A/N: This is ridiculous and fluffy and half-assed, but hey, I did something. It started out humorous, but then somehow went serious and then somewhere else entirely? I don't know. I realize that canonically Alfred's waffles are not a thing of beauty and deliciousness, but I just needed waffles to happen, okay. Also, I fully appreciate all bands/musicians mentioned (as does Tim), but for some reason I feel that Dick and Jason would be snobs about this, so. Again, the gap between updates is inexcusable and I am a pathetic, lazy unicorn. My apologies. Happy reading and please review!

"We have to remember what's important in life: friends, waffles, and work. Or waffles, friends, work. Doesn't matter, but work is third." –Leslie Knope, Parks and Recreation.

Tim has not come out of his room—except to procure the barest rations and to use the bathroom—for three days. Those brief moments when he does emerge are characterized by glazed eyes, monosyllabic grunts, and zombie-like posture and shuffling.

Tim does not make an attractive zombie, not like Jason does, if he does say so himself.

As if that weren't cause enough for worry, there are strange… sounds… emitting from behind Tim's closed door. Each member of their little band of misfit toys takes turns strolling casually past the teen's room and pretending they are not invading anyone's privacy—please, Dick, you are literally wearing a path in the carpet.

And, okay fine, Jason has maybe walked by a few times. It's not like he can get to his room without passing Tim's, okay.

The first day of Tim's self-imposed exile is characterized by the twang-y, sedate murmur of Tim's weird indie rock music and the calm tap of keys on a laptop. Passes on the second day reveal unintelligible mumblings, weird thumps, and Alfred's report that the coffee urn is now magically empty after he refilled it yesterday.

But it's not until the third day of the hermitage that they really start to worry.

"Oh my God," Dick whispers, horrified, ear pressed to the crack between the door and the wall.

"I know," Jason says from his position next to his brother, flattened against the polished wood. "It's gone too far."

"This crosses the line," Dick agrees.

"What? What crosses the line? Grayson," Damian demands, attempting to squeeze himself between his brothers' legs to better hear whatever it is that is capable of unsettling two of the world's most unshakable vigilantes.

"Shhh!" They both hiss at him, legs locking so that the boy slides to his knees, right arm wedged between them, face mushed into the back of Jason's knee.

"What is wrong with Drake?" Damian whisper-shrieks in response.

Dick, seemingly incapable of words, reaches behind him and hauls Damian to the front, placing the small shell of his ear to the door.

"What are you doing," Jason squawks quietly. He snatches the youngest from Dick's hold, covering the child's ears with his big hands. "You'll traumatize him! He'll never develop a normal, healthy taste in music."

Damian blinks. "What…was that?"

Jason smacks his forehead, glaring. "See? You've ruined him."

Dick sighs dramatically. "He'll recover. It's Tim I'm worried about. Hours of exposure, Jay, hours. Maybe days."

Jason nods, expression tragic. "It may be too late. I knew he was stressed, but I didn't realize it had reached early 2000's pop levels."

"Not just early 2000's. Avril Lavigne. He has reached Avril Lavigne level stress. I thought Blink-182 was as bad as it gets. Last time he hit Third Eye Blind and I thought he was going to give himself a heart attack. Or an aneurysm."

"I thought he was going to give me an aneurysm with Britney Spears. God. That poor child." Jason shakes his head, then stops, cocking his head. "Wait…no, it can't be. Shit, he's starting in on Shania Twain!"

"Oh God," Dick chokes, tearing for the stairs. "Get in there! I'll get the waffles!"

Jason bursts through the door, rattling it on its hinges, just as Shania declares she feels like a woman. Dick is a distant voice shouting for emergency waffles, and Damian remains an avidly staring puddle where they dropped him in the doorway.

It takes Jason a moment to locate his brother in the dimness of the room. The curtains on the large window are drawn closed, and only the bluish light of Tim's computer illuminates the room.

Tim is curved over the glowing screen of his laptop, sitting crisscross-applesauce on his rumpled comforter. The high collar of his sweatshirt and his hunched shoulders combine to give him the appearance of a slightly grumpy turtle. He doesn't acknowledge Jason's noisy entrance, but rather continues typing and the garbled mumbling that precludes either a breakthrough or a complete mental meltdown. There are an obscene number of crumpled paper balls surrounding the bed, and even one or two resting on the ceiling fan, but none in the actual trash basket. Tim's foot twitches unconsciously to the bouncy voice of the Canadian pop star, and his hair stands in wispy fluffs of black, mussed from his fingers.

He is wearing what Jason likes to call the Frog Face—eyebrows and mouth scrunched and drawn into flat, parallel lines. It's slightly adorable, but also a sign that Tim is nearing the end of the superhuman, Bruce-like endurance he seems to hold for casework.

Tim doesn't hit walls like normal people, not when it comes to work. Tim runs right through the wall, taking a beating along the way, and pretends that everything is peachy until he's either insensible or unconscious.

Jason eases closer to the bed with the care of one handling a wild animal or an armed bomb.

"Hey, Timmy," he says evenly. "Hey, you precious little vampire, you. What do you say we let some light in here, huh? Sunlight, buddy. Bet you haven't seen that in a few days." He slowly slides the drapes open.

Tim blinks confusedly, hunching further into his shell as the sun slants through his window.

"There we go," Jason soothes. "That wasn't so bad, was it? Alright, now comes the lamp." He flips the switch, and Tim startles, flailing and pushing even more notes onto the floor.

"Wha—phrmmmooff gar—" Tim's eyelids twitch, and he gropes blindly for the enormous thermos of coffee on the nightstand. He chugs and resurfaces. "Jay. What. Busy."

Jason eases nearer. "Yeah, kiddo, but I think it's time for a little break, don't you? Some food, sleep, maybe a shower. Wouldn't that be nice?"

Tim mumbles something that sounds vaguely like "sleep is for the weak" and proceeds to type faster.

"Tim. Replacement. Timmers," Jason singsongs, wading through the sea of paper. "C'mon, Princess Timothy, it's time to rise and shine. Well, actually crash and sleep, but you get the drift."

"Can't," Tim snaps, swatting irritably as Jason flicks his ear. "Too much. Close. Justice!" He exclaims, running out of steam.

"Oooookay." Jason pries the thermos from his brother's hands, Tim stretching as far as he can while still keeping his eyes on the screen. His fingers slide squeakily off the cup and he subsides with a whine. It's not until Jason reaches for the laptop that Tim begins to truly struggle.

Jason's fingers grip the computer, and Tim is suddenly made all of sharp elbows, knees, and kicking feet. "Give it up, Replacement," Jason grits, foot planted in Tim's chest, pushing, while he holds the laptop high and Tim mimics a cross between silly putty and an octopus—elastic and too many arms.

Jason's superior muscles win the tug of war and Tim flops boneless back onto the bed, moaning like Jason has just severed one of his limbs.

"Progress," Jason huffs, out of breath. He shuts the laptop, effectively killing Tim's horrific taste in music.

"Bat-Baby," he calls to the lump of little brother in the hall. "Give me a status update on the waffles." The lump moves, rolling to the edge of the stairwell.

Tim ceases moaning for a brief moment. "Waffles?" he slurs hopefully.

"Yeah, Pretender. Damian. Where are the psycho's waffles?"

Damian peeps back in. "Grayson says they will be up in five minutes. He also requests that you do not handle Timothy with unnecessary force."

Tim keens.

"Replacement, stop that," Jason snaps. "You'll get your precious waffles. Sit up."

Tim struggles mostly upright. "S'ry."

The light hits Tim's face fully now, and Jason softens when he sees the circles, dark like bruises, under the teen's eyes. His hair is even more tumbled now, and he squints painfully.

"Yeah, yeah." His nose wrinkles at the overpowering scent of coffee drifting off the younger boy. "C'mon, kid. Shower time. You smell like coffee and death." Jason leans in and pulls the teen over his shoulder, heading for the bathroom.

Damian, surprisingly, drifts after them. Jason flips on the lights in the gilt and cream bathroom down the hall and places his burden directly in the shower stall. He flicks the curtain closed.

"Strip and wash, slim. You, demon spawn," he orders, as clothes are thrown sluggishly over the barrier, "sit here," he plops the boy on the closed toilet lid, "and yell if the Idiot Wonder there decides to swoon like the delicate flower he is."

Tim makes a faint noise of protest, and Damian grins with unholy delight.

Jason nods, satisfied, and exits to clear Tim's room of the paper avalanche before Alfred has a heart attack.

He sighs at the mess Tim has made of his normally pristine room, steals the larger wastebasket from Dick's room, and gets to work. He clears the bed first, straightening and the sheets and retrieving the pillow from its perch on top of the lamp. The quiet of Tim's room is a welcome peace, with only the distant rush of the water and the crumple of paper to disturb his thoughts. He loves his brothers, he does, but Jesus fucking Christ they're loud. Even when they're silent, in anger or exhaustion or whatever, they're still loud.

He wonders if normal families are like this, too—if they have younger brothers who consistently try to kill each other or waffle emergencies or older brothers who prove that gravity is optional.

Jason hopes not. Arkham would not have enough cells.

The sweep and grab of his hands is automatic now, so he's startled when his fingers brush something cold and plastic and whatever is in his hand rattles instead of crinkling.

Amidst the rejected notes in his hand, there is an unlabeled bottle of pills.

And they sure as hell ain't Tick Tacks.

He is suddenly incredibly tired, angry, and worried all at once, and he lowers himself to the mattress, elbows on knees. His brothers' noise has grown closer, and he hears the murmur of Dick's voice and the shuffle of several pairs of feet.

Dick glides backward into the room, balancing a steaming plate of crispy waffles in one hand. The other hand nudges a whipped cream smothered waffle against Tim's lips.

"Mmmmm, there we go. Isn't that good, Timmy?" Dick practically coos. Tim mumbles blissfully around a mouthful of golden goodness, eyes at half-mast, stumbling on his feet. A moment later his eyes fly open and he jerks forward. Jason highly suspects Damian, who brings up the rear of the little parade, has pinched his brother from behind.

Jason shoots upright, elbowing past Dick, and encloses Tim's arm in an iron grip, depositing him forcefully on the bed.

"Hey!" Dick protests.

"Waffles," Tim mourns, reaching for the plate with grabby hands and big eyes.

Jason crouches in front of his brother, cupping his rough hand around the teen's jaw, and jerks. Tim's responses are both jittery and sluggish, but he meets Jason's gaze.

His pupils are blown wide, eyes holding laser-focus every few seconds then going glassy again.

Jason swears.

Dick follows the interaction with raised brows. "What the hell, Jay?"

Jason pulls the bottle of pills from his pocket, tosses them to Dick who catches them with one hand. His eyes widen. The waffles are abandoned on the nightstand. Damian moves like the man's shadow.

"He's fucking on something," Jason spits. "Look at his damn eyes."

Dick, forehead creased, squats next to him. Jason tilts Tim's face to him. The teen squirms half-heartedly, but Jason's grasp is firm. He releases the boy when it's obvious Dick has seen, and Tim scoots uncoordinatedly backward until his back rests against the headboard, arms around his drawn knees.

"Tim," Dick says quietly. "What are these?"

"Nothing," Tim stammers. "I—nothing."

"Really?" Jason snarls. "Because they don't look like candy to me. You wanna start talking or do you need a little…motivation?" His hands are fists.

"Jay," Dick chides. "Tim, explain."

"It doesn't matter," Tim mumbles, eyes down.

"Oh, I think it does," Dick says, falsely calm, and Jason can hear that little something that makes this man the terror of Gotham's underbelly. "Would you like to know why, Tim? This is important, because right now I am considering benching Red Robin indefinitely. So, yes, I would very much like to learn what the fuck my little brother is doing with unidentified narcotics."

Dick Grayson, for all his kindness, for all his goofy, happy-go-lucky attitude, has a spine of steel and the world—brothers included—would do well not to forget that.

"I don't—they're not…what you think. They're not dangerous."

Jason laughs, bitter and hard. "That so, Pretender. Pray tell, what precisely are they, then?"

Tim's eyes plead, but he'll find no sympathy with Dick, or with the small shadow of Damian behind them, either. He sighs.

"It's Adderall…with a few modifications. I made them myself!" He hurries on, when Jason and Dick look to start shouting. "I'm not stupid. I didn't go pick them up from some dealer on the street. I did extensive research before I swallowed anything, okay? It's for focus, just when I'm on a case."

"On a case—" Dick thunders. "Do you mean to tell me you took these and then you went on patrol?"

"No!" Tim shakes his head erratically. "Of course not. Deskwork only, I promise. I wouldn't…I wouldn't do that."

"Oh, well, pardon me for doubting," Jason snarks, "because yesterday I wouldn't have thought you—Saint Timothy—would ever be hiding your secret drug addiction. God, we should be on some fucking reality show."

"It's not like that, okay?" Tim snaps. "They're not dangerous. I won't let them be. It's not a big deal."

"Tim," Dick says gently, "anything unnatural you put in your body can be dangerous. If it's no big deal, then why were you hiding it from us?"

"Because I knew you would act like this! I'm careful, alright? I know what my body can take, and I push it, but I'm not reckless. I'm not stupid. I just—I just needed a boost on this case. It's fine. I'm fine."

Jason snorts. "No, kid, you're really not. How many did you take this time?" Tim looks down. "It's more now, isn't it. Adderall is habit forming, and God knows what else you put in there sure isn't helping. At first you took one, right? But now it's more, because you're used to it. You're not quite as sharp as the first time, and you just need that little extra bit to push you to the sweet zone. Just a little bit more and you can have that edge. How many this time, Tim?"

Tim clenches trembling arms tight around knobby knees. He looks anywhere but his brothers—Dick perched on the bed now, Damian glued to his side, and Jason standing, arms crossed and full of righteous fury.

"How many, Tim?" Jason prods.

"Four," he says, small.

"Jesus, Timmy," Dick swears.

"Four," Jason confirms grimly, strangely calm now that Tim isn't fighting. "And look at you, Babybird. You're wrecked. You're focused one second and completely gone the next. You haven't slept in three days and you're a mess."

Jason lowers himself to the bed, pulling his knees up and settling his shoulder against his brother's. Tim's compacted muscle and fine bones seem suddenly frighteningly breakable. They are touching everywhere now—connected at shoulder, hip, knee, ankle—despite the size difference.

"You're not fine. And plowing through cases like there's no tomorrow isn't good for you. It's not worth it, Replacement. At the end of the day, when the chips are down, it's not worth hurting yourself over."

Tim sighs, gusty and exhausted. "I know."

"You do?" Dick blinks, pulling an unusually sedate Damian to sit next to him.

"Yeah. This is—I'm hitting B level intensity, and that's…not always a good thing, not when I need psychostimulants to get me there."

He pauses, and Jason's heart breaks quietly for the young boy who simply, desperately wants his father.

"Plus, I was rationalizing hardcore," Tim continues. "I always rationalize when I know I'm wrong. Bad habit."

Jason smiles privately at Dick. There's the Tim they know and love.

"So?" Dick rattles the bottle in his hand, and Tim flushes in embarrassment.

"I'm sorry. I was stupid and I'm sorry. Flush them, I don't care."

"Hey," Dick smiles, circles his hand around Tim's ankle. "We're all stupid sometimes. I'm sorry I used the Batman voice on you."

Tim's lips curl hesitantly. "It's okay. I deserved it."

"Tough love—what wonders it yields." Jason huffs, knocks his temple into Tim's.

A genteel knock sounds, and Alfred enters a moment later, laden with a fresh, steaming plate of waffles.

"I thought, sirs, that seeing as Master Timothy has eaten only scraps these past days, he might desire a larger portion of waffles." He eyes the cold, uneaten batch on the nightstand distastefully. "I see I was correct."

Tim smiles shyly as Alfred passes the food to Jason and picks up the old plate. "How much did you hear, Alfie?"

"I assure you, Master Tim, that I had no intention of eavesdropping. But the shouting of certain buffoons who disguise themselves as grown men was rather hard to miss. I am well informed."

Tim reddens again. "Alfred, I—"

"There's no need for apologies, child. We all have our skirmishes. Some days are worse than others." The butler skims a calming hand over the boy's disheveled hair. "That said, do try not to destroy your entire room with the next case, sir. There are only so many trees in the forest."

Alfred exits, managing to remove both the cold waffles and the baskets of ruined notes with him in the act.

"I love that man, and yet I am terrified of him," Jason breathes reverently in the butler's absence.

"Amen," Dick intones humbly.

Tim sinks into the bed slowly, weighted heavily on Jason's shoulder. He widens his eyes purposefully, struggling with the crash.

"Hey, now, Replacement. Wait just a minute. Gotta get some waffles in you before you pass out." His hands reach for the plate but meet empty air.

In their silence, Dick and Damian have consumed half the beloved breakfast food. Jason stares reproachfully.

"What?" Dick hums, mouth full. "The Bat-growl made me hungry."

Jason rolls his eyes. "What's your excuse, demon child?"

Damian shrugs. "I wanted them."

"Give me that," Jason snatches the platter, turns to find that Tim is fading fast. "Aw, hell."

He scoops up a waffle and—to Alfred's never-ending horror—folds it like a burrito, dunks it in whipped cream and shoves it at Tim's half-open mouth.

"That's it, Timmy," he coaxes, maneuvering the teen's jaw up and down until the boy wakes just enough to chew for himself. "There we go, nom nom."

Tim begins to make sleepy moans of ecstasy. Dick joins him, and even Damian's usual scowl is transformed into a thing of rainbows, kittens, and bliss.

"Oh my god, it's like heaven blew up in my mouth," Dick whimpers.

Jason closes his eyes, brother heavy on his shoulder and crispy, sugary goodness melting in his mouth.

"God help us the day Alfred's waffles don't fix our problems."