It had been getting worse—noticeably worse.

At first, it was the usual: Tim staying up a little too late, lingering over the Batcomputer, claiming he was just finishing something. But the “just finishing” turned into hours, turned into days without proper sleep, and now…

Now it was bad.

The whole manor could feel it. Tim’s footsteps at odd hours. The microwave humming at 3AM. Lights from the cave bleeding into the house like a silent alarm only the family could hear.

Dick was the first to call it out, of course. He had come down one morning around 7, only to find Tim still at the computer, same hoodie, same mug of coffee—long since cold. Eyes glassy, hands twitching from too much caffeine and not enough rest.

“Tim,” he said carefully, like you talk to someone teetering on a wire. “When was the last time you actually slept?”

Tim didn’t even look up. “I caught a nap.”

Dick walked over, checked the console. “A 23-minute power nap four days ago doesn’t count.”

Steph had tried to pull him into bed, even physically dragged him to the couch once with the promise of a movie and cuddles. He stayed for fifteen minutes, then snuck away the second her eyes closed.

Damian had started leaving herbal tea by the cave entrance. He didn’t say anything about it, and Tim never drank it, but it showed up anyway. Fresh. Every night.

Cass sat with him in silence sometimes. She didn’t tell him to sleep. She just watched. Watched how his hands trembled slightly as he typed. How he blinked longer than usual, like his body was begging for micro-sleeps he wouldn’t give.

Even Alfred was worried—and when Alfred was worried, that meant it had passed the point of manageable.

Bruce said nothing at first, but the others noticed the quiet glances. The way Bruce lingered behind Tim during patrol briefings, or the fact that for the first time, he stopped assigning Tim to late-night watches.

Tonight, it was worse.

Tim was hunched at the computer, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, knee bouncing restlessly. There were four empty coffee cups nearby. Maybe five. His eyes were bloodshot, skin pale, lips slightly chapped.

Dick stood at the cave’s upper railing, arms crossed, watching. “He’s going to crash.”

Bruce stood beside him, jaw tight. “I know.”

“Not just a little crash, Bruce. I mean… bad. His body can’t keep this up.”

“He won’t listen,” Bruce said lowly. “Not yet.”

A beat passed.

Then Alfred entered, carrying a tray—warm milk, soft biscuits, and the sleeping pills Tim refused to take.

“We’ll make him listen,” Alfred said gently, setting the tray down near the desk.

Tim didn’t react right away. But when Alfred placed a hand on his shoulder, his fingers twitched, and his head tilted ever so slightly toward the touch.

He was fading. Slowly. Stubbornly. Burning at both ends.

The family just hoped he’d let them catch him before he burned out completely.