Chapter Text
Timothy Jackson Drake was proud in his knowledge that he was not like other seventeen year olds. Given any opportunity, he would ride that high horse all the goddamn way to town. Admittedly, it had been some time since he'd interacted with his civilian peers, but he distinctly remembered them being vapid, anxious, whiny children. Tim was above that nonsense. He had never needed the stupid, soft, giant hoodies like they wore, or plush keychains clipped to his school bag, or someone to reassure him and hold his hair when he was sick, or to pick him up from school when it rained. It was infantile, and something deep in his chest twisted to look at his peers. So, he didn’t. He didn’t imagine what their simple lives would feel like. He didn’t dwell on how sweats would be so much comfier than suits. He didn’t dare unpick whether his anger could come from a place of envy. Timothy Drake looked on with scorn, and returned to his life as an adult. The title was hard won. Setting aside his genius level intellect that had always rendered him as ‘different’, Tim had numerous adult accolades to his name. Single-handedly, disbelieved by his fellow Robins and threatened with Arkham, he had orchestrated Batman’s rescue from the timestream. After having his role as Robin stolen, he’d created his own mask. Despite Bruce’s return, Tim had kept his independence, being legally emancipated and living alone. He continued to manage a thriving company in Wayne Enterprises, navigating life without a spleen, and keeping his shit both together and absolutely private. Tim Drake was fully competent at being an independent, mature, self-sufficient adult.
Most of the time.
Certain tasks had recently been unusually challenging. It was never the important stuff, like the company or his vigilante work. Tim had that locked down. No, what Tim couldn’t manage was the monotonous drivel of daily existence. Cleaning, personal hygiene, and eating: who needed them anyway? Tim. Tim needed them and he needed them back urgently. The beautiful apartment he worked hard to live in alone? Disgusting. Every surface was littered with dirty mugs and rotten food. Actual bonafide cobwebs traced the edges of the ceiling. Tim had managed to preserve a small path between the piles of laundry and litter, but that was beginning to be intolerable to walk on thanks to an inch of crumbs and a mysterious sticky residue. Tim had investigated the residue with his magnifying glass, like a real detective. Origin remained unidentified. It didn’t help that he was constantly distracted by his body also feeling disgusting. Showering and eating had become insurmountable mountains in his daily routine. Look, he knew he smelled bad, okay? It was still frankly rude that the receptionist at W.E sprayed him with air freshener. His skin had gone grey, and flaked away if he rubbed at it. Long, greasy hair constantly stuck to his face, and the stubble, possibly entering beard territory, itched like crazy. Mats of hair were forming at the back of his head. Prior to his decline, Tim typically weighed in at a healthy 125 pounds. Now, it was 105 on a good day. He didn’t mean to! Food had became repulsive, and it slipped his mind more and more often. Tim had spent one shameful night typing his symptoms into Google, which had accused him of self-neglect with potential causes of executive dysfunction, severe depression, burnout, neurodivergence, trauma, or physical illness. It recommended impossible avenues of resolution such as lowering what you expect of yourself or let a trusted friend or family member support you. The audacity! Tim, if you recall, was fantastically mature and independent.
Luckily, Timothy Drake, the responsible adult, had invented The System. It started as a series of post-it notes slapped to his fridge, but had developed into a beautiful machine of self-care. With The System, everything would be okay and Tim could get back to his work. The key had been to pre-arrange all components, so it would remain functional without Tim’s input. Cleaners were scheduled to attend his apartment twice per week, every week. Wayne Enterprises had implemented catered team lunches, hosted by Mr Drake himself who would never be seen to snub his colleagues by not eating with them. Even if the food tasted like ash. Showering had been an obstacle, as there were few avenues to arrange to have someone take over that task for him, but Tim had settled on a weekly swim with a personal trainer who collected him from his home. Chlorine is technically a disinfectant, it could replicate soap. Maybe. It was adjacent to hygiene at least. Tim had scheduled weekly visits to his barber for a wash and shave. Tim was willing to acknowledge this did not fully rectify the issue of his body odour, but luckily he had a hellion of a receptionist who was more than happy to douse him down with Febreeze daily on his instruction. The System was a work of art. It kept things beautifully functional while Tim explored alternative routes to solve his burnout.
Tim was pretty sure it was burnout. It made some amount of sense as a theory; it had been an...intense year. Not bad! Timothy Drake loved responsibility, and running Wayne Enterprises, and knowing he had saved Batman all alone. These were opportunities for self-development, not isolating traumas that rendered him severely depressed. If Tim was depressed, he’d have simply thrown himself off the roof of his building with no grapple. He hadn’t done that, yet, ergo, Tim was not depressed. Burnout made much more sense. Things were less complex now Batman had returned, but Tim’s research suggested there could be a delay before the dysfunction presented itself. It explained 90% of Tim’s (self-identified) symptoms. The remaining 10% needled at his detective instincts, but The System worked, so Tim ignored that extra little symptom.
Burnout did not appear to provide any explanation for Tim losing time. As much as Tim shoved it to the back of his mind, it kept happening. If it fit the profile of his condition, Tim would argue it was his main symptom, but it didn’t therefore Tim didn’t. Initially, Tim thought he had been taking naps (or fainting due to hypoglycaemia) which would have fit the pattern and supported his diagnosis of burnout. A fog would cloud his mind, he would blink, and then he’d open his eyes to find the sun had set and his coffee was cold. However, the episodes had developed. First, the frequency increased. Based on his deductions, there seemed to have been a month between his first and second episodes. From there, they had spiked to weekly. Tim was now lucky if he got through a single day without a blackout, always after finishing at work but before his night-time activities. The pattern had remained for some time: home, haze, lost memories, wake up on the sofa in silence. Then, the last few times, a change occurred. Tim had come out of the haze to find the television on. It didn’t alarm Tim too much. Reason would dictate that he must be turning it on as he lost consciousness or began to awaken. Typically, the TV would be blaring some sort of child’s cartoon, familiar shows from his own childhood: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Pokemon, Spongebob. It wasn’t Timothy Drake’s typical choice of gritty, adult, true-crime programmes, but Tim didn’t hate it altogether. The drivel was nostalgic, and took him back to a warm fuzzy memory of sugary cereals and his parents home from a dig. Unexpected, but not an absurd behaviour.
Today was absurd. The System had been working to maximal efficiency. Timothy’s trainer had collected him for the morning swim, and Timothy had accomplished 100 lengths before his morning coffee. The receptionist had blasted him with air freshener: fresh linen scent today seemingly. After four hours of meetings and spreadsheets and circling back, Mr Drake had sat down with the team to choke down a sandwich and a handful of fries. His head ached and his stomach twisted, but The System had ensured he was clean and fed and the work was done. Tim remembered the drive home being subdued. His heart rate had been raised. There was a vague memory of entering the elevator, and feeling the haze descend until the gentle music hurt his ears and the walls closed in. If Tim really forced himself, he could unpick a vague memory of stumbling to his sofa and turning on something with a lot of bright colours.
On my way to where the air is sweet, can you tell me how to get...
Tim’s eyes snapped back open. Was that – why the hell was Sesame Street playing? With a wild panic, Tim grabbed the remote, turned off the show, and threw the remote across the room as though that would erase this from existence. Looking down at himself, Tim realised his shirt was unbuttoned and his left shoe missing. What had happened? Groaning, he forced himself to his feet and began to change into his Red Robin suit. Whatever episode had happened, he was fine now and could get back to his normal life, to his work. Tim would never admit it to anyone, but he could sort of understand that he'd been watching the Ninja Turtles, that shit was funny even if it was for kids. But Sesame Street? That wasn’t just for kids, that was for actual foetuses. Trying to remember why he’d been watching it had the fog creeping into his brain again, so he stored that memory firmly in the vault of ‘don’t think about it’. Tim grabbed a pen and a post-it note and tried to scribble down the date, time, and episode he had been watching. Only, his handwriting wasn’t his. Instead of his typical, well-practiced cursive, what appeared looked as though he’d written it with his non-dominant hand. Block print messy lettering spelling out ‘SESME STRET :)’ was scrawled across the bright square of paper. In a moment of weakness, Tim let out a scream of frustration and threw the post-it into his drawer of steadily increasing papers to shred. Blackouts were bad enough, losing fine motor skills would be even harder to mitigate. Annoyed and ready for a solvable mystery, Tim climbed out his window, humming how to get to Sesame Street.
Timothy Drake was at a total fucking loss.