Tim Drake was over it. The “boy genius” label had officially become his villain origin story. Everywhere he went, someone had something to say. At Wayne Enterprises — “You’re the tech prodigy, right?” At press events — “Could you hack NASA if you wanted?” Even in the cave — “Hey, Tim, can you fix this?”

He could. He always could. That was the problem.

For a week straight, he hadn’t slept more than three hours at a time. Between Bruce’s new encryption systems, Damian’s school project, and Jason’s sudden “I wanna start a podcast,” he was running purely on caffeine and trauma.

He looked like death. Pale, twitchy, eyes rimmed with red. Alfred tried to ground him with tea. It didn’t work. You’d tried too — stealing his laptop, hiding his coffee, even threatening to break his stylus. He just got another one.

So by Friday night, Tim wasn’t awake so much as he was still running on the fumes of his own existence.

He sat at the kitchen counter, hoodie up, half a dozen monitors open in front of him, fingers flying over the keyboard.

Jason wandered in first. “You look like a corpse, Replacement.”

Tim didn’t even glance up. “You look like a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

Jason blinked. “...Fair.”

A pause.

Then Dick appeared, cheerful and too awake. “Hey, genius, can you check if my comm still buzzes when I—”

“NO,” Tim snapped, slamming a key. “I am not tech support today!”

That shut everyone up for a solid five seconds.

Then Damian, ever the menace, muttered, “You are literally tech support.”

Tim’s head dropped to the counter with a dull thud.

You leaned against the doorway, half amused, half concerned. “You good?”

“Define good,” he mumbled into the marble.

Bruce entered mid-chaos, stopping when he saw the scene — monitors, empty mugs, and a dead-eyed Tim face-planted next to a keyboard. “Tim.”

“Bruce.”

“Have you slept?”

“Define slept.”

Jason snorted. “He’s losing it.”

“I’m fine,” Tim said flatly, voice muffled. “I just need a nap. Or a lobotomy.”

“Language,” Bruce muttered automatically.

“I didn’t curse.”

“You were thinking about it.”

Tim lifted his head, dark circles shadowing his eyes. “I’m always thinking about it.”

Silence.

Then Dick started laughing. “Oh my god, you’re so dramatic.”

Tim pointed at him, too drained to stand. “Keep talking, Pretty Boy, I’ll replace your shampoo with industrial dye.”

Jason choked on his drink.

Damian smirked. “Do it.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing like he’d aged ten years. “Everyone out. Tim—get some rest.”

“Can’t,” Tim muttered, spinning his chair. “Got code running.”

“Timothy.”

He paused, then looked up with tired defiance. “What if I don’t want to?”

Bruce just stared.

Tim wilted instantly. “Okay. Nap. Got it.”

As the others shuffled out, Jason patted his shoulder. “Boy genius meltdown complete.”

Tim groaned into his hoodie. “I hate all of you.”

“You love us,” Dick teased, ruffling his hair.

“I tolerate you out of obligation.”

But there was a small, almost invisible smile there.

A few minutes later, the cave was quiet. Monitors still glowed faintly. Coffee still steamed. And Tim—Gotham’s boy genius, problem solver, and tech god—was slumped over his desk, finally asleep mid-keystroke.

Bruce walked by an hour later, glanced down at him, and whispered under his breath, “Proud of you, kid.”

Tim didn’t hear it. But maybe he didn’t have to.