#anon this isnt what i'd written for ur ask but im dedicating it to you anyway

[satyricplotter]

time lapse (you're always at the same place, looking the same)

pairing: tim drake x reader (kept gn, one use of they pronoun) word count: 2,804 words lol rating: gen notes: i finished writing this five minutes ago and im not gonna edit it :p i also wanted to make this WAY angstier which... i might stlll do... if i ever continue this... anyway, title from this song by miss never married but divorced three times kim taeyeon. used this map for the metro, and this map for the districts.

while working a case, tim runs into an old ex. not that he notices.

.

tim can sense the approach before the hand wraps around the back of the only other chair available. he doesn't look up ���vainly hopes you're only here to grab the chair and pull it toward one of the very empty tables. who knows? maybe you just need an odd number of chairs to feel comfortable.

of course, he is not so lucky. you clear your throat, call his attention.

"hello, stranger," you say, voice wavering at the end.

he looks up, resigned to lose a few more minutes of his precious time. it's not your fault that tim's feeling so irritated right now. sleepless night after sleepless night pouring over this case have dragged him out to this café at a monstrous hour of the morning because he couldn't stand staring at the four walls of his bedroom knowing he's been getting nowhere. he's not getting anywhere here either, but at least the brew's better.

really, any other time, tim might've entertained it. straightened and smiled charmingly, gestured for you to sit, paid for a treat on top of the coffee you're carrying. you look very sweet and nervous—white-knuckling the back of the chair, smile straining but firm—which he likes. easy to unnerve, but with a spine. just his type.

not today, though.

"what is it?" he says, eyes flickering back to his computer screen. just polite enough not to get a scalding latte thrown on him. he does not need third degree burns right now. he's close enough to calling it quits and committing some murder as is.

even as the silence stretches, you don't leave. tim is not feigning disinterest—he is disinterested, he just wants you to leave, so he looks up again, eyebrow raised. you're staring at him, unreadable expression in your face. and the longer you look at him, the more something pricks at the back of his neck. an uneasy feeling washes over him.

then you grin. broad and amused. tim blinks, dumbfounded. what? he was just gearing up for those burns and now you're grinning?

"hey," you say, voice way lighter than before. maybe you take rejection super well? "can i sit here?"

of course not. tim sighs, rubs the bridge of his nose.

well, whatever. he can commend perseverance. maybe a little distraction won't hurt. he can always leave.

"sure," he says, gesturing to the chair. "just be quiet."

"you got it."

you make true with your promise. the table's big enough that you can sit across him, pull out your own laptop, and work in silence without bothering him, and as soon as you get in the groove of things, it's as though you're all alone in this café. tim's not so lucky. if you had cast a spell on him, it would not be quite as effective as your silent, unbothered presence is at distracting him. the fact that the case's not moving at all—no matter where he prowls, searches, spies—is not helping. after an hour of fruitless pondering and texting steph and duke (monitoring the switch in the patrols, more like), he gets up to grab another americano. whatever. it's cold outside.

you pay him no mind, only nodding when he asks you to watch over his stuff.

it's a little annoying, actually.

he studies you as he waits at the counter for his name to be called. that same sense of unease pokes at him, a thread waiting to be pulled to unravel… what, exactly? certainly what he is feeling now is a sense of recognition, but where has he seen you exactly? he tries to picture you in the places he frequents and fails miserably. then maybe he hasn't seen you in the flesh, but elsewhere… photos? just now he was going through the victim's family archive. again he fails to place you.

the victim is a 26 year old, white male doing a masters in arboriculture and urban forestry. he'd been working on mercey island to study the degradation of a specific type of tree around the sewage treatment plant. had taken line 1 on angelo and mysteriously wasn't on the train when it got to arena. police had determined the subject had gotten off in bolland to catch the ferry and slipped in the banks. (why would he even take the ferry? the connection with line 5 was two stations away and it would've taken him straight into newtown, a few blocks away from his apartment instead of going all the way round to rogers basin and then what? catching a cab? paying triple fare? c'mon. some of us aren't stupid.)

so the common sense explanation was they'd killed this guy to shut him up about something. the issue was what he'd found out and who had killed him for it. almost everybody in the family agreed with this. steph was of the opinion the guy had not really found anything, but he'd gotten close enough. he and barbara thought he'd managed to hide something given the general paranoia he'd exhibited in the cctv vids from his last few hours alive, but where he'd put it was far beyond him. even if he hadn't, the people who'd killed him certainly believed he had and it was a grave enough offense to warrant a rush job on this guy's murder. a visit to ivy was par for the course in flora related cases, but she'd refused to lend them a hand and so tim was drawing blanks on the hows, the whys and the where.

until you. a possible connection.

he looks at you again. his parents had been pretty important wall street brokers. your coat is tailored. your phone's seems like a recent acquisition.

maybe.

he settles down in his seat with his steaming cup and slides a raspberry croissant over to you with a smile. you stop typing, arch an eyebrow at him.

"a sorry for being rude earlier," he says, charmingly. raises his cup with a little laugh. "not a morning bird!"

you rest your chin on the palm of your hand, eyes twinkling in amusement. "is that so?"

tim nudges the pastry closer to you. "will you forgive me?"

your smile unfurls lazily and a little bit cocky as you take the croissant quite deliberately without touching him. "we shall see."

(kinda hot, honestly.

okay, focus.)

"are you an early bird?" he asks.

"mm, not quite," you say, peeling off the wrapper. tim knows it's still warm from having carried it over, but by the way it flops a little under your fingers, it must be from the last batch of yesterday's pastries. well, he would've bought you a new one if they had any.

he tries again. "so you've stayed up all night? you don't look it."

"you do," you say, popping a bite of the pastry in your mouth. a little bit of the raspberry jam sticks to your cheek. tim grabs his mug so his fingers he can't reach out to wipe it. what can he say. big fan of hygiene, him.

"big nights at work," he says, hiding a yawn behind his hand. "are you working overtime at your… job?" an embarrassed smile, well-practiced. "sorry, i don't actually know what you do."

"of course you don't," you say, simply. "i haven't told you."

tim's fingers tighten on the mug. "well, i am asking. in case it wasn't obvious."

you munch on another piece. the jam is still there. "why do you wanna know?"

right. why does he want to know? it wouldn't take that long to track you down and doxx you if he wanted to. would probably be easier. he could do it in his sleep, if that time were ever to come.

a man is dead, tim, he reminds himself. play nice.

"well, how am i supposed to pick you up after work if i don't know if you're working overtime?" he says, faux smoothly.

that shocks a laugh at out of you, and tim drinks only to hide the satisfaction of getting a hit.

"cute," you say, giving him a once over. "but i've got a boyfriend."

that's news. tim doesn't feel disappointed. not really. it's just another door shut in his face. he'll have to find another way in.

he shrugs. "that's a shame."

"well, don't play demure now," you laugh. "what are you working on? you've been staring the hell out of that screen."

tim smiles sheepishly. "do i look as stuck as i am?"

"little bit," you admit. "anything i can do to help?"

bingo.

"i can't say much," he says, "because the case is technically still ongoing, but i'm helping out the mayor's office trying to draft a proposal to improve the city's urban safety measures. coming up blank because i want people to be safe, but still be able to enjoy the city without everything being gated, you know? there's only a few pleasures in gotham, after all."

you nod, thoughtfully. "that's laudable. what are you thinking?"

"thanks. the most straightforward way—and cheapest, probably—would be to install railings, hire guards around the parks—"

"they're gonna be bought off immediately, dude."

"well, yeah. and the railings are not gonna deter anyone who's willing to gamble their life on line 1 being late. or jumping over to the beach and slipping down the bank, like that guy last week."

"slipping down… oh! you mean tony!"

tim blinks, affecting surprise. "you knew the guy?"

"yeah," you say, slipping into sorrow. tim shifts in his seat. well, of course if you knew him, you'd care. dude was dead. "we went to gcu together, got in the same study group for organic chem. he used to take the train with me every thursday, got off at the same stop and he'd walk me home. didn't talk to him much after college, but it's a shame he passed."

"must've been. he seemed young," tim says.

"he was! last i heard he was doing his masters. his poor mom's devastated."

his surprise this time is genuine. "you know his mother?"

"we didn't date, if that's what you're thinking," you rush to explain. "i used to live in chinatown back then, not so far from the banks, actually—the flooding was awful back in 2016, by the way, you should do something about that—and tony loves the sea, so he'd always take the ferry back home even though it was the long way around. i think he lived in the east end back then? but the ferry station was only like three blocks away from my apartment, and sometimes i'd make the journey over to his mom's house with him—just to see what it was like, you know? see the world through his eyes. tony loved nature. he loved it despite everything steel and concrete eating it up more and more. didn't even mind that the ferry had to pass blackgate if he got to stare at the open sea, even though i damn nearly pissed my pants every time we heard the noises—sorry, i'm talking too much, aren't i?"

"no," he croaks. clears his throat. "it's not too much."

"really? you look a little pale."

tim shakes his head. "it's fine," he says. "go on."

it is fine. he'd just forgotten. forgotten this guy was human. had friends. had family. people who missed him. who would continue to miss him even after the case was closed. forgotten what he was doing this for. not to solve a puzzle, but to give the people that he'd left behind the closure they needed. and the truth. always the truth.

"anyway, so we went a few times. we'd get off by loeb bridge and stay a few hours at his mom's house, and when it was about to get dark, he'd walk me over to grayson station and i'd take the green line back home. i sent his mom a message right after i found out—she really was distraught. the insurance company is making a right mess out of things. i hear they went to check over his apartment and apparently they left no stone unturned looking for the suicide note that was never gonna be there because when they left, it looked like they'd ransacked the place. it's disrespectful, is what it is, and just so his mum can't cash in the life insurance."

"the insurance company did that?" he asks. "are you sure someone didn't just… actually ransack the place?"

"who knows." you shrug. "but his mom said she'd left the place spotless before they came in, and i trust her. maybe you should tell the mayor about that. it can't be the first stunt those guys pull."

"no, probably not," tim says absently, tapping his fingers on the table. in fact, you've probably hit the nail on the head. it cannot be the first time they do this. he checks his watch. 07:34 AM. he can squeeze in a morning visit, why not? "listen, i gotta get going. i've got a meeting across town."

"oh, yeah, no worries." you wave him away. as he shrugs on his coat and stashes his laptop in his bag, you steal one of his pens to jot down something on a napkin. you slide it over to him. "don't be a stranger."

tim grabs it and turns it over. written on it is tony's mother's name and phone number. he knows this, because he already has them on file. he looks at you askance.

you wink at him. "help her make her case."

tim blinks, then grins. "will do!"

"it was nice to catch up with you!" you yell after him as he goes, waving. tim waves back, still grinning when he hits the asphalt.

two blocks away, stephanie pulls him into an alley. "you have the devil's luck, tim, you really do."

tim grins. "you got all that?"

"yep," she says, tapping on the comms device oracle gave her to upload the recording of the conversation to her server. "can't believe you had the comms on you."

he shrugs. "was listening on your patrol, that's all."

"ha! no one's paying you to babysit, control freak." she shakes her head. "can't believe you randomly walked into a lead when we've had no luck for days—"

"heh. what can i say? it's the—"

"—and coming from your ex of all people? dude."

"—talent of the master—what?"

"what?"

"what do you mean?"

"what do i mean by what? the lead? it's obviously the insurance company—"

"no, fuck that," he says. stephanie scowls, incensed at the nonsense and the interruption. tim doesn't care, he can't care, what does she mean? "my ex?"

"yeah? back in school—oh my god, you did not notice?" stephanie scrambles to get out her phone, furiously scrolling through her gallery, and then shoves a picture underneath tim's nose. "oh, you idiot—see?"

he sees. he sure fucking sees. right there, grinning up at him is.. you. the picture is one of an outing back in… what? junior year? it's you, and tim, and steph amidst a group of other high schoolers, absolutely demolishing the manbat special at batburger. he has his arm around you. fuck.

fuck.

"tim, tim, look at me, don't hide your face in your hands—you didn't notice you were talking to your ex?"

tim groans into his palms, slides down the grimy, disgusting wall onto the grimy, disgusting floor.

that's why you were familiar. that's why the sense of unease. that's why you were nervous—

oh, no, he'd been so rude. he'd broken up with you and then you'd tried being nice when you saw him again after all these years and he had forgotten about you.

"ha, ha!" stephanie laughs. is she recording? fuck, she's recording. tim tries to push the phone away, but she's quicker. "cass, can you believe this doofus?"

"badly done," cass says. oh, they're facetiming.

tim groans again, stands up to walk away. "i gotta—i gotta apologize— i have to—"

stephanie holds him back by the scruff of the neck, which is to say, the hood of his sweatshirt. "no can't do, mister. we've got to pay a morning call to that lovely insurance company playing whack-a-mole in our crime scenes. that's why you got the mother's number right?"

"oh, no," tim says, freezing. "was it… was it obvious i didn't know? is that— do you think — do you think that's why i got—"

"do i think the fact that you did not recognize your ex in the flesh directly influence the fact that you got the victim' mom's number instead of, you know, theirs? uh, yeah. man, you're hopeless."

"yep," cass echoes.

tim slumps back down to the floor in despair.

"man," steph cackles. "i can't wait to text jay about this."