Coffee…because I can count the number of hours I slept last night on one hand.
Tim stares blearily at the coffeepot, waiting what seems like forever for his first pot of the day to finish. His eyes feel gritty and there's a disgusting taste in his mouth that makes him wonder when the last time was that he brushed his teeth.
Behind him, someone makes a comment and another person laughs. He ignores them and waits.
"Pretty sure that coffee pot isn't going to fill faster if you stare at it, Timmy." It takes a moment before Tim's able to place a name to the voice. Dick.
"What is that saying about a watched pot?" Damian.
"How much sleep did you get last night?" Bruce.
He ignores them all. Coffee doesn't ask silly questions. Coffee understands. The machine makes a soft ping and Tim has his mug in hand and picks up the pot to start pouring. The first cup is always black because he can't think straight enough to do anything to it until the second cup.
Tim blows gently over the top of the hot liquid and takes a small sip. Again. And again. He pads across the kitchen (huh, the Manor; explains the peanut gallery) to take his normal spot in the breakfast nook in the corner. A plate of food is pushed in his direction, but he ignores it in favor of his coffee.
"How much sleep did you get last night, Tim?" Bruce asks again, this time with a hint of concern.
Coffee and life bringing caffeine starts to flood Tim's veins and his brain is finally able to register the question. He holds up a hand, fingers spread wide. "What time is it?" he asks instead of answering.
"Five hours? That's good for you," Dick tries but Tim gives him an exasperated look.
"What time is it?" he asks again.
"It's just after 8," Damian helpfully supplies the information Tim is asking for.
Fingers start to fold down as Tim counts backwards. His index finger and thumb are quickly the only fingers left up. "What day is it?"
Next to him, he hears Dick groan. "Timmy…" he says while Damian snickers.
Bruce sighs and carefully wraps his large hand around the one Tim's using to hold his coffee mug. "Tim, let go," he orders quietly.
Tim resists and there's a bit of a struggle, but he's still too tired to do much damage, so Bruce inevitably wins. "Eat those eggs," he orders as he gets up and takes the coffee mug with him.
"But…coffee," Tim whines and turns on the puppy-eyes instinctively, turning them on the closest victim. Dick's still sitting next to him.
A hand gently pats him on the head. "Come on, Tim. Open up."
Tim expects coffee and gets eggs instead. He makes a face, but chews and swallows. Grabbing the fork, he stabs the eggs himself and shoves another forkful in his mouth. The need for food suddenly overtakes the need for coffee and Tim finishes quickly.
"Can I have my coffee back?" he asks more coherently now that his stomach is full.
"No," Bruce says firmly. "Go back to bed, Tim."
"But…"
"I can go to the office without you today. Go back to bed." Bruce's voice starts taking on his Batman growl.
"I can do it, just give me some caffeine," Tim insists stubbornly.
"I poured the rest of the coffee down the drain and hid the coffee beans."
Tim's eyes widen in horror. "You're a sick, sadistic bastard."
"And that was too coherent of a sentence, Timmy. Come on, let's get you upstairs." Dick somehow maneuvers Tim up and out of his seat.
Tim allows it, but doesn't take his eyes off Bruce, expressing the full force his feelings of betrayal over the man's actions. As Dick leads him out of the kitchen, Tim starts muttering. "Coffee monster. He poured the coffee down the sink. What did the coffee ever do to him?"
"More like what it does to you. Let's see if you can get more than two hours of sleep, huh?"
"Sleep is for the weak," Tim replies as he tries to brush off his oldest brother's grip. "What day is it again?"
Dick sighs as he all but drags the still resisting Tim up the stairs. "Tuesday. When was the last time you slept for more than a couple hours at a time?"
"Uh…" Tim tries to think back, but everything is a blur. It'd be so much better if Bruce hadn't poured his coffee down the drain. And where was Alfred in all this?
"I see the brain to mouth filter has completely eroded, Master Timothy," Alfred's voice says from down the hall Dick is leading him down. "I've been making your bed with some fresh linen and ensuring there is no…contraband in your room."
"Did he have any energy drinks in his bag?" Dick asks, ignoring Tim's struggles.
"Yes, and they've been disposed of, as well as the ones I found in the closet, the desk, and the hidden space behind the bookcase." Alfred gives Tim a disapproving look.
In turn, Tim tries to go for wide-eyed innocence, but fails under the butler's firm glare. "Fine," he all but pouts as they enter his room. "I'll go to sleep. But only under protest."
"Duly noted, sir," Alfred replies dryly as Dick helps Tim into bed and pulls up the sheets.
Tim huffs a deep sigh and glares at them both before he shifts around a bit, trying to get comfortable. He closes his eyes, convinced he'll be wide awake in an hour or two.
To the relief of Dick and Alfred, as well as Bruce when Dick texts him later, Tim's out for the rest of the day.