Chapter Text
Tim is brilliant. He knows this. Not many people at his age accomplished all he had. How many people can say they figured out the identity of the Bat and therefore the Robins, at 9 years old?
He's intelligent. He's intuitive. He'd navigated himself away from deceitful people with too wide smiles during galas at such a young age from a single lilt in their voice whenever he gets seperated from his parents.
He's trustworthy. He's strategic. He's resourceful. He was the one given the responsibility to lead Young Justice.
He's meticulous. He's observant. It was what led him to bring Bruce home from scrutinizing a painted portrait of a Wayne ancestor, making a connection with all the clues he'd found along the way before that moment, even though everyone he knows believed he was dead.
However, idiocy does not completely evade him.
Rain poured down punishingly over Gotham that night. As if it were trying to wash out all of the corruption that stubbornly clings into the crevices of the city. Thunder roared and lightning crackled in the dark skies.
Patrol had been pretty uneventful, considering the only major issues were caused by none other than Condiment King.
Gotham was as quiet as it could get for once, which should've been a telltale sign of some sort of trouble brewing. Tim had been too tired to entertain the thought, however. Condiment King, despite his low lethality rate, is on the top-most annoying villains to encounter list for a reason.
He stepped out of the locker room, hair still damp from his 5 minute shower as he ran a towel through the dark strands.
He found himself in a comfortable pair of gray sweatpants and a large custom graphic tee of him, dead asleep and even drooling, with colorful squiggles and random doodles decorating his cheeks and forehead. A gag gift from Dick for his 18th birthday.
(He'd gotten his hands on Dick's escrima sticks later and changed the tazer feature to keep shocking him whenever he activates it as revenge)
He stretched his arms, cracking the joints in his back as he did. Relieving it from the lingering pain of being tossed into the brick wall that Jason Todd was. ("Next time move your fatass!" His words elicited an enraged and utterly offended reaction, "Fat- FAT?! I BENCH PRESS TWICE YOUR WEIGHT!")
He glanced at the mustard trail he left in his hurry, a grimace of disgust curling on his lips. The memory of the yellow substance clinging to his hair and suit still fresh in his mind. He hoped Alfred would be able to get rid of the stains on his gear.. He cannot stand the stench of it once it sours.
If it's not because of his recklessness or Damian deciding he's sick of him that he dies, it's probably because of that smell.
He picked up the cordless mop-vacuum that Alfred always left behind for these sorts of messes and began cleaning up the mustard stains.
Once that was done, he trudged towards the stone stairs that lead to the Batcomputer. His feet hit each step soundlessly. He sluggishly dropped onto the spinning chair in front of the Batcomputer, muscles practically melting against the expensive leather. He dropped the towel onto the desk. A sigh escaped his lips.
His eyelids drooped. God, his body ached everywhere. It felt like he was running a cold or something. He didn't feel feverish. He touched his forehead absentmindedly. Yep, not hot. Must be all the adrenaline wearing off.
The overhead fluorescent lights shone ridiculously bright, adding to the pounding in his head. The migraine wasn't an anomaly in his sleep-deprived, powered-by-sheer-spite existence, especially during this time of the hour. It was something he found himself being accompanied by more often than he should. He'd have to take an aspirin before he went to bed. He cracked his eyes open to stare at the holographic screen before him.
Normally, he'd be back at the Nest by now, snuggling one of Kon's hoodies as he tries to stay awake to finish his report on his computer, or be forced to sleep by said Kryptonian. He had to admit, albeit bedrugingly, his boyfriend's habit of dragging him by his ankles into bed had helped to lessen his problem of falling asleep literally everywhere.
But Bruce, in Batman gear and his scowl present, had asked him to stay over since they needed to go over some security measures for the Watchtower tomorrow (Translation: Bruce misses him but can't say it to his face like a normal person so he uses work as an excuse to spend time with him). He didn't exactly have a reason to reject the invitation since Kon was off-world and there were no cases where Young Justice might need his expertise in.
The Bat insignia on the screen flickered periodically. He didn't exactly have any intentions upon arriving there, in front of the grand, state-of-the-art machine besides aimless wander. He might as well type his report on it. He's already seated and all. After another second of contemplation, he began his writing.
The click-clacks of keys echoed against the cavern walls, a noise that became as familiar as the drops of water from the stalactites. The flutter of bat wings followed after. There was always something relaxing about spending time down in the cave when the lives of people don't depend on you.
He was halfway in finishing the report when a warm weight settling on his shoulder brought him out of his focus. He blinked once before turning to look over his shoulder. Familiar icy blue, almost greyish eyes locked on his. Bruce's.
"I thought I told you to do your report tomorrow."
Bruce admonished, his fingers gently moving to ruffle Tim's hair. The younger man huffed and rolled his eyes in amused exasperation. The gesture a familiar one. He batted his father's hand away, muttering a soft "stop that".
"As if you're not still up yourself?" He fired back. Earning himself a gruff chuckle.
His adopted father's gaze soon shifted to the report on screen. A soft noise of approval escaped his throat. Pride bloomed in his chest. It was silly how he preened at every little acknowledgement these recent years, if he had to be honest.
Bruce would tell him it's nothing and a great improvement compared to his previous behavior of brushing any sense of contentment from being recognized, simply because he believed what he's done, should be done. Still, he hoped he wasn't that obviously attention starved.
"Well, I am heading to bed soon. So should you." Bruce remarked as he glanced at the screen. He reached forward to press a key on the keyboard, saving the file and closing it in a flash. The blueness of the screen dimmed at the action. It was clear he meant his words as an order if his actions proved anything.
Tim rolled his eyes, too used with Bruce's controlling-but-means-well tendencies. He was going to protest when a sharp cramp spiked unexpectedly in his abdomen.
The feeling distinctly reminds him of how it would feel if he were to be stabbed with a dull, rusted dagger. He instinctively curled into himself a little as a soft pained noise escaped his lips. What the fuck? His eyebrows scrunched in confusion. That was... Weird. Was he going to have a period soon? His last one was months ago ever since he upped his testosterone intake. Does he have any tampons?
He didn't realize he had froze until he was startled out of his stupor by a squeeze on his shoulder.
"Hey, what's wrong, sweetheart?" Bruce questioned, his eyebrows furrowed with concern.
"Nothing! I... I should get some sleep, yeah." Tim dismissed instinctively, moving to rise to his feet. This clearly however does not reassure the worrywart of a father that Bruce is, as a grunt of disapproval escaped his throat. He captured Tim's forearms, stopping him in place.
"Are you injured?" He asked seriously, eyes moving to assess his son immediately. He was cataloguing any and every possibility there was. Bullet wounds, stab wounds, poisonous gas that they might've missed. His thumbs moved to his pulse to feel for any elevation.
"Bruce, I'm not injured, I promise," Tim reassured. His mentor predictably eyed him with suspicion which prompted him to add, "look, I'll let Alfred check me over before I head to bed, okay?"
That seemed to satisfy him enough as he reluctantly loosened his grip and took a step back. Bruce gave him one last once-over before fully releasing his grip.
"Very well."
A tension he didn't realize he was holding in his shoulders relaxed. He took it as his cue to leave. Tim gave Bruce a small smile as he headed towards the elevator. "Good night, B. See you at breakfast." He heard the man grunt a soft "Hrn" in response as he stepped into the metal box.
True to his words, Tim went to see Alfred (Translation: He bumped into the butler on his way out of the ground floor bathroom. He was checking for any staining caused by blood on his boxers. The butler, of course, seemed to know he was up to no good, in this case going against his words) for a short physical examination.
The butler did the standard procedures. Checked his heart rate, temperature, shining a penlight in his eyes for a concussion, toxin-screening, the whole package. He conducted a thorough inspection for hidden bruises as well. God knows they hid their injuries from him way too many times.
The butler seemed satisfied in his examination at last as his fingers tucked his shirt down.
"We are finished." He announced. A breath Tim wasn't aware he was holding escaped through his lips. He hopped off the countertop to stretch. The butler peeled the latex gloves off his wrinkled fingers, tossing them into the kitchen bin. He moved to the sink next and began to methodically wash his hands.
"What tea would you like?" The butler questioned, interrupting his train of thoughts. Alfred always offers tea after check-ups and Tim was one of those people who never turned it down. Tim pursed his lips in contemplation, glancing towards the tea cabinet. He knew Alfred keeps it stocked with all leaves, roots, and flowers one could think of.
He crossed his arms against his chest. The movement tugged at his pectoral muscles. Pain flared right where his left breast was. It took everything in him not to clutch at it.
Right, sensitive tits. Joys of periods..!
He tried to mask his wince. However, Alfred wouldn't be himself if he didn't notice anyway.
"Chest pain?" Alfred asked, curtly. His tone implored no lies or deception. Tim shook his head. "No, I'm okay. They're just... Feeling tender." Understanding dawned on him, a soft "Ah" left his lips.
"Raspberry leaf or ginger, then?" Alfred questioned.
A smile tugged at the corner of Tim's lips. "Ginger, please. Thanks, Alf. Could you also maybe grab some period products on your grocery run tomorrow?"
"Of course. I will ensure you will have your necessities by morning."
He trudged up the ornate stairs in relative silence, enjoying the warmth the ceramic mug gave his cold hands. The cramps hadn't returned ever since he left the cave. He should be glad it didn't. He really should. It would mean his period wouldn't be crazy painful. Right?
Before the thought could bother him further, as he turned the corner, a certain figure standing right in the middle of his path, covered partially by the darkness of the spacious hallway and accompanied by a pair of glowing yellow eyes as if they both were horror movie antagonists, spooked him.
He didn't jump. He really didn't.
"FUCK- Oh, my God- Damian!" He pressed a palm over where his heart was, clutching at his top as if he were a main character's MIL going into cardiac arrest in one of those silly dramas Steph watches. His occupied hand gripped the tea filled mug tighter, ensuring no spills.
He internally cursed Bruce for having awful taste in women (because who sees an assassin no matter how beautiful and think "yeah, I wanna crack that"??) and for creating such a creepy fucking kid.
To add to the blow, a soft meow was then heard, as if to remind Tim that they were there as well. "Alfred. The cat." He added, breathlessly.
"Tt, all those time spent in the League and yet my mere presence is still able to terrify you." Damian, the little shit he was, dryly commented as he flicked the lights on. The sudden brightness attacked Tim's unprepared senses. Sudden spots of red, green, and blue burst in his vision. He shook his head to minimize the fuzziness.
Now clearly seen, the teenager plucked his feline companion off the polished floors in a smooth motion. He cradled his pet close against his chest as if it were sacred treasure. "Honestly, Timothy, I have yet to understand what Father sees in you." His trained-to-kill fingers ran through Alfred's stomach delicately. A show of his discipline regarding self-control.
"Aren't you supposed to be in bed? I thought you had a sprained ankle." Tim folded his arms in front of his chest.
"Aren't you supposed to be long dead from an infection considering your lack of spleen?"
Wow. The fact he was attempting to be nice. Tim must've made quite an expression as the teenager's lips quirked in a small smug smirk.
"You're not quite on your best performance today, Timothy." Damian noted casually, his fingers moving to card through the dark fur between Alfred's ears. It almost made Tim bristle if his mind didn't treacherously agree. He wouldn't have allowed his expression to sell him away that easily during his best days...
His ego wouldn't let that slide, however. "You're one to talk. Tell me how you got that again?" He nodded his head towards Damian's wrapped ankle. The smirk quickly vanished as the teenager bristled like a literal angry ferret. He let the corners of his lips curl in victory.
Damian glared daggers at him. A look that probably could kill him alone if Tim were a thug or anyone else that is. He opened his mouth, clearly about to make a jab at his vigilantism, posture, or anything depending on whatever the teen has kept as ammunition shall a moment like so arrives. He was cut short, however, when all of the sudden, Alfred the Cat leapt out of the teenager's arms. He prowled towards Tim with all the grace and confidence a feline has.
The cat stopped right by his feet, looking up at him with a strange look. His nose twitched. Before Tim could ask what the cat was trying to do, the cat stood on his hind legs and began kneading his left thigh.
Damian's eyebrows slightly raised in puzzlement at the behavior. So did Tim's. Alfred had always been rather cuddly, but he mostly preferred to do so with Damian. The teen gently called the cat in hopes it would return to him, but the cat only continued to knead at Tim's thigh.
His attention shifted towards Tim, green eyes gazing at him thoughtfully. Almost too knowingly. It felt as if little needles prickled his skin. His lips curled downwards into a frown. For a moment, he seemed deep in thought.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Tim questioned finally, eyes narrowing in suspicion. Instead of answering him, Damian stepped forward to pick Alfred up from the ground once again. This time, however, he transferred the feline to Tim's arms.
He adjusted his hold on the cat on instinct, leaning it heavily against one shoulder while making sure the mug won't fall off his grasp. His shock at the teenager's action must be apparent as the boy averted his gaze momentarily. Seemingly embarrassed.
"Alfred seems to have found something worthy of his attention concerning you." He muttered. As if to prove his point, the cat in his arms started purring an engine away. The vibrations the cat was emitting settled something in his chest.
"A cat's purr typically vibrates at frequencies between 25 to 150 Hertz, a range that is known for promoting bone and tissue healing, pain relief, and stress reduction," He stared at Damian as he spoke in that tone that meant he was educating you of an important matter. "I do not know what has intrigued Alfred, but for his sake, I will allow him to accompany you tonight."
He blinked. Before he could try to respond, Damian turned on his heel and left. He stared at the spot where Damian previously stood. He broke out of his stupor upon hearing the sound of doors slamming shut. That... was something.
He slowly turned to look at the cat comfortably perched on his shoulder, watching it closely as if it had answers to all the questions of the world.
He still hadn't grown accustomed to Damian's ways of affection. Back then, if he'd done something like this to him, he'd suspected he had trained Alfred to kill him in his sleep...
It's weird how much a person can change in a couple of years. He still remembered the days when the little dude would look at him as if he personally offended his bloodline, call him by his last name with absolute distaste...
He's always been so in tune with his pets' behaviours, it was warranted that he assumed way to show his care towards his family members by trusting whatever it is that his fur buddies picked up on and allowing them to be taken away from his watchful eye was a fantastic way to show his care towards his family members. Even if he'd deny the observation.
He felt a little touched. Scratch that, he might bawl. Why's he feeling emotional from his baby brother's (since when did he start considering Damian as his brother?) way of showing affection? It's not like this was the first time!
He scrubbed his free hand across his face. All these weird emotions were wearing him out even more. He's grateful he had a warm creature to snuggle with in place of Kon's hoodie, he supposed. He began his journey to his room once again, noting to himself to spend more time with the younger boy in the future.
He shot awake. Gasping. The soft light that managed to filter through the gap between his blackout curtains illuminated one spot of his bedroom, highlighting the intricate patterns on his rugs. He couldn't pay attention to that.
The cramping had returned with vengeance. He curled into a tight ball, arms wrapped around his torso. The pain felt like it was piercing through him, attacking not only his abdomen, but his hips and back as well.
Dare he say, he'd rather be shot right now.
He grew nauseous as the pain kept coursing through him. The mixture of the ginger and acid hitting right at the back of his throat. He gulped down the bile that threatened to break. His lips twisted in discomfort. "Fuck, seriously..?"
He coughed predictably, hard. His body shook along with the force of it. He needed to get out of his bed.
He flipped his duvet off of him blindly, hitting right where Alfred the Cat was lying, eliciting a soft meow of protest. He murmured an apology. before he surged towards his en suite the second his feet hit the ground. He shoved the door carelessly, the handle slamming against the tiles with a loud dizzying clang. The noise ringing in his ears.
He dropped onto his knees in front of the toilet. The impact of hitting the floor sent a jolt up his spine, doubling the pain. He internally cursed Jason. He was sure the pain wouldn't had been so instense if he didn't literally barelled into his massive stature.
A low moan of pain escaped him but was soon smothered by the urge to retch.
He didn't know how long he'd been slumped over the toilet seat, vomiting his guts out. The only indicator of time passing being that the prolonged position was straining his neck. He spat the last hints of bile into the bowl.
He harshly tugged the flush lever. He leaned back to sit on his heels. He watched quietly as the contaminated water rushed in, swirled, and vanished down the drain.
He sighed. He hated throwing up. The sheer loss of control over keeping stomach contents where it should stay in was frustrating. Especially for a person who had a tendency to do everything in his own accord. He especially hated having to suffer through it alone. (Memories of Kon accompanying him during that one month where he'd been infected by an awful case of stomach flu crossed his mind. If he focused hard enough, he could almost imagine exactly how his long fingers had reverently ran over his back and how his lips lingered at his nape—)
He wobbly rose to his feet after a moment of letting himself recover. He padded slowly towards his sink. He rinsed his mouth out. The cramps has eased. Gone once again. The sheer inconsistency was bothering him despite his initial denial. His period pains are usually constant, hindering his ability to move during the first two days.
It must be irregular. Last he checked, the blood hadn't flown like the expected waterfall, barely staining his boxers. It has to be irregular, right? Because what else could it be if not a period?
He glanced at his reflection. He looked awful. Pale, clammy skin. Gaunt cheeks. Dark circles around his eyes. He wasn't looking this awful earlier that evening, was he? He rubbed his palms against his eyes. The action left a burn that almost felt relieving amidst all that is happening.
He hoped this stupid period ends in less than a week.
In the meantime, he opened one of the cabinet doors and yanked out his trusty, bright green heating pad.