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“My name is Timothy Jackson Drake.”
The words sounded wrong, too fast maybe, so he rocked on his heel and tried again.
“My name is Timothy. Jackson. Drake.”
No, that sounded wrong too. He was meant to sound like a big kid, not like that robot toy that Mom had taken the batteries out of.
“Hello. My name is-”
Timothy groaned, recognising at once what he’d done wrong this time. It was his baby voice, the one that Dad always says is grating to the ears. He needs to make a good first impression, he will need to prove to the six year olds that will be in his class that he belonged right alongside them even if he was a little bit younger.
Well, one year and two months younger than the next youngest in the class, at least according to the last time Tim had glanced at the enrolments.
Timothy shifted his weight a little, making sure not to go too close to the edge of the small wooden step ladder.
He raised his head, straightened his back, looked directly in the mirror at his own eyes even though it made his skin itch and he forced his lips to silently practice the words. He needed to make sure that it wasn’t too slow, or too fast, or too stiff or any of the too-much things he’s tried so far.
“Hello.” He said perfectly. “My name is Timothy Jacks-ugh!”
He crossed his arms tightly, huffing out another hot breath because this time when he’d gotten partway through his name his lips had just stopped moving right completely. They felt fuzzy, like he’d sucked on a lemon or something.
Needing to try again, needing most of all to succeed in his self-imposed task, Timothy let his arms drop once more.
“My name is Timothy Jackson Drake. It is nice to meet you.”
Still not right, but at least it hadn’t been too high this time.
“My name… name…”
His lips really were fuzzy.
And so were his fingers.
And so was all of him, really.
Timothy wondered if good first impressions were actually meant to be good fuzzy impressions.
Fuzzy.
Even the word itself felt fuzzy.
“Timothy? What on Earth are you doing on the ground?”
He wasn’t on the ground, he was on his little step stool. One day soon he was going to be big enough to not need it, just like how he’d finally been big enough to be accepted into the big-kids school and how he was big enough to-
Timothy blinked.
He… was on the ground?
He didn’t remember stepping down let alone sitting down but now his back was leaning up against the sink cabinet and his Mom was standing at the doorway.
The open doorway.
Timothy had closed it, not wanting to bother his parents if he accidentally got too loud in the echoing bathroom.
There was a different kind of fuzziness that had settled over him, one that for some reason made his eyes well up.
“Timothy?”
He wasn’t meant to cry, he was a big kid now and big kids aren’t meant to cry just because they were sitting on the ground when they didn’t remember sitting on the ground.
Timothy wasn’t meant to want a hug from his Mom either but he was scared and his body was hurting for some reason and he really did just want to reach out towards her.
Mom stepped into the bathroom but before Timothy could scrub the tears from his face more were already falling.
Warmth enveloped him as he was lifted up off the ground, a warmth that replaced all worry, all pain.
“There’s no need to be nervous about tomorrow,” Mom said. “I’m sure you’ll make us proud.”
He was Timothy Jackson Drake, all he ever wanted to do was to find a way to make his Mom and Dad proud.
“Tim,”
He didn’t understand why everyone always shortened it. His name was Timothy. His Mom and his Dad had named him Timothy and yet every other adult always without fail dropped the last syllables within moments of meeting him.
“I know that your don’t like working with others,”
Timothy liked working with others.
Well, he liked the concept of working with others, even though so far each attempt had been an absolute disaster. Teamwork was an important skill to have, and what was Timothy in school for if not to prove that he’d perfected every skill he needs in order to be successful in the future.
Teamwork was important, it really was.
Without teamwork, Batman and Robin wouldn’t be nearly as incredible as they are. Sure, they both had things about them that made them amazing like Batman’s quick thinking and ability to fight against anything he needs to and Robin’s quick wit and his ability to do some of the coolest flips that Timothy has ever seen in his life.
But together?
Together they were a team like no other.
“And I know that you don’t like doing things you don’t want to do,”
Timothy opened his mouth but he snapped it closed again, remembering that part of the reason he was here in this office to begin with was because of what they claimed to be him ‘back talking’ even though it had actually just been him correcting the teacher when she was wrong.
“But you need to work with us here.”
“I am.” Timothy hadn’t meant for it to be a croak.
“This is the third time you yelled at another student this week, Tim.”
Timothy screwed up his face, trying to recall when exactly he’d yelled. He had raised his voice maybe a tiny little bit when Tabatha had refused to accept that just because he was a little smaller or younger than everyone else it didn’t give her the right to mock him for it, but the other two instances?
Maybe… did it count as yelling when he had tried to defend the necessity of vigilantism in the current state of police mismanagement?
No.
No, that didn’t feel right. The principle was talking about some other instances, ones that Timothy wasn’t meant to need to clarify because he was meant to know exactly when he messes something up.
Timothy is smart, of course he knows every time he does something wrong.
That is, Timothy always knows he’s always doing something wrong.
“Tim. You need to verbally acknowledge the plan.”
Timothy blinked.
Plan?
To not yell or raise his voice even when the other students or teachers were clearly in the wrong to begin with?
“I won’t yell at anyone, you have my word.” Timothy said.
“And what about the rest?”
Timothy blinked again, the words swirling in his head.
The rest?
The rest.
There had been other things.
No.
Yes?
It was like a fog had drifted over him, over his thoughts, over his memories. The principle had mentioned other things he needed to work on. They had been… been…
Timothy was smart.
Timothy was meant to be smart but there was nothing coming to his stupid head even though the clock on the wall showed that he’d been sitting here for ten minutes now despite it feeling like he’d only just sat down and he didn’t know what she wanted of him, he didn’t know what anyone ever wanted of him.
“I will make sure to follow every single suggestion you have made.” Timothy said.
It was the principle’s turn to blink.
“Tim,”
Her voice had softened for some reason.
“Has anyone ever told you that you don’t need to speak like that?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Timothy shifted in his seat, trying to decipher just what it was she was saying.
“You’re eight years old, Tim,” She said. “You’re allowed to be a kid.”
A kid who does not yell and does not talk back and does not make mistakes and does not zone out when an important authority figure is lecturing him.
But Timothy had zoned out, so much so it felt like his body still wasn’t quite his own. He tried hard to remember the rest of the points of improvement she’d outlined, tried harder still to remember any loopholes he’d surely worked out amongst all the rules he would need to follow.
The harder he thought about it, the more Timothy’s skin itched.
He couldn’t remember.
He really couldn’t remember.
“And that means,” the principle continued. “You’re allowed to speak like a kid too.”
Timothy didn’t understand what she meant by that. Just another thing he’s somehow messed up, he supposed.
“That just means you've hit another milestone!” Dad said, a hand hitting Timothy’s back so hard he felt it in his chest. “Growing pains means you’re growing, my boy!”
Growing pains…
It felt like more than just growing pains though; Timothy’s entire body was aching.
As soon as the other boys had started shooting up in height, Timothy had combed through every single article he could find on what to expect when it would inevitably happen to him. Sure, he was a little younger than them and sure his family genetics indicated that he might never be the tallest amongst his peers, but Timothy had still known to expect discomfort.
Discomfort, maybe some outright pain, according to some people who have had them before. But excruciating agony that left him trembling and sweating and nauseous?
It had hit so suddenly, too. Timothy had fallen asleep for the night and all at once he was awake and he was in pain like nothing he had ever experienced in his life. Every muscle felt as though it had been torn apart, his head pounding like there was a disco going on just behind his eyes and it had even gotten so bad that he’d finally managed to convince himself to risk bothering his Dad.
Timothy hadn’t wanted to disturb his Dad, especially not when he was still combing through some of data from the dig he’d come back from two days ago, but there was a feeling of wrongness that just could not ease no matter how hard Timothy had tried to go back to sleep.
He really was still nauseous, dizzy too, but now that Dad had said it was growing pains Timothy was starting to realise that he really had overblown just how poorly he was feeling.
The aching in his muscles was just that; aching.
The headache was because he hadn’t been sleeping much recently.
The dryness in his mouth was because he hadn’t had any water recently.
“Ah,” Timothy swallowed roughly, fighting the urge to sway. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s it. Growing pains.”
“You know, when I was your age,”
Timothy’s head swirled. He should probably try going back to bed again but Dad was home. He was home and he hadn’t gotten mad at Tim for coming into the office.
Dad’s words didn’t really stick in Timothy’s mind long enough for him to really process them, but he found that he liked just listening to Dad’s voice all the same.
There were passing moments where he found that he could almost understand him, where he could truly listen to all the stories about his father being young that he’s never really heard before.
“Here, come sit,” Dad all at once said. “Let me show you what I‘ve found.”
There were other moments too, moments where Timothy’s body didn’t feel like his own. One of his legs had begun to quake for some reason. More growing pains, he supposed. He tucked it behind his other leg, not wanting to bother his Dad over something as ridiculous as a shaking leg.
As much as Timothy yearned to curl into a ball under a giant blanket, he wanted to enjoy this fleeting moment far more.
Tim.
Robin had called him Tim.
Sure, people had called him Tim plenty of times before, and sure, Robin had used the name as he literally shoved Timothy into a locker under the pretence of protecting him even though Timothy was fully capable of protecting himself, but the name had still settled in his chest like it had never done before.
There was something right about the way that Robin had used it, about the way that Robin had looked him in the eye and actually seemed to see him.
Timothy, Tim, wanted to stay here in the locker until Robin returned if only for Robin to come and declare that he’s saved the day. At least, he’d wanted to stay in the locker at the beginning, if only to keep peeking through the slits in the metal to see the fight up close.
And he should stay here, it would be stupid to be the cause of a distraction for Robin when one little distraction could very well have devastating consequences. Then again, the fight was still going on and there was a bead of sweat developing on his brow.
It wasn’t actually that hot in the locker, it really wasn’t. As far as lockers go, it’s even pretty well ventilated and yet Timothy’s head had started to feel a little fuzzy.
Tim’s head.
Timothy?
He was meant to go by Timothy; Timothy’s sound so much more grown up than Tim’s and at ten years old he was supposed to be a grown up now.
Robin had quipped something, his enemy roaring in annoyance, but the words just swirled around in Tim’s mind.
The fight was still going. There was a crash, and a cackle, and the fight was still going.
And then there was silence.
Timothy blinked slowly, wondering when he’d moved back from the metal vents. He was sitting weirdly, one of his shoulders aching as though he’d banged it against something. The fuzziness was worse now, so much worse, acid clawing at his throat.
Footsteps banged against his aching head, footsteps that came closer and closer and closer.
The door to the locker opened, too bright light spilling in and stabbing Timothy straight in the eye.
“No need to worry, Tim, everything’s all-”
Timothy lurched hard, vomiting onto Robin’s shoes.
His head snapped up, apology already on his tongue but the world was swirling and it was swirling and it was nothing.
The world slipped away.
Timothy slipped away.
Tim slipped away, deep into the nothingness, Robin’s voice still echoing in the distance.
It came in pulses.
A deep voice, rumbling beside him.
Warmth enveloping him as he was pulled away from whatever it was he’d been laying against.
A younger voice, a voice that was more scared than Tim had ever heard it. Robin wasn’t supposed to be scared. Robin’s don’t get scared.
Tim’s though…
Tim was very very scared because he was aching again and the world was spinning and he’d thrown up on Robin, on the Robin. Well, the second Robin, but Robin all the same.
Wait, Robin? Robin always came with Batman. That was Batman holding him, carrying him, damn near cradling him as though Tim wasn’t very nearly a grown up himself. Tim shouldn’t sink into that warmth, but he couldn’t help himself. Even with the armour, it was comfortable to lay against his chest, to feel each deep breath and mirror it with his own.
Batman was carrying him.
Batman was carrying him and that meant that everything was gong to be okay because he’s Batman. Batman always makes everything okay again.
The world was growing fuzzy again, words like oxygen deprivation and slipping in and out of consciousness mingling with the nothingness.
Batman was talking to someone else, Tim realised distantly. Another adult, one that was telling Batman to ‘carefully lay him here’.
Tim didn’t want to be laid down anywhere, he wanted to stay in Batman’s arms forevermore.
And besides, he’d never been deprived of oxygen, the locker had had plenty of air coming into it. This had been something else, he could have sworn it had been something else even though he didn’t have the right words to describe it.
The world shifted and Tim’s hands scrambled for purchase, digging into Batman’s cape to stop the warmth from disappearing.
“It’s okay, Tim,” Robin said somewhere to his left. “They’ll get you all fixed up.”
Tim didn’t need fixing, Timothy was already perfect.
He needed to be perfect.
Batman moved again, trying to coax Timothy into letting go but he wouldn’t, he couldn’t. This was Batman, the Batman carrying him and there was no way in hell Timothy was going to pass up the opportunity to be so close to his favourite hero.
Timothy gripped more tightly onto Batman but all at once white hot pain erupted in his shoulder.
He hadn’t meant to cry out, of course he hadn’t, ten year olds were too old to cry out but it had hurt. It had hurt so much that he didn’t even remember being set down onto a hard surface, everything spinning too fast around him.
There was Batman, still by his side, and there was Robin too but there were strangers also, strangers that came closer to him even as Tim tried to get them to leave him alone.
A plastic mask was pressed against his face but Tim thrashed against it, against all of it. He didn’t know what was happening and he should always know what was happening. Tim was smart, he was meant to be smart, he needed to be smart but there was too much going on and his head was swirling and his shoulder was aching and there were tears building in his eyes.
Timothy couldn’t cry.
Tim though, Tim was all but sobbing.
The hard surface shifted beneath him, the large dark form of Batman close once more.
Batman should have left already. Batman and Robin should have already left because these strangers were paramedics and while Timothy didn’t need paramedics the duty of Batman and Robin was already complete and the should have left.
They should have grappled away and the should have left.
“Easy, Lad,” Batman rumbled. “The oxygen will help.”
Tim tried to shove Batman away but his shoulder flared in pain all over again and his stomach churned new nausea clawed at his throat and he couldn’t stop crying, he just couldn’t stop.
“Tim,” Batman said.
Tim. Tim. Tim. It sounded so right when Batman said it, when Robin said it. It felt so right, in a way that Timothy never had no matter how many times he had tried to convince himself that it did.
“Let us help you.”
He didn’t need help.
He didn’t want help.
He was ten now. The big double digits. He was meant to be grown up enough to never need help again.
“Yeah, Tim,” Robin said, inching closer. “I know this really sucks right now but I promise it does make things feel better.”
Tim shook his head, his lip trembling hard. Batman was shifting again, still sat on the gurney as though he wasn’t the freaking Batman. A somehow gentle arm wrapped around Tim, coaxing Tim into leaning up against Batman’s chest once more.
One of the strangers was coming closer too, holding out that plastic mask once more.
“It’ll feel weird,” Robin said. “Like, really weird,”
Robin’s words swirled a little but Tim tried to latch onto them all the same, latch onto anything other than the smothering plastic pressing closer against his face. He shuddered strongly but Batman hushed him for some reason, as though Tim was one of his very own Robin’s.
By the time that fingers began carding through his hair, Timothy, Tim, was already slipping away.