Archive of Our Own ^beta

It had been a difficult week.

The Penguin was trying out a new business model for the Iceberg Lounge, human trafficking was booming, the Justice League was in PR shambles, and on top of that, a sex-pollened Aquaman was interrupting international shipping routes again!

(Those last two things may have been related, but Tim didn’t have to worry about that until after the next Wayne Enterprises board meeting, okay?)

So he was tired.

When Tim returned to Wayne Manor after a hard patrol, he didn’t notice the dust collecting next to the batcomputer where the Keurig coffeemaker usually sat. He gave Batman a quick report—bad guy arrested, human trafficking still happening, no leads on that interdimensional timestream leak case the League’s been working on—and stopped in the kitchen for a quick snack before he crashed. Alfred fixed him some tea and fussed over his arm—which was just a scratch, for the last time, Alfred!—and Tim didn’t notice that the French press wasn’t in its usual spot on the counter or that all of the tea Alfred served him was “proudly caffeine free.”

It was nearing the wee hours of the morning when Alfred hinted that maybe he should go to bed. Tim muttered something noncommittal in response, but stumbled up to his room nonetheless. God, I would really like a nap, he thought, looking at his bed longingly. It would be so nice to sleep. He’d been running on four hours of sleep over the last two days— not the worst he’s ever done, but certainly enough to notice— and he was currently at the semi-delirious stage of sleep deprivation.

But sleep, unfortunately, was not in the cards tonight. Not according to his schedule.

He’d be writing up a short mission report to go along with his earlier verbal report to Bruce—that should hopefully take no more than fifteen minutes—and then he had to manually check a few League mission status updates—the system had been buggy ever since they’d noticed the interdimensional timestream leak a few weeks ago, so no telling how long that would take—and then Tim had to finish coding the failsafe he’d been working on in case an alternate version of him was ever stuck in his universe—unlikely, but things like the timestream leak really makes you think, huh? He could maybe squeeze in a short nap around 6 AM, before he had to get up and prepare a presentation for Wayne Enterprises, but his schedule was so packed that it wasn’t a sure thing.

He blinked hard, counting to ten, and bent over to retrieve the coffeemaker under his bed.

It was pushed back a little farther than usual, he noticed, because he had to really reach in there in order to get his hands on it. Must’ve kicked it in too far last night.

His usual brand of pre-ground, light roasted coffee was drowned in a bunch of hot chocolate packets, the ones with the mini marshmallows—had Kon brought these for a sleepover snack?—which he discarded hastily across his floor in favor of his typical brew (favored for its extra high caffeine content).

Tim programmed the coffeemaker to make him the largest cup possible, then turned towards clearing his workspace of distractions and trash. He was the only one whose room Alfred didn’t touch while doing cleaning rounds; it was such a nightmare most of the time that the tidying up had pretty much fallen upon Tim… who simply didn’t put it in the schedule, most weeks. (Because, honestly, which was more important—coffee break number three or fifteen minutes of cleaning? He had to look at these things logically, after all.)

He kicked the waste basket until it was under the edge of his desk, so he could use one big sweeping motion to push everything into the trash. Not those receipts, those are company expenses, this can definitely go in recycling, that’s Plastic No. 1, wait, maybe I need that paper? The last thing he did, before the coffeemaker dinged, flashing its blue “Ready” light, was put a used Starbucks cup with a drop or two of diluted iced coffee at the bottom into the recycling bin.

Then he took his steaming hot coffee, kicked his coffeemaker back under his bed, and pulled out his chair to start working. The report wasn’t going to write itself.

***

Tim ended up with 45 minutes of sleep and a cancelled Wayne Enterprises meeting because their Japanese client’s flight got delayed—weather issues or Superman disrupting flights or something. (The League’s sex pollen problem was a little more widespread than first anticipated, unfortunately.) He decided to take advantage of the extra time and get ahead.

Tim walked toward the kitchen, laptop in hand, eager to get started on updating criminal case files with new information from last night.

A hush came over the room as he entered, multiple conversations stopped simultaneously. He got a peculiar feeling—like everyone was watching him—which, he happened to notice, they actually were. Tim would have been suspicious that they were planning a surprise birthday party for him—something they should know by now that he didn’t want—except that even Jason was here and everyone had tense expressions and thin half-smiles that seemed to weigh down their faces. Their stares rested heavily on him.

“What’s going on?” Tim demanded, setting his laptop on the counter. He took mental attendance—Bruce, Dick, Jason, Alfred, Stephanie, Cass, Demon Brat—and tried to make something of it. “Is it the team?” He took a heavy breath. “Is it Kon? Bart? Cassie?”

No one seemed sure what to say. Bruce and Dick were exchanging looks as if in furious conversation. Jason grit his teeth so loudly that it sounded like a knife on a whetstone. Stephanie’s mouth was set in a determined, hard little line, and she leaned against Cass who was perched in her chair like she might jump up and bolt at any moment. Alfred was holding a bag in his lap, in a tight, white-knuckled grip. Damian was glaring. He wondered if it might be best to step out of the room for a bit so that they could all talk in private.

“Tim,” said Dick, finally, with an odd sort of hollow voice. “You know we’re here for you, right?”

“What?” Tim wasn’t really sure if he had heard right. "...Did something happen?" Did someone die? is what he didn’t ask.

"No, Tim," Bruce replied. He was fiddling with something plastic under the kitchen island. He gave a deep sigh. "We found this in your recycling bin." He revealed the Starbucks cup Tim had tossed out last night, placing it on the table-top in front of him with an audible clack.

"Yeah, sorry," Tim said. "I was going to wash it out beforehand, I was just tired. I know you shouldn't leave food in when you put plastic in the recycling."

"That's not—" Dick started, abruptly cutting himself off. He bit his lip. "Tim—"

"You're not even going to try and pretend it's not yours?" Steph interrupted, like she'd been trying to hold herself back this whole time.

"... Should I?" Tim was beginning to think there was something seriously wrong with them. "It has my name on it," he continued, when no one else spoke for a moment. "In Sharpie. Plus, you could definitely do DNA analysis on the straw if it came to that."

"So you drank it," Dick said, despondently, like he'd just heard the worst news of his life.

"...Yeah." Tim was just about weirded out enough that he was craving another cup of coffee. "I had no idea that all of you were so bothered by bad recycling etiquette. I'll go back through the bin before the truck comes to pick it up, okay? I probably have a few takeout containers I need to wash out."

"You've been eating take out?" Jason asked, appalled. "On top of everything else?"

"I always make fresh food," said Alfred, voice edging on concern. "You should stay at the Manor for dinner more often, Master Timothy."

“Worried about you,” Cass said.

"Not now, Alfred, Jason, Cassandra," Bruce ordered. "Tim, we opened it. And we saw what was inside."

"It's plastic," Tim said. "You can see through it. You probably didn't need to open it."

"Tim, we found drugs."

What.

"Okay, you've lost me," he admitted. "I had Starbucks, not cocaine."

"We know, Tim," said Steph. She sounded close to tears.

"How long has this been going on?" Bruce leaned forward, serious, like he was interrogating a hostile witness.

"Since I was a kid, I guess?"

Dick sighed and slouched back in his seat. Steph covered her face with her hands. His family looked tired and despondent.

"You don't remember the first time?" Bruce asked.

"...Not really?" Probably one of his nannies had shared a sip when he'd been little, but that was pretty normal, and not something Tim would have any reason in particular to remember.

Jason nodded. "That happens sometimes, when kids… when they start drugs so young. They forget the first time. Then they start forgetting everything."

"I'm pretty sure that's not one of the effects of caffeine," Tim objected.

"Tim, it's okay," Dick said. "We're going to help you."

"Look, it's not a big deal."

"Tim, you're addicted to caffeine. That is a big deal." Dick’s eyes were wide and insistent.

“Caffeine dependence is a significant disadvantage in the field,” Damian started.

"Okay," Tim said, slowly, racking his brain in an attempt to figure out why he had ever thought anyone in his family was smart. "I don't know how you didn't know this, but, like, literally everyone drinks coffee."

"Oh, so just because your friends are doing it, it's okay?" Jason threw his hands up in the air in frustration. "What if one of your friends jumped off a bridge—would you do it, too?"

"Oh, shut up, Jason," Tim snapped. "I'm not being peer pressured. And, yes, actually, I'd jump off that bridge, too, because someone has to save my friend and I have a grappling hook!"

"No, you shut up, Replacement," Jason shot back, and Tim was surprised at the anger in his voice. "I didn't watch my mom wither away for years—become a completely different person every time she needed her fix—just to see you or anyone else in this stupid fucking family do the same thing!"

"That is not the same thing!" Tim gritted his teeth in frustration and took a deep breath to give himself time to consider what he was going to say more carefully. "I'm sorry about your mom, Jason,” he said evenly. “But so what if I need a little pick-me-up when there's an Arkham breakout and I haven't slept for seventy-two hours!"

"Yeah," said Jason, bitterly. "She called it her little pick-me-up, too." He stormed out, boots loud against the floor, and Tim watched, wide-eyed.

He turned back toward the rest of his family. "I didn't mean to bring back bad memories," he said solemnly. "But seriously. Not the same."

"Everyone thinks it's different for them, Tim," Dick said. "You're at some party and the guys are passing around the caffeines and You Just Can't Say No."

"What?" Tim said. "That doesn't happen at parties! I don't even go to parties and I know that's not what happens at parties. Have you been to a party?"

"Look, Tim, there's no shame in—"

"And, for the last time, I'm not being peer pressured! Which of my friends, exactly, do you think is peer pressuring me, by the way? Kon? Bart? Cassie, maybe? My friends are basically all metas—who knows if caffeine works on them, anyway?"

"I'm just saying," Dick continued. "You shouldn't feel pressured to keep up with your friends—"

"Great, another way of saying peer pressure," Tim muttered.

"—especially if they're metas."

"Oh my god," Tim said, a realization dawning on him. "You're crazy."

"Don't mind him, Grayson," Damian said, in an almost disturbing attempt to be comforting. "It is typical for addicts to insult those trying to assist them. Drake is just like the rest."

“We care about him,” Cass said. “He doesn’t know that.”

“We’ll be there for you no matter what, Tim,” Steph promised. “Even if you’re going to hate us for it.”

"This is a joke, right? This has to be a joke." Tim searched their faces for tells. He focused on Cass in particular because out of all of them she seemed least likely to do something like this just to drive him insane.

Cass looked back at him solemnly. ‘Love you,’ she signed.

“Why would anyone jest about this, Drake?” Damian asked. “Your weaknesses are numerous enough that they are not so humorous.”

“Damian!” Dick chastised, then turned his gaze back on Tim. “We wouldn’t joke about this. We love you.”

“You're crazy—”

"It's just so hard to believe," Bruce interjected, shaking his head. "How did I miss this? I'm his father."

"You didn't even meet me until I was a preteen!”

Jason returned, leaning in the doorway heavily, throwing Tim's focus temporarily off balance.

"It's okay, B," Dick said, patting Bruce on the shoulder and taking advantage of the temporary lull to comfort him. "Timmy's been hiding it for so long."

"Uh. No, I haven't," Tim argued.

"Since he was a child," Alfred agreed.

"I haven't been hiding it at all, actually?"

“From all his friends, too,” Steph added.

“That’s not true!”

"You can't blame yourself, Father," Damian agreed. "No one suspected Drake of hiding something like this."

"Because I wasn't," Tim protested.

"What I don't understand is how it didn't show up when I did the in-depth medical test before I allowed him to become Robin," Bruce said. "I should have known."

"Okay, it doesn't work like that," Tim said. "Caffeine has a half-life of three to five hours—"

"That's just what addicts do, Bruce," Jason said. "My mom, every time she tried to get a job, she'd use all these sorts of tricks to pretend she hadn't used on the drug test."

"It's not a trick," Tim said. "It's just math. And it doesn't matter because I wasn't trying to hide it in the first place—"

"Addicts will do whatever they can to avoid their family noticing, Master Bruce," Alfred told him sympathetically.

“Your regret will not cure Drake’s weakness,” Damian agreed consolingly.

"I've literally been incredibly open about this," Tim said. "I always make jokes about how much coffee I need to stay awake."

"Don't be so insensitive, Tim," Steph snapped. "Excuse us for having a hard time with this. Those were jokes. We didn't know you meant it for real."

"We thought you were just being edgy," Dick told him, voice thick as though he were near tears, almost yelling. "We thought it was DECAF."

Tim wrinkled his nose. "I hate decaf."

His family exchanged a look.

Jason let out a heavy breath and rubbed his face with his hands. "I thought it was genetics. I can't believe—Replacement's so small, but we never even considered what may have stunted his growth."

“I’m even taller than him in heels,” Steph offered.

Tim felt his face growing red. "No one in my family was very tall; I'm taller than my dad ever was!"

They looked at him sadly.

"The signs were all there when you think about it," Bruce said.

"They absolutely were not!" Tim argued. "Stunted growth is a myth! I am not short because I drink coffee!"

"Denial," said Steph and Cass tut-tutted quietly in agreement.

"Don't worry," said Dick. "We're going to get you through this, Tim. You can beat this."

Tim thought about going on missions and attending Wayne Enterprises board meetings and solving the questions posed by the Riddler and piloting failing helicopters at 4 AM and getting up in the morning completely caffeine-free. "Well," Tim considered. "Yes, I can but I don't really want to."

Bruce gave him a hard look.

"Do you really want me falling asleep during patrol, B? During an Arkham breakout? Fighting the Joker?"

Jason inhaled sharply at the last one.

"Tim," Bruce said, seriously. "I'll bench you, if that's what it takes. We'll figure this out. You don't need caffeine in order to be happy."

"No," Tim agreed. "I just need it to keep me awake." He let out a huff. "Come on, Bruce, Dick, Steph—Jason—you're seriously telling me you guys consistently pull all-nighters for, like, an entire week and you've never so much as had a cup of coffee?"

"No," said Bruce.

"Nope," Steph agreed.

"Never," Dick confirmed.

"Not even once, Replacement."

"I have never deliberately consumed any sort of addictive substance," said Damian, even though literally nobody asked.

Cass signed 'no.’

Alfred shook his head sadly.

"Okay," Tim said. "That's bizarre. You know normal people can't do that, right? Normal people need either caffeine or sleep or something. And you guys are really missing out."

"I know you feel like you're missing out if everyone else at the party has some except for you—"

"Oh my god, Dick, I'm not being peer pressured!"

"Okay, okay," Dick appeased, holding his hands up in surrender. "I'm just saying— Tim, we'll help you get better again; even if you might have forgotten what that's like. We know how hard it is to quit, especially after so many years." Here, there was a dramatic pause like the kind often seen in soap opera pregnancy announcements. "That's why we're going to help you quit. Cold turkey."

"Ha. Ha," Tim said. "What."

"We've confiscated your drug paraphernalia," Bruce added. Alfred retrieved Tim's Starbucks membership card and several limited edition aesthetic coffee mugs, and held them with pinched fingers, as if he were touching something nasty.

"Fear not, Drake," Damian said, upon receiving a sharp look and nudge from Dick (accompanied with a very loud whisper that he has to show his support). "We will stay with you to make sure you do not contact your dealer."

"You mean… my barista?"

"Is that what they're calling them these days?" Alfred asked, despairingly.

"What is wrong with all of you?"

"Look," said Jason, from the doorway. "Replacement. Tim. It's normal to be angry. You can talk to Roy about this, he's gone through the same thing as you—"

"I don't have a drug problem!"

"Tim," said Bruce. "We just want to help you."

"We love you too much to let you do this," Dick said.

"Baby brother," Cass added with a meaningful look.

"I wouldn't be your friend if I didn't speak up," said Steph. "Friends don't let friends do drugs."

Dick had a wobbly, wavering, worried smile and couldn't quite seem to look Tim in the eyes. Bruce gave a hopeful upturn to his infamous Eyebrow of Disappointment. Jason had one foot tapping nervously against the kitchen floor. Cass was perched, unmoving, in her seat. Steph had her bottom lip pinned by her top two teeth, eyes fixed on Tim. Alfred took a moment to pour Tim tea. Damian was scowling.

There was a breathless moment, like they expected him to be thankful or something. They could not actually expect him to swear off coffee for the rest of his life… right? Tim felt himself shaking his head in minute motions.

"So, whaddya say, Tim? Are you willing to make a change?" Dick pressed.

"Oh my god!" Tim threw his hands up, turned his back and ran up to his room to make himself a cup of coffee. He slammed his door and locked it. There’s no way they found the coffeemaker under my bed, right?

***

With the clarity of caffeine on his side, Tim started digging. He opened his laptop to do some quick research—this is what he’d been working on last night, right? That failsafe?

There is literally no way this is his universe. Tim was pretty adamant on that point.

After several hours of digging, he discovered two major differences between this universe and his own. One, Santa Claus was commonly depicted here as giving naughty children broken glass for Christmas instead of coal. Two, at some point there had been some kind of time warp anomaly involving a strange, short-lived superhero named Coffee Man. Coffee Man had—in an event involving a volcanic eruption, some coffee beans, and an alchemy set—permanently changed the chemical composition of human gut bacteria, thus completely depriving Earth’s human population of an ability to metabolize caffeine properly.

And Tim? Tim was currently the only one on the planet (possibly aside from some aliens) who didn’t get the combined effects of LSD and weed when he consumed it.

Because, yes, he had been right. This wasn’t his universe.

Tim had most likely slipped through the cracks sometime during patrol last night—probably when he’d been hit over the head, now that he thinks about it. A side effect of that interdimensional timestream leak business. It should be relatively simple to get home as long as Alternate!Tim realized he was in the wrong universe, too, so they could work this problem from both ends. And the realizing wouldn’t be much of an issue when Alternate!Tim visited the Wayne Enterprises breakroom for the first time.

Or the Bat Cave, for that matter. Tim would do anything to see the first time one of the heroes from this universe became acquainted with the Bat Coffeemaker, to say the least.

Tim downed the rest of his coffee and shoved it hastily under his bed. Time to try to get home.

***

“What do you mean, you’re from another dimension?” Dick asked.

Bruce, Dick, Damian, and Tim were congregated around the Batcomputer so Tim could show them the statistical models he’d made with the interdimensional probability software. Which was, unfortunately, necessary if he wanted to get their help in returning to his own world.

“I am literally from another dimension,” Tim repeated. “I’m one of the anomalies you can see on this map.”

“I have known from the beginning that Drake doesn’t belong here,” Damian said triumphantly.

“This is more recent than you disliking me, Damian,” Tim told him. “Definitely within the last 48 hours at most.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed in thought.

“Which one are you supposed to be?” Dick asked, looking down at the digital map critically.

“The weak, misshapen one?” Damian suggested.

“No,” Tim said with a scowl. “That’s probably the interdimensional leak zone—you can see how it moves around erratically if you view it in time lapse mode. It exudes a fairly weak amount of energy because nothing is coming through at the moment. I’m—that blinking red dot, right there.” He pointed to the spot on the map that he was referring to. “That’s me.”

“How do you know it’s you?” Dick objected. “That could be anything.”

“Well,” Tim explained. “If I superimpose the movement of this dot over the last 24 hours over our GIS system tracking my patrol route last night… I’m sure you can see some similarities.”

“They’re identical,” Bruce agreed.

“So?” Dick challenged. “You were on your bike all night, weren’t you? Couldn’t your motorcycle be the anomaly?”

“Perhaps someone was following you,” Damian offered. “An enemy from another dimension.”

“Those might be valid explanations,” Tim said. “If it wasn’t already completely obvious I’m from another dimension.”

“You were surprised that we cared about your caffeine habit,” Bruce noticed.

“What?” asked Dick. “There’s no way that’s—” His sentence ended abruptly upon seeing the look on Tim’s face. “Really, Tim? That’s it? You were surprised that we cared about you? What is wrong with the alternate versions of us? Do they not love you at all?” While talking, he managed to affix himself to Tim’s back while giving him a tight, breath-restricting hug.

“Why would an alternate version of me not be concerned about my son’s addiction?” Bruce wondered aloud.

“Look,” Tim said. “Like I was saying in the kitchen, coffee is absolutely normal in my world. All of you drink it basically every day.”

They looked back at him horrified.

“Surely I do not—” Damian started and Tim actually considered it for a moment.

“Except maybe Damian,” Tim admitted. “He’s a little young, and we don’t usually let him stay up that long after bedtime anyway.”

“I do not have a bedtime!” Damian protested, furious. “I am not a child!”

“Shh, Dami,” Dick said, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder upon uncurling from around Tim. "It's getting late anyway, you should think about going to bed."

Damian threw his hand off.

“In your world, all of Gotham’s vigilantes have a caffeine dependency?” Bruce’s forehead wrinkled like he was doing some kind of mental gymnastics on that point.

“Probably all of my world’s heroes in general,” Tim corrected. “Except maybe metas like Superman, the Flash—although they probably drink it for the taste, anyway.”

“For the taste,” Dick repeated, stunned.

“Have they considered decaf?” Bruce asked.

“I don’t know,” Tim said. “I haven’t asked. It… isn’t really a big deal, as I said.”

“Not a big deal!” Dick seemed a little bit broken at this comment. “Timmy, you’re not going back there,” he decided. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“No,” Tim said. “I am absolutely not staying here.”

“Tim,” Bruce said. “It is ultimately much better for your health if you have an optimal environment in which to detox—”

“No,” Tim insisted. “We’ll just swap me for your Tim, close the dimensional rift from our respective sides, and go our separate ways.”

“I have a better idea,” Dick said. “We take both you and our Timmy, forge you a new identity so you can stay here legally—”

“Absolutely not!” Damian argued. “One Drake is already enough!”

For once, Tim agreed with Damian. “I’m going back to my dimension. You just have to accept it—”

“We just want to help you—”

“Dick,” Bruce groused. “Tim. As much as I agree that it would be… ideal to keep Tim with us through his recovery, it’s not possible as a long term solution. If we close the dimensional rift with both Tims on the same side, it could cause an irreparable fracture in space-time. We will simply have to equip this Tim with the tools he needs to overcome this in his own dimension, especially if he is unwilling to stay long enough to get through the worst of withdrawal with us by his side.”

Dick looked disheartened. “The Bat Self-Help Books?” he asked, quietly.

Bruce nodded. “The Bat Self-Help Books.”

Tim put his head in his hands.

He just wanted to be back in a world where no one judged him for having a home coffeemaker hooked up to his vital signs so he’d always have morning coffee ready and waiting when he woke up. A world where coffee shops stayed open till four in the morning just to serve tired vigilantes, a world where family bonding meant curling up around the Keurig and discussing cases in sleep-deprived delirium, and a world where baristas would nod tiredly at Red Robin’s request of seventeen espresso shots and write “make him regret” as an item on the receipt for seventy nine cents.

His world.

Tim didn’t want to live in a world without the Bat Coffeemaker, goddamn it!

***

Meanwhile, in Tim’s dimension…

Alternate!Tim lay with his head down on the table, tracing the flowery tablecloth patterns with a fingertip. A stack of empty coffee cups sat beside him, drained and tipped onto their sides. He had a thick brown coffee moustache growing on his upper lip. The Manor was burning around him. It was 3 AM.

“So, he thought it was decaf?” Dick whispered.

Jason nodded, shellshocked. “That’s what he said.”