, giving a vaguely negative-sounding grunt. “I’ll just throw it up.”
Tim winces. “Right, okay. Um…”
He’s still trying to figure out what to offer next when Jason reaches out a hand, fingers fumbling for the door handle. “You should… I don’t know,” he mutters. “Take the bus or something.” His eyes are still squeezed shut, hand pressed against them. “I can’t drive you.” His voice is strained. “It’s not safe.”
“That’s okay,” Tim says quickly, relieved that there’s at least something he can do to help. “I can get to school myself, no problem.”
Jason nods and climbs out of the car, so Tim grabs both of their backpacks and follows him back into the house, mentally pulling up the city bus route map he’s had memorized ever since he was nine. He’s already missed the 7:10 he used to take to school everyday, which was by far the most direct route into the city, but he can still make the 7:40 in a few minutes that will take him from Bristol to Burnside. From there, he’ll have to catch the 8:05 eastbound into Gotham proper, then transfer to the blue line and ride that four stops to the corner of 14th and Jackson before getting off and walking the remaining two blocks to Gotham Academy. He’ll miss first period entirely, along with a good chunk of second, but if he hustles he should be on time for third.
They’re just through the garage and stepping into the house when Jason stumbles, catching himself against the wall.
“Oh shit! Are you okay?” Tim drops the backpacks, hurrying over to help.
“I’m fine,” Jason grumbles, already pushing himself away from the support of the wall again. He overbalances, swaying a little, and Tim instinctively grabs his arm to steady him, surprised to feel an unnatural level of heat coming off Jason’s skin.
Like, a fever level of heat.
Tim bites his lip again. “Maybe I should call–”
“No,” Jason grits out, the most forceful thing Tim’s heard out of him all morning. “Don’t call B. He can’t, he’s–” He cuts himself off, digging his palm into his eye again. “Look, he’s doing important stuff, okay? He can’t help.”
Tim swallows, nodding. This, at least, he understands. Heck, how many times has he called his parents over the years, only to be told that they were in the midst of something more important than him?
(“Well what do you expect us to do about this from Belize, Timothy?”)
“You should go to school,” Jason says, pulling his arm back. “You’re gonna be late.”
Tim hesitates, uncertain. “I don’t know if I should leave you alone...”
Jason fixes him with a rather pathetic attempt at a glare. “I’m older than you.”
“But if you’re sick–”
“I said I was fine, okay?” Jason snaps, sharply enough that it causes Tim to flinch again. His face falls. “Fuck…” He covers his face with his hands and blows out a sharp breath. “Look, I can’t deal with this right now. I’m going back to bed.”
With that, he turns and storms off down the hall. Or, at least it would be storming if he wasn’t moving so unsteadily; the irritation is there, while the coordination is not. Vaguely, Tim thinks he should follow him up the stairs to make sure he doesn’t fall, but his thoughts never translate to action. He stays rooted in place.
A minute later, he hears Jason’s bedroom door slam shut.
It’s as if his body had been waiting for the signal. Tim’s throat goes instantly tight and tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He steps backwards, one step, two, until his back is up against the wall, then slides down to sit on the floor, knees doubled up against his chest and arms wrapped tightly around them.
It’s the same shit his parents used to say. Telling him that he was too much, that he should just go away, leave them alone, he was making everything worse. That they just couldn’t deal with him anymore.
He’d thought that maybe the Waynes were different. That maybe, just maybe, there were people out there who thought Tim was worth the time, worth the effort, worth the inconvenience of keeping around.
Turns out they’ve just been better at hiding it.
Tim takes a deep breath, scrubbing roughly at his face with his palms. He’s not going to cry about this. He’s not. He never used to cry all the time. Why can’t he just shrug things off like he did before? It was all so much easier back then.
He should go to school. That’s what Jason told him to do, and Jason’s in charge right now—Bruce said so before he left. Besides, it’s not like Tim’s being very helpful here anyway. He’s just asking dumb questions and being all awkward and stressing Jason out. Jason doesn’t need Tim right now, and he certainly doesn’t seem to want him. Tim should just take the hint and leave already.
It’s just that—
Well, it’s just that Tim’s sure Jason wouldn’t leave him alone like this. Not if Tim were running a fever and acting weird and admitting that he couldn’t even see straight—no fucking way. He’d probably drag Tim down to the cave and shove him into one of Bruce’s multi-million dollar machines (Bat-MRI? BAT-scan??) just to make sure he wasn’t having an aneurysm or something. And Tim would groan and roll his eyes and complain about how dramatic he was being, and Jason would tell him to shut up and lie still because he’s not above breaking out the fear toxin restraints if Tim keeps squirming. And it would be annoying and ridiculous and one hundred percent totally overkill, but–
But at the end of the day, it would be proof that someone cared about him. It would be proof that he actually mattered.
Shouldn’t Jason have that too?
Tim hunches over and buries his face in his arms, blowing out a long, shaky breath. He wants someone to tell him what to do. He wants Alfred’s calm reassurance—wants Bruce’s clear directions. Heck, he’d even take Mrs. Mac’s flustered rambling if at least it would mean he wouldn’t have to figure this out on his own.
He wants an adult. He wants an adult so freaking much.
Wait a minute.
A wave of relief rushes over Tim so suddenly that he lets out a little laugh. He’s so stupid. He should have thought of this before. After all, Bruce spent a good ten minutes before he’d zeta’d out of there drilling emergency protocols into them.
“If somebody’s breaking in, call Gordon. If you’re hurt, call Leslie. If you’re in danger, call Clark. If the house is burning down, call 911, Clark, Gordon, AND Leslie, in that order.
“For everything else, call your brother.”
Dick answers on the third ring.
“Hey Timmy, what’s up?”
The words all tumble out in a rush. “Something’s wrong with Jason and I don’t know what to do!”
Dick’s cheerful tone immediately grows serious. “What do you mean? Did he go out last night?”
Tim's confused. "What?"
“Jason,” Dick clarifies. “Did he go out last night?”
It takes a second for what Dick’s actually asking him over this non-secure line to click in Tim’s brain: Did Robin go out last night?
“Oh, no, nothing like that,” he says quickly. “B said we weren’t allowed to.”
That’s putting it mildly. Bruce had spent the remaining five minutes of his pre-zeta lecture drilling in how there was to be zero vigilante activity from either of them in his absence (“I’m serious, Jason. I do not care if the Condiment King himself is repainting the Manor in alternating stripes of tabasco and dijon, you do not go after him, got it?”).
“Right, but did he go out anyway?” Dick presses. “Because you can tell me if he did, Tim. You’re not going to get in trouble. Even if you helped him do it, okay? I just need to know.”
The way he says it implies that ignoring Batman’s explicit orders wouldn’t be anything new for Jason (and, given what Tim knows about Robins and their rebellious streaks, that’s probably fair), but he is actually being honest right now.
“He didn’t go out, I swear,” Tim says. “But he said he's dizzy and nauseous, and I think he has a fever and… I don’t know, he’s just been acting kind of weird.”
“Weird how?”
So Tim rattles off the events of that morning, starting with Jason banging on his door hollering "will you fucking turn that off already?!" after Tim failed to silence his alarm fast enough after his third round of snoozing it, and ending with Jason snapping at him and stumbling back to bed. He tries to stick to the facts, focusing on Jason’s words and actions rather than how Tim perceived them, but it’s awfully hard to avoid adding his own commentary.
“—Like, he told me he’s fine and I should just go to school, but I don’t know if that’s because he’s actually fine or just because I was being annoying. I mean, I wasn’t trying to be annoying, I just didn’t know how to help so I kept asking him questions, but I think that just made it worse because he seems really mad at me now, and it’s probably all my fault because I was being irritating, but I just–”
“Okay, hold up, hold up,” Dick interrupts him mid-ramble. “Tim, I think I know what the problem is, but first I need you to take a deep breath, okay? Here, we’ll do one together.”
Tim frowns, but does as he’s told, mirroring the sound of Dick’s exaggerated inhale and exhale over the line.
“Good, perfect,” Dick praises. “Now, I want you to listen really carefully because this next part is important. Are you ready?”
Tim’s palms are sweating. He wipes them off on his pant leg. “Ready.”
“Jason is being an asshole.”
Tim’s brain skips a track.
“Wait what.”
“Say it with me, Timmy.” There’s a hint of amusement to Dick’s otherwise calm tone. “Jason. Is being. An asshole.”
“Well, I-I mean,” Tim stutters, suddenly feeling the need to come to the boy’s defense, “I didn’t say that. I think he’s just not feeling very well.”
“Oh, I’m sure he isn’t,” Dick agrees easily. “Sounds like he’s got the flu or something—I’m sure he feels like shit. But he’s also being an asshole. The two things aren’t mutually exclusive.”
“Yeah, but–”
“Nope, no buts. Just because he’s feeling bad doesn’t mean he gets to treat you like that. He’s being an asshole. Say it, Tim.”
“But–”
“It’ll help. Trust me.”
(Well, this is definitely not the direction Tim thought this call was going to go.)
“Jason is…” He lowers his voice a little, glancing over to the staircase as if Jason might just overhear him from an entire floor away. “Um. Kind of, maybe, being a little bit of an asshole right now.”
Dick huffs out a short, breathy laugh. “Close enough. Look, the important thing is that you understand that this is not your fault, okay? You didn’t do anything wrong, and you definitely don’t need to apologize for trying to help. Jason is just… Uh. Not very good at being sick.”
Tim’s glad he’s sitting down already because his brain is swirling. “That’s a thing you can be good at?”
“Well, it’s more of a spectrum, I guess,” Dick admits. “Jason just so happens to be over on the ‘turns into a little shithead and lashes out at people who are just trying to help’ end of it. Which is still not okay and definitely something we’re working on with him," he tacks on quickly, "but… yeah. That’s kind of where he’s at right now.”
Tim nods a little, taking this in. While it’s good to know that Jason’s behavior probably isn’t anything personal, it still doesn’t give him much to work with from a practical standpoint.
“So, what do I do? Do I just leave him alone, or…?”
“You did the right thing by calling me,” Dick says, and something inside Tim untwists a little at the reassurance. At least he managed to do one thing right today. “I just need to talk to my supervisor about getting someone to cover my classes for the next few days, but as soon as that’s all squared away, I’ll head right over.”
And just like that, the knot in Tim’s stomach returns, twice as tight.
“Oh no, I didn’t mean you had to come!” He’d mostly just been calling Dick to get some advice and maybe fluster out for a few minutes, not because he actually expected the guy to take time off work and drive all the way out here. That’s ridiculous. “I’m sure we’ll be okay on our own.”
(Okay, he’s not actually sure of this at all, but it seems like the thing to say.)
“Oh no, I’m definitely coming,” Dick says with a small laugh. “This is not something you should have to deal with. Especially not on your own. Sick Jason is… a handful. Even Bruce and Alfred struggle with him sometimes.”
Tim can hear a lot of movement on the other end of the line now: a bag being unzipped, drawers opening and shutting, items being moved about.
“Traffic’s pretty bad going toward the city at this time of day, so it’ll probably be a couple hours before I can get there,” Dick warns him. “In the meantime, if you can get Jason to drink some fluids, that would be great. But no pressure, alright? It’s totally fine if you want to just give him some space until I get there.”
“Um, okay...” Tim says nervously.
“If he starts being too much of a jerk, I want you to call me, put the phone on speaker, then chuck it into his room and close the door, okay? I’ll deal with him.”
“Uh–”
“Listen, I need to hang up and call my boss before she starts her first lesson, but you’re gonna do great, okay? Call me if you need anything. I’ll see you soon. Love you, kiddo.”
The line cuts out, leaving Tim sitting there, blinking dazedly.
So much for taking the bus.
In the end, it takes two hours and fourteen minutes for Dick to arrange everything with his work and make the drive from Bludhaven to Bristol (not that Tim’s counting). By the time he hears the six telltale beeps of Dick's code being keyed into the Manor’s security panel, he could almost cry with relief.
“Hey,” Dick says with a tired smile as he steps inside, a small duffle bag slung over one shoulder. He drops it unceremoniously onto the floor and pulls Tim into a quick side hug. “How’d it go?”
Tim glances down at his feet. “Um, I got him to drink a few sips of Gatorade”—(after a solid thirty minutes of doing deep breathing exercises to psych himself up enough to even enter Jason’s room)—“but he kinda… threw up afterwards.”
(In the bathroom, with the door shut and locked behind him, groaning at Tim to just leave him alone every time he tried to ask Jason if he was okay. Eventually he’d just given up and gone back downstairs to wait for Dick.)
Dick gives a sympathetic grimace. “So, a net loss, then.”
“Yeah,” Tim admits guiltily. “Sorry.”
“Hey no, you don’t have anything to apologize for.” He gives Tim’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Like I said, he’s a handful. You did everything right. But I’ll take it from here, okay?”
Gladly, Tim thinks to himself, while Dick moves to the kitchen and starts gathering supplies to take upstairs. Hopefully Jason isn’t in too rough shape and Dick will be able to coax enough fluids into him that he’ll feel comfortable leaving him alone for the half-hour or so it’ll take to drop Tim off at school and drive back.
(Look, Tim loves Jason and everything, don’t get him wrong, but this morning has been… a lot. A few geometry proofs would be a welcome break right about now.)
But as it turns out, Dick’s caretaking approach is a bit different than Tim was expecting.
“Heads up, Patient Zero!”
A twist of the door handle, followed by a swift kick of Dick’s foot sends the bedroom door flying open. A hand shoots out of the blanket encased lump on the bed just in time for Jason to catch the bottle of Gatorade that Dick lobs at him from the doorway.
“The fuck?” Jason demands, pushing himself up on his elbows. “You almost hit me!”
“Just running some diagnostics,” Dick says briskly. He chucks a second bottle at Jason, who has to fumble the first one to catch it. “If you missed, I would know to haul your ass to Leslie’s. But you caught it, so I guess you’re not too far gone.”
“Oh fuck off,” Jason scowls.
“Language,” Dick tuts, striding into the room. “Dirty mouths breed germs, you know.” He flings a third and final bottle at Jason, who deflects it with his pillow this time. “Now drink up, bitch.”
“Oh my god, go away,” Jason whines and chucks the bottle back at him. Or, tries to anyway. His throw is so weak that the object barely clears the end of the mattress before hitting the floor with a sad thud.
Dick just blinks at him. “Wow. Maybe I ruled out Leslie too soon.”
“Shut up,” Jason mutters, rolling over to bury his flushed face into his pillow. “And I’m not drinking more of that crap. I just threw it up.”
Tim, who is still standing in the doorway, winces guiltily at the reminder, but Dick just rolls his eyes. “Yeah, hence the replacement fluids, dumbass.” He retrieves the Gatorade from the floor and cracks the seal. “Hydrate or die-drate.”
Jason glares at him. “I’m not gonna die.”
“No, you’re not,” Dick agrees, almost cheerfully. “Because B’s got like fifty liters of IV saline down in the cave if you’d rather I start playing pincushion. Personally, I have no preference—just thought I’d give you the option first.”
Jason groans. “I swear to god, I’m gonna kick you in the nuts if you don’t leave me alone...”
Dick snorts humorously. “As if you could even land one right now.”
A foot shoots out from under the blankets in the general direction of Dick’s crotch. Dick yelps and drops his hand to catch Jason’s foot around the ankle. Jason, meanwhile, takes advantage of the split-second distraction to send an elbow flying up at his real target: the underside of the Gatorade bottle Dick’s holding. It lurches upwards, splashing the neon blue liquid straight up Dick’s nose.
“You little shit!” he sputters, then yanks Jason by the ankle halfway across the mattress. Jason swears, scrambling to grab the headboard in order to keep from being ripped off the bed completely.
Dick gets him in a headlock, and that’s about the point when Tim backs slowly out of the doorway and retreats to his own bedroom.
It’s nearly eleven a.m. by the time Dick manages to cajole half a bottle of Gatorade into his ornery little brother, and by that time, he declares school for Tim to be a wash. His teachers post all the daily assignments online anyway, so it’s not like Tim is going to fall behind in his classes. He can just take the rest of the day to relax and catch up on homework, and Dick will drive him to school on time tomorrow. Simple.
Except it’s definitely not.
“Jay!” Dick’s voice barks, causing Tim to jump and the graphite in his mechanical pencil to snap for the second time that hour. “What are you doing? You’ve got like twelve blankets on—you’re gonna overheat!”
“Leave me alone, I’m cold.”
“You’re not cold, you’re cooking your brain, that’s what. Now take them off.”
“Bite me.”
The sounds of a muffled struggle issue from across the hall, including muttered curses and what sounds like a few objects falling off the nightstand. Tim breathes in deeply, clenching and unclenching his fingers as he tries to focus on his work.
Given the exterior angle of a triangle is 140 degrees, and its opposite interior angles are equal to each other, which of the following is the measure of the equal angles of the–
“Jason! Is this a curtain? What are you, Maria von Trapp?”
“I was cold, okay?!”
The bickering continues for another ten minutes or so, with Tim making exactly zero progress on his math. Eventually he abandons his worksheet and fishes a paperback copy of Lord of the Flies out of his backpack instead. He’s not much of a reader (he usually just bullshits his way through English class by reading enough wiki articles and sparknotes to answer the questions), but it’s not like he’s having much luck with anything else right now. Might as well give some murderous schoolboys a try.
He’s made it all of eight pages in (and has completely lost track of all the Jack’s and Ralph’s and Piggy’s. Why are there so many characters in this thing?) when an indigent cry from Jason knocks him back to the present.
“What’re you—? Eugh, Dick! What the fuck! Get off!”
“I’m taking your temperature, loser. Now hold still.”
“By kissing my forehead? The thermometer is literally right there!”
“Yeah, but that’s so impersonal.”
“How about I personally break your nose?”
Tim’s fingers drum anxiously against the desk as he does his best to ignore the sounds from Jason’s bedroom. He’s not very successful.
“Hm… I’d put you at 101.5, give or take two tenths of a degree,” Dick declares after a moment.
“Bullshit. You’re just making numbers up.”
“Feel free to check it if you don’t believe me.”
“Feel free to fuck off.”
“Not until you eat your lunch.”
“I told you, my stomach hurts.”
“That’s because it’s empty.”
Reaching the bottom of the page, Tim suddenly realizes he’s comprehended none of it. He sighs and starts it again from the top.
“Just eat one cracker.”
“No.”
“Alright, two crackers, then.”
“That’s not how negotiation works.”
“Three crackers.”
“I’ll fucking puke on you.”
“Your bed, your loss. I’m not changing your sheets.”
“Fuck. Off.”
Tim’s ears are ringing. He stuffs his laptop and papers back into his bag before fleeing back downstairs in search of literally any place that’s not here.
The rest of Tim’s afternoon passes in a mixture of anxiety, half-completed homework assignments, and more hours than he’d like to admit spent scrolling through his phone trying to find any distraction that will stave off the growing tightness in his chest.
Unfortunately "any distraction" leads him down a rabbit hole of various articles on sibling relationships, because right now, Tim is struggling. There's only so many snapped retorts and hurled insults between the two of them that he can take before he starts questioning everything.
Dr. Goldstein—and Dr. Easterly, and Dr. Lovett, and Dr. Heines—all seem to agree upon one thing: conflict between siblings is normal. Though, it's not really conflict, is it? Dick, through all his goading, is still taking care of Jason. And Jason, through all of his fuck you's and empty threats, is still letting Dick take care of him (albeit in a hostile and mildly verbally abusive sort of way).
The two have clearly fallen into something reminiscent of a routine. The constant snarking and insults come off easy, practiced. And Tim isn't sure how he feels about it.
Conflict between siblings is normal.
Because that's certainly not how they treat Tim. Like, ever. And sure, he hasn’t known them nearly as long as they’ve known each other, but they're both always so quick to remind him that he is family now. That he is their brother.
Conflict between siblings is normal.
Tim groans, setting the phone facedown on the floor and dropping his head into his hands. Is this what he has to look forward to someday? Is this what it means to be part of a family?
Because he’s not so sure he wants this.
At some point in the late afternoon, Dick bullies Jason into getting up and taking a shower (“Make sure you leave the door unlocked” / “Why, so you can be a creep?” / “You know what, never mind, drown for all I care” / “Good, I’ll come back as a ghost and haunt your pervy ass”), then ushers him downstairs to the den for a change of scenery.
Tim, who is occupying said den, tries to evacuate the second he notices the two of them entering, but he misses his window to do so and then it’s too awkward to leave. Jason’s gaze catches on the book Tim has long ago abandoned on the coffee table, and he launches into a heated though somewhat incoherent rant about how stupid Lord of the Flies is and how he tried to petition the English department his sophomore year to assign something with a more accurate social commentary. He has a few dozen ideas, which he rattles off croakily, eyes glazed with fever.
Tim can only nod along, his own gaze flitting longingly towards the doorway every few minutes. He usually appreciates (or at the very least, tolerates) Jason’s classic literature rants, but right now, every negative emotion he’s exposed to only serves to stress him out further. He really just wants to be alone.
Around five o’clock, Dick cooks them all dinner (“You’d better eat this. I slaved over a hot stove all afternoon for you” / “It’s canned soup, dickwad. And you microwaved it” / “You know there are starving children in the Narrows who’d kill for this minestrone” / “It’s literally still cold in the middle”), which they end up consuming in front of the TV while watching one of the Mission Impossible sequels. He isn’t sure which one.
The second the end credits start to roll, Tim excuses himself up to his room, setting his alarm a full hour earlier than usual just in case he needs to take the bus.
No way in hell is he staying home tomorrow.
When Tim creeps downstairs at stupid o’ clock in the morning, Dick is already sitting at the breakfast nook, shoulders hunched over a steaming mug of coffee. He glances up at Tim, looking mildly surprised.
“You’re up early.”
“Yeah, I just, uh–” Tim shifts his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, suddenly feeling a little silly. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to drive me to school or not.”
Dick’s brow furrows in confusion. “I told you that I would.”
“No, I know,” Tim says quickly, “I just forgot to tell you that I wanted to get there early. Student Council is having a meeting before first period.”
This is true, though completely irrelevant, given that Tim is not and has never been a member of Gotham Academy’s student council.
(Not that Dick needs to know that.)
“And…there’s also a Horticulture Club meeting after school,” he adds, citing the student activity page of the school website he’d scoured last night in search of anything that could keep him out of the house a little longer, “which goes until like, five. But you don’t have to worry about picking me up or anything. I can totally get the bus home after.”
(Taking the bus will add an additional forty minutes to his commute, so win-win.)
“Horticulture Club,” Dick repeats blankly.
Tim bobs his head. “Yeah, it meets every other Thursday. I think the plan today is to make tomato cages.”
(Both of these facts are also true. Tim hasn’t lied once.)
Dick’s giving him kind of a funny look, and Tim’s heart starts pounding. But before he can rattle off any more technically-true-but-unconnected facts, Dick sighs and gets to his feet.
“Alright. Well, I guess we better get moving then...”
School passes much too quickly for Tim’s liking, even with the extra hour spent in the greenhouse helping Mrs. Meyers and a half-dozen students he doesn’t remember the names of twist concrete reinforcing wire into metal cages. When they’re finished, they thank Tim for his help and invite him to their annual rototilling event next Saturday.
(Tim politely declines, informing them that the bowling team has a tournament that very same weekend.)
By that time Tim makes it home, the house is eerily still, and Jason’s bedroom door is shut. Tim tiptoes into his own room to change out of his uniform, then attempts to creep back downstairs undetected. He must not do a very good job of it because Dick slips out to meet him in the hall.
“Hey,” he whispers, carefully closing Jason’s door behind him again. “How was school?”
(Compared to being home? Fucking amazing, thanks.)
He shrugs. “It was fine.”
Dick nods absently. “That’s good.” He yawns and rubs a hand at the back of his neck. “Are you hungry? I was thinking of making a frozen pizza for dinner.”
Tim frowns. “Can Jason eat that?” As far as he knows, the guy’s been on a pretty steady diet of soup, Gatorade, jello, and crackers for the last thirty-six hours.
Dick flaps a hand dismissively. “Probably not, but he’s out now anyway, so I’m just gonna let him sleep. I can always bring him up something later.”
Now that Tim is paying more attention, Dick looks exhausted. His hair is sticking up at odd angles, his eyes have dark circles under them, and there’s an unidentifiable orange stain on the front of his t-shirt. Tim’s tempted to ask how today went, but also isn’t entirely sure he wants to hear the answer.
“Pizza sounds good,” he says instead, and gets a subdued smile and a brief hair ruffle from his brother in return.
They eat downstairs at the kitchen table. Dick tries to keep up the usual small talk, asking Tim about his day and activities and such, but he’s clearly preoccupied. He keeps glancing back over his shoulder, and the moment the pizza is gone, he stuffs his plate into the dishwasher and heads back upstairs.
Tim, meanwhile, heads to the den and spends a few hours watching some stupid reality show. The strange stillness of the Manor, which ought to be a welcome relief after the tension of yesterday feels almost oppressive now.
When he finally heads up to bed a few hours later, Jason’s door is slightly ajar and he can hear murmured voices coming from inside. Curiously, Tim creeps closer to the gap in the door. Dick is sitting perched on the edge of the bed, hunched over Jason.
“...Shh, it’s okay,” he’s saying softly, readjusting a folded washcloth over his brother’s forehead. “You’re okay. I’m right here, kiddo. You’re alright.”
“No, n-no I don’t wanna go back,” Jason begs. His voice is weak, whimpering. “You can’t send me back. Please. I don’t want to go…”
“You’re not going back, Jay,” Dick promises. “You’re adopted now, remember? Bruce adopted you and you live here now. You’re never going back to the Cartwrights.”
“No, no…” Jason shakes his head frantically, causing the cloth to slip down onto the pillow. Dick moves it patiently back into place over his brow. “I- I can take care of myself, I swear. Don’t send me back. I don’t wanna go back, I don’t wanna–”
“Jason, look at me.” Dick brushes the hair back from his eyes. “You’re sixteen years old, and you live at Wayne Manor. This is your home—no one is sending you anywhere. Open your eyes and look around, Little Wing. You can do it.”
Jason’s eyes crack open, just the smallest bit. His voice sounds younger than Tim’s ever heard it. “You – You won’t let them take me back?”
Dick answers in a tone of complete sincerity, “Jay, they’d have to kill me first.”
Jason’s crying now, muffled little sobs racking his body as Dick brushes back his hair, shushing him. It’s the first time Tim’s ever seen Jason cry— or, cry like that anyway. He’s suddenly hit with the overwhelming feeling that he’s witnessing something he has no right to see.
Stomach twisting with shame, Tim slips back to his own room and starts getting ready for bed as silently as possible. His mind is still buzzing when he crawls into bed, yet somehow, he’s still out almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.
It all happens so fast.
One minute Tim is sleeping soundly in his bed, and the next his eyes are snapping open and bile is rising in his throat. He barely manages to push himself up to sitting before he’s vomiting half-digested pizza all over his comforter.
It catches him completely off guard. All he can do is sit there, gasping, staring in horror at the mess soaking into the bedspread.
Oh no, Tim thinks, only just now registering how hot and shaky he feels, how his head is throbbing, how his pajamas are clinging to him with sweat. Oh no no no no…
He can’t be sick now. He just can’t. Not when Bruce and Alfred are gone and all he can hear in the back of his mind is Dick telling Jason that if he pukes in his bed he’s cleaning it up himself, followed immediately by Jason telling Dick that he can fuck right off or he’ll aim for him instead. The last thing anyone needs is Tim adding to the chaos.
He needs to fix this. He needs to fix this right now.
Dizzily, he gets to his feet and starts stripping the bed. He’s relieved to find it’s really only the top two covers that have anything on them; he doesn’t even want to think about trying to steam clean a mattress right now. He’s careful to keep the mess contained as he folds all the blankets in on themselves, then gathers the massive ball of bedding into his arms and heads for the laundry room.
It occurs to Tim as he’s descending the stairs that he’s never actually done a load of laundry in his life. He hopes the Waynes’ washing machine is simple enough to puzzle out on his own—he really doesn’t feel like watching a YouTube tutorial right now. His head is pounding and his legs feel like noodles.
He’s about halfway down when his head rushes. He sways and gropes blindly for the banister, only to have his foot catch on the dangling end of one of the blankets he’s carrying. He trips, crashing first against the railing, then rolling barrel-style down the rest of the stairs in a tangle of sheets and limbs.
When he hits the bottom, he just lies there, too stunned to even react.
“Tim?” A door opens somewhere upstairs, and then there are hurried footsteps. The overhead light flicks on. “Oh shit.”
Dick is down the stairs and crouched beside him in seconds. “How far did you fall? Are you hurt anywhere? Don’t try to move just yet.” His hands are already hovering over Tim, ready to assess him for injuries.
Tim shakes his head, opening his mouth to reply that he’s fine, that Dick doesn’t have to worry, that he can go back to sleep, that ironically enough, all the bedding seems to have cushioned his fall. But instead of any of those words, a lump rises in Tim’s throat, and his eyes spill over with tears.
“Why are you being nice to me?”
Dick freezes mid-injury check. “Why am I being nice to you?” He looks puzzled. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I- I just– I mean – with Jason, you said– ” He can’t quite get the words he’s going for out, so he changes course. “I’m sorry. I was gonna clean it up, I swear.”
Dick’s eyes widen a little, seeming to register the vomit-soaked bedding for the first time. His brow furrows as he moves his hand up to feel Tim’s forehead. A moment later, he lets out a soft sigh.
“Oh kiddo…” Dick murmurs, sitting back onto the bottom step. He runs a hand tiredly over his face. “Let’s just sit here and breathe for a minute, alright?”
It ends up being several minutes, but Dick doesn’t rush him. He just sits there, one hand rubbing gently up and down Tim’s shoulder to keep him grounded while Tim lies there struggling to contain his sobs.
It’s nice. It’s so fucking nice, and it makes Tim all the more confused. At least with his parents, he knew what things meant. When they were being mean, they were being mean. When they were being nice, they were being nice. It was simple. It made sense.
The Waynes don’t make any fucking sense.
Only once Tim’s managed to get his breaths back under control does Dick speak.
“I’m really sorry, Tim. This is on me. I should have explained things better.”
Tim gives him a confused look.
“About Jason,” Dick clarifies. He hesitates a moment, then says, “Tim, you know that I care about him, right? That he’s my brother, and I love him?”
“I know,” Tim murmurs. He’s never once doubted that.
“Then you also know that you’re my brother, and that I love and care about you too, right?”
Those words shouldn’t make Tim’s eyes sting as much as they do. He manages a small nod.
“Well, part of loving people sometimes is meeting them where they’re at.” Dick pauses for a moment, clearly choosing his next words carefully. “How much has Jason told you about his life before he came to us?”
Truthfully? Very little.
The broad strokes of Jason’s past are easily found out with a little online digging—dead mother, incarcerated father, a few stints in the foster system, eventually culminating in a life on the streets—but it’s rare that Jason himself offers up any details.
Whenever he does mention something, it seems almost accidental. They’ll be playing GTA together and Jason will let something slip about how he’d once jacked hubcaps off a car that looked exactly like the one on the game, then stupidly bought so many fucking McNuggets with the money that he had to befriend a stray dog three days later just to keep the leftovers from going to waste. Or Tim will suggest a horror movie for them to watch, and Jason will go on a ten-minute rant about how his dad’s stupid henchman friend got cast as an extra in the zombie scene, and how honestly, the gruesome makeup was an upgrade to his usual appearance. Or they’ll see lemon drops at the cash register of a store they’re in, and Jason will comment about how he used to swipe those from the 7-11 because they were the only thing that ever helped his mom’s constant nausea towards the end.
Tim’s learned to just listen and not ask questions when he gets these little glimpses into Jason’s past. Any interaction from Tim tends to spook Jason into clamming up again, like he’d only just realized he shared anything in the first place.
“Not much,” Tim answers honestly.
“Yeah.” Dick sighs. “That sounds about right.”
They’re both quiet for a moment.
Finally, Dick says, “Look, I can’t tell you everything, because it’s not my story to tell. But… growing up the way Jason did taught him a lot. Like, how to keep himself safe when the people and situations around him weren’t. And some of those things that he learned are still really helpful to him. Like, how he can think on his feet and adapt to new situations.
“Bruce spent years training those skills into me back when I was Robin, but Jay?“ He huffs out a short breath. “That kid’s had ‘em since day one.”
(Tim has only to recall Jason sprinting out of the school auditorium after receiving a two-word coded text from him a few months ago to know the truth in that.)
“But, he learned other things too,” Dick goes on. “Like, for example”—he rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly—“uh, how to turn into a little shithead who pushes everyone away the second he starts feeling vulnerable so they can’t take advantage of him.
“See, we’ve tried a lot of things over the years to help Jason understand that he’s safe here—that we’d never use something like an illness against him. But lessons like those can take a long time to unlearn, and in the meanwhile, the only thing that’s ever seemed to work is… well, kind of just meeting him where he’s at.”
Well now Tim feels pathetic. Of course it would make sense that someone who grew up fending for himself every day on the streets would lash out when he’s feeling weak; that’s how he kept himself alive for all those years! Here Tim is falling into hour-long mental spirals over a few go away’s and fuck you’s —most of which weren’t even directed at him—and meanwhile, Jason’s not only feeling like shit, but probably also reliving some of his worst nightmares.
Way to make this about you, Tim…
Dick’s expression softens. “But kiddo, I also have to meet you where you’re at. And, correct me if I’m wrong, but I feel like you and Jason are in really different places right now. And I don’t just mean because he’s safe in bed and you’re lying at the bottom of the stairs having a heart-to-heart with me at three a.m.”
Despite the tears still threatening to fall, Tim can’t help but to choke out a wet little laugh. “Yeah.”
Dick reaches down and squeezes his arm. “You're right. I do treat you two differently,” he admits. “Because if I treated you like I treated Jason, it wouldn’t be what you needed. And if I treated Jason like I’m treating you right now…” He huffs out a short, breathy laugh. “Well, he’d most likely kick me in the nuts and tell me to fuck off.”
Another choked-off laugh escapes Tim’s mouth. Then a thought hits him. “But you did,” he points out. “Before. When he was crying, you…”
He trails off, suddenly remembering the context. Dick winces. “You heard that, huh?”
Tim gives him a guilty look. Dick just sighs.
“Well, there’s an exception to every rule, and delirium is usually it.”
Tim winces. “So… he’s worse today?”
“He’ll be alright,” Dick assures. “His fever just spiked for a bit, but we got it back down again. The flu usually gets worse before it gets better.” He frowns, like something’s just occurred to him. “Speaking of which, we should probably get you back to bed, huh?”
“Yeah, probably,” Tim admits. He wasn’t going to say anything, since they were kind of having a moment and all, but it’s actually getting pretty cold down here on the floor. It’s been taking Tim quite a bit of self-control to keep from shivering.
Carefully, Dick helps him to sit up. The change in elevation makes Tim’s head feel floaty.
“Are you hurt anywhere?” Dick asks him again.
“I’m fine,” Tim says automatically.
Dick shakes his head. “No, I want you to actually think about it. Now that the shock’s worn off and you can feel it.”
So Tim takes stock for a moment. Honestly, most of his body feels sore, but it’s hard to tell how much is just from being sick and achy and how much is from his fall. His head hurts pretty bad, but it’s more in the general pounding-full-pressure way than the blunt force trauma way, so he’s pretty sure he didn’t hit it.
“I guess, just like… here? A little?” He gestures to an area on his back, which he’d smacked pretty hard into the banister when he first fell. “But I think it’s just bruised.”
“Can I see?”
Tim nods, so Dick shifts around and lifts the back of his shirt up a little. The rush of cold air makes Tim shiver.
“Yeah, you’re definitely going to have a bruise there,” Dick muses after a few moments of careful prodding with his fingertips and asking Tim what hurts and what doesn’t. “Doesn’t look too bad, though. I can get you some ice if you want.”
Tim’s whole body shudders at the thought. “No thanks,” he declines, teeth chattering. “I'm really cold.”
Dick smiles sympathetically. “Yeah, that would be the fever.” He flips his hand around to press first to the back of Tim’s neck, then against his cheek. “Let’s just get you to bed.”
That turns out to be easier said than done. Tim’s knees give out almost the second he’s hoisted to his feet. It’s only Dick’s firm grip on his arm that keeps him from crumpling right back to the floor.
“Whoa, okay, plan B.”
Before Tim knows what’s happening, he’s being lifted up and balanced on Dick’s hip, one leg wrapped around each side and an arm under him for support.
“Uh,” Tim says, dumbfounded. He can’t even remember the last time someone carried him like this—like an actual toddler. He had to have been, like, four years old. Tops.
“It’s the smoothest ride,” Dick says. He starts climbing the stairs, Tim clinging on to him like some kind of feverish koala. “You threw up tonight. This is purely tactical.”
“Right,” Tim murmurs as they make their way up, too dazed to offer anything more.
Dick takes him to the bathroom first so he can get cleaned up and rinse his mouth out. He’s expecting to be ushered back to his own room after, so he’s confused when Dick leads him toward the master suite instead.
The confusion only grows when he sees Jason curled up on the far end of the massive bed, fast asleep.
“Is he okay?” Tim whispers.
“He’s fine. His fever broke around midnight,” Dick murmurs, helping Tim climb up onto the empty side of the mattress and pulling the covers over him. Jason stirs a little, but doesn’t wake at the movement. “I didn’t feel like changing his sheets, so I just dumped him in here.”
Given the bowl of water and washcloths on the nightstand, and the way Dick’s own pillow and comforter have somehow migrated into the reclining chair beside the bed, Tim feels like there might be more to that story than he’s letting on. But honestly? He’s too cold and tired to care.
His eyelids are already drooping as Dick unfolds the extra blanket from the foot of the bed. He shakes it out and drapes it over Tim, tucking him in.
Tim stays awake just long enough to swallow a little cupful of cherry Tylenol and a few sips of water before succumbing to unconsciousness once more.
The rest of Tim’s night passes in an uncomfortable haze of sleeping and waking. At some point Dick checks his temperature with an ear thermometer, then cruelly removes the extra blanket, ignoring Tim’s whines of protest. Later, Dick and Jason are speaking to each other in hushed voices. Tim is able to pick out his name coming up a few times, which normally would be enough to pique his interest, but not even curiosity can win out over exhaustion tonight. He drifts away again.
When Tim wakes for real to sunlight peeking through the gaps in the blinds, the room is empty and he can hear the shower going in the ensuite. His head aches in the dehydrated way, but sitting up long enough to take a sip from the bottle on the nightstand seems like a monumental task, so he just tugs the blankets a little tighter around his chin and rests his eyes a little longer.
Minutes pass—five, ten maybe?—before the shower turns off. The bathroom door opens shortly thereafter and Jason emerges with a cloud of steam.
Tim blinks lazily at him.
Jason blinks back. “Hey. You’re awake.”
“Allegedly,” Tim murmurs, and Jason snorts a little.
He crosses the room and flops down on his back beside Tim on the mattress with a heavy sigh. “Sorry I got you sick.”
Tim shrugs listlessly. “Might not have been you. Something’s been going around at school.”
Jason pokes his head up, one eyebrow raised. “Oh yeah? Where’d you hear that? Horticulture Club, or Student Council?”
Tim’s cheeks burn in a way that has nothing to do with his current fever. “I never lied.”
Another snort. “Sure, Tim.”
They both lie there for a minute, staring up at the spinning ceiling fan. Tim's glad for it because it’s kind of stuffy in here, but watching it spin is making him a little dizzy. He lets his eyes drift back closed.
He’s almost asleep again when Jason breaks the spell.
“Sorry for being a jerk, too.”
Now Tim’s awake. And frowning. “You weren’t being a jerk exactly…”
“No, I definitely was,” Jason says, scoffing. “You were just trying to help, and I knew that. I fucking knew that. But I was just… I dunno, like, anxious or whatever. But I took it out on you and it wasn’t fair and I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Tim says quickly. “It’s fine, you don’t have to–”
“No it’s not,” Jason snaps at him. “It was shitty and I knew it was shitty, and I shouldn’t have done it, so you’re going to let me fucking apologize, alright?”
Tim just blinks at him.
“Aw, fuck…” Jason rubs a hand over his face, seeming to deflate. “Fuck, Timmy, I’m sorry. I’m not good at this.”
“I know,” Tim says simply.
There’s another stretch of silence.
Maybe it’s the lingering fever, or maybe it’s the lack of sleep, but before Tim really decides to say anything, his lips are forming a question. “Can I ask you something?”
Jason glances over sideways at him. “Shoot.”
“Who are the Cartwrights?”
Jason’s expression changes a few times, from surprise, to confusion, and eventually landing in something like a scowl. “What did Dick tell you?” he demands.
“Nothing,” Tim says quickly. “I just… I heard you talking about them. Um, when you were really sick. And— yeah. I just wondered who they were.”
There’s a pause as Jason looks at him scrutinizingly. It’s the kind of gaze that would make Tim squirm if he had any energy to spare.
(He doesn’t, though, so he just kind of lies there.)
Eventually, Jason sighs. “Well, according to my old social worker, they were one of the best foster families in Gotham.” He huffs out a short, bitter laugh. “So good, in fact, that after I ran away, she sent me back to get the shit kicked out of me again. Twice.”
Tim winces. He definitely shouldn’t have asked. “Sorry.”
Jason waves a hand dismissively. “Whatever. I owed you one.”
They’re both quiet for another minute or so.
Tim turns his head to look at the recliner—empty now, other than a pillow and blanket. “Where’s Dick?” he asks curiously.
Jason snorts. “Bathroom.” He jerks his head towards the ensuite. “He insisted on playing lifeguard while I showered—which is hilarious, seeing as the dude was conked out on the floor by the time I was washing the shampoo out.”
It takes a second for Tim to wrap his addled brain around Jason’s words. “Wait… he’s asleep in there?”
Jason hums affirmatively. “All scrunched up in the corner, like a narcoleptic pretzel in timeout.”
Tim blinks. Twice. “Should we do something?”
“What, like carry him? That ain’t happening—the guy’s pure muscle, it’s like lifting a rock,” Jason scoffs. “Nah, I threw a towel over him. He’ll find his way back when he’s ready.”
‘When Dick’s ready’ ends up being one and a half episodes of Top Gear later. He wanders out of the bathroom, hair mussed and dark circles under his eyes.
“How was your nap, Baywatch?” Jason quips.
“Ugh.” Dick flops down face first across the foot of the bed with a groan.
Jason prods him irritably with his foot. “Move. Your protruding ass is blocking my view of the McLaren.”
Dick flips him off and shifts so his butt is sticking up even higher. Jason chucks a pillow at him.
(It might just be the lack of energy, but Tim doesn’t mind their antics so much today.)
They all lie there for a while, watching a bunch of middle-aged British men race cars around a track. Tim doesn’t really get Jason’s fascination with this show, but it beats Chopped, which had been making Tim feel nauseous.
“We should go make your beds,” Dick mumbles after a while. “So we’re not stuck in here all day…”
Both boys hum vaguely in agreement.
Absolutely no one moves.
Three hours later, Dick opens his eyes to Bruce smoothing his hair back away from his eyes, Tim and Jason still sound asleep. Bruce’s voice is low, more a rumble than a whisper.
“Thank you, chum.”
“Y’r welcome,” Dick murmurs blearily. “Glad you’re back.”
Then he rolls over to the edge of the bed and vomits neatly into the trash can.
It’s alright. His dad’s home now.
He's tapping the fuck out.