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Tim’s knuckles were bleeding.
The right hand wrapping came undone fifteen minutes ago. The left one was hanging on, but there were red spots flicked across the white wrap, and it was wet from sweat.
He kicked the fallen wrapping out of the way and punched again.
It was the middle of the night, probably four or five, and long past when everyone went to bed. Even Bruce had turned in hours ago. Tim had gone up to his room at the manor at two, but his thoughts had spun and spun and he’d been drowning and—
Punching helped.
So he came back down to the cave, begrudgingly wrapped his hands, and ignored the fact that he was wearing a hoodie and a binder and still didn’t look completely flat.
If he didn’t ignore it, he’d get swallowed in the wave of disgust and anger he felt at the fact that he had to wear a binder at all, that he had a chest, that he couldn’t just grab one of Damian’s swords and chop off the twin blobs of fat that tried desperately to remind his mind he wasn’t normal.
Punching and ignoring. Losing himself in the rhythm of it. Hitting the bag so hard it made his wrists ache and the bag swing wildly, nobody there to hold it for him.
Not that he wanted anybody there. If they were, they’d try to talk to him, and he’d probably just start screaming until he went hoarse.
Honestly, Tim wasn’t sure if he was even using proper form anymore. He’d started that way, but he tended to get sloppy after a little while, and it’d been at least thirty minutes since he’d started. His binder was biting into his ribs and breathing was a little difficult. Keeping his feet planted wasn’t his biggest priority.
With a particularly hard right hook, he staggered back out of the way of the bag's swing, then punched again. His knuckles were stinging painfully.
He knew he ought to call someone. Dick would gladly listen to him. Bruce was right upstairs, and he’d hold him and let him cry his eyes out if that was what he wanted to do. Damian and Duke were Tim’s little brothers and they shouldn’t be burdened with his shit, but they were home, too. Alfred would probably be glad to bandage up Tim’s hands for him. Cass or Steph. Even Babs.
Hell, even Jason had offered once to give Tim one of his guns and let him shoot some old cans if he ever needed to get out of his own head for a while.
He had options.
One of which was staying right there in the cave and slamming his fists against the bag until something broke.
Probably his ring finger, based off the way it was already throbbing.
And he knew it was probably a good idea to get his hands cleaned and bandaged, because there was definitely grime on the bag he was punching, which meant there was stuff getting into his newly split knuckles. An infection on his knuckles would be a hell of a thing to deal with without a spleen.
Instead, Tim threw all of his weight into his next hit and reveled in the sound of the bag’s chain rattling.
He briefly considered not even stepping out of the way when the bag swung back. Then he did, but it was close.
It would’ve hit him square in the chest. Not even in the stomach, because he was fucking short, just another genetic luck of the draw that made him feel so Goddamn wrong in his own body.
Both Janet and Jack had been fairly tall, so it wasn’t even something that Tim could logic his dysphoria into a box about and slam the lid on. It was just unfair. Wrong. Stupid.
The next punch sent a ripple of pain up Tim’s wrist, into his elbow, and he yelped.
Normally, that would’ve been it. The second training or sparring started to hurt, they were supposed to tap out, hang it up. Take a quick break and see if it was just a fluke or if they needed to be done. The split knuckles were bad enough, but actually hurting his wrist was definitely a no-go.
Tim took two quick breaths, rolled his shoulders. Struck out with his other hand.
He wasn’t following any of the other cave safety rules, why would he follow that one?
Maybe his body ought to feel pain for all of the stupid shit it was doing to his head. Maybe the pain would distract him enough later, after he went upstairs and showered and tried to make it look like he’d actually slept some. Maybe he’d get through the day without crying at himself in the bathroom.
By the time Tim heard the footsteps behind him, he’d fallen back into a decent rhythm. Punch, punch, breathe, punch, punch, breathe.
Someone said something, Tim was pretty sure, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn around. Couldn’t focus on anything but the bag in front of him without it all falling apart. And if he turned, whoever it was would see his beaten up hands and try to stop him.
His momentum was necessary.
More footsteps. Fainter.
Good.
Hopefully, it’d just been Jason or someone else who wouldn’t give enough of a shit to tattle on him to Alfred. Tim wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle Alfred’s disappointment, or God forbid, concern tonight.
He didn’t want to stop and he didn’t want sympathy and he didn’t want his fucking body to be this fucking feminine.
What he wouldn’t give to be like Bruce or Jason. They were built like tanks. Nobody would ever look at them and hesitate before saying “sir” or “mr.”
Even Dick’s body type would be better. He was leaner, sure, but at least Dick didn’t have a chest or hips like Tim did. Dick was only five-foot-ten, which wasn’t super tall, but it was better than Tim’s five-six. And Dick didn’t have periods or have to worry about how long he’d had his binder on or whether or not his hair was getting so long that it’d make him want to curl up in a pile on the floor.
Hell, Dick’s hair was longer than Cass’, and he seemed to love it. Tim would trade his spleen again for the ability to grow out his hair without that pit in his chest that whispered that he was a fake, that if he were really trans, he’d have cut it.
If Tim got started on how he’d seen Duke wear a skirt, looking utterly comfortable and confident? He was pretty sure he’d start bawling.
Tim whipped his fist against the bag at just the thought of putting on a dress or a skirt or heels.
Dudes could pull that off and it didn’t make them any less a man. Trans dudes could wear whatever the fuck they wanted and still be a man.
It was just…Tim couldn’t.
He felt like a fraud.
He felt wrong.
Tim’s muddled, angry, bitter thoughts were cut off by footsteps bouncing off stone.
It must be Alfred. Only Alfred would be up so late—or early, maybe—in the cave.
Part of Tim said to just pause, be quiet, let whoever it was pass through without noticing him. But the rest screamed against the idea, and he couldn’t resist. He lashed out with a too-tight fist.
The bag rocketed backwards, wobbling dangerously.
“Tim,” a deep voice cut through the room.
Shit.
Bruce.
Instead of turning, Tim punched harder, knowing the jig was just about up. He had maybe thirty seconds before Bruce physically ripped him away from the bag.
And he would be right to, Tim knew that somewhere deep down.
That didn’t stop the red-hot rage in his chest.
He added in a spin-kick to his next move, just as a particular fuck you, then drove his right fist directly into the heart of the bag.
Something snapped.
Tim gasped, vision going blurrily white for a second.
When his knees gave out, Bruce was there, grabbing his shoulder and his back, but that only made Tim cry out again. His binder was cutting into his ribs and he couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t breathe.
“Easy,” Bruce said, “easy, son, just let me—”
Tim’s back hit the cold cave floor.
A hand pressed on his shoulders, forcing them to untense, then his legs, making them stretch out. He was laying down.
The cold was seeping in through Tim’s hoodie. The combination of that and the ridiculous amount of sweat felt gross, but Tim couldn’t do anything about it, too busy gasping for air.
“Are you wearing your binder?” Bruce asked.
Tim shook his head, not entirely sure what he was saying no to. His head felt foggy.
“Timothy Jackson,” Bruce said, leaning in closer and putting two fingers on Tim’s shoulder. A grounding weight. “Are you wearing your binder?”
“Yes.” Tim rasped.
“You have to take it off so you can get more air.”
This time, when he shook his head, Tim knew exactly why. “No. No, can’t—”
“This isn’t a request. I’ll turn around and you can put your hoodie right back on, but I won’t have you blacking out from oxygen deprivation.”
“No—”
“Robin. That’s an order,” Bruce said, and between the Batman voice and the lack of oxygen, Tim’s brain kicked into autopilot, moving his body before Bruce’d even finished the word.
It was a struggle to sit up enough to tug off the hoodie. It had his binder pinching him painfully, and when he moved his right hand, a flare of pain made him gasp.
“Are you alright?” Bruce asked.
Tim nodded, before realizing that Bruce had actually turned away, and managed to say, “yeah. Just…gimme a sec.”
“I’m here if you need help.”
The hoodie fell into a heap on Tim’s lap.
He tended to wear longer binders, ones that felt more like a tank top, since the shorter ones felt too much like a bra. He was regretting it now that he was trying to squirm out of it with stinging knuckles, a probably broken finger, and a head that felt like it’d gone through a mixer.
But eventually, he managed to get his left hand under his right armpit and tug the binder up, then used that to get it off his left side. Then he shrugged it the rest of the way off and onto the floor.
The next breath he took was easier.
He shut his eyes and pulled his hoodie back on one-handed.
“Okay,” Tim said quietly.
A shuffling sound, and then a hand on his arm, guiding him back down to the floor. He crossed his arms over himself and dug his fingers into his shoulders.
“I need to clean your hands,” Bruce said. “Do you want to do that here or in the medbay?”
Tim took a deep breath. “Medbay.”
If he kept laying there, chest up and binder off, he was pretty sure he was going to puke.
That might’ve been the exhaustion, though.
He expected Bruce to gently help him stand, so Tim pried his eyes open and held up his left hand, but was cut off by arms slipping under his knees and behind his back.
“You don’t—” Tim started.
“Tim.” Bruce said, grip tightening.
Oh.
That wasn’t a good tone.
That was Bruce’s strained, worried, tired voice that tended to come out after long nights waiting for one of his kids to wake up from a bad injury.
Tim hadn’t thought he’d done that much damage to himself.
Or maybe he hadn’t, and it was the to himself part that had Bruce freaked out.
Either way, Tim stayed silent as they headed across the cave to the medbay, where Bruce used his elbow to flick on the lights before setting Tim gingerly on one of the beds.
Bruce set the binder on the table at the end of the bed and headed for the cabinets, probably to get whatever he’d need to clean Tim’s hands. Tim just stared at the white medbay tile and ran through the first breathing exercise he could grasp at.
Inhale.
…
Hold.
…
Exhale.
He got through it three and a half times before Bruce reappeared to gently take his left hand.
“I’m going to unwrap your hand, Tim. It’s probably going to hurt.” Bruce warned.
Tim nodded.
As carefully as he could, Bruce took the wrapping off, but the bottom layer stuck to the drying blood and yanked painfully. Tim bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from flinching.
Bruce did flinch, even if it was just a Batflinch. Barely noticeable. But he quickly moved on and tossed the wrapping aside before taking a cotton ball from the small package he’d brought over.
“And this one’s going to be worse. Tell me if you need a break.”
Another nod.
This time, Tim couldn’t help but let out a quick hiss at the cold sting.
He almost tapped out, but he knew that it would have to get done eventually to prevent an infection, so he just focused on his breathing again and tried to ignore the cotton dabbing at his busted knuckles.
It was over sooner than Tim had expected. Bruce wrapped up the clean hand in bandages and secured them carefully.
“Tim.” Bruce put two fingers on Tim’s knee, touching him just enough to make sure he had Tim’s attention. “I’m fairly confident you broke your finger with that last punch. I’m not going to do an x-ray tonight, not just for a finger, but this is going to hurt. Do you want anything?”
“No.” Tim managed.
“Not even just a normal painkiller?”
“That’ll…take time to kick in. Wanna be done.”
With a reluctant nod, Bruce took his right hand and gently uncurled it from the fist Tim had kept it in since the snap by the bag. Even with the incredibly slow movements Bruce was making, it still radiated pain all the way up Tim’s wrist and into his arm. He whimpered pitifully.
Dick wouldn’t have been bothered, Tim’s brain told him. Him, Jason, and Bruce could probably splint it solo.
“Fuck off.” Tim mumbled.
“Excuse me?”
Tim glanced up to find Bruce staring at him, eyebrows furrowed, obviously torn between concern and mild offense. With a shake of his head, Tim said, “not you. My head. It’s…dysphoria’s a bitch.”
“...ah.”
They sat in silence as Bruce finished up with Tim’s right hand. He wrapped the broken ring finger to the middle finger, then gently cleaned Tim’s knuckles, and bandaged that too.
Once Bruce stepped back and began cleaning up, Tim sighed.
“Alfred will want to look at your ribs tomorrow. You’re not in nearly enough pain for anything to be broken there, but if they’re even slightly bruised, you’ll have to lay off the binder for a little while,” Bruce said remarkably softly. It made Tim’s stomach plunge anyway. “But for tonight, I’m satisfied just knowing you didn’t puncture a lung. What were you thinking, Tim?”
Whatever Tim had said earlier about Alfred’s disappointment and concern?
Forget it. This was so much worse.
Tim ducked his head.
“I don’t…I wasn’t.” He admitted. “Was trying not to think at all.”
Silence.
A small sigh, and then Bruce said, “Duke was worried. He came down to grab the physics paper he’d been working on yesterday and found you ‘punching the shit out of the heavy bag like a fucking Kryptonian,’ Tim. He had to wake me up because he was wary of getting near you.”
“Sorry,” Tim said quietly.
He hadn’t been trying to scare his little brother. It wasn’t on purpose.
Though…the fact that it was late enough in the morning that Duke had come to get his schoolwork made Tim a little scared for himself, too. How long had he even been hitting that bag?
“I’m not trying to lecture you. Tim…Duke isn’t the only one you’re worrying, son.”
“Sorry.”
Bruce made a small, frustrated noise, and Tim moved to pull his knees to his chest, but Bruce stopped him. “No. You need to stay stretched out. Breathe.”
He paused for a moment. They sat there, silently breathing, until Bruce put his hand to the bridge of his nose.
“Did something happen? On patrol? You seemed fine when you went upstairs.”
Tim shook his head uselessly.
“Nightmare?”
Another shake of his head.
“Tim. Talk to me.”
“Thought you wanted me to breathe,” Tim said, mouth dry and wrong, like he’d inhaled smoke.
Bruce made a stern face at him, but Tim just closed his eyes and tucked his head to the side.
“I don’t know, Bruce. I’m just…it’s one of those nights, I guess. Got caught up in my own head. Like I said, dysphoria’s a bitch.”
“We’ve talked about that. You’re supposed to get me, or call Dick, or someone. You’re not supposed to come down to the cave and rip your hands apart. That’s not healthy, Tim.”
“Nothing about this is healthy,” Tim said. He let out a bitter laugh. “I don’t—”
He cut himself off and wrapped his arms around his middle, ignoring the painful twinge from his right hand and the way closing his hands at all made his knuckles sting.
“I know.” Bruce softened his voice and crouched, putting his hands on Tim’s knees.
“You don’t. How could you possibly know, B?”
Tim’s eyes stung, and when Bruce reached up to brush his thumb over Tim’s cheek, Tim didn’t stop him. “You’re right, son. I don’t know how you’re feeling. But I know you’re not doing it on purpose, and I know it’s not fair of me to get upset at you for trying to escape your own head, especially not when you showed some semblance of restraint. You could’ve easily headed out as Red Robin, where you wouldn’t have gotten away with a broken finger and busted knuckles.”
“Low fucking bar,” Tim said, voice trembling. “I didn’t die. Great.”
Only when Bruce flinched back did Tim think about Jason, about how he did run away, how he did die, even if it was for a very different reason.
“Sorry.” He whispered.
“It’s fine.” Bruce closed his eyes. “Tim, I’m not going to force you to make a promise you can’t keep, but please. Next time something like this happens, try and come get me. Or send a text. Something.”
“…I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask.”
He stepped back after that, silently leading Tim out of the medbay and up the stairs, and leaving the binder on the table for Alfred to wash.
Outside, through the gap in the heavy curtains in Bruce’s study, it looked like dawn. Barely enough light to cut through Gotham’s early morning mist.
The manor was blissfully silent.
He wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to handle running into anyone else.
“Tim,” Bruce said quietly. Tim dragged his heavy eyes away from the window, settling them on Bruce’s shoulder. He couldn’t quite bring himself to look him in the eyes. “You didn’t get any sleep tonight, did you?”
A small shake of his head.
“Okay. I’m going to go to the kitchen to get you some painkillers. I want you to go to the den and lay down, alright?”
Clearing his throat, Tim said, “I can go back to my room, B. It’s not…”
“I’d feel better if you weren’t alone,” Bruce said.
Tim let out a small sigh.
“Okay.”
He watched Bruce vanish into the hallway, then took another glance around the study.
Now that he wasn’t moving, that he’d had a moment for the adrenaline and sweat to die down, Tim’s limbs felt heavy. His chest ached.
It was overwhelming, in one of those distant, I-don’t-know-what’s-happening sort of ways, even though Tim could catalog every bit of damage he’d done to himself. He didn’t know which part of his body hurt more or what to do to fix it.
But Bruce was right. Laying down was a good idea.
The den just…it felt really far, all of a sudden.
Tim staggered over to Bruce’s plush, faux-leather couch, dropping down onto one of the cushions and burying his face in his hands.
His hair was wet from sweat. His face felt tacky and weird. The hoodie was too hot, but the thought of changing into anything lighter made Tim’s eyes prickle and his breath come a little faster, so he just sat there without doing a thing.
He was so fucked up.
Sitting back and letting the back of his head hit the wall with a dull thunk, Tim stared at the popcorn ceiling.
Alfred hated it. He’d always said if he’d renovate anything in the manor, it would be those “dreadful ceilings.”
But Tim liked them; he liked tracing shapes in the random blobs. Finding nonexistent patterns.
When Bruce came back into the study, face a little pinched, but relaxing upon spotting Tim on the couch, Tim just said, “I found commissioner Gordon’s face.”
He almost, almost snorted at the way Bruce paused.
Then, Bruce followed Tim’s gaze up, and nodded thoughtfully.
“I found Superman up there the other day.” Bruce held out a plastic cup of water and a small dish with three pills in it. “During the board meeting I had to listen in on.”
“Weren’t you supposed to be leading that?”
“Lucius had it well in hand. Better than I would’ve.”
Bruce gingerly sat on the other side of the couch, gesturing to the pills and the water, and Tim’s stomach churned a little. But he took a swig of the water and downed the painkillers anyway, if only to avoid worrying Bruce any more than he already had.
He handed the cup back when he was done. Bruce set it aside with the small clank of a coaster.
“I’m tired.” Tim mumbled.
“I bet.”
“Not…tired.” He gestured to his body. “Tired.”
“Oh.”
“You don’t get it.”
“No.” Bruce admitted. “Not exactly. Would it help to explain?”
Tim shook his head slowly.
“I don’t…I’m tired, B.”
He held up his hands and studied them. The bandages, the way his ring finger and middle were taped together, the freckles that lay scattered across the skin, and the scars from old injuries.
Tim’s hands were one of the few things that had always felt like Tim.
They weren’t particularly square or blocky, not traditionally masculine, but hands weren’t gendered the way chests or faces or even butts or legs were. Him having smaller, leaner hands didn’t make him feel feminine. They were just hands.
Just hands.
He’d love it if the rest of his body could be like that.
Not a woman’s. Not a man’s. Just Tim’s.
With a small sigh, Tim scooted a few inches over and slumped against Bruce’s shoulder. “Today’s been a really bad day, dad,” he said quietly.
Bruce brushed a hand over Tim’s hair. Smoothed it away from his face without a word.
In Bruce’s study, so early in the morning, it felt like it was just them in the whole world. Like there was nothing that could or would burst in to try and tear Bruce away from him. Like Tim was a little kid, curled up with his dad after a nightmare.
So Tim tucked his face in against Bruce’s arm, the cotton shirt a little rough against his skin, and let his eyes drift closed.