Chapter Text
tim has shared his location
can someone come get me
no rush tho
Tim isn't expecting a response immediately. He's not stupid. The joke that is Family Dinner night had just ended very, very poorly. Jason fighting Bruce, Jason leaving. Dick fighting Bruce, Dick chasing after him. Bruce, depressed and tired and probably deep down angry, giving up. Going to bed. At least he'd said a nice goodbye to Tim.
And then, sneaking past a semi-arguing Jason and Dick, Tim had dipped, too. Told Bruce he was going back to his house, just next door, and slipped off into Gotham's nightlife.
Fuck, what a stupid idea.
His hand hovers useless over his side, settling gingerly around the knife. At least the guy just stole his wallet. At least he'd left Tim's phone and the knife.
So, Tim checks his phone again because there's no way he'll be able to walk back to his place with a knife sticking out of his gut, but he also can't fix that problem until he gets back to his place.
It's crickets in the chat. Based on the icons, Jason's seen it, but of course didn't respond. Tim knows Bruce is asleep and won't see it. His last hope is Dick.
But pulling up his tracker app and finding Dick and Jason's icons together dashes any hope.
Okay, so Tim's out of options. Walking it is.
boo
you guys suck butt
I'll judt walk
juts*
just**
Tim's so fucking lucky Jason's the only one checking the chat. He never makes typos, which means something is definitely off, but nobody'll care to check in.
So Tim pulls himself up, ignores his whimpers and gasps and tears, and puts one scraped foot in front of the other.
It's hours. It's minutes, seconds, days. He's a shaking mess when he gets back hope, gasping ragged breaths and clutching his side with cold fingers and -
Tim…can't remember proper protocol. He's not supposed to take the knife out, right? Tim didn't take the knife out. But if he doesn't, how is he supposed to treat it?
Google it is.
He clicks blindly as his phone, just not distantly realizing that his vision is tunneling and his fingers are slick.
googl wheb do i take tbe knifs out
He doesn't think google is working. Maybe his wifi is out?
Tim takes the knife out.
Fuck, what a mistake, he thinks as he comes back from the white hot flash of pain. Heat is pouring from his side a lot quicker now, and Tim thinks that maybe he should be considering blood loss.
Another question for Google, it seems.
goog j took tbe knfi put whag do j do
goog rspon
man fuch you googe
Tim can't believe Google is ignoring him.
He's in the middle of pressing a dish towel over his bleeding wound when his phone lights up with a call.
“Y'ello,” Tim greets, eyes closed, “F'this is Google I'm suing."
“You fucking shit-for-brains!” The voice over call spits, ignoring Tim's woah, chill out dude. “Did you get fucking stabbed? Is that why you dropped your location earlier?!”
Tim opens his eyes and can barely make out the wall in front of him. “Woah, dude, you psychic? I’dunno who y’are n’I dunno how you knew tha’, but you cuh’d get pet- pretty far s’a medium.”
The voice sputters angrily, and there's a bunch of clattering, before a different voice appears.
“Timmy!” It cries out, “Where are you? You totally got stabbed, didn't you? Where's Bruce?”
Tim knows that name. Tim knows Bruce.
“Bruce!” He squeals excitedly. “You know Bruce? Where is he? I love him!” Tim giggles.
And keeps going.
“He's like. He's like my dad.” He whispers conspiratorily. “Bruce! He's asleep, yanno? He'sh- uh- he’s real de-pressed r’now, so he also prob’ly took some uh- um. Sleep-aid. But we don't judge. We listen,” Tim giggles again, choking on something wet in the back of his throat, “and we don't judge.”
“Okay, yeah, Timmy. We listen and we don't judge. Why don't you keep talking?”
There's a muffled conversation and Tim hears the end of a shout.
“I'm at my house!” He says, latching onto keywords. He wonders why they're arguing about houses.
There's a moment of silence, and everything gets real loud, before the nice voice comes back over the phone. “That's good. That's really good, Tim. We'll be there soon. Keep talking.”
“S’always cold at m’house,” Tim says, blinking at nothing. “S'colder now than- than usual. I like to spend time at Bruce's. He's like my dad. Did I say that?”
The voice seems a little choked up. “You did, but no biggie. You said Bruce was depressed - why's that?”
“You gossiper,” Tim accuses, before breaking out into a smile. “I am one too, though. Don't tell anyone. So,” Tim breaks out into a couch, hacking up some liquid that falls over his chin. He doesn't have the energy to wipe it away.
“Tim! Tim, are you okay?! Go faster!” The voice is saying, when Tim can hear again.
“M’okay,” Tim says, feeling really, really lonely. “Mh’mouth tastes like metal and m’really tired. But I don'- I dun ‘member. We… Are we talk’n ‘bout Bruce?”
The voice says yeah, and Tim thinks he sounds a little sad.
“Family dinner night didn't go well. Jay-son,” Tim says very carefully, “And Dick-y got mad at Bruce. Bruce isn't very good at talking to people, e-specia-lly the ones he cares ‘bout, but I don't think Jay-son and Dick-y un-der-stand that. So they left, cuz they were feeling sad.”
The voice makes a noise.
“But it always makes B really, really sad. And he doesn't like being sad in front of me, so he pretends he isn't, but it makes him really, really tired. So I leave so he can be sad, and Bruce goes to bed. ‘Cuz he doesn't wanna exist sometimes.” Tim is feeling nauseous now, and he wants to cry and he wants a hug. He knows he wont get one. Hasn’t gotten one since he woke up from the Tower Incident. “My tummy hurts. I feel sick.”
“Jesus,” the voice whispers.
“N'when I, I-” Tim's tongue is thick in his mouth, and he can't get it to work. No amount of intent can stop him from slurring his words again. “Sh-sorry. When'I leave I go home. Most times. Went - ugh - went to th’city. Last night.”
The voice doesn't say anything, and a few tears slip down Tim's cheeks because now he's really alone.
“Don't cry, kiddo,” a gruff voice says, smoothing warm hands over Tim's cheeks. Someone touches where his stomach hurts the most, and Tim's brain sort-of shuts off.
“Y'can't leave me,” Tim says, grasping at a rough, scarred hand. “Don’ wanna be ‘lone. Don’ wanna die. Bruce will be sad. Don’ wan’ him t'be sad.”
“Okay,” the voice agrees, sounding wounded, “Okay. I won't leave.”
“Okay,” Tim says, eyes slipping closed. He thinks he might be smiling. “I- uh. Gonna’ um. Sleep now.”
“Tim!” The voice shouts. “Timothy!”
Maybe, just maybe, this isn’t the worst thing Tim has ever done, if it means having someone by his side like this.