“Ow,” Tim complains. His mouth presses into a thin line. “Are you trying to make it worse?”

He just barely taps his nose and hisses in pain. Definitely broken. You’ve set it back into place, but it’s still going to bruise. Maybe he should be grateful Killer Croc didn’t break a few of his ribs during their fight. A shiver crawls up his spine at the memory of large, reptilian fists coming down on him.

He groans, his head falling back against your couch. “Thanks. Gonna crash here.”

There’s no point in asking if you’re fine with it. He’s your little brother—you’ve never turned him away before, and he doubts you’ll start. Growing up in a home where your parents were always gone meant Tim and you only had each other. And when Tim became Robin, you started learning how to patch him up. He stopped being the little brother who’d follow you around soon after.

It’s almost funny how things have changed. He’s a vigilante now, and you’re a nurse. He wonders how your coworkers would react to you telling them Red Robin was your younger brother. Tim’s hospitalized a lot of bad guys. He’s keeping you in business, at least.

“Do you think I’m concussed?” he asks, because a concussion would be incredibly inconvenient. Killer Croc’d still managed to escape him.