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Tears stream down his face as he heaves desperately into the toilet bowl. Tim clenches his white-knuckled hands to the rim of the toilet, the only thing that’s keeping him from outright keeling over. It’s a battle he will inevitably lose, but he can’t afford to give in now.
His head pounds in time with his nauseating gags and coughs, spitting bile into the toilet water. No matter how hard he tries to catch his breath, it’s as if his lungs have shriveled up, like they’ve sat in the sun too long. He flushes the toilet again, fruitlessly hoping that no one hears nor pays attention to just how many times he’s done it. He doesn’t know what he’d say, if anyone asked.
No one will bother, he tells himself, caught somewhere between hope and despair. It itches the same way in his chest, as if he swallowed a handful of feathers and couldn’t quite get them down. He retches again, the bile doing nothing to clear his throat.
None of his family have asked before, no matter how red-eyed and snot nosed he is. No matter how many wet sheets he washes and tissues he goes through, no one ever inquires. Tim has been living with this secret for so long that it’s become intertwined with who he is. Nothing about his behavior will throw them off now, not when this is the only version of him that they've ever known. They won’t ask now, not even when he throws up the little pills meant to prevent all this. He was doing so well, as good as he can with biology that won’t just shut the fuck up.
He can’t even bite back his pained keen, whimpering into the toilet like it could do anything to comfort him. No one’s coming, not for him, not for pathetic little Timmy crying alone at the potty. He weeps and he wails and he fucking chokes and it doesn’t matter, he can’t stop throwing up. Even when there’s nothing left in his stomach, his traitorous body insists on heaving up bile.
When he shifts, he’s covered in spit up and his pants are all wet, just another humiliation to add to the pile. He’s cold and clammy and shaking all over. When he trembles, the ever-persistent rash is irratated, every position further aggravating his raw skin. He can only hope that he doesn’t bleed again. He ran out of cream earlier in the week and he doesn’t know how he’s ever going to go to the store if he can’t stop fucking crying already.
He leans his face against the toilet seat and hates himself a bit for how yucky it is. He doesn’t wanna be gross, he doesn’t wanna be bad. He doesn’t know how to be anything other than this. Stupid little Timmy just waiting for someone to save him. He’s supposed to be better than this. He’s Red Robin, he’s trained to be better than this. And yet, he just retches again.
He feels himself wet again, like his body just can’t help it. Even whining high and loud, he knows that no one will hear him. A scream could rip from his throat and it wouldn’t even matter.
He can’t do this. He can’t. This time, when he spits up, a bit of red comes up with it. He doesn’t wanna bleed, he hates bleeding. He knows he needs to just take his suppressants and it’ll all be over but that means he has to actually get up. His pills are still at the counter, sitting idly like they didn’t just trigger a stomach-flu-like bout of sickness.
He tries, he really does. He shifts to his knees, clutches at the toilet seat and wills himself to stand up. The most he can do is kneel and even that has him collapsing back on his bottom, the sudden pressure on his rash making him cry out.
It’s too much, the agonizing pain radiating from his eyes down past his bottom, to where the rash has spread to his thighs, as red as the blood tarnishing the toilet bowl further.
Tim would bite his lip if he thought it would make a difference. He braces against the potty once again, attempting to force weakening bones to solidify.
His hand slips, the seat slick from tears and drool, and he falls back, brain too sluggish to remember to duck his chin, causing him to bump his head on the tile.
He can’t help himself. He’s so weak, so incredibly pathetic, and he doesn’t know how to stop it. Even if he could crawl over to the sink, there’s no way he’ll be able to stand up long enough to grab the pills. The suppressants are supposed to stop this. His dad promised that it would help. No more wetting, no more crying, no more being little. It was all supposed to go away.
Why won’t it go away?
Please, please, Tim just wants it to stop. It hurts, please, just make it stop. It hurts so much. His tummy, his bottom, his eyes, his throat, everything. It all hurts so badly and Tim doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t, he doesn’t know how to help himself. He knows if he was big that he could figure it out. He’s smart when he’s big. Tim is supposed to be smart. But he just- he can’t.
He can’t do it anymore. Every day his head gets fuzzier, eyes bleary with exhaustion, brain lagging like he’s a computer with only one bar of connection. He knows he ought to be better than this, but he thought the meds would fix it. His dad said the meds would work this time. He thought that if he could just suppress long enough that it would all go away. But it won’t, it won’t. He can’t stop crying already. He just wants it all to stop, please. Why won’t it stop? Why won’t anyone come? Timmy needs help, he needs help, please. Please, please, pleasepleaseplease-
He curls in on himself, whimpering at the way it nauseates his already sick tummy. He can’t throw up again. It hurts too much, if he does, he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop. He’ll gag and spit and retch until he’s spilling out nothing but blood and bile all over the floor. He hopes Bruce won’t be too mad. He’ll clean the tile, once he’s able to move without collapsing.
He should have a plan. Tim is good at plans. He just, he needs to think. He attempts to blink away the tears but more immediately well up and blur his vision further. It doesn’t matter.
He shoves his fingers in his mouth, hating how they taste of sick, and bites down. Sometimes the pain helps, makes the fog ease just a bit. He normally doesn’t allow himself to suckle on his fingers, too many scoldings from mommy about being infantile, but maybe just this once…
He clenches his teeth around the skin but instead of clearing the static, he just seems to get dragged deeper. He could let go. That would be nice, just let the remaining suppressants in his bloodstream leak out of his system and allow his biology to finally take hold. He hasn’t slipped in so long. He feels it starting, a bit of softness around the edges. It would be so easy to just let it consume him. Let all the pain be replaced by cozy headspace, watch the color get a bit brighter, senses get a bit gentler, like watercolors merging into a lovely ombré. It would be so simple. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t before, why he’s held on so long.
He’s so tired.
Timmy shifts, whole body protesting the small movement. And then he remembers. The bruises, the aches, patrol. He’s supposed to go on patrol tonight.
That’s why he needed the extra dose of suppressants, with Bruce and Damian out on a mission, it’ll only be the other two caregivers on route with him. They won’t leave him alone as the only other vigilante on scene. It’s not normally so bad, when he’s able to break off on his own or even with Bruce. But both of them? They know just how to make his instincts go haywire, how to entice his biology louder, ready to break through the meds and turn him into a blubbering mess.
He can’t. He can’t let them know. They’ll take Red Robin away. He’ll never be a hero again if they find out. If he’s not a hero, not a Robin, he won’t belong anymore. There’s no room for someone useless to the vigilante scene. Not in Wayne Manor, let alone in the Batcave. Then he would be back with the Drakes, having lost the only place that felt like home. His one chance at a genuine family, actually wanting him, ruined because he can’t meet the one expectation he and his parents agreed upon. Tim knows better than to let the smallness out, and yet he cries all the same.
The Waynes would mean well, he knows, but it won’t be enough. He’s not foolish enough to think that they could care for him. Even with three caregivers in the family it won’t be enough, not with their schedule. They’ll send him back. To a dad who wanted nothing but for Tim to be normal, to be big and capable. Or worse, they’d ship him off to a facility. To be trapped with other orphaned littles, abandoned or otherwise refused to be cared for.
He won’t do it. He’s supposed to be the one helping those vulnerable people, not the one needing to be saved.
Tim bites harsher on his fingers, desperate to feel bigger than he is. When it does nothing but hurt, he pries them out of his mouth. He moves his arm, hating the way it makes his previous patrol injuries ache, and presses his wrist to his mouth. He clenches down on the meat of his arm, latching on as tight as he can bear. It’ll bruise, surely, but at least it’s helping clear away the worst of the brain fog. Just a little more and he’ll finally be able to think again. He needs a plan. He has so much to do. So much, god, it’s so much.
He bites himself again, a bit further up his arm, just as painfully. This time, when he moves, he’s able to force himself into a sitting position without falling over. Though he’s plagued by full-body tremors, he still shifts forward. As babyish as it is, he crawls towards the sink. His pants rub cruelly against his damp thighs with each movement, red-hot humiliating pain threatening to overtake. He just has to get to the counter. Maybe then he can simply reach up.
That’s all he has to do. Stretch up as high as he can and reach for the bottle of suppressants. Just two pills and this’ll all be over. He pointedly ignores the way his stomach clenches at the thought of more medicine, belly still raw and queasy from his many bouts of vomiting. It’s fine, it’ll be fine. It’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with before.
He leans against the counter cabinet, using the structure to help keep him upright. He shoves two fingers back in his mouth, tells himself it’s not for comfort, and uses the other hand to grope around for the bottle. It takes him a moment of blind searching before he bumps into it, the bottle knocking over and spilling out. The pills scatter, some falling onto the floor around him.
He’s such a fucking dummy, dumb boy, dumb Timmy! He forgot to close the lid! How could he forget? Now the pills are spilling all over, medicine clattering over the sink, onto the floor. Now they’re dirty.
The thought makes him sob anew, staring at his mess. He needs to pick them up, count them, make sure he didn’t lose any. He can’t afford to be without. He doesn’t know what his dad would do to him if he found out he lost the most expensive medicine he could get his hands on.
He can’t- he doesn’t know if he can think clearly enough to count so many. He’s a good counter, he’s good at math, but looking at them scattered around him, it’s too much. It’s all too much. The fingers in his mouth do nothing to muffle his frantic sobs.
He didn’t mean to. He promises, he didn’t mean to ruin it. He didn’t mean to make a mess, he didn’t. He’s sorry, he’s so sorry. He ruins everything. Timmy always ruins everything. He’s such a bad boy, a bad little, and an even worse hero.
The thought makes him bawl, whole body shaking something terrible. He curls in on himself, digging his teeth into his knuckles, hating the way he wails. He cries and cries and he doesn’t know how long he sits there shattering into a thousand jagged pieces before there’s a knock at the door. It’s muffled, probably at his bedroom door rather than the attached bathroom where he’s hiding.
Instinctively, he curls up on himself. His thighs draw up to his chest, his bum stinging against the tile. He keeps one hand in his mouth, nibbling at the skin. Face pressed to his knees, he can only hope if he cries quietly enough that they won’t hear him.
There’s another pound at the door, loud enough that he whimpers, flinching against the cabinet. He rubs his face against his knees, hating how scratchy the fabric of his pants are.
“Timbit, c’mon, we’re gonna have dinner before patrol.”
Even if he wasn’t sobbing so hard, he knows that he wouldn’t be able to answer. He doesn’t have the words. Biting himself can only get so far. No matter how hard he digs his teeth in, his biology won’t let go. It won’t loosen its grasp until he’s finally dropped. Outrunning it for so long had only made it more vicious in its presentation, nothing will cut it off now that it’s begun. Still, he fights for what little control he can scramble for.
He can’t let go, he can’t. He’s been holding on for so long, he doesn’t remember how to loosen his vise-like grip. He doesn’t know how to be a good little.
“Kid, open up before I break the door down,” Jason calls out. He pounds again, successfully making Tim whimper. He doesn’t know if his sorta-brother can hear him or not but his voice seems to soften nonetheless. “Say something or I’m picking the lock.”
No, no, please. If Jason sees him, sees this, he’ll never leave him alone. Surely his caregiver instincts will go into overdrive, eager to smother the newfound baby. Tim can’t let that happen. He’s hidden it for so long, he can’t ruin it now. He didn’t change his own soggy pull-ups, wash his sheets in the bathtub, and nibble the skin around his nails raw just to destroy it all in one shitty day.
But he can’t make his mouth move, his tongue leaden in his mouth, saliva now molasses-heavy and choking. He can’t say anything, doesn’t remember how. He opens his mouth and all he does is sob. Nothing more than a little boy just wishing his mommy could come save him.
But Janet isn’t here. Even if he called, she wouldn’t pick up. There’s no one left to fix it now. Besides, it’s not as if she’s ever been the mother he needed anyway. And yet, there’s this lingering part of him mewling for his mom, begging her to be softer, kinder, someone who could make it all better.
“Timbo, last chance to speak up or I’m coming in,” Jason calls out. He doesn’t exactly sound angry, but he knows how quickly that could change. Even a caregiver must be disgusted by this horrific display of incompetence. Soaked through and shaking, he can’t even tell him no. Don’t come in. Don’t see me like this. Please, don’t look.
All that escapes his throat are more whimpers and whines, high pitched and distinctly little.
“I’m coming in,” he calls out. “Timmy, hey, where are you?” His voice is louder, closer. There’s nothing he can do. Nowhere left to hide. Even if he could crawl to the bathtub, there’s no way he’ll be able to climb over the ledge. He won’t fit under the cabinet, filled snug with all the towels he tends to ruin. He’s caught somewhere between too small and too big. “Kiddo, are you here? Dickie’s gonna be so disappointed if you snuck out again.”
Oh no, he doesn’t wanna upset Dickie. He’s scary when he’s mad. He didn’t mean to upset anyone. He doesn’t mean to keep messing up, it just happens. It keeps happening, over and over again. He just can’t help himself. A bad little boy through and through. He tried to fix it, he did. Two pills and it was all supposed to stop. He tried- he tried so hard.
Timmy can try again. The meds are icky and covered in germs but at least that’s better than wetting himself more. He reaches a trembling hand towards the closest pill. Tears cascading down his cheeks, he forces it into his mouth. He tries to swallow, but it won’t go down. He hiccups, gagging when it catches on the back of his tongue, refusing to go down dry. He’s done it before, he knows he can, and yet his body refuses. He sobs, the pill spitting out without his consent. He can’t muffle his wail when he’s busy trying to pick it back up, hating how slimy it is with saliva and leftover bile. His fingers are too clumsy to grasp it, making him cry harder.
“Timmy, are you in there?” Jason is right there on the other side of the door. There’s nowhere for him to go, to hide. With no other way to protect himself, he covers his face when it’s clear he won’t be able to pick up the med again. “Can you say something, please?”
It’s so unlike Jason to sound so vulnerable, so openly worried, and Tim hates himself for it. His brother shouldn’t sound like that, not when nothing is wrong. This isn’t a patrol gone awry, this isn’t anything he can fix. If there was a way to fix Tim’s biology then his parents would have found it a long time ago.
He must hear his cries because he lowers his voice, “I’m gonna come in, okay?”
No, not okay. He wants to tell him as much but he once again disappoints himself. So unfitting of a Drake, unsightly and so very unworthy.
The knob jiggles for only a moment before it clicks. He’s gotten better at picking locks. Timmy might have been impressed if he weren’t so fucking scared. He curls up tighter, knees pressed firmly to his chest. With fingers in his mouth he uses his other arm to cover his head. No matter how little he may be, he’ll never be small enough.
He knows the very moment that Jason sees just how pathetic he is because he breathes out, “Oh, sweetheart…”
Timmy sobs.
He can’t help his flinch when he hears the caregiver step closer. “I won’t hurt you, I promise. I just want to help you, okay?” He’d shake his head if it weren’t pounding so achingly. “Can I touch you?” He wants to say no, protect him from how disgusting he is, but even that’s too much to ask.
Jason must take his quivering sobs as answer enough because he reaches a hand out. He touches tentatively, barely brushing his shoulder. And Timmy, he is weak.
He keens, desperate and so very greedy. He leans into the touch, needy for the gentleness. Maybe he hasn’t seen the pee yet, doesn’t know how gross he is. That has to be why he’s willing to comfort, not yet realizing how bad Timmy is. Even so, he leans in while he’s still allowed to.
“Oh, baby, I’ve got you. I’ve got you, I’ll make it all better.” He’s so gentle, his words and his soothing touch. He grasps his shoulder a bit firmer, not enough to hurt, no, but enough to provide a steady presence. “Here, lemme help. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Timmy gets it now. He must know. He has to see. He has to smell it. He wriggles when Jason reaches under his arms, clearly intent upon lifting him. He can’t let him, even if the littleness inside him yearns to be held. Just once.
He’s no match for Jason on a good day, let alone when he’s all weepy and small. “It’s okay, I just want to clean you up. How’s a bath sound, darlin’?”
Oh how Timmy wants. He hasn’t had a proper bath in ages. Hasn’t been allowed.
With him distracted, Jason takes the opportunity to scoop him up, unflinching from the dampness that surely must be saturating his clothes. It’s awfully hard to hide when he’s being held so nicely. He cradles him in his arms, careful not to put any pressure on his rash, as if he already knows how raw his skin is. Jason presses a kiss to his forehead, the most open affection he’s ever shown him, and Timmy can only hiccup in response.
Somehow the caregiver manages to start the bath, test the water temperature, and plug the tub all without dropping him. His hold doesn’t even falter, keeping him secure in his embrace. Face stained all yucky, he hides against the crook of Jason’s neck. He doesn’t recoil at how gross it must be, simply bouncing him a bit, unrightfully soothing.
“I’ve got you, baby boy, I’ll clean you up. It’s all going to be okay,” he assures, voice a low cadence. “I’m sorry you had to do this alone for so long. Not anymore, I promise, we’ll help you.”
Timmy sobs, brain hardly comprehending how his entire world has shifted on its axis before his very eyes. He clings to Jason and that does nothing to ease the changing gravitational pressure weighing down his entire body. He doesn’t understand how Jason has taken it all in stride, as if everything he’s ever known hasn’t warped into something ugly, disgusting and undeserving of such unwarranted gentleness.
Jason rubs his thumb back and forth over his back, providing solace even as he says, “Okay, darlin’ let’s get you some clothes. Something more comfy, yeah?” Timmy mewls, his mind at war with his body. His little instincts preen at the baby talk, needy for such coddling after an entire childhood without, while the big part of him knows how wrong it is. Drakes aren’t meant to be small.
Timmy doesn’t feel much of a Drake now, not when Jason is rifling through his dresser in search of the coziest jammies he has. “Here, what do you think of this one?” He shouldn’t be surprised that the caregiver found the most childish pajamas he had allowed himself, a Batman themed fleece set. Though he hadn’t bought them from the Little section of the store, he hid them for a reason.
Those babyish urges in him yearn for the clothes, craving the softness.
He doesn’t allow himself the weakness, instead staying pressed against Jason’s chest. His heartbeat remains a steady comfort, helping him find his breath again. His brother shows no frustration at his lack of response, simply grabbing the jammies and carrying them with into the bathroom. The tub is mostly full by the time they enter so he puts the clothes down on the counter and checks on the water. He inspects the contents of shower supplies for only a moment before grabbing the body wash.
“Here,” he says, “I bet these will bubble up nicely before we get you some proper bubble bath solution.”
He wants in a way that’s been explicitly prohibited. He hasn’t ever had a bubble bath before, not as far back as he can recall. His parents had been so determined for him to present as a neutral like them that they had prohibited any such luxuries deemed too infantile. He doesn’t have the resolve in him to protest before Jason is pouring a good helping of the body wash under the faucet, the soap immediately filling the tub with pretty suds.
“There, that’s much better,” he grins. “C’mon, let’s get those icky clothes off and get you cleaned up.”
Jason is too fast for him. Before Timmy’s overtired brain can make sense of it, he’s already undressed and being placed gingerly into the bathtub. The pressure on his bottom aches but it’s a familiar sort of pain. It does nothing to ease the static, seemingly only pull him further down. After all of his vomiting there’s not enough suppressants left inside his body to keep him from sinking into his headspace.
Timmy sniffles, doing nothing to get away from Jason’s doting. The caregiver doesn’t hesitate to begin wiping him down, ridding him of all evidence of his failure. Years worth of secrets and lies all exposed because he couldn’t keep his pills down. He’s gentle and thorough in equal measures, successfully getting Timmy cleaner than he ever could have done for himself. He melts into the touch, only leaning in when Jason finishes with the soap and begins shampooing his hair.
Jason presses in just right, massaging his scalp and finger-combing out all of the tangles he finds. He doesn’t complain about the clumps of hair slipping into the water, finally escaping from the knots keeping them entrapped. He didn’t realize that he had so much clinging, ready to fall apart at the first gentle touch. He knew he had a lot to lose but the weight of it didn’t hit him until now, drifting in the water, caught on the bubbles.
A high pitched whine builds in his throat, thoroughly overwhelmed.
“Oh, sweetheart, c’mere,” the caregiver murmurs. “Hey, I’ve got you,” he soothes, pulling him into his arms, uncaring of the bathwater dampening his shirt. “You don’t have to do this alone anymore. I’m here, I’ll take care of you, I swear it.”
Another sob rips from his throat, with it comes a fresh wave of agony. He doesn’t know if it’ll ever stop. Maybe this is the way he’s meant to be- held together with too-loose stitches, stuffing spilling out of him in an infantile mimicry of blood. A befitting punishment for presenting as the wrong dynamic.
Jason lets him cry into his chest for a few moments, softly shushing the worst of his bawling and rubbing his back through every shuddering gasp. His lungs spasm like they’re trying to burst through his ribs, his body caught between too much and too little. He doesn’t know how to make it all stop.
He whimpers, begging, “Pluh-” he gasps, “Please, please, please.” He doesn’t even know what he’s pleading for, but Jason must understand because he coos at him.
“Let it out, baby, it’s gonna be alright. I’ve got you. I won't give up on you.” Something inside him crumbles, irreparable and pathetic. He’s becoming everything the suppressants were supposed to heal. Even when Timmy can’t find any more words to blubber, Jason doesn’t lose his patience. “Let’s finish up your hair and then we can cuddle, alright?”
Timmy not only doesn’t have a leg to stand on, but he knows that if Jason weren’t supporting his body weight now that he would outright keel over. He hardly feels any better than he did earlier, bracing against the potty. At least this time he can be held back. He doesn’t necessarily agree to the plan, but he doesn’t have the capacity to deny the caregiver either. If Jason wanted, he could easily leave Timmy here. Let him drown in the yucky bath water. That would be simpler. Contain the mess.
Instead, he keeps him upright. He rinses his hair, without complaint, even doing a quick round of conditioner with the small amount Timmy had left in the bottle. He had been meaning to buy more, but it’s as if his brain didn’t have room to recall such details. He only has so much mental capacity. The pills were supposed to fix that, give him back the space he lost to his presentation. Littles aren’t meant for great things, but Drakes are. Drakes ought to push past such trivial complications and do what’s expected of them.
Jason towel dries him tenderly, outright swaddling him when Timmy can do nothing but stare at him with big, watery eyes. Wrapped up, the coziest he’s been in a long time, Jason carries him out to the bedroom. Settling on the bed, he gets Timmy situated in his lap. Braced against his brother’s chest, his own chest finally expands in a full breath. There’s a shift and from where he’s resting his head he can just make out Jason texting one handed. Though he can see most of the words, his eyes are too tear-bleary to make sense of it.
“There,” Jason says, “I texted Dickie to grab the kit from the cave. We’ll get you situated soon, sweetheart. It’s all going to be okay.”
Even through the static, he knows what he’s referring to immediately. Bruce keeps an emergency littlespace kit in the Batmobile as well as the Batcave, intending to be used on patrol for any littles who may have dropped. The contents of the kit including any and everything necessary for various headspaces. All of this meaning that Jason revealed his biggest secret, just like that. By asking Dick to bring to kit upstairs, he gave him up without even warning him of the violation.
Timmy is not even allowed the time to mourn the only life he’s ever known before there’s a knock at the door.
Jason calls out at the same time that Timmy mewls, hiding his face in the crook of his neck as if that will do anything to protect him from this humiliation.
“Hey there, lovelies. I got the stuff,” Dick calls out, doing nothing to ease the flushed embarrassment overtaking him. Timmy dares to peek out, immediately seeing his warm smile. “Let’s get you all nice and comfy.”
While Jason begins carding fingers through his hair in an obvious attempt to soothe his tremors, Dick begins laying out the kit materials. Even if he snuggles closer to Jason, he can’t escape the inevitable humiliation of the diaper supplies currently being organized beside them. Different sizes of diapers, multiple brands of creams, wipes, the whole nine yards. Everything his parents never wanted for him, spending his life babied, doted on, taken care of.
It’s overwhelming even before Jason gives him a finalizing sort of pat on the back. “Okay, darlin, let’s get you all nice and secure. You can let Dickie and I take care of everything. You’re safe to slip now. You don’t have to be any bigger than you are.”
It’s like something clicks, or rather, falls away. Like his last line of defense suddenly liquidated upon those magic words. He sniffles, somehow feeling simultaneously more lost and more grounded than he was only a moment ago. Everything seems more muted, his senses honing in on Jason’s hands. He whines when the caregiver stands, though his distress is immediately soothed. Sweet shushing sounds help keep him from crumpling into more senseless sobs.
Dick must have laid out a washable changing mat because he’s laid down on something plastic and not very comfortable, only making him cry out again. Jason doesn’t leave him though, settling on the bed beside his head, caressing his face while Dick opens the towel. Jason provides a litany of reassurances and gentle touches while the other caregiver begins cleaning him with baby wipes, ensuring that there’s nothing left on his skin to further irritate his rash.
“Poor baby,” Dick coos, “Your skin is all inflamed. We’ll get plenty of cream on you and make you all better.” Timmy can hardly pay attention to his words when Jason is threading fingers through his hair again, brushing his bangs off of his forehead, giving him the space to kiss his head again.
Dick does as he promised, applying a generous helping of rash cream before closing up the diaper. Jason murmurs something to him between kisses to his cheek, his nose, his forehead again, his other cheek. Dick walks away for only a moment before returning with the Batman jammies.
“Here, these should work fine until we get you some proper onesies.”
Something niggles in the back of his brain, something teetering big and scary, but then Jason blows a raspberry against his cheek, earning a shocked giggle, and the worry melts away just like that. Between the two caregivers, they get him dressed easily. The jammies somehow feel cozier than ever, hardly irritating his rash when the diaper is a soft barrier in between.
There’s less room in his brain than ever, leaving only the remnants of mortification when both caregivers are being so sweet with him. He doesn’t know if he’s ever been this coddled before. His parents would have never dared to act so openly affectionate, needing Timmy to grow up strong, worthy of his surname. That wouldn’t have happened if they had given into his sensitivities.
Neither Jason nor Dick seem to share such sentiments, touching him like he’s worthy of such abundant cuddles. While Jason cradles him back in his lap, pillowed against his chest, Dick pulls two pacifiers out of the kit. They’re both unopened in their protective casing, clean and ready to use. Though he has a few guilty secrets for when the little-ness is too much to contain, needing to give in just a bit to keep from outright dropping, he’s never allowed himself a pacifier. A stuffie and a blankie are one thing, even neutrals can have such items in their possession, but a pacifier is nothing less than incriminating.
Dick holds up a blue one and a yellow one, “Here, munchkin, which one would you like?” Timmy stares for a moment, eyes wide with much more hope than he has any right to. When Dick’s smile doesn’t falter, Jason still rubbing a comforting hand over his back, he points to the yellow one. It’s pretty like the Robin cape, the closest ever he’ll get again when all is said and done.
Dick opens the case and quickly ties a clip to the paci before attaching it to Timmy’s pj shirt. Like this, even if he drops it, it’s not gone forever.
He’s allowed to suckle on the newfound soother for an entire minute before Dick brings out the next item, and all the empty space in his brain is immediately overtaken, swelling up with sudden panic. He squirms, sucking on the paci harder, desperate for the comfort as Dick prepares the drug.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s just a bit of medicine and then we’ll get you a yummy bottle.”
He shakes his head hard enough to reaggravate his headache, reminding him of what started this whole mess. The static sharpens with adrenaline at the sight of the anti-suppressant. A med meant to help clear the system of a little under the effects of suppressants, flushing out the effects and allowing them to once again be in their full headspace. It directly goes against everything his dad has worked for, all the under-the-counter deals to ensure his littlespace never sees the light of day will be for nothing if he takes this.
Dick transfers the liquid medication into the sort of syringe meant for fussy babies, helping them take oral meds when they’re too small to know how to swallow a pill.
Tim knows how to take pills.
But it makes him sick. He doesn’t wanna be sick anymore, please. He’s so tired of throwing up. He’s already gotten sick all over the bathroom. It’s still dirty, Dick can go see, he’s already been sick enough. He doesn’t wanna be sick anymore.
He shakes his head again when Dick brings the medicine closer. “It’s okay, honey, this will make you feel better. Just one swallow and then we’ll get you some milk. It’ll be so fast.”
He opens his mouth to beg him not to, only for the pacifier to slip out. He doesn’t get the chance to put it back in when Dick comes closer. All at once, Jason’s arms around him feel much more constricting than comforting. He doesn’t restrain his arms but he does keep him held firmly in his lap.
“Nuh uh,” Timmy pleads, tearful and trembling. “No, no, Dickie, Jay, no.”
Dick lets out a slow breath but still doesn’t lower the syringe, “I’m sorry, I know it’s no fun. But this will help you feel better. We just want to help you.” When it’s clear that the caregiver won’t give in, he presses his lips tightly closed. He remembers the pacifier at the same time Jason does, but he grabs hold of it before Timmy can put it back in his mouth. He can’t help the jolt of betrayal that they gifted him something so precious just to immediately snatch it away.
The tears spill over, and it’s when he has to gasp for air that Dick pushes the syringe in, squirting the medicine into his mouth. Timmy can’t even spit it out because Dick presses a hand over his lips. He rubs a thumb over his cheek, doing nothing to clear the tears away. Timmy gags on the medicine but he’s still forced to swallow. It doesn’t even get rid of the yucky taste, making him sob again.
Dick lowers his hand as soon as the meds are all gone, “There you go, such a good boy. I’m so proud of you, lovely.”
Timmy doesn’t feel like a good boy. He just feels like curling up and crying some more, but he’s still held tight in Jason’s lap. The most he can do is cover his face with his hands, half-tempted to bite at his fingers again.
“Oh sweetheart, what did you do to your arm?” Dick asks, sounding much too reverent for someone who just forced the beginnings of a de-tox on him.
Jason hums a bit, beginning to once again rock him in his arms, soothing him against his will. “We’ll talk about it later, Dickie. Right now we have a very sleepy little boy. Do you mind preparing the bottle while I get him settled?”
It’s quiet for a few breaths, and he can only assume that they’re communicating silently, the way Bats do. Dick gives his still damp hair a ruffle, reiterating how well he did, before he exits the room. It’s only quiet for a moment before Jason begins his own round of praises. “Baby-mine, I’m sorry you had to do this on your own for so long. You don’t have to carry this burden alone anymore.”
Timmy is all done. He can’t anymore. The whole day has been a tangled mess of emotion and it’s too much. He doesn’t want to anymore. He’s not strong enough, not big enough.
And then Jason is once again promising that he’s here, he has him, and Timmy gives in. He knows he shouldn’t. His parents would never approve, but they’re not here and he’s beyond exhausted. Overtired isn’t a big enough word for how awful he feels and he wants it to be over.
He sags in Jason’s hold, clinging with both hands. Needy for the comfort, for someone to hold him steady while the tremors wrack his body. He’s not sure how long Jason cradles him, humming wordless lullabies of songs he doesn’t recognize, before Dick is back. He gives him a warm smile and Timmy is barely present enough to be embarrassed. He’s far too focused on the idea of a full belly. He only hopes that it doesn’t make him sick again. He’d hate to spit up all over his possible newfound caregivers. He really doesn’t understand why they’d want him so he can’t risk it by being any more oversensitive.
“There, look baby. Let’s get some yummy formula in your tummy.”
Dick hands Jason the bottle as soon as he’s gotten him situated half laying down, his arm supporting his neck. Timmy has no fight left to give. There’s no room for the knowledge of his parents' disappointment when Jason is smiling at him like he could actually be worthy of it.
He opens his mouth and takes the nipple of the bottle willingly, a mouthful of warm milk immediately ridding him of the yucky medicine aftertaste. He hums, unable to recall the last time he had something so good. There’s a shift of the bed where Dick sits down beside his fellow caregiver, reaching over to caress his face. Timmy’s eyes flutter shut under the gentle ministrations. He’s not yet ready to nap, not until he finishes the milk, but somehow he thinks that sleep will find him easier this time.
Even if he has an accident, he thinks Jason and Dick might be willing to help him clean up. He might not even have to worry about wetting the sheets when he has a diaper on. Either way, he can hardly get lost in the humiliation when both caregivers are doting on him so adoringly. He’s known for a while now that they care for him, but this is different. When he peeks open his eyes, still blurry from sleepiness, they look nothing short of adoring.
He’ll trust them. Just for tonight. Just until he gets some rest, then he can get ahold of his dad and ask for more suppressants. Until then, he’ll let them take care of it. Despite all the reasons otherwise, he doesn’t think they’ll mind the burden. As long as it’s only for a little while. He lets his eyes fall closed once again, taking slow drags of the bottle, allowing the milk to soothe his belly.