❤︎| He's trying to help you recover (req)

Okay holy shit, 900 followers. I feel like my thank-yous get a little generic after a while, but I truly am so grateful for the kindness and support you guys give me. I love you guys very, very much, and as always, thank you for supporting my crazy obsession. -Nia

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Tim had felt powerless before.

He knew the feeling intimately, the sickening weight of it settling somewhere beneath his ribs, the helplessness that came when a case went cold before he could solve it, when someone died because he hadn't been fast enough, smart enough, good enough. He knew what it was like to lose people because he'd gotten in too deep, because he'd convinced himself that if he just pushed a little harder, stayed awake a little longer, thought a little faster, he could somehow prevent the worst from happening.

He had spent years learning how to live with that feeling. That didn't make experiencing it any easier. But this time was different. This time it was you.

{{user}}.

The person Tim might have cared about more than anyone else in the world was hurting, and for once, there wasn't a case to solve. There wasn't a villain he could track down, a clue he could follow, or some elaborate plan he could construct that would make everything better.

The Joker had gotten his clammy, pallid hands on you.

And whatever he'd done, whatever he'd put you through, had left wounds that Tim couldn't simply bandage and walk away from. Mostly because you wouldn't tell him what had happened.

Tim didn't blame you for that. Not really. He understood that there were some things people couldn't put into words, some memories that became unbearable the moment you tried to give them a shape. Still, not knowing was torture. His mind filled in the gaps with possibilities, each one worse than the last.

And the aftermath was impossible to ignore.

The Joker had taken things from you that Tim had once taken for granted. Your ability to walk without thinking about every movement. Your ability to fight back. Your independence. Even something as simple as making yourself a meal had become a task that required planning, assistance, and patience.

Tim knew that feeling.

He had been there.

He remembered the humiliation of needing help with things that used to be automatic. The frustration of looking at something as simple as getting dressed and realizing you couldn't do it without someone else's hands. He remembered the anger, the embarrassment, the exhaustion, the awful realization that your own body could suddenly feel like something you couldn't trust.

If he could take all of that from you and carry it himself, he would. He'd do it without hesitation. But he couldn't.

That was the part Tim hated most.

There was no gadget he could build, no detective work he could do, no amount of sleepless nights that could magically give you back what had been taken. So he did the only thing he could.

He stayed.

He made sure you never had to wonder whether someone would be there when you needed them. and the others had noticed what Tim was doing almost immediately. Without being asked, they started taking extra patrols, quietly shifting schedules and covering nights that Tim normally would have spent in the field. They didn't make a big deal out of it. They simply gave him more evenings with you.

And Tim used every single one.

He helped you move around the house when your legs wouldn't cooperate. He steadied you when you stumbled. He helped you sit down before you could fall. He brought you food when standing for too long became exhausting. He learned when to offer a hand and when you needed him to pretend he hadn't noticed you struggling.

He tried desperately not to make you feel helpless. Because he knew how much you hated that word.

The recovery was slow. Painfully slow.

Some days were better than others. Some days you managed more than Tim expected, and he'd catch the smallest flicker of pride in your expression before you quickly buried it. Other days, you could barely make it across the room before your legs gave out beneath you. And every time they did, Tim saw it. The flash of defeat, the fury, the humiliation. The sheer, burning anger you seemed to direct toward yourself whenever your body refused to do what you wanted it to.

It hurt him more than he could explain.

But you wouldn't talk to him. Over the past few weeks, you'd built walls around yourself so high that Tim wasn't sure there was a door anymore. You answered questions with one-word responses. You smiled when people checked on you, but the smile never reached your eyes. Whenever someone tried to ask about that day, you changed the subject. Whenever Tim lingered too long, you found a reason to leave the room.

So he gave you space. He tried to respect the boundaries you'd built. But he was worried.

God, he was so worried.

And he was running out of ways to be there for you without feeling like he was prying open wounds you weren't ready to show him. Tonight had been another difficult evening.

Twenty-two steps.

That was all you'd managed.

Twenty-two steps from one side of the room to the other, with Tim hovering close enough to catch you if you fell but far enough away that you could pretend you were doing it on your own. When you'd finally made it to the couch, you'd plastered that same familiar smile onto your face. You'd told him you were fine. Tim hadn't believed you for a second. Now, the two of you sat together in silence.

You stared blankly at the coffee table, your hands resting motionless in your lap. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the house around you. Tim watched you for a moment. Then, gently, he spoke. "You did good today." His voice was soft, careful. "That's almost double the steps from last week." He tried to make it sound encouraging. Tried to make it sound like the accomplishment it was. But when you didn't even look up, something in his chest tightened. Tim swallowed. "I know you don't want to talk about what happened that day."

He paused, choosing his next words carefully.

"And I'm not going to force you to. But, {{user}}... I'm worried." There was no accusation in his voice. No frustration. Just exhaustion and fear.

"I can't sit by for another month and watch you deal with all of this alone. I know you think you're protecting yourself. Maybe you are. Maybe shutting everyone out is the only way you know how to get through this."

He hesitated.

"But you don't have to do it with me."

Slowly, almost cautiously, Tim reached across the couch.

His hand settled over yours. He didn't squeeze. He didn't try to pull you closer. He simply let his hand rest there, giving you every opportunity to pull away if you wanted to.

"Please, {{user}}."

His voice cracked ever so slightly.

"Let me in."