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He supposed he should have expected this. Tim Drake's life has always been very turbulent and everyone had to reach their breaking point eventually. Dick had foolishly hoped that the third Robin would be magically immune to the lacklustre coping methods which defined the Bats.
Some part of him - which was buried deep between unspoken apologies for taking away Robin - knew this wasn’t the case. It had braced itself for the inevitable — for the day Tim Drake would snap. His heart had ordered steel cages for that specific moment.
(But nothing could have prepared him for this utter chaos.)
He hadn’t spoken to Jason in months but they were now united and sharing a common goal.
They needed Tim to calm down. Fast.
Alfred Pennyworth tentatively peered round their significantly larger frames. Jason had insisted on entering his - their - younger brother's room first, acting as a type of shield. Dick heavily suspected this kind offer only materialised due to Alfred's presence.
(The sharp grin Jason sent him was confirmation enough.)
“My God... what has Master Tim done?” The butler whispered. His subdued tone was enough for Dick's brain to start dancing. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jason gently tug Alfred into his arms.
Tim Drake's room was always on the messy side. Contrary to popular belief, his little brother was gross. Or depressed. Maybe an unhealthy mixture of both. Point being, litter strewed the floor on the daily, leftovers found their new home in inconspicuous corners, and Damian Wayne had declared the room to be a wasteland on a good day.
However, this was monstrous. Blood seeped into the carpet and gave the dark carpet a matted appearance. Glass shards shimmered like precious jewels. Dick might have mistaken them for glittering diamonds if they weren’t decorated by beads of insidious liquid.
(He decidedly ignored Martha Wayne’s beloved antique vase resting amongst the carnage as if it had always belonged with bloodshed.)
The curtains - Nightwing themed, courtesy of Dick's elite sense of humour and Tim's reluctance to personalise his room - were ripped into tiny pieces, allowing the outside world to peek in. He pretended that he did not see Jason's sympathetic wince after spotting a particularly shredded piece of fabric.
A lone Echo Dot sat on the exposed windowsill, warbling the lyrics of ‘The Bidding’ by Tally Hall through the cracked speakers. Upon closer inspection, Dick found that half the device was caked in an ominous substance, reminiscent of tar. He was not eager to touch that.
(Judging by Jason's grimace, the other man agreed.)
They both jumped when the Echo Dot's volume suddenly increased.
Just remember not to love me when I disappear!
Jason snorted at the lyric. The irony, and the timing, was just too great. He barely refrained from breaking into full blown laughter. Only Alfred's grave stare of disappointment could subdue any Wayne. His elder brother had a decidedly more grim reaction though.
“I think Tim's still in here.” Dick announced to Alfred, pointedly ignoring his younger brother guffawing. He also ignored the snide remark which immediately followed - “thanks for sharing with the class, Dickie!” - as he inspected the speakers. Alfred nodded in agreement.
The elderly man's lips were set into a determined frown; the kind he hadn’t seen since the first time Dick Grayson dared to swing from the chandeliers without any safety gear.
(He never attempted again. For obvious reasons.)
All three of them began searching the ruined room with minimal success. Jason's pace could only be described as leisurely as he picked his way through Tim's small book collection. In contrast, Dick was far more frantic, almost contributing to the destruction with his carelessness. Alfred was, by far, the most composed individual in the room.
After fifteen minutes of hard work yielded no results, Jason turned towards his elder brother. “Dickolas, this isn’t gonna work,” He said blandly, as if he were discussing the weather instead of their missing adolescent brother. “It has to!” Dick hissed in response.
Tensions were rising fast in the cramped area of doom and destruction. If it weren’t for the Echo Dot blaring at that opportune moment, Alfred would have probably been forced to separate the two.
Won't these gentleman suffice?
“Hey,” Jason breathed, suddenly wide eyed. “Why does it keep looping? It shouldn’t...” He trailed off, alarmed by his older brother's rapidly paling face.
“I told you! He's here somewhere! Tim, please, come out. You’re not in trouble, please!” Dick's voice cracked at the end of the plea.
Alfred joined him.
“Master Tim, I assure you that you are in no trouble, whatsoever. Please, do this old man a favour and emerge from your hiding place. My bones are far too weary to be standing around for so long.”
It was utter bullshit and they all knew it. Tim probably knew it too. They'd all seen Alfred knock out alien invaders and corrupt politicians too many times to count. There was no way his old age was catching up with him.
Nevertheless, the ceiling above them creaked.
And he's sold.
Dick Grayson pretended, for many years afterwards, that he did not cry when the ceiling caved in and a half-conscious Tim Drake fell into his waiting arms.