Chapter Text
Last one!
One mild fight later, the living room is now Drake Dungeon. Tim's not allowed to leave until he drinks the fucking protein shake, which is completely unfair. Apparently, minuscule licks of ice cream and popsicle aren't sufficient nutrition, and the "family is worried about his health".
Whatever.
Jason sighs and mutes America's National Parks: Yosemite. "I say we pinch his nose and pour it down his throat."
"No."
"Let's make a bargain - we can make a compromise, can't we, Tim? Compromise?" Dick says hopefully.
Tim can't keep his laptop, his dignity or his tonsils, then there sure as hell is one thing he can keep:
Fucking raw willpower.
He closes his eyes and feigns sleeping - except, it is extremely difficult to fake sleeping when you're in a room full of trained detectives. So he just has Jason incessantly tap him.
Not today, Todd, says the voice inside his head. It sounds eerily like Damian. Not today.
"Tim, it isn't cute," Bruce snaps. "You're being -"
Bruce's watch beeps, and not a second later - Tim swears not a second later - the living room clears out.
And he's saved by the bell. Bat signal.
Same thing.
He takes the abandoned protein shake, goes to the kitchen, and pours it down the sink before shoving it as deep as he can into the trash.
He closes the trash fast and whirls at footsteps.
"Master Tim," Alfred greets.
Tim smiles.
"Care to help with dinner?"
He bows with flourish and says, "I am here to serve."
"Good. The refrigerator, please."
Tim opens it obediently.
"On the top shelf, you'll see a row of protein shakes."
Tim's smile drops. He turns to Alfred and mimes getting stabbed in the heart.
Alfred smiles, but one of his eyebrows arch. It's a dare to defy.
Tim has an IQ of 142. He doesn't pursue the dare. But perhaps he can...skirt it.
"Bargain?" he suggests and opens the fridge to wave an ice cream up and down. "Please?"
Alfred pats his cheek. "No."
Tim allows a momentary scowl and lets the fridge door close loudly when he replaces the ice cream. When he faces the counter again, there is already a straw poked through the box. Waiting for him.
"Thanks," he mutters, and slides forwards over the counter, sliding the box between his hands.
"My pleasure, Master Tim."
Tim helps minimally with dinner, partly because he's maybe possibly incompetent in the kitchen, partly because Alfred nags him about faking drinking through the straw.
"But half," he whines, slumped on the counter and trying to be as pathetic as possible.
"An admirable feat, too. However -" an Alfred taps a recently crushed pill into the remaining half - "I'm not yet satisfied."
Tim pulls his hood over his face and lays his head on the cool marble.
"Master Tim," Alfred presses.
"My throat hurts," he moans.
"Not as bad as you want me to think. Head up."
Tim complies, but sets his chin in his hand. The kitchen smells like rosemary, and his nose twitches. He looks mournfully at the chicken.
Dare he say it? He wants real, actual food.
However, ever since the Oriental hornet debacle, everything just tastes like tar on a highway in the height of summer. No, he feels better than he has over the past week, but the protein shake literally tastes like liquid car exhaust.
He resumes passing the box back and forth in his hands. "You think they're coming back soon?"
Alfred looks out the window, where the last strips of cerulean have faded into the horizon, leaving a smoggy sky behind. "Let's hope so. I'll be greatly disappointed if they don't come and enjoy the meal we made them."
Alright, so maybe Tim didn't really help that much - just got stuff out and put them back, and cleaned up afterwards - but he allows himself to preen a little. The potatoes might be overly salted, but that wasn't a mistake; it was a signature Tim Drake handiwork.
"What was the alert about?" he tries casually.
"I don't know."
He nods, and then adds, "You don't know, or you aren't supposed to tell me?"
"I don't know," Alfred repeats.
Tim inhales and twirls the straw around with his finger. "This sucks. Three weeks is a long time."
"I remind you that it would have only been two, if you had only taken better care of your person."
Tim rolls on his side and groans. "I'm wallowing, Alfie. Let me wallow. I'm a wild animal stuck in a sticky tar pit of pity."
"Eloquent. Shall we go into the living room and see what documentary is showing?"
Tim slides off his stool. Alfred clucks and tilts his head pointedly towards the protein shake.
Tim shakes it. "It's near empty."
"You won't win this war of attrition, Master Timothy."
"Ooh, DEFCON 'Timothy'. You mean business."
He finishes the carton to Alfred's satisfaction and tosses it, and they go into the living room. Tim shoves Titus aside - that's his blanket nest, peasant - and he's laying on Steve the Stegosaurus - and settles in for National Parks.
And then the world goes dark.
The T.V. fizzes out, and the darkness leaps in on them from all sides. Tim lets out a curse under his breath before hopping to his feet.
Alfred makes a displeased noise in his throat. "Oh, dear."
They wait a bated few minutes in tense silence, the both of them listening for the imaginary hum of a generator that never comes.
"I'll light some candles," Alfred says. "I think we have some tea lights in the kitchen drawer. And there's some flashlights somewhere -"
"I'll go check the generators. Be careful."
"Master -"
But Tim's already weaving his way out of the living room. Instinct tells him that if this was a horror movie, he'd die first as the stupid white dude who goes and checks things out alone.
It's pitch black, so Tim brushes against the walls and only near falls down the stairs once.
Alright. So maybe he lives in a Mansion full of detectives and one very nifty butler. But it's survival of the fittest, here. Only those most adaptive to change survive.
So...Tim's been entertaining his family more than they think.
(Because, he means, come on. Did his family really believe that he was just hiding from David Attenborough?)
So maybe sometimes when he was hiding, he was actually working on cases on his backup laptop.
Yeah. Dick thought he'd hidden it. But he'd only taken Number Two, which had been deemed a better decoy than work laptop, and Bruce had taken his "main" laptop, which had been taken so many times that Tim carried it around for show.
They are rich. Electronics are the first thing to go when Tim is grounded. Hiding backups around the house was common sense.
He may not have found the secret room in the library yet, but he had found that old servant's passage, and hiding behind some rotting wood slats with a few comms and supported by a stash of power cells and seventies CD's he'd stolen from Dick to stop his reign of terror is laptop Number Three:
Beautiful. Sleek. Glossy. With fingerprints all over the touch screen and a few coffee drops that had dried into tan spots on the left corner of his keyboard.
"Master Tim?" he hears Alfred call. He makes a dashing detour into a studio room and settles himself on the windowsill, drawing his knees up and tilting his laptop against his thighs. He minimizes his tab of a hit-and-run and pulls up the running file named Electric Bees (it's under his 'Unsolved' folder and beneath 'Eccentric'. Organization is key).
He tries pulling up a few cameras, but most of his best ones are dead, dead, dead. He goes into his personal cameras, which are all...not the best quality, he admits. Cam recorders he replaces too often for as useful as they are. Grainy picture. And most of them, in the process of being hidden from close inspection, are reduced into only pockets of vision.
But they serve Tim well tonight. He thanks whatever genius made batteries a thing and fits the comm into his ear.
Jason's voice assaults his ears."Oh, dear god. Oh dear god. There's so many of them. Why are there so many of them?"
"I'm going to need you to calm down," Oracle says.
"They're messing with my helmet! I repeat, they are messing with my helmet!"
Tim squints and then near rips the comm out of his ear as Jason's voice is lost in a sudden tidal wave of Lana Del Rey's "Summertime Sadness". It cuts in and out before fading.
Jason lets out a distressed snap. "They. Are. Messing. With. My. Helmet!"
Dick's laughing. "You listen to Lana Del Rey!"
"Shut the fuck up, Nightwing!"
"You have an mp3 programmed into your helmet. I'm just - " Nightwing sniffs - "so proud."
"I wouldn't be quipping right now, Nightwing. You're about to be overtaken by a swarm."
"Got it. I'll duck under - oh. Oh, nope. There they are. Uh huh. Yep. I'm just gonna - shit."
"That's a display of public indecency," Robin says.
Red Hood scoffs. "Well, I don't know about any of you, but I've already peed in my pants."
"TMI," Oracle snaps.
"You can't tell me no one's ever had an unfortunate accident in the uniform before. Out all night, in Gotham, dealing with crazy shit - the bladder can only take so much."
"Quiet, Hood."
"Hey, you be quiet! Don't have anything nice to say, then don't say anything at all, you little demon."
"Quiet, Red Hood," Batman says.
"It's like you two are related or something."
There is a dead period where all Tim can hear is a low drone. He nods to himself, glimpsing back at his available screens, before turning on his mic.
"This is your captain speaking."
"You mother - shit - ow - fuck - damn - sugar - h-e-double hockey sticks -"
"Red Robin," Batman acknowledges.
"We're about to hit some turbulence, please take precautions."
"Red Robin," Oracle sighs.
"Somebody call an exterminator; there's a hornets' nest at the corner of First and Main."
"No - nder," Red Hood snaps, comm going in and out. "Red Robin."
"Yes. That is the name of your savior." He hears Alfred call his name, so gets up and trots down the stairs. "Can you still hear me?"
"Master Tim?" Alfred says. A flashlight swings his way, and Alfred's eyes narrow at Tim's bounty. "Master Tim, I'm highly -"
Tim waves his hand. "I'll be quick. I promise."
Robin sniffs. "Highly unlikely."
"No," Tim promises. Alfred looks torn between taking the laptop from him or going for a good English scold. Tim finishes fast. "I won't be more than twenty minutes," he says into the mic. "By the time you get back, I'll be dead asleep on the couch."
"Eat a Jello cup."
"Batman, I have to tell you: I literally hate Jello. With a burning passion."
Nightwing gasps. "It's impossible to hate Jello."
"No, there are some nasty Jello flavors out there," Oracle cuts in. "Look at the failures of mixed vegetable. Italian salad. Plain. But it is physically impossible to hate strawberry Jello."
Robin makes a humming noise."I found the lime serviceable. Once I got over the texture, of course."
"Can we discuss this later?" Red Hood asks, except his voice comes out a little like Darth Vader's. "Gotham's being attacked by swarms of robotic Asian electric wasps."
"Don't remind me," Nightwing moans.
There is the sound of shuffling on Oracle's end. "I thought we got them all."
"We did," Batman says at the same time Robin exclaims, "The curb is not part of the road. The curb is not part of the road!"
"As much as I love Vespa Geocache -" Tim takes a millisecond to rename his case folder - "It is a minor inconvenience."
"Minor," Red Hood repeats. "He says 'minor'. I'm sorry, are swarms of then chasing you?"
"Eighteen minutes," Robin says, and it reminds Tim of the running clock.
"Right. Right - I'm tracing multiple signals throughout Gotham - I'm dubbing them 'nests' -"
"As you do," Nightwing adds.
"No time for quips."
"That's physically impossible for me."
"And I frankly don't care. Multiple nests, and I have approximately eighteen minutes-"
"Seventeen minutes and twenty six seconds," Alfred corrects.
"I want your video feed," Oracle demands. "Mine are limited."
"I'll send you the coordinates. Look - when I say 'multiple nests', I mean that there's, like, twelve hotspots. I assume each corresponding with its own swarm. What's particularly interesting is that - I know they're robots - but Oriental hornets are actually solar-powered. They generate electricity -"
Red Hood curses just before Tim hears scuffling."So we're getting chased by giant solar cells. Got it, thanks."
"Giant solar cells that mess with preexisting electricity - not that energy can be generated - that's a conservation law - but Oriental hornets by nature are not nocturnal."
"So whoever's making them maybe just has an affinity for hornets. Symbolism, and all that," Oracle suggests.
Nightwing makes a low noise in his throat at the same time Batman says, "Hive."
"If this was Hive, we would know. This is someone different - someone with a lot of time on their hands, or a group who has some sort of hornet assembly line. Theory: someone needs a heck of a lot of electricity."
"This is why you're the detective," Red Hood remarks with more snark than Tim needs. "I'm really seeing the IQ of 142, now."
It takes his raw willpower again to refrain from engaging in a sarcasm match."We have the inactive boxes. Given permission, I can go and check them out."
"You're not in the Batcave?" Batman asks. He sounds surprised, and Tim feels smug.
"No. I'm sitting on the couch while Agent A taps his watch."
"Eleven minutes, eighteen seconds."
"Eleven minutes, eighteen seconds - That's an analog watch, you can't tell -"
"Eleven minutes, ten seconds."
"You don't need the Batcave," Robin says. "You already have the data on the hornets."
"Preliminary data. Of what I could gather from overhearing the last ordeal with them."
"No," Robin protests. "You retrieved inactive specimen number seven, took it apart, and then put it back together and replaced it back with the others."
"Robin, do you know what a 'tattletale' is?" Tim steals a glance up at Alfred. Alfred's eyes narrow in suspicion. Tim tries for an innocent smile, but it must look pretty condemning, especially when Batman is low enough to cause an eardrum collapse.
"You disobeyed me."
"No - no - no. I haven't set foot in the Batcave -"
All of a sudden, Nightwing makes a terrible, sucking sound. Tim's heart jumps.
"They must all die," Nightwing gasps.
"What?" Oracle repeats, over and over. "What? What happened?"
"The diner on Sixth left us out grilled cheese. And these damn wasps made me step on them."
"Red Robin," Batman growls.
"Red Robin," Nightwing mimics, and then makes a coughing sound. "Oh, shit, I think I swallowed a bug. And there's cheese on my foot. I repeat, there is cheese on my foot."
Red Hood snorts. Sings, "Nightwing has the cheese touch."
"Grow up," Nightwing whines.
"When you do."
"I didn't set foot in the Batcave," Tim promises. Alfred is giving him the stink eye. "In fact, I haven't even been anywhere near it."
"A slippery truth," Robin admits, and then snaps, "This is a one-way lane, Father! And Red Robin reprogrammed the specimen to obey his signal."
"Red Robin," Batman presses.
"But I didn't set foot in the Batcave. I just...used my resources. To do some casual research."
"Casual," Oracle repeats.
"I honed in on the subject Nightwing activated. These things like electricity - so I made it a five star dinner."
"Where the hell did you make that much of a signal without anybody noticing?"
"I used the toaster," Tim admits sheepishly.
"Master Tim," Alfred hisses, horrified.
"And hooked it up to some...stuff."
"Where," Batman demands.
"...around. The Mansion. Distributed in different places."
"Does this have anything to do with that potato you stole when you were high?" Red Hood asks.
"Oh, gosh diddly," Nightwing moans. "Even High Tim is scheming and conniving."
"And you'll thank me for it. Look, there's between six thousand and twelve thousand robotic hornets swarming Gotham. Tell me off later, preferably when Al - Agent A isn't shining a flashlight in my eyes."
Alfred adjusts the flashlight."You hear better in the darkness. Maybe this time, with one less sense, you might make listening out of hearing. Despite contrary belief, sometimes people say meaningful things, Master Tim, and I would prefer you not to dismiss them. Seven minutes, thirty-six seconds."
"These things want electricity," Tim declares fast. "Lots of it - they don't seem to mind most of my cameras, but Hood's apparently got bees in his helmet. If they want electricity - fine. Give it to them. They'll fry."
"And drop like flies," Hood grumbles. "Great, thanks, where do we get an electron Big Mac?"
"We're going to need a charge. I bet if we through some static electricity their way, we'd shut them down."
"Brilliant," Robin remarks snidely. "Honestly, what would we ever do without you?"
"Robin," Batman chides.
"No, no," Red Hood interjects, "Shortstack has a point -"
"Shortstack!" Robin hisses.
"- what are we gonna do, rub some balloons against our heads?"
"Not the hair," Nightwing moans. And then, "Holy cheese balls, these hornets are really fuzzing annoying."
"Air has a fair amount of positive charge," Oracle offers, "But I don't know how you want to become Zeus. Saran-wrap the place?"
"Can't we just call an exterminator?" Nightwing groans. "Let's call an exterminator."
"We're the exterminators, dumbass," Red Hood snaps. "What about a remote? There's a remote, right? Villains always have remotes, with giant red buttons on them. We don't have to mess with physics. We can just crush the damn thing."
"And risk them not shutting down," Tim warns. "I want you all to do something for me."
"What?"
"Be a balloon," Oracle replies. "And rub against a street lamp."
"Are you...proposing pole dancing?" Nightwing asks carefully.
Tim leans his head in his hand. "No, Nightwing."
"Yes, Nightwing," Red Hood mimics. Static crackles in Tim's ear, and then: "Oh, well shit. Is polyester good for static electricity?"
"Yes," Tim says at the same time Oracle does.
"Well, good news and bad news, nerds. Your nerdiness works! But it doesn't prevail."
"What do you mean?"
"I got, like, two of the damn things to twitch on the floor."
"Fuck," Tim says. Nightwing makes an 'eep' noise in response. "Then - wait - Robin, do you have any dampeners -"
"They're inactive."
"Then - Maybe - Shit - Um -"
"Two minutes, Master Timothy," Alfred announces softly.
"Hold on. Hold on. Let me think. These are annoying - I've got this - one sec…"
"I have a phone charging cell?" Nightwing suggests, voice lilting in question. "We could...I don't know...charge something?"
Red Hood scoffs."Let's just pour water all over them. Anybody got a giant bucket lying around? Oh! Let's tip the water tower!"
"Thirty seconds."
"Take this seriously," Robin snaps.
"Because the demon bird is scared of the dark?"
Batman growls. Red Hood and Robin shut up, though Tim can practically hear Robin fuming on the other end.
"Fifteen."
He has to think. He's got this down. This is amateur work, after all - annoying, but amateur -
"Ten."
Tim just -
"Nine."
What would he -
"Eight."
Stupid stress response -
"Seven."
Making him think like a bunch of exposed wires -
"Six."
He's shorting out -
"Five."
Maybe if he -
"Four."
Could just use -
"Three."
Yes! That was it - god, was he an idiot. Why was he so slow?
"Two."
"The toaster!" he gasps.
"Twenty minutes is up," Batman says just as Alfred tugs on Tim's ear.
"A toaster?" Red Hood repeats incredulously. "Are you high again?"
"No, he's brilliant," Oracle says.
Robin sniffs and mutters,"I beg to differ."
"Red Robin," Batman warns.
"Goodnight," he says fast, and then surrenders his mic over to Alfred, who closes his laptop with a final click.
He can't help but be immensely disappointed himself. How stupid can he be? Maybe painkillers mess with his brain more than he thinks. Or maybe his brain has just gone to strawberry Jello.
But -
He rubs his face with his hands. "Alfred - Can I just -"
"I'm sure they'll manage just fine, Master Tim. And I worry for the state of one of my toasters."
"I can put it back together - good as new! Better than new!"
Alfred puts a hand on his shoulder. "If they need help, I'm sure they'll call. But tonight is your night off."
Alfred lowers a Jello cup into his lap.
Tim looks pleadingly into his eyes. "I never promised Bruce that."
"But perhaps it will please him enough to not ground you for another week."
"He can't ground me. I'm an emancipated minor."
Alfred hands him a spoon. Tim sticks it in the Jello after waving it around. "What are you going to do with my laptop?"
"That's up to Master Bruce."
Tim hums around the spoon, and then stabs it into the Jello. "I know all his hiding places. I'll find it again."
"Then I will hide it until Master Bruce gives you his permission for it back."
"I've got more. I am unstoppable."
"You are a mere mortal," Alfred says. "I have spent Master Bruce's entire lifetime and more on this estate. I should hope I know where you hide your things."
Tim licks another blob of Jello off his spoon, and asks hesitantly, "Do...you?"
Alfred smiles, and it's scary.
"Hey, Alfred," Tim says when he gets to the point where he's just stirring the Jello around in its cup, and Alfred stares at it hard enough that Tim half believes lasers are going to shoot from his eyes. "Now, you gotta tell me. Where exactly is the secret passage in the library?"
"I don't believe that there is one, Master Tim."
"Oh, sure. That's what you want me to think."
Alfred finally takes the Jello cup from him and sets it aside. "Get some sleep, Master Tim." He takes a seat in an adjacent armchair and picks up a Good Housekeeping magazine (Dick's Christmas gift) from the tray on the ottoman, reading it by candlelight.
At least, he seems like he's reading. But Timothy Jackson Drake has lived in this house long enough to know when Alfred's eyes are watching him.
So Tim throws an afghan over his shoulder, wriggles around until his pillow fortress is just right, and closes his eyes.
But he doesn't sleep.
He's hoping Alfred will, so maybe he can snatch his laptop back and jump back in the fray. No one could stay too mad at him if he did, especially if his solution worked.
Reprogram one of the hornets, he wills. Reprogram a stunned one. Reprogram multiple stunned ones. Make them follow a new electrical signal, come on, reprogram them, the way I did mine using the toaster, come on...
Eventually, the feel of Alfred's eyes boring holes into him fades (thanks, sensory adaptation), but he still doesn't dare move. A few shifts, here and there - to make the sleeping act believable - but he waits and he waits and he waits.
It is extremely difficult to be relaxed when he's waiting.
It is extremely difficult to keep relaxed when all of a sudden a low drone starts up before the T.V. starts blaring about owls, one of the world's most perfect predators. He almost doesn't withhold his sigh of relief, though he allows his hand a twitch of victory, because somebody figured it out.
"He doesn't like Jello," he hears Bruce whisper suddenly. He sounds serious and a little incredulous.
"No," Alfred replies lowly. "And he didn't promise you a cup, so I allowed him his half."
A short exhale. "Which I suppose is better than nothing."
"As I thought. Goodnight, Master Bruce."
"Goodnight, Alfred."
Tim forces himself not to stiffen as he senses Bruce's approach. He expects Bruce to leave, but Bruce just...stands there. And watches Tim "sleep".
Which, he means, cute - but creepy. Honestly, Bruce. Get your social skills together.
So Tim waits there (for an agonizingly long time. He suspects Bruce is waiting for him to admit he's not actually sleeping. This is a war of attrition? Fine. Tim is a battle-hardened warrior) and thinks he might maybe go insane.
But finally, Bruce brushes his hair back and says, "Tim."
His bangs being moved back makes his forehead tickle, so it takes a whole lot of willpower to keep his nose from twitching.
"Tim," Bruce repeats, a little louder. Tim gives in and lets his nose scrunch before squinting up. He's going for 'bleary but alert'. "Bruce?"
"Hey, chum."
"Did you get the 'lectricity back on?"
"Like you don't already know."
Tim hums and plays his Cute & Tired card. "I don't. I went to bed, like a good boy."
Bruce snorts. "I think Titus is getting restless. He wants his spot back. When will your iron reign of the couch end?"
"This couch is mine. The dog can sit on me for all I care."
"The dog weighs more than you. He'd crush your spine."
Tim pushes a pillow in Bruce's face.
"Thank you for eating half a Jello cup and then leaving it for Alfred," Bruce says. "He really appreciated that."
"Don't try to be sarcastic, Bruce. That's Robin's move, not Batman's."
"Admit that if there was a coffee-flavored Jello, you would eat it. Then I might consider listening to you."
"There was a coffee-flavored Jello. And guess what? No one liked it. Because Jello is bad."
Bruce makes a hrmm noise. Tim identifies it as the hrmm of light amusement. Number Eleven. Truly a rare hrmm. "I'm going to give you a hypothetical situation." He lifts Tim's feet, sits, and squeezes Tim's knee. It's such a Dick thing to do that Tim just barely refrains from kicking Bruce in the solar plexus.
"Oohooo. A hypothetical situation? How long have I been asleep - is it already Christmas?"
The last time Bruce had given him a hypothetical situation, Tim was still Robin and Bruce hadn't ever been on a soul-searching journey through time while being "dead".
So. You know.
Nostalgia, and some other crap.
Bruce pinches his knee again. Tim gives in to sweet, sweet reflex and shoves his foot into Bruce's solar plexus. Only problem is that Bruce is much more of a cement wall than Dick is, so Tim isn't rewarded by a succeeding 'oof'. Which is disappointing.
Bruce leans back. He's smiling, just a little. Smile Number 3. The 'Pleased Asshole'. Probably learned from Dick and mastered under Jason, and passed down through Bat mojo genes to Damian. "If I don't make you eat any more Jello, ever, for the rest of your life, then…?"
Tim lays out smile Number 5.2, one of his favorites: the 'I Can Play This Game Grin'. "Then I would immediately call you the best psychological mess ever, to tell the truth and to butter you up before I berate you for ever making me eat toxic slime in the first place, even when I told you that if you poured Jello on my headstone I would rise from the grave and exercise my abilities at revenge."
"And if I would be satisfied by a protein shake right now?"
Tim makes a show of thinking about it and finally says, "Then I would take it from you, just to please you and make you feel comfortable. If it's not already opened, I'll open it, of course, and then while you're feeling satisfied, I'd pour it down the front of your shirt."
"And the consequences of that would be…?"
"Victory."
Bruce's eyebrows raise. "And?"
"And Alfred's wrath. But the situation would be a lose-lose situation, so I would be willing to give my life for the best lose."
"Like you would ever conform to only two choices."
"Two choices? There's only ever one choice, Bruce: anarchy."
"Anarchy," Bruce repeats, half in disbelief and half in awe, as he sends a small Gatorade and a hydrocodone down towards Tim's end of the coffee table. Tim accepts them both, because he is a Good Child.
Bruce gets up and rubs Tim's shoulder in just the right spot so that Tim hisses and traps Bruce's fingers in the crook of his neck. Bruce huffs in a way that could almost be considered a laugh.
"Goodnight, Tim."
"I think you mean good morning."
Bruce rolls his eyes and starts away. And Tim is just getting comfortable - thinking that he passed without Bruce having to use his Disappointed Bat Glare - when Bruce turns at the foot of the stairs, where Tim can barely see him.
"And Tim?"
"Yeah?" Tim responds, eyes already sliding to the start of a rerun of a Brain Games episode.
"You're slipping on your acting skills. Get some real sleep."
Tim hates it when he realizes that all his best weapons come from Bruce.
He gets chills. He expects some sort of talk: an argument, a heart-to-heart - whatever - but Bruce only continues up the stairs, steps creaking.
Two hours later, Tim's still dead awake, trying to figure out what this new situation means, and Jason's 'waking' him up next, and in a half-awake, completely serious voice threatens Tim that if he doesn't take this pill right this second, Jason will personally shove it down his trachea.
"And get some fucking sleep," he slurs, pulling a cowlick on Tim's forehead straight and tugging it twice. "I can practically hear you thinking."
"Echoes off the walls," someone adds, and Damian materializes and disappears. Tim hears the refrigerator door open, and then a few biting complaints about Dick's 'godawful two percent milk', which is actually a quote from Bruce.
"You're up early," Tim says to Jason, as some kind of weak defense.
"I've got to get to the Cocoa Puffs before Dick."
"I've hidden them," Damian says, poking his head around the corner with an almost perfect imitation of Bruce Smile Number 3, except 'Pleased Asshole' is more 'Smug Asshole'.
One moment, Jason is sitting on the coffee table with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his head, the next - he's gone, leaving an enraged cry in his place. Tim hears a thump - something (or someone) being thrown, which is immediately followed by the sound of something skittering onto the floor. Jason lets out a half scream, half wail, and Damian curses a storm, and Tim wonders how anybody can sleep in this house, when the noise is all-powerful and eternal.
But Tim is a man of many talents.
Because he manages a light doze for approximately two hours, three minutes, and forty-seven seconds. He knows it's two hours, three minutes, and forty-seven seconds because someone has left their phone and stuck its timer in his face. He reaches out for it, but a hand comes down from above and snatches it up.
"I wonder how many phones are really lost in this house," Bruce says.
Tim shoves himself up and combs a hand through his hair. It's greasy, and he needs a shower. Let's get this conversation over fast.
"How are you?" Bruce continues. His hand goes for Tim's forehead, but Tim slaps it away.
"I'm fine."
Bruce's eyes narrow. Tim sighs, crosses his arms to properly show his annoyance, and waits patiently (irritatedly) for Bruce to confirm for himself that Tim is, indeed, fine. Like he said.
Bruce takes his face in his hands, ever so gently, as if Tim will shatter. "And your throat?"
"Fine."
Bruce stares at him longer. Tim holds eye contact for as long as he can, but then his eyes start to burn and he has to blink. He doesn't know how Bruce does it.
"It was better yesterday," he admits.
Bruce lets out a long-suffering sigh. "Tim."
"Sometimes the pain relapses," Tim adds quickly. "It's normal. I looked it up."
Bruce looks skeptical.
"It was probably the Jello?" Tim tries.
"You can't blame everything on the Jello," Bruce says. Tim can see him try to smile, but if there was a class for smiling, Bruce would be failing the remedial class. He takes his hands away from Tim's face and rubs the side of his jaw. "I just don't understand, Tim. Why can't you just - stay down when you're told to?"
"It's not that I don't want to," Tim explains. "It's that I can't. It's like going against gravity: you can't stay down in Gotham. It's impossible."
"WHO ATE THE COCOA PUFFS?" Dick wails from the kitchen.
"Master Dick!" Alfred snaps lowly. "Master Tim is sleeping."
"But I have been attacked, Alfie. Targeted," Dick whines loudly, because it is not within his physical capabilities to whisper.
"Todd ate them," Damian supplies.
"No, I didn't - your little demon here spilled them -"
Something crashes.
"Richard John Grayson," Alfred hisses. "Get up and clean this mess this instant."
"Yeah, Richard," Jason mocks. "Clean it up."
Alfred makes a dangerous "oooohhh-h-h-h," sound. "You too, Jason Peter."
"What? Alfie, my man, Dick attacked me."
"And you engaged him. Master Damian - fetch the broom, please, and join them."
"I did nothing."
"Lies," Alfred replies immediately. "You caused it."
"Pennyworth," Damian starts, but is cut off with a just as biting, "Master Damian."
"You better get in there before someone loses an eye," Tim suggests, raising an eyebrow at Bruce.
Bruce mutters something that sounds eerily like "Puck me", but it's too low for Tim to tell for sure. He gets up and ruffles Tim's hair with another sigh. "Want anything?"
"I'm gonna take a shower. But when I'm back - a Gatorade. And do we..." Tim bites the inside of his cheek. "Do we have any Percocet left?"
"Master Damian, you get down from the refrigerator right now!"
"Perc-o-cet?" Bruce parrots, as if the syllables don't compute. Tim immediately regrets asking. "Percocet?"
"Bruce," he says, pleading.
"You said you were fine. You told me you were fine."
"I am fine. So totally fine that I have ascended past this mortal plane and actually desire to get knocked out."
"Jason Peter Todd, you're asking for soap in your mouth. Don't test me. Richard! That goes for you, too!"
Bruce looks at Tim as if he has spontaneously and successfully done the haka in the living room. "You...want to...sleep."
"I know. I was surprised, too."
Bruce shakes his head. "Are you sure there's nothing wrong with you?"
"I promise."
"Tim -"
"Bruce."
"My brooms will not be used as swords!"
Tim takes a shower, downs a Percocet with a mouthful of Gatorade, and then is dead to the world for the following fourteen hours (With a one minute break between Hour Six and Seven, when someone - he doesn't remember - wakes him up and he robotically accepts an antibiotic crushed on a spoonful of raspberry sorbet). He misses Jason putting red hair dye in Dick's shampoo as revenge for the Kitchen War. He misses Damian hiding in the vents (his spot!) and staking out to shoot Jason with one of Dick's Nerf pistols. He misses Dick flaunting around red hair.
He misses Damian drawing a mustache and eyebrows on his face (at Jason's behest) (and Dick protests and adds a monocle later). He misses Alfred telling them all off. He misses Bruce completely chewing and spitting on his personal beliefs by taping a piece of paper to him that says, 'My name is Tim and I love Jello' in bright green marker. He misses slobbering all over his stuffed stegosaurus, Alfred taking it to be washed, Jason snatching it and chasing Damian around the house with it.
He misses Dick going for a roundhouse to Damian's head, Damian ducking, and Dick spinning 360 degrees before falling on his back. He misses Jason laughing his ass off. He misses Bruce challenging Jason in hand-to-hand. He misses Bruce regretting the challenge.
He misses Damian's sneak attack on Bruce from above and Dick's "Shakira! Shakira!" war cry. He misses Alfred telling them all off again. He misses Alfred watching a rerun of Wicked Tuna and trying to rub the Sharpie off his face. He misses Batman, Nightwing, Red Hood, and Robin going out on patrol.
He misses the first few flurries of Gotham snow, of Robin complaining for two hours straight about hypothermia and Nightwing moaning in agreement before Batman asks Nightwing what happened to the Robin that flaunted around the scaly panties in any weather. He misses Red Hood telling Robin that he and Red Robin were spoiled by pants. He misses Batman regretting bringing up the scaly panties when Nightwing protests that he could still work the scaly panties if he really wanted to, and that he could prove it.
He misses them coming back to the cave, Alfred waiting for them. He misses Jason coming up to Bruce from behind and sticking his cold hands on the back of Bruce's neck. He misses Bruce nearly backhanding Jason in the jaw. He misses Alfred telling them all off (again, again). He misses Dick finishing off Damian's hot chocolate. He misses Jason daring Dick to take a sip of Bruce's black coffee. He misses Bruce's flat refusal to participate. He misses Dick taking it from him away. He misses Jason videoing Dick gagging and choking. He misses Damian stealing all the marshmallows. He misses Alfred bidding them goodnight because he does not want to be responsible for any riff-raff like the lot of them past midnight.
He misses Alfred replacing his warm Gatorade with a glass of water. He misses Dick kissing him on the temple as he makes his way up the stairs. He misses Jason drawing a heart with an arrow through it with JELLO in the middle. He misses Damian flicking him in the ear. He misses Bruce patting his shoulder and saying goodnight.
He wakes up to Dr. Oakley: Yukon Vet - "Wily Coyote" completely disoriented as to what century he's in, ears aching. He takes a few sips of the ice water until his mouth doesn't feel like paste anymore, and then stumbles into the kitchen because he hopes that raspberry sorbet wasn't just a really good dream. He sees the artwork on his face in his reflection on the refrigerator.
He takes thoughtful bites of his sorbet while eyeing the abandoned Sharpie on the counter. He grabs the marker before trotting softly up the stairs.
Dick wakes up to no cereal. Jason wakes up to his helmet painted blue. Damian almost wakes up to a dick yelling 'I'm Nightwing!' drawn on his forehead, but Tim only manages a scribble before it's Mission Abort and Damian jumps awake and snarls loud enough to wake the entire Manor to Tim's night tyranny: "Drake!"
That's a wrap, y'all.
I was a Dick in the whole tonsil department (four years old). All I remember is Barbie popsicles and getting a stuffed animal. And being mad when I was finally allowed (forced) to eat spaghetti again.
Happy Halloween!
Yours,
HelloHai
P.S. You guys don't understand how long National Geographic has been a tab on my computer for. It was forever. my computer didn't kknow what to do when I closed it. It was that long.
Thanks to Jello for letting me hate.
Thanks to protein shakes everywhere for letting me hate.
Shout-out to dogs that sit on couches even when they're not supposed to. Let them be an example for us everywhere. Truly inspirational creatures.