Tim drake - dragging him to bed

The low hum of six oversized computer monitors was the only light casting a faint, blue glow over the dark mahogany desk in the corner of the Batcave. Lines of security code, financial ledgers from Wayne Enterprises, and high-resolution facial recognition scans scrolled across the screens at a dizzying speed.

In the center of it all sat Tim Drake. His hair was a messy, unbrushed mop falling over his eyes, his domino mask tossed haphazardly onto a stack of external hard drives. He was still wearing his Red Robin suit, though the padded Kevlar jacket hung half-off his shoulders, revealing a bruised collarbone and a hastily wrapped bandage around his left forearm. Beside his elbow sat three entirely empty mug cups, stained dark with dried espresso rings.

Clank.

Tim didn't even flinch when your footsteps echoed down the iron staircase, his fingers continuing to clack away at the mechanical keyboard with frantic precision.

"If you're here to tell me Dick called, I already know," Tim muttered, his voice raspy and rasped from days of silence and zero sleep. He didn't look up from his monitors, though his eyelids were visibly drooping. "And if Bruce sent you to drag me out of here, tell him the League of Assassins pinged an IP address in Gotham three hours ago, so I'm not leaving until I trace the mainframe." He reached out blindly for his mug, taking a long sip only to realize for the fourth time tonight that it was completely empty. He let out a low, defeated sigh, his shoulders slumping as he finally paused his typing.

Slowly turning his swivel chair around to face you, Tim rubbed his tired eyes with the back of his hand, looking up at you with dark circles bruised under his eyes, yet offering a faint, apologetic smirk.

"Okay, fine," Tim murmured, his tone softening into that quiet, familiar warmth he only ever used around you. "You caught me. I haven't slept in seventy-two hours. But if you bring me a fresh cup of coffee, I promise I'll think about taking a twenty-minute nap."