Archive of Our Own ^beta

     The medical information was out of date. It hadn't been updated since before Bruce disappeared when it previously had been updated every 3 to 4 months. Vigilantes tended to need physicals often, and keeping up with medical history was just good sense. It had been much longer than a quarterly check in for any of the Cave dwellers and it simply could not continue. 

Dr. Leslie Thompkins had been a doctor for a number of years, more than is polite to say about a lady's age. Even if that lady could sew up a vigilante twice her size and could pin a methed up junkie with one strong, aged hand, it was simply impolite to mention. However, it was equally rude to ignore or refuse to acknowledge the experience those unspoken years had provided, so there was quite the fine line to balance. Dr. Thompkins was not a woman to be refused when she demanded full exams for every single Bat in the Cave. And Alfred would simply not allow anyone to refuse either, and such forces were not to be reckoned with, especially not when they were combined. Not even Jason, who avoided the Cave as though they were magnets of the same polarity trying to be forced together, could not answer the summons. He was not having Dr. Leslie Thompkins on his ass, no thank you. But there was absolutely nobody who was dreading a medical examination more than one Timothy Jackson (formerly Drake) Wayne.

One may ask why he did not want a medical examination. Whoever asked would be pleasantly reminded to mind their own fucking business. Tim could probably work his way around this. Probably.

"I am in peak physical health," Damian hissed, "I do not need a medical examination."

     Alfred the Kitty leapt up on to his lap and purred comfortingly, reminding Tim that he should get a kitty. A real big, fluffy kitty, like a maine coon or something. He should rescue a kitty from one of the shelters around Gotham. A rescue kitty would be nice, a pet in general would probably would be very good for him but Tim's always been more of a cat person than anything. He should look at some of the local shelters soon. "You're not the only one who doesn't need this shit," Jason grumbled, pulling out another cigarette from the pack in his pocket and lighting it.

Tim was vividly reminded that he also does not want this physical. He doesn't want to explain his shiny pink splenecetomy scar, his knobby spine and sharp shoulders, or the thin fingernail scars across his chest that are just a little bit wider and deeper than the thin, faint slit-like scars that decorate the border of his mouth. There's actually quite a bit that he doesn't want to talk about when it comes down to his health and all the little related fun facts that aren't actually so fun. Kon already knew about the spleen thing because of course he found out, Kon literally had x-ray vision and it had taken a lot of explaining that Tim knew how to take care of himself and he was already this far out post-op so an infection from surgery wasn't even a risk at this point in recovery. And Kon trusted Tim, knew Tim had learned to take care of himself before anyone decided to take care of him. And Tim was taking care of himself. He cut out red meat and all dairy from his diet, increased his intake of antioxidant-heavy food, he kept a heavy stash of antibiotics in his Nest and medicine cabinet in his bathroom and in his bedside drawer, and he sanitized himself and his apartment once a day. Well, a customized roomba took care of the floors for him but at least he was finally getting into the habit of being more cleanly. He just had to lose an organ that was a little important to his immune system and realize that if he got an infection, he'd be out as Red Robin (and Red Atheris) for way too long. He also didn't want to die due to septicemia because that would be the lamest way to go out after all the sheer, utter bullshit he's survived thus far. It wasn't the best reason to care about his health and wellness but as long as he somewhat cared, Tim figures that it's fine. "Why am I even here," Jason grunted, blowing smoke out in slow rings.

"Because you were ever so obliging, Jason," Dr. Thompkins reminded as Alfred led her down the stairs in a very gentlemanly manner.

Alfred chimed in with a stern brow, "Master Jason, I recognize that we were unable to exactly monitor your health, and in the last few months, everybody else's, but now that we are capable of doing so, I will not allow your care to remain unattended to."

What a nice sentiment. Tim didn't want it. He technically had asplenia in his public 'Tim Wayne' files and an asplenia alert tag he hid in his wallet with a medical alert card if something happened to him as a civilian, but he generally tried to prevent that from happening. Finagling everything without informing anyone had been an absolutely miserable ordeal but it had been worth it to avoid a situation like this. "I had a medical check, Dr. Thompkins," Tim reminded carefully, "During my, uh, attempted assassination when I was announcing the Neon Knights return and initiation of Project Rebirth."

It hadn't been a full physical, just one to make sure he hadn't sustained any injuries that couldn't be related to the assassination. He was glad that M'gann had agreed to pose as Tim Wayne for an assassination attempt so he could discreetly handle the sniper. His careful insinuation to make sure he got shot in the spleen was perfect, and he managed to get a team of Project Ouroboros operatives to pose as private surgeons. A few technically not-so-falsified medical records and a prescription of antibiotics later, and Tim was set for his public persona. And, if he was lucky, Dr. Thompkins would take the bait. "We need a full work up," Dr. Thompkins insisted sternly, "X-rays, blood work, the works. We're going oldest to youngest. Bruce, let's go."

     Well, that gave Tim 4 whole people- Bruce, Dick, Jason, and Cass- to think of an excuse to slip out of this. He could do it. He was a professional at slipping out of things like this. He just had to balance it out with being too suspicious and not having a good enough excuse. "You're allowed to watch the exams since they're individualized," Dr. Thompkins allowed, "And none of you Bats seem to have any boundaries. If we need privacy, we'll close out the medical area and have you leave, without dropping listening devices."

Tim propped himself by Cass, squished between her and the wall as they watched. She pulled his left foot on to her lap and began rolling and flexing his ankle. He absentmindedly picked up her right foot and copied the motions. "How's your back," Dr. Thompkins asked as she went over the general medical runthrough with checking Bruce's heartbeat, lungs, reflexes, eyes, and ears.

"Only hurts in the worst weather," Bruce grunted, which meant admitting it felt like getting jabbed in the gut with a blunt object.

"Gotham always has the worst weather," Dr. Thompkins lightly points out, "But, we'll move on to the weigh in anyways. I just wanted to check over your general faculties given this is your first in-depth check over since your return."

Tim stares at the scale as the numbers crawl higher. That's probably gonna be one of the worst parts of the check up if he didn't get out of here. Maybe he could ask Fatimah to make up something from the PR department to get him out? You do always want to mitigate scandals if you can. That, hm, yes, that could definitely work. "Comparitively, pre-Time stream, you were approximately 215. You're standing at 200.3, now, which is considerably better than what it could be," Dr. Thompkins notes.

Bruce 'hrmm's, then steps off the scale, straightening his back with a deep crack. "Oh God, you're so fucking old," Jason jeers.

"Breaking his back a couple years ago didn't help the matter," Alfred tacks on mildly.

Tim winces; that had not been fun, almost getting murdered by Azrael. At least he's the only Robin so far to claim not 1, not 2, but 3, count 'em, 3 different Batman incarnations. Bruce, Azrael, and just after Azrael before B fully recovered, Dick. "Bane," Bruce grumbles.

"Father is not old," Damian protests, "He is in the prime of his life to teach me to be his worthiest successor!"

"The Bat-stard here is old as shit, Spawn," Jason cackles, "Is that grey under your dye job?"

Tim slides his phone out of his pocket and types in the password that'll take him to the private R.A. network and quickly begs Fatimah for an out. She laughs at him but agrees if she sends her a pack of those fancy chocolates she likes. Chocolate for a chance to absolutely get out of this? No problem. He quickly logs out of his private network and switches back to his civilian network. No need for anyone to look at it. For all they know, he only has his Tim Wayne mode and Red Robin mode for his phone. If he can help it, Babs is never getting her hands on his phone or any of his private tech. "Alright, we're just going to draw some blood," Lelsie announced, "And I'm going to ask personal questions, so out unless you want to hear about STDs."

Grossgrossgross, he doesn't want to think about Bruce and STDs and what you could do to get one because ew. Tim is the first one out the door, piggybacked on Cass's back. He crosses his fingers as he waits for Fatimah to pull through with her call. A couple minutes later, his phone rings. Tim picks up immediately, "Hello, Fatimah, what seems to be the problem?"

"You won't take a medical exam," she teases, "And I'm your convenient excuse. You wanna watch me drink wine while you go through reports with Tam?"

He absolutely would prefer that to this. "Oh, I see, that is a bit of a conundrum," Tim sighs, put-upon and stressed sounding, "I'll be down to the office in a minute. Tam and I can touch point with you."

Objectively, he is not dressed for the office. Medical exams mean you wear your comfy clothes, especially when you are getting examined in the medical area of a big cave utilized for vigilantism. But he absolutely could show up to the office in Cissie's joggers, one of Bart's floral print socks and one of Cassie's paw print socks, Anita's tanktop, and Kon's cow hoodie if he so pleased. "And where are you going," Dick asked, looping his arms around Tim's shoulders and tucking the back of Tim's head under his chin, "Don't you wanna stay and make fun of Bruce for having a bad back?"

"He did break his back," Tim pointed out, feeling his spine and shoulders stiffen, the muscles clenching anxiously, "You were there for it."

"Yes," Dick agreed, hopefully not noticing how tense Tim felt, "But now we can make fun of him for walking around with his hand on his back like he's a suburban middle aged father."

"I have to go to the office," Tim insists, "Fatimah from PR called me. She wants to know how we're going to go about announcing the bid on Ace Chemicals going through and if announcing that we're detroying the chemical plant and rehabilitating the land before making a water filtration plant will result in an Arkham breakout."

That genuinely is a concern Tim has to address. The last thing Tim needs at the moment is a reunion with the Joker, especially if the Joker decides that Tim as just Tim and not Red AthRobin needs to be retaliated against for the destruction of a long standing symbol of his reign over Gotham. "I never knew we had a Fatimah in PR," Dick muses, laying his cheek on top of Tim's head, "Bruce and Lucius always referred to Olivia."

"Fatimah's one of my hires," Tim informed, "On my PR Team for the Neon Knights. She handles the most public ventures for Project R."

Fatimah also helps investigate the scandals people attempt to set up and see who started them and why. Fatimah had claimed she always had been the nosiest of her three sisters. "Anyways," Tim continued, trying to wiggle away, "I can't just leave Fatimah from PR hanging. Seriously, she's, like, a blessing."

Yes. Yesyesyes. "Timothy Jackson, I know I'm not seeing you trying to leave this cave before your exam," Dr. Thompkins calls dryly.

No! "PR called," Tim excuses, "I have to go to the office."

He hopes he sounds as apologetic as he can manage. "The office, dearest Timothy, can wait," Alfred intones, "Your health, which is of utmost importance to me, can not."

Timothy. Ra's had always full named him, but unlike Alfred, it always sounded...he didn't want to label the tone of voice Ra's used with Tim. My Detective, Timothy. Tim wants to boil himself in his shower, he feels so gross. Tim sits back down and texts Fatimah thanks for trying. She'll get her chocolates anyways just because. Tim will think of another way out.

"Well, you've got about two more decades of running around dressed as a bat in you, if you don't get your back broken again," Dr. Thompkins said, "Bloodwork came back clean, no averse affects from your time lost in time. You're still within a healthy weight range and your organs are healthy. I'd clear you fully."

     Dick took the chance to pop off his seat on a pommel horse and beamed, "My turn, Doc."

Cass picked Tim up and slung him over her shoulders in a fireman's carry. 'You feel... sharp,' she signed when they sat down to watch Dick's check up that will undoubtably examine his weird rubber bones and genatinous joints.

Tim shrugged. 'I lost some weight,' he signed back to her, easier to hide his hands from everyone else instead of whispering, nosey as everyone in the room was. 

Cass scrunched her face in disapproval before she patted his rib cage gently. 'I will help you find it,' she joked, lips tilting upwards slightly.

Tim hid a small laugh, playing with the hem of the sunshine yellow hoodie Babs had given Cass. He really didn't know how much weight he'd lost, skipping meals and refusing food during his international adventures and time with the League. And before that, Tim hadn't weighed much to start with. Being alone in Drake Manor had bored him as a child, and the loneliness made him feel sad enough that eating wasn't interesting till he had to eat. He'd heat up the pre-made meals he was given and give them to a soup kitchen or a random group of kids he'd find so they didn't go to waste. Then, he learned how to make simple foods when chemistry became interesting to him. Pastas, cooked vegetables, soups, sandwiches, eggs, rice, salads, following recipes from cookbooks borrowed from the library and cooking shows on the tv. The boredom of too-repetitive foods was negated by Tim making his own food, although his unwillingness to eat when he was alone so often wasn't fixed for a while. Tim was a bit better now, especially since nowadays, Bart was almost always down to just show up and eat with him for no particular reason. No questions about Tim's new diet, no asking about the food Tim ate or why he always seemed to call Bart to eat with him, just the two of them trying to catch vegan marshmallows in each others mouths and Tim Youtubing about  three hours worth of videos to learn to cook meatballs made out of wheat, bean, and soy proteins while Bart made fun of his ginormous collection of vegan dark chocolate peanut butter cups. 

Tim glanced at Cass, skin a warm tone and the cheeks of her face full like they hadn't been when he first met her. He eyed Jason. Strong, wide shoulders, a broad frame. Tim looked at Damian. He had childish pudge to his face and was already starting to creep up in height. Tim snuck a look at Bruce. He was less shadowed looking than he had previously been, the hollows of his cheeks disappearing. Tim stared at Dick, flexing his legs before stepping on the scale, bearing healthy layers of fat and tissue and muscle. He was suddenly aware how he must look beside them all; too narrow, too pale, starting to edge into the land of skeletal when they were all so physically healthy looking. Out of place. He shuffled his thoughts away from himself. Pay attention to trying to figure out a way to get out of here.

"Alright Richard, 183.2 is a good weight, pretty much the same as what you were last time," Dr. Thompkins observes, "Now, I want to check the same thing as I did last time."

"I can do my bendy things," Dick asked, "Right?"

"Yes," Dr. Thompkins confirmed, "Please do your bendy things, Richard."

"You can always call me Dick," Dick says conversationally as he slowly brings his leg up behind him, "You have known me for years."

"No thank you, Richard," Dr. Thompkins almost chuckles, "I cannot seriously practice my illegal vigilante medical observations while calling one of my patients 'Dick'."

Dick sighed heavily, "If you insist, Doc."

Dick twisted his ligaments in all manner of shapes, earning a few gags of disgust from the peanut gallery. "Thank you, Richard," Dr. Thompkins says, "You continue to experience some form of extraordinary flexibility. Have you been experiencing any discomfort or pain in your joints?"

Dick cheerfully shook his head as he unfolded himself from some sort of side pretzel twist that was kinda grotesque to look at. "Nope," Dick replied, "I'm good. Only the usual soreness from bumps and bruises, y'know?"

It's kind of funny to think about, Bruce's crochety back versus Dick's jello bones. Dr. Thompkins draws some blood and shoves everyone out of the room to ask the private questions and to do x-rays. He eyes the entrance to the Cave. Maybe he really could just slip out? "Sit your fucking ass down, Replacement," Jason grumbles, "I don't want a fucken needle in my arm either but I'm gonna get this shit over with because otherwise, your ass is benched."

Tim was emancipated. Tim legally did not have to be here. Nobody in this Cave had authority over him. Cass patted his head. Oh yeah. "You fear a needle but not a bullet," Damian sniped.

"Yeah, Spawn, I actually fucking hate needles," Jason snarled, pulling out a new cigarette and lighting it up, "And I'm not a little bitch enough to be afraid to admit it so don't even try and shame me. It ain't gonna work and it makes you look even more like the actual, literal child you are."

Damian bared his teeth but slunk away, Alfred the Kitty rubbing against his legs. Tim doesn't really remember going to the doctor's often. When he was very little, he had nannies to help him when he needed it. When he got a bit older, old enough to read and write legibly, old enough to figure out how to climb on the counters and work the stove and get into the fridge, Tim handled himself. "I'm all clear," Dick whooped, "I'm good!"

     Tim follows Cass into the examination room, letting Dick squish him against the wall while he unintentionally acts as a barrier between him, Damian, and Jason. "This is about the most basic examination I've gone through today," Dr. Thompkins amusedly comments, "Very standard, which is amazing considering we had to vaccinate you fully and get you a prescription for stomach parasites and delousing shampoo the first time we did this."

"Miss Cassandra has come quite a long way," Alfred agrees, "For her to be a normal examinee."

"No...lice," Cass rumbles, proudly tapping her head then points to the scale and announces for all, "115.4."

Damian hisses when Cass starts pulling off her hoodie and the t-shirt that she took from Tim last week. Tim doesn't bother getting flustered because 1) that's his sister 2) when they first started living together, she would unknowingly streak naked down the halls after a shower until Bruce managed to work his bravery up to giving her a robe 3) a full 6 months into Young Justice existing introduced a startling amount of casual semi-nudity when they had to pull costumes off to stitch each other up (it's not like they had a doctor or anything to help them out) or when someone just didn't want to wear pants or a shirt. They'd all have shitty sensory days and when you have a shitty sensory day, not a singular entity that exists can blame you for taking off your pants and crying face down into a bean bag with every blanket you could find piled on top of you. He wonders if Dick's Titans were ever like Young Justice, almost completely unsupervised, half-sane (sometimes completely not-sane) trouble magnets. "Okay, that means out time," Dr. Thompkins directs, shooing them all out.

Tim twists his fingers in Kon's hoodie. Maybe he won't have to take it off? "Where did you even get this," Dick laughs, plucking at the cuff, "I need cow print."

Tim shrugs, admitting, "It's not mine. Nothing I'm wearing actually belongs to me. Kon left it in my bed so I can keep it."

Jason gives Tim an incredulous look like he can't believe Tim said that out loud. "The pants are Cissie's, one sock is Bart's- the flower one, obviously- and one sock is Cassie's- the one with paw prints. I also have Anita's tanktop under this," Tim added. 

"Who's Anita," Dick asked.

"Friend," Tim answered, "You wouldn't know her. She's retired."

For now, at least. He's pretty sure Anita is planning to return to Empress as soon as her parents get to children's school age. Anita's different from Cissie; Cissie was forced into the field and stayed mostly because she literally only knew how to be a hero. Anita wanted to be in the field, chose it, was happy with it. He should call Cissie later, it's been too long since they got to talk shit together. "Retired or permanently indisposed," Bruce inquires.

"God, you're a fucking asshole," Jason snaps as chucks his cigarette at Bruce's shirt.

Tim sighs, "Retired. Temporarily inactive in the field. She'll be back, though, in a few years. Anita's a good friend- good hero, too."

"Don't see who'd be friends with you," Damian mutters.

'Me,' Cass signs as she appears and pulls a bag of Haribos out of Tim's hoodie pocket.

"I like being your friend," Tim agrees.

She holds his palm out and spells out B-R-O-T-H-E-R on his palm. Tim opens her palm up and spells S-I-S-T-E-R on her own palm.

       Jason begrudgingly hands his pack of cigarettes over to Dr. Thompkins. "Herbal cigarettes," she notes.

"I don't like addictive shit," Jason mutters, "No alcohol, no nicotine, no caffeine."

"Inhalation of smoke is still inadvisable," Dr. Thompkins tells him, "Addictive substances not withstanding."

Dr. Thompkins visibly demonstrates the needle being empty before she slips it into the vein of Jason's arm. Tim half expects to see glowing green in the red being drawn into the needle, a bit of Lazarus water swimming in his veins. Tim still doesn't know if there's Lazarus water in his blood, green and toxic and corruptive. Sometimes he'll stare into a small compact mirror, searching his eyes for any hint of green swimming around in the blue. He sees none, only cold blue and freckles of harsh grey. It's a blessing, the color blue. These days, his favorite things are usually in shades of blues, blacks, or reds. 

Jason looms over the scale, almost comically. Jason looks like he'd squish it. He remembers tailing after Batman and his second Robin, Robin's awkwardly knobby knees and pointy elbows paired with funnily too-big hands and too-big feet. His skinny chest had looked silly with his awkwardly large shoulders. Tim would stare at his own small hands and wonder if he'd ever look like that. Tim used to hope he'd grow too-big hands and too-big feet, sprout too-wide shoulders too. He looks down at his sleeves, imagining he's seeing through the cow printed fabric. Under the hoodie, veins stick out starkly under the sunless pallor of his arms now. He looks away. "Your last physical had you at 115," Dr. Thompkins says, "You are currently 227.8."

He's heavier than Bruce. Red Hood outweighs the Bat. It's sorta funny. Tim's turn is next and he thinks about how pathetic he's gonna be compared to Jason. His mind is blanking on how to get out of here. This is the one day no Rogues seem to be attacking. Riddler- Eddie- made parole recently and picked up a job at an escape room. He's thriving and as he confessed to Tim at their Trivial Pursuit night last week with Harley, Ivy, Helena, and Selina, he's getting to his 40s, setting off bombs and causing terror isn't good for his cholestrol levels and doing the same schtick like this was getting to be embarrassing. Eddie was still going to leave riddles but less along the lines of 'Solve this riddle or I blow you up' and more so 'Solve this riddle or I release 29 sheep numbered 1-30 and let you run around like a dumbass trying to find the 30th sheep'. Harley and Ivy have kinda just been...relaxing in their greenhouse and tending to Robinson Park. If you leave the man eating plants wormmeal, they don't even bite. Selina is Bruce's problem and Tim isn't dumb enough to get in the middle of that. That's just- no, leave Bruce to Catwoman. Everyone knows that by now. Tim is also pretty sure the one (1) time Bart met The Riddler, he actually might have driven Edward Nygma off villainy just so he didn't ever have to see Bart again. Bart's seriously one of the best people ever, but he can see why Bart's tendency to be...himself, actually, could put some villains into reform. "My last physical was before I died," Jason grouched.

"Which is why we needed to do this," Alfred replied simply, "You've grown quite a lot, Master Jason. I am proud of you."

Jason's jaw worked as he looked away. "Now, this is interesting," Dr. Thompkins observes, "There's no needle impression in your skin. No blood welling, no markings. It's gone."

Jason has scars but they're the deep sort. The kind that you get from having to stitch up a deep wound. But he lacks thin knife knicks or burns from the smoking muzzle of his gun, accidental faint scars you collect from daily mistakes or carelessness. "Lazarus," Jason grunts, "Little things don't stay long, if at all."

Dr. Thompkins squints as she places the back of her hand against Jason's forehead, then the nape of his neck, and his collarbone. "You're burning up," she notes.

"I run warm," Jason excuses.

        Tim swallows down bile because he remembers unnaturally warm fingers pressing against his lips while he slept, burning against his flesh. Like a hot poker. Cass reaches over, hand swimming into his vision, telegraphing her movements as she reaches for his wrist. She pries open his fist and places a gummy bear in it. "Blue," he whispers, "My favorite. Thanks."

He stows it in the pocket of his- Cissie's- joggers. She gives him another; red, this time. Cass looks at him and bites the head off a green one emphatically. Tim grins at her as he puts the red gummy bear beside the blue. Dr. Thompkins climbs a stool so she can check Jason's ears and eyes. As they step out of the room so Dr. Thompkins can do the x-rays, Tim realizes he's next. He can't escape so he has to...he doesn't know. Alter his results? Tim can't exactly stuff a dumbbell under his hoodie. Maybe his layers will add a bit of weight? Or maybe it's really not as bad as he thinks. Tim couldn't have lost that much weight while he was gone if he wasn't, like, losing hair or whatever, and a spleen wasn't even a major organ. He might not even have to take off his tanktop. Yes, that'll probably be it, Tim shouldn't stress so much. Besides, he takes vitamins, he keeps antibiotics on hand, he can look after himself and everything. "He's got increased bone density," Dr. Thompkins announced, "And his bloodwork came up clean. Functional organs and good physical health."

"Yeah, physical," Jason mutters.

The 'not mental' goes unsaid because everyone can hear it, loud and clear. "Come on, Tim," Dr. Thompkins beckons, "Your turn."

Tim's hands are shaking.

"First thing, I want to measure your weight," Dr. Thompkins decides because this is literally Hell, "Last time, we got you up to 125.1. That was good but you tableued there."

"Can I keep the hoodie," Tim mumbles.

      Cissie uses lavender soap for her clothes. He remembers that because when he stole her joggers after she took his unused donut-printed pajama pants, she told him that's what her therapist would tell her to do for her anxiety. Tim kept using it for any of her clothes he kept, in case she ever decided to borrow them back. Anita's tank top smells spicy, because she once used it to clean up jalepeño juice when all the rags in the base went missing. The smell never came out or faded. Kon left his hoodie in his bed when he came over the other day and Kon left wearing a tshirt instead of the hoodie. He thinks Kon did it on purpose. Sweet hay, sun warmed apples, and ozone. He should be overwhelmed by the weird mixing of all the smells but it's an anchor right now. Dr. Thompkins nods, to his relief.

He doesn't look at the numbers slowly climbing, then stagnating before it even gets close to the triple digits. He faces the wall and tries not to get sick. He still doesn't look at the scale when he looks at Dr. Thompkins again, and she looks upset and sad and a little confused. "I'm going to need everyone to leave, please," Dr. Thompkins announces.

There's a murmur of protest and snide commentary about how they all shared their information and how they'll find out later, anyways (Dr. Thompkins was right, they shared because the Bats had no boundaries and would find out later) but Alfred bustles them all out with precision and no room for fuss. When the door shuts, Dr. Thompkins sighs heavily, "You were 125.1. This is...Tim, you're 98.7."

That is actually not as bad as he thought. It's not good but it's not bad. "That's close to 100," Tim points out and doesn't tell her that it's that close to 100 because he's been eating again.

Dr. Thompkins massages her forehead. "Tim," she finally speaks up, "Can I ask you to take off your hoodie?"

Tim is glad nobody else is there to see. He twists his fingers into the softness of the hoodie as Dr. Thompkins slowly examines him. His reflexes are normal, his lungs are fine, his heartbeat is normal as can be for someone as anxiously paranoid as him. He's just...lacking weight. "I'm going to draw blood now," she says.

"Could you, um, make sure this needle is extra clean," Tim requests.

Dr. Thompkins gives him a suspicious look but complies as easily as she did for Jason. That was nice. "Alright, I'm going to have you go to the backroom behind that door and we're going to do a number of x-rays, including an abdominal x-ray and a chest x-ray. You haven't had one in a while, and normally I wouldn't run so many x-rays at once given the low level radiation, but, like every other person crazy enough to live in this city, you have some level of radiation resistance. Leave any and all jewelry or metal items on the counter out here and change into the hospital gown."

Tim quickly changes, hurrying so she doesn't see his splenecetomy scar. He knows she'll see the missing organ anyways but for a little longer, he wants to hide. He leaves his clothes with his ring and clenches his hand in the hospital gown. Jalepeños, lavender, and ozone-warm apples-sweet hay. He gets x-rayed for what feels like an eternity and leaves feeling hollow. "Your white blood cell count is low," Dr. Thompkins observes after he finishes changing.

"Yes," Tim confirms.

"Is it due to any form of HIV/AIDS," she asks.

"No," Tim mumbles, flustered, "Can't have that."

"Hey," Dr. Thompkins says, "Could you look at me, Tim? It's me, Leslie."

Tim looks at her. "Are you certain," she presses.

"Yeah, I've never had, uh...yeah, no, and I don't do anything like sharing needles. I don't do any drugs besides, um, antibiotics," Tim replies.

"So, it's because of your missing spleen," Leslie summarizes.

"At least I'm not missing a lung," Tim tries, "And I'll get used to not having a spleen in a few years. And weight can be gained pretty easily. I just have to be a little more careful."

"Tim, I'm going to be real with you," Leslie says, "If you lose any more weight, I'm recommending that you get benched from more than walking or light exercise so you don't get deep vein thrombosis- which you are more at risk at developing without an organ that helps filter blood- and suggesting that you get put on a feeding tube to help you."

A...a feeding tube. A feeding tube. "Wha-," he coughs.

"I know what that sounds like," Leslie tries to soothe, "They're not a bad thing. They're not. Tim, it's not a bad thing and it wouldn't be your fault at all. The benching wouldn't be a punishment, either. It'd be so you could recover easier, when you're not in a constant calorie deficit."

Her hands are in rubber gloves. The rubber feels squeaky on his skin. "I think some Vitamin D might do you some good too," Leslie recommends, "And I want you to bring me all your prescriptions so I can check over them."

"Should I bring my vitamins too," Tim croaks.

She nods then asks, "Can I check your abdomen, Tim? I want to see the splenecetomy scarring."

Tim rolls up his hoodie and tank top. Rubber fingers prod at his skin. "It's a clean cut," Leslie grimaces, "No ragged edges, no infection, professional."

"I do sanitization every night," Tim reports, "And I deep clean my apartment once every week. I changed my diet too- mostly vegan, no red meat or dairy prodcuts. I still eat chicken and fish, but it's the good kind. No hormone treatments."

"Does anyone else know," Leslie asks.

"Kon. Superboy. He still gets random x-ray vision moments because that's just part of Kryptonian puberty, I guess? Superman told him it'll be balanced out when Kon is 20 or something. But he kinda saw," Tim answered as he gestured to the area where his spleen should be, "I told him I can handle it. I've been handling it. He trusts me, so don't blame him?"

Leslie concedes with another sigh, "I won't blame a teenager for believing their hyper-independent best friend. What about your medical records?"

Tim pulls his asplenia alert tag out if his joggers pocket. "Tim Wayne had an incident a while ago, remember," Tim wryly grins, "I also have a medical card in my wallet. Shot in the side during an attempted assassination, lost my spleen over it. It's in my medical records. It's just that nobody checked."

      Tim won't be explaining his elaborate cover up further. "Have you considered a transplant," Leslie asks.

Tim shrugs, replying, "I'd be a low risk patient, right? Money, security, medical insurance. I wouldn't be on the list for an emergency transplant like a thousand others. And by the time I could get a transplant, I'd probably already be adjusted to not having a spleen. It's not really worth the trouble."

"We're going to have to tell Bruce and Alfred," Leslie informs him, "As well as the others. You're off the roster for any duties pertaining to a contagion like the Clench, they can't prank you by sneezing or coughing on you, exposing you to a sickness carelessly won't fly, and no messing with your antibiotics or vitamins, even as a joke. It won't be funny when we've got you on a ventilator because of a collapsed lung and your antibiotics were just gel capsules because it'd be funny. I'm making that clear to you and to everyone. Alright?"

It feels nice, Tim realizes as he agrees, to be so staunchly told that there are boundaries pertaining to him. Inarguable ones. He rolls down his hoodie and tank top and follows Leslie out. "So, is he finally dying," Jason drawls.

"No," Tim replies blandly, drawing on all the apathy he's ever felt in his life so he doesn't cry from sheer embarrassment, "She just found out about my asplenia."

"Tt, you lost your spleen," Damian scoffs, "As expected of your typical incompetence, Drake."

"I really didn't lose anything. Spleens don't wander off like a pet off a leash, if you didn't quite know," Tim coolly states, "I wasn't exactly in the state to protest when I had an internal organ cut out of me unwillingly. If it was up to me, I'd have kept the thing."

Dick is staring at his abdomen blankly. "It makes me feel a bit like pirate," Tim admits as he tugs his clothes up so he could show off the gleaming, shiny pink scar, "No-Spleen Tim."

Jason, at least, seems amused. "Once-Dead Jason and No-Spleen Tim," he snorts.

"When did that happen," Dick hoarsely whispers.

"While I was out," Tim responds, "Although, not having it does make me feel a bit lighter."

"What's making you feel lighter is the 26.4 pounds you lost," Leslie interjects.

"Hey, that was confidential," Tim protests, "What about HIPPA?"

"I've been violating HIPPA since I started doing medical care for vigilantes," Leslie deadpans.

'I will help find his weight,' Cass signs, 'I think it's hiding in chocolate cake.'

"That's exactly where it is," Tim agrees, "It has to be a vegan cake though. I can't have dairy anymore. Or red meat."

'It's in chocolate vegan cake,' Cass corrects.

"No spleen...26.4 pounds," Dick murmurs.

"Do you want cake," Tim offers.

Dick stares at his hands. "Uh, Dick," Tim calls, creeping closer to his catatonic form, "Hey? Want cake?"

Dick reaches his arms out and tugs Tim closer. "Alright, okay," Tim sighs, "Chill. It's not even an important internal organ."

"It's a large part of your immune system," Bruce interrupts, "It filters your blood and provides a large amount of red and white pulp."

"B, do you know how rude it is to eavesdrop," Tim chastises, "Like, oh my God, it's like Alfred didn't teach you anything. Alfred, are you seeing this?"

"Quite, dearest Tim," Alfred agrees, "I am glad I know about your dietary requirements now. Do go have your cake while I research recipes for the best no-dairy options."

Dick is patting Tim's scar absentmindedly. "Nobody knew," Dick murmurs, "No...no, Kon-El has x-ray vision, right? And he's been in your apartment. He saw, right? I've seen him casually x-ray everyone on Young Justice."

"Alright, if you wanna eat cake with me and Cass, you don't get to blame Kon," Tim defends, "I convinced him not to say anything. He's seen me take care of myself."

"Damian," Leslie calls, "Your examination."

Damian grumbles about his peak health condition and superior immune system and stalks into the office. "Okay, cake time," Tim decides, "C'mon, Dick. Chocolate cake."

"I'm sorry," Dick aplogizes.

Tim shifts uncomfortably. "You didn't cut out my spleen," he reasons, just my heart, "So, let's go. Cake. Chocolate."

Alfred the cat rubs against Tim's leg as his heartbeat rachets down. Good kitty. Damian will probably come along to pull Dick away but right now, he's going to hop into the car, let Cass control the radio while Dick either unfreezes from his catatonic state or mindlessly attempt to convince Cass to play ABBA while Jason buys a non-vegan cake to eat in a rooftop shadow he's totally not hiding in tentative close proximity to them. Tim will consider getting a kitty further so that he can eat at the same time as them. Dick will encourage him, although he'll ban Tim from trying to take Teekl home again. Jason will throw gravel at Dick from his 'secret' hiding spot. Cass will decorate her part of the cake with Haribos and Tim will be happy and not think about how many more medical check ins are looming in his future.