Chapter Text
The rhythmic, near-silent clicking of the Batcomputer's mechanical keyboard was the only sound echoing through the cavernous space. Tim didn't look up when the elevator doors hissed open, nor did he look up when light, deliberate footsteps stopped exactly three feet behind his rolling chair.
Damian stood with his arms crossed, tracking the slight tremor in Tim’s hand as it reached for an empty mug. Tim tilted it back, realised for the third time that hour that it was empty, and set it down with a muted sigh.
"Your structural integrity is pathetic, Drake," Damian said, his voice cutting through the hum of the servers.
Tim didn't even blink. "Go away, Damian. I'm tracking the Falcone shipment."
"You are tracking a monitor with pupils so dilated you resemble a rabid raccoon," Damian countered smoothly. He stepped forward and aggressively shoved a small plastic container into Tim’s immediate line of sight, blocking the screen. Inside were precisely sliced green apples and three high-protein energy bars.
Tim stared at the container, baffled. "What is this?"
"Trash," Damian scoffed, looking away and smoothing down his tunic. "Alfred prepared too many. He insisted they not go to waste, and I refuse to let the kitchen's efforts be insulted by throwing them in the incinerator. Eat them so I can reclaim the container."
"I'm not hungry," Tim muttered, trying to lean around Damian to see his spreadsheets.
Damian shifted his weight, intentionally blocking the monitor again. His eyes narrowed, scanning the sharp line of Tim's jaw and the way his collarbones practically threatened to cut through his oversized hoodie. "It is not a request. Your wrist mass has decreased by an acceptable tactical margin over the last three weeks. If you faint on patrol, I will be forced to carry your dead weight back to the Batmobile, which will severely compromise my response times. You are a liability."
Tim rubbed his eyes, too exhausted to fight the youngest Robin's logic. He popped the lid and took a slice of apple. "Fine. See? I'm eating. Now leave."
Damian gave a single, stiff nod of satisfaction, turned on his heel, and marched back toward the manor stairs.
Ten minutes later, Damian slipped into Bruce’s private study upstairs. Bruce was reviewing Wayne Enterprises financials at his desk, barely looking up as his youngest son entered.
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Damian walked to the bookshelf, casually pulled out a leather-bound history text, and flipped through the pages with an air of complete detachment.
"Father," Damian said, his tone entirely conversational.
"Yes, Damian?" Bruce replied, still reading.
"If Drake expires from blatant self-neglect on the Cave floor, the subsequent cleanup and investigation will severely disrupt my training schedule. Not to mention the biohazard protocols."
Bruce paused, his pen hovering over the paper. He looked up, his brow furrowing. "What did Timothy do?"
"He has forgotten the basic biological necessity of caloric intake again," Damian said, closing the book with a sharp snap and sliding it back into its slot. "His cognitive functions are entirely degraded by starvation. I have delayed his imminent collapse with basic rations, but his upkeep is your responsibility as the team leader.
See to it that he is handled. It is deeply annoying."
Without waiting for a response, Damian turned and swept out of the room, leaving the door wide open. Bruce stared at the empty doorway for a long moment, sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and stood up to go make a sandwich.
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Bruce found Tim exactly where Damian said he would be: hunched over the Batcomputer, the blue light of the monitors casting deep shadows under his eyes.
A heavy ceramic plate slid into Tim’s peripheral vision, resting right over his keyboard’s numpad. On it sat a massive, thick-cut turkey sandwich and a fresh glass of orange juice.
Tim didn't even look up. "Damian already tried the food angle, Bruce. I ate the apples. I'm fine."
"The apples were an appetiser," Bruce said, his voice low and steady. He pulled up a rolling chair from a nearby workstation and sat down next to his third son. He didn't yell, and he didn't snatch the mouse away. He just sat there, an immovable wall of parental concern. "Eat, Tim."
"I have to finish mapping this grid—"
"The grid will be there in twenty minutes," Bruce interrupted gently. He reached out, his large hand gently tapping the top of Tim’s head, smoothing down a stray lock of greasy, unwashed hair. "Your brother is worried about you."
Tim paused, his fingers freezing over the keys. He finally turned his head to look at Bruce. "Damian? Worried? He told me I was a structural liability and that my wrists looked weird."
A tiny, incredibly rare smirk tugged at the corner of Bruce’s mouth. "In Damian-speak, that means he’s been tracking your caloric intake for a week and went to my study to demand I fix it before you collapse. He cares, Tim. He just expresses it through… threat assessments." He offered with a smile.
Tim blinked, looking down at the sandwich, then at the empty plastic container Damian had left behind. A strange, warm, tightly coiled knot in his chest loosened just a fraction. He hadn't realised people were watching that closely. He hadn't realised Damian was watching.
Slowly, Tim reached out and picked up half the sandwich. His hands really were shaking. He took a bite, and the moment the food hit his stomach, his body practically screamed at him in realisation of how starving he actually was. He finished the first half in four bites.
"Slow down," Bruce chided softly, sliding the orange juice closer. "Alfred would have a stroke if he saw you inhaling food like a feral dog."
"S'good," Tim mumbled around a mouthful of turkey and cheese.
They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes while Tim ate. Bruce didn't push him about the case, and he didn't lecture him about self-care. He just stayed there, making sure the food actually went down.
Up on the catwalk overlooking the Batcave, hidden in the deep shadows near the costume displays, a small figure stood perfectly still. Damian watched Tim finish the sandwich and take a long drink of the juice. He saw the slight tremor in Tim's hands subside.
"Tt," Damian muttered to himself, crossing his arms over his chest. "Competence restored. Barely."
Satisfied that his tactical partner was no longer a fainting hazard, the youngest Robin turned on his heel and slipped silently back up to the manor, entirely refusing to admit the massive wave of relief settling in his chest.