ATLAS: HEART, tim drake

even if it hurts

The next morning, you wake up in your own bed. You have no recollection of getting yourself here on your own, only the faint fuzzy memory of being carried and the sharp, fragrant scent of eucalyptus.

With that, perhaps you should not be surprised at the knock on your door at seven-thirty on dot, where you find Tim waiting.

Your body hurts worse today than it did yesterday and the extra strength Tylenol you took has not yet kicked in. Mostly, you're still tired and achy, eyelids feeling heavier than usual, your clothes oddly restrictive with your slacks stretched a little uncomfortably over the gauze on your knee and thigh, then your forearm as well, as you knew wearing anything other than a long-sleeve would raise questions you are not mentally prepared to answer.

Suffice to say, you are not in a particularly good mood.

Which is why —

"What are you doing here."

Tim looks up from his phone. He's... in a suit? Charcoal grey, with a burgundy red button-up underneath. His dark hair has been tamed for the most part, parts of it gelled back, with some hanging over his forehead as usual.

It's a version of him you aren't that acquainted with but he still looks... heartbreakingly gorgeous.

"I'm giving you a ride to school," he says, then offers you a thermos and lunch bag. "And breakfast."

"I don't need a ride," you say, instead of acknowledging that. "I told you yesterday, Tim. What are you even doing up this early?"

"Board meeting," he responds. "So, I'm already passing by the school on my way to the tower."

"I can get to school just fine on my own."

"Can I come in?"

Wordlessly, you step aside.

He steps in and sets the thermos and lunch bag aside, but doesn't take off the shiny dress shoes. Seriously, you think you can see your reflection in the shine. God, he looks really good. This sucks.

"I was thinking about it for a while," he says, gazing steadily at you.

Since you quite literally already have your shoes on and you keep the area in which shoes are allowed on relatively small, he's only a foot away from you, allowing you to glimpse a faint scar under his jaw that one could not see unless they were this close, long, dark lashes that frame blue eyes, irises flecked with silver, an emotion you don't think you've seen on him until now, one that makes your heart stutter in your chest and warmth flood your face. And... wait....

"I wanted to leave it alone," he continues, distracting you.

Your eyebrows furrow at his words. Leave what alone?

"Because I wasn't sure," he goes on. "And if I wasn't sure, then I wasn't going to say anything but... I think it's worth it to try."

"You're being vague, Tim," you say, a little annoyed at the fact. "What are you talking about?"

"You," he responds. "And what you think of me."

Something about that makes your insides freeze. The sudden bout of nerves confuses you but it's not a moment to think about why that may be.

"Meaning?"

"You think you're burdening me, with everything that happened last night."

One part of you relaxes, while the other just stiffens further.

"I thought," he pauses, something in your chest crumpling at the uncertainty on his face, an emotion you've never seen, at least not directed at you. It hurts more than you thought it would. "I thought we were friends."