Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Good morning.”

Tim drops tea all over the floor and swears, his eyes going anxiously between Lonnie – holy shit, he’s awake – and the mess he’s just made. Lonnie laughs, his voice rough from prolonged disuse.

“Lonnie,” Tim says, his voice weak from too much use. “Crap. I’ll go get a nurse.”

“No,” Lonnie says, and Tim could cry. He’s not heard that voice in so long. Ignoring the period they spent rattling around in cyberspace together, Tim hasn’t heard a single word from him in what feels like forever.

“I want to talk to you first.”

Tim hesitates. He should get a nurse. He should clean up the liquid he spilled everywhere, too. He should ask Lonnie a million questions, but he just… It’s Lonnie. Awake.

“Sure. Hi, Lonnie. You’re okay.”

He comes meekly to the side of Lonnie’s bed, palms flat on the top of the computer, like he needs to type his questions to Lonnie. Tim is half-convinced he could have Lonnie standing and completely okay again in a matter of seconds. He could.

“I’m okay,” Lonnie confirms, clearing his throat. “Can I have-?”

“Oh, yeah, I- yeah, Lonnie, sure.”

He pulls the oxygen mask to one side and helps tip water into Lonnie’s mouth, watching his throat bob as he swallows, winces, and gulps down more.

“Thanks.”

Tim’s eyes trace the tip of Lonnie’s tongue as he licks water off of his chapped lips. Tim makes a mental note to add Chapstick to his as-of-yet non-existent Lonnie repair kit.

“I just wanted to thank you, Tim.”

Tim huffs, fingers curling around nothing.

“You already have,” he reminds him. They had talked, sort of: Lonnie’s crooning modulated voice had been in Tim’s dreams for weeks.

“No, not for that. For visiting me.”

That’s awkward. Tim had been here embarrassingly often, and usually without announcing himself to Lonnie. He had figured the other man wouldn’t know. So much for that. He’d probably spent hours curled up on the chair in the corner, watching Lonnie’s chest rise and fall; listening to the quiet beeps that assured him of life. Sometimes, he’d spoken – about Kon, and how grateful he was to have him back, about how confusing things with Steph were, and Bruce, and even –

Tim swallows.

“How’d you..?”

“Camera.” Lonnie nods weakly in the direction of the camera, Tim’s eyes following along and discovering, thank goodness, that it’s behind the chair, so Lonnie wouldn’t have been able to read his lips. He should’ve noticed that, really. Maybe he’s slipping. Maybe it’s just Lonnie.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Tim wonders aloud. Lonnie blinks slowly. Dry eyes – he makes a note to add eye drops to his Lonnie repair kit.

“Didn’t think I should disturb the great – ow – the great Red Robin.”

“Ow?” Tim repeats anxiously, too distracted to warn him to keep his voice down.

“Tried to move – fuck, Tim, I can’t-“

“Hey, hey,” Tim says quickly, trying to soothe Lonnie’s panic. He's been in similar situations too many times to count. “It’s just the coma wearing off. Plus some muscle wasting, and-”

“No,” Lonnie says quietly, furiously. “After Armstrong, I can’t just – Gotham needs me, you don’t understand.”

A moment of silence, punctuated by steady beeps, stretches out. Tim takes his hands off the computer.

“I do,” he says quietly. “I’ll ask if there’s anything else that can be done.”

“That isn’t good enough,” Lonnie snaps. “That isn’t enough. I couldn't stop him, barely protected myself or you, or- or you know... I have to be better. I have to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“You need to heal,” Tim says firmly.

“Fuck off,” Lonnie snaps. “Gotham-”

“She’s fine. Really.”

“Oh, yeah. I suppose two Batmen, a sociopathic Robin and a second-rate Batgirl-”

“She’s not second rate,” Tim interrupts, hackles raised.

“Not at all what you said,” Lonnie retorts.

“I- I didn’t say she was second rate, I said I worried about her.”

Great. So Lonnie did know what Tim had been saying. He ignores how embarrassing that is, and instead focuses on Lonnie using it against him. Sure, he imagines it’s pretty disorientating to wake up in a physical body after months, a body you can hardly use, with a guy you barely know, but that’s no excuse to twist Tim’s words back on him. No matter how scared Lonnie is.

“I’m getting a nurse,” Tim says. “You might want to calm down or they’ll sedate you.”

The prognosis is positive – Lonnie should be able to walk again with some extensive physical therapy. The better the therapist, the better the likelihood of a full recovery. Tim asks for the best, and signs a blank check then and there. When he turns around, Lonnie is staring at him.

“You know how unfair this is? Anybody else in my position would be dead, Tim,” Lonnie continues, “but no, because you have money, I’ll be fine.”

Tim looks at the doctor and her two nurses. They get the hint, and close the door as they leave.

“Nobody else would be in your position.”

“Nobody else would have my chance at recovery. I don’t want your money, Tim. Give it to a charity or something. I can do this by myself.”

Tim stares at him.

“You know that-”

“You can’t just throw money at problems, Wayne.”

“Drake,” Tim corrects, which, really, is only marginally better. “And some problems can be alleviated with a lot of money.”

“Put your money there, then.”

“I am.”

“I am not a problem!” Lonnie snaps. “I am Anarky!”

Tim looks at the security camera, and then scowls at Lonnie.

“Would you shut up? You wanna go straight to jail?”

Lonnie glares right back, and somehow, stupidly, Tim relents.

“The hospital – Gotham General, that is, offers subsidised physiotherapy sessions. If I put a lot of funding into the hospital, will you go there instead?”

Lonnie narrows his eyes.

“A lot of people will get better chances of recovery if you say yes,” Tim coaxes.

“That’s blackmail,” Lonnie says flatly, but he finds himself nodding slowly, “But fine. Only because if I didn’t, other people might not get the help.”

Tim doesn’t mention that he already funds the hospital.  Lonnie probably knows that anyway.

“Blackmail,” Tim mutters. “I suppose that doesn’t help my case much.”

“Neither did threatening me with jail.”

“I want you to be okay,” Tim retorts. “I care about you. I wouldn’t have gone to all the effort of saving you from Armstrong if I didn’t.”

“You would’ve. You’re a good guy, Tim, you’d save anyone.”

It’s a little derisive. Still, it makes Tim feel good. Sometimes, Red Robin feels like a big flashing neon sign reading ‘I'M INADEQUATE!!!’, so he’ll take the vague compliment. Especially from Lonnie. Who is awake, by the way. Who is going to be okay, by the way.

“Okay, fine. I’m sorry. I’m not perfect and I like to throw money at my problems when that’s the easiest fix.”

He narrows his eyes. Lonnie narrows his eyes right back.

“I care about you,” Tim insists.

The silence stretches out, empty and saddening. He’s even tuned out the looming beeps of all of Lonnie’s machines, but from the way his mouth twists, it’s obvious that he hasn’t managed to do the same yet. After all that silence, Tim wonders if every sound feels as foreign and disturbing as he imagines.

“You just think I’m useful,” Lonnie says flatly. “And I will not be useful to a privileged billionaire vigilante. Especially when you could do more with your name alone that you have ever done with a mask.”

“That’s not tru- It's not even up to me! It’s Batman’s money.”

“You could do more,” Lonnie insists. Tim sighs, massaging the centremost point of his temple as he paces. He doesn’t know why he expected any change from Lonnie. He helped save Tim’s life, sure, but they’re from different strata. For all their similarities, there is a immeasurable gap between them; a space that requires a bridge that Tim isn’t even sure exists. He sure couldn't pay for that one.

“Fine. If you don’t believe Tim cares about you, maybe you believe Red Robin does.”

Another long, irritating pause. He hates that Lonnie distrusts him like that. He hates that Lonnie weighs up every word out of his mouth. He hates that he’s found someone just as smart (maybe smarter!) as him. He especially hates that it bothers him so strongly.

“Red Robin cares about me,” Lonnie repeats. Tim’s hands twitch again. He collapses into the seat beside Lonnie’s bed. For a second he doesn’t know if he wants to know, but the words come out anyway.

“What are those scars from?”

Lonnie stares at him. From the new angle, Tim can see the soft peach fuzz of strawberry blond hair just starting to peek through around all the sensors stuck in place. He has the insane urge to touch it and see if its as soft as it looks. He has the insane urge to touch Lonnie. He looks at the thin white palm turned up on the sheet and wonders if it’s warm enough, and before he can stop himself, he’s reaching out to hold it. He stops himself, thank God, but for a moment…

Lonnie's fingers twitch.

“Ra’s al Ghul.”

“What?” Tim snaps his gaze up again, mind splitting off into two threads. He doesn’t want to stop thinking about holding Lonnie’s hand. The imagined weight is much sweeter than his little headache.

“When did you meet Ra’s?” he demands, utterly bewildered. Lonnie is not the type of man to attract so much attention that Ra’s al Ghul would feel the need to inflict such wounds on him, unless Lonnie stumbled across something he shouldn’t have, and didn’t know how to back down. Actually, now that he’s thinking about it…

“A while ago.” Lonnie smiles wryly. “I don’t think he liked me.”

Tim feels giddiness bubbling up into his throat, but what comes out is just a nervous choking sound, the antithesis of the way his brain feels like it's floating.

“N-no,” he agrees. “Why did he..?”

“He wanted to bomb Iraq.”

Tim snorts.

“Sounds like him. The symbol is… well, it’s a little much. I thought you might’ve done it to yourself.” His voice trails off. That was the wrong thing to say, maybe, and Lonnie is half-glaring again.

“You though I’d-?”

“Yeah,” Tim admits. There’s no point in pretending otherwise. “This stuff is stressful. I don’t know what you’ve been through – obviously,” he adds, gesturing at Lonnie, his fingers tracing the shape in the air.

“I don’t know. You wouldn’t be the first to punish yourself like that.”

He tilts forward, resting his elbows on his knees and then his face in his cupped palms, and allows himself to stare at Lonnie. The still-present half-frown is throwing him off.

“I wouldn’t be the first,” Lonnie agrees quietly, and then Tim realises that look is consternation, not anger. He’s said too much without even saying a single word. Even in all his ramblings to Lonnie’s prone form about how weird his life has been since Bruce’s sort-of death, he’s never spoken about how Red Robin feels like a punishment. He’s never really admitted it at all. That’s not the only punishment he’s ever levied upon himself, either. He doesn't want to talk about it. Suddenly, it's all too much. The sharp green of Lonnie's eyes is suddenly too aware and too compassionate. 

“Well, then.”

Tim hops to his feet, forcing brevity back into the room.

“It’s getting late. I’ve got things to do, and I’m sure you could use the rest.”

Lonnie lolls his head softly to one side to gaze up at Tim. Tim’s traitorous heart supernovas.

“You’ll come back.”

It’s not framed as a question, nor a request, but even in the distant statement Tim can read insecurity. He supposes Lonnie’s parents probably won’t be here any time soon.

“Tomorrow,” he says, glancing away. He copies Lonnie, trying to act like this doesn’t matter all that much and that Lonnie’s worry doesn’t make his insides twist a little. He keeps his voice dull and remote.

"Tomorrow afternoon. We can talk about our agreement."

“Okay. Goodnight, Tim.”

“Night.”

He closes the door.

He’ll be okay.

Chapter Text

“I bought you things.”

Tim dumps the heavy carrier bag onto Lonnie’s lap, and he lets out a little ‘oof’.

“Ow, dude.”

Tim winces.

“Sorry. Don’t be a baby.”

He can’t decide between being nice and being an asshole, so both it is. Lonnie just sighs, and starts to tear the tied-up handles open.

Chapstick, eye drops - like he promised - a couple of books, chocolate, and nail polish. That had been a random addition. Lonnie holds up the bottle of red liquid with raised eyebrows. Tim grins.

“You look like a nail polish guy.”

“I am, actually,” he replies smoothly. “Thanks. That’s really thoughtful.”

Tim just nods. He’s surveying Lonnie, taking in everything about him, cataloguing all of the little differences and updates. They’ve taken some of the sensors off his head, leaving coin-shaped hairless circles. Usually Tim would laugh at something like this, but he can’t bring himself to.

“So,” he begins, awkwardly, and resists the urge to flop into the seat like he’ll be staying.

“I, uh… about our agreement. I agreed with Gotham General  for a pretty big donation to be made, so…” he twists his hands. “Yeah. Speak to Dr Thompkins or one of the other doctors about the rest. I’m not really big into physical therapy. I just do it sometimes.”

He gestures to the crutches he had to bring today, dumped by the door, and tries to sound less weird.

“They’re only for show, you know.”

Lonnie snorts softly.

“No way. Thanks, Tim.”

It almost sounds like a real thanks. For a second Tim thinks about staying, really staying, just sitting down and chattering and bickering away like he did yesterday, but…

“I have to go see another friend,” he says instead. “So I’ll be out of your hair. Give you some peace and quiet.”

“Yeah.”

Tim glances down at Lonnie, who’s pointedly looking away.

“See you tomorrow?”

This time, Lonnie is asking. There’s a breath of anxiousness somewhere, bigger than it was yesterday but still not enough for Lonnie to admit why this is scaring him as much as it is.

“Duh,” Tim says lightly. “Gotta make sure you’re not selling my secrets.”

Lonnie snorts again. 

“Whatever, dude. Have fun on your date.”

"It's not a… Yeah. Thanks, dude."

Steph is waiting for him just outside the hospital, perched up on a low wall and swinging her legs. Tim smiles when he sees, reaching out to loop a coil of that golden hair round his finger.

“Hey, Tim,” she says. She’s gotten better. It’s harder to sneak up on her now.

“Hi,” he says, taking in her gorgeously infectious smile, his own growing wider in response.

“How’s our resident anarchist?” 

They fall into step beside each other, fingers brushing together before Tim tightens his grip on his crutches.

“Fine, I think. He will be, anyway. I don’t understand why he’s so stubborn about this money thing. He’s got enough money of his own, even after I dissolved his company.”

“He’s still not a billionaire,” Steph points out. Tim frowns.

“You’re on his side?”

“There aren’t any sides, Tim,” Steph retorts. “We’re all trying to do the right thing.”

“You’re on his side,” Tim protests, petulant. “You’re all trying to make my life harder.”

He’s being more than a little whiny, but it’s playful. It’s Steph. She laughs at him, elbowing him. He pretends to duck away, all false horror and pouts. He feels more than a little like a clumsy fawn when he's tripping over his cast.

“Why don’t you ask him?” Steph suggests. “You spend all that time with him, sweetie.”

“He doesn’t usually talk back,” Tim grumbles. They step into a little coffee shop. Steph holds the door open for Tim. Tim orders and pays. 50/50. See, Lonnie, he can do the whole anarchist thing. Or maybe that’s communism. Or feminism. Whatever.

Tim tucks his crutches beside his chair and watches Steph drink her iced coffee. She’s getting glittery pink lip gloss on the straw. Tim’s dry lips, by contrast, leave smudges on his mug.

“You look good,” Tim says. “You’ve put on a bit of muscle. It suits you.”

“You think?” She flexes her arm, and Tim pretends to swoon, fanning his face with one hand.

“Wow. You really have gotten stronger. Maybe you-know-what suits you.”

“It does.” The way she says it makes it clear she isn’t having this conversation again. Batgirl is hers now. Tim holds his hands up placatingly.

“Hey, I’m just saying-“

“Don’t. What do you and Lonnie talk about?”

Not her smoothest segue, but Steph is pretty done with having to argue the point with Batman and his… lackeys. Batgirl is between her, Oracle, and maybe Proxy. On occasion.

Tim sighs, playing with the little napkins.

“Nothing. Well, something. We just mostly bicker.”

“No, I mean before he woke up. Through the…” she gestures at him. “You know.”

“The computer? Uh. Nothing.”

She stares at him.

“Nothing?”

“Well, I talked..”

“And he ignored you?”

“No. I- he didn’t know I was, like, there.”

She stares harder, and judgmentally sips her drink.

“I don’t know if that’s just as bad as talking to yourself or not.”

“Not,” he says decisively, but that isn’t quite true, because he had never meant for Lonnie to hear anything he’d said. It was like a diary without needing a physical thing to have to hide, and going to therapy without worrying about outing the network of superheroes, Gotham and beyond.

“What did you say?”

Tim looks down into his drink. He’d torn the napkin into shreds, then squares, then smaller squares, so now there’s nothing to distract his body and he has to feel that weird sense of guilt pooling in his chest.

“I don’t know, everything, I guess. It’s all just so..”

He trails off. Steph huffs.

“Weird?”

“Yeah.”

She sighs, putting her cup down.

“You know you can talk to me, right? I’ll even talk back.”

“It isn’t like that,” he says quietly. “It isn’t-“

“I know that, Tim, c’mon. I know you.”

Tim slurps his drink and avoids her eyes. Stephanie slurps her drink louder, but stops when someone a table over shoots her an irritated look. She sighs again.

“These crutches are a real pain,” Tim mumbles. Stephanie puts her drink down, a touch too heavily, and Tim jumps.

“I can tell when you’re avoiding something. What is it?” 

“Steph…”

“Tim, c’mon. Bruce is back. You were right, sure, but we all proved we were here for you, even when we thought you were wrong.”

“It’s not about that.”

“What is it’s about?” She’s pushing. She really is worried, and though Tim recognises her concern, it just annoys him.

“Nothing you don’t know, Steph. All of this is just stressful.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes,” he retorts, equally flat.

“Bullshit,” she sing-songs. He snaps.

“Fuck off, Steph. Not everything is about you, or the stupid masks, or- or-“

“Or Lonnie?” She raises an eyebrow.

“Be so for real. That boy is only ever Anarky. It’s not a mask for him. God-“

She massages the bridge of her nose for a moment.

“I’m holding back on the Freud comments, but only because I think you’re being a narcissist instead.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He retorts, even more annoyed now. “I am not a narcissist!”

“Oh, sure, but you’re only ever the mask these days, and Lonnie’s only ever the mask, like, always, so that draws a really weird parallel and-“

Tim fumbles with the mug. She knows? Does she know? How-?

“What does that mean?” he snaps, all worry swallowed and hidden behind a wall of anger. He’s gotten really bad at lying to Steph. If he ever was good at it the first place.

"God, Tim. You're supposed to be the world's greatest detective."

"That's Bruce," he mumbles lamely. Steph scoffs.

"You're a genius, sweetie. Either you're deliberately ignorant, seriously repressed, or a liar."

"Probably all three."

He's trying to make a joke, but it ends up being far too close to the truth. Steph isn't getting any happier about this, either. She narrows her eyes at him.

"I still don't understand what you're getting at," he insists, even though he does, completely. He just doesn't want to. Steph finishes her drink, screws up her straw, and bounces it off his forehead. Tim bats it away a half a second too late. Distracted.

"Figure it out," Steph says. "I'm gonna be late to college."

She isn't trying to be mean, but somehow Tim's stupid little brain reads it as a dismissal and he screws his face up and stares blankly out the window.

"Have fun, Steph."

Steph tuts, done with his self-indulgent fit. She scraping her chair back loudly. He doesn't look up.

"Yeah, whatever. See ya."

Tim lowers his head to the table and groans. Sometimes, he feels really stupid about this. Sometimes, he feels stupid and guilty and evil. This whole thing is a confusing mess. He has nothing of anything that he used to define himself by left. Who is he now? Steph clearly can't answer - hell, he barely knows where he and Steph stand in general. They're not dating, he thinks, or at least they're not dating in the typical meaning of the world. He still thinks she's gorgeous. He still daydreams about holding her hand. He still gets hot looking at her - especially in the Batgirl suit - but they're not together. They just kiss sometimes and know each other better than anyone else does.

Maybe it makes sense that she figured it out.

He groans again, running his hands over his face. What even is 'it'? Nothing has made sense since Bruce's death and especially not since his return; the last thing he needs is another stupid identity crisis to top it all off.

Technically, this is part of the same identity crisis that made him Red Robin in the first place, but whatever. His sense of self was put on the back burner for a while, but now everything seems to have calmed down somewhat, he has nothing to distract himself with.

He misses his Dad. He misses his gross Shepard's pie that he insisted Tim liked, even though he didn't, not at all. He misses Dana. Most of all, he misses his Mom. He misses, most of all, when being alone was his choice, and not because he was too worried to find out what he actually meant to anyone.

Once upon a time, he had been Dick's baby brother, and now there's Damian and Cass, and, distantly, Jason.

"Only child complex," he mutters to himself, getting to his feet. It's heading towards early evening, and he wants to get some sleep in before patrol. He would probably still be asleep if not for Steph and Lonnie. He had even gotten up an hour earlier to pick up some things for Lonnie.

God, this whole thing is unspeakably pathetic. He scuffs his cast as he shoves the door open. He feels like a complete loser all over again. Steph is mad at him. Ives and Bart and even Cassie won't text him back frequently enough to distract him with mindless chatter, Kon is busy with back-to-life things, and he doesn't know what to say to Lonnie.

He'll figure it out. He always does. He's pieced his life back together enough now to be pretty good at it.

"I need stitches," he explains, to a bleary-eyed Leslie Thompkins.

"Couldn't you have asked someone else?" she says tiredly, leading him over to the small first aid kit in the waiting area. The cut is only shallow, but it's up the inside of his forearm, and his other hand is bruised enough to give him the excuse of needing help with it.

"They're all busy," he says. Actually, he doesn't know if this is true. He hadn't bothered to radio anyone else after stringing up the thugs, just rappelled straight to Leslie's. He hadn't even known if she would be there either. He just wanted to be close to…

He bites the inside of his cheek as the needle bites through his skin. The pain of stitches is always different to the pain of the cut. It's guiltier, somehow. Leslie glances up at him.

"Take that stupid cowl off while you're in here. You know the rules."

He pulls it down hurriedly, his hair a messy mane around his head. She tuts.

"You need a haircut."

Tim recognises that easily as an attempt to distract him, so he just hums noncommittally. He sort of likes the length. It softens the look, his little tufts poking out around his face. He's getting a little too Batman, he thinks. Amongst everything else, he's somehow got himself a suit that's scary to the bad guys and cute enough for the kids. Maybe without the cute bit. Maybe he should get himself some ears like Batman.

The idea makes him swallow a little smile. He's not really the cute type.

"Done."

He blinks. He'd distracted himself, in the end, so he sighs. He needed to clear his mind, but that hadn't worked. Never one for deliberate self harm, was he? Stitches and slight slip-ups are much less incriminating. The pain just clears his mind. He doesn't want to think about what that means.

"Thanks, Leslie," he murmurs, running his thumb over the aching raised bump. His suit will need repairing now, too. "How's my favourite patient?"

He hadn't meant for that to slip out, and certainly not as affectionately as it does, but Leslie doesn't know him quite as well as Steph, so it doesn't matter, and she doesn't look surprised, or even really interested.

"He's doing okay. He'll be asleep right now. Do you want me to check in?"

Yeah.

"No, thanks. I should-"

He should go.

"I should check in on him myself. No one else is visiting him, right?"

She sighs and shakes her head.

"Do I get to know..?"

"No. Ask Batman. He's a good man," he adds as an afterthought, as if he'd risk dragging someone potentially dangerous to Leslie's clinic and put her at risk.

"Well, of course," she says evenly. "I do trust you people, you know, even if I think you're not doing things the right way."

Tim nods in acknowledgement.

"Before you go, have you heard from Stephanie recently? I heard she was looking to do nursing in college."

How the hell did Tim miss that!?

"No, uh, I haven't spoken to her about that," he says, trying his hardest not to feel guilty. "I'll tell her you asked, though. Goodnight, Leslie."

"Goodnight, Tim. Don't wake him if he's sleeping, alright?"

He nods, watching for a moment as she peels her gloves off, then makes his way up the stairs.

He peeks through the window of Lonnie's door, eyes adjusting to the gloom. He's used to this, nighttime at Lonnie's bedside with only the screens to see by. He stares at Lonnie's still form for a long moment, then cracks the door.

It's warmer in Lonnie's room than in the rest of the clinic, and after the coldness of the night, he finds himself so comfortable that he's almost sleepy. The computer has been moved away from Lonnie's bedside, so Tim has nowhere to rest against as he gazes down at Lonnie. He watches his chest rise and fall for the millionth time, and for the millionth time, finds it the most comforting thing in the world.

Abruptly, he finds looming over the other man rather creepy, especially since Lonnie might actually catch him now. Tim used to wish that would happen, but now Lonnie is out of his coma, it won't be miraculous, just embarrassing.

He finds his chair, and goes right back to staring at Lonnie. His eyelashes lay neatly over softly freckled cheeks, lips slightly parted with breaths. Tim yawns, sprawls back into his seat, tips his head back, and yawns as widely as his face will let him.

"I'm glad you're awake again," he says into the air. He tries not to feel tired, but gradually he finds his breaths syncing with Lonnie's and his eyes too heavy to open again.

"Tim?"

Tim jolts awake roughly, for a moment, lost.

"Oh. I didn't mean to-"

He fell asleep at Lonnie's bedside. How long has it been? It's still dark out, but the sun is almost teasing the horizon.

"You woke me," Lonnie says around a wide yawn. "You talk in your sleep."

"No, I don't," Tim replies, immediately defensive.

"You do. You kept saying 'please don't go, please don't go'." He yawns again, but this seems more of an affectation of tiredness to give Tim a second to process.

"Oh. I must've been having a nightmare. I don't remember what about."

"Probably because you're sleeping in such a weird way."

"Yeah."

The night swallows them both for a minute.

"Why are you here, Tim?" Lonnie asks after a moment, his voice quiet. He shifts so the shadows of his room cover his face, but he can see Tim better now, backlit in soft yellow and blue by the screen his chair is in front of .

"I needed stitches." He holds his arm out so that Lonnie can see the line of threads up his wrist. He winces sympathetically, and reaches out to run a red-nailed finger over the raised line. Tim tries not to shake or gulp too obviously.

"I see. Thanks for visiting, then."

"No problem," Tim says, and yawns so widely it cracks one of his already dry lips. He raises a finger to his mouth, feeling the raw split. Lonnie watches his hands, then leans over to the small table beside his bed, and picks up something.

"Here."

Tim takes the chap stick from Lonnie, eyes it for a minute, then pockets it.

"Thanks," he croaks. Even though Lonnie is technically giving him something that he himself bought, it still feels impossibly heavy as it burns a hole in his pocket. "How are you feeling? You up and walking yet?"

Lonnie hesitates, his hand drifting back over to himself. He balls it up in the duvet.

"No. Not yet. I can't really move them. I can't feel much, either. It goes up to like, uh…" He drags a finger up his thigh from his knee, stopping about two thirds of the way. Tim watches the little flash of red. "Yeah. Here. I can't really feel anything from this point down. It's… horrible."

"Horrible," Tim repeats in a soft voice.

"Horrible. I might not be able to get all my feeling back, either. And my hands feel strange too."

He says it all in such a defeated voice that Tim can't bring himself to do anything but kneel down beside Lonnie's bed, taking one of the hands in his own. He turns it palm up, studying it for a moment.

"I have a friend," he says slowly.

"You have a friend?"

"Shush," Tim scolds. "I have a friend who was paralysed from the waist down. She's a really important part of mine and a lot of other peoples' lives, and a very successful woman."

"A girlfriend?"

Tim rolls his eyes.

"No, shut up. She's a really good friend. I think maybe it would help you to meet her, if you'd like. And if she's alright with it."

Lonnie nods slowly.

"Yeah, sure. Fine. I'll take basically anything that makes me not feel so useless."

Tim turns Lonnie's hand over, taking in the red against the black of his gloves. They sort-of match now. He's struck by the image of Lonnie sat up in the bed, pillows tucked behind his back, painstakingly bent over his own nails.

"It's already chipped," Lonnie says. "And I spilt it because my hands were shaking too badly."

He pulls back the corner of the sheets to reveal a smudged, crimson red stain, seeping into the bed. Tim pulls a face. When he looks up, he's momentarily blinded by the shock of sunlight slipping through the window.

"Bet it smells gross."

"You smell gross. Go home and shower." Lonnie tugs his hand away. "I want to sleep. We're not all creepy nocturnal beasts."

"I am not a beast," Tim grumbles, feeling the need to defend himself even though he almost definitely does stink.

"I'll try to drop by later. I'll see if my friend is up to it, too."

"Thank you. Hey," Lonnie adds, suddenly, "I like you visiting."

"Huh?" Tim pulls the cowl down because he can feel his face getting warm, his fingers stilling on the handle to open the window. "Yeah, it's no worries."

"No, no. You mentioned - when you talked to me, you mentioned not feeling like you belonged anywhere. I know we have a lot of differences, but you're trying to be a good man, and that's good. Important, I mean. You can come visit any time you'd like. I'd like that too."

"Huh. Okay. Thank you, Lonnie. I… yeah, no, I appreciate that," Tim manners to stammer out, his fingers fumbling clumsily with the frame as he tugs it open.

"I'll - I'll be back later. Sleep well."

With that, he scrambles out of the window, leaving Lonnie staring after him.