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Tim tumbled off of his skateboard, hands and knees rubbing raw against the ground for the dozenth time. Little bits of dirt and gravel embedded themselves in his palms, and he halfheartedly rubbed them against the knees of his jeans.
“Ow,” he said aloud, slowly standing back up. He tried bending all of his limbs—a little sore, a little scratched up from the rough pavement of the driveway, but overall fine. He shook his head slightly, then walked over to where his board had rolled.
Okay. Take 15. He pushed himself to a start, rolling down the gentle slope of the long driveway.
Front foot: edge of the bolts. Back foot: end of the board. Body weight: centred. He ran through the steps of the wikihow article in his head as he got into position.
Tim loved wikihow. It was an easy way to get precise steps! Like, when Mrs Mac stopped coming with food every day, he went on wikihow and taught himself to make simple meals.
And that one day when the furnace stopped working in the middle of January, (back when he hadn’t figured out how to bypass his allowance), he’d gone on wikihow and spent five hours fixing it while shivering so hard he could barely hold the tools.
So, yeah. Wikihow was great.
Tim sighed as he coasted to the end of the driveway. Okay, he could do it this time. He wouldn’t wimp out again. He turned his board with a quick movement, before pushing himself back up the driveway.
Okay. Okay okay okay. He positioned his feet properly, taking a deep breath. Then he popped off of the ground, jerking his feet in opposite directions. His board started to spin, and he felt a smile start to spread across his face as he focused on his movements.
Then it all went wrong.
His skateboard landed one side before the other, and it shot out from underneath him when he landed, sending him crashing forwards. Quickly, he stuck out his arms to catch himself, but he was falling too hard, and his wrist slammed into the ground at the wrong angle .
For a second, it all went white.
Tim gasped for breath, heart pounding. His head felt cotton-fuzzy, and his lungs felt too big for his ribcage. He sucked in a breath, then another. Then his wrist exploded with icy-hot pain, shooting up his arm and twisting through his veins.
He let out a sound, muffled through gritted teeth, lying on his back on the cold hard driveway. With every beat of his heart, a new wave of pain crashed over him, rolling and throbbing.
When he was little–three or four, probably–his parents had decided to take him on a trip (for the first and last time). They had gone to the beach, and Tim had been so excited. While his parents were busy talking, they had lost track of him, and he had stumbled down the sandy shore on his pudgy baby legs.
The water had looked so alluring, blue waves lapping at his feet. But once he’d waded in, he’d been knocked off his feet, under the water, buffeted around by the currents and waves. The water was everywhere, every side of him, every direction he turned, clawing for the surface.
It wasn’t entirely unlike how he felt right now. His eyes were squeezed shut, breath coming in short bursts through his nose as he grit his teeth and clutched at his arm. It was like drowning.
Tim whimpered quietly, unable to hold back the babyish noises no matter how hard he tried.
He wasn’t sure how long he laid there, eyes shut tight and pain surrounding him. It all blended together eventually.
Then Tim realised. Nobody was coming for him, nobody would come for him. If he wanted help, he had to get it himself.
Slowly, he pushed himself off of the ground with his unbroken arm. His broken wrist pulse with hot pain every time he moved, but he just held it close to his chest and straightened up. He stared at his skateboard, carefully and deliberately raising the middle finger on his unbroken arm. It pulled at the scraped skin of his palms–for some reason instead of everything being drowned out by his arm, instead every little bit of discomfort was amplified tenfold.
Then he turned around.
He had to get treatment for his arm. It couldn’t be a hospital, because his parents would be unhappy and might take away his skateboard, or his camera, or his grocery budget (like that one very memorable time.) After all, if he was seen going to the hospital with a broken arm, CPS would almost definitely get involved, which would not be good for them at all. People never really seemed to understand that Tim wasn’t really a kid, that he was fine, better than fine, on his own.
But, there just so happened to be somewhere he could go where people were used to treating injuries, and helping people. And it was just next door! Tim turned slightly, setting his sights on Wayne Manor. Then he paused.
Just next door had never looked so far.
Experimentally, he took a single step. Ow. The movement jarred his broken wrist, (broken arm? Broken wrist? He wasn’t sure how to tell, and didn’t really want to look at it anyways) no matter how steady he held himself.
Every step he took hurt, but Tim could ignore that. What he couldn’t ignore was the fact that the ground was slippery and wet from it being early spring, meaning he couldn’t take his focus away from the dirt for even a second. After all, falling in this situation would not be good.
One foot in front of the other. Arm clutched to chest. Ignore the pain.
Tim breathed in and out, in and out, carefully controlling everything about himself. Everything was completely under control. Even the pain became more manageable. (Lying to himself was usually more effective than this.)
Step, step, step. Tim squeezed his eyes shut, breathing deeply as he walked. Ow, ow, ow.
As he took a step, he felt his heel start to slide along the mud. With a squeak, he attempted valiantly to stay steady on his feet, but felt them slip out from under him. With his last seconds of stability, he curled around himself, twisting so he would land on his back.
The wind was knocked out of him, and Tim was left lying on the ground and staring at the sky. Tears bubbled to his eyes.
This wasn’t fair. This was stupid! All he’d wanted to do was learn a new trick, and now he was in the mud, not even halfway to Wayne Manor, and his arm was broken.
A raindrop fell on his face, and Tim let out a frustrated noise, which quickly twisted into something closer to a sob. Of course this day could only get worse.
Tim sighed. He had to get up, before his broken arm somehow worsened. Could that happen? This day kept getting worse and worse, so there was definitely a possibility.
He took a deep breath, finally able to manage a full lungful, and rolled to his side. Cold wet mud seeped through his shirt, smearing along his arms. Just the thought of his mothers face if she saw him…
Tim rolled onto his knees, and then stood up. There. He’d gotten back up, without his arms! He’d also covered himself in mud. (When he got home, these clothes were going straight into the trash.) The cold squish between his toes made him gag slightly, sufficiently distracting him from the pulsing in his wrist. His clothes stuck to his body, clinging to his movements and wet creases rubbing against his skin. This sucked.
Tim trudged forwards through the mud and muck, careful not to slip again. As he took a step, his foot slid against the wet mud, and he froze in place.
He didn’t fall. Thank god. After a few deep breaths, he continued his journey—thinking of it as a quest, a journey he had to complete made it a lot easier to continue.
The Wayne Manor grew in the distance, and Tim picked up the pace a little, half-jogging now. His arm bounced and hurt with every step he took, but it was fine. He was fine. Eventually the effort of actually staying on his feet outranked the effort of thinking, and Tim’s mind slowed itself to a constant rhythm of ow, ow ow.
Ow, he thought as he stumbled out of the trees. Ow, he thought as he skirted around a puddle. Ow, he thought as he climbed up… the steps… of Wayne Manor…
Everything snapped back into the place, including the pain.
Tim took a deep breath, shutting his eyes and rolling back his shoulders. Always look your best. Obviously, he wasn’t looking his best, given the fact that he was covered in mud, tear tracks stained his face, and his wrist was broken, but he could at least try. These were the Waynes after all, and more importantly Batman and Robin. He had wanted to make a good first impression, one that wasn’t an awkward formal greeting at a gala.
After composing himself, Tim released his broken arm, letting it hang limply by his side, and raised his other hand to knock on the door. It came out shaky and feeble, enough that he wasn’t sure anyone heard. Should he knock again? It didn’t seem polite, but he wasn’t sure if he’d been heard.
He reached forwards again, hand hovering in midair for a second before he knocked again.
The door swung open abruptly, and Tim was suddenly faced with Jason Todd, red hoodie, vaguely irritated expression, staring at him.
“Oh, fuck.” Said Jason Todd, eyes blown wide with horror.
Tim stared up at him through mud and grime and tears. “I broke my arm.”
There were a few seconds where they both stood, staring at each other in a standstill. Then suddenly, Jason snapped into motion, turning and bolting towards the stairs. Tim blinked. Okay… he was just leaving then? Tim wobbled slightly on his feet, craning his neck to see into the house.
Then he jerked back as Jason suddenly yelled, “ALFRED!” At a volume that threatened to burst Tim’s eardrums. He was still recovering from the sound when Jason skidded back into view, panting slightly.
“Okay, so, uh, someone’s coming to help. Here, come in.” Jason stuck out his hand, looking like he intended to drag Tim inside before thinking better of it and just waving him in.
Gingerly, Tim stepped inside, looking around the entryway of the manor with wide eyes. It wasn’t like the house was that much more impressive than the house he lived in, both of them being giant mansions, but this just seemed so much more… lived in. there was a warmth that clung to every surface, backpacks and shoes and photographs scattered around the house naturally. People lived here and loved here, and it made Tim feel very out of place.
(For a second, Tim thought back to his own cold, gaping mansion and shivered.)
“Master Timothy.” Tim jumped, jostling his broken arm and letting out a high pitched squeak of shock. Where had the butler come from?
As Alfred (what was his last name?) stared at him, Tim was suddenly very conscious that he was absolutely caked in mud, and was getting it all over the floor.
“Well, it seems we must get you to a hospital–”
“No!”
Tim was just as surprised as everybody else at his sudden outburst. “Sorry,” he said quietly, staring at the floor. Then he jerked his head back up. “I can’t go to the hospital,” Tim siad, trying to get it across as much as he could that hospitals were not an option.
“Why not?” Jason said suspiciously.
“I just can’t.” Tim said, frustration evident. He had spent all this time walking here, he didn't have time to argue about going to a hospital. Tears bubbled to his eyes, and he furiously wiped them away with his unbroken hand. Wet mud smeared over his face, and he rubbed harder and harder, trying to get it off, get it all off—
“Hey!” Jason grabbed his wrist, and Tim flinched back. “Sorry, sorry,” his voice softened, like Tim was some spooked kid he was talking to as Robin. But Tim wasn’t just a kid, he wasn’t weak.
“It’s fine,” he said, voice clipped as he shrugged away from Jason’s soft touch. He moved to cross his arms, then was reminded how bad of an idea that was with a burst of pain.
“Well, it seems to me that young Timothy needs medical assistance,” the butler cut in, voice prim and slightly concerned. Tim turned his big shiny eyes towards the butler.
“Yeah, but…” Jason glanced at him. “How’re we supposed to do that?” He stared pointedly at Alfred.
Oh yeah, because they didn’t know he knew. Tim briefly weighed the pros and cons in his head—and everything was overwhelmed by the fact that he had a broken arm.
“I know,” Tim said. There. Plausible deniability.
Jason spun on his heel, red hoodie flaring out around his waist. “What?” He squeaked.
He sighed, clutching his broken arm. He didn’t have time for this. Like, there was only so long he could pretend to be in zero pain. “I. Know.” Tim took a step forward, staring angrily. He was done with this, either he got help or he would go back home and try to set it himself.
“You know what?” Jason asked, voice quick and urgent.
He took a deep breath. No turning back now. “I know you’re Robin. Can you please help me now?”
There were several seconds of stunned silence.
“Well, we’d better be on our way then,” the butler suddenly said, turning and starting to stride down the hallway. Tim glances at Jason (who still looked to be in a considerable amount of shock) and scurried after him.
Hopefully the butler was going to actually help him, and not kill him for knowing Batman's secret. But then again, death might be preferable to this freaking broken arm.
The hallways of Wayne Manor were wide and gaping, and Tim let his head swivel back and forth as he stumbled after Alfred. There were several old paintings–he was pretty sure he’d learned about the big one in class–and Tim nearly tripped on the tassel of a rug. Why was he so clumsy today? First he broke his arm, then got covered in mud (he currently felt very guilty about tracking mud all over the house) and now he was almost falling over the Wayne's fancy rugs.
Behind him, the tap-tap-tap of footsteps drew closer, until Jason appeared beside him.
“So…” Jason started, and Tim rolled his eyes. Then he was immediately overcome with guilt, because even if he was super annoyed and in pain right now, it felt awful to be rude to Jason Todd.
“What?” Tim gritted out, gripping the edge of a table as Alfred fiddled with a large antique grandfather clock. He wished he really had the energy to look around right now, because this house seemed really cool–like, this library is amazing–but he was in too much pain.
The clock swung open, which was so cool. For a second Tim just gaped at it.
Then, Alfred said “Come along,” and Jason nudged his back, and Tim started to walk down the darkened staircase.
“Why aren’t you out right now?” He asked Jason as they wove down the spiralling staircase. “Yknow, as Robin?”
When he heard Jason let out an annoyed puff of air, he regretted the question. Had he just upset Robin? He really hoped not, that would be really embarrassing.
“…I’m grounded,” Jason grumbled after a second, sounding petulant.
Tim tried not to laugh. Things were seeming a lot funnier now that the pain had faded into the background, either out of shock, an adrenaline crash, or just getting used to it, he didn’t know.
“Shut up,” Jason grumbled, sounding irritated but not really upset. It was strange, a tone of voice he wasn’t really used to.
“Right this way, Master Timothy,” Alfred said as they emerged from the dark stairwell, ushering him towards what looked like a hospital bed but black. Cool. Tim sat down heavily, stretching his legs in front of him. It felt so good to finally be able to sit down, after walking with a broken arm for however long. When he shifted, bits of dried mud flaked off of him and onto the floor, and he watched them fall with a vaguely interested expression.
Jason sat down in a chair next to him, fidgeting slightly with the hem of his sweater. He looked at Tim’s arm with a sort of glazed-over expression, clearly having seen the same thing many times before. But when he met his eyes, blue against blue, his brows crumpled in concern. Tim didn’t know what to do when faced with that expression, it wasn’t one that he was very familiar with.
After all, he was fine. He was always fine. Even now, sitting in Batman’s secret lair beneath his neighbours’ house with a broken arm, he was–he was fine.
With a nervous hand, Jason reached out slowly, laying it on Tim’s knee, his touch warm through the muddied fabric of his jeans. He stared at the other boy’s hand touching him–when was the last time someone had touched him? Stupidly, Tim found his eyes welling up with tears, breaths quickening.
With his uninjured arm, he reached up to scrub at his eyes, dirt turning to mud when mixed with the tears on his face and smearing across his skin. This was–why was he crying? Tim gasped for breath, a sob slipping out, and Jason looked at him.
“Hey, Timmers,” he said, voice soft and only a little awkward as he scooted his chair a little closer. And the–the nickname only made Tim cry harder, folding forwards and pressing his face against his dirty and torn jeans, arm snapping with pain at the movement. Jason’s hand lifted off his knee, instead pressing steadily against the place where his neck turned into his back.
He couldn't decide whether to lean farther into the touch or crumple farther forwards into his knees. His tears were dripping down his face, nose running, breath coming in ugly little gasps.
“Sorry,” he managed, knowing he was being childish, being stupid, but it was like something in him had snapped and he couldn’t stop.
“Hey, hey,” Jason said, and his hand was moving, rubbing circles into his back. “You’re okay, you’re good.” His voice was steady, a sharp contrast to Tim’s gasping apologies. “We’re gonna help ya, alright? You’re getting help.”
Tim didn’t need help. He was fine on his own, he really was. He could have handled this on his own, he knew he could have. But–
He didn’t have to.