ATLAS: HEART, tim drake

what if we could risk everything we have

The next morning, you find Tim in your kitchen.

You emerge from the bathroom, having already guessed he was here by the smell of food cooking and from the sound of your TV playing the morning news. Well, late morning news.

Things settled around the city eventually in the wake of the news about Red Robin. Well, as settled as they can be here in Gotham. But you don't suspect the Bats are spread too thin. They have, like, a team working here. Batman and Robin, of course, then Black Bat and Signal and Spoiler who doesn't wear the bat emblem, exactly, but is seen with them frequently enough to be associated with them. This is on top of the few others who also work in the city, like Huntress. So, it's not like there's a shortage of vigilantes to go around.

But the news on the TV is talking about the weather for today, not that.

"Keep your sunscreen on standby as we have yet another sunny day here in Gotham, with partly-cloudy skies and highs in the eighties. We can expect higher temperatures throughout the week as a heat wave from the south hits us —"

You stop by the boys' tank, privately pleased to see them having just finished their breakfast, no doubt courtesy of your unexpected guest.

You glance away from them, to the kitchen, where Tim is currently making eggs, with something else on the counter next to him. Wait, is that a...

"I'm not complaining but... where on earth did that waffle maker come from?"

Tim turns, appearing not at all surprised by your appearance — he's never spooked, not once, but he does it to you frequently — and shoots you a smile. "Hey, good morning."

"Morning," you say, drifting closer to him. You're both dressed down, with him in sweats and a white t-shirt, and you would bet a decent amount of money that he rolled out of bed, half-heartedly fixed his hair, brushed his teeth, and came down here immediately. You did the same, still in your pajamas, which are a pair of old shorts and a ratty softball shirt from high school.

It's not the first time he's done this but like always, it is terribly domestic and not at all good for your heart.

"So... the waffle maker?" you ask, trying to sneak a piece of buttered toast.

He gently bats your hand away, looking back at the pan, where eggs sizzle. "You said you like the efficiency of waffles."

You blink.

That's... a lot to unpack.

First of all, when did you say that?

You pause, searching your memory.

Your prolonged silence clues Tim into your confusion. He flips the egg.

"When we were at Waffle House in April and the cook and waitress got into a fight."

"Oh! And the waitress —"

"Stopped the chair thrown at her single-handedly," he finishes.

"Right, right..." You did say something to that effect after your food had arrived. And it remains true. But of course, waffles are only efficient if you have a waffle maker and —

"Tim, you didn't get this for me, right?"

"I just thought waffles would be fun," he says, vague, specifically a non-answer.

You scrutinize his side profile. Something about him right now... With a spatula in his left hand, his right hand drumming on his thigh. It's not like him to give up a nervous tell so easily. Not like him at all.

Your curiosity is unbidden and difficult to suppress, but you decide to step back anyway and let him come to you in his own time. He'll have to, if the waffle maker really is for you.