Chapter 4
Tim knew immediately he'd been given the good drugs. His mind floated, unfocused and slow, and his limbs followed suit. They hung from his torso like bags of sand, weightless and disconnected.
He cocked his head to the side, more asleep than awake, and listened. A secondhand moved loudly across the face of a clock and beyond it the hum of machines created soft white noise.
Hospital?
He swallowed back the taste of morning breath and medicine, his dry throat swollen and sore, and tried to focus. He'd told Bruce more than once he didn't like heavy narcotics. Better to be sharp and in pain than slow and numb.
"Bru...?" The name came out unrecognizably slurred. Tim's throat tickled uncomfortably.
He shifted his weight and darkness spun behind closed lids. Tim clenched his muscles and hissed out through a locked jaw as he waited for the vertigo to pass. His stomach somersaulted.
"Whoa whoa whoa, take it easy there." A male voice interjected from Tim's right side. "You shouldn't be moving."
Strong hands pushed carefully at Tim's shoulders and he instinctively fought against the unfamiliar voice.
"I thought you said he'd be out for hours?" The man spoke again. Tim wriggled his body like an eel and struggled to control his legs.
"He should be!" A second voice answered.
The hands on his shoulders tightened and Tim kicked out with a leg. The man grunted and his grip turned almost painful in its strength.
"Jesus, kid! I'm a good guy!"
Tim kicked out again, momentarily thankful the drugs numbed out the worst of the pain. His captor walked the line between holding him tightly and hurting him, and Tim used the indecision to push for an advantage.
"Let me get the doctor."
"You think?" The man sarcastically intoned.
Tim opened his eyes in time to see the door close with a bang. The sound hurt his ears and he hissed. All of a sudden he couldn't care less about getting away.
"Vom-" He stuttered. Tim's stomach twisted in knots and sweat broke out along his brow.
The man immediately switched gears and rolled Tim to his side. His abdominal wall roared in unexpected pain as stitches pulled and injured muscles strained. Tim tasted old blood and bile as his body shivered, trembled, and vomited over the side of the bed and onto the floor.
The hand not supporting his head squeezed at his shoulder. Tim felt callouses through the thin hospital pajamas he wore.
"Better?"
Tim nodded and his head pounded. Clearly, escape wasn't a viable option.
He moved Tim back and stepped away cautiously, as if waiting for Tim to strike out again. When Tim did nothing but watch, he grabbed at one of the blankets on the bottom of the bed and used it to wipe at Tim's mouth and part of the bed he had dirtied. Even with the truckload of narcotics numbing his body, Tim blushed.
"Good, good." He spoke the words more to himself than to Tim. "Let's get you some water. I can't imagine that tasted good."
He grabbed a glass off the sink.
Tim reached with a weak hand for the offered cup. His eyes darted over the room and took in the state of the art equipment surrounding him. The smell in the air reminded him of the high end cleaners Bruce used in the cave.
Everything screamed expensive except the man he'd just met.
His clothing looked as if it needed to be burned; it hung threadbare and faded off his frame. Laugh lines framed his mouth and the beginnings of crows feet lingered around his eyes. His short cropped hair matched his fit body and he watched Tim like Dick did after a particularly grueling case.
Where was he and how the hell had he gotten here?
Tim's mind rewound over what he could remember. Fire and smoke so thick he could taste the hot ash. The floor beneath him literally giving away with a sick lurch.
And-
Tim dismissed his thoughts as a woman in a lab coat walked in and the nurse followed. Her heels clicked on the floor and she eyed Tim like a specimen in a lab. He'd seen that focus a thousand times. Doctor.
Behind them, a woman with red hair, jeans, and a dark sweater entered. She had the gait of a dancer and took in the room with a flat all encompassing glance.
The doctor crossed the room brusquely, attention flicking across the scene before she frowned at Tim. She pulled out a StarkPad and his bed slowly raised into a reclining position.
He sipped at his lukewarm water.
"Clint?" The redhead spoke in an unaccented voice. "When did he wake? I told you to call me."
"Just now." The man responded in a weak voice. "I was about to. There was puking."
She pursed her lips as if to respond.
"Yeah, yeah." Clint answered an unasked question. "I know."
The doctor shone a light in Tim's eyes and he responded automatically to questions.
"Do you know where you are?"
"Hospital?" Tim's voice ached from disuse.
"What's the last thing you remember?"
Tim thought back to grabbing clothes out of one of Jason's stashes and ditching his suit. He remembered pressing an arm to his stomach and calculating how far he could go in his condition. Clearly, he had miscalculated. "Uh, getting a drink on my way back to my hotel?"
The doctor noted something before turning her sharp gaze back on him. "On a scale of one to ten, how is your pain?"
"Um." He tried to think of how much pain a normal person would be in after such a serious accident. Tim had no idea. His midsection felt as if someone had taken a cheese grater to it. He hazarded a guess and hoped she wouldn't try to up his pain meds. "Four?"
Her lips turned downwards and she made another note. Behind her, the man and woman continued speaking as they were in their own world.
"Tony decided he'd take the time to order food since you didn't show." She crossed her arms. "He's planning a contest. They're arguing about pizza toppings. There are charts."
Clint winced. "Natasha-"
She silenced him with a look. "Charts, Clint."
The man sighed and rubbed reflexively at his forehead. There were bandages on his fingers and he moved as if his ribs hurt.
Tim froze momentarily, things sliding quickly into place as he restudied them.
No. His luck couldn't be that terrible.
"Young man?" The doctor asked.
"Yes?" He answered faintly.
"You've been seriously hurt, I'm afraid you'll be in Stark Tower for quite awhile." His stomach dropped and he resisted the urge to hang his head in his hands. He had the worst luck. "We did see in one of our initial scans that your spleen has been removed. Are there any other injuries, conditions, or allergies we need to know to treat you effectively?"
He held back laughter and thought of the dictionary sized file of medical information on him stored at the cave. Tim had glanced over the pages and pages on past injuries with morbid curiosity on more than one occasion.
He shook his head.
"Do you have a parent we can call?"
Behind the doctor, Natasha and Clint continued to banter but their focus shifted. They listened with practiced ease.
"Um." His still drug addled mind tripped over itself as he weighed his options. Bruce Wayne's adopted son injured and hurt in New York? Bruce Wayne's adopted son with a laundry list of undocumented scars and injuries? At the current home of the Avengers? Rescued by the Avengers?
The media would have a field day.
"Um..."