Work Text:
There is a strict schedule enforced in the Batcave. No working on a case past three in the morning. No physical training past two. Everyone upstairs by three-thirty. When on the Batcomputer, you must take a break every three hours at least. All of these rules go out the window the second Alfred went on vacation.
It was a lawless land, and Tim planned to take full advantage. He had been in front of the Batcomputer for ten hours already, and he had no plan of stopping any time soon. He was so close to unraveling a criminal empire spanning seven states, worth billions of dollars, and made up of almost two thousand people. He was going to bring them to the ground. He was going to make them weep at the sound of his name. He was going to burn their empire down without even leaving his seat.
The pain clawing up into his skull would not stop him. The room hadn't gotten tippy since he stopped turning his chair. He couldn't feel the nausea through the tunnel vision. He was white knuckling the mouse to fight off the waver in his hand. Years of overworking himself made him immune to hand cramps. Tim Drake was a force of nature. He was stronger than the drug trade. He was definitely stronger than his own body. All he needed was another hour or two and the world would see proof of it.
Footsteps brought Tim out of his focus like a spiderweb to the face. He whipped to glare at the source. He was the picture of rage. He kept perfectly upright despite the return of the tipping. At the very least, Bruce had the dignity to look apologetic. He shifted, pushing forward a half full glass of something blended, a full one in his other hand.
“The blender holds more than the glass does.”
That was hardly worth the interruption. But Bruce was already leaving, so it didn't really matter. He pulled the glass over with his free hand and returned to working. A few minutes passed and he was back in full focus.
Not even half an hour later, the sound of an engine struck through the cave. Dick Grayson was a traitor and an asshole. His focus was ruined for the second time, and he was furious. He turned around again. Dick had no shame for his blatant disregard for the workflow. He marched straight up to the desk, and revealed a monstrosity of dough and condiments. It looked ready to collapse under its own weight. He looked disgustingly proud of it.
“You’re never gonna guess what they let me deep fry,” even Dicks voice was gratingly ignorant of his fury. Tim glared harder, but Dick just kept going, “There’s a restaurant that lets you get anything on the menu fried”
Oh god he was just gonna keep talking. Tim started to turn away, “That’s nice,”
Dick didn’t even blink, just kept going, “like a corn dog, and they have so many sauces that you can put on it, and I couldn’t choose just one,”
He was going to have to cut this off. Tim huffed, and let the annoyance seep into his voice, “Okay, I don’t think-”
Dick ignored the interruption again, “so I used a bunch, and it turned out pretty good, so I got you one, cause Jason would think it’s weird and Dami can’t have it and Steph is with friends-”
“Stop.”
That got Dick to listen, though he looked more like a disappointed mother than someone recognizing they were being a bother.
“If I eat it will you let me work?”
The smug look was back immediately. “Only if you tell me what you think when you’re done!” Dick dropped the abomination on the desk on his way to the elevator. Finally, it was quiet again. Tim rolled his eyes as he picked up the plastic fork, stabbing at the dough blob with prejudice. It’s an entire half of a sandwich. What the fuck.
When Tim gets focused, the rest of the world gets shut out. He runs on autopilot, only noticing things relevant to the task at hand. He does not realise he's actually eaten the sandwich-dough-sauce abomination. Sadly, or maybe luckily, he is trained for work in hostile environments, and the sound of heavy footfall shatters his focus. Whipping around to face the third interruption of the night, Tim opened his mouth to berate whoever dared to bother him yet again. Before he could speak, a spoonful of fried rice was shoved into his mouth. Jason was holding a full bowl, and looking vaguely annoyed. As if he was the one being inconvenienced.
“Well?”
Tim swallowed, not even trying to act nice at this point, “What do you mean well? You didn't say anything!”
“The food. What'd you think?” Jason looked at him like this was obvious, and a normal thing to do.
“You couldn't ask someone who isn't busy? You had to interrupt me?” It was like the world was conspiring to keep him from getting things done. Jason was still staring expectantly. He was famously stubborn, he was not going to leave without an answer. He definitely wasn't going to admit this was weird. “Whatever. Fine. It's good, this is a better sauce than last week.” That was enough to please him. Jason walked back to the elevator. Hoping to finally get some work done, Tim turned back to his desk. The bowl and spoon were still there. Of course it was.
He didn't even get hands back on the keyboard before another engine came into the batcave. Steph was climbing off her bike with a plastic bag, evidently taking advantage of Alfred’s leave to get snacks in costume. She bounced up to the desk, eying the growing pile of dirty dishes. It wasn't his fault. As she passed on her way to the elevator, her arm sung out, and something smacked into Tim's face. The elevator closed on Steph, protecting her from any retaliation. Turning to his lap, Tim held up the packet of fruit leather he'd been slapped with. At least she was efficient.
Twenty minutes passed where he was blissfully alone and unbothered. He found dozens of new names, and six more warehouses. He could get so much done when he was actually allowed to work. He was not allowed to work, evidently. Damian strode up to his desk, and shoved a takeout container towards him.
“They clearly do not understand what no meat means. You eat it, I will see what Todd has made, and never order their food again.”
“Sure, whatever.”
Tim pulled the box over, pulling up the lid and revealing a row of kebabs. At least he can eat them one handed. The elevator dinged as it arrived to carry Damian upstairs on his crusade for a proper dinner. Or would it be breakfast, by now? Doesn't matter, he was halfway done, and he wasn't shaking at all anymore. Even the headache was fading. He turned back to his work, and readied to get shit done.
The monitors were all black. One flicked back on, showing Barbara at her desk. Shit. Godamnit. Why would nobody let him just work?
“Tim. You've been online since eleven in the morning. It's almost ten at night. You’re done. Go to bed.”
“What? I'm so close. Just one more hour, and I'll be done.”
“No. Cass? Get him to bed.”
Tim whirled around, Cass was standing tall right behind him. She raised her eyebrow, daring him to try shit. With a sigh, he accepted his fate, and stood to follow her. He trudged to the elevator, looking up to see Duke holding a mug of cocoa. Small mercies.