ATLAS: HEART, tim drake

like the world makes sense

You and Tim continue to hang out.

Through the week, after school lets out, you are often too tired to go and do anything, but this suits Tim fine as the two of you continue to think of movies you like that the other has not seen.

You make him watch Mamma Mia, which he says is 'okay' but you think he likes more than he wants to let on. You do what he wants, too, and terribly dated as it is, The Devil Wears Prada is certainly fun enough.

Every time you see him, you learn something new about him. His favorite color is blue. He used to play tennis when he was younger but not anymore. He also used to like photography, but he doesn't do it much these days. Not because he stopped liking it. He doesn't say that but you can tell.

You wonder about that, about the things he used to do but no longer does. What does he do now, then? You ask him that, and he says he helps out with WE, with their R&D department, with IT, or wherever they want him. Not always but most of the time.

He doesn't talk about his parents and he doesn't talk about Bruce Wayne or his adopted siblings. He'll talk about Alfred, the butler (not the cat), who was also the one to do his laundry.

You don't mind. You're more interested in him, in what makes Tim Tim. And on a lighter note, while you admit to having expected him to be a poor cook, he is actually decent.

"I'm only good at breakfast foods," he admits to you one evening, having commandeered your kitchen to make breakfast for dinner. "And pasta. I can do pasta. But mostly breakfast."

Better than most rich boys, you think.

You tell him about yourself, too. How you came here because tuition at Gotham University is dirt-cheap, largely because of the city in which it resides in, but the programs are still good. Good enough for what you wanted — public education with a small dash of child psychology. You worked at one of the elementary schools for two years before landing a job at Gotham Pointe.

"Will you ever leave?" he asks one day, the two of you eating ice cream and watching Zathura. His pick today. "Most do."

You swirl your Oreo ice cream, the ceramic bowl cold against your palm.

It's a good question. One your family wonders.

You got the degree. You got the experience, too. And experience in Gotham is gold everywhere else because if you can withstand the kids here, you can handle them anywhere.

With the fine print being that Gotham kids are what? Uncontrollable troublesome kids who will inevitably turn into criminals? Inherently evil? Your kids can annoy the hell out of you on a bad day but they're your kids. They talk to you, they tell you about their lives, about what they like and don't like, and they listen to your stories, too, and they show you that while others think living in Gotham is like living in some kind of barren wasteland... there is hope. So easily within reach.

If Gotham was as bad as people tried to make it out to be, no one would be here.

"I don't think so," you eventually say, looking at him with a small smile. "I like my job too much to leave. I like living here, too. And the company isn't so bad, either."

Tim smiles when you say that. "I would miss you."

And what a thing to say. What a thing for you to have the privilege of. That someone, not just your kids or Ms. C, would miss you and your presence.

Well, you think. You would miss him, too. Maybe more than you would like to admit.

Friends.

Still hard to quantify or believe.