Chapter Text
Okay so, maybe Tim didn’t know how long he’d been laying on the floor.
But it wasn’t a concerning amount of time, he knows that. Kind of. Hopefully.
So what if he wasn’t keeping track? Who cares? He was perfectly fine, this was a perfectly normal position to be in. In fact, he felt great.
Granted, he’d gotten home from patrol feeling completely over exhausted both mentally and physically, but since then he’d showered, changed, and even had the energy to work on some casework. The scattered documents surrounding him might’ve looked slightly concerning to any normal person but this was so different. Vigilantism wasn’t exactly normal to begin with.
It was all going perfectly well until his bones started feeling like liquid and he let himself slide off the edge of his bed to instead lie on his back on the carpet. He stared at the ceiling until the entire room shifted into a mix of beige and off-whites from the bland paint job in his apartment, the smell of freshly printed paper and ink clouding his senses. His ears blocked out every sound aside from a low buzzing that kept his mind peacefully blank. Honestly, it wasn’t that bad. Sure, his eyes started to burn from the persistent haze that had blanketed over them- and yeah, maybe he could taste his lungs from how deeply he was breathing- but was that such a bad thing? A little oxygen and floor time never hurt anyone. He felt more relaxed than he had in ages. In fact, he could stay like that forever. Never getting up again, never putting on that bright red costume and wasting his nights getting injury after injury, never stressing over casework or managing Wayne Enterprises, never leaving his apartment, it all sounded like heaven right now.
He ran his fingers through the carpet absent-mindedly as his bones sank into the floor. His entire body deflated, feeling weightless yet insanely heavy at the same time. Maybe dizzy was the right word for it, words weren’t entirely making sense right now. He could barely think, sentences running off his brain before he had the chance to even analyze their meaning. His pupils had dilated a long time ago when his vision blurred since he refused to turn his gaze away from the ceiling light. It stung a little to stare into but in the best way possible. It hurt just enough to send him into the comfort of nostalgic dissociation. Why hadn’t he ever tried this earlier? Even though he had the habit of overworking himself (to be fair every bat did), he was still sleeping as much as he should be. He didn’t struggle with sleeping, usually just falling asleep. Now it didn’t even matter, he already felt like he was asleep.
Tears blurred his vision and deep breaths slowly turned into hollow, silent sobs. Not hard enough to disturb his dissociated state but enough to stabilize his thought process a little better. Maybe a little too much, every decision he’d made up to this point seemed so meaningless now. His thoughts drifted hard into the past. What was he doing with his life? Was he doing too much or not enough? Definitely not enough, he didn’t really feel fulfilled. Did people normally feel fulfilled? Was that a part of life? Was that the meaning of life?
Maybe if he stayed on the floor long enough he’d just melt into it and disappear, then all those questions would be answered for him.
He should get up.
He should get up and make dinner. Eat something, maybe call Dick just to catch up. Or Conner.
When even was the last time he talked to Kon?
Now that he thought about it- when was the last time he talked to anyone outside of work or his night "activities"? Was he normally this alone? Had anybody else noticed? Were they avoiding him, or just waiting for him to reach out first? It was normal for adults to go without talking to each other for long periods of time, right? People get busy with work or college or just taking care of themselves sometimes. Normal adult responsibilities.
Who was he kidding? Tim wasn’t an adult. He just turned eighteen two weeks ago.
He barely counted as an adult.
He was a child playing pretend. He was pathetic. He was exhausted all the time, busy all the time. He’s so tired of being busy. But being tired doesn’t get you anywhere. Taking breaks is for people who actually need them. People who need time to take care of themselves, or people who are depressed.
Tim wasn’t depressed.
He knew what depression looked like. Hell, he’d witnessed it in some of his family members. So he knew he wasn’t depressed. He wasn’t struggling nearly as much. He was still going out, getting things done. Working, saving the city, he had a routine. He wasn’t depressed if he could manage all of that. He still took care of himself, ate at least two meals a day, showered regularly, brushed his teeth, all the basic stuff. He was a functioning human being. He didn’t even want to die. He wasn’t depressed.
‘Prove it then, get up.’ His mind supplied.
He could if he wanted to. He just didn’t want to right now.
….Or ever.
He could postpone it…he had extra time. It was only….wait, what time was it again?
Whatever, it didn’t matter.
The carpet felt so nice against his skin, comforting in all the right places. Distantly he could hear his phone ringing but it didn’t matter, he didn’t owe anyone a response immediately. He could take a few minutes. The light seemed to get brighter as he relaxed more, his eyes half-lidded to accommodate the brightness. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
He’d get up in five minutes.
-
“-mmy? Tim? Tim!”
He jerked awake, barely comprehending where he was before he was pulled up into a sitting position. His throat was unbelievably dry, his eyes crusted over with dried tears. His bedroom light was off and Dick was crouched next to him, Jason standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his silhouette dark enough that Tim couldn’t make out his expression. When did it get so dark in here?
“Hey bud, what’cha doing on the floor?” Dick asked carefully, failing to hide the concern in his tone and his expression.
Tim rubbed at his eyes, his eyelids felt so heavy. He felt lighter, more relaxed than normal. The haze of unconsciousness still blurring his sight, slowing his thoughts.
“What time is it?” He mumbled, taking a slow breath that bordered a yawn. His question was met with equal confusion, Dick furrowed his brow but still checked his phone quickly before turning back to Tim. “Eleven twenty-three, Tim, you still gotta answer my questi-”
“I was only asleep for an hour, what’s the problem?”
Jason laughed, finally speaking up. “Try twenty-five. It’s Wednesday night now, Timmers.”
That’s impossible. He couldn’t have slept that long.
And yet, he was still tired.
“What are you guys even doing here?” He muttered, leaning back to prop himself up with his elbows.
“I think you should answer some questions first.” Dick said lightly, though it sounded shaky.
Jason nodded in agreement. “Like why the fuck are you on the floor? And why haven’t you been conscious for the past day?” He said before gasping over-dramatically. “Timmy, are you on drugs?” He asked sarcastically, his voice laced with fake concern. Tim rolled his eyes. “Ha-ha, very funny, Jay.”
“You’re not on drugs though, right?”
“No, Dick! I’m not on drugs- jeez.”
“Just checking!”
Tim sluggishly sat all the way up, rubbing his eye with the bottom of his palm. Before he could ask another question, a glass of water was carefully placed in his other hand. Jason stepped back to lean against the wall after handing it to him. “Drink that. Dickface can’t interrogate you if you sound like you deep throated a screwdriver.” He muttered, earning a slap on the arm from Dick.
“I’m not interrogating him, I’m concerned. There’s a difference.”
“Right, right. How could I forget?”
Tim sighed lightly, leaning over to place the glass on his nightstand. All he wanted to do was call Kon and then go back to sleep. He was so, so tired.
“I’m fine. You guys can like- go now…” He muttered sheepishly, earning twin glares from his brothers.
“After we came all this way?” Jason sarcastically pouted. “I’m hurt, Timmy.”
Tim didn’t even dignify that with a response, shifting to instead sit on his calves. He picked up some of the loose papers on the floor, gathering them into a neatly stacked pile in his hands. This was fine, he could just ignore them and get work done until they realized he was fine and left. He could be energetic for another few hours if it got them to leave him alone.
He wanted to be alone so bad right now.
He wouldn’t consider himself to necessarily be a “loner”, but something in his chest ached with the unfamiliar embarrassment of being perceived. It didn’t make sense, he was fine, there was nothing to be embarrassed about. He wasn’t even crying anymore! Why wouldn’t they stop staring at him? He was fine. He didn’t need the pitying looks or the condescending sympathy. He just needed to work it off. He didn’t need to be babysat. He looked relatively presentable, he wasn’t being dramatic or sobbing or dissociating. He didn’t even really feel like…anything actually.
He tried to place his current state of mind to an emotion but came up blank. He wasn’t happy but he wasn’t sad. He sure as hell wasn’t depressed but numbly content wouldn’t describe it either. Despite the annoying stares, he wouldn’t consider himself anxious or paranoid. So what was he? Tired wasn’t exactly an emotion, but even if it were, that wouldn’t fit very well. He paused. The more he thought about it, the more he froze up. What was this? Why couldn’t he rationalize or label it? He was…fine. Physically, at least. He felt….nonplussed. Yeah, that sounded right-ish. Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t remember the last time he could actually label what he was feeling. It all kind of mixed together into one very watered down feeling that didn’t have a name. Actually, he didn’t need to name it, he didn’t have to explain himself to anybody. They could perceive him all they wanted (please don’t), he didn’t care (he did). He didn’t owe them an explanation.
Why were they still staring at him?
Tim burst into tears for the second time in the past twenty-five hours.
-
He doesn’t remember when they moved to the couch, nor does he remember spacing out. He doesn’t remember cuddling up to Dick while Jason stood off to the side, as if he were standing guard. The first thing he could hear was a murmured conversation between his brothers that dragged him back into awareness. He could’ve said something, moved, cleared his throat, but maybe he wanted to play dead for a little bit longer. It was quiet, it was nice.
“When was the last time you checked on him? Has he been this…burned out for a while?”
Tim didn’t need to be a genius to know what Dick really wanted to say. Unstable. Because that’s what he really was, wasn’t he?
“It’s not my job to babysit him, Dick. He’s not a child.”
“He’s our little brother, Jay. That should mean something.”
“And it does! But you can’t tell me you haven’t noticed how much the kid values his own independence. How he always insists he’s fine, managing as much as he can. Putting as much on his plate as possible before someone stops him.”
Dick sighed, rubbing circles into Tim’s sides with his thumbs. It was actually very comforting, but he’d never admit that out loud. Not in a million years. He hopes, stupidly, they’ll just move on from this. Obviously they won’t and it’ll be the most overdramatic conversation Tim has ever had, but a guy can dream. He takes a deep breath, accepting his fate. It’s immediately noticed.
“Hey bud, you back with us?” Dick asks softly. Tim yawns, scratching at his face lightly. He wishes he could claw his face off, has his skin always felt this tight?
“Yeah. Hi.” He whispers.
“Been a bit lonely recently, huh?”
Tim just nods. For some reason, that stings a little bit. He doesn’t know if it’s just admitting it or the fact that it’s even a question that hurts worse.
“It’s not just that, though, is it?” Dick asks quietly. Tim tries not to sob at the tone alone as he nods again. Dick hums at the confirmation, he rubs the palm of his hand in circles on Tim’s back. The quiet reassurance feels so foreign but so welcomed. Tim doesn’t remember the last time they hung out or the last time Dick was his normal, octopus, cuddly self around him. They’ve all been so busy recently. Individually isolated by their own lives.
“I’m not depressed.” Tim mutters, it feels like a lie.
Jason scoffs and rolls his eyes, the “Yeah, right.” goes without saying. Dick glares at him before turning back to Tim.
“I’m not so sure about that, kiddo. We might schedule an appointment with your doctor, just for peace of mind.”
‘We don’t believe you and you need to seek professional help’, is what Tim’s brain fills in for him. It’s much meaner but sometimes blunt honesty can be a good motivator. It’s something Dick would never say- or let Jason say for him.
“I’m not suicidal.” Tim tries, it feels more realistic.
Dick nods. “Okay.” He responds, as if it’s that simple, as if Tim hadn’t cried in front of him for the first time in a while today. “How often have you been dissociating?” He asks.
Tim shrugs. Was he supposed to be keeping track? Was it something to be concerned about? He’d noticed it happening a couple times but he never really saw it as a bad thing. It wasn’t hindering his ability to work or fight, so it was fine. He was still useful so it wasn’t worth a second thought.
Maybe that was the concerning part.
-
Tim does decide to go to that doctor's appointment. One week and a visit to a therapist later, he gets diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder with Psychosis. Go figure. He gets the choice between therapy or SSRI’s. He picks the meds without a second thought. Dick is there for the entire process, Jason occasionally in tow for moral support. Dick’s good at being comforting but Jason’s good at making the situation seem better than it is. Dick calls it coping humor, Tim calls it ‘saving his sanity’. It’s appreciated.
At the end of the week, Dick makes Tim tell Bruce most of the past weeks’ events. Obviously not everything, but the important parts. When the meds finally start affecting his mind, Tim feels like there’s finally light at the end of the tunnel. It doesn’t fix everything but it’s a good starting point.
He makes time to spend with his family, spends more time at the manor, makes plans with Kon too. They make it a routine to call at least once a week as well. Tim likes routines, or at least he likes that one. Dick and Jason make a point to break some of his patterns at least twice a month to stop him from getting bored or tired, it stops him from spiraling. Tim pretends not to notice that Jason “accidentally” keeps leaving his stuff at Tim’s apartment and “accidentally” ends up spending the night because they get distracted when he comes over to pick it up.
(Jason pretends not to notice that Tim lights up when he comes over.)
-
“Richard and Todd are acting…strange.”
Tim looks up from his laptop, furrowing his brow.
“And this is my problem because..?”
“They have been discussing you.”
Damian explains how on several occasions he’s heard the two of them carefully planning out visits to Tim’s apartment, asking each other if the other is going that day or not. Tim tries to hide the faint smile that paints over his expression as their youngest brother describes this “strange activity”.
“They seem to perceive you as some kind of…project. Planning out visits and noting your behavioral changes.”
Okay, Tim tried to hold it, he really did. But after that he bursts out laughing.
“What is humorous about this?!” Damian flusters. “This is why I never try to help you, Drake! You ungrateful-”
Tim pulls him onto the couch in a side-hug. Still laughing, even as Damian glares daggers at him. He sighs fondly, ruffling Damian’s hair and avoiding as the younger’s hands swat at Tim’s wrists.
“Don’t ever change, Dames.”
“I have no intention of altering my behavior. It appears I am the only normal one in that aspect.”
“Dick and Jason are just being good big brothers.”
“By monitoring you like a pet?”
“....Something like that…”
Tim doesn’t know why, but a few days after that conversation, Damian makes a habit of painting in the library when Tim is working on his laptop or reading while perched on the end of Tim’s bed while Tim sorts out casework. It’s quiet. As peaceful as the two of them will probably ever be together. Neither address it, they don’t even greet when it happens. Just every so often Damian will knock on Tim’s bedroom door, enter silently, and read quietly for a few hours. Occasionally he’ll have Alfred the cat following behind him, joining their quiet time together. It’s…heartwarming. Never an adjective he would’ve associated with Damian prior to now.
“Your presence is more tolerable than most people’s, Timothy. Do not forget that.”
And Tim does remember that. It helps his depressive episodes pass a little easier when he does.
On the days Tim can’t get out of bed, Damian still shows up. Sits on the end of the bed, reads quietly, lets Alfred the cat snuggle up to Tim. He doesn’t call Tim “pathetic” like he normally would have any other time. He doesn’t comment if Tim starts crying. He doesn’t leave when Tim falls asleep, doesn’t try to ground him when he stares at the ceiling and lets himself drift. He just sits. Patiently. Occasionally refilling a glass of water that sits on Tim’s nightstand.
“I think I understand what you meant now. When you said Richard and Todd’s monitoring was…brotherly.” He mutters, turning the page in his book.
“I’m glad.”