Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Being back has Kon reeling.

Cassie and Tim both got tangled up in a bunch of messed up shit. Separately, together. Cassie clawed her way out and Kon is so proud of her—of how sturdily she holds herself despite everything, how she falls apart and picks up the pieces, mending the breakages with gold. Even then, Kon can feel the grief radiating off of her in droves when she looks at him or Bart.

They all need—

Kon’s not sure. Time? Space? None of those things feel right, are the perfect salves.

Death is always touted as the apotheosis of tragedy, crediting the loss it induces, the what could we have done differently; why him; I wasn’t there our last conversation meant nothing why him—I couldn’t lose you too—

Kon has always felt out of sync with the rest of the world. Nursed in a womb of tempered glass and born alone but free—free—and standing in a pool of tube fluid as it bled out onto pristine tile. Born fifteen and privately terrified that he would be fifteen forever while his friends all grew up.

Never younger than fifteen and curious about what kind of kid he could have been. Aching from the knowledge that he would never know.

Eighteen and back among the living, the whole world saturated in sun and grief. His friends grew up.

To die really was an awfully big adventure.

Tim has a new alias. Stark against the red of his suit, the pallor of his skin verges on wraith-like. His scaffolding, the only thing keeping him upright is a patchwork of anger and heartache. Ephemeral things that will, one day—tomorrow, next week, years from now—bleed themselves dry.

Kon would know.

Later, when Kon catches Red Robin unawares on a rare, clear-skied night, he looks better. Excited—hopeful, even. Whatever Tim has going on, he dismisses Kon’s offer to help, but when he promises that he’ll hear, he’ll fly right over if Tim ever calls his name, just in case, Tim poses no argument.

He smiles. Fond, closemouthed, and says I know you will.

And then Tim was right. Of course he was. News gets around that the first Batman is alive in controlled trickles, gradual by design.

Afterwards, Kon does not see nor hear from Tim for almost three months.

A Bat that wishes to remain hidden has the will and means to do so, and Kon only tracks the other boy’s heartbeat when the peace of the Kansas countryside becomes overwhelming, when he sleeps in fits and starts, and tells himself that this must be enough for now.

Hardly anyone else knows what Tim is doing, and no one else even has the boy’s number, so Kon knows it’s not personal.

It stings deeply, nonetheless.

When Kon does hear his name, it’s a slow night save for a three-car pileup with no fatalities, leaving Kon cruising above the cauliflower heads of the clouds striated above Metropolis.

It’s not contained within a shout; just a simple, even Kon-El that has Kon blasting off like a shot regardless.

It’s only once his feet touch down onto a long boardwalk stretching along an empty beach that Kon even registers that this isn’t Gotham. Or even the state of New Jersey.

He finds Tim alone in civvies, sitting cross-legged on water-worn bedrock. His clothes are oversized, build hidden under a baggy tee tucked into dark-wash jeans. Waves lap at the shore, some lazy swishes, others with greater enthusiasm, surging up onto moss and scoured stone before retreating back to sea.

“Hi,” Tim greets when Kon comes within a few feet behind his spot. “Thanks for coming.”

Kon moves to sit to Tim’s left, bewildered. “Uh, not that it’s not good to see you,” he says, the pit of worry in his abdomen that he’s built over months finally unfurling as he takes in Tim’s frown, the shadows shaping his frown, “but what’s going on?”

“I drove myself over from Gotham earlier today. The trip took three hours—then I got a motel room a few miles from here and wandered around for a while. I bought a hotdog and a soda and wondered if this beach measures up to Hawaii’s. And then I called you.” Sure enough, Tim is balancing a hollow can of ginger ale on the toe of his sneakers. A hand comes up to his face, scrubbing at dull skin. “Ugh, I haven’t slept in two days. It’s kind of getting to me.”

“Um,” Kon says, perplexed as ever, “what?”

“Does it?”

“What?”

“Measure up,” Tim echoes, expression crinkling as if to add, Keep up, Kon. It’s all precocious Robin. “To the beaches in Hawaii. You lived there for a few months—do you remember what it looked like?”

“Oh,” Kon says. “This is pretty nice.”

Tim hums in acknowledgment, staring ahead into dark waters, in this dark cove lit by starshine. The moon is full and huge and luminous. Just like it had been, the first time he’d ever stepped foot outside.

Hawaii feels like—was literally—a whole lifetime ago. Exactly none of his fondest memories are attached to that place, but he remembers one night where Tim and Cassie and Bart were all piled up in Kon’s mess of a bedroom, and Kon had gushed about how it was still one of the most gorgeous places he’d ever seen. Leave it to Tim to be eerie and thoughtful at the same time.

“Hawaii had tons of palm trees, obviously. There where so many buildings that kept the lights on after sunset you could still see the blue of the shore, sometimes. It was really beautiful.” A thought flickers to life in Kon’s mind: Tim up in the sky with him, admiring a golden coast that glows in the dark, like parchment burning from match-fire. “Tim, what’s going on? Where have you been?”

Tim lays flat on his back, setting the soda can by his waist. Inexplicably, Kon joins him, settling down and placing his hands over his stomach.

“While you—were gone,” Tim starts, and geez, Kon already dislikes where this is going. But whatever this is—it needs to be said, right? Getting rid of the cobwebs of you’ve changed and the I wasn’t there for it and the we used to talk about everything. “While you were gone, I kept wishing I could see you again, somehow—I thought about it all the time. I did fucked up things. Lashed out at people.”

Kon says nothing.

“And then you came back—you told me you believed me when I said Bruce was alive. It… meant more than I can describe. I felt like I was going insane, back then.”

He remembers Tim hunched over, eyes wet, irately tugging at his own hair. Kon too out of his element to do much more than place a hand on his friend’s back for comfort.

“I swear, Kon, that was the only thing that kept me going for a while. That and the chance of getting—Bruce being alive,” Tim continues, rambling on as his heartbeat picked up along with the swirls of anxiety in Kon’s gut. “But then I did it, I kept everyone safe and I got Bruce back to Gotham but then I just. Realized I didn’t plan for anything past that point. I didn’t think I’d make it that far.”

Kon’s thoughts screech to a horrifying halt.

“I made it,” Tim carries on, gulping, “and it was fucking freaky how little I cared that I did. I didn’t care at all.”

Didn’t think I’d make it that far. Didn’t—

“Tim,” Kon says, and his voice trips on the single syllable. He sits up and twists to look at Tim—not Tim, Kon can’t lose anyone either. Especially not like this. “Are you—do you—?”

“No,” Tim fires back, simple and certain. The delivery is so blunt that Kon has to believe him, purely by instinct.

The knot in his chest loosens, even if the tangles aren’t all the way undone. Without the pressure of imminent danger, the eddies of fear exhume a surge of hurt. Clenching his fists, Kon thinks back to their conversation on the roof and how none of it is holding up—this conniving motherfucker really—“You dick,” he hisses fiercely, “you told me you were fine. I thought we were past stuff like this.”

“That… I wasn’t lying to you; I don’t like lying to you. I was fine at that moment,” Tim amends quickly. He’s still staring at the water. “And I wanted that moment to last. Everything was looking up—I genuinely didn’t think I’d crash, especially that hard.”

“Tim,” Kon says, more loudly, and swallows. Breathes in and out. Restarts more level, “You could have—just let us know. We would have understood.”

Tim huffs and gets back into a cross-legged position, but whatever he sees makes his eyes go wide. “Woah, wait, I’m sorry—wait, holy shit your face,” he says, expression going slack with concern. He leans forward, briefly pressing his palm to Kon’s knee. “Hey, I didn’t mean to freak you out. I’m glad I’m here. Well, I am now. I did reach out for help; a few of the other Bats know—”

A particularly violent wave crashes against the rocks, spraying the both of them with saltwater.

Kon recovers first, muttering, “You still look awful.”

“According to you I never look all that great,” Tim quips, wry. “Anyway, I, uh. I’ve started taking some medication? Trying stuff out. It’s been over a month and I think it’s making a difference. And giving me headaches, but whatever.” He wrinkles his nose, shrugging. “Also, I’ve been getting insanely detailed dreams? I can fly in them.”

Tim makes a swooping motion with his hands, imitating a dive.

Kon coughs back a laugh. “O… kay?”

“Look. I wanted to apologize for not being in contact. I’ve been… drifting. Glitchy. The past few months have been a blur; I’m kind of just feeling like a real person again. In a way, I wanted to be better—more… here, the next time you saw me? More real. To have enough of my shit together before I faced anyone again, not be so dead on my feet.”

Kon gives him a glare that could make mincemeat out of this cove; Tim and Cassie are so blatantly cast in the same mould, stubbornly committed to surviving on pure inertia—staying in ceaseless motion. Forgetting that leader and friend are not mutually exclusive time after time.

“Oh. Pun intended?” Tim grinds the heels of his shoes against the ground, drumming his fingertips against the soda can. “Sorry. I had months and crossed a state border and I still never say things quite right. Here; I’ll try again: for someone who said he missed you as much as he did while you were gone, I think I did a bad job of following up. I’m not the only one who’s been through a lot. So. I’m sorry.”

“That,” Kon says, keeping his voice low because that’s the only way it’s going to stay even, “is actually really nice to hear, but none of that explains why you’re in Long Island.”

And apparently spent a while exploring the area until the crowd cleared and the sun set, eating a crappy dinner. Kon knows what tourist hotspots are like thanks to his former hero of Hawaii schtick. Any stall or cart within a three-mile radius is highway robbery with a license. At least Tim isn’t short on cash.  

Tim shrugs. “I wanted to get the vibe right.”

“The vibe,” Kon echoes.

“For when I apologized.” The Duh? is implied. Tim points to the water, as if that explained anything. “You like beaches.”

“Tim, you scared the shit out of me.”

“My bad?”

“And you drove to New York after dropping off the grid for three months to say sorry on a random beach.” Kon doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or hug this guy. In the end, he decides on both, wrapping Tim up in his arms and squeezing. One might call it light strangulation. “Dude, what the hell goes on in your head?”

“Sheesh, what a loaded question,” Tim retorts, bringing his own hands around Kon’s waist. The cadence of his words are aiming for blasé, but his fist is tight where it locks onto the fabric of Kon’s shirt, tense against the small of his back. It speaks for him, smooths over the pockmarks that Tim always struggled with, verbally—I missed you, I missed you I missed you—“And I wasn’t about to book it to Honolulu. Accept this lousy Long Island beach.”

“I’m going to need a jetpack to bridge this canyon in logic,” Kon grouses, holding Tim’s head. “Or a hang glider. Whichever works.”

Tim’s voice is clogging, a touch nasal. Still so sad. “You can fly.” He presses his face into Kon’s shoulder.

“Just buy me a fancy bouquet next time,” Kon sighs. He inhales the smell of kelp and sulfur, thinks of a distant version of himself, the little bird that had broken out of his egg.

The fabric of his sleeve is getting wet.

In the end, Kon can’t find anything more succinct than, “Welcome back, Rob.”

Tim is silent; regrouping.

Then he says, “I said I’d be back.” The words quiver. “I’m just behind schedule.”

They hold each other tight.

____

One year later, Kon is whistling as he glimpses into Tim’s living room, grinning with teeth when Tim reflexively rolls his eyes. “Sweet digs, dude,” he singsongs. “Love what you’ve done to the place.”

Tim’s a sight to behold and Kon doesn’t mean that in a nice way; his hair is sticking out in eleven different places and there’s a butterfly closure pasted on his forehead, fastening a two-inch-long cut closed.

“I said,” Tim hisses, even as he slides the balcony door open to let Kon inside, “what are you doing here—”

Kon shrugs, peeling his jacket off. If I left it up to you, buddy, he doesn’t say, I’d see you once in a blue moon. “Couldn’t sleep. Gotta say, the empty Gatorade bottles really give this place personality.”

“Like you’re one to talk. I’ve seen your room,” Tim snipes back. “And I actually need the electrolytes. What’s your excuse?”

Kon will admit that flying over to Gotham—pollution-addled and sporting the ample disadvantage of, well, being Gotham—on a whim was not one of his best ideas. Clark once offhandedly described this place as a man-made nightmare.

Tim’s initial consternation was all bark and no bite, though, the rise and fall of his chest even and Bat-steady. That tempers down his embarrassment with a few reassuring pats.

“You’re looking better,” Kon says, when the quiet gets to be too much, the lull in conversation too excessive.

Tim says nothing at first, but Kon’s comment makes his expression crack with the beginnings of a smile. The action re-splits his bottom lip, and a fresh droplet of blood oozes out of the cut. Kon promptly dabs it away, sandwiching a cotton pad between his thumb and the skin of Tim’s mouth.

A cool draft is blowing into Tim’s apartment living room, ruffling the vinyl blinds. There’s a lone chair on the balcony, made of steel and coated in rust from months and months of Gotham storms. Propped up against the wall by the couch is Tim’s bo staff, only partially collapsed and damaged with what looks like corrosion marks.

The air smells like camphor and the sour tang of smoke that still clings to Tim’s hair and skin, despite his shower.

It occurs to Kon a moment later that he is definitely cupping Tim’s face. He stomps down the urge to draw his hand back right away—that would make this whole thing real. Kon doesn’t want to do away with Tim’s relaxed posture. It’s rare enough as is. 

This particular cut isn’t big, already a few hours old, so when Kon finally brings the cotton away it’s still bleach-white save for a minor speck of red, the same shade as the pieces of Tim’s Red Robin suit discarded all over the floor.

“Do I?” Tim says, one brow raised as he yanks collar of his shirt down, past the dip of his clavicles and partway to his sternum, revealing a splotch of bruising underneath. “Is the bar that low?”

Kon pointedly averts his eyes; there is raucous snickering at the back of his mind that sounds suspiciously like Bart’s. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Tim was being coy—but Kon is used to his imagination flouncing off to embarrassingly spurious conclusions.

“You know what I mean,” Kon says, huffing. Tim does look different. He’s lighter, less seventeen and muscle and bones, mechanized by grief. Older—eighteen going on nineteen, broader shoulders, the raincloud over his head clearing away, diffuse. “Though anything is better than that condom cowl.”

Tim nudges him. “Shut up,” he says lightly, “Steph already ribs me enough about it.”

“Well, since your own stylistic choices had you running around as an overgrown Q-tip,” Kon tells him, “I gotta assume she was onto something.”

“Yeah, yeah, extra bad period of my life, questionable choices. Whoop-dee-doo.”

“Questionable is euphemistic,” Kon says, eliciting the muted chortle he was aiming for; Tim’s eyes crinkle. Softer, he adds, “Only up from there, huh?”

“Don’t jinx it.”

It’s disarming; Tim is disarming even when he’s fraying at the edges, hanging on by a thread but this—Tim healthy, Kon close enough to see every bruise and incision Tim picked up from the city tonight, the pale flecks of gray stippled into the steel blue of his irises—is positively accretive.

Kon tends to Tim’s injuries as quickly and carefully as he can, even as he dreads being finished and lacking any viable excuse to be here.

Looking at Tim now, figure backlit by the placid glow of the floor lamp, Kon feels less hollowed-out and bone-tired than he has in a long, long time.

You’re so pretty, Kon lets himself think, gulping hastily when the words begin to creep upwards from his chest, clamouring for escape.  

He clears his throat as he pastes medical tape around a particularly broad injury spanning half of Tim’s forearm. “So what did happen to you?” Kon asks, more a bid to distract himself than out of curiosity. Life is several notches too wack for anything to be a surprise.

“Oh, you know. Underground drug trials. Human subjects doing it for the money or made to stay under duress. A healthy amount of broken glass,” Tim huffs. His socked foot taps rhythmically the floorboards, restless. “Other arm next, please. Start at the elbow. I just need ice and some painkillers for the rest.”

“Yes boss.”

“You’re the one who offered,” Tim counters. Then, startlingly honest, he adds, “I missed you.”

You’re killing me, Kon wants to say. Well, Superboy Prime did kill me. But you’re a remarkably close second, so what do you have to say for yourself?

Whatever.

“You saw me last week,” Kon says. “Trip to Alpha Centauri? Ring any bells? I broke you out of space jail?”

Post-mission, they had decided to make a brief rest stop on a planet populated by amphibious creatures that barely came up to Kon’s waist. For committing some alleged misdemeanor, they put Red Robin in a jar. It had been equally stupid and hilarious.

“What ‘I’? Bart and Cassie broke me out of space jail. You just stood there.”

“I was moral support, you unappreciative ass.” Kon pinches Tim’s nose bridge—unbroken at the moment, but subtly crooked from years of hits and punches—and gets his hand swatted away. “And you’re the one who got arrested in the first place.”

“I have never done anything wrong in my life, ever.”

“News to me.”

Tim’s other arm is a mess of shallow scrapes, overlaid on the troughs and crests of older scar tissue. He doesn’t wince as Kon applies ointment and dresses the wound as clinically as he can using his TTK.

It must sting, but there are too many years of pain under Tim’s belt for him to be fazed over something so minor. Kon isn’t well-acquainted with physical pain like Tim is—not so intimately. And he wonders, if he were more human, if he bled and broke more easily, what patterns would be etched into his back, his skin, his limbs.

When that’s done, Kon does as asked and hovers over to the kitchen for an ice pack from the freezer and a glass of water. “Here you go,” he says, taking the spot on the couch next to Tim.

Tim takes the water with a low Thank you and gulps down his precautionary antibiotics with some Advil. Kon waits for Tim to take the ice pack, too—and he does, after staring at it for a few moments. The condensate adheres to the pads of Tim’s fingers as he crinkles the plastic in his hands, brow furrowed.

Tim sets the ice pack onto the coffee table, next to a wrecked domino. Wipes the excess water off on his pants, averting his eyes. His Adam’s apple bobs.

When they make a grab for the back of Kon’s neck to pull him forward, Tim’s fingers are still cold.

“Can I,” Tim murmurs. And then all Kon can see is Tim’s face—the other man’s eyelids fluttering shut, and then their lips are joined.

Neither of them move for what feels like a very, very long time and Kon’s mind goes very, very still.

Tim keeps his hand on Kon’s nape as he draws back. It’s a cue for Kon to react, recoil, use his voice. Kiss back. It’s only the growing frown on his face that punts Kon’s brain back into working order.

“Huh?” is what Kon ends up saying. He cringes immediately.

Sweet mother of God, he’s a dumbass. He’s going to ram his head through the drywall.

That makes Tim backpedal, mortification marring his face. “Shit,” he hisses, withdrawing, cheeks stained pink even under the dim lighting. “I’m sorry. I thought—we can forget about this. Don’t worry about it.”

“Wait, no,” Kon blurts out. “Sorry.”

“It’s—it’s okay?” Tim says. His expression is stricken, twisted up all weird.

“No,” Kon says again, internally cursing his lack of vocabulary, “I mean—no, sorry. I’m just—rebooting?”

Then it’s Tim’s turn to say, “Huh?”

“Please get back here,” Kon pleads, reaching ahead. “Do that again?”

This time Kon meets him halfway, hand moving to trace Tim’s jawline. Tim’s eyes go huge as understanding filters in, cheek leaning into Kon’s touch—

And they’re kissing each other on the couch, surrounded by Tim’s comically vast catalogue of lemon-lime Gatorade bottles. Tim is making happy, breathless noises that make Kon’s heart sing. His palms run up and down Kon’s triceps; he feels the brush of Tim’s slender hands, his callus-roughened skin. They toy, idly, with the thin golden bands nestled through the cartilage of his helix.

Kon sends a mental shout-out to the series of minor emotional crises he’s had since being resurrected. Getting piercings again was a fantastic call.

“You’re my best friend,” Tim says when he breaks away to catch his breath, his fingers buried in Kon’s hair. For once he looks carefree, starry-eyed. It’s so good. It makes Tim look as young as he is.

“Hm? I thought Batgirl was your best friend,” Kon mumbles.

“I can have more than one best friend,” Tim says, already leaning closer once more.

“Okaaay, Mr. Popular.”

Their lips press together once more. Kon is careful not to grab anywhere he’s spotted a particularly nasty abrasion, avoiding Tim’s shoulders and collar as his hands drift from place to place, exploring.  

Belatedly, Kon realizes that Tim is letting him set the pace; whatever he does, Tim mirrors the action, fingers flexing every time Kon exhales extra hard or makes a noise, as if mentally cataloguing what Kon likes. Methodical nerd.

Testing his theory, Kon licks along the seam of Tim’s lips, careful to avoid splitting the cut open again and lets out a pleased hum when Tim instantly opens his mouth.

Then he tightens the arm he has wound around Tim’s waist; Tim stills, shuffles backwards and Kon, like a loser, whimpers at the loss of contact. It’s fine, this is fine, goodnight is the refrain looping in Kon’s mind; this whole night has already gone far, far better than he could have ever hoped.

But then Tim is manhandling Kon’s legs—he pauses to check in and grins when all Kon can do is nod like a bobblehead in his best approximation of yes, go ahead, what the flipping fuck—so he can climb onto his lap. He seats himself on the plane of Kon’s left thigh, arms looping back around Kon’s shoulders.

Kon is dying.

And then Tim’s mouth is right back to where it was before. Kon’s brain is molasses, melting out of his ears.  

“Conner,” Tim manages when they split again, holding Kon by the neck, hands sunspot warm and tracing his mandible, rubbing lazy circles. He sounds punched-out. His pupils are blown. How long have they been kissing? Touching, to get Tim to sound so wrecked? “Conner. Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” Kon croaks, weak to his own ears.

Tim’s hair is sticking out in twelve different places and his exhales have yet to smooth back out. His expression is dazed, a lot less mentally intact than Kon is ever used to seeing, all defenses down.

I did that, Kon thinks giddily, bumping their shoulders. Tim likes him, he likes Kon; Tim wants him.

“Well, hey. That was very cool. A real humdinger,” Kon says, making Tim snort. He kisses Tim’s temple for good measure, next to the butterfly stitches. The first time Tim had gotten a head injury Kon had had to stifle his panic, startled by how fervently it bled. “Oh. You’re so pretty.”

Already flushed all over, Tim chokes out a stunned, wheezing sort of laugh. Kon wants to lock up the sound and have it on repeat during bad days. “Dude, you can’t just say that.”

Tim’s breath hitches when Kon presses their foreheads together—it helps Kon build courage for the words he wants to air out next.

Tim beats him to the punch. He says, “Stay.”  

“So, uh, I’m not complaining or anything,” Kon says later that night, after the all the lights have been switched off, “but why now?”

They’re in bed, tucked under expensive sheets. Tim’s head is nestled under his chin, hair tickling his neck.

“You’re the one who showed up at my apartment in the middle of the night without a heads up,” Tim tells him, going tense. “Wait. You didn’t even mean it as a hint, then? I thought I was reading the room!”

“Eh,” Kon says.

“Kon, do you know what boundaries are? Be honest,” Tim says. The reprimand would probably carry more weight if Tim didn’t cut himself off with his own yawning.

“Boundaries,” he parrots with a laugh. Kon shifts and, like a compulsion, kisses Tim’s crown. “Uh-huh. A Bat’s gonna lecture me about boundaries. Rich.”  

“What if I was asleep?”

“Trick question; I’ve known you for more than three minutes,” Kon says. “Besides, this worked out, didn’t it? This is okay?”

In the dark, Tim fumbles in search for Kon’s hand to intertwine their fingers. He squeezes.  

They sleep.

The sun isn’t even up yet when Kon rouses to the noisy clamour of footsteps from beyond the bedroom door.

This is alarming for two reasons:

One, even after life has put Tim through the wringer, ultra-heavy duty spin cycle—and other handy-dandy euphemisms for wow, life sucks balls; you good, dude? and all the terror that kind of life invites—once Tim dozes off, he refuses to stir for anything short of the apocalypse.    

Two, if it’s not Tim, the alleged sole permanent resident of this apartment walking around then that means someone circumvented a Gotham Bat’s security system.

The gait of whoever is pacing—and swearing under their breath, rifling through the drawers—around Tim’s apartment belongs to someone bulky, if the force of each stride is anything to go by.

Kon grabs Tim, who is still star-fished across the bedspread by the shoulders. Tries to shake him awake. “Tim. Rise and shine.”  

If the noises sounding Tim is making are meant to be actual words, they’re unintelligible, buffeted by layers of cotton and sleep.  

“Tim, Tim. Red,” Kon says, persistent. He jostles Tim around like a floppy noodle. “Rob. Reddy Robbie.”

“Wh—sleepin’,” Tim slurs, curling into himself. “Don’t care.”

“You should. There’s someone in your apartment,” Kon explains.

“Ugh.” Tim pushes himself upright, glaring at the wall like Kon has ruined his week and taking his sweet time rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms. “Skunk.”

Tim throws the door open, Kon lingering right behind him.

It’s the Red Hood, sans helmet, inky hair pressed at odd angles from sweat. He’s crouched by the drawers of Tim’s oak TV system, a pile of displaced medical supplies growing as he digs through Tim’s stuff.

“Jason.”

“Top of the morning, baby bird,” Hood greets, not looking up from where his arms are buried in rolls of medical tape and blankets. “Where the hell did you put your antibiotics? I ran out and took a dip into Miller Harbor. Would really rather not get pneumonia. I feel like I need six tetanus shots—ahah, found ‘em.”

“Those’re mine, get your own,” Tim says, the sentence a toneless smear of vowels. “I’m the immumo—immunocompromised one.”

Hood finally turns around, and if he’s puzzled in the slightest by Kon standing right behind where Tim is slumped against the doorframe, peering over his shoulder, it doesn’t show.

“Respectfully: finders keepers, losers weepers.” Hood shakes the bottle of pills in his hand like a maraca and barks out a raspy laugh when Tim flips him the bird. “Damn, Tim, what crawled up your ass and died?”

“Technically, you,” Tim says, jaw unhinging as he yawns.

Hood blinks.

He only says, “Walked right into that one,” as he stands up and brushes imaginary dust off his cargo pants. Interestingly, he also starts swiping up the mess he made and dumping it back where they belong once the meds are in his pocket. “Oh, yeah. I compiled all the files for the Ruggiero case.”

From his back pocket, Jason fishes out a flash drive sealed in a plastic bag and chucks it. His aim is perfect; it bounces off Tim’s forehead dead center and hits the floor with a faint clunk.

“Thanks. I’m going back to sleep. Bye,” Tim announces, wasting not another second retreating back into the bedroom, sidestepping Kon on the way.

This leaves Kon standing alone and watching as Jason re-ties his boots by the balcony. He took them off before breaking in. That’s actually fairly polite.

Jason rises to his full height, taking a moment to admire his lacework and fix his helmet back on before reaching for his grapnel. Glancing over to Kon, he says, voice tinny through the modulator, “Your shirt’s inside out.”

Kon could feasibly cleave planet Earth in half with enough willpower and elbow grease. He is a juggernaut. He gets years of his life shaved off right then and there.

And then Hood is gone. Kon wants to scream.

To the now vacant living room, he grumbles, “At least I knocked.”  

____

Kon slides his fingers along the worn leather stretched across Tim’s back. He’s got one hand tracing the S symbol embroidered in bright thread, the other under Tim’s shirt, following the divot of his spine. The tacky 90s monster movie playing on TV is being dutifully ignored in favor of an armful of boyfriend.

They’ve been doing this for a while now, catching each other at the end of Titans business and in the rare snatches of time where they’re both free. Tim is leagues more tactile than Kon had originally anticipated—he never came off as the type. Especially this Tim, far more world-weary than the one who wore emerald green.

The traitorous part of Kon’s mind that had a propensity for fucking off to delusionville always presumed Tim would be a bit more reserved, would need more time to relax into the motions of a relationship.

But Kon had also pegged Tim as straight. So.

As it turns out, Tim is very into cuddling. Tim is a proactive, efficient sonuvabitch. There’s already an emerging pile of Kon’s clothes in the corner of Tim’s closet. He has a toothbrush. A preferred mug. Tim slipped Kon’s jacket over his shoulders.

To which Kon can only say: fucking superb.

In retrospect, Kon has known Tim nearly his whole life; this isn’t a sudden, spur of the moment fling. If this is how Tim acts when he’s dead serious about someone, Kon welcomes it.

The world is narrowing down to the sounds of Tim’s sighs and Kon’s blood supply is very much leaving the top floor when Tim breaks the kiss. He feels a hand splay across his chest and push, gentle but firm.

Kon scooches back with a pout. Upon seeing Tim looking troubled, he retracts his hands all the way, letting them drop to the side and asks, “What’s on your mind?”

“Uh,” Tim says, trailing off with a mumble. Uncomfortable, he purses his lips, eyes dropping to his lap.

“Hm? What was that?”

Tim visibly forces the statement out. “I’m gay. Or—something. Bisexual? I’ve dated girls but. I—you. I like you.”

He’s not quite sure what Tim is getting at, but Kon rolls with it. “Well, this is sudden,” he teases. “Though I can’t blame you—have you seen me?”

“No.”

“No, you haven’t seen me? You’re in for a treat, then.”

“No—I mean—” Tim runs a hand through his hair, brows knitting together with frustration. “It’s just. I’ve—never said it out loud.”

Oh. Oh damn, okay. Without thinking, Kon slides a hand under Tim’s jaw and props his chin up, silently urging Tim to look at him.

“For real?” Kon says. “I mean, that’s totally fine.”

“I’ve never told anyone.”

An earlier conversation about not telling anyone—wanting to figure stuff out, away from prying eyes suddenly makes abundantly more sense beyond the Tim is a private person avenue. Kon had been so dizzy with the excitement of having Tim the way he wanted, with all the affection that had evolved so gradually than Kon hadn’t even noticed until he was neck-deep that he had… conceivably forgotten the real world existed.

Evidently, Tim had not. Again, he’s not the type.

“That’s okay,” Kon says. “And it’s not like I’m leaps and bounds ahead of you, anyway; you’re the first guy I’ve ever been with too.”

“I don’t think my family would react badly, or anything. They’re not like that,” Tim rattles on, “but my parents, you know, whenever they were actually there, and just people in general—I didn’t grow up hearing nice things about. Um. People like us. I don’t think anyone does. With the Gotham elite it’s all about propriety and like, staying in your lane.”

“Uh-huh,” Kon says. The explanation is disjointed, like Tim doesn’t even know where to begin, but Kon, by fortunate coincidence, isn’t straight either. Whatever Tim lobs at him clicks into place well enough.

“I never let myself think about it too hard.”

“And now you have to,” Kon concludes.

“And now I have you.” Tim drums his fingers against his kneecaps, slowly. “Uh, Cassie and Bart know you’re bi.”

“Ma does, too,” Kon adds.

“Really?” There’s genuine surprise in Tim’s voice, and it meanders around Kon’s chest. “Oh. Wow. Does it get easier? Telling people.”

“Depends,” Kon replies, carding through Tim’s hair. It’s getting scruffy. His boyfriend sighs softly as they lean into each other. “Everyone’s different. Cassie and Bart were easy, if that’s the right word. I was way more nervous with Ma, but Clark and Lois have both done editorials for Pride in the past and she reads all the Planet’s stuff, so… I wasn’t going in blind, or anything. And it’s not like it’s a rite of passage, or that once you tell one person, everyone else has the right to know. Or that you have to work on some sort of schedule.”

“I know,” Tim intones without any heat. He’s clearly thinking hard; Kon doesn’t need super-hearing to know the gears in Tim’s skull are turning at breakneck speed. “Nice speech, though. Where’d you get those lines from?”

He’s teasing, but Kon confesses, “Dinah makes me work towards my conclusions, but she does help me brainstorm.”  

She’s been good to him; Kon is less and less nervous dialing her number every time.

“And hey,” he says. “It’s our relationship. You’re not letting me down. Don’t think that.”

In the short few years he’s been alive—born as nothing more than a means to an end, being used, hurting people—Kon understands that living quietly is no less valuable than at the top of your lungs.

He’d love to tell Ma. Loves imagining Tim in the cozy kitchen of the Kent farm as his boyfriend, making idle talk, blearily spreading homemade jam on homemade sourdough. 

Tim shakes his head. “You’re important to me,” he says. “I need you to know this isn’t…” he gestures to himself with a flick of the wrist. “Like I’m ashamed, or anything. Of myself. And never of you. I just—don’t know how? This whole—being…”

“Gay,” Kon supplies. “Or whatever it is you are.”

“That,” Tim says, so awkward. “I don’t hate it. I like that I like you. But when I think of telling other people I feel—I don’t know. Vaguely uncomfortable? That made, uh, very little sense. Sorry.”

He looks at Kon, finally, for signs of offense. But he keeps his face as even as he can and smiles, all affection, when Tim holds him by the nape again, pressing their foreheads together.

“You came out to me,” Kon says. “Congrats. Progress?”

“I’m not sure it counts when I’m sitting on your lap,” Tim parries, deadpan.

Kon puffs out his chest. “Best seat in the house, broski.”

A groan. “I hate you.”

Kon snorts and pecks Tim’s temple. “What?” he asks, smug. “You wanna move off?”

Tim glowers, but doesn’t budge. Thought so.

Neither of them speak for a while until Kon says, “Do you have anyone in mind? Aside from Jason, since we told him already.”

Told is a very strong word.

“He hasn’t mentioned it. Or been acting any different. I definitely like it that way.” Tim shrugs, moving to rest his head on Kon’s shoulder. On the TV screen, a reptilian beast is shot down by lasers. “Bart and Cassie, obviously. Though they probably already know something is up. Dick. Steph. My Cassandra. I’ll work my way up to Bruce and Alfred eventually—uh, it’s not like they’re worse, but…”

“Batman’s your dad,” Kon says. Conner’s no Red Robin, but he’s not stupid; he’s less prone to getting sorry, raincheck? :( on nights when Bruce Wayne is abroad for business or, even better, when Batman is off-world. Red Robin is a highly active vigilante on his own and thus understandably busy—and Kon has his own shit to do, too—but the trends are consistent enough not to be a coincidence.

But it’s not done out of fear, and that eases the weight.  

“Mm,” Tim agrees.

Conversation tapers off again. Kon tunes back into the movie, where the monster’s acidic blood digests steel beams and concrete. The special effects are atrocious. He moves on, listening to the flow of water through pipe, the shouts and honks of activity of Gotham’s streets, until:

“Hey, Superboy?”

“Yeah, Rob?”

“I like guys.”

Kon gasps, clutching his chest. “My word!”

Tim clicks his tongue.

“Thank you,” he exclaims, stifling a giggle and grabbing his boyfriend’s limp hands, “so much for trusting me with this moment, for letting me accompany you on this personal journey, this is such an honour—”

Tim headbutts him and Kon laughs harder.

I’m so excited to love you, he thinks, lacing their fingers together.

____

Kon arrives in Gotham as the local time approaches two in the morning, having been busy himself with a bad landslide in California. Cleanup and rescue had taken hours, even with Conner holding up crumbling structures with his TTK while Clark and Kara hauled people out. The Titans are meeting at their New York HQ in the morning, so he and Red Robin might as well show up together.

He happily watches Red Robin wreck people’s shit for a few minutes before whistling to grab his attention.  

Back in Tim’s apartment, Kon uses his TTK to loosen all the buckles and latches of the Red Robin suit. Tim’s bo clatters to the floor as he shucks off his cape and utility belt. With a light kiss as thanks, he slinks away to fetch a change of clothes while Conner lingers in the living room.

Tim had completed a few patrol circuits in the six hours he had spent doing rounds in his sections of Gotham, also stopping through areas normally delegated to Batgirl. Stephanie has midterms, and Tim doesn’t. So fair enough?

The Bats, save the actual Bat, have a protractive bartering system going on; Tim will comb through case evidence for Stephanie because he owes Cassandra a favour, and the hours are apparently transferable.

Or something. How do the conversion rates work? Are there transaction fees? Do they charge interest?

Most things in the apartment are unchanged from Kon’s last visit nearly a fortnight ago, save a strange-looking light fixture set up in next to the couch. It’s a sleek rectangle propped up by a thin metal stand, vaguely reminding Kon of fancy soft-box lighting equipment he’s seen on TV sets.

Tim had said he used to love photography before adopting the Robin mantle. Maybe now that life has settled—as much as it can, for people who fight crime in colorful costume and jetset off to space every now and then—Tim is picking the hobby back up.

“It’s a sun lamp,” Tim explains once he’s back, the skin around his eyes faintly pink from the adhesive of his domino. He crouches down, fiddling with one of the knobs until the front panel is shining such a brilliant white it makes his eyes prickle. “What do you think?”

If Tim is asking for Kon’s opinion about a lamp, of all things, it must be important. His thoughts snag on the name. “A sun lamp?”

“Yeah.” Tim offers a small smile. “Since it’s always you coming over, working around my schedule and I live in Gotham.”

Kon’s eyes flicker to Tim, and then back towards the glow of the sun lamp. “I have hypersonic speed?”

“It’s not that,” Tim says. “I mean that it’s Gotham, as in rains here pretty much half the time.”

Tim pats the edge of the device, hand engulfed by a giant sleeve. His hoodie pretty much swamps his frame, meeting the hem of his shorts.

“There were light boxes that also gave off UV radiation, but I figured picking one that emits minimal UV would still theoretically work the same way since the ozone layer doesn’t interfere with a Kryptonian’s ability to absorb solar energy,” Tim continues. “I don’t know how good of a substitute something like this is, to be honest. But worth a shot, right?”

“What,” Kon says. “This is for me?”

A nod. “You know how you mentioned during wintertime you’d get worn out more quickly than usual?”

Kon hums. The first year of his life was riddled with mood swings so closely clustered together everyone, including Kon himself, had chalked it up to him being capricious. Unstable.

The ache of rejection, being taken advantage of, not being what he had been programmed to be—would worsen when daylight hours grew shorter, gray with dirty snow. 

“Um,” Tim says, nervousness creeping through the line of his shoulders at Kon’s silence, “it’s—well. You know what’s funny? Gotham’s a pretty unique case study—we have some of the highest rates of depression in the country. Which is basically saying grass is green, but… weather and exposure to sunlight can be a key factor to alleviating or exacerbating your symptoms.”

Still, Kon says nothing, laying his hand flat on the panel of the lamp. It’s already warm, buzzing with energy.

Kryptonians derive their power from yellow stars. Of course.

“So, these sun lamps,” Tim babbles on, “are used as a type of therapy, and I thought, what if the whole sunlight thing carries over to Kryptonian physiology, especially since you’re half human—”

“Tim,” Kon says.

“I should have asked—run the idea by you first, but I wanted it to be a surprise,” Tim declares, “it’s okay if this is kind of intrusive, I was being presumptuous—”

Kon turns around and scoops Tim up, the action punctuated by a squeak that would be perfect teasing fodder if—if Kon wasn’t too busy smiling his face off to utter a single word.

Strong legs lock around Kon’s waist right away, an automatic response. Kon floats and settles them both down onto the couch, Tim’s back pressed against the seats. Arms bracketing either side of Tim’s ribs, their mouths meet in a chaste kiss.

Another kiss to the lips. A silly, clumsy one on the chin, one, more drawn-out, along the column on Tim’s throat. Between his brows. The tip of his nose. Lips again. One for each swoop of cheekbone.

Tim is a giggling mess by the time Kon pulls away, skin adopting a fierce blush. “I take—” he pants, “that you don’t hate it.”

“Goodness. Does your investigative prowess have no limit,” Kon says. “There can only be one explanation: did you train under the so-called World’s Greatest Detective, by any chance?”

Tim’s eyes roll to the back of his head.

“Thank you,” Kon says, sincere.

“It’s no big deal,” Tim says. He opens his mouth to say something else and trails off when he surges up for another kiss. Kon dodges, laughing, as Tim chases him sloppily, the both of them still a tangle of limbs. Eventually Tim gets his lips to land on, ridiculously, Kon’s hairline, but he’s seemingly satisfied and drops back down into the cushions.

“I love it. You’re the best. You’re so good.” He presses his lips to Tim’s cheek. “Mwah.”

Tim is beetroot red. Ripe strawberry. Firetruck. Tomato. Kon’s senses pick up on Tim’s elevated heartbeat; the heat suffusing into his cheeks. “There’s no concrete way to know if it helps, but if you think it makes a difference, we could get light boxes for your room in Kansas or even at the Tow—ooh. No hickeys so high up, dude. It’s not turtleneck season yet.”

“Aw, okay.”

Tim yawns.

“Geez, am I boring you? Me? Superboy? Putting you to sleep?” Kon says, and Tim merely hums in response.

“Why do you… say Superboy in that,” Tim mumbles, “font.”

Making a show of fake coughing, Kon says, “Ahem. Superboy.”

“Eugh.”

Kon shifts, brushing a few of Tim’s black locks out of his face. Feeling completely sentimental. “You’re still sweaty from patrol. We have to be up early—you should take a shower, and then we can sleep?”

Tim arches a brow at him, blinking slowly. “Hmm. Remember when you used to be disgusting and showered, like, once a week? Bart would complain to me about how badly you smelled like old socks and hockey locker room.”

“Whaaat, Bart said I smelled like roses.”

“Sorry to break it to you, but Bart’s a lying liar. ‘Robin. Hygiene,’ he would say. ‘Push. Hygiene. Serious. Save him,’” Tim recounts, a glint in his eye. His nose scrunches as he lets out another wide yawn. “Mn. No wonder I figured you were straight.”

“Darling dearest, honey-boo, you are rude as shit.”

“Yuh-huh, speaking of shit—mmph.”

____

A merry band of thunderstorm clouds are raining down on Gotham, the huge, billowing gust fronts migrating East, towards the coast. Water is hammering down on the city, carried by gravity and downbursts of wind.

The Kent farm, over a thousand miles west, is located smack in tornado alley; Tim’s place feels more insulated from rainfall than Kon is used to, accustomed to the metallic pitter-patter, pitter-patter of rain and hail against flimsier roofing. His apartment is made from the remnants of an industrial warehouse, the building itself easily a century old, erected in now-eroded stone. Gotham infrastructure, after all, must be stubborn enough to brave consistently harsh weather; it is shelter, a gag to mute the cacophony of the outside world so long that you remain within its walls.

Beneath it all, it’s the hallmark of a city that wants to survive. And miraculously, with a few dollops of internal intervention, it has.

They’re sitting together in Tim’s makeshift dining area—a table pushed against the kitchen boundary, gradually making it through a two-pizza dinner. While Tim watches surveillance footage, leisurely scribbling notes onto a legal pad, Kon tries to make sense of Macbeth.

Is a GED really worth it? He and his weapons grade ass don’t deserve this.  

The sun lamp is on, placed a few feet away from Kon’s spot at the table. It does make Kon feel more buoyant; lighter. Is the happy lamp working? Is Tim the happy lamp?

He slides the beaten copy of the play over to where Tim his hunched over his laptop, still dressed in work slacks and a crinkled button-down. He triple-taps one of the lines, coinciding with the boom of thunder outside.

“What, you egg,” Tim reads with red-rimmed eyes, pushing his glasses back up. It’s been too long of a day to keep contacts in. “I should use that line the next time I get stabbed.”

“I don’t know words,” Kon whines, tapping his temple. “There’s nothing going on up here. The lights are on but no one’s home.”

Tim’s bark of laughter is interrupted with a buzz of his phone, the screen illuminating with a text notification. The warmth in his eyes shutters and his face goes blank, unreadable.

“Who is it?” Kon asks.

Tim breathes deep, the pads of his thumbs flitting rapidly has he types. “Cass texted,” he says. “Uh—my Cassandra texted. She wants to use the shower? The one in my apartment.”

“Oh. Oh shit. Well, uh—I can go,” he offers, watching Tim press send. His eyes remain glued to the screen, so Kon adds, “Wow. You know, your sister and I had a bit of a thing?” Briefly, more out of mutual curiosity than actual attraction. Oh, God. He called her Bat-babe that one time and now he’s dating her brother; he’d do well with being conveniently poleaxed, right now. “She’s pretty great. She broke into my house once, and I yelled so loudly I had to lie to Ma about having nightmares.”

Tim looks up, squinting at him. “Thanks,” he says, “for the extremely topical information.”

“I can go?” he suggests again. “Or cling to the ceiling until she leaves.”

Tim’s face scrunches up, and Kon assumes that’s his cue to make an exit before the Black Bat pops in through the windows. Cassie and Bart already know, after a weekend spent together in the Tower. It’s been a long time since the four of them were about keeping things from one another—at least not indefinitely—but Tim’s family is his business.

A hand grips Kon’s shoulder. The accompanying words are uncertain; “You… you can stay here, if you want.”

Oh. Kon’s expression is hopefully a reassuring one. “Okay.”