Chapter Text
Jason frowned and removed his earbuds as an unexpected sound filtered through the Irish folk music. It was only him and Tim in the mansion – him benched from Robin with a recently-dislocated shoulder, Tim barred from comms because the boy needed some sleep, goddamnit – and that...moan?... was a very strange noise for something in the family wing to be making.
Jason stood up, winced as the movement jarred his shoulder, and padded out into the hallway to investigate.
The sound was definitely coming from Tim's room.
"Hey, everything alright in there?" Jason asked, tapping gently on the door. A thud, a muffled whine, but no verbal answer had Jason's pulse rising. “Timbers, I'm coming in, you better be decent – oh FUCK.”
Tim was curled in a tight ball on his bed, eyes screwed shut, both hands clutching his head. He was breathing irregularly, and he didn't seem to react to Jason rushing over.
"Tim? Buddy? Can you hear me? Can you tell me what's wrong?" Jason asked, beginning to search Tim's body for any sign of injury.
Tim gasped for a moment, and then choked out just one word – "hurts" – before cutting off in a scream and rolling over to press himself into the wall.
"Fuck, Tim, it's going to be okay. Did you hit your head? Tim? Can you hear me? Shit..."
Jason's phone was still in his room, but he could see Tim's on the nightstand. He quickly grabbed it and typed out an SOS to the family group-chat – screaming teenagers were definitely above his pay-grade – before turning his attention back to Tim. The kid could clearly move, and Jason didn't see any blood or bruising, so he set himself a new goal: keep Tim breathing until Bruce or Alfred arrived.
Jason placed a gentle hand on the younger boy’s arm as Tim whined again, pressing the back of his head against the wall and arcing his spine forward. Tim didn’t react. His eyes were still closed, fingers digging into his forehead and scalp, teeth clenched, breath ragged. Jason perched on the side of the bed and watched, tense, trying to figure out what he can do.
Alfred burst into the bedroom, carrying a med kit. "What’s going on, lads?"
"I don’t know, Alfred, I just found him like this. Not responding, no injuries that I can tell, screaming and moaning off-and-on." Jason quickly relocated further down the bed, letting Alfred sit next to the thrashing teenager.
"Master Bruce is heading back as quick as he can; Master Dick’s going to stay out on patrol. Master Tim? Can you hear me? Can you open your eyes for me?" With a penlight in one hand, Alfred tried to pry one of Tim’s eyelids open.
Jason had to spring up to dodge the flailing limb. "Fuck, Tim, don’t kick us."
"Language, Master Jason. Do you know if Master Tim has left his room this evening? Has he been complaining of headaches, nausea, anything like that?"
“Tim, it’s just Alfred and me, stay still, buddy, I know it hurts – no, Alfred, he hasn’t said anything."
As Alfred clipped on a pulse oximeter, Tim curled up away from them, clenching tightly. He remained unresponsive, but his breathing seemed to steady over the next few moments, until –
"Did he fall asleep? Pass out?" Jason asked.
"I’m not sure, lad," Alfred murmured. "I’m wondering if this is a new strain of fear toxin, but I don’t know how he would have been exposed, and his heart rate’s been steady…"
Jason checked Tim’s phone for messages, but nothing yet from Bruce, only Dick asking for updates. He summarised the last few minutes as best he could, and then watched his brother’s chest rise and fall, rise and fall…
Everything hurt, and wakefulness was slow to arrive. Tim wondered groggily if he had been drugged and tried to push through the haze.
Is he coming to?
I’m not sure.
Tim? Timmers? Timberly? Can you hear me?
With great effort, Tim forced his eyes open, then whined at the bright light searing his retina.
"Talk to me, lad, what’s wrong?"
"Alfred?" It sounded like Alfred. God, his voice was wrecked.
"Yes, lad, it’s me and Master Jason. We’re in your bedroom. Everyone’s safe. Can you open your eyes?"
"Too bright," Tim croaked.
Tim heard some rustling and a click, and from behind his eyelids, the world seemed a lot dimmer. He tried to open them again.
"There are you, Master Tim. Can you tell me how you’re feeling?" Alfred asked gently, carefully touching the boy’s shoulder.
"Sore," Tim answered. His head hurt. His arms hurt. His legs hurt. His back hurt. His eyelids felt heavy. "Wha’ happ’n’d?"
"We were hoping you knew the answer to that, Tim," Jason said from somewhere by Tim’s feet. "You had some sort of headache. You were screaming, then you passed out for a few minutes. What do you remember?"
“I don’t…” Things felt really slippery. "M’tired. C’n I sleep?"
There was something warm next to Tim. Alfred? Maybe. Tim closed his eyes and burrowed into it. Tim felt a hand rest on his head. That seemed acceptable.
A noise temporarily distracted the room’s occupants from trying to make Tim talk as Bruce, still in costume, opened and then quickly came through the window. Tim let Alfred and Jason catch Bruce up, the harsh worry in their tone not enough to pierce the cottony fog that had surrounded his mind.
"…he seems pretty out of it, but Alfred says his vitals are fine. Maybe a weird migraine?" Jason was saying.
"Mm. Hey, chum, can you wake up for me a bit?"
Tim opened his eyes again, disentangling himself enough from Alfred’s lap to meet Bruce’s blue eyes, glittering in the near-darkness.
"I’m okay, B. Jus’ tired."
Bruce sighed and reached over to check Tim for a fever, finding the boy’s face to be flushed but not overheated.
"Alright, Tim, let us just get a blood sample real fast, and then you can go back to sleep. One of us will stay with you, at least for a bit. Alfred, even if the bloodwork’s clear, can you call Leslie? This doesn’t seem normal."