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The smell of fried bread fills Dick's small apartment. His windows are closed against the pounding rain, leaving the kitchen shrouded in dim light.
The recipe is— Dick doesn't even know, actually. He wishes he could say it was something from his parents— something from his culture— but the real answer is that he got it off of some Wikipedia article and had to hope for the best.
(His parents had always been big on culture, but Dick had only been nine. All of his memories of them are blurred by both time and the trauma of watching them fall to the ground. By the time he thought to try and remember the name of the soup his mom made every winter, it had long slipped his mind.)
"Richard?"
Dick hums in response, not looking up from the pan. "Yeah, Dami? What's up?"
It makes something inside of him warm. Dick loves Damian— his little brother, his son— more than anything. He hadn't been ready to take on the responsibility of raising his father's son after Bruce disappeared, but now—
"What was wrong with Drake last night?"
He takes his time thinking, trying to decide how to explain. "Why don't you tell me what you think, first?" he offers. It's like a game— tell me what you think, and I'll tell you how close you got.
Damian leans against the counter— he's so tall now, it almost makes Dick want to cry— before speaking. "Father called him… overstimulated," the boy starts. "And you corroborated the sentiment. Drake denied it. Based on my research, overstimulation is to be stimulated to an excessive degree. I understand that."
Dick nods for him to continue.
"I just…" Damian frowns, shifting his weight from foot-to-foot. "Why would he deny it? We are not his enemies— as much as I wish you would allow me to be— and would have allowed him time to heal rather than come down to dinner. He is only exploiting his own weaknesses like a fool."
"You don't like us to see you when you're feeling weak," Dick points out, pulling the bread from the pan and onto a paper towel nearby. He puts more dough in and turns to look at Damian finally. "It's the same thing. Tim doesn't like to be vulnerable in front of people, but especially not in front of us. He thinks we'll leave him."
Damian's face slackens in understanding at that explanation, nodding once. "I see," he says. "But this is different, is it not? This could happen at any time. It could make him a liability in the field if we are not able to anticipate and mitigate it—"
Dick laughs. "You can just say you're worried about him," he grins, ruffling Damian's hair and grinning wider when it makes his brother scowl. "We're all worried, Dami. It's okay if you are, too."
"I am not worried about Drake," the boy grinds out from between clenched teeth. "I am merely worried about his ability to compensate in the field. It could cause problems if we are unable to—"
Damian jolts when Dick hands him a warm flatbread— smothered in (vegan, because Dick is nothing if not respectful of his brother/son's dietary needs) butter and whatever herbs Dick was able to find in his kitchen.
"Look," he says, leaning over the opposite side of the counter from Damian. "Tim is… he'll be okay. I promise. He's been in the business long enough to know how to handle himself." He studies Damian's face for a moment. "Was there another reason you were asking?"
Damian shifts again, avoiding Dick's gaze to pick at the bread. "Perhaps," he settles on.
"Care to share with the class?"
The question earns him a glare, but Damian takes a moment to consider it.
"I… what causes the overstimulation?" he asks. "Why does Drake… do that?"
Dick hums, stealing a piece of Damian's bread just to watch the kid squawk at him. "Could be a lot of things," he offers. "He was probably just tired, though. Stressed. Had way too much soda. You know how Tim is. Why?"
He steals another piece of the bread before turning back to the stove to remove one from the pan, put more dough in. Damian thinks silently, still leaning against the counter and frowning at his food. Dick knows how not to push for answers by now—
(he hates to admit that he knows Damian more than he knows any of his other family members, anymore. Damian was all he had for a long time— Bruce missing and presumed dead, Tim MIA, Jason busy with his crime lord things, and everybody else grieving or presumed dead or out of the country. It's hard not to bond under circumstances like that. It doesn't make him a bad brother.)
— and patiently waits Damian out.
"If I were to experience this… overstimulation," Damian says, "what might be the cause? If I am not stressed or over-caffeinated or sleep-deprived."
"Are you?" Dick asks. "Feeling overstimulated, I mean."
Damian shrugs.
"Some people's brains just work a bit different," he settles on, focusing on the food so he can avoid being too intent on Damian. "It's not a weakness, it just means you don't work exactly like everybody else."
"But why?"
And that's the question, isn't it?
Dick has his suspicions about Bruce sometimes, but the man is an enigma at the best of times. It's hard to say how much of that is some kind of neurodivergence and how much of it is The Dark Knight leaking over into Bruce's personality.
(Or is that just who he is, really? Sometimes Dick isn't sure. He loves Bruce, but it's hard to remember that when it feels like the man spends more time as Batman than he does just a man. Just a father with kids who need him.)
"Why don't we look into it?" Dick says, shutting off the stove once the last of the dough's been fried. "I'm sure we'll figure it out together."
The Damian of last year would have scoffed at the offer. He would have sneered at Dick and declared his own independence like it was one of his swords with the tip pressed into Dick's unguarded neck.
Now, though, Damian just polishes off the bread Dick gave him. "Then we shall research," he nods. "Together."