Aha! Let it be known you're one of my favorite authors. And if you're still taking prompts, anything with Tim. Preferably sleep deprived Tim. You said you wanted angst, so I'm sure you'll know where to go from there!
The glue keeping his mask in place feels far too tacky against the edge of his cheek. He’s reapplied it twice already, not wanting to take it off while in the company of any of his family members. All they’d do is worry if they saw what state his eyes are in, but he figures at this point they already must know. They’re good at picking up on these sort of things, but not very good about mentioning them.
He’ll go to bed when they do or say it’ll only be another hour or bypass the cave entirely, telling them he’ll finish up the case file back at his apartment. They’re not lies, not really, because he does go to bed, he only stays at the computer another hour, he finishes the file at his place. He just...doesn’t go to sleep after.
There’s too much to do. Too many people he still needs to help. Tim figures it’s a better way to spend his time than laying in bed thinking about it all instead of doing.
But they know. Everyone knows. Cass will comment on his reflexes when she manages to get him to train with her on the mats. Dick asks how he’s doing in that ton of voice that underlines the no, really? that he doesn’t actually say. Damian will tell him straight up he looks like shit. Will scoff and roll his eyes because of course Tim would do that, he’s weak after all.
He starts coughing around day four. He’s quick to tell everyone it’s nothing; that he simply has a dry throat and needs a drink of water, but it doesn’t go away even as he sluggishly sips from a water bottle. The cough is quick to sink deep into his chest, throwing him into fits that leave him gasping. His lungs are slow to take in air, rasping as he chokes in between an inhale and an exhale turned harsh with a wheezing cough.
Bruce is quick to put him on monitor duty when he nearly falls out of the sky trying to stop himself from coughing. It turns into bed rest when he coughs so much, so hard, he pops a blood vessel in his eye; nearly throws up from the force, and Tim hates that he can barely make it up the stairs without tripping over himself. Alfred, in the end, helps him to bed, but makes the mistake of not taking his laptop away.
Two days later Damian finds him standing in the hallway outside his bedroom just staring at the empty space in his pajamas, a sheet wrapped around his shoulders. Tim doesn’t notice the curl of Damian’s nose at the sight of him. He doesn’t notice Damian at all.
“Drake. What the hell are you doing out of bed?”
Tim doesn’t response immediately. He’s still staring into the open air, still out of it, so Damian walks closer calling his name, shoving him lightly when still he doesn’t respond.
Finally, Tim looks at him and blinks. “Sorry,” he says, voice sounding rough from how sore his throat is with the sick in his lungs. “I thought I saw...” he looks back down the hallway, still empty and quiet. “Nothing. It’s fine. I just need some rest.”
He does. They know he does. His eyes are heavy, bloodshot. It’s been over three weeks since he’s had more than two hours of sleep at any given point. He looks sick and pale and too thin in his baggy pajamas.
Damian’s face smooths out from his scowl, rolling his eyes before he takes Tim by the arm and pulls him back to his room, back to bed. Still, he keeps turning his head, keeps staring down the hall as if whatever it was would come back to him.
Dick comes around next and Tim’s positive Damian must have mentioned something, because the first question out of his mouth is accusatory.
“Are you having nightmares, Tim?”
Tim blinks up at him, fighting back the need to yawn as he knows that’ll send him into another coughing fit. “Generally, yeah. If you’re asking about the other day, that wasn’t a nightmare.” It wasn’t. He knows, he’s been here before, still he can never get his brain to just stop. “I’m starting to hallucinate.”
He doesn’t catch the look Dick gives him, refuses to acknowledge it as he takes a sip from the bowl of soup Alfred brought up about an hour ago. It’s cold now.
“It’s not the first time, Dick. And it won’t be the last. Normally I’m better about not indulging it.”
“When’s the last time you slept a full eight hours?”
Tim does look at him now, glares at him. He doesn’t know the answer to that and Dick’s well aware of it.
“It’s going to end up killing you, Tim.”
He sighs, laying back against the pillows of his bed and says nothing. If he responded, Dick wouldn’t like his answer. Even so, Dick’s very good at reading what the silence still says. He leaves soon after, nearly slamming the door behind him.
In the end, they drug him. At some point, Tim was expecting it. He gets on antibiotics to get better and in the mix of pills he suspects there was something to get him to sleep, because suddenly he finds himself waking up not remembering when his eyes actually closed. He doesn’t say anything, simply takes every pill Alfred brings to him and downs the entire glass of water with them.
Still, it takes him another week to feel like he won’t fall down the stairs going to the kitchen. Another three days after that before Bruce allows him to put the cape on again. Tim continues to have a slight cough for nearly a month before he notices that it’s finally disappeared.
It’s right around that time Dick says something again, because no one’s ever good with facing anything head on at the right time.
“Why do you let it get that bad?”
They’re in an alleyway, just the two of them. They’ve been following a drug dealer all night, trying to get a lead on where a supplier is located. All their recon equipment has mysteriously stopped working quickly after being planted, so this is being done the old fashion way.
Tim knows what he’s talking about. “There’s better things I could use my time doing.”
Dick glares. “Because staying in bed sick for a month was a good use of your time?”
“I’m usually better about that,” Tim sighs, trying to focus on the mission. Dick’s not having it.
“And the hallucinating part?”
Tim snaps his head back, trying to keep himself calm. Trying to not take the bait. “Like I said, I’m usually better about that.”
“Damian said you followed someone out into the hall.”
Tim bites his tongue, catching himself before he speaks again. He doesn’t know what’s good to say and what’s not. He wishes this conversation was with someone who cared a lot less. He can already feel his chest start to tighten, his throat start to constrict. He can’t blame it on the cough anymore.
He turns away. “Maybe sometimes I want to see how good my memories actually are.”
Dick’s right behind him, his body heat at his back. He can feel the hovering hand at his shoulder, too scared to touch. “Memories of who?”
Plenty of people, Tim wants to say. He curls his hands into fists at his sides because there are so many-- people he could never get to in time, those he couldn’t keep a grip on, individuals that he is the only person on this planet that know what their final words were. They mix up into half memories of red in his mind, all people he should have spent more time, more effort, pushed just a little bit harder to save; everyone he only has a second to mourn even with the event carved into his brain leaving so many scars behind.
But there’s only ever been two people he’d follow after.
He figures if he ever gets close enough he’ll be able to recall exactly how light her eyes were. Or be able to smell the perfume she always wore. He thinks if he looks at him hard enough he’ll be able to understand why so many people say he’s growing up to look just like him. Maybe he can hear his name again. Maybe it’ll sound like he hopes.
Tim breathes in deep, feeling his lungs expand without the ache. “I’m sure you can figure it out, Dick,” He moves, they have a job to do after all, and Tim’s never the type to want to waste time. “You’re good at guessing.”
