Maybe he does it because finding small spaces was his go-to when his senses felt like they were on the fritz. Attending galas as a kid, his skin starting to prickle, colors getting too sharp and tittering voices too grating. Cue Tim on the verge of a meltdown, while Janet's at a loss, and Tim being a terrible pretender anyway.

Squeezing into confined areas has always been his instinctive response, to regain control in chaos. It never felt claustrophobic, not like it would to Diсk.

Bruce taught him better methods to deal with his thing—as Tim calls it—but old habits die hard.

Now, when he's half-asleep, maybe it's his autopilot kicking in. Sure, it's not very endearing when he naps in the laundry basket, still in his grimy suit, but Tim tries. At least he makes it to the bathroom instead of falling asleep in the hallway.

It's not a small basket. Tim has a lot of laundry, what with all his Red Robin gear needing a good wash after a strenuous patrol. Technically, you bought it, but you've grown comfortable sharing belongings since moving in together.

Tim vaguely recalls something about laundry baskets in your bedroom being a feng shui no-no, but the rules about sleeping in one? That's a mystery.

Alfred's already tutted about his odd habit during his Robin days. But Tim can't resist the allure of the basket. It's cozy, next to the warm dryer, and smells like your detergent—a far nicer scent than Tim's usual one.

The basket's not exactly ergonomic, even if it's marginally softened with a layer of linen, and he's hardly a kid anymore. His limbs dangle awkwardly over the edges, while the hard plastic creaks under his weight—Tim is too exhausted to pay it any mind.

"Mhm." A sleepy grunt escapes Tim's lips, accompanied by a dribble of drool.