ATLAS: HEART, tim drake

out of my depth at this altitude

You joked about it but, really, Tim Drake is a quick study. Not that doing your laundry is that hard to begin with — well, if you have no idea where to start, it is, but once you know the basics, it's all fairly self-explanatory. You get to ask about the fabric softener when you two go back to put your clothes in the dryer and he mutters something about them feeling weird afterward, which you valiantly try not to laugh at. By the way, he sighs at you, you are not successful.

But after that? Well... that's kind of it and you step off the elevator at one in the morning with a basket full of warm and freshly-folded clothes, feeling a tad disappointed that it's all over with.

But then Tim says, "See you next weekend," and the feeling disappears quickly.

Fate, you quickly learn, also seems to be looking out for you.

The next day at noon, you're waiting to head downstairs, eyes narrowed on your compact mirror as you roll on a darkly tinted lip balm. The elevator doors open, but you're distracted with the lip balm, so you don't notice who else is in there. Not until Tim calls your name, surprising you so much your hand jerks and a light smear of the tinted lip balm shines on your cheek.

He sputters a laugh. "Sorry!"

"This is payback for all my jokes, then, is it," you say, stepping in and, seeing the button for the ground floor pushed, start digging through your tote bag for the small pack of makeup wipes you usually carry with you.

"It's not," Tim says, smiling. "The jokes were a fair tradeoff for you teaching me the ways of laundry."

You nod sagely. "Indeed."

He chuckles. "Where are you off to?"

"Grocery shopping," you say, cleaning off the streak on your cheek, then making sure you didn't smudge anything else around your lips. "You?"

"Same, actually. Well, just for the detergent. Speaking of, you know, I realized sometime last night I never got the brand from you. They turned out pretty good."

"Like your butler did it?"

"I never should've told you that."

You laugh, putting away your makeup wipes, the mirror, and the tube of lip balm.

You realize, then, that Tim is dressed in something other than sweats and a t-shirt — which is an excellent look, definitely, but he's in his outside clothes, in jeans and a thick jacket much like you are to fight off the early February cold.

He looks like a model, to be honest. You spy the brand of his jacket. Patagonia. A Patagonia model, then. Jeez. Patagonia's expensive. But to him, it's probably nothing. You managed to thrift yourself a slightly worn Columbia parka which has served you well against several years of bitter Gotham winters.

He tucks his hands in his pockets, cornflower blue eyes trained on the red numbers that tick by for each floor you pass. His side-profile is disturbingly perfect. So not fair.

"Where do you do your shopping, then, if you don't mind me asking?" he asks, glancing at you and making you look away.

"Stalking me?"

"That's why I said if you don't mind me asking. So, we didn't have to do that."

You laugh. "Nah, don't worry about it. I figure a... mostly high-profile figure like yourself can't be in the business of being creepy. Reputation and all that. Though I suppose you could pay people off. Or call a hit on them."

But while the other notable rich families of the city have all kinds of skeletons in the closet, the Wayne's don't. Mostly. No whispered rumors of them paying off sexual harassment rumors or other morally reprehensible shit.