The Batcave hummed with low, mechanical sounds—the steady whir of the Batcomputer, the faint buzz of the monitors, and the rapid, chaotic tapping of Tim Drake’s foot.

He was hunched forward, pupils dilated and uneven, face pale with dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. A mug of long-cold coffee trembled in his hand, the fifth one in a row. His focus was sharp, hyper, locked onto the data in front of him like the world would end if he blinked.

He didn’t notice Bruce stopping by earlier, sternly ordering him to take a break. He didn’t notice Alfred quietly setting down a plate of warm food, or later returning to remove it untouched.

He didn’t even notice the elevator doors sliding open—

But he definitely noticed when someone loudly, dramatically sighed from behind him.

“Let me guess,” Connor Kent said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You haven’t slept, eaten, or stood up in like… two days?”

Tim blinked slowly at the screen. “Connor?”

Connor walked in, stopping next to him and staring at the coffee mugs like they’d offended him personally. “Dick let me in. Said you were probably in goblin mode.”

Tim frowned. “I was working. There was a potential connection between—”

“Nope. Don’t care.” Connor stepped closer, crouched down to Tim’s eye level, and gently cupped his face. “You missed our date, Tim. I get it, you get obsessive, but this? You look like a sleep-deprived cryptid.”

Tim muttered, “Still functioning.”

Connor didn’t even respond. He just straightened up—and before Tim could protest—slid one arm under Tim’s knees and the other around his back.

“Connor—!?”

“Not a word. You’re done,” Connor said firmly, already carrying him toward the elevator. “You’re sleeping twelve hours minimum, and I’m going to personally make sure you do. No more Batgremlin Tim.”

“I have things to—”

“You have a bed. That’s what you have.”

Tim sighed. But he didn’t resist.