Work Text:
When Tim first throws up, he doesn't think much of it. Since losing his spleen, his immune system has never been the same. Thanks, Ra’s.
Despite all the teasing he gets for being a workaholic, Tim does actually know when he needs a break, Tam. So he grabs a Gatorade and only hesitates briefly before he messages his family group chat, as well as the Titans one. He lets everyone know he's come down with some sort of viral illness and that Red Robin work will have to wait a few days.
Then he emails Tam, Bruce and Lucius to sort out his work at Wayne Enterprises. He makes sure to break Bruce's section into step-by-step instructions. Last time it took Tim weeks to undo the damage Bruce did by “improvising” his way through business meetings. Tim made sure the PR team all got well-deserved raises once Bruce's chaos was contained.
Everyone wishes him a quick recovery – even Damian holds off on insults, only sending an eye roll emoji. Tim sets a bucket by his bed and finishes off his Gatorade. He crawls, tired and aching, under the covers and then passes out for the next thirteen hours.
By the end of the third day of being unable to keep anything down, Tim allows himself to worry.
Dick sends him a message as his stomach violently rejects the plain toast meant to appease it.
D: You alive?
Tim replies with:
T: there is no god. existence is a curse. all my insides are now on my outsides and it. won't. stop.
He figures he's allowed to be a little dramatic about things right now.
D: Need anything?
T: a new spleen.
D: ...Need anything they stock at Walmart?
T: orange juice. ice pops. a functioning immune system.
Half an hour later, Tim is still hugging the toilet bowl as his front door opens. He didn't know anyone had a key. Looks like Tim's changing the locks again.
His throat burns as he coughs up the last of the toast.
He can get the locks after he's through this.
“Sorry, Timmy! They were all outta immune systems,” Dick calls, far too cheerful for Tim's liking. “I brought some of Alfred's chicken soup, though!”
The thought of soup makes his stomach rebel again, and Tim retches up nothing.
He can't wait until he's better.
In all, it takes just under a week for Tim to stop puking.
Finally, he can put the whole thing behind him. Get back to both his day job and his night work. Eat second (and third) helpings of Alfred's cooking at family dinners.
It sucked, but he got through it. It's fine.
Three weeks later, Red Robin's dinner makes a surprise reappearance over the edge of a rooftop in the middle of a stakeout. Tim really hopes nobody was walking on that street below.
Although, given that the group they're watching is linked to the disappearance of at least three kids… anyone down there probably deserves to be puked on.
Jason stares at him through his stupid unreadable helmet.
“The fuck, Red?”
“Uh… I'm gonna…” Tim retches. Swallows. “I'm gonna head home.”
Tim turns, wiping his mouth, and starts to leave. His face is burning. He’s never going to live this down.
“Wait!” Jason is already following. “Oracle's sending Spoiler and Robin to cover the stakeout. I'll get you home.”
Tim is about to protest that he is a grown-ass adult, and can make it home by himself, thank you very much. But as soon as he opens his mouth he doubles over and vomits again.
So instead he just raises a thumbs up at Jason and lets Red Hood mother-hen him all the way home.
After another twenty-four hours of hating his life and being unable to do anything more strenuous than pouring himself more orange juice, Tim gives up trying to do this alone.
He goes back to the Manor.
Bruce is immediately all over him. He says he's going to let Tim rest and get his strength back… but he pokes his head into Tim's room at least once an hour.
“How are you feeling?” he asks at his latest hourly invasion.
Tim glares at him over the rim of the bucket his head is buried in.
“Stupid question, right…” Bruce chuckles sheepishly.
Tim is this close to throwing his bucket at Bruce. Except he still needs it. He doesn't always make it to the bathroom.
“Leslie said she'd come around this afternoon,” Bruce says, when Tim heaves again. “She wants to run some tests, check your bloodwork.”
Tim groans. He knows it makes sense but he'd much rather pretend this isn't happening for a bit longer.
“I know.” Bruce rubs his back. “But we'll figure it out.”
They better. Tim doesn't know how long he can do this.
Tim's labs come back normal. Leslie orders another round of tests.
The second set comes back normal too.
“That's good news, right?” Steph asks from where she's painting her toenails on the floor. Her tongue pokes out of the side of her mouth as she concentrates.
Tim's back in his own apartment now that he's able to eat again. Steph apparently decided that meant it was time for a movie night. Tim just accepts it when she shows up and makes them both popcorn.
“It's good that there's nothing really bad showing up,” Tim allows. “It's just… frustrating. Not having answers.”
Steph hmms. “Tim Drake, World's almost-Greatest Detective, in The Mystery of the Unexpected Vom,” she announces dramatically. As if Tim's life is a bad movie.
“The Case of the Persistent Puke,” Tim retorts as he settles carefully on the sofa.
“The Incident of the Icky Tummy,” Steph laughs.
Tim laughs too, in spite of himself.
It's not funny. Not really. But joking with Steph makes him feel… almost as normal as his test results.
The third episode of vomiting starts in the office. It's a four-coffees-before-lunch kind of day. Nothing but meetings and minor disasters that make Tim want to curl up under his desk and cry.
He's in the middle of an infuriating afternoon meeting with the board when he starts sweating. There's so much saliva pooling in his mouth that he has to swallow constantly to avoid drooling.
Tim's stressing about how he's going to convince these assholes that caring about people is not a bad business practice for the fifteenth time this quarter. Then the nausea hits. He barely has time to shoot Tam a panicked glance and a “cover me!” IM.
Then he bolts from the room.
It's not professional at all. Managing the fallout is going to be a nightmare…
Sounds like a Bruce problem to Tim.
This time around is even worse. Tim finds it hard to get any fluids to stay down. After the first day, swallowing anything liquid instantly triggers an emergency evacuation of his stomach contents.
It's a shitty sicky cycle. The less he eats or drinks, the sicker he feels. The sicker he feels, the less he can eat or drink.
He ends up on a saline drip in the Manor that weekend.
Leslie takes more blood. Runs every test she knows.
Tim has scan after scan after scan.
She approaches Tim in his bedroom like he's a particularly anxious cat. “That's the last of your results back, Tim.”
“Let me guess.” Tim lifts his head just enough to look Leslie in the eye. “They're all normal.”
Leslie just nods sympathetically.
“Thanks, Leslie.” Tim's voice is flat. He doesn't have enough energy to put feeling into it.
He rolls over in bed, spits bile into his bucket, and cries.
Tim comes back to work after a week to a panic in HR. Apparently Bruce is trying to fire half of the board. Something about comments made after Tim's abrupt departure that Bruce is not happy about.
It takes Tim half an hour to talk him down. Firing them would cause more trouble than just letting Tim’s existence continue to piss them off.
“It's fine, Bruce.”
“It's not fine,” Bruce growls. “Nobody talks about my kid that way.”
Tim tries to ignore the way he still lights up inside at Bruce calling him “his kid”. He shrugs. “Tell me who made the comments. Next time it happens I'll aim for them instead of dashing to the bathroom.”
Bruce actually chuckles. Tim finds the corners of his mouth lifting, just slightly.
He can do all things through spite, which strengthens him.
If Tim didn't already know how much of a problem his illness is, this is what would tip him off. He's supposed to be joining the Titans this weekend. It's been a while since he's seen them. With all the throwing up, he figured he should take a break. Now that he's been well for an entire month, he feels ready again.
Too bad Tim's suit doesn't fit anymore.
He didn't realize he'd lost so much weight. The Red Robin armor hangs off him in places. His belt slides down his hips. It makes sense, given how little he's managed to eat over the past few months, but it's still jarring to see. An ill-fitting costume isn't just a fashion disaster. It's a safety concern.
Tim's hands tremble as he stares at his reflection. He feels betrayed. Hasn't his body taken enough from him?
It's fucked up his immune system. Made a major dent in his professional reputation. He had to get his first filling last week because all the puking is ruining the enamel on his teeth.
And now it's taking his vigilante career. His time with his friends.
He storms off, stripping the costume as he goes. That's when he notices how warm he's gotten. How sticky he is with sweat. The nasty taste building in his mouth.
Episode four starts minutes later.
Leslie sits on the chair next to Tim's bed.
“I have good news, and bad news.”
Tim sits up. His stomach grumbles in protest, but graciously decides to let this morning's orange juice stay put.
“Okay…” he prompts.
“The good news,” Leslie begins, “is that I think we have enough information now for a diagnosis.”
Tim’s heart flutters in his chest. A diagnosis! If they know what's wrong, they can stop it. They can fix him. He'll be able to go back to normal. He–
“The bad news,” Leslie rains on Tim's mental parade, “is that it's likely chronic. We can only manage your symptoms…”
“...No cure?” Tim asks. His heart has stopped its happy flutter. It sits heavy like a stone in his chest.
“I'm afraid not.”
Tim takes a steadying breath. It's typical. Of course his body isn't done fucking with him yet. Tim has never been the kind of person to back down from a challenge, though. He'd have been a pretty shit Robin if he was.
“Give me the details,” he says.
When Tim's stomach settles, he takes his newly prescribed anti-emetics and lets himself into Jason's apartment.
He needs to not be alone, but he can't deal with the rest of his family's pity and well-intentioned hovering while he processes. As far as he knows, he's the only one who even knows where Jason lives.
“Wow, Timmers. You look like shit.”
Jason's only just in the door and Tim already knows he made the right choice. Jason's flavor of care is a lot more blunt than his other siblings. That's what Tim needs right now.
“So do you,” Tim replies. “I'm chronically ill. What's your excuse?”
“Wow.” Jason sets his helmet down and puts a hand to his chest in mock hurt. “You invite yourself to my apartment – which you shouldn't even know about, by the way – and instantly insult me?”
“Yeah,” Tim nods. “Sounds about right.”
“You're lucky you're my favorite brother,” Jason sighs as he heads into the kitchen. “If I make pasta, are you going to want any, or will you just puke it back up?”
Tim considers. “What kind of pasta?”
“Reheated spaghetti bolognese. Perfect 3 a.m. post-patrol meal.”
Tim grimaces. “I'll pass. Spaghetti sounds like it would be horrific to cough up later.”
Jason pauses. “Thank you for that lovely mental image.”
Tim grins at him. Yeah. This is what he needs.
“So,” Jason says as he joins Tim on the sofa, “chronically ill, huh?”
“Don't be weird about it,” Tim huffs.
Jason snorts around his mouthful of spaghetti. “Please. I'm not Dick. Just nosy.”
“Shouldn't have joined a family of detectives.” Tim shakes his head, then relents. “It's apparently called CVS.”
“I'm guessing you're not talking about the drug store.”
“Yes, Jay,” Tim deadpans. “I've been diagnosed with drug store.”
“Little shit,” Jason laughs, pointing his fork at Tim. “I can still kick you out.”
Tim lifts his phone with a smirk. “You do that and I'll let Dick and Damian know you said I'm your favorite.”
“Ugh, fine!”
Jason's spaghetti smells really great, actually…
Tim drifts toward the kitchen as he explains.
“Cyclic vomiting syndrome,” he announces. “Exactly what it sounds like. My body's just decided it needs to puke for a while every so often. Totally well in between times.”
He grabs a plain slice of bread and heads back through, throwing himself dramatically back onto his space on the couch.
“There's no cure,” Tim says. “All I can do is try and figure out what triggers the episodes. Try and avoid setting it off.”
“That sucks,” Jason says, eyes softening.
The look on his face is getting too close to pity, so Tim takes the opportunity to swipe his stolen bread slice through Jason's plate. The sauce tastes even better than it smells.
It's totally worth putting up with Jason ranting at him about “thieving little freeloaders”.
Leslie suggested Tim keep a diary of his symptoms. Just a note of how he's feeling (physically and emotionally), what he's had to eat and drink, how much sleep he's had. Little things like that.
Tim makes a spreadsheet. Easier to track all the variables that way.
It takes another three months (and two more bad flare ups) but Tim begins to spot the pattern. He doesn't like it.
“Stress is the major one,” he explains to Alfred over peppermint tea. Everyone else is still asleep, but Tim didn't patrol last night. Still recovering from his most recent flare.
“But it's also worse after extreme physical exertion or when I don't sleep well.” He ponders his cup for a moment. “All the things we've been ignoring whenever you point them out.”
“Master Tim, I am of course delighted that someone is finally going to listen to my advice on healthy sleep habits.” Alfred smiles sadly at him. “But I wish you hadn't had to go through this in order to prioritize your health.”
“Yeah…” Tim sighs. “There's one last trigger I spotted.”
“Oh?”
“...Caffeine.”
“I did wonder at your choice of beverage this morning,” Alfred nods.
Tim takes a sip of his tea, then makes a face.
Yes, he's keeping himself healthier. But god, at what cost?
Identifying the triggers helps. Between Tim's new, improved sleep schedule and the occasional anti-emetic, his episodes get much more manageable.
All he has to do is avoid everything that made his life worth living.
He heads to Titans Tower to celebrate his new coping skills. Seeing his friends is a low-stress, non-physical activity. As long as he avoids caffeine, Tim will be fine.
It takes less than an hour for Tim to figure out his mistake.
“Hey! It's Red Robin!” Jaime calls as Tim enters.
“Just Tim today,” Tim says.
“Dude!” Bart speeds in and crashes into Tim, wrapping him up in a hug. “I'm so glad you're back!”
“Glad to see you feeling better,” Cassie sighs as she gives Tim a hug of her own.
“Well…” Tim manages to pull himself free of his friends. “About that…”
Over the next twenty minutes, Tim explains what CVS is three separate times. The reactions vary, but are all wildly frustrating.
“You mean you're still sick?!” Bart exclaims. “Man, that sucks. We need you!”
Tim can feel the nausea building. He tries his best to stick it out. Once they all get past the questions and the needling to get him back on the team it'll be fine.
“Hope you feel better soon, Tim.” Kon ruffles Tim’s hair, which is starting to plaster itself to his sweaty forehead. “The pills will get it under control, right?”
“I don't get it.” Gar, in monkey form, clambers over Tim. “Don't you bats have a cure for everything?”
“Yeah,” Jaime leaps in, “I'm sure you'll be back on the team in no time!”
“Enough!” Tim yells. He can't do this.
“I'm sick. I'm not getting better. Stress makes me puke. Exercise makes me puke. Lack of sleep makes me puke.” He glares around the room at his silent friends. “I can't be Red Robin right now.” Tim’s head aches. He needs to leave. “I might not be able to be Red Robin ever again.”
His stomach lurches. “This was a bad idea.”
He puts the jet on autopilot and spends the flight back to the Batcave in the bathroom.
Cass greets him off the plane with a gentle hug, a Gatorade, a pack of plain crackers and his pill bottle. Tim cries on her shoulder as she guides him to his room.
“I can't do it anymore, Cass,” he admits once he's settled. Cass has switched some trashy soap opera on for background noise. It makes it easier to open up, somehow.
“Trying your best,” Cass states, firmly. “That's all you need to do.”
Tim sighs. “Yeah, but… I can't…” He can feel tears building. This afternoon was the first time he acknowledged the truth out loud and it hurts.
“I can't be Red Robin,” he whispers. “I can't go back to work at Wayne Enterprises.”
Cass wraps her arms around his shoulders.
“I don't know who I am anymore, Cass.”
“Silly.” Cass flicks his nose. “Body different, but you are still Tim. Still my little brother.”
Tim sniffs. “Thanks.”
Cass nods. “Good. Now, stop being mean to yourself.” She gestures to the argument happening onscreen. “Help me decide which twin is the father instead.”
They bicker about which twin is the woman on screen’s baby daddy for the rest of the episode. They're both wrong.
“Huh,” Tim says. “Didn’t see that coming.”
Cass shakes her head. “Triplets. Of course.”
Tim snickers and rests his head on Cass’s shoulder. He's still Tim. Cass is still his big sister. He'll figure the rest out later.
When Tim goes down for breakfast the next morning, there's a large parcel on the counter, as well as one of those obnoxiously massive greeting cards.
“For you I gather, Master Tim,” Alfred says as he approaches with Tim's mint tea.
“For me?” Tim frowns. “But my birthday was months ago.”
“It was delivered by young Master Bart, not long before you awoke.”
Tim picks up the card. It's addressed (in Kon's writing) to “The World's Actual Greatest Detective”. Underneath (in Cassie's neater hand) – “Yeah! Batman can suck it!”
And then (in Bart’s almost illegible scrawl) – “please don't hurt us mr batman we're just trying to make our friend smile please and thank you”.
The card itself is simple. A cartoon dog (which someone has colored in green) and the words “Sorry You're Feeling Ruff”. Tim snorts. His friends are dorks and he loves them.
Inside is a long letter, in several different colors of pen, the ink slightly smudged from handling (clearly a group effort). It begins with an apology for triggering Tim’s illness.
Then it moves on to an explanation of the research they did after Tim left. “Dude! I would have gone full supervillain after the second episode,” writes Kon. Tim smiles. He definitely considered it.
The letter ends with Cassie: “Red Robin or not, you’re our friend, Tim. You are welcome at the Tower anytime.” Beneath that, a smaller note from Bart: “We’ll be better behaved next time, promise.”
Tim sniffs. He puts the card to the side so his tears won't smudge the ink. Dorks. All of them.
Tim takes a sip of his tea, steadying himself, then opens the parcel.
Every single snack he usually brings to movie nights. A post-it in Raven's looping cursive states, “We didn't know what you could/couldn't eat so we bought it all.”
There's a sticker sheet with little ghosts proclaiming “Not All Illnesses Are Visible”. Tim will figure out how he'll fit them all on his laptop later.
The last item is a t-shirt. He pulls it out of the box, takes one glance at the text and bursts into laughter. He laughs so hard he can't breathe, which triggers his nausea. He has to take an anti-emetic before he does anything else.
“Are you alright, Tim?” Bruce asks as he enters the kitchen.
Tim just holds up the tee in response.
Personally Victimized By My Own Stomach
“How'd you do it, Babs?” Tim asks. He's helping upgrade some of the clocktower's hardware. On his knees, halfway inside a maintenance hatch with electronics and tools scattered around him.
He doesn't need to clarify. Barbara knows exactly what he's talking about. “It wasn't easy,” she admits. “But I didn't have much choice. I physically couldn't go out as Batgirl anymore. So I chose to focus on what I could do instead.”
Tim pauses for a moment, considering her words.
“I think my problem is that I don't know what I can do,” he explains. “Obviously fieldwork is out.”
“Leaping over rooftops does seem like a bad idea when exertion is a trigger,” Babs agrees.
“I could help with casework from the cave, but…” Tim hesitates, fidgeting with one of the wires. “I know myself too well. I get sucked into my work too often.”
“And then you bite off everyone's head when we ask you to take a break and get some sleep.”
“Yeah…” Tim rubs the back of his neck.
“So we figure it out together,” Babs decides. “You've stopped your WE work, right?”
Tim nods. “Bruce and Tam have it covered. I don't miss it the way I thought I would.” He sighs. “Not like I miss the nightlife.”
“I can hand off some of the background investigation to you?” she suggests. “The stuff that's less time-sensitive. Less stress that way.”
She smiles at him. “You've always been the best of us at the detective work. If you want to stay involved, we'll find a way.”
“And…” Tim swallows, unsure. “And if I can't manage it? If I decide I want to do something completely unrelated?”
“We'll support you through that too.” Babs is as sure as always. The confidence in her voice steadies something inside Tim.
“I think we're ready to go here,” he says, closing up the hatch.
“Thanks, Tim. This stuff is always easier with a second person.”
“Yeah, it is.” Tim smiles. “Thanks, Babs.”
Everyone's gathered at the Manor for dinner for once, so Tim takes the opportunity to officially announce that he's stepping down.
“I mean, I think you all knew I would anyway,” he shrugs. “I'll still help out with background stuff. Not as hands-on as Babs, but yeah.”
Before anyone else can say anything, Damian speaks up.
“Tt. It is for the best. You cannot defeat your enemies if you are also fighting your own body.”
Tim blinks. “That was… almost supportive, Damian.”
Damian rolls his eyes. “I am simply removing the weakest link in the team.”
Tim has known him long enough now to spot the way Damian flushes when he lies. His little brother just won't admit that he cares.
“I don't know…” Tim says, glancing at Dick. “I reckon I could still beat Nightwing in a fight.”
“Hey!” Dick objects. “Don't drag me into this!”
There's a pause while Dick decides how to approach Tim's boast.
What he settles on is: “Also, that's a pretty bold claim. What are you going to do? Puke on me?”
Tim laughs. “Probably, yeah.”
“What the heck, Tim?” Dick’s grin fades, concern tugging at his voice.
“And then when you were apologizing and fussing over me, I'd kick you in the balls.”
Steph giggles. Jason chokes on his roast potatoes. Even Damian hides a smile behind his hand.
“Holy shit. You're an evil genius.” Dick looks like he can't decide whether to be offended, or in awe.
“Language,” Bruce says, without looking up. Dick sticks his tongue out at him.
“Remember that next time you copy my house keys,” Tim grins.
Dick holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Baby bird, anyone who underestimates you deserves exactly what they get.”
Part of the reason Tim has earned a reputation as a genius in the superhero community is that he learns from his mistakes. So the next time he goes to Titans Tower, he messages the group chat first.
Then he takes a nap on the plane, followed by an anti-emetic just before stepping off the plane.
The plan for tonight is takeout and Ghibli movies. Peak relaxation. Tim sits on a beanbag to the side of everyone else. Just in case.
It's not quite enough. Just as Kiki and Jiji step into their new home at the bakery, Tim's stomach decides that pizza is the devil and he has to run to the bathroom.
As flare-ups go, it doesn't feel too bad. Tim feels better after he's thrown up, so he rinses his mouth, takes a second anti-emetic and heads back through. He grabs another slice of pizza on his way back to the beanbag.
“Tim? Didn't you just throw up your last slice?” Kon asks, bewildered.
“Yeah,” Tim acknowledges as he chews. “But it tastes incredible. I'm not going to let a little vom put me off.”
“Dude!” Bart laughs, holding out a hand for a fist bump.
Kon shakes his head, but he's smiling. “It's your body!”
On screen Kiki says, “Without even thinking about it, I used to be able to fly. Now I'm trying to look inside myself and find out how I did it.”
Tim looks around at his friends. Remembers what Cass told him after his last visit. How his family are helping him plan his future.
Unlike Kiki, Tim might never fly again. But he's still Tim Drake-Wayne. And he's not giving up.
(He pukes for two days straight when he gets back to the Manor. Tim maintains that the pizza was worth every second.)