Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tim was never quite the same after he came back, and Dick doesn’t know what changed.

He’s still Tim, of course. The same dorky kid who solves brain teasers before breakfast and who challenges Cass to staring contests when they fight over the last lemon square. He’s still Dick’s little brother.

But ever since he came back from what they all thought was the dead, there’s a frosty barrier keeping him at arm’s length. And Dick doesn’t know how high that barrier might be. But Tim is changed, and that alone is a tragedy.

He keeps having dreams, and Dick wants so badly to do something to help, but there’s nothing he can say to him that would be more than half-hearted words of comfort. It’s always hard seeing his siblings in pain. Turns out it’s so much worse when Dick can’t do anything but watch it happen, knowing exactly what happened to reduce them to this state.

How can I fix this? he wants to ask. How do I make it so you stop flinching every time someone places a glass of juice down too loudly?

How do I scrub away whatever you went through and restore the old Tim Drake?

How do I make it stop feeling like I’m talking to a ghost?

He’s pretty sure Tim’s nightmares are of the cell he was kept in. He hasn’t told anyone what it was like—yet, or ever—and Dick selfishly doesn’t want him to. It’s painful enough consulting Bruce’s old psychology textbooks in the library under the cover of night, reading up on extreme isolation and the heinous effects it can have on one’s mind. He usually stops reading after the first few pages.

If he had the guts, Dick would have asked about it a long time ago—what Tim went through during the time he was away, what it was about the solitude and hopelessness that stole half of him and replaced it with mist. It’s clear that there are scars inside of him; remnants of a year of isolation that Tim can’t hide forever.

Tim doesn’t wake up screaming or crying the way he did after his dad died. Is it horrible that Dick wishes he did? He’s never seen Tim more terrified than when he stutters awake after so little sleep, eyes panicked and breaths coming in quick, but he doesn’t scream. He barely makes any noise at all, and somehow that’s worse than if he were sobbing.

Dick’s only seen it happen a handful of times so far. Nights when Tim’s passed out on the couch or at his desk, only to be jolted awake before he’s had any real rest by products of his own mind, come to bully him again.

When Tim was a kid, Dick’s go-to method of consoling him through nightmares was through hugs and cuddles, but Tim always shoved Dick away, insisting that he wasn’t a baby. Now, for a reason Dick can’t explain, Tim is the one drawing Dick in for affection these days.

And it’s not just Dick. It’s not uncommon to walk into a room and find Tim clinging to Bruce’s arm, sitting so close to Stephanie he’s practically in her lap, holding Cass’ hand across the couch. Like a kid who’s afraid of getting lost in a grocery store, Tim is seemingly always touching someone, or is at least in close proximity.

The strangest part is that he never outright asks. He’s subtle in the way he goes about it. Sitting in the middle of the sofa so you have no choice but to sit next to him. Slowly inching closer until his arm brushes against yours before he settles down again, content. Other times, he just forces his way into your space like a cat, and you have to just deal with it.

It’s irony at its finest, really. Dick just got used to comforting Tim from afar so he’d be more comfortable; asking if he’s okay rather than pulling him into an embrace right from the get-go. But now? Now the second Tim’s out of whatever flashback claimed him, his head picks up and he’s out of his chair or bed or couch as soon as his eyes land on Dick, clinging to him like he’s that thirteen-year-old boy again, needing his big brother to save him from the storm.

And it’s not just dreams, Dick soon discovers. Tim’s trauma is bone-deep and unyielding when given just the slightest push.

Today Tim holds a press conference following whatever new groundbreaking idea Wayne Enterprises is launching at the moment. Dick has learned that it’s easier not to pay attention to the business side of their family, as it’s the only boring part of their life. As the new CEO, however, Tim is somewhat of a pillar in that world these days.

It’s the only reason Dick came to the conference at all. Tim has been topping the headlines since he returned from his “long vacation in Jamaica” and began putting his new regime into effect. Dick is happy to provide moral support.

Tim’s just announced that he’s opening a new branch of the company to accomplish blah blah blah, and is met with the expected bombardment of questions from eager reporters. They close in fast, each with a new inquiry or accusation. As per the usual.

Dick loses interest fast after that. He switches his attention to his phone and finds that Wally sent him a flurry of memes, which of course Dick has to forward to Barbara because he’s a good person, damn it. Speaking of his lovely redheads, he should really call Roy up one of these days.

Ever since Roy decided to join the dark side and become Jason’s best friend, he and Dick don’t see each other as much anymore, which is just plain rude. Dick makes a note to break into Roy’s apartment later this week and leave some toothpaste-filled water balloons under the couch cushions. That’ll rekindle the friendship for sure.

Dick glances up as he’s shooting Wally a text, sees Tim doing just fine, and goes back to add a tasteful eggplant emoji, which— Wait.

He looks back at Tim, and a nervous feeling grows in the pit of his stomach. Because Tim’s arms are wrapped around his middle, his skin is sickly pale—when did that happen?—and even from across the room Dick can see how his chest is heaving. Which is wrong. Everything about this is wrong.

For as long as Dick’s known him, Tim has been so in his element at these things. He’s never backed down from the press, which is definitely the product of growing up in this exact environment.

Today, however, Tim is the opposite of his usual composed self. He backs away from the press as they press (ha) in, his eyes flashing something fearful. The reporters and cameras are unrelenting as their voices blur into a rumble and the flashing lights reflect in Tim’s wide eyes. He looks like a cornered fox.

Tim’s eyes manage to track down Dick in the crowd, and the moment they make contact, Dick knows something is definitely, positively wrong. It’s no secret that Tim’s anxiety causes him to get overwhelmed a lot, but he’s developed a knack for pushing down the panic and solidifying his smooth facade until he can deal with it in private.

Neither Dick nor Bruce approves of his method, but it’s one of Tim’s unhealthy habits everyone’s more or less given up on trying to improve. That isn’t what this is, though. He can see it in Tim’s eyes that he is scared, and the way he’s trying to make himself look smaller is a clear tell that Dick needs to get to him as soon as humanly possible.

Dick shoulders his way through the crowd, watching as Tim goes from “slightly paler version of Tim Drake-Wayne” to “local boy in the midst of a full-on panic attack” in seconds. By the time Dick gets to him, Tim’s pupils are blown so wide he can’t see the blue of his irises anymore.

Dick puts his hands on Tim’s shoulders, hoping that the weight is enough to ground him. “Are you okay?”

Tim’s Adam’s apple bobs. His teeth chatter, and he shakes his head. He tries to squirm out from under Dick’s hands, but he tightens his grip.

“Mr. Drake-Wayne isn’t taking any more questions,” Dick announces with what hopefully passes for authority as he wraps his arm around Tim and holds his body in front of him, leading him away from the crowd. Tim is shaking.

Dick takes him through the back door and they duck around a corner until they are in a secluded hallway off to the side of the main room. The instant they’re in the open space Tim pulls himself away from Dick, shuddering.

He’s still panting, like his lungs are being squeezed. When Dick takes a step forward, though, Tim holds out a shaky hand, keeping Dick at a distance.

“Is this better?” Dick asks. He stands with his back against the opposite wall, arms wrapped around himself because it’s the only way to resist crossing the three feet between them and sheltering Tim in his arms again.

Tim nods, swallowing. He’s tapping his fingertips in some pattern Dick can’t track, but it seems to do the job in calming him down. “Just—Just give me a second.”

How is it that even during an anxiety attack you manage to stay so calm? Dick doesn’t ask. Worst of all, he doesn’t ask if the reason for that is because Tim’s gotten better at doing things alone since he’s had more than enough practice this past year.

But Dick obeys and waits it out, keeping an eye on Tim all the while. He’s leaning back against the wall, taking measured breaths with his eyes squeezed shut. His lips move as he mutters to himself, but Dick can’t tell what he’s saying. Tim did mention that he used to talk to himself when he was imprisoned.

Dick watches as Tim shakes out his hands, like he’s getting back into his body again. His breathing has slowed to a normal rhythm, and Dick dares to break the silence. “You okay now?”

Tim’s head bobs in what could pass for a yes or a no gesture, which isn’t very helpful.

“What freaked you out this time?”

This time Tim actually shakes his head. Progress. “N-Nothing.”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing.”

“Sorry,” Tim forces out, as if his voice is being squeezed through a coffee straw. “I thought I could—could handle it.” He’s shaking his head again, but Dick can’t tell if he’s directing it at Dick or at himself.

“You don’t need to apologize. I just want to know what happened so I can help you better next time.”

“There won’t be a next time,” Tim says. “I just—I lost control today. One time thing.” He braces his hands on his knees, gaze repeatedly darting to the ceiling like he expects it to fall on top of him. Maybe it is.

“Tell me anyway?”

Tim looks at him then, his eyes squinty at the corners. His hair falls in half-ringlets in front of his forehead. Dick pushes down the urge to brush them away. “It was a space thing. No big deal.”

“Space thing?”

“You know, my...bubble? There were people...everywhere. Everything was so close and tight and I couldn’t move, and—” He shudders down to his legs. “It was too much for me to...process, I think.”

Dick nods. “So you have claustrophobia.”

“No.”

“What would you call it, then?”

Tim pushes himself up straighter with a palm against the wall. His chin is lifted so he’s staring Dick in the eye. “A temporary side effect. Which means you can forget about it.” There’s an unsaid please in there. An unsaid, please just let my pieces crumble and trust that I can reassemble them myself.

“I won’t, but thanks,” Dick says. He’s smiling, but his mind tosses and turns. “What’s the difference, then? Between what happened today and what happens every other time?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know. Today you were forced into a crowded space and it freaked you out, while other times you’re perfectly fine with being touched and stuff. I was just wondering if you could...you know. Clarify some of that.”

Tim lolls his head back until it thumps against the wall behind him, reminding Dick of Damian when he’s forced to endure conversation with someone truly clueless. Usually that person is Dick.

“When humans are isolated for long periods of time, they’re starved for physical contact afterwards to make up for the loss.” He speaks like he’s reading off a page—no emotion or bias. “Then there’s the fact that I spent a year stuck in a tiny, eight-by-eight metal cell with no human interaction whatsoever. People who’ve been in extreme isolation a quarter of the time that I was in there for lose their minds after just a few weeks.” He arches a nihilistic eyebrow at that, and there’s just enough Tim in the action that a corkscrew in Dick’s lung loosens.

“So...you’re touch-starved too?”

“Something like that.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, only adding to how tired he looks. The next time someone makes the executive decision to put a seventeen-year-old child through this kind of shit, Dick is going to track that person down and punch them in the throat.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No. It’s fine,” Tim says—breathy, like the reassurance is more for himself than Dick. He straightens his shoulders out; fixes the cuffs of his button-down. “I just have to keep stimulating my mind and get back into the swing of things and it’ll—I’ll make it work.” He puts a hand to his forehead, and there’s a slope to his shoulders than makes Dick wonder when the last time Tim slept was.

“Yeah, no,” Dick says. “I’m taking you back home. Lucius can deal with the press, and we can go watch The Brady Bunch or something equally vintage, yeah?”

Tim blinks. “But...I have stuff to do.”

“So? You know how to multitask, right?”

Tim stares at Dick for a long time, weighing the options in that big brain of his. “All right,” he says, finally. “Just for a little while, until all of...this stops.” He sends a scathing glare to his still-twitching fingers, like his body needs to do something with all the pent-up anxiety.

Dick grins and wraps his arm around Tim’s shoulders. Tim stiffens like he’s been burned, and Dick drops it. “Sorry,” Tim says, “it’s not you, just—”

“I get it.” Dick puts more space between Tim and himself and takes a loose hold of Tim’s wrist. “This okay?”

Tim chews his lip for a second before nodding.

“All right.”

Tim isn’t quite the same as he was before he came back. But slowly, Dick can see the fragments of who he used to be coming back together, piece by piece.