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Tim groaned and tried to curl up tighter, shoving a hand under his shirt to rest on his stomach. It was probably a placebo, but the warmth seemed to ease the stabbing pains a tiny bit, and Tim would take what he could get. He wished he had a heating pad or—even better—painkillers, but something inside him shriveled up and died at the thought of getting up and going to get either. Standing? Not happening. Tim was going to lie here possibly for the rest of his life, and he was fine with that.
He didn’t know why it hurt so bad. He hadn’t felt this miserable since the first time, ten and whimpering alone in his house, pulling on dark jeans and dragging himself downtown to buy supplies because there were none in the house—none for Tim, at least, because the master bed and bath were kept under lock and key when the Drakes were gone and they would know if Tim picked the lock and they wouldn’t be pleased. (The cashier had remarked that he was a good friend, though, because she assumed Tim was buying the pads for someone else and not himself, and that had been enough to make him float home.)
Maybe it was the frustration making it worse: this was his first full month on testosterone, and he’d been praying that nothing would happen as he counted down the days, but his body hated him and insisted on tormenting him forever and ever so it had come early instead, while Tim was with the Titans, while he was working. Whoever said that exercise helped with cramps was a liar, because every muscle in Tim’s body was conspiring against him.
He wanted to not be alone, to have someone there to rub his back and pet his hair and make him hot chocolate—Tim had spent a childhood alone, he should be used to this, but nearly a year of kind-of sort-of family had spoiled him, softened the calluses built up on his heart. Being alone hadn’t been so bad when he hadn’t known anything else. It was harder to swallow now.
Bruce had told him to text if anything happened, if he needed help, but…
Tim didn’t need help. He wasn’t injured or in danger. He was fine. His insides were turning themselves inside out, but he was fine.
He wasn’t about to waste Batman or Nightwing’s time because his tummy hurt. They would come if he called, but—they would be disappointed. They would know how weak he was, how unfit he was to be Robin, how undeserving. Pathetic. Embarrassing.
Tim squeezed his eyes shut. Everything was fine.
Tim woke up to the sound of the Tower announcing an entry. He shifted, winced, and rubbed his eyes—was someone back? He thought he was supposed to have the Tower to himself tonight—had been banking on it—but maybe whoever it was would bring Tim Ibuprofen and/or put him out of his misery. He wasn’t picky.
The footsteps Tim could hear echoing through the hallway were…unfamiliar.
Not good news.
Not good timing.
Tim struggled to push himself up, but pain bloomed white-hot inside him and he had to grit his teeth to keep from gasping. The footsteps were coming closer. Hunting him down.
A shadow appeared in the door. The glint of a red helmet.
“Replacement,” the Red Hood sneered. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”
Tim grimaced. His hands were clammy. “Could you wait, like, four more days, maybe?” he mumbled. His hands were trembling, too, but he figured that was the fear.
A helmet couldn’t frown, but Tim swore Hood frowned. “The fuck’s wrong with you,” he said, flat through the modulation. “You dying?”
“Ha,” Tim said. “I wish.”
“No, really,” Hood said, stepping into the room. “What the hell happened?”
Tim stared—what did the Red Hood care what happened to him? “I’m a superhero,” he said dryly. “Getting beat up’s part of the deal. Case in point,” he added, giving Hood a once-over.
“And Batman let you stay here, all by yourself, after you got your ass handed to you?” Hood took another step closer.
Tim snorted. “What Batman doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
Hood’s gloved hands formed fists at his sides. “Maybe not,” he growled, “but it will hurt you, baby bird. Are you trying to get yourself killed? One dead Robin not enough for you?”
“Don’t,” Tim snarled. “Don’t you dare bring him into this. You have no right to talk about him.” Hood took half a step back, and Tim thought he seemed…startled? Surprised? “I’m fine,” Tim said—he spared a glance at Hood’s holsters and added, “For now.”
“You’re fine,” Hood repeated. Oh, the voice modulator did sarcasm. That was great to know. “Alright, if you’re fine, then stand up, Timmy.”
Tim blinked—that was his civilian name in the Red Hood’s mouth, and no one but Dick had ever called him Timmy—but Hood’s hand went to his hip, and Tim, in the interest of dodging a bullet, obeyed and staggered to his feet.
On second thought, nope, Tim should’ve chosen the bullet. He managed to stay upright for all of three seconds before he sank down again, another cramp stabbing through his side and stealing his breath. “Jesus fuck,” he gasped, pressing a hand to his stomach.
“That’s what I thought,” Hood said, sounding—smug. “What is it? Shot, stabbed, skewered, scraped, smashed…” Holy alliteration, Batman! Tim thought, followed by, I might be spending too much time with Dick.
“None of the above.”
“Kid, if you tell me you’re fine one m—”
“Nothing happened! It’s cramps, alright?” Tim snapped, cheeks hot. “Just…cramps. Really, really bad cramps.”
“…oh,” said the Red Hood.
Tim huffed. “Yeah. Not dying. Sorry to disappoint.”
“Um,” said the Red Hood. “Painkillers still in the cabinet in the medbay?” When Tim stared at him, because what and huh, he grunted. “Alright, I’ll go check for myself. Don’t move,” he called over his shoulder as he turned to go, as if Tim could.
Was Tim dreaming? Was Tim? If Hell was real and it was a crime lord playing nursemaid for Tim for eternity, Tim was—Tim was disappointed in God, frankly.
Red Hood (the Red Hood) came back five minutes later with a clenched fist and a cup. Tim hadn’t moved, though that was less compliance and more a matter of practicality. “Take these,” Hood ordered, stomping up to Tim with his hand outstretched. Tim held out his own hand, bewildered, and Hood opened his fist to let two pills fall into Tim’s palm. He pressed the cup into Tim’s other hand. “Drink up, baby bird.”
Tim sniffed at the cup, which smelled…like water. The pills were the familiar bright orange of Ibuprofen. “Wh…what the fuck,” Tim whispered. “You’re Red Hood. Why is Red Hood bringing me painkillers.”
Hood huffed and reached up, fiddling with the underside of his hood before he pulled it up and off. Dark helmet-pressed hair fell down over Hood’s forehead, a streak of white hanging over one eye. One narrowed blue-green eye. Freckles scattered on the bridge of a crooked nose. A scar interrupting the stubble on his jaw. Tim had watched a switchblade give Robin that scar when he was nine, a lifetime ago.
“Jason?”
(Jason was alive.)
Jason crooked a smile. “Hey, Replacement. You gonna take the damn pills or what?”
(Jason was the Red Hood.)
Tim took the damn pills.
(Jason was…taking care of Tim?)
Jason nodded his satisfaction. “Drink the rest of that water, too,” he added, scrunching his face. “You look dehydrated.”
“Dehydrated’s not a look,” Tim mumbled, but he finished the cup because Jason wasn’t wrong.
“Better now?” Jason asked, snagging the empty cup back. Tim shrugged—it hadn’t even been a minute, the Ibuprofen hadn’t kicked in, but…he did feel better, because he wasn’t alone, because Jason was here.
(Red Hood, one part of his brain whispered, while the other said Robin, over and over.)
“Alright, baby bird.” Jason clapped his hands. “What else do you need?”
“…else?”
Jason rolled his eyes. “Yes, Replacement, what else. What helps? What do you usually do?”
“Usually do?”
Frustration flickered over Jason’s face. “Damnit, kid, are you a Robin or a parrot?” He took a deep breath. “Look, when mine were really bad, me and B would—he’d keep this chocolate brownie ice cream in the freezer for me and if I brought it out that meant everything sucked so he had to drop what he was doing and eat it on the couch with me while we watched stupid History Channel shark shows,” he said in a rush. “What’s that for you?”
“Oh,” Tim said, “that explains the gross freezer burnt Ben & Jerry’s. I was wondering.”
“Wh—” Jason sucked in a sharp breath. “It’s still there?”
“A new one shows up every few months, but I’ve never seen anyone touch it. I asked Alfred about it once and he looked so sad I had to leave the room.”
Jason made a strangled noise. “Bruce,” he whispered. “What the fuck.” He shook his head. “Whatever. This ain’t about him. Or me. What’s your thing, Timmy?”
Tim shrugged. “I don’t…have one?”
“What do you mean you don’t have one.”
“Feels self-explanatory to me.”
“Coping mechanisms?” Jason raised an incredulous eyebrow. “You don’t have any? What the hell do you do every month?”
“Ignore it?” Tim shrugged again. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Baby bird, you can’t stand.”
“It’s not—it doesn’t get this bad every time,” Tim said, defensive. “I mean…it hurts, yeah, and sometimes I get dizzy or tired or throw up a little, but it’s never hurt this bad before.”
Jason buried his face in his hands. “Oh my God,” he said, faint. “Where did Bruce find you?”
“I showed up in the Batcave and blackmailed him?”
Jason’s hands dropped. “You what?”
“Um.” Tim flushed. “I told him I knew who he was and he had to have a Robin again or I’d tell? I wasn’t going to,” he added hastily. “I just—I just didn’t want him to go out one night and not come back ‘cause he didn’t have anybody with him and he didn’t think he had anything to come home to. Gotham needs Batman, and Batman needs a Robin.”
“…God, you fit right in, don’t you?” Jason cocked his head. “Smug self-sacrificing little shit who’s too smart for his own good, and you’re trans? Never let it be said B doesn’t have a type.” He cringed and corrected, “I mean, in kids—fuck, no, that’s worse—you know what I mean. Platonically. A…a son type.”
“I’m not his son.”
“You’re his Robin,” Jason said, as if that refuted what Tim had said.
“I have parents.” On paper, Tim didn’t say. Haven’t seen them since February, and I don’t remember what continent they’re on at the moment, but I do have them, Tim didn’t say. I wish Bruce was my dad, Tim didn’t say.
Jason squinted. “Something’s up with them, though?”
“How—” Tim snapped his mouth shut. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” An Oscar-worthy performance from Tim Drake, everyone.
Jason snorted. “Alright, kid, save it for someone who wasn’t trained by the Big Bat. Bruce know what’s going on?”
“…yeah,” Tim admitted. “He knows. He says I can’t stay in my house on my own anymore. He…” Tim swallowed. Bruce drove him to school (because Gotham Academy was on the way to Wayne Enterprises), and Bruce never got mad when Tim checked on him in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep or had a nightmare (he only grunted and rolled over and pulled back the blankets to make room for Tim if he wanted to climb in), and Bruce listened when Tim rambled on and on and never interrupted and asked questions when Tim paused, and Bruce ruffled Tim’s hair and cupped his cheeks and kissed his forehead, and— holy shit Bruce was his dad.
Jason shot him a shark grin. “You seeing the light, baby bird? I bet you anything there’s a set of adoption papers in Bruce’s office with your name on them.”
“Tonight is… so weird,” Tim mumbled. “I have a dad. I mean, I—I had a dad, but…I have a real one. Does that make Dick my brother?” His eyes darted up. “Does that make you my brother?”
Something complicated and concerning happened on Jason’s face, settling on a grimace. “Kid,” he said. “I…you know I came here to clip your wings, right?”
Did Jason think Tim was dumb? “Yeah, but…you didn’t,” Tim said, matching Jason’s soft slow voice. “You haven’t touched me. What you did do is you got me Ibuprofen and therapeutized me. I’m fine, Jason. Not a feather out of place.”
“I’m…not safe,” Jason gritted out like the words hurt. “I—I can’t control myself, Tim. I’m not…I didn’t come back right. I’m broken.”
“Okay,” Tim said, “and?”
Jason’s eyes snapped to Tim’s, flaring green. Oh. That kind of not right. Tim’s fingers twitched. He needed to research. “And?” Jason repeated, scathing with disbelief. “I could rip you apart, Replacement. I could make you hurt. I could—I could—I could kill you. And part of me would enjoy it.”
Tim did not flinch, because he was Robin, because he was Tim, because this was Jason. “You need help,” Tim said. “We’ll get you help. We’ll take care of you, Jason. You’re—you’re family.”
Jason’s eyes shut. When they opened, they were sea-green. “No fair,” Jason said, only somewhat strangled. “I’m the big brother, Timmy. I’m supposed to take care of you.”
Tim grinned. “Turnabout’s fair play, Jay. We can take care of each other. That’s what family’s for, right?”
Jason’s smile was small and warm and perfect. “Right. I guess that works.” He sobered, a scowl on his mouth. “Now, I’m frankly ashamed that you don’t have your own chocolate brownie ice cream, or whatever it is for you, so you and me are gonna go home and get you sorted out, okay?”
Jason held out a hand, and Tim took it: Jason’s warm rough palm against his, calluses on calluses. “Sounds like a plan.”