Work Text:
Tim finds himself lacking, he always has. It's not because he hasn't accomplished great things—rather because he knows he could do a lot more. He procrastinates, he's lazy. He knows, if he applied himself more, most tasks would take half the time. But he doesn't, he never does.
The others don't find him lacking—or so they tell him. He doesn't really believe them. How can they be happy with his—frankly embarrassing—results? Even Bruce, who is a stickler for rules, pedantic and impatient—as the others have lamented time and time again, is supposedly happy with his work. He doesn't really believe it. How can he possibly be happy with it?
He stares at his newest project. He's frustrated. He huffs, throwing the pieces onto his desk before getting up. Pacing, he tugs at his hair. If he could Just. Get. Himself. To Focus!
Why is this so difficult? He knows the steps, he knows what he has to do and realistically it should take him no more than 30 minutes. And yet, he doesn't do it. He's been putting it off all week and now the deadline (mostly self-imposed, nobody had told him when it needs to be done) was fast approaching and he basically has nothing. He could've done ten things in the time he’s been procrastinating this one.
He's just so frustrated.
The pieces glare at him accusingly. "Why haven't you finished this yet?" they seem to ask, and Tim has no answer.
Because he's lacking, obviously. It's always been like this. Homework put off until the last minute and then done shoddily because he lacks time, even though he'd had plenty in theory. He's never proud of what he ends up delivering, how can he be? He could’ve—should’ve—done better.
(But could he though? A traitorous voice whispers to him. He'd had plenty of time and this was the best he could produce.)
Dick looks at him uncomprehendingly when he tries to ask about it. "You're the fastest worker out of all of us, Tim" he'd said, and ruffled his hair. Tim had groaned in annoyance, playfully pushing the older boy away. The reassurance didn't help at all.
He could be so much faster. He knows he could be. Deadlines always seem ridiculously far away for him. Who needs a week for an essay? He knows even a good essay wouldn't take more than an hour. He writes it in 20 minutes and stares at his A-. He could've easily gotten an A, but he didn't. Again, he's lacking.
Bruce tells him his expectations for himself are too high but Tim scoffs. Isn’t that the same as calling him stupid? He’s not stupid. They aren't too high when he knows he could do it all easily. And yet, he doesn't. He doesn't and that's maybe the point. He knows what he's capable of and it annoys him to no end that he can't seem to actually ever reach peak performance.
The closest he's ever gotten was the Bruce-Quest, in the lair of Ra's al Ghoul, where the tiniest bit of weakness could've been his demise. And even then, he thinks, he should've found Batman quicker. He shouldn't have needed Z's, or Pru's or anyones help. If he'd put everything together quicker, people wouldn't be dead now.
Ra's is perhaps the closest he's ever gotten to someone actually recognizing his potential. And to his endless shame, it had felt good. Impossible standards, consequences by the quirk of a brow, pushing and pushing and pushing until Tim couldn't offer anything else. It had felt right, even when it had been wrong. And it’s not that he wants someone to treat him like that. It had sucked. He hates Ra's. And yet, it had been so satisfying to see the fruits of his labor when he actually tried, when he actually had to try. It was a rush he hadn't yet reached again.
It's good when he's busy. It forces him to accomplish everything in half the time other people would—which is still much more time than he actually needs. But being busy is the only way for him to do anything at all. If he didn't have to pull an all-nighter to finish a task, he would never do it to begin with. And he knows how bad it is, he knows that it's not healthy. He can practically taste the burn-out on his tongue. But if he stops, even for a second, he won't do anything at all.
At the base of his dissatisfaction is the simple fact that he is desperately, mind-numbingly, lazy. And he hates that. He will do everything possible to put off a task, until he can't anymore. It's worse when it’s a task he genuinely doesn't want to do, then it feels almost herculean to even start. How does he have so many side-projects at the same time? Easy, whenever he wants to procrastinate, he finds something new and exciting to do. And it all accumulates into heaps and bounds of work that never stops. He's exhausted and yet, he's afraid what will happen if he stops.
And anyway, most of his day is still spent on reddit, twitter and a whole host of blogs dedicated to the bats. If he was truly stressed and incapable of his work, he would probably stop that. Right?
These days he can't relax. Not even when he goes out to do normal teenager stuff. Why should he skateboard when he could draft 10 new projects in that time? Why should he go and enjoy a movie when those two hours of inactivity might finally be the time he could start on that new bo-staff he's been thinking off. (Of course, he stays home and doesn't start on the bo-staff. Three days later, when his last one breaks, he will curse himself for not getting started sooner.)
The other bats don't seem to get what is stressing him, or even why he is concerned at all. All they seem to care about is his newest case, when he should've solved that by now. He's just been putting off the research because he'd need to visit the library for that, and he hasn't finished his paperwork so it feels like a waste of time to walk to the library, but he really should get out more, so it would be against his best interest to just drive over, but then if he wants to walk he should first do the paperwork, but he doesn't wanna do the paperwork because the neon knights are having a meeting which he needs to prepare for. And on and on it goes, even when he ends up just sitting on his couch, doing precisely nothing whilst his heart races in his chest.
Jason shoots him a weird look when he mentions it, as if he can't imagine not doing something. Or maybe he can, and that's why he's angry that Tim isn't done with his side of research yet.
"If you were too busy, just SAY that" he says, and Tim wants to scream. Because he hasn't been too busy. He's had plenty of time, he just didn't use it.
"If you don't care about this, I can do it on my own" Jason grunts, and roughly shoulder-checks Tim, who remains behind, standing on a roof, staring at the sky.
There are no stars in Gotham, there's too much light pollution. He misses the desert.
Abruptly, he shakes his head, trying to get that thought to leave. He shouldn't miss being kidnapped and trapped in a hostage situation. He shouldn't miss bloody consequences and miss-steps that are death-sentences.
(But he does. Because at least then he was secure in the knowledge that he couldn't have done anymore, that he'd done good because he reached his limit.)