Chapter Text
Batman, though now that he's out of uniform he should be Bruce, is staring down at his phone blankly and trying not to beat himself up, as per Alfred's orders.
On the other side of the room, Tim is sleeping off a hit from... something. It had been dispersed in his face by a seemingly random thug during what had before that looked to be a regular attempt at a store robbery. The effects noted were slight dizziness at first, vertigo that had made swinging home a terrible idea, and heightened senses. Batman had cut their patrol short immediately and brought Tim hom—back to the cave to analyze the new chemicals in his blood and let him sleep them off.
And sleep Robin had. He'd been nearly-snoring through Bruce's guilt-fest for almost the past three hours. Though he was holding out hope that the tests he was running on a vial of Tim's blood would be completed soon, Bruce had run out of other things to do in the cave. He was now really only staying out of worry.
But, well. He had been too late by a second, a breath, his last breath to keep Robin from getting hit with that unidentified (and therefore potentially dangerous, potentially deadly) substance. He couldn't very well leave him alone now, after a failure like that. What kind of horrible par— mentor figure would that make him?
...The kind that took twenty whole seconds to notice a change in his mentee's breathing pattern that indicated wakefulness.
"Robin?" he called, not bothering to bring his voice up from its "I'm Batman" growl as he stepped over to the foot of Tim's cot to check on him. Tim's eyes weren't open, though Bruce wasn't sure his left eye would be able to open anyways, with the shiner he took just before the drug was tossed into his face. At his alias's name, however, Tim's face jolts. Bruce tries very hard not to compare it to a flinch— Alfred said no self flagellation, which means he has to keep all chest-pain-inducing cognitive distortions on low— and lands on a similarity to a shiver.
Quickly, Bruce steps forward and leans over Tim to pull the outer blanket up to Tim's shoulders to meet his sleeves. The cave is usually chilly, but whether he was actually cold or not he would probably be more comfortable like that, being less exposed to the room. Bruce backs away to avoid looming, immediately feels awkward, and covers by pulling a chair up next to the bed with a slight scrape. He's a little bit too tired to be completely silent at the moment. He couldn't drink any coffee tonight— well, it's morning now— because the smell was too strong for Tim's senses when they first got back. Bruce hadn't thought it was possible that the boy could ever dislike coffee.
Speaking of dislike, Tim's brow is furrowing. Deeply. It had been doing so for a while, and Bruce really doesn't like it. Tim should be getting rest.
Resisting the urge to smooth his hair back, something that would definitely disrupt him, Bruce gentles his voice as much as he can and says, "Sleep, Tim."
Tim's face tightens oddly for a long moment in which Bruce re-questions his entire involvement with this child that he clearly can't protect who clearly isn't comfortable with him. He begins taking deep, even breaths to keep his ribcage from constricting around his lungs any further. As he counts out the pattern, four in, six out, four in, six out, Tim relaxes.
His face goes through a myriad of rather intense expressions for how little his muscles seem to be working together, but eventually, it lands on peace. There's some sorrow mixed in, a wistful sort, but ultimately he looks like he's resting now. His breathing is even with sleep again after just a few minutes.
As Bruce listens to the sound, he lets a warm, protective feeling sweep through him. His Robin— his Tim, his kid— is there with him. Bruised, yes, but sleeping soundly in the cave. He won't fail this one. He can't. As chaotic as his self-introduction had been, Tim had made such a difference in Bruce's life when he appeared. Bruce would devote his every remaining breath to ensuring that Tim came home to a bed, to rest and peace and safety, at the end of each patrol.
He would start by preparing a room upstairs in the manor, because that was where his kids were supposed to sleep. The cave was too cold, sometimes, even for them.
Even for him.