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It started like an itch, crawling under Tim’s skin as heat and pain and hunger. He holds his breath as he pulls back from Ivy’s newest nurture. But it’s too late. The effects of its pollen have compromised him, burrowing into bone and blood and festering in the folds of his flesh. Tim grits his teeth as he stumbles free of the condemned gas station he regrets entering. It’s already getting worse.
Soon, the physical discomfort will grow to dangerous levels, and the psychological piece of the exposure will come into play. Tim needs to be somewhere that is not the side of the road when that happens.
“Ivy’s got a hive at the old Scragg Stop on Kingston,” Tim says into the coms. “I’ve been compromised, heading back to the cave.”
As he speaks, Tim hops on his bike. His hands are shaking on the bars and his legs tremble hugging the bike’s sides. Something about the warmth from the engine as Tim flies back to the cave is nice.
“Status report,” Bruce growls.
Tim’s distracted—the light from passing streetlights and store-front signs blur and streak across his vision like wet paint. Luckily, it’s automatic for Tim to answer that edge in Batman’s voice. “I’m fine—just need an antidote to sleep this off.”
A new voice hops on the link. “I’m close by—I’ll clean up Red’s mess at the station.”
“Thanks Steph,” Tim manages. He swallows down something lumpy and tight in his throat. The shaking’s gotten worse, an involuntary jitter that’s partially from the pollen, but also the cold. On the bike, with wind bracketing him, Tim’s hunches himself down. There’s a lick of ice and chill that oozes around his spine and bites his fingers and toes.
“How’re you holding up kiddo?”
“All good, N,” Tim says between chattering teeth. His eyelids drag a bit—why do they want to close? He downed his pre-patrol coffee.
“You sure you can make it to the cave alright?” Nightwing presses, voice honey’d concern.
Tim nods, then remembers none of the others can see him. He squeezes his eyes shut tight and forces them open, dangerous on a moving bike but worth it for the rush of clarity that chases through his head, dragging exhaustion from his tumbling thoughts. “Yeah,” he says, ignoring the pit in his stomach that wishes Nightwing was right there to call him on his bullshit and tug into his solid, warm chest, curling around Tim like a very welcomed octopus—
“I’m all good,” Tim says. “Focus on Ivy.”
Jason answers. “Yessir. We’ll avenge you Timmy-bit.”
Tim would roll his eyes, but with the way his vision is jumping, he might end up a stain on the sidewalk. He settles for a dry response instead. “Thanks.”
“Tch,” Damian says. “Batman has explicitly stated his rules for names in the field, Hood.”
“And I’ve been explicitly clear I don’t give a fuck.”
Bruce sighs. “Let’s keep the coms clear.”
This warning does little to keep said coms clear, but there’s a ringing squeezing his ears and Tim does little to try and follow the conversation.
He takes a drag of gritty, Gotham air, tasting traces of marijuana, smog, and something greasy and on some side of edible. There’s a part of him that keeps drifting from reality. It slips in and out of fabrications—leaning his head on Cass’s shoulder, burrowing into Jason’s side, pressing into Nightwing’s arms like he’s a newly-minted Robin. Nightwing gives the best hugs—he’s had the most practice.
Tim keeps shaking his head. He swallows gray Gotham air and tightens his grip on the handlebars and forces himself to follow the double lines of yellow paint on the roadway before him. His thoughts continue pushing to drift and his hands grow colder and his body feels like wet, spilling mud.
Dammit, Tim thinks. Cuddle pollen.
It’s not the first time Tim’s been hit with it, but it’s been years. He remembers being new to Robin, turning to Bruce with wide-eyes and fake bravado as he felt the urge to press underwing seize him, wondering how the hell he was going to handle returning home to empty rooms and cold hallways. He remembers Bruce taking one look at him, shaking, pulling an antidote free of his endless amounts of pockets and administering it before scooping Tim into his arms, cradling him in his lap as the Batmobile’s autopilot brought them back to the cave. Tim had expected to be deposited on a medical berth, alone, clinging to brief nudges from Alfred as he worked around him. But instead, Bruce stayed behind the door in the fastest uniform change of Tim’s life, scooped Tim into his arms when he was finished, and toted him upstairs to cuddle on the couch for the rest of the night. Tim woke up with a crick in his neck and feeling the warmest he’d been for years.
But Bruce isn’t here now—he’s off with the others, hunting down Ivy’s newest scheme. Tim should have known the latest waste-dump into the harbor would stir her into something destructive. Tim wasn’t exactly happy about it himself, but he’s less happy about the now painful scratching raking through layers of his body.
God, he wishes Bruce was here.
Tim takes a shuddering breath, holding it in his chest. He can feel palpitations pumping through his heart, ramming around his ribcage and eardrums. Tim feels his eyes close and then something shakes beneath him—he forces his eyes open with a start as the bike wavers and he nearly skids into a collision with a streetlight post.
For a moment, adrenaline courses through him, keeping him aware. But then it leaks away, leaking Tim more unsteady than ever.
His eyes squeeze, open quick.
It’s going to be a long ride back.
By the time Tim’s rolling into the cave, parking haphazardly and stumbling off his bike, he’s shivering, half-blind, and achingly cold. His body moves like pulleys and ropes are forcing each move, except it’s his head telling his limbs to go this way or that, and his head currently feels like wet, mucky slush.
Tim staggers away from his bike, turning to peer at the empty cave with vision dripping like condensation on a window. Maybe some part of him expects to see Damian sparring with Cass on the matts, or Jason looting the weapons storage, or Dick coming out of the showers with a towel over his face and hair, a blinding grin when he pulls it away and catches sight of Tim.
There’s none of that.
But, the cave isn’t empty.
“C’mere my boy,” Alfred says, dropping a hand on Tim’s shoulder. Tim looks up at the blurred expression of his pseudo-grandfather. Something in his face looks concerned, tight, like it usually is in the aftermath of injuries beyond the nightly bumps and bruises. Alfred looks like Tim’s arrived with broken bones or bloodied and bruised to the brim. But he’s not…Tim’s fine. A little shaky, but he just needs an antidote. He just needs to bundle himself, tighter than tight, in a couple of blankets. And then he needs to sleep this off.
“A’fred?”
“Over here,” Alfred says firmly. His hand descends, clasping Tim under the arm and tugging him toward a medical berth.
And usually, Tim would insist he’s fine. Tim would pull his arm gently away from Alfred and maybe submit to a quick check up, but he’d do his best to make sure Alfred wasn’t worrying, he’d do his best to be okay.
But right now?
Tim melts.
When he centers himself enough to see, to hear, to feel, he’s on one of the beds in the infirmary corner of the cave. Alfred is sitting there too, with Tim practically folded onto his lap, arms gripping the lapels of Alfred’s suit with a grip strong enough to tear. There’s a kind of whimpering noise in the air. It takes Tim a second to realize it’s him who’s making it. He manages to regain control of his voice, his breathing, and the whimper peters out.
“Back with me?”
Tim breathes into Alfred’s coat. He smells like lemon cleaner and sharp polish and something like the rosemary and thyme of hot seasoned dinner. Maybe Tim should be embarrassed, hiding his face in Alfred’s chest like he’s thirteen again and waking up on a medical cot, drugged and hurting for the first time. But embarrassment is the furthest thing from Tim’s mind.
He shakes his head—he’s not back with Alfred, because that means Alfred stands up. That mean’s Alfred leaves to gather things for blood tests and antidotes. And that means Tim is alone again.
He can’t be alone again.
“Master Timothy?”
Tim groans. “No.”
“Timothy,” Alfred insists. His hand pats down the flat of Tim’s back, soft, soothing, like it has when Tim’s startled out of nightmares and Bruce wasn’t in the manor to come running. “What’s wrong? Are you injured? What hurts?”
“Ev’rything.”
Alfred sighs. “We’ll need to do several tests, but I think it’s safe to say you’re suffering the effects of ‘cuddle’ pollen once again.”
Tim nods. Yeah, sounds right. He’s all mushy and distorted—where did Bruce go? Wasn’t he with Tim in the batmobile? Tim likes holding onto Alfred, but Alfred’s not a big hugger, and at the moment, Tim wants to be wrapped in people. A shiver wracks his spine as the absence of warmth, of pressure, of people bites into him.
“The antidote I’ve given you should start to take effect within the hour,” Alfred promises.
Tim frowns at that. When did Alfred give him an antidote? You’d think he’d remember getting one.
“But your brothers should be back long before then.”
Tim pauses. There…something off about that. His brothers…the others are coming back? A trickle of memory from riding on a bike, telling the other’s he’s fine, seeps into his head. The others should be busy…they should be chasing after Ivy. Not worrying about Tim. It’s his own fault he was stupid enough to run into Ivy’s trap, he shouldn’t be dragging the others into dealing with his mess.
“‘M sorry,” Tim says.
“Whatever for?” Alfred asks, and his hand keeps doing that nice thing where he sweeps circles on Tim’s back, and then Tim can’t think about anything else.
He must fall asleep, because when Tim comes too he’s slipping back into that shaking, icy haze. The realization is devastating, and the keen that slips through his teeth is loud.
“Oh hey—” the voice is a salve on the warble of water in Tim’s ears. “Calm down Baby-Bird.”
And then there are hands grabbing Tim’s shoulders where he’s started to tip over the edge of the medical cot. They’re like lava on glacial pain and the switch is so nice. Tim leans into the touch as arms circle around him and pull him the rest of the way down onto the bed. There’s something blue, something black, hovering in the blur of Tim’s eyeline. Something like softness settles over Tim at the sight. He sighs.
“Better?” the voice asks, clearer.
Tim blinks fog from his eyes and looks up from where he’s crushed against a chest of kevlar. Dick’s not wearing his mask, but the rest of him is still Nightwing. Tim musters a nod and goes right back in to burrow into body armor that shakes with a laugh. Dick cards a hand through Tim’s hair.
“How’re you feeling?”
Tim’s tongue feels too big and his body feels too heavy. He doesn’t want to talk about how he’s feeling, because he can barely tell himself. He shrugs. “Tired.” That’s true enough.
Dick hums. “You wanna go get changed?”
The thought of leaving the circle of Dick’s arms is pain. The itching, the gnawing comes back just at the thought, scraping down his limbs, chewing his insides. Tim seizes Dick and holds tighter than tight.
“No,” Tim insists.
Dick just nods. “Okay,” he says. “We’ll stay here.”
There’s another haze where the ice melts off of Tim and the shaking slows and Tim slowly relaxes enough to see clearer and hear when the doors to the shower slide open. Quiet footsteps. And then, a child’s voice.
“Richard,” Damian says. “You still have not changed from patrol.”
Dick hums, so close to Tim’s ear, the shell vibrates. Tim wishes he was closer.
“I know, Dames,” Dick says. “We’ll do that soon—just waiting for that antidote to kick in a little.”
Damian makes a kind of unapproving noise in his throat. Tim doesn’t really care, because all of a sudden he’s not really focused on anything the kid is saying. His attention is drawn to himself, laid on the bed tangled with Dick, but still with so much space. It feels like bundled against winter freeze but forgetting boots, hats, and mittens. The holes grind at him with frost-bitten fangs.
Tim knows what he needs. And normally, he absolutely would not ask for it. But right now, a kind of hive-brain Tim pokes its head out and cuts through every one of Tim’s reservations. He rolls around, counting on Dick to realize he needs to keep his arms exactly where they’re wrapped around Tim, and faces where Damian stands at the bedside.
“D’mian,” Tim slurs. He reaches a hand out, fingers scrunching in and out in a ‘come-here’.
Damian stares at him, eyes widening minutely, which, for Damian, is very surprised. Behind Tim, Dick has paused with the carding through his hair, and patting his back. Tim wishes he hadn’t.
“C’mere,” Tim demands, and pats the bed in front of him.
Damian continues to stare. “Excuse me?”
“He wants you to hop up, bud,” Dick says.
Damian rolls his eyes, finally breaking from a near-stupor. “Yes I gathered that. But why in the world would Drake wish to…wish to…”
“Cuddle?” Dick suggests.
Damian crosses his arms.
Tim honestly isn’t paying a whole lot of attention to the conversation. He just wants Damian on the bed, in his arms. Yesterday.
Tim strains his arm out and this time it’s long enough to grab at Damian’s sweatshirt. He gives it a tug. Damian could pull back if he wanted to. But he doesn’t.
Without looking anyone in the eye, Damian crawls onto the bed. He starts at the very edge of it, which doesn’t do anything to help, really. So Tim fixes that.
He reaches out, seizes Damian around the elbow, and yanks him. Damian has the instincts of a cat when it comes to falling, so he balances on his knees and slows himself into a tuck that leaves his face somewhere near Tim’s neck and the rest of him decidedly locked in Tim’s arms. With Dick still on his other side, it’s like all the mittens and scarves and hats and boots and warm cabin socks in the world have been stuffed over Tim’s winter freeze. He sighs, finally relaxed.
“I have just cleansed myself from patrol,” Damian grumbles, sort of a whine, but Tim’s not willing to poke at that.
“It’s fine,” Dick says. “You can again later.”
“That is not the point,” Damian says, but Tim stops paying him any attention.
He’s warm, finally, with Dick wrapped around him and Damian curled in beside him, damp hair and the smell of conditioner tickling Tim’s chin. Tim holds him closer. Dick squeezes him tighter. And then Alfred is circling back with water that he forces Damian to drink, and power bars for Dick to chew on, and some of both that Tim wrinkles his nose at.
“I’ll make sure he eats,” Dick promises, one arm spread out as Tim’s pillow, the other free to reach over and rest tentatively on Damian’s upper arm. The look on his face is a mix of worry and bright disbelief. He looks happy as a clam when Damian doesn’t immediately shove him away.
Alfred nods. “You as well, Master Dick.”
Dick sighs but takes an obliging bite of his own bar. Immediately after, he’s holding Tim’s up to his mouth.
The next half hour or so, maybe? Blurs. Tim takes bites of tasteless protein bars—even though the recipe Alfred uses for the ones stalked in the cave makes the best bar Tim’s tried—and alternates with sips of water. Damian is restless, wiggling and punctuating bouts of silence with the sighs. Dick is the best part of the whole mess—Tim is never shrugging out of his hugs again. They’re so warm.
Finally, when Damian pulls to the side, or Dick reaches for water, Tim gets the equivalent of pins and needles where they were, not aching, teething, cold.
Dick looks at him consideringly. “Antidote working?”
Tim nods. “Yeah.”
“About time,” Damian says. “Weakness for touch is undignified for any of Father’s disciples.”
“Shut up,” Tim says, squeezing the arm wrapped around Damian’s ribcage in retaliation.
At the same time Dick pokes his head over Tim’s shoulder. “There is nothing wrong with wanting physical affection,” he says, before starting to sit up.
Tim stills. “What are you doing?”
Dick runs a hand through his hair, squeezing his neck comfortingly. Tim physically relaxes, but he can’t help the anxiety that wells up as Dick starts to scoot away. “It’s okay,” Dick says. “I think you’re doing a little better—what do you say about cleaning up a bit?”
Dick must see the apprehension that fills Tim because he hurries to tack on, “It’ll only take a second! And I’ll be right in the other stall. And then we can head upstairs, to the couch, or to a proper bed—won’t you feel so much better?”
Tim considers it, reluctantly. He has plant pollen in his hair and enough mud on the outside of his uniform to match the cold sweat inside. He doesn’t look, smell, or feel great. And even though Dick has mostly pulled away, and Damian is an unequal lump of substitute in his tightening grip, Tim is finding that the separation is manageable at least.
Dick waits patiently for Tim to find the ability to nod. When Tim does, Dick smiles, carding through his hair again in that way that makes Tim want to purr like a kitten.
“C’mon baby-bird,” Dick says, like Tim is thirteen and tired from their first patrol together in Bludhaven, like Tim is fifteen and out of the count from a relentless strain of flu, like Tim is sixteen and crawling into Dick’s apartment with broken flesh and bruised bone. “Up we go.”
It takes a moment for Tim to coax his body into releasing Damian and crawling off the medical berth. The only thing that makes it possible is Dick’s hand on his shoulder blades and Damian’s clear reluctance to do anything more than glare and sit curled up like a rock.
“Finally,” Damian murmurs.
Huddled up to Dick to ease the transition to the floor, Tim rolls his eyes. “You’re fine.”
“I was held captive—”
Dick cuts across whatever complaint Damian’s decided to raise now. “This way.”
He guides Tim to the showers, waiting until Tim’s able to pull away before jumping into his own stall. As soon as they’re separated panic and pins and pain swallow Tim like a dive into a winter-time lake. Tim fights over the surface and takes deep gasping breaths as he shimmies out of his uniform and washes himself with urgency. The warm water does little to help.
It’s the quickest shower of his life, less than a minute, and as soon as Tim’s wrapped in a towel he’s diving out of the stall. Luckily, Dick hears the frenzy and pops out of his own a moment later, sweats damp where they were pulled over undried skin.
“You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay—”
Tim curls into Dick as the older man reaches above him to snag another towel off the shelves, using it to dry Tim’s hair the best he can while Tim clings to his torso like an immobile limplet.
“Sorry,” Tim says. His tongue feels almost numb. “Just...just a second.”
“As long as you need.”
If Tim didn’t know a night of cuddles was one of Dick’s favorite pastimes, he’d feel worse about how needy he was being. As it is, Tim pulls back from Dick’s hug to get into sweats of his own sooner than he’d prefer. Now that the antidote has started to work, Tim’s a little more conscientious of how the night’s gone—clinging to Alfred, hanging off of Dick before he even had a chance for water or food after hours of patrol, kidnapping Damian into a cuddle session that Tim’s prickly little brother would never in a million years initiate. The least Tim can do is deal with the pollen from here on out, now that he has control of his own mind.
Except…as soon as Tim is wrapped up in sweatpants and a too big hoodie (Jason’s? Dick’s?) Dick is there.
He ignores the way Tim tries to stay upright on his own and grabs Tim around the shoulders and then Tim is teetering on the bank of that icy winter-lake…and he doesn’t want to fall in again.
“Let’s go upstairs,” Dick suggests.
Tim just drops his weight into Dick’s waiting hold with a nod.
They end up in Bruce’s bed. It’s the largest one in the manor, soft, and warm. Tim hesitates in the doorway. He’s never laid on the bed with the intention to stay, but Dick waltzes right in. He jumps on the bed, pulling Tim in afterwards. As soon as he lays on the blankets, Tim feels his reservations leak away.
The bed is so much more comfortable than the medical cot. Tim twists on the expanse of feathers and cotton, pressing his face into a comforter that smells like Alfred’s favorite detergent and the cold freshness of outside drying lines. There’s something under the cleanliness that smells like Bruce cologne too, and that’s just as nice.
Damian hovers in the doorway moments later. He’s wearing a frown and his feet toe at the door jamb.
“You can come in Dames,” Dick says, like he has authority over Bruce’s room, bed, and boundaries.
Damian scowls and marches up to the bedside. “Of course—I know I am welcome in Father’s chambers any time.”
He clambers up, hesitating for a moment as he looks between Dick and Tim’s sprawl, and the very empty left side of the bed. Tim takes pity. He holds up the arm not trapped by Dick.
“Here,” Tim orders.
Damian pastes an obligatory scowl but folds in where directed. His hair is under Tim’s chin again in a moment, less damp but still smelling like conditioner. Tim can’t help but close an arm around Damian’s chest again. The rise and fall of a breathing little brother under his limb presses away the minute shaking that remains in Tim’s extremities.
Damian huffs. “Only because you are obviously still too weak to overcome the effects of the pollen.”
“Sure,” Tim slurs, too tired to argue. On top of the lingering effects of the pollen, his pre-patrol coffee has long since worn off. He’s not sure Alfred hadn’t slipped anything into his water either. Suddenly, his eyelids feel a little too heavy and a little too closed.
Dick’s voice comes through a blur of exhaustion. “Just sleep.”
Tim does.
When Tim opens his eyes next, he can tell the pollen’s worn off. The cold, the pins, the spikes of pain that come when his body pulls away from Dick’s or Damian’s is gone. He’s warm and clear-headed…well, as clear-headed as you can be when shaking free of his first sleep in an actual bed for five days. It’s been five, right? Maybe six?
Tim rubs the sleep from his eyes and looks around. He raises an eyebrow.
Dick is still there, one arm propped loosely around Tim’s midriff. Damian is on his other side, fast-asleep, except he’s moved away from directly beside Tim, curling up against Bruce instead.
Bruce.
Who is awake.
“How’re you feeling?” Bruce whispers.
Tim shrugs, trying not to jostle Dick. “Fine.”
“We caught Ivy,” Bruce tells him. “After I sent Dick and Damian to stay with you. She’s back in Arkham awaiting trial.”
“Good,” Tim says. “Sorry about…getting caught, and everything.”
Bruce frowns. “You don’t need to apologize,” Bruce tells him firmly. “We’ve all been there—when Jason was Robin he got caught by Ivy’s ‘cuddle pollen’ too. It was Selina who found him—he was too embarrassed to look at her for weeks.”
Tim huffs with amusement. “I remember,” he says. “I’ve got a photo of her carrying him up a fire escape.”
Bruce grins. “You’ll have to find that for me.”
“Sure,” Tim says.
Bruce’s face is soft for a moment before tightening. His tone is still too quiet to wake Dick or Damian, but firmer when he asks, “Do you need anything? Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
Tim shakes his head, then pauses. The start of a headache is setting in. “I could use a coffee.”
Bruce’s eyebrow’s pinch together, but like always, he must decide a caffeine addiction isn’t the worst of his kid’s problems. “Fine,” he says, and starts to detangle himself from Damian.
The boy’s expression twists. Bruce quickly prods him closer to Tim. Without the pollen, Tim has reservations about cuddling with the prickly, baby assassin who could kill two dozen ways with his finger alone. But Damian looks less like a trained murderer and more like a middle schooler asleep. And Bruce smiles when Damian’s hand comes up to cling to Tim’s wrist, so Tim kind of feels like kicking him away would be bad form.
“Where’re you going?” Tim asks as Bruce stands.
Bruce reaches out to push a pillow closer so, easing the pressure in Tim’s neck from an awkward angle. “I’ll grab you some coffee— and something to eat. Stay and rest for a little longer.”
Tim considers pointing out that he’s been resting—longer than Bruce has been in bed, for sure—that he can get his own coffee. That it’s a little too early for Tim’s appetite to surface. But Dick is warm at his side and Tim doesn’t want to deal with Damian waking up and turning into a mess of awkward uncertainty and anger.
Tim’s had Steph cleaning up his mess on patrol, Alfred tied up dealing with him and his symptoms, Dick and Damian pulled early from the field and stuck to Tim’s side for hours. He’s been a burden all night, and he should probably balk at needing anything more.
But…Bruce is looking at him with soft eyes and a smile like a promise. Tim rests against Bruce’s pillow.
“Thanks,” Tim whispers.
Maybe a little more help is okay.