Chapter Text
“...weren’t sure when his last shots were, either way, we administered the shots after the surgery per protocol, so that isn’t a concern right now, only worry about the boosters on here.” The doctor explains as she hands over the discharge paperwork. “I also wanted to go over a few things before we give you the green light. I know you said you dropped out of medical school, so I’m sure you know some of these things, but I’d like to brush up your memory a bit.”
“Yes, of course.”
“The healing process is going to take a bit of time. He will be tired, as we’ve seen the last few days, it’s normal, it’s just important that he moves around just a bit to prevent any blood clots. Like what he’s been doing-a quick trip to the restroom, maybe a little walk from his bed to another chair, something to help build his stamina back up slowly. Other than that, no running, jumping, or any activity that could tear the stitches or irritate the injury for about..let’s say six weeks, we’ll schedule a follow up appointment to discuss those restraints.”
“Can I do that today?” Bruce asks her. “Or should we wait?”
“There’s a code on the paperwork here where you can access his chart and set up appointments.”
“Mhm, okay.”
“Now, school. In the paperwork I provided you just a general guideline of everything I’m talking about, but just to clarify so there’s no confusion. If it weren't for most schools on break right now, I would say he can return in about four weeks. It looks to me like he might meet those requirements once school is back in session. But it’s very possible he’s still going to feel tired, which is why I recommend half days until six to seven weeks post-op. I have a note in there for you to give to his school so they can hopefully accommodate him-no gym, no physical extracurriculars, light homework or extended assignments until he’s able to go a full day without needing multiple naps.”
Bruce absorbs every bit of information. “And his wound care, it should stay dry, correct?”
“Yes. No baths or pools, no playing in the snow-please-for another week. Showers are fine but keep them short, and only with supervision. It’s imperative that you watch for redness, swelling, heat, pus or reopening of any kind at the incision site. Mr.Wayne, I will be absolutely frank with you, this sort of surgery may heal, but the complications he could have are life long. He will be more prone to illnesses now, and for the first three years he is at high risk for deadly infections. That means that even a minor fever from now on will need to be taken seriously. If he shows any sign of illness-high fever, confusion, vomiting. Even something as small as a stomach bug can turn life threatening in asplenic children due to dehydration. So don’t wait it out, go straight to the ER, okay?”
“Absolutely.”
Dr. Sachdaeva smiles at Bruce, “Good. I’ve given you enough penicillin for the month, expect to have to administer it for at least the next four years. And the antibiotics should be available in the outpatient pharmacy when you leave. Do you have any further questions for me before we get ya’ll out of here?”
“If there is an emergency, would you recommend another children's or another hospital?”
“Children’s preferably. That way you have pediatricians on hand who know more about children than a general emergency doc. Okay?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t smile, but his face isn’t unkind. He reaches out to shake the doctor’s hand. “Thank you very much.”
“It was my pleasure.” She says, returning the handshake, then letting go and gives Tim’s arm a light pat. “I hope you feel better. Be good and make sure you tell someone if you’re not feeling good, okay buddy?”
He’s too tired to talk. He gives her a light nod instead.
“Very good.” Then she’s heading for the door, “I’ll go get the nurse and tell her you’re all ready to go home, he’ll get the wheel chair and everything, alright?” Again, Bruce thanks her and she smiles. “Of course, it’s what I’m here for.”
__________
At the hospital, days one through three he spends mostly sleeping, and a bit of moving to go to the restroom, or to wash up. He’s tired when CPS shows up to ask him questions, and Bruce who provides documents to them-the guardianship role granted by the Drakes, papers pulled from the school stating that the Drakes have never come when called upon, and other things that Duke helped the man get a hold of that would incriminate his parents. And Tim did nothing to stop them.
I’m a bad son.
On day five, Timothy Drake officially became a ward of the state, and Bruce is the ‘biological father’ to Cassandra Wayne who’s birth certificate definitely never existed until Bruce provided it to CPS when asked.
Lying through his teeth, Bruce had a solemn look on his face. “..kept the birth certificate. I had been devastated when the temple told me my child had passed. But to think that they lied, and she found her way to me, I just wish that I could’ve been there for her when she was a baby.”
Mr. Foster sympathized with him, looking at how comfortable the girl was tucked against Bruce’s side, a smudge of ketchup on her cheek. “Miricles happen to good people-this is nothing but that, however she made it all the way here from China on her own…who knows? All that matters is she’s here. Have you taken this to the U.S.C.I.S?”
“My lawyers are speaking to them now, actually. It’s a mess right now, but we’re getting it done.”
“Right, better now than later.”
On day seven, despite the rumors and media posts about the man, it becomes apparent how much Gotham deems Brucie Wayne as ‘The Prince of Gotham’. It comes out that Jack Drake and Janet Drake hadn’t answered any of Bruce’s texts or emails, or the hospitals, the entire time Tim was there. It had been found out that after their car mysteriously caught on fire, they retrieved a taxi home, packed, then promptly went to the airport while their son was in the hospital. No nanny, no note, no checking on their son who definitely wasn’t home. Bruce streamlines the courts, the Drake’s lawyers can’t stand a chance against Bruce’s positive involvement in the community and trusted foster parent/father. Timothy Drake doesn’t stay a ward for longer than fourty-eight hours, Bruce returns back to the hospital with the good news and paperwork to show.
His name is hyphenated to Drake-Wayne to signify the adoption.
Tim cries on the shoulder of his legal brother, Dick, but not for the reason they think. Kon knows why, and Cass-he thinks- on some level. But there’s nothing he can do, so he doesn’t speak his truth to the Waynes and cries until he falls asleep.
On day eight Bruce is the foster parent to Duke Thomas(until the boy’s parents are found) and Tim is finally released from the colorful walls of Children’s hospital and being wheeled to the outback by Bruce. He’s hot underneath the layers Bruce and Alfred meticulously threw on him, sitting still under the seat belt as the car is driven towards Bristol. They approach the bridge and turn on the same road as both Wayne and Drake Manor, separated by ten acres of land. It’s snowing outside, the trees are somewhat dead, so he can see his house in the distance and the lights that are on. There’s tracks leading from down the road to the front gates of Wayne manor where they pull into, and Tim finds out why.
There’s a U-Haul parked right in front of the large doors. He can see Clark and Kon carrying things inside, along with Duke and a flash of red that he assumes is Wally.
They’re bringing in my things.
Tim stifles a sob as Bruce puts the car in park. Dick comes swinging out the front doors, straight for Tim’s door and pulls it open. “Babybird-oh.” His excitement tunes down. “You okay? Are you hurting?”
Tim jerks his head. “ ‘M fine.”
Dick makes a face, like he’s not too sure if he believes him. He reaches inside to unbuckle the seatbelt, then helps Tim get out of the car. There’s a generous amount of salt poured all over the stairs in front of him, though Dick keeps a hold of his hand to make sure he doesn’t fall. He tells him, “They’re moving yours and Duke's things upstairs, so we’ll hang out in the living room till they're done. Cass is in there right now messing with some puzzles.”
“..Okay..”
“Don’t worry, ‘kay? Babybird? Everything’s gonna be fine.”
Dick is as attentive as he’d been when Tim was in the hospital. He spends the first few hours after Tim arrives with him and Cass in the living room, messing with the puzzles and making sure Tim is feeling fine. He ruffles his hair, tries to make him laugh and gets both children snacks when Alfred calls his name. Then he’s right there when Kon comes down to bring Tim up the stairs-using his tactile telekinesis to get him up there without jostling the incision sight. Dick is close just in case Kon’s powers fail him and Tim needs saving.
He’s also right next to Tim when he promptly bursts into tears upon seeing all of his things from Drake Manor inside of his room in Wayne manor.
He’d known that this change in his life would be a permanent one, his name is no longer the same and Bruce had the papers to prove it. But seeing his personal belongings placed in the barely used room as if it belonged there-like he belongs here- really showed him the truth of everything.
This is my life now. There’s no going back.
Dick wraps Tim up in a warm hug, holding him close and runs his fingers through the nape of his hair as he sobs. Telling him again that everything is going to be fine even though Tim knows that it won’t be. That it can’t be. All of this is wrong. It goes against all of the rules he’s set for himself, all of the ideas he has when it comes to his relationship with the Wayne’s. Tim doesn’t belong there.
He’s taken Jason’s title, his second last name, his home.
Tim buries his face in Dick’s shoulder, wondering what else he’s going to steal from his deceased idol.
________________
The move in is an adjustment not for only him, but for every other occupant of the manor. Because of Tim and his big, fat mouth, Wayne Manor went from a three person home to a sudden five, adding two more children that Bruce hadn’t known about(or been prepared for) onto his plate.
While Tim spends the majority of his time inside of his room, Duke comes and tells him the many things that've been happening in the Manor out of Tim’s view.
To start with: Cassandra.
She’s quiet. Eerily quiet. How she moves, the way she doesn’t speak or seem to understand what anyone is saying has both creeped and fascinated Tim. No one is sure what Cain did to her, no one can ask because Cass doesn’t really understand words, only body language according to Bruce. It’s evident that she’s been trained, there’s physical scars to prove it, and Tim’s testimony from when they encountered the people attempting to kidnap her. Bruce had gotten in touch with Lady Shiva to get Cass’s birthday and ask other questions: the woman only answered the one so Bruce could forge the birth certificate(as it turns out, Cass will be fourteen January 26th, a year and almost six months older than Tim).
Cass is also smart-very smart. Bruce brings over one of Dick’s old speech therapists to assess her, the woman claims that Cass doesn't react to language, but is able to gauge what's being asked of her using context clues and body expression. The therapist will return again in January to help her like she'd done Dick when he was mute after the death of the Graysons.
Now, whenever Tim is awake and Cass comes to spend time with him, he and Duke talk using sign language so she might pick it up. And Kon, Dick and Bruce use it around her, too. There’s no signs yet that she gets it, only time will tell, but they continue using their hands in hope that she'll learn to communicate with them like that.
They’d been busy moving Tim and Duke into the Manor, Tim in the hospital and other things that it took until Tim's pending discharge for them to finally go out and take the girl shopping. Instead of wearing Dick’s old clothes and shirts five times her size like at the hospital, she comes into his room wearing purple or light, pastel colors with her hair brushed and nails painted(courtesy of Dick). Overall she seems very happy, and loves Bruce the most out of the occupants of the house. If she hears him enter the house, she'll ditch Tim's room to go greet him, returning shortly after hanging off his back as Bruce comes in to check on the boys.
Duke’s adjustment is a bit less dramatic. Technically he and Cass had more time to get used to the Manor while Tim was hospitalized. He spends time helping Tim move things where he wants them to go in the room, and organizing his own room two doors away from Tim's. Tim has to move around, so he rotates between walking to the bathroom, to his own room, to Duke's. There are books in his room from Tim's own collection that he's been studying. He's been out of school for a while since entering the foster system. Bruce is hoping to get him and Cass enrolled in GA in the fall next year-or at the very least Duke, who doesn't have a major social and speech impediment. Though it will be weeks before the promised tutors arrive at the manor to teach them.
Alfred is attentive at his job and seems to have found routine in making sure each child has eaten, bathed and not spent their entire day looking at screens. Dick loves beating Duke at Mario Kart while Cass simply presses buttons and Tim watches on, he's off work so is spending it at the Manor and working as Nightwing at night. Bruce? He's a constant presence in his newly busy schedule-calls from lawyers, business and Batman related problems, he still finds time to come in and check on Tim, which is so weird and slightly irritating to him. (He can’t ignore the joy it brings him, though, when Tim expects Bruce to appear and he does.)
Comparing everyone's adjustment to this new living situation, Tim would have to argue that he's having the worst time. He's tired constantly, there's a dull ache in his stomach, he can't help at all in the cave or work on any cases, he can't go out as Robin for who knows how long. And for some reason, the adults won't leave him alone. Alfred is constantly checking his forehead, Dick is not so subtly listening in on any noise Tim makes, and Bruce hasn't stopped asking Tim how he feels any chance he gets. No one will let him do anything except doom scroll, eat, sleep, and use the restroom. He's basically bed bound and being treated like a baby when he isn't one. He's fine. He doesn't get why they keep doing these things, it's weird and makes him feel like he's not competent enough to do what he knows what he can do.
Then, to top it all off, he still hasn't spoken to his parents who hate him without a doubt. He's the reason they're probably facing backlash from the community, if they've lost any clients it's because of him. He should've never traded Bruce's phone number for a piece of chocolate cake that he never even got. He should reach out to apologise, or maybe write some sort of statement, telling them that he's sorry he's a horrible son and got them in unnecessary trouble for no reason. They've always provided for him financially, he's never been without anything he needs or wants.
He fucked up.
Alfred finished putting his glove back on, satisfied with the temperature Tim's head was. Tim on the other hand was not satisfied about any of this and it showed on his face. Alfred raised a thin brow, accent thick as he inquired about it. “Master Timothy? Whatever is that face for?”
Tim turned and tucked the blankets over him, already feeling exhausted from being up for five hours. “It's nothing.”
“Hm. And my name is Alfredo, and I originate from Italy.” Sarcasm dripped from his words. “What is troubling you, young sir?”
“It's nothing. I just….” Alfred eyed him, urging him to continue with just the look. In the best way he can say it, “I'm not sick. I'm fine. Everyone keeps asking me this, it hasn't changed. So why do you all keep asking me the same thing?”
“Hm. I see. Well, it could be that there is the possibility that one out of one-hundred times we ask, that you will say ‘yes’. Tripled by your lack of a functioning organ that assists in fighting off infections. I daresay these questions are warranted, Master Timothy.”
“But I don't need to be in bed all of the time. I can go further than the family wing.”
“Absolutley not.” Firm. “You have been discharged from the hospital for barely one week. The doctor provided strict instructions that Master Bruce and I both will see to it that you follow. Light movement, only, for the beginning two weeks. We will see how you are fairing in some days' time, if well enough we will see about walking you downstairs to spend time in the living area.”
“But-”
“No but's, Master Timothy. It is for your own health. Patience is a virtue..I fear you and Master Bruce are the same in that regard…like many other personality traits you two may share.”
Now.
It isn't fair to blame Tim on what happened exactly three hours after that. There were circumstances that fell into place conveniently for him which were completely out of his control: Bruce had to run to the city and fetch study material, taking both Cass and Duke with him. Alfred had to go to town for dinner ingredients for Christmas not far away. Dick, who's in the Manor currently, had a very late night that bled into the early morning of Gotham…ate an entire pot pie to himself-an entire family sized chicken pot pie, for lunch, and his snores could be heard from Bruce's own bedroom down the hall.
Tim felt the familiar blanket of ‘aloneness’ cover him, and the spite that's engraved in his very DNA screams at him. Tim took a breath and peeled himself out of the covers, double checking that Dick's obnoxious snoring is still just. He slips out of bed and into his house slippers, then begins making his way down to the cave.
He doesn't need help, he's fine.
Tim makes it down the wooden stairs to the grand foyer, following its curved structure at an even pace, then walks the familiar hall. He turns the clock to the time Martha and Thomas Wayne died, the giant grand clock clicks and swings open just a tad. He slips inside and makes his way down the stairs…..
Now.
This time, it is possibly, maybe, sort of his fault that instead of taking his time down the familiar steps of the cave stairs at a slow pace, he got caught up in his excitement to see the light of the cave-already thinking ‘see that, Bruce! I can do it'- when his slipper slips on one of the uneven steps and nearly sends him stumbling down the rest of the way. Had it not been for him reaching out for the railing.
Several things happened at that moment.
His hand grabbed the railing, the rest of his body following the momentum of the would have been, followed by an audible rip that resounds the narrow space. His back thunks against the harsh stone….he can feel something hot and warm pooling at his stomach.
He doesn't panic.
He gathers himself up and walks the rest of the way down, then takes the elevator all the way up to the third floor and sneaks his way back to his room, shutting the door back to what it had been. Dick is still snoring, the rest of the house is still vacant, and he makes sure to use the precious time he has to get to the restroom and lock himself inside, lifting up his night gown.
Simply put. He fucked up.
Royally fucked up.
Tim stands in front of the mirror looking like Bloody Mary from the blood oozing out of his left upper side. He's torn….one too many stitches than he should've, and his abdominal wall is non-existent so it looks like he's almost fresh out of surgery. Bright red is mixed with a slick, clear-yellow fluid that gives it a watery, pinkish streak here and there. He tries cleaning it off and whimpers-it feels hot, and a little swollen, definitely not good. He's using the sanitary wipes to try and stop the bleeding but it's persistent. When he thinks it's done, it just keeps going, and the iron smell begins to make him sick with the oncoming panic settling deep in his gut.
He presses and presses, using up a whole pack until it starts clotting. When he peels away the next wipe, he can see the dark red muscle beneath, and the pale yellow fat along the edges.
Tim does his best not to cry or gag. He does his best to clean it all, then finds a roll of coban wrap and gauze stored away in the cabinets and wraps it around himself, then washes and tosses the clean thing in his basket, slipping on something similar just in time for the front door of the Manor to open and multiple foot steps come up the stairs.
Cass takes one footstep inside, looks at him, then spins on her heel and runs past Duke.
She's back, hand in hand with Bruce, tugging him to the bed.
The man-thankfully- doesn't catch on to what the girl sees and sits on the edge of the bed. “How're you feeling?”
“Fine....Tired, mostly.”
“Hmm. You aren't in any pain, are you? Alfred gave you the medication before he left?”
Lie when you tell the truth. “I…” he hesitates, fiddling with the blanket. “I don't hurt but I do-it's just an ache, I think. I’m just sore.” There’s not a tear in my stomach, so don’t look for it.
Bruce takes his word seriously and stands. “Alright, give me just a second and I'll get you a glass of water and some ibuprofen.”
Bruce leaves. Tim feels slightly better. Cass is staring at him and Duke is none the wiser.
He can do this. It's just a little tear, it'll heal.
____________
In his twelve years of living, he's been sick only a few times that he can count on one hand-from what he could remember. Most memorable is the car incident, then the time he caught a cold from playing in the snow all day, a small case of the flu and a respiratory infection when he was eight and running the grimy streets of Gotham trying to take pictures of his local heroes. His interaction with other kids with potential infections was limited to those at his school and the ones he'd sometimes interact with at Gala's. Only one of those times did he need an adult directly involved in his health, after that he learned not to bother his parents with anything wrong with him since they themselves couldn't risk the chance of getting sick.
“Did you just cough?” Janet regarded Tim with absolute terror. “Are you sick? You'd better not be, darling, your father and I have a sponsorship meeting abroad. We can't afford to carry your little cough with us.”
“No, mommy. ‘M not sick.”
“Hm. Good.”
Tim had his own stock pile of medication in situations that needed them. He barely had to use them at all, the same pile he had in his restroom now at the Manor because Duke made sure to grab them for him. Coupled with bandaids, antiseptic spray, gauze, ect. He had it all. Tim had confidence in himself to deal with the tearing of his stitches because he had everything he needed right in the comfort of his own bathroom.
The first six hours of Tim tearing open his stitches, he makes a trip to the bathroom only two times to use the toilet and try to keep the wound clean. The bleeding is controlled, there's clotting(that's good, right?) and all he has to do is toss the gauze in the trash and spray the wound with the antiseptic spray to clean it, then wrap himself again.
Great.
The rest of the day goes off without a hitch, he plays DBD on his handheld with Kon in his ear screaming and Ive's laughing while Duke tries to get the generator put together. He eventually falls asleep like that, not worried about anything because there's nothing to be worried about.
Wrong.
He wakes up in the middle of the night with a sharp pain in his stomach and a whimper on his lips. Tim gets out of bed and walks towards the lit bathroom to take a look-red is seeping through his wonderwoman gown.
Tim hurries, spending an hour cleaning up the torn incision and wrapping himself up again. He cleans off the sleep wear and takes slow steps to the closet, hiding it somewhere inside and slipping on something similar. Anxiety has a slight hold on him, he's afraid he'll tear it open again in his sleep if he closes his eyes, so it takes a while for him to go back to sleep.
Tim wakes up a couple of hours later to Alfred's delicious food and a tender, hot feeling in the base of his stomach. It's an effort to sit up without alarming Alfred that anything's wrong with him so he can eat his breakfast and take his medication. The man also gives him a heart attack when he grabs the laundry basket and looks inside, pulling out the wet one speculatively. “Master Timothy? Why on earth is this wet?”
Tim thinks of the lie on the spot-flushing at his cheeks. “I…had trouble going to the restroom…”
Alfred doesn’t flinch or scold him, simply placing it back inside. “Thank you for the rinse, then, I suppose. It will still need extra care though the thought is appreciated.”
Tim is then able to get out of the mandatory morning walk around his room by claiming he's too tired, giving him a few hours of grace until Dick comes in and pulls him up around lunch time. The small stretch to get out of bed sends a sharp pain inside of him, not enough to give himself away, but enough to know that he'll need to go to the restroom and rewrap himself if he wants to keep himself from bleeding out.
The walk sucks. He's grateful when it's over and makes his way to the restroom to clean himself off again. The blood lingers too well to the gauze and coban that he peels off of himself, like on auto pilot he cleans the area and wraps himself up.
He lies in bed like a statue, playing his games while trying to ignore the heat on his tummy. He moves two more times-once to walk to Duke's room, and again before bed to wash up. It's technically two weeks since the surgery, the time that the doctor deemed he should do very very light exercise, something that Dick oversees to make sure happens. Tim stretches with Dick on the ground, nothing too extraneous, and doesn't actually hurt him. It's the getting up part that sends a strike of fear, pain, and something in between right through him because he feels the wound open.
He quickly excuses himself to the restroom and almost cries when he sees more muscle than what had been present before. He cleans up, but the rest of the day there's a constant ache that hasn't been there for longer than a few hours…and not reserved for only when he moves.
On day four after falling down the cave stairs, it's becoming apparent that his confidence was an overshoot, because something is wrong.
The gauze he peels off in the middle of the night is sticky, with half-dried blood and a faint yellow crust at the edge. It looks puffier than what it had, shinier and redder. Under the blaring yellow light of his bathroom, he can see and smell something sour; the drainage is thicker than it should be, and a yellow-red than the watery like color it had been in the beginning. Tim bites his lip and stifles the sob, wrapping himself up because that's all he can do.
Tim wakes up on Christmas eve to a flush on his cheeks and a cry on his lips when he accidently touches the area. It's hot, and painful. He lets a small sob escape him and instantly regrets it because it feels like he's tearing his incision open more when he did it. He goes to the restroom and hides there before Alfred has a chance to come and wake him up. His hands shake, undoing the wrap, then replaces the gauze and uses toilet paper because he's all out of gauze, now.
There's a light rap on the door, Alfred's voice filtering in. “I've brought breakfast, Master Timothy. Do hurry so you may eat and come join us downstairs, we have board games and movies set up for the day. The Kent's sans Martha and Johnathan will be joining us this evening.”
Tim sucks in a breath, then says as evenly as possible, “After I eat can I go back to sleep? I just…I couldn't sleep well last night…”
“Hmm. Of course, the doctor said you would be tired. Eat, rest, then either I or Master Bruce will come check on you in the afternoon.”
“Thank you, Alfred.”
Tim finishes, then goes to eat his food, nearly crying with every bite.
He does end up falling asleep while propped up on pillows. He's got a fan on him to hopefully keep him cool, and barely remembers when someone comes to check on him like promised.
It's getting dark outside when he opens his eyes again, the winter is unfortunately like that….he jerks up and violently throws up all over the comforter, and then the floor. He feels hot and cold at the same time, there's blood rushing in his ears and a neverending, searing pain inside of him.
He's fucked up beyond fixing it himself. There's nothing else he can do now except maybe die or get Batman involved.
Tim pulls himself out of bed with great effort and struggles to make it to the door, praying that Bruce will forgive him for all of this. He can hear light music playing and laughter three flights down as he approaches the banister….he doesn't think he'll make it all the way down there.
Tim shudders, breathing, he calls Bruce's name. It's too low, he knows, so he musters up all the energy he can and shouts for the man over the ancient wood, the man's name echoing down the staircase.
There's an abrupt stop in chatter, Tim can't keep himself up and slowly lowers himself to the floor. Like this he can still see through the carved bars and hears steps walking along the marbled floor, they stop at the staircase. “Tim?” Bruce calls up.
Tim opens his mouth, but what comes out is a strangled cry.
Bruce hears it and instantly comes up the stairs. Tim sees him through the wood skipping steps with Clark right behind him, he blinks a heavy blink and suddenly Bruce's worried face is right there in front of him. Tim cries. “ ‘m sorry-I tried to fix it, but I couldn’t and I dunno what to do! ‘M sorry-”
“Tim, Tim.” Bruce is hushing him. “What's wrong? What are you talking about?”
The Waynes had trusted him to follow orders, and had no reason not to think Tim wouldn't do as they said, so the wound check stopped several days in when Leslie stopped by and said they were healing fine. Tim used that trust and blatantly spit on it and couldn’t even fix himself like he should’ve been able to-Tim felt feverish and sobbed, pulling at the bottom of his gown and lifting it to show Bruce Tim's failure.
Bruce's entire face went as white as Tim's sickly skin at the horror beneath the coban wrap. The wadded tissue is splattered in yellow and red, a mix of pink, the incision sight is angry and his stomach looks two times bigger than what it'd been. Through Tim's crying he hears Bruce bark an order at Clark to grab a blanket-he does. It gets wrapped around him and then Bruce scoops him up in his arms and races down the stairs. He's shouting, other voices come in, Dick appears and is horrified at whatever Bruce tells him.
Clark and Bruce are out the door, and before he slips asleep he sees the bright lights of a Children's hospital in front of him.
____________
He hates hospitals, he realizes. He really hates them and would prefer to never come back again to this hellscape.
To begin with, he still hasn’t forgotten about the chocolate cake he was promised, but never received. The nurse and officers had lied to him that day, he’ll never forget or forgive them for it-he traded his independence for it afterall, so where’s his prize?
Secondly, the hospital smells like medicine-like children's cough syrup. Sicklingly sweet to the smell, but disgusting when inhaled. It was also too bright, and too crowded with annoying children crying in every room on the floor where he was placed after the surgical intervention. They had to reopen the entire incision, flush it with sterile saline, then trim away the dying tissue too damaged to heal properly. Tim woke up in his room with Bruce talking to the doctor, antibiotics flushing through his system, Alfred talking lightly on the phone, and a new set of stitches on his tummy.
Which actually brings him to the main reason why he hates hospitals.
Tim saw the anger and frustration on Bruce’s face, and immediately burst into tears when Bruce turned that look on him once the doctor left the room. “ ‘M sorry!” He cried. “ ‘M really, really sorry, I was taking care of it.”
That hadn’t been the right words to say because Bruce’s jaw set. “Taking care of it? Timothy Jackson! Do you realize what happened at all?!” He wasn’t yelling, but it was just under the octave to consider it that. “You tore your stitches, didn’t say anything, and it became infected and you were going into septic shock! You almost died!”
“Master Bruce-”
“Are you at all aware of what it means to not have a spleen, Tim?” He doesn’t wait for Tim’s response. “Your spleen is a filter for your blood and it is a part of your immune system, without it your body is now compromised both upstairs and downstairs, forever. You are more prone to illnesses, infections..the first two years will be the most dangerous-”
“Master Bruce-”
“And you were just in the beginning stages of septic shock, without a spleen to help you fight off the infection at all, because of a tear in your scar that you should have told us about!”
“Master Bruce!” Alfred frowned hard at the man in front of him. “Master Tim will be well informed about his condition and expectations when he is in the right state of mind to hear yours and my lectures! I believe it is best that you take a drive to the Manor to gather the necessary items for Master Timothy’s stay in the hospital. All that snow will do right by you to cool you down.”
Bruce didn’t say a single thing else. Leaving the room as fast as Tim had woken up at the man’s scolding.
Alfred glared at the door for another moment or two then schooled himself. He lifted the blanket to cover Tim and smoothed out the wrinkles. “Now, rest. You have an even longer road of recovery on the way.”
“He’s upset-”
“You will come to find that sometimes anger is a mask to fear. For someone who attempts to control the universe and those therein, he still has not grasped the concept that he cannot foresee everything…although I agree that this should not have happened, we will discuss it later.”
Tim shut his eyes crying to himself.
Right. Cause if he could, he wouldn’t be here with me.
Jason would be alive.
_________________
The next time he woke up he found himself wrapped around in a hug in arms that he knows all too well. Dick was pressed almost under him with an arm under his head and another over his stomach-pointedly nowhere near his surgical sight. By the sounds of his breathing, he was asleep…His hugs were always so nice, and right now he feels awful, he couldn’t help it when he turned to seek more comfort.
The movement woke up Dick, though, and in one split second he’s now looking at bright blue irises filled with concern. “How are you feeling?” The hand on the arm under Tim’s head moved so fingers could run through his scalp.
Tim sought the comfort like a plant needing water and the sun. He melted, and couldn’t look him in the eye when he whispered, “ ‘m sorry…”
“Don’t be sorry, babybird. I just wanna know if you’re okay, now? In any pain or need the nurse?”
Tim didn’t answer any of that and asked, “.....Bruce?”
His hand paused, only for a second, then continued on. “He’s at home with Duke and Cass, Alfred left a little bit ago so he can pack up some of Christmas dinner, so you won’t have to eat the hospital food.”
Tears fell from his eyes. “He hates me-”
“No, no. Shhh. Babybird,” Dick rubbed circles on his shoulder. “Bruce is there to keep Cass and Duke from coming here. You know, with winter and the flu going around, kids are easier to get sick than adults. He has to screen them first before they can come in here, he just doesn’t want you to get more sick than you are.”
“I made ‘m mad. I didn’t take care of it-”
“Of your wound?” He asked. Tim bit his lip and nodded, blinking hard at the wetness in his eyes, he could see Dick frown just a bit. “Timmy, you didn’t have to take care of it-”
“Yes, I did! I screwed up! ‘m s’possed to fix it, I always fix it!”
“Fix what?”
“Everything!” His face flushed, he felt warm and the tears fell like lava down his face. He tried swiping at them-frustrated, guilty, angry at himself. “I fix everything. I’ve always done it. N’ I tried but I didn’t fix this. N’ now we’re here again, ‘n Bruce is angry, ‘n my tummy hurts, ‘n-”
“Shhh.” Dick pulled him closer, careful not to jostle him too much, and ran a hand down his back and shoulder. “You don’t have to fix it. If something’s too much, tell someone and we’ll help you. You don’t have to be the only one solving problems, not when you live in a house full of detectives. You can rely on us.”
“But I messed up-”
“You can mess up, you’re twelve. If you do, then tell me, or tell Bruce or Alfred, someone. We care more about your safety than anything, babybird.”
“But ‘m twelve. ‘M a Drake, I shoulda been able to fix it. Every one thinks ‘m a baby-m not-”
“We don’t think that at all, Timmy. We know you can take care of yourself, that’s a part of growing up, but you’re still only twelve. We want to be there for you for everything, Timmy. You’re a Drake, but now you’re a Wayne, too, remember? And yeah, sure, we hide things sometimes, but when it’s important we tell each other, okay? We’d be devastated…you know? If you died, Tim. And we were able to stop it….I would be devastated. And Duke and Cass. Bruce and Alfred, and the Kents. Wally also texted and asked about you-Tim, you have a lot of people that care about you. You don’t have to do this all on your own.”
Dick said that as if it were easy. Something that he could do like other kids do, like he hasn’t spent his entire life doing the exact opposite.
Whenever he’d miss the bus, he found a way home. If he was sick, he’d take the medicine he needed to get better. If his school needed documents, he had prepared copies his parents left for him, ready and laminated with few other copies lying around. Clothes? He shopped for them himself. Presents? Shopped by himself. Supplies for extracurriculars, he’d go out and find exactly what he needed without help. No meals after Mrs.Mac’s containers are all empty? He knew how to work the stove and open a can.
Any problem. Any situation. Any want or need, Tim fixed it.
In a whisper, he wiped the tears on his face. “...I can’t. I dunno how to.”
“Just let us try, babybird. Just give us a chance, and we’ll be there for you, okay? Please?”
“But why?”
Dick didn’t even have to think about the answer. “Because we love you.”
“You…love me?” Making sure he’s hearing this right, he almost lurched back to stare at him in absolute shock. “You just…you said you love me?”
Emotions splashed across his face, settling into something more reassuring. “Mhm. Bruce, Alfred, me, Duke, Cass, the Kents. All of us love you.”
“But I didn’t do anything to deserve it.”
Shaking his head, “You don’t have to. You never have to, we love you, and we want to take care of you. Bruce loves you, and he isn’t mad at you. He’s worried because he loves you. I’m worried because I love you.” Dick smiled down at him. “You’re my little brother.”
Breathless, “I am?”
“Yes. So, please, Timmy.” Pulling him into his arms again, Tim didn’t protest it at all. “Just give us a chance to show you that we do, ‘kay? Please?”
Tim sunk into the hug. Sad, hurting, a part of him upset with his parents, and very hesitant. “...I dunno if I can.”
“Then promise you’ll try? Can you do that?”
“....Okay.” He whispered, breath stuttering. “...I’ll try.”