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It started with a question. Tim should have known better, he realized, but the truth was he was so exhausted. Bruce gave a speech for the Gotham historic society, and Tim stood behind him on the stage. He applauded with everyone. Honestly, it was a great speech, good enough that Tim could focus on it even though a part of his brain was actively trying to make him fall asleep standing up. He felt a wave of gratitude when everything wrapped up, and the applause died until he saw reporters begin to ask questions. He groaned, “They're doing a Q and A.”
“You could sneak out, I’m certain no one would miss you,” Damian said beside him. Tim looked down and frowned. He recognized it for the kindness it was, even wrapped in Damian’s usual surly packaging. Tim nodded and slipped back behind the curtain. He was certain he made a clean get away, and let out a breath. He started toward the coffee shop on the corner. Tension built in his shoulder, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise.
Someone was following him.
Tim sped up slightly and slipped down an ally. He pressed his back against the brick wall and cautiously watched the passersby. There. He grabbed his pursuer by the arm and slammed the person back against the wall. It was a woman, with severe features and hair pulled into a ponytail. She raised a voice recorder. “Cynthia Lewis, Glimpses of Gotham.” Tim released her arm and stepped back, just a reporter. No, not even a reporter, a writer for that awful gossip rag.
“I’m not taking interviews today,” Tim said, stepping out onto the street.
“Your father sure does take self-defense training seriously huh?” she said, following. He heard her struggling to keep up with his quickened pace in her pumps. “What else does living with Bruce Wayne intel?”
“No comment,” Tim replied, stopping at the crosswalk as cars whipped by. Cynthia caught up then, looking at him.
“You seemed pretty angry back there. Do you get that angry often?”
He looked over at her. That question was not the usual ‘who is your father dating’ dribble he was used to. Does he get angry? He shook his head and looked back at the traffic light.
“Is that a no?”
“It’s a no comment.” The white walk sign lit up, and he started walking. For a moment she was not there, and then she caught up. He looked down to see she was now carrying her heels to keep up with him.
“You retreat from social gatherings a lot don’t you?”
He fell silent. She would eventually get tired of talking, he assured himself. But that was the moment she asked the question that started everything. “Where did you get the scar on your wrist?” Tim’s steps faltered for a second.
“No comment,” he finally said, he darted across the street, between cars, giving her no chance to follow.
_-_-_
Tim woke up the next day and headed toward the kitchen. He paused on the stairs and turned around. Damian’s door shut quickly. Weird, he thought. He shrugged and went on down. The smell of pancakes filled him as he opened the kitchen door and he stopped in his tracks. Alfred was cooking, Jason was helping, and Dick was sitting on the counter.
“What…is everyone doing here?” he paused when Bruce walked in. “Did a mission come up?”
“Can’t your brothers just come home?” Jason asked, licking batter off the spoon. “You hungry? You love pancakes right?”
“I do,” Tim said slowly, wondering if he woke up in the twilight zone. “I…just want coffee.”
“Not hungry? But coffee huh? You’re hitting coffee awfully hard lately. Sleeping okay?” Dick asked. Tim grabbed a mug and started to pour it, but Dick took it and filled it for him. He handed it back, and Tim took a long gulp. He definitely was not caffeinated enough for whatever weirdness was happening.
“My sleep is…normal,” he said, ignoring the fact that not sleeping was his normal. He sensed someone behind him and spun around, sloshing coffee. Damian stood there, hand on his hip.
“You’re so scrawny, Drake. You’re going to need a new costume.”
“What…the hell is happening?”
“Why, did I make you angry?” Damian asked.
“Do you get angry, often?” Dick added. “Like…easily?”
“Or have mood swings?” Jason said.
Tim sat down his mug. Bruce was watching, and even Alfred had stopped cooking.
“Someone is going to start explaining to be what is happening before I am forced to test you for Joker toxins.” Tim watched his family exchanging looks.
“So you probably don’t read Glimpses of Gotham,” Jason started.
“You read that? Why doesn’t this surprise me more?” Tim asked. Dick picked a copy of it off the counter and offered it over. Tim found himself staring at his face, on the cover. His eyes widened. The tagline read: “Tim Drake Suicide Scare? Find out why the son of Billionaire Bruce Wayne is dying to get away.” Tim flipped frantically until he came to the story. His eyes scanned the pages in record pace.
“All the warning signs are present…” he read out loud. The reporter referenced his quickness to get angry. His social withdraw—which the reporter indicated by him having no friends. The reporter referenced his recent loss of weight, how he was practically skin and bones. She mentioned the bags under his eyes as evidence of insomnia. As he read the signs she indicated that there was no evidence of having, he suddenly began to put together his family’s concern. The reporter could not know of his recklessness, the hopelessness, the anxiety…Tim shook his head. The biggest part of the story was clear. The scar on his risk as proof.
Tim lifted it, “You know this is from a case right?”
“Yeah,” Dick said, “But, consider the other things…Tim, we’re just worried about you.”
“This is an intervention.”
“Tim…”
“No, this is an actual intervention. You have to be kidding. Haha, hilarious everyone,” Tim said.
“Timber, we just want…”
Tim held up his hand to stop whatever his brother was about to say, “This is ridiculous.”
“You don’t sleep,” Dick said, “You aren’t eating well. You don’t have friends. Tim…we’re worried.”
“Well when you describe it, Dick, my life sounds horrible. Thanks.”
“Tim,” Bruce’s voice cut through their arguing. “This is something that needs to be addressed. We are not saying that this story is true, but if these problems exist, they need to be handled. If you are not at your best, and you continue to patrol you put yourself and this team at risk.”
“Right, well I would hate to get in the way of a mission,” Tim snapped. He left the room, letting the kitchen door slam behind him.
“Smooth,” Jason said, his voice loud in the suddenly silent room.
_-_-_
Tim went back to his room and sunk onto the bed.
“You wouldn’t use a gun, right?”
Tim jumped, “Damian, get out.” The kid instead walked further in.
“You wouldn’t though, not with how Father is about guns. You respect him too much.”
“Damian…do you find this funny?” Tim looked at him, “Because it’s not funny.”
“I am curious what substances I need to remove from your room,” Damian said. Tim paused and looked at him. Damian’s tone remained flat, but there was actual fear in his eyes.
“It’s just a story, just some paparazzi garbage. Dami, it’s fiction.”
“But you do all of those things, do you deny it?” His eyes flashed. “Can you swear to me that you would never, have never considered it. Swear it on our family’s honor.” For the second time, Damian’s words gave him pause. The kid said our family, including Tim with a single word.
“Look…it’s not where my head is right now, Dami,” he said. He ran a hand through his hair, “Things get dark in my head sometimes. I’m not denying that. Things have been piling up, and I guess, I’ve let things like sleep and eating slip. But I need you to hear me. That is not where my head is right now. It isn’t.”
Tim could see the words churning in his little brother’s mind. “So, we can agree I am vastly superior to you in many ways,” Damian said suddenly. Tim raised an eyebrow.
“This took a turn.”
“I’m a better fighter, I have significantly more skills,” Damian met his eyes, “So you should turn to me as back up. When you’re head gets dark.” Tim met his kid brother’s eyes, and he gave one nod, his voice failing him. Damian got up and ran out of the room, but the door did not shut before a hand caught it. Tim glanced up as Bruce walked in.
“We don’t need to talk about this.”
“We do,” Bruce said, he walked over. “You misunderstood me.”
“I’m certain that was my fault too,n right?”
Bruce sighed in frustration, “Tim.” He stopped and started over, “Tim, I don’t want you in the field compromised because I care what happens to you.” He crouched down to look into the teen’s eyes. “If you’re hurting, that’s something I need to know. Not Batman, me. Bruce. Your…your father.” Tim found rebellious tears escaping and he turned, trying to hide them. He felt Bruce take his shoulders, and draw him in, resting a hand on his head. “I have you. We’ll figure it out, Tim. We’ll figure all of this out.” Tim opened his eyes and through his tears, he saw Jason, Dick, and Alfred standing in his doorway.
They would figure this out. Together.