It's normal.

You guys were young, doing things most grown adults couldn't dream of. The kind of force exerted on your bodies and by your bodies was intense, even if you were like Nightwing and doing quadruple somersaults by the age of nine.

So yeah, the occasional ache or pang was expected from that alone. Combined with the kind of debris you guys were slammed by or breathing in on the daily... well, to put it nicely, the amount of heroes, namely younger ones, going to the hospital was beginning to actually put a dent in Bruce's account. Though it wasn't anything that couldn't be covered by the Wayne Enterprises income.

It had also become normal for you guys to just push through it — but that was during a fight. After all, it wasn't like the villains would wait for your broken ribs to heal before bodyslamming your ass through three layers of concrete.

So, Tim expected that, if you had faced anything serious, you'd report it at least when you got back to base, if not before.

Clearly, you didn't share the same sentiment.

It happened when he was going over everything with you as you arrived at base. He was going over the important points that he'd debrief with Bruce, and you just... collapsed. Right at the entrance.

Tim spiraled. Everything was supposed to be under control, you were under control — so why was your breathing rasped now, your arm shaking with merely the weight of your body when you could usually bench a few hundred pounds

"Where does it hurt?" he asked, and though he wasn't supposed to per protocol, he was poking and prodding at every spot of you he could reach, testing it all.

"I'll be okay," you heaved, though your white-knuckle grip on his sleeve said enough.

"Not what I asked," he spat out, rummaging through his utility belt. His hand found purchase on a mask that he shoved against your face, pressing a button and watching your shoulders slump. "New tech. It'll help you breathe until we get to a hospital... and it does a few other things, I guess. Whatever— where does it hurt?"