Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tim was in the middle of typing out a report when he ran out of tissues, and he snatched at the air above the empty box at least five times before the movement caught up to his mind and he turned his head.

His head throbbed, a crick in his neck reminding him that he’d been hunched over his laptop for too long.  The box of tissues was empty.

Tim slowly turned his head the other way, and saw a trashcan full of used tissues.  Huh.  He thought it was just a simple runny nose.

Well, he clearly needed a new box of tissues.  And maybe a hot cup of tea, his throat was a little dry.  And a water bottle—he squinted when he turned on the light.  When had it gotten dark?

Tissues.  Tea.  Water bottle.  And maybe a heat pack for his neck, it was killing him.  Tim mentally wound through the past week, but he hadn’t been injured, and he didn’t think he’d strained something.

Tim had to catch the back of the chair immediately after standing up—the room spun around him and blacked out for a second.  Okay, maybe he’d been sitting for too long.  He kept his grip for another five seconds before warily letting go.

The room did not wobble.  That was good.  Rooms weren’t supposed to wobble.

Tim poked his head out into the empty hall and shivered.  Someone must’ve messed with the temperature settings before they left, everything was wacky.  And of course it had to be when he was the only one left in the Tower—Tim grumbled under his breath and changed direction to the main operations room.

Stupid airports.  Stupid airlines.  People had been flying planes commercially for more than a hundred years, and they still couldn’t figure out how to get them to leave on time?  His flight back to Gotham had been canceled entirely, and Tim was forced to spend another day in the Tower while his teammates all waved goodbye.  His dad was also likely to be pissed—Tim had sent him a text about the delayed flight, but hadn’t gotten a response back.

He was going to find out who’d screwed with the temperature settings, and set their room to freezing.

Tim shivered again, harder, as he climbed down the first set of the stairs.  He needed to add food to the list—he felt lethargic, fingers trembling until he clenched them around the banister.  Come to think of it, when was the last time he’d eaten?  He’d been working on old reports ever since he got back from the airport that morning.

Sometimes, Tim really hated that the Tower was shaped like a T, and by sometimes, he meant any time he had to cross it all the way to reach the elevators.  The common area gleamed cheerily at him in the light of the setting sun, bright orange through the glass windows, and Tim had to cover his eyes and look away as his headache pulsed.

He reached the elevators, and paused.  Where was he—temperature, right.  Main operations room.  Then food.  Then…tea?

Tim clicked the button, but nothing lit up.  The elevator was dead.  Tim stared at it, longsuffering.

“Of course,” he said out loud, “Bart, if this is your idea of a prank, I’m going to put superglue on the bottom of your shoes.”

Stairs it was.  One flight.  Two.  Tim got wobbly again halfway down the third, and took a seat on the steps, breathing in and out through his congested nose.  God, he needed tissues.  He needed food.

Kitchen.  He needed to go to the kitchen first.  It was up the stairs, and Tim wearily dragged himself back up the seven steps.

The corridor was…swimming around him.  Twisting, like a corkscrew.  Tim was fairly sure it was not supposed to do that.  Or was that Bart’s fault too?  Goddamn speedsters.

He stumbled, and caught himself against the wall—it was hot again.  Did he fix that temperature problem?  He was supposed to go to the main operations room.  No.  The kitchen.  The kitchen…right?

But what did he need from the kitchen?

His head pulsed louder, throat like half-torn sandpaper.  He was—what had he been doing?  Writing reports?  Something about the temperature…but he’d fixed it, hadn’t he, the hall was sweltering.  It felt like a sauna.

Maybe that was what needed to be fixed?  He had to go to the main operations room.  But he was near the kitchen.  Wait—he needed something from the kitchen.  He felt so tired.

That was it!  He needed coffee.  That was what he was searching for.  Tim took a couple of wavering steps forward, one hand pressed against the wall.  He could barely keep his eyes open.

Coffee, then fix the temperature, then get back to work.  Solid plan.  He had a feeling he’d forgotten something, but he’d remember it eventually.  Coffee, then work.

The floor felt like a wave, roiling beneath his feet, and Tim didn’t even realize he’d dropped to his knees until the dull throbbing reached his aching head.  He was so tired.  He needed to stay awake.

His nose felt weird.  He couldn’t breathe properly.

He was so tired.

The wall was nice and cool against his forehead, a soothing counterpoint to the smothering heat.  Maybe…he could just…take a little…nap…

Tim opened his eyes with great difficulty—they felt like they were glued shut.  He wasn’t in his bed, he could feel rough carpet under his legs.  Tim was…confused.

His eyes weren’t glued shut, they just had magnets attached to them, because they kept sliding closed.  Like magic.

Someone was talking to him.  Someone was calling his name.  They were asking him to…replace something?  Wait, the temperature was broken—did they need to order a new part?

Tim focused on the conversation, trying to ignore the sharp spike of pain in his skull, and squinted until his surroundings came into blurry view.  There was a red bucket in front of him, and Tim frowned.

Had someone decided to change their costume without telling him?  He’d laid down a sharp no on that front after someone had gotten ahold of Nightwing’s old designs and had been inspired.

No, it wasn’t a bucket.  It was a head.  There were two glowing white eyes, and some indents to hint at a suggestion of cheekbones and a jawline.  No nose, though.  Maybe it had fallen off?

“Red,” Tim murmured, almost giggling, “Red potato head.”

“Excuse me?”

Oops.  They sounded mad.  Wait—had he said that out loud?  “Sorry,” Tim said, as sincerely as he could manage with the hall still a little fuzzy, “Didn’t mean that.”  He couldn’t believe he’d just insulted someone to their face.

Someone was shaking him.  Or maybe the room was shaking.  San Francisco was prone to earthquakes.  He couldn’t understand the words, his hearing tuned in and out like a bad radio, but there was something shiny and sharp in his face.

Tim almost went cross-eyed to look at it.  It waved, and he followed with his eyes—right and left and right and left and right and left and right and Tim was actually getting kind of dizzy now, so he let his eyes slide shut as he slumped back against the wall.

Something poked the hollow of his throat, right where it was swollen and dry, and Tim made an irritated sound.

More annoying noises.  The shaking again.  Something peeled an eyelid open, and a bright light stabbed all the way to his soul—Tim yanked back, but that just made the headache worse, and by the time the world stopped spinning, Tim realized he was on the ground, cheek pressed against scratchy carpet.

It was actually not that bad.  Tim didn’t know why they spent money on beds when the floor was so comfortable.

Someone was calling his name again.  They kept asking him to replace something.  Tim wanted to say he’d get to it in the morning, but he couldn’t manage to form a word in his bone-dry mouth.

“Robin!” they snarled into his ear.  Too loud.  “Tim.”

A frisson of warning struck through him, but it dissipated before he could get ahold of it.

Something cool and soft against his forehead and Tim made a happy sound and leaned into it, letting it leech away the heated throbbing of his headache.  A low, vicious curse, and the hand retreated.

Tim felt his stomach lurch as the world shifted around him again—they were moving, and the walls were blurring sickeningly around him, and he closed his eyes shut and tried not to puke.

Something was wrong.  Something was very wrong—red helmet, body armor, where was he, where were they going, what was happening—

Darkness.

Tim could feel something cold and wet on his forehead and his neck, a blissful contrast to the raging fire in his head and the desert in his throat, and he made a sleepy sound.

“Awake?” a voice rasped, almost as deep as Batman’s growl.

Tim didn’t respond, or didn’t know what he responded, but there was a steady hand cupping the back of his head, lifting it slightly, and the cool edge of a glass at his lips.

“Warm water,” the voice said, and Tim obediently opened his mouth.

The first swallow felt like torture, but every subsequent one was easier.  The water was hot, and Tim could feel the burst of warmth travelling down his throat.

“Okay,” the voice said when he was finished, easing him back against the pillows, “Now you need to drink some soup.”  Tim blearily cracked open his eyes—his head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton until it was fit to burst, his skull pounding and his nose aching, and he dimly recognized his room.

There was someone blowing softly on a bowl of soup—almost as broad as Bruce, with dark hair and piercing green eyes and a single strip of white at the top of his forehead.  Skunkface set the bowl down when he turned back to Tim, and he eased Tim up, stacking some more pillows behind him to leave Tim semi-upright.

He was exhausted.  He was done.  All he could do was open his mouth whenever Skunkface neared his face with a spoon.  The swallowing threatened to undo him every time.

“Halfway there,” Skunkface said softly when Tim began trembling.  Everything was too much, his face hurt, his eyes hurt, his nose hurt, he couldn’t even taste the soup, there was a whole world right out of reach and all he could do was mechanically swallow.  “Just a few more spoons, Timbo, I promise.”

Tim-what?

Tim couldn’t even count the spoons, but finally he heard the bowl clink against the table.  An arm wrapped beneath his shoulder blades, another behind his head, and Tim was slowly eased back down to the bed.  The cool wraps were replaced, and Tim let the feeling sink him deeper into the waiting darkness.

Awareness eased into him slowly—an arm brushing against his shoulder, a glass to his lips, something warm and citrusy, he was leaning against a broad chest.  “Bruce?” Tim mumbled, though he knew it had to be wrong, Bruce would never hold him like this, Bruce wouldn’t hold him, he wasn’t Bruce’s son.

“No,” a sharp voice growled into his ear, “Guess again, Replacement.”

Right.  Skunkface.  Tim tried for a valiant moment to connect his present situation to any semblance of rationality, but it was so far removed from reality that it was practically a dream world.

Who was Skunkface?  Why was he helping him?

“Who’r’you,” Tim managed to slur out when he finished the glass.

“Aww, Replacement, don’t you recognize me?”

Skunkface, Tim’s mouth opened to reply, before some vestige of impulse control forced it shut.  That was rude.  It wasn’t nice to make fun of people with graying hair.

“Wha’ya’want?” Tim was less confident of his attempt this time, but Skunkface clearly understood enough.

“To make sure you’re healthy?” Skunkface chuckled, and the sound vibrated through him, “Like any big brother?  Why would I possibly have an ulterior motive, Timmers?”

It took Tim a while to parse through that, and by that time, Skunkface had managed to retrieve a bowl of unappetizing gray mush.  Tim made a face.

“Wait,” Tim said, trying to discreetly press away from the bowl, “We’re brothers?”  Tim thought he would’ve remembered a brother.  He sometimes wished that Dick was his brother, but Skunkface wasn’t Dick.

Skunkface took advantage of his distraction to shove a spoon of mush into his mouth.  Tim chewed and swallowed the utterly flavorless concoction, and pressed his lips into a thin line when Skunkface raised another spoon.

“Your temperature really needs to drop before it kills the few brain cells you have left,” Skunkface sighed, reaching up to readjust the cloth on Tim’s forehead.

“Hey,” Tim protested, indignant—but it was just a ploy to get another spoon of mush shoved into his mouth.  He swallowed with a baleful glare.  He wished he could turn it on Skunkface, but his head was not happy with the thought of twisting around.

Besides, he was warm.  It felt nice, leaning so completely on someone else, being bracketed by their arms, curled up in their lap.

“When di’ we ‘come brothers?” Tim pressed, because he couldn’t believe he’d forgotten a whole brother, not when he’d wanted one so desperately.  When he’d even dreamed, watching Robin soar, that—

His eyes began to prickle.

“When I stole Dad’s tires and you stole my uniform, Replacement,” Skunkface grumbled.  That—Tim didn’t remember that, but it sounded correct, like a puzzle piece fitting into place.  It wasn’t enough to distract from the growing lump in his throat, though, and when Tim swallowed another spoon of mush, the prickling in his eyes swelled.

“Tim?” Skunkface said, sounding concerned, “What’s wrong?”  A rough, calloused hand came to wipe away his tears and Tim only cried harder, because no one had done that for him before, and he had a brother, and Skunkface made a startled sound as Tim twisted in his lap and burrowed against the warm shirt.

“Tim?” he asked slowly, “What happened?”

“Always wanted a brother,” Tim sobbed—and this was pathetic, he was pathetic, Skunkface would shove him off and stalk away at this display, but he couldn’t stop crying, no matter how hard he tried.  “Always,” Tim’s voice cracked, and he didn’t understand what was going on, or why his heart felt like it had been cracked open and bared to the world, but there was a soothing hand running down his spine and gentle shushing.

The crying left him even more exhausted, his energy drained through his tears, and Tim hiccupped as his breathing slowly evened out.  The hand had moved to patting his back, and Tim leaned against Skunkface—against his brother, he had a big brother now—and let his heartbeat slow back to normal.

He drifted, exhaustion curling back around him, before his big brother could force him to eat any more of that mush.

“—can’t believe,” a low voice growled, in tune to the harsh blast of freezing cold as warmth was ripped away from him, “That I’m so stupid—” Tim whimpered, both at the tone and the sudden shivering.  “—get fucking attached—” hands at his hips, and Tim had a single moment to hope that they would curl around him and keep him warm—a hope dashed when his sweatpants were shoved down, baring his legs to the chill.

“N—no,” Tim tried to protest, unsure of which direction to twist because everywhere was cold and everything was cold and he couldn’t stop shaking.  “Stop.”

“You have a fever of one-oh-fucking-three, Replacement, you’re no longer allowed to have opinions,” the angry voice snarled.

That was unfair.  Tim wanted opinions.  And he was so cold.

“Fucking fevers.  Fucking kids that can’t fucking take care of themselves.  Fucking Talia,” the voice raised to a falsetto, “Oh, no, this is the perfect opportunity to test your replacement, it’s not like his brain is melting out of his ears or anything—”

Ugh, that sounded horrible.  “No melting,” Tim mumbled.  He needed his brain.  How could he be Robin without a brain?

“No melting,” the voice agreed, and strong arms scooped him up.  Warmth, finally, and Tim pressed close to the broad chest, trying to curl up against the breeze—they were moving, and he was still shivering, and bright fluorescent light stabbed his eyes and he groaned and buried his head against a soft T-shirt and—

Cold.

Tim shrieked and writhed against the arms pinning him down, but it was no use—they were bigger and stronger and they caught hold of his flailing arms and forced them by his side, trapping him against a warm, solid chest in a cage, keeping him in the freezing ice.

“Calm down, Replacement,” the voice snapped, “It’s just water.”

“‘S freezing,” Tim protested, ankle knocking painfully against the side of the bathtub.  The water was three-quarters full, and he was being held firmly by his captor, forced in the water till his shoulders.

“No it’s not, you’re just burning up,” the voice said firmly.  A hand scooped up water in his peripheral vision, and Tim groaned when it was sprinkled over his face and hair.

“Cold,” he objected, burrowing further into the warmth behind him.

The voice just sighed, and continued to dribble water over his head.  Trickling trails of water snaked over his scalp, and the shivers slowly receded.  Tim could feel the repetitive motions lull him back to sleep.

“Why’r’you doing this?” Tim mumbled, testing the grip and finding it still unyielding.

“You need to get better,” the voice grumbled, “So I can beat you up.”

Seems counterproductive, Tim wanted to say, but there were too many syllables in that, and his eyes slid closed.

A hand carding through his hair, slow and soft, and it was even better than Bruce’s hesitant attempts that one time Tim broke his arm, this was the right edge of pressure, of tugging and stroking, and Tim almost wanted to purr.

Humming, soft and low, a raspy edge to the words in a lyrical language he couldn’t understand, and the motions were soothing and constant and he hovered on the edge of sleep, sunk into a blissful contentment he couldn’t name.

He wanted to stay here forever.  In the warm, comforting darkness, with the quiet singing and the hair stroking and the bubbling feeling of being care for, being protected, being the center of someone’s attention.

He never wanted to leave this feeling.

Everything was cold.  And achy.  And hot.  And sore.  And his nose was whistling weirdly and he didn’t want to breathe through his mouth.  And it was cold again.

Tim groaned and tugged the blanket up an inch.  Too hot.  He tugged it down again.  Too cold.  He glared at Skunkface, who was watching with a smirk as he tore the peel off an orange.

“What’re you looking at?” Tim grumbled, tugging the blanket up again.  His head hurt.  It hurt even more when he frowned, but Skunkface was only smiling wider and Tim wanted to wipe it off his stupid, smug face.

“A little baby bird tangled up in its nest,” Skunkface said mockingly, and Tim threw a nearby tissue at him.  Sadly, it only fluttered an inch, and Skunkface’s derisive grin only grew bigger.

“You’re an asshole,” Tim accused groggily.  Skunkface’s expression did not change.

“Oh, I’m the worst, baby bird,” he laughed, leaning forward to stick one of the orange sections into Tim’s mouth.  Tim chewed on it angrily, still glaring at him.  Skunkface gave him the look of amused condescension people usually gave pouting toddlers.

“I don’t like you,” Tim announced.  Skunkface’s grin flickered, and something in his eyes closed off.

“Same,” he responded coldly, shoving another orange piece in Tim’s face.  His eyes were glowing green.  That was strange.

“Do you know your eyes are glowing?” Tim asked, chewing on the orange slice as he observed them flicker, like a candle flame.  The orange was slowly getting pulverized between Skunkface’s fingers.

“What?”

“Glowing,” Tim repeated.  He hadn’t seen glowing eyes on anyone but Superman.  “Do you have laser vision?”

“What—no—why would I—” the flickering stopped as Skunkface groaned.  He dropped his gaze to the mess of orange pulp in his hands and sighed.  “Great,” he growled, dumping the orange in the trash and grabbing a few clean tissues to wipe the juice off his hands, “Now I need to peel another one.”

“I don’t like oranges,” Tim grumbled, slowly teasing down the blankets—too cold again.

“I don’t care,” Skunkface snapped, “Your fever broke, but you’re still sick.  You’re going to shut up and eat what I give you.”

“That doesn’t sound like a fair deal,” Tim muttered blearily—the warmth was a soft cocoon around him, and he was getting sleepy again.

“I never said I was being fair, Replacement,” Skunkface said, nudging another orange section past his lips.  Tim chewed it slowly, finally swallowing with an exertion that drained the rest of his energy.

Drowsiness stole back over him, and he only dimly registered someone adjusting his pillows so he was lying flat again, and tucking in his blankets just right.

Maybe Skunkface wasn’t so bad after all.  Sleep stole him before he could express this thought out loud.

“No,” Tim said through lips pressed tightly together, “No more ‘ranges.”

“It’s not an orange,” growled a voice with rapidly draining patience, “It’s tea.”

“C’n smell ‘ranges.”

“Okay, first of all, that’s lemons, and second of all, it’s tea.”  The edge of the mug pressed harder against Tim’s lips. “Open up, Replacement, or I’ll make you open up.”

“Pr’mise no ‘ranges.”

“I honestly have no idea how Alfred managed all these years without giving into the urge to strangle one of us,” Skunkface marveled, before pressing the mug harder, “There are no fucking oranges, Replacement, though I promise I’ll shove one down your throat if you don’t open up.”

Tim warily parted his lips—the liquid was hot, and a little sour, but that was drowned out in sweet honey, and the warmth was nice against his sore throat.

“See?” Skunkface said, supporting his head as Tim drank slowly, “No oranges.”

“Mhm,” Tim responded.  The tea was soothing.  His mind finally caught up to the rest of the conversation.  “You know Alfred?”

“Jesus, you’re still out of it, aren’t you.”

“Out of what?” Tim asked, licking the last few drops of honey-sweet tea out of the mug.

“Out of your fucking mind, Replacement,” Skunkface grumbled, setting the mug aside, “This is what happens when you don’t care of yourself.  What, you thought you could just shake off an illness?”

“M’not sick.”

“You had a temperature of a hundred-and-three, baby bird, we have passed the point of denial.”

“Wasn’t that bad,” Tim protested as he was tugged back to lying horizontal, “Was—was going to go home—”

“God, you’re just as bad as Bruce.  The two of you deserve each other, honestly.”

Tim scrunched up his forehead—no, that wasn’t what he meant, he was going to spend the holidays with his dad, not in the Manor, but that was too many words to puzzle out, and his throat was nice and not-sore for the moment, and he took the reprieve.

A cool cloth wiped across his face, removing the gumminess clinging to his eyelids and the sweat and oil sticking to his skin, and Tim hummed in quiet pleasure.  A hand gently pressed against his forehead, cold but not freezing.

“Getting better,” they said softly, and Tim fell asleep as they brushed the hair out of his face.

His head was killing him.  It was pounding and aching and it hurt so much, and Tim just wanted to sleep, and he couldn’t do anything but stare at the ceiling and wonder why he was cursed.

“What’s the matter, baby bird?” asked a too-loud voice.  Tim almost whimpered as the sound reverberated in his skull.

“Hurts,” he said plaintively.

“What hurts?”

“Head.”  There was a sharp ache at the back of his head, another just below his eye, and a throbbing pain at the top.

“You already drank a ton of water and had some soup.  Go to sleep.”

A particularly vicious throb pulsed through his skull.  “Can’t,” his voice cracked, eyes prickling with tension but tears unable to fall.

His eyes refused to close.  His eyes refused to stay open.  He was so tired and yet his body refused to go to sleep.

The mattress shifted underneath him, a loud sigh as the weight maneuvered around him to drop at his side.  A cool cloth was laid over his face—not over his forehead, like previously, but gently over his eyes.

Tim made a soft moan as coolness spread through his eyes, finally letting him close them.

“Sleep,” they instructed, gentle fingers running slowly through his hair, tracing over his scalp in a soft massage.  It drew the pain out, quieting the throbbing, and Tim slumped, tension draining from his body as the massage continued.

“Th’nks,” he mumbled as the fingers continued their gentle ministrations, easing him to the soft embrace of sleep.

Another heavy sigh.  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” a low, resigned voice murmured, “You are such a little shit.”

Tim wanted to frown—what did he do?—but he didn’t want the massage to stop, so he let the confusion drift, his mind peacefully slipping to emptiness.

The gentle stroking continued, soft and repetitive, until he slid all the way to sleep.

He felt like crap.

His head was aching, his nose was irritated and raw, his throat felt like he’d swallowed a blender, and his skin was tacky with dried sweat.  Ugh.  Maybe he was sick after all.

Tim weakly pushed against the bed, and only managed to get up an inch before he crumpled back onto it.  Okay.  There went his plan of wrapping himself up in a couple scarves and shuffling to the kitchen for some tea.  Maybe if he called Kon, he’d come and—

Wait a minute.  Everyone had left the Tower.  Tim was supposed to have left the Tower.  His flight had been canceled, though, and…what time was it?

Tim stared at the light blue of the morning sky through his window.

What day was it?

The room swung open, and Skunkface walked inside with a bowl of something steaming.  He blinked when he met Tim’s gaze.  “Fantastic timing,” he informed Tim, “I was just about to wake you up.”

His headache spiked.  Who—what had happened—had Tim accidentally been transported to a different universe?  A different timeline?

He was going to strangle Bart when he got his hands on him.

Skunkface was utterly unconcerned, casually taking a seat on Tim’s bed, and blowing softly on a spoon of…soup? before offering it to Tim.

Tim kept his mouth shut.  He was not accepted food from strangers.

Skunkface raised an eyebrow.  “You really want to do this whole song and dance again, Replacement?”  His voice seemed unnaturally hoarse.  “I swear there’s no oranges in it.”

Tim stared blankly at him.  Why would there be oranges in soup?

“Tim,” Skunkface growled, “Do not test my fucking patience.  You can either eat the soup, or you can wear the soup, it’s your choice.”

Tim narrowed his eyes.  “Who are you?” he opened his mouth to ask—but Skunkface was faster than he looked, and Tim had to splutter his question around a mouth full of soup.

It was hot and soothing against his ragged throat, and Tim grudgingly opened his mouth when Skunkface returned with another spoon.  “Finally lucid enough to ask a real question, huh,” he smirked.

He did not, Tim noted, actually answer the fucking question.

“Who are you?” Tim repeated, grimacing a bit—that spoon of soup had been too hot.  “What do you want?”

“Right now?” Skunkface hummed, “For you to get better.”

Tim narrowed his eyes.  “Why?” he asked hoarsely.

“Because you can’t beat up someone who doesn’t even realize you’re threatening them, it’s a bit off-putting,” Skunkface said, shoving another spoon of soup in his face, “And I came here for a real fight.”

Tim tensed.  Skunkface laughed, “Calm down, baby bird, you’re nowhere near full strength yet.”

Tim pursed his lips.  While Skunkface was right, Tim didn’t want to appear vulnerable against a man with uncertain motivations—he still didn’t know how he’d gotten inside the Tower.  “You sure about that?” Tim asked flatly.

Tim didn’t even see him move.

One second, he’d been leaning against the headboard, waiting for the next spoon of soup, and the next, his head was aching, his neck stretching painfully over the top of the headboard as his head was pressed flat against the wall by an unyielding hand around his throat.

“Positive,” Skunkface replied, green eyes glittering.  He hadn’t even spilled the soup.

Tim coughed weakly as Skunkface eased back, amusement dancing over the older boy’s face.  “Word of advice,” he said as he fed Tim another spoon of soup, “Don’t bluff the guy who just spent the last day and half making sure your brain didn’t leak out your ears.”

Day and a half, some part of his mind caught on and shrieked, but the larger part was transfixed with the crooked smile stretching across that face.

A smile Tim had seen before.

A smile he’d seen underneath a black domino mask.

A smile he’d seen on a dead boy.

He sipped the next spoon in a mechanical motion, watching Skunkface closely as he tried to get his mind to work.

It refused, unwilling to budge from the bright, neon, flashing sign of oh my god, that’s Jason Todd.

It couldn’t be.  Jason was dead.  Actually, sincerely dead—Tim had checked, once, at the beginning, because despite Batman’s grief and rage he hadn’t been sure, and he’d hacked past the Batcomputer’s passwords and found himself hovering over the file JPTW_autopsy.

It had been gruesome.  There had been pictures.  Tim had had nightmares for weeks, imagining exactly how every broken bone and contusion and burn had appeared, how much it had hurt, how agonizing Robin’s final moments must’ve been.

Jason Todd was dead.  He’d died in Batman’s arms.  He’d been dead during the autopsy, during the funeral, and he’d certainly been dead by the time they put him into the ground.

Besides, this man was older.  Taller.  Bigger—almost as big as Batman.  He had eyes of green fire, and that white strip of hair—fashion statement?  Meta gene?

But now that he’d made the connection, Tim could see nothing else.  Jason’s smile.  Jason’s scowl.  Jason’s Crime Alley drawl—rougher and hoarser, but Tim could still pick out the accent.

“What,” Jason—Skunkface scowled, “Are you looking at?”  He was sprawled in the desk chair, tapping away at a tablet.  Every so often, Tim could hear him quietly clear his throat.

Who are you, really, Tim thought about asking.  Jason, he thought about trying.  How the hell did you get in, what the hell do you want, why the hell are you here.

“Where’s my phone?” he asked instead.

That got him a raised eyebrow.  “I don’t know,” Skunkface rolled his eyes, “I’m not in charge of your stuff.”  Tim frowned at him—his room was strangely clean, and his phone wasn’t on either his nightstand or his desk.  He tried remembering when he last had it, but his head was throbbing and his memories were fuzzy.

Skunkface caught his expression, and huffed.  “I didn’t eat it,” he grumbled, “You should take better care of your things.”

It was Jason.  Every time the words came out, Tim could hear Robin speak.  It was Jason.  It couldn’t be Jason.

Tim inched to the edge of the bed and slowly swung his legs off of it.  Skunkface flicked his gaze towards him.  “What’re you doing?” he asked.

“Bathroom,” Tim said, slowly pushing to his feet.  His head immediately started pulsing, and the room wavered for a bit, but it gradually steadied, enough that Tim felt like he could take another step.

Skunkface looked distinctly unimpressed.  “Don’t faint and break your head open,” he said, turning back to his tablet, “The blood’ll be a pain to clean up.”

Tim ignored him and hobbled to the bathroom.  He freshened up, checked the counters—no phone, and nothing out of place—before staring at himself in the mirror.

He looked horrible.  The fluorescent lights washed out his face, turning his skin a sickly shade of yellow, and making his cheeks sunken and his eyes puffy.  His nose was red and sore, and his lips were chapped.

He looked, in short, exactly like the kind of lunatic that would hallucinate their dead hero’s face in a delirious fever dream.

Tim was trying to piece together what had happened, all while searching for his phone.  Skunkface—Jason—the stranger’s only contribution was to prop his feet up on Tim’s desk as Tim crawled over the floor and checked underneath the furniture.  That and smirk at him.

He was sick.  He—he remembered being really sick, unable to move, the room spinning around him, a red helmet—or was that just a dream?  There had been something about potatoes.  And oranges?  And he thought he remembered someone singing to him?

It didn’t make any sense.  Who was this guy?  Why was he here?  How did he get in?  Had he stolen Tim’s phone, or had Tim accidentally left it somewhere?  Was he going to attack Tim if he went for the door?  Tim hadn’t forgotten how quickly he’d gone from sitting to being choked out against the wall.

A set of harsh wheezes interrupted his train of thought, and Tim poked his head back from under his bed to see Skunkface nearly bent in two, coughing furiously.

“Are you okay?” Tim asked tentatively, once the coughing had subsided.

Skunkface glowered at him.  “This is all your fault,” he said in a hoarse, thin voice, “You’re infectious.”

“Sorry?”

Skunkface flipped him off as he tried to clear his throat.  Tim scowled back and switched to searching on top of his bed.

He nearly wobbled over when he stood up, exhaustion hitting him in a rush, but he managed to turn his fall into tipping sideways, and landed on the bed instead of the floor.

He took a moment to breathe before he pulled back the sheets.  He’d had his phone with him at his desk when he’d been working.  Then—then he remembered leaving his room.  To get coffee?  Had he taken his phone with him?  Had he left it there?

He didn’t actually remember reaching the kitchen, though.  Tim checked the gap between the bed and the wall, and ran his fingers across the sheets, feeling for thin, hard plastic.  Dropped it somewhere along the way?

But if he hadn’t reached the kitchen, why had he come back to his room?  And when had Skunkface showed up?

His head gave a vicious throb and Tim groaned, crumpling back onto the bed and holding his aching head.  His fingers dug into his temples, but the pulsing ache spread through his clenched jaw, throbbing more fiercely.

A heavy sigh.  Quiet footsteps.  Gentle fingers brushing his hair, smoothing in gentle circles.  Tim winced every time the throbbing pulsed, but the soothing circles drained the pain in gradual strokes, and Tim could feel himself sinking deeper into the bed as he relaxed.

The headache dropped down to a simmer, exhaustion pulling him down into sleep, his cheek pressed against the blankets.

He remembered his cheek pressing against scratchy carpet—there had been a red helmet, a mechanized voice—

The Red Hood.

Tim’s eyes slid shut.

He felt exhausted.  And sticky.  And sore.  But he also felt awake, truly awake, and he groaned as he tried to piece together remnants of foggy memories.

His head gave a dull throb as he lifted it, but it was better than piercing agony, and Tim braced a hand on his pillow as he slowly eased up to a sitting position.  His other hand slipped free of smooth hair and Tim absently frowned as he took in his surroundings.

He was in his room in Titans Tower, but things had been tidied or moved—his desk was empty, there was a tissue box on the bedside table, along with a thermos, and his alarm clock had been switched off.  There was a small collection of dry crackers and oranges on the desk, along with a small bottle of what looked like medicine.  And there was a familiar black-and-blue vigilante standing in the doorway, frozen in place.

Tim blinked.  Dick didn’t even twitch.

“Nightwing,” Tim asked slowly, straightening up further, “Are you okay?”

Dick made a low, strangled sound.  “Tim,” he said, his voice wavering, “Who is that?”

Tim followed his gaze and peered over the edge of his bed.  There was a man sitting on the floor, slumped back against the nightstand, head tilted against Tim’s mattress.  One knee was drawn up, the other leg stretched out straight, and he was half-covered in a fuzzy blanket.

Black hair with a white streak, hard jaw, closed eyes.  Nose an irritated red, skin clammy, a box of tissues next to him on the floor.

Dick’s face was pale underneath his mask.

Huh.

Not a hallucination after all.

“Um,” Tim said slowly, trying to fight a hazy set of memories into a coherent timeline.  What had happened?  How had the man gotten in the building?  How much of what he was remembering were delirious dreams?  “I…don’t know.”  He looked up, squinting at Dick, “Wait, what are you doing here?”

Dick was slowly peeling off his mask, his fingers trembling.  “I—I thought you could spend the holidays with us if your dad was out of town, and I wanted to pick you up as a surprise.  What—what happened?”

“I was sick,” Tim answered, before frowning, “My dad’s out of town?”

Dick’s expression filtered through ten different stages of confusion before he shook his head to clear it.  “I—I don’t understand,” he said softly, stumbling forward a few steps before crumpling gracefully to his knees, right in front of the stranger.

Dick stared at the man.  Tim stared at both of them.  Red helmet—Red Hood.  Green glowing eyes.  And the face of a boy that was supposed to be dead.

“Jay?” Dick said, in a voice so small it cracked Tim’s heart, “Little Wing?”

The stranger—the Red Hood—Jason was still asleep.  Dick reached out, gloves hovering a few inches away from him.  “Jaybird,” he called, slightly louder.

Red Hood stirred, eyes cracking open slowly.  “Dickiebird?” he mumbled, and Tim watched Dick’s expression shatter.

“What the fuck—” Jason said hoarsely, significantly more awake now that he was being crushed under a hundred and eighty pounds of sobbing vigilante.  “What—Dick?  What are you doing here?”

“That’s my line, you complete asshole,” Dick cried, almost strangling Jason, “You were dead, Jay, how—I can’t believe—what—what happened?”

“It’s a long story,” Jason growled, and then followed it up with a coughing fit so severe that Dick pushed off his lap to gently rub his back.

“You’re sick,” Dick said quietly, pulling off a glove to test Jason’s forehead with the back of his hand.  Jason paused in the midst of coughing to shoot Tim a truly venomous glare.  Tim almost squeaked.

Dick followed Jason’s glare and narrowed his eyes at Tim.  “You’re sick too,” he said, no room for dissent in his tone, “Both of you are coming back to the Manor.”

Tim wanted to protest—he was supposed to spend the holidays with his dad…but Dick had said that his dad was out of town.  He’d left.  Without telling Tim.  Again.

Jason, on the other hand, was actually protesting.  He lurched to his feet, batting away Dick’s hovering hands.  “No,” Jason snarled, “I’m not going anywhere—” his words were interrupted by hacking coughs again, and Dick had to pull Jason into a chair when he wavered on his feet.

When he was finished, his head was propped up limply in one hand, his breathing low and harsh.  “Come on, Jay,” Dick said softly, “Alfred will make you some soup and his special tea.  You’re burning up, kiddo.”

Jason’s eyes were flashing again, green spiking to an unearthly, poisonous shade.  Tim stayed frozen on the bed, watching carefully.  Dick looked Jason in the eyes, not even flinching at the flickering venom, and reached up to brush Jason’s bangs out of his face.

Jason’s eyes fluttered shut.  “Fine,” he said, so quietly Tim would’ve thought he imagined it if it wasn’t for Dick’s beaming smile.

“The whole family home for the holidays,” Dick said, and Tim could see his eyes brimming with tears, “Everyone is going to be so happy.”