Chapter Text
1.
Conner Kent believed he was the epitome of bad luck sometimes.
It wasn’t even the dramatic, cosmic stuff, although that had its moments. It was the simple, everyday absurdity of his life. There was the whole, insane childhood thing of being adopted by a corporate billionaire when he was born—a situation that, looking back, felt less like adoption and more like a long, high-security internship. He was then deemed unfit as a parent when Conner was nine, only for him to be moved to Butt-fuck Nowhere, Kansas (read: Smallville, Kansas) to live with these really sweet southern people, Martha and Jonathan, who kindly gave him their last name. Then, two years later, he was living with their son, Clark, just so he could attend high school in the city he used to live in before Butt-fuck Nowhere, Kansas.
Clark lived with his terrifying wife, Lois (read: very, very scary, but never a danger or hurting Conner, just professional-grade intimidating), and their son, Jon, who started calling Conner his brother a week into him living with them. It was a good life, a quiet life, but it was just so much transition.
Then, when he was old enough to apply for colleges, Metropolis University—a college that was literally on the way home from his current apartment—denied him. He had a slight feeling it had to due with his ex-corporate billionaire foster father, Lex Luthor, donating large sums of money to that college every year, but he didn’t say anything. He knew that name was toxic. So, instead of a ten-minute commute, he ended up going to Gotham University, an hour drive to and from every time he had a lecture or needed to be on campus.
He was absolutely allowed to believe he was the epitome of bad luck.
So right now, staring down at his phone, a text message from his friend, turned ex, then close friend, glaring up at him, felt like the universe was just confirming its personal vendetta.
Cass
Are you on campus still?
Conner
yup
why
Cass
My brother is stoned and needs a ride home
And you owe me one for that one time
Conner tried not to bash his head into the nearest wall, which, being Gotham, was a sturdy, ominous piece of carved concrete that looked ready for the task. He did owe her for covering for him the singular time he snuck out to a concert because Clark and Lois told him he couldn’t go due to failing a physics exam. Cass had asked if he could spend the night at her place, and since their relationship was so new and Conner was a foster kid looking for joy and stability, Clark and Lois had reluctantly agreed, looking more confused than angry. They were still great parents, but sometimes they just didn't get it.
Conner
i only have my bike
and since when do you have a brother our age
i thought it was just the older two, the one in high school, and the little angry one
i still have a scar from where he bit me yknow
Cass
You’ll live
His name is Tim and he’s outside the applied sciences building, lecture room 34B
Conner paused. The Wayne family. He knew Cass had brothers. There was Dick, who was a professional gymnast and always smiling in that slightly unsettling way. Jason, who owned a gun range a few blocks from the campus, which was extremely concerning considering the statistics of shootings in schools in Gotham, but Jason claimed it was "pro-safety, anti-tyranny" or some equally confusing phrase. Duke, who was currently a senior in high school and too cool for everything. And Damian, who was currently in sixth grade and Jon’s best frenemy.
Conner
what’s he look like
Cass
I don’t have any recent photos of him, but he had black hair, he’s really pale, he dresses like Spencer Reid, and he’ll be the kid with blue irises and red sclera
Conner
wtf is sclera
and i feel like i would’ve known if you had another brother
Cass
We dated for two weeks, Conner
Conner
regardless, I would’ve known
Cass
Conner.
Conner
right right im going
room 34B, pale, black hair, nerdy, stoned
Conner sighed, shoving his phone back into his pocket. He had just finished his Intro to Literature class on the opposite side of campus from the applied sciences building, which meant he was going to be walking for a hot minute, past gargoyles and ivy-covered stone. Every step was a minute closer to having a mildly complicated conversation with a stranger who was high enough to warrant a family intervention.
He hadn’t heard of another sibling of Cass’ that fit that description. No mention, nothing. He knew, however, that Bruce Wayne tended to adopt and take in kids without parents, except the youngest and Cass, as Cass’ biological parents were horrible, and Damian was Mr. Wayne’s biological son. So the idea that Cass has another brother all of a sudden would make sense, except Cass wouldn’t just start referring to him as brother so soon. It had taken her a while to refer to Duke and Damian as her siblings.
Speaking of pseudo-siblings, he’d probably stop by Bart’s class to ask to borrow his helmet for Tim. He won’t let anyone ride without one. It was the only genuinely good, non-bad-luck decision he'd ever made, he thought.
Maybe Conner was thinking too much about this, analyzing the family structure of a stranger's ride home. But would he be Conner Kent without it?
Before he knew it, he stood outside the applied sciences building, a brutalist concrete fortress. Lucky for him, there were only two people outside the building. Bad news: they were sitting right next to each other, which was the worst thing to happen because that meant Conner had to talk to two people he didn’t know, which is substantially worse than one.
He approached the two, both with red-rimmed eyes and half-grins on their faces. One of them was exactly as Cass described: black hair that looked perpetually mussed, pale skin, and beautiful, with half-lidded, blue eyes set against distinctly reddish whites. The other boy had short, messy blond hair and a lazy, benevolent grin.
The blonde whistled when Conner approached, a low, drawn-out sound. “Do I know you?” He asked, the words sticking together.
Conner glanced to the side, biting at his snakebites a little. “I hope not,” He said honestly. He turned slightly to the other boy—Tim—his brain so helpfully supplied, finally putting a name to the mess of black hair and red eyes.
“Did my sister send you?” Tim asked, tilting his head so far to the side it fell onto the other guy’s shoulder, using the move to lean into the support.
“Uh… yeah,” Conner said, fiddling with the straps of his backpack, feeling inexplicably awkward.
Tim sighed, looking up at the guy next to him. “Family sucks, Bernard,” he mumbled, the sound muffled by the blonde's jacket.
Bernard laughed, a surprisingly bright sound. “Yeah, they do. Tell Bruce I say hey,” he drawled, giving a mock salute.
Tim rolled his eyes, a monumental effort given his current state. “Bruce’s gonna gut you one of these days,” he said, standing upright languidly, swaying just slightly.
“Nah,” Bernard said, waving a hand dismissively. “I keep you alive, he won’t do shit to me. Plus, I’m immune to his glare.”
Tim scoffed this time, a tiny puff of air. “Same time tomorrow?”
Bernard nodded, eyes already closing. “I’ll bring the gummies. Super strong stuff.”
Tim grinned wide, a genuine, blinding flash of teeth that didn't match his sluggish movements. “Nice. Talk to you later, Bear.” He finally turned his full, unfocused attention to Conner.
Bernard didn’t answer and instead fell sideways, sliding off the bench and sticking his arms straight up in the air without a sound, perfectly content on the concrete.
Tim stared at Conner expectantly, wiping the grin off his face with practiced ease. “So, where’s your car?” He asked as they started walking in the direction of Bart’s class, which should be getting out any minute.
Conner rubbed the back of his neck, acutely aware of how far he still had to walk. “I don’t have one,” he said.
Tim raised an eyebrow, which was probably meant to be more intimidating if the guy wasn’t currently floating somewhere above the troposphere. “I’m not walking to my house. It’s across the city.”
“I have a bike,” Conner said.
“Like a bicycle? Why’d they let you into college?” Tim asked, scrunching his nose in a way that was actually kind of cute, if annoying.
Conner tilted his head back in exaggerated frustration. “Okay, rude. And I meant a motorcycle,” he clarified.
“Oh,” Tim said, his voice flat, as if that explained absolutely nothing to him.
They stopped in front of a group of students who dispersed from the inside of a brightly lit lecture hall, and Conner caught sight of the familiar floppy brown hair and kinetic energy.
“Bart!” He called, and the floppy brown hair turned in milliseconds.
“Hey, Conner!” Bart grinned, walking up to them so fast he seemed to blur.
Tim just looked off to the side, seemingly analyzing a particularly fascinating patch of stucco on the wall.
“Who’s your new friend?” Bart asked, vibrating slightly.
“It’s Cass’ brother, Tim. I’m taking him to his house. Can I borrow your helmet for him? I’ll bring it before your track practice ends, I swear,” he pleaded, already knowing the routine.
Bart raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You swear on Star Wars? ‘Cause last time I let you borrow it for one of your little hookups, you didn’t bring it back, I rode home without it, and Uncle Wally practically became a cop right there and revoked my license for two weeks.”
Conner crossed his hand over his chest in a solemn swearing motion. “I swear on the entire Star Wars franchise,” he said, holding his pinky out for emphasis.
Bart’s eyes narrowed at him before relenting with a sigh, though a smile was playing on his lips. “Fine. You break it, and I get all of your Star Wars merch. Even that limited edition Lego Millennium Falcon.”
“Thank you, Bart, you’re the best,” Conner said, grabbing the bright yellow helmet Bart suddenly shoved at him, waving quickly as he started to pull Tim gently away.
“I know!” Bart yelled after them, already halfway down the hall.
Conner looked at Tim, who was now swaying slightly toward the wall, and then at the borrowed helmet. The logistics of strapping a high kid onto the back of a motorcycle across Gotham felt less like an errand and more like the next great, awful adventure in Conner Kent's absurd life.
Conner looked at the bright yellow helmet, then at Tim. Tim, who, despite being severely impaired, managed to walk mostly in a straight line, which was a feat. Conner adjusted the helmet's chin strap in his hand. “Alright, my bike’s parked off campus, just a couple blocks that way,” he pointed toward the less-gargoyle-laden exit.
“A couple blocks. That’s like a mile when you're this horizontal,” Tim commented, lifting his hand a few inches off his side to illustrate his state of being. He squinted at Conner. “But you’re tall. That helps.”
“Thanks, I guess.” Conner started walking, and Tim followed, slightly lagging but always keeping pace.
“So, mystery man with the cool motorcycle,” Tim began, tilting his head back again, this time to look at the sky, which was a dull Gotham grey. “What’s your name? How do you know Cass? She doesn’t let just anyone ferry her stoned brothers around.”
Conner almost stumbled. He'd been bracing for this question, but answering it always felt like stripping off a layer of comfortable denial. He cleared his throat. “Conner, and um. Well. We dated.”
“Oh.” Tim's single word hung in the air, oddly amplified by his high-pitched, drowsy tone. He paused his sky analysis to look Conner up and down. “For how long?”
“We dated for two weeks,” Conner repeated, trying to sound more nonchalant than he felt. He kicked a stray pebble. “It was before she was really Cass, I think. It was… brief.”
Tim let out a slow, luxurious sigh that sounded less like disappointment and more like contentment. “Brief, but clearly memorable. Because you’re here, hauling my sorry self across the city. That’s nice of you, Conner.”
“I owe her one,” Conner insisted quickly, feeling the need to ground this interaction in transactional debt, not kindness.
“Mmm, sure. Debt,” Tim murmured, then gave him a slow, incredibly charming smile that reached his red-rimmed eyes. “You have really nice piercings. They match your jawline.”
Conner felt a flush creep up his neck. Tim was very pretty, even if his brain was currently running on dial-up. “Thanks,” Conner managed, touching the metal near his mouth reflexively.
“And you smell good. Like clean laundry and engine grease. I appreciate a man who maintains both his hygiene and his machinery,” Tim continued, completely unfazed, his voice a low, melodic buzz.
“I— it’s just my jacket, probably,” Conner stammered, picking up his pace a little. “Look, about the ride. We have two helmets, obviously, and they’re Bluetooth-enabled from when Bart and I ride. So if you need to talk, or, like, throw up, let me know. I can hear you.”
“Bluetooth helmets,” Tim commented, sounding impressed. “That’s so responsible. I usually just yell when I need to throw up. Don’t worry, I’m a ‘dry heaver.’ No actual splatter.”
“That’s… reassuring,” Conner mumbled, just as they reached the edge of campus where his black motorcycle, a beautifully maintained beast, was legally parked. The bike was large, heavy, and radiated a subtle heat that smelled exactly like the oil and gas Tim had described.
Conner pulled off his heavy black leather jacket—a necessary piece of armor in Gotham—and held it out. He wasn't even going to ask if Tim was cold; he needed the extra layer between Tim and the asphalt, just in case.
“Here,” Conner said, holding out the thick, slightly worn jacket. “Put this on. It’ll give you an extra layer of protection.”
Tim stared at the jacket for a long moment, then looked at Conner, who was now standing there in just a grey t-shirt, the Gotham breeze already hitting him. “But you’re just wearing a t-shirt.”
“Yeah, I know,” Conner shrugged, the gesture feeling heavier than it should. “I’d rather get scraped up than you. And it's better insulation for the ride.”
Tim’s expression shifted, the lazy haze in his eyes momentarily replaced by a sharp, focused intensity—the blue suddenly dominating the red. He took the jacket, his fingers brushing Conner's. “Wow. Okay. That’s a good line. You’re lucky I’m too high to analyze it right now.”
He slipped the heavy leather on. It swallowed him whole, the sleeves covering his hands. He looked small and bundled and still ridiculously handsome.
“Now,” Tim said, his voice dropping slightly as he pulled the helmet closer, “tell me where you keep the weed on that thing.”
Conner smirked, shaking his head. “Get on.” The bad luck was running strong, but maybe, just maybe, this particular disaster wouldn't be so bad.
Tim blinked at the motorcycle, then at Conner, then at the bike again, like it was a magic trick he was trying to solve through sheer squinting.
“Okay,” he murmured, lifting a leg—far too confidently for someone whose motor skills were at half capacity—and promptly misjudged the height. His foot tapped the edge of the foot peg instead of clearing it.
He wobbled.
Conner’s hand shot out, steadying him with a palm on his hip.
“Easy,” Conner said, voice low, steady in a way that felt way too cool for the situation. “You don’t need to mount it like a horse. Just—one step at a time.”
“I’m graceful,” Tim argued, then promptly proved himself a liar by grabbing both sides of the helmet and nearly tipping forward again.
“Here,” Conner murmured, guiding him with a quiet, practiced patience that somehow made Tim melt instead of bristle. “Put your hands on my shoulders. Now swing your leg over.”
Tim did so—heavily, like gravity had tripled for him specifically in that moment—and finally plopped onto the seat behind Conner. His knees bumped into the back of Conner’s thighs, his breath ghosting across Conner’s neck as he adjusted the too-big jacket around himself.
“Congratulations,” Conner said, dry but warm. “You’ve completed the first challenge.”
Tim hummed, helmet dulling the sound. “I’m proud of me.”
“You should be,” Conner chuckled, pulling on his own helmet. His hair stuck out in messy tufts that Tim immediately reached out to poke.
Conner jolted slightly. “Hey—no head-touching while I’m putting this on.”
“Your hair looked soft,” Tim defended, as if that justified anything.
“It’s not,” Conner lied, clearing his throat. He twisted to look over his shoulder, his blue eyes catching Tim’s through the visor. “Okay. Hold on to me. Like—arms around my waist.”
Tim blinked, helmet tilting. “Why?”
“Because when I accelerate, you’re going to fall backward like a cartoon character unless you hang on.”
“Oh.” Tim reached forward slowly and—completely ignoring the waist—wrapped his arms around Conner’s torso in a full, snug embrace, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades. “Like this?”
Conner swallowed. Hard. “Y—yeah,” he managed. “That… works.”
“Good,” Tim said. “You’re warm.”
Conner inhaled through his nose, turned the key, and the engine rumbled awake beneath them, the vibration traveling up through the frame, through Conner, into Tim’s chest. Tim let out a delighted hum, the sound buzzing softly through the helmet speakers.
“Okay,” Tim’s voice crackled through the Bluetooth, “this is already the best decision I’ve ever made.”
“You’re high,” Conner reminded him as he rolled them out of the parking spot.
“Doesn’t make it less true,” Tim countered.
The bike eased onto the street, Gotham’s cold air slicing past them, but Tim didn’t flinch—not with Conner’s jacket swallowing him whole, not with his arms wrapped tight around Conner’s middle.
“You doing okay back there?” Conner asked as they merged onto the main road.
Tim tightened his hold immediately, chest pressed flush against Conner’s back. “Your muscles are very… there.”
Conner’s grip on the handlebars slipped for a millisecond.
“Glad they’re… supportive?” Conner said, voice cracking halfway through.
“Mhm,” Tim hummed, resting his helmet gently against Conner’s spine. “If I die tonight, I want you to know I died in the arms of a very pretty man.”
“We’re not dying,” Conner said quickly, ears on fire.
“Still pretty though.”
Conner groaned into his helmet. “Oh my god.”
Tim laughed—soft, loose, like all the sharp edges in him had been sanded down—and Conner felt something warm bloom right behind his ribs.
The further they got from campus, the more Gotham began to look like itself—leaning silhouettes of hundred-year-old buildings, dim streetlights flickering like eyelids on their last attempt to stay awake, and the smell of cold concrete and rain-soaked brick. It wasn’t ugly, but it wasn’t warm either. Gotham never made that promise.
But right now, with Tim pressed fully against him, every inhale syncing with the rumble of the bike, every exhale fogging lightly against Conner’s shoulder blades, the city felt… less sharp.
Maybe it was simply impossible to feel lonely when someone was holding onto you like you were their anchor to gravity.
Tim’s helmet speaker crackled to life mid-turn. “Hey, Conner?”
“Yeah?” Conner asked, trying to keep the bike ultra-steady so Tim didn’t have an excuse to wiggle around more than he already was.
“Is it normal for my whole body to vibrate?”
“That’s the engine.”
“No, no, inside my body.”
“That’s… probably the weed.”
“Mmm,” Tim hummed. “Weed is so educational.”
Conner laughed, turning onto a long, elevated road that gave a partial view of the river. “Educational?”
“Yeah. Like the more high I get, the more I understand the universe.” Tim paused. “Also, everything feels soft.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Feel my fingers,” Tim said, and before Conner could ask what the hell he meant, Tim slid his hands slightly under the hem of Conner’s shirt to rest them directly against his stomach. “They’re so soft.”
Conner choked.
“Tim— Tim, you can’t just—”
“You told me to hold on tight,” Tim said, sounding infuriatingly logical. “This is tight.”
“This is illegal,” Conner muttered.
“Nah. Bruce pays people to make his crimes go away.”
“Okay, first of all—”
“You smell really good,” Tim sighed, interrupting him. “Thought you should know again.”
Conner tried to focus on the road. The road was safe. Neutral. Responsible. He was responsible. He was not going to embarrass himself because a very pretty, very stoned Wayne boy was feeling tactile.
He took a slow breath, letting it out through his teeth as cold air slipped down the neck of his shirt.
“Where am I going, exactly?” he asked.
“Straight,” Tim answered vaguely.
“That’s not helpful.”
“Toward the big rich-person hill. You can’t miss it. It’s the only place in Gotham where the crime rates actually go down the darker it gets.”
“You live on the crime vacuum?”
“Industrial-strength security,” Tim explained. “Plus a giant dog and little brother that hates criminals for sport.”
“You have a dog?” Conner blinked. “Like… a family dog?”
“No,” Tim said, leaning his helmet against Conner’s back. “He’s my little brother’s dog. Titus. He’s huge. And silly. And he drools on Bruce.”
“That’s… adorable.”
“He thinks he’s a lapdog,” Tim continued dreamily. “He’s actually a land mammal the size of a small planet.”
Conner smiled despite himself. “Sounds like a good boy.”
“The best boy,” Tim agreed solemnly.
Traffic began thinning the closer they got to Crest Hill, where the streets straightened and widened and the streetlamps increased in frequency. The houses grew taller, the iron gates thicker, the shadows more manicured.
“You okay back there?” Conner asked as the road began its steady incline.
Tim didn’t answer at first, which worried Conner until Tim spoke with soft conviction.
“You’re warm,” Tim murmured again. “And you feel nice to hold onto. So yeah. I’m good.”
Conner clenched the handlebars just a little too hard.
“Good,” he managed.
The air grew colder as they climbed, sweeping sharply across Conner’s exposed arms. It bit at him, needling along his skin, but he kept steady, reminding himself that Tim—small, high, and wrapped in his jacket—was depending on him.
The manor finally appeared at the crest of the hill: sprawling, old, beautiful in that intimidating, gothic way that only money and generational wealth could make charming. Light spilled from only two windows, the rest of the mansion dark and looming.
“Go to the right side,” Tim instructed.
“The garage?”
“Yeah. If you take me to the front door, Alfred will see me and give me the Face.”
“…The Face?”
“The Face,” Tim emphasized. “The one that says ‘I raised you better than this.’ Even though he didn’t raise me. But, like, he did. Kinda. It’s complicated.”
“Got it. Garage it is.”
He rounded the long driveway, the gravel crunching under the tires, and eased the bike to a stop beside a gleaming black town car and a ridiculously intimidating armored vehicle that looked more military than civilian.
Conner killed the engine.
Silence hit them like a switch being thrown.
Tim didn’t move.
“Hey,” Conner said softly, looking over his shoulder. “We’re here.”
“Oh.” Tim blinked slowly.
“You need help getting off?”
“Maybe,” he admitted.
Conner steadied him with both hands as Tim slid off the bike—and immediately swayed sideways. Conner caught him around the waist before he could go down.
“You alright?”
Tim nodded, but it was the lazy, content nod of someone who very much did not have full access to his equilibrium. He rested both hands on Conner’s abdomen, using him like he was a very muscular crutch.
“Wow,” Tim breathed. “You really don’t skip core day.”
Conner made a pained sound into the night.
“Let’s… get your helmet off,” Conner said, reaching carefully to unclasp the chin strap before lifting the helmet free. Tim’s hair stuck up in several chaotic directions, static clinging stubbornly.
Tim blinked at him with wide, glazed, beautiful blue eyes.
Then he reached up and poked Conner’s cheek.
“You’re handsome.”
“Oh my god,” Conner groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face.
“It’s important research,” Tim insisted.
“You’re high.”
“You’re still handsome.”
Conner huffed a laugh—helpless, flustered, defeated.
“You should head inside,” he murmured. “Before someone sees you and assumes I kidnapped you.”
“You wanna come in?” Tim asked, head tilting, bangs falling into his eyes. “Titus will like you. Probably.”
Conner froze.
“That sounds like the opposite of a good idea,” he said carefully.
“But you’re cold,” Tim whispered, touching Conner’s bare arm with startling gentleness. “And you gave me your jacket. And you took me home. And you were really… nice.”
Conner swallowed.
“Tim…”
Tim leaned in—just a little, just enough—and rested his forehead on Conner’s shoulder.
Not romantic or flirtatious.
Just exhausted, trusting, and warm.
“Thank you,” Tim said, voice small. “For… taking care of me.”
Something in Conner’s chest clenched hard enough to hurt.
“You’re welcome,” he whispered, lifting a hand to Tim’s back. “C’mon. Let’s get you to the door.”
Tim leaned on him the whole walk, each step slightly unsteady, but he never missed a beat in his commentary.
“This driveway is really long. Who needs a driveway this long?”
“You do,” Conner answered.
“Why?”
“So I can walk you to the door without anyone noticing you’re high.”
“…Okay that’s fair.”
When they reached the side garage door, Tim fumbled for his keys—then handed the entire keyring to Conner like it was an unsolvable quantum puzzle.
“You do it,” he said. “My hands forgot how.”
“Forgot what?”
“How to key.”
Conner bit back a smile and unlocked the door.
Warmth spilled out instantly—the kind of warmth that only expensive insulation and a very persuasive butler could achieve.
Tim stepped inside, wobbling only once.
Conner stayed in the doorway.
Tim turned around, jacket still swallowing him whole, hair still a static mess, eyes soft in a way that felt unfair.
“You coming in?” he asked again.
Conner shook his head lightly. “I should get the helmet back to Bart. And you need water. And probably horizontal time.”
Tim blinked. “Horizontal time sounds nice.”
“Yeah. And safe.”
Tim swayed forward on instinct, almost like a moth drawn to something warm, and Conner steadied him with both hands.
“Hey,” Conner said softly. “You’re okay. I’ll see you again sometime, alright?”
Tim stared at him like he was trying to burn the shape of Conner’s face into memory.
“You smell good,” Tim whispered again, as if that were the most important thing he needed to say before he lost consciousness.
Conner’s breath hitched.
“Go inside, Tim.”
Tim nodded slowly, like he was following orders from a very gentle commander.
But before he went, he reached out again—carefully—and let his fingers hook around one of Conner’s belt loops.
Just a tug.
Barely anything.
But the gesture landed harder than a punch.
“Ride was nice,” Tim murmured. “You were nice.”
Conner swallowed so hard it hurt.
“Goodnight, Tim.”
Tim let go.
Turned.
Shuffled inside the house in his oversized leather armor.
And just before the door closed, he turned back one more time.
“Don’t forget your jacket,” he said, blinking owlishly.
“You’re wearing it,” Conner said helplessly.
“Oh.” Beat. “You can get it next time.”
The door clicked shut.
Conner stood there in the cold for several full seconds, helmet under one arm, wind biting at his skin.
Then he smiled—slow, stunned, and warm.
There would definitely be a next time.
2.
Conner Kent was not expecting it to become a pattern.
He really, genuinely thought the first time was a fluke— a weird, mildly chaotic one-off in which he was summoned like a Gotham-approved Uber to pick up a stranger with red sclera and an alarming tolerance for edibles. A cosmic joke, basically. Gotham did that sometimes.
What he did not expect was for the universe to double down.
But there he was again, staring down at his phone between classes, the familiar Wayne-level bluntness waiting for him.
Cass
You on campus?
Conner
yes
please say this is for batburger
Cass
No
Tim’s high again
He needs a ride
Conner dragged his hand down his face, half tempted to drop his phone into the nearest storm drain.
Conner
cass
i need you to understand
i have known your brother for exactly 47 hours and 18 minutes
Cass
And?
Conner
AND that does not qualify me to be his designated stoner chauffeur
Cass
You did it once
You can do it again
Use the bike
He likes it
Also you still owe me
Conner typed I don’t owe you THAT much and deleted it. He tried you’re abusing the power imbalance of friendship and deleted that too. He finally typed:
Conner
fine
where is he
Cass
Library rooftop
Conner exhaled sharply.
The library rooftop.
Of course.
Of course, a high Tim Wayne would scale a university library like some kind of Victorian chimney sweep with emotional repression.
He didn’t even text back. He just started walking.
The trek to the campus library was like hiking toward a giant stone rectangle that had ideas above its station. Gotham architects apparently looked at “monolithic tomb” and thought “yes, education.” Conner half expected gargoyles to give him midterms.
He made it up the external metal stairwell— a fire escape that probably wasn’t technically legal— and pushed open the heavy door to the rooftop.
And there he was again.
Tim cross-legged on the concrete, wearing sunglasses at dusk like he was a celebrity hiding from paparazzi. Conner’s jacket— his jacket— still swallowed him whole.
Next to him: a bag of gummy bears and a book Conner was 90% sure was upside down.
Tim lifted one lazy hand in greeting without turning his head.
“Hey, Conner,” he murmured, stretching the name out like it was warm honey. “Did you know rooftops are just… floors with ambitions?”
Conner closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose.
“Hi, Tim,” he said, walking over and crouching down in front of him. “You’re not supposed to be up here.”
Tim waved him off. “Neither are you.”
“Cass called me.”
“Mm. Betrayal.”
“Tim,” Conner tried again, tapping the side of Tim’s sunglasses. “Why are you wearing these? It’s like… seven p.m.”
“They protect my eyes.”
“From what?”
Tim leaned in, lowering his voice like he was sharing classified intel.
“Brightness.”
Conner stared at him. Slowly. Very slowly.
“Right,” he said, nodding like he was dealing with an especially beautiful and especially unhinged cat. “Okay. Can you stand?”
Tim somehow managed to both nod and shake his head.
“I can,” he said. “But I won’t.”
“And why not?”
“I live here now,” Tim declared, spreading his arms as if unveiling a luxurious palace instead of a damp concrete slab. “This is my home. I have gummies. I have a view of the quad. I can see a guy doing parkour on the engineering building. This is perfect.”
“Tim, you don’t live on the roof.”
“I might.”
“No.”
Tim tilted his head, squinting at him with his red-tinted eyes. “Conner.”
“Tim.”
“Conner.”
“Tim.”
A long pause.
Tim leaned forward slightly, lowering his sunglasses so Conner could see the bright blue beneath the haze.
“You came again,” he said softly, almost surprised.
Conner’s chest tightened.
“Yeah,” Conner said, trying not to sound like a person experiencing emotion. “I did.”
Tim blinked up at him slowly.
Then smiled— soft and dopey and entirely genuine.
“I think I like when you come get me.”
Conner’s heartbeat unhelpfully hiccuped.
“I… yeah. Okay,” he muttered. “Let’s get you down, rooftop goblin.”
Tim made a noise of fond offense. “I’m a rooftop nymph at minimum.”
“Sure, buddy.”
Conner offered both hands.
Tim took them.
And immediately did not stand.
He just… held Conner’s hands and stared at them like they were a new species of crab.
“These are big,” Tim said.
“They’re average-sized.”
“For you,” Tim said gravely. “Everything on you is bigger.”
Conner cleared his throat so aggressively that he nearly swallowed air wrong.
“Up,” he said quickly. “Please.”
Tim finally pushed off the ground, wobbling only twice. Once on accident. Once, Conner suspected, on purpose.
He swayed right into Conner’s chest.
“Oh no,” Tim muttered as Conner steadied him by the shoulders. “Gravity’s flirting with me again.”
Conner huffed out a laugh despite himself. “Okay. Easy. We’re taking the stairs.”
Tim gasped, scandalized. “I could fall.”
“Then good thing I’m here.”
Tim blinked again, that too-honest softness returning for a second.
“That’s why I called Cass,” he admitted quietly. “I hoped she’d send you.”
Conner froze.
Tim didn’t seem to realize he’d said something.
He just squeezed Conner’s sleeve and murmured, “Let’s go, motorcycle man.”
Conner kept a careful hand on Tim’s elbow as they moved toward the stairwell, the metal grating clanging under their feet with each step. Tim’s sunglasses slid down his nose twice. He did not fix them. Conner did, quietly, because watching Tim nearly blind himself on a wall was too painful to stand by for.
“Do you always get high this early?” Conner asked.
Tim shrugged. “Time isn’t real.”
“It is,” Conner said.
“Not to me.”
“Okay, Einstein.”
“No, I’m not Einstein,” Tim said simply. “He wasn’t as pretty.”
Conner bit his tongue so hard he tasted metal.
When they finally reached ground level, Tim blinked around like a baby deer learning what light was for the first time.
“There are so many people,” Tim whispered.
“It’s literally campus,” Conner replied, guiding him onto the sidewalk.
“They’re loud.”
“No one is talking, Tim.”
“Loud in spirit,” Tim insisted, curling closer to Conner’s side like Conner was a portable privacy shield. “There’s a guy over there wearing flip-flops with socks. That’s spiritually loud.”
Conner looked. There was no guy with flip-flops and socks.
“You’re imagining things.”
“No, I’m omnipotent right now,” Tim said. “My senses are heightened.”
“You ate weed, not gamma radiation.”
“You don’t know that,” Tim argued. “Maybe Bernard bought experimental gummies. He said they were ‘artisanal.’ That could mean anything. That could mean science.”
Conner pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please never call edibles artisanal science.”
Tim gasped so loudly that a passing girl flinched. “He infused them with lavender.”
“That’s not— that doesn’t make it— oh my god,” Conner said, accelerating his walking speed.
Tim kept up solely by holding onto Conner’s shirt.
Conner’s bike was in the same lot as before, parked between a tiny electric smart car and a sedan that looked like it survived the apocalypse via spite alone.
Tim stood very still when he saw the motorcycle.
Then he placed a hand over his heart.
“Hello, beloved,” he whispered.
“It’s a machine,” Conner muttered.
“She’s beautiful.”
“It’s literally just—”
“Don’t insult her,” Tim said sharply, sounding more sober in that single moment than he had since Conner found him. “She knows.”
“Bikes don’t have feelings.”
“This one does,” Tim insisted. “She’s shiny. She deserves respect.”
Conner stared at him, then at the motorcycle.
“Please don’t be weird about inanimate objects.”
“No promises,” Tim said.
Conner sighed, held out the second helmet (bright yellow, because Bart had learned nothing and didn’t text him when Conner forgot to bring it back because he was too busy mulling over his interaction with his ex’s stoned brother), and said, “Okay. Helmet.”
Tim took it delicately, like it was a ceremonial crown, and slid it on. He buckled it incorrectly on the first try. And the second. And the third. Conner had to do it himself while Tim whispered, “So gentle. So tender. Sensitive fingers.”
“I am actually going to put you in the trunk of a car,” Conner said.
“No you won’t,” Tim answered confidently. “I’m too pretty to trunk.”
“Stop saying you’re pretty.”
“But I am,” Tim said, dead serious.
And yes. He was. Tragically so.
“You still have the jacket,” Conner said, meaning his jacket—still on Tim, still engulfing him like a leather-wrapped burrito.
Tim tugged the zipper up. “It’s warm.”
“It’s protective.”
“It smells like you.”
Conner physically recoiled with embarrassment.
“Stop narrating everything,” he begged.
“Impossible,” Tim said. “I’m in a very sensory-forward era.”
“Get on the bike,” Conner groaned.
Tim climbed on with the same amount of grace as a baby penguin learning to ice skate. He managed to get his leg over only because Conner grabbed the back of his jacket and stopped him from falling sideways like a cut tree.
Once seated, Tim found Conner’s waist with both hands.
And instantly hugged him like a koala clinging to a eucalyptus tree in a windstorm.
“Closer,” Tim murmured through the helmet speaker.
“You’re already right there,” Conner said, voice tight.
“Closer,” Tim repeated.
Conner sighed and leaned back slightly so Tim could press his chest flush to his back.
“There,” Tim said, satisfied. “Perfect.”
Conner swallowed.
He flicked the kickstand, turned the key, and the bike roared to life. Tim made a delighted sound, something between a gasp and a giggle.
“Vibrations,” he said reverently.
“Oh god.”
Riding through Gotham at night was a particular kind of sensory overload. But riding through Gotham at night with Tim Wayne plastered against his back— warm and pliant and humming occasionally into the Bluetooth mic like a malfunctioning robot trying to imitate contentment— that was something else entirely.
At the first red light, Tim rested his helmet gently between Conner’s shoulder blades.
“You ride smooth,” Tim said.
“Thanks?”
“Like butter.”
“That— I’m choosing not to unpack that.”
The light turned green.
Halfway across the bridge, Tim spoke again, softer this time.
“Hey, Conner?”
“Yeah?”
“I didn’t want anyone else to come.” Tim said. “I wanted you again. You’re just… easy to be around.”
Conner nearly missed the turn.
“You’re high,” Conner said.
“And honest,” Tim countered.
Conner didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.
Not when Tim’s arms tightened around him.
Not when Tim rested his cheek against his spine like it was instinct.
Not when his heartbeat was a physical entity against Conner’s back, steady and warm and real.
By the time they reached Crest Hill, Tim had gone quiet.
Not in an unconscious way— in the thinking way. The gentle way. The way where he wasn’t floating a thousand miles above Earth; he was just… drifting.
Conner parked in the same discreet spot outside the garage.
He turned off the engine.
Tim didn’t move.
“Tim,” Conner said softly. “We’re here.”
A muffled noise.
Conner unbuckled his own helmet and slid off the bike, then turned around to help Tim.
Tim lifted his arms like a child asking to be picked up.
“I can’t pick you up,” Conner said.
“Then hold me while I get down,” Tim bargained.
Conner sighed, braced his hands on Tim’s waist, and helped him slide off the seat. Tim landed wobbly, both hands gripping Conner’s forearms, head tipped forward until his helmet was nearly touching Conner’s collarbone.
Conner unbuckled the strap and lifted the helmet off.
Tim blinked blearily up at him, blue eyes glowing against the red sclera.
“You always look like that?” Conner asked before he could stop himself. “With your eyes like that?”
Tim shrugged. “Allergy to bullshit.”
“That’s not a real thing.”
“It is,” Tim whispered.
“Okay.”
Silence.
And then Tim leaned forward, forehead briefly bumping against Conner’s chest— accidental, soft, barely a second long, but long enough to steal the air from Conner’s lungs.
“Thanks for coming again,” Tim murmured.
Conner felt something warm crawl up his throat.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Of course.”
Tim stepped back only because he wobbled and the world demanded it, not because he wanted to.
He rubbed his face. “You coming inside?”
“No,” Conner laughed. “No way.”
“Why not?”
Because I will never recover emotionally.
Because your house scares me.
Because you’re wearing my jacket and you look—too much.
“Because Bart needs the helmet,” Conner said instead.
Tim nodded like that was perfectly reasonable.
He turned toward the door.
Stopped.
Turned back.
And tugged lightly on Conner’s sleeve.
“You’ll come next time?” he asked, voice far more vulnerable than Conner deserved.
And Conner— poor, unlucky Conner— didn’t even hesitate.
“Yeah,” he said. “I will.”
Tim smiled.
Not dopey.
Not high.
Just soft.
Just him.
“Good,” he said. “Goodnight, motorcycle man.”
“Goodnight, Tim.”
Tim disappeared inside.
Conner stood there for several long, cold seconds.
Then muttered to himself:
“I am so unbelievably screwed.”
3.
At this point, Conner Kent had stopped pretending the universe wasn’t messing with him.
Truly. Fully. Without denial.
Because when his phone buzzed during his intro psych discussion section, he didn’t even check the name. He just sighed, closed his eyes for a brief, exhausted prayer, and whispered:
“Please not again.”
He checked the screen.
It was Cass.
Of course it was.
Cass
He’s high
Again
Pls help
Im in a meeting and Duke wont answer his phone
Jason said “tell the nerd to walk home”
Dick isnt answering
Damian is 13
You’re all i got
Conner stared at the message for a solid five seconds.
Five long, soul-searching, dignity-draining seconds.
Conner
cass i need you to level with me
what did i do in a past life to deserve this
Cass
Idk
But Tim is outside the gym
And he keeps telling people hes “waiting for his ride like a victorian widow”
Plz go get him
Conner
IM IN CLASS
Cass
Okay and?
Conner
cass im not your on-call wayne family uber
Cass
You are now
Ex-to-friend oath
You were too nice to me when we dated
That’s your problem
Conner
that was TWO WEEKS
Cass
And you’re still paying for it
Conner shoved his textbook into his bag and stood up so abruptly that the girl next to him jumped.
“Everything okay?” his TA asked.
“No,” Conner said honestly. “I’m cursed.”
And then he left.
The gym sat on the far edge of campus, a concrete monolith that looked like it had been built by someone who hated joy. The front steps were wide, intimidating, and almost always crowded with sweaty undergrads in shorts despite the Gotham chill.
Today, however, there was a new attraction.
Tim.
Sitting on the top step.
Wrapped in Conner’s leather jacket.
Again.
Legs crossed. Head tipped back. Staring up at the sky like it had personally offended him. Surrounded by three visibly confused athletes who looked like they’d stumbled into a wildlife documentary.
As Conner approached, he heard:
“—no, I’m not crying, the wind is crying. Stop asking.”
“Do you need medical attention?”
“I need a smoothie, my motorcycle man, and to never think a thought again.”
“Motorcycle man?”
Tim scoffed. “My man who drives a motorcycle. Are you guys stupid?”
The athletes backed away slowly.
Conner had to physically bite his lip to keep from laughing.
He climbed the steps.
Tim finally looked down.
His pupils were huge. His gaze unfocused. His cheeks flushed. And when he saw Conner, his entire face lit up like someone had turned on the sun.
“Conner,” he breathed. “My hero.”
“I’m not your hero,” Conner said, reaching him. “I’m your only option.”
“That’s what a hero is,” Tim said as though conveying deep philosophical truth.
Conner exhaled like a defeated man. “Why are you here?”
“I tried to go to the gym.”
“Don’t you have a in-home gym?”
“I know,” Tim said, nodding solemnly. “I got lost on purpose.”
“Lost—?”
“It’s a safety measure. If I don’t know where I am, no one else does.”
“That’s not— that’s not how anything works, Tim.”
Tim shrugged.
“How many edibles did you eat?”
“Two.”
“Tim.”
Tim looked away. “…five.”
Conner cupped his forehead. “Okay. Alright. Yeah. Let’s get you home.”
Tim lifted both arms toward him like a toddler demanding to be picked up.
“No.”
Tim wiggled his hands insistently.
“No, Tim.”
“Carry me.”
“I’m not carrying you down the stairs.”
“That’s ableist.”
“You’re not disabled, you’re high.”
“That’s a disability.”
“Oh my god.”
Getting Tim off the gym steps was like escorting a baby deer through a laser maze. He kept stopping to stare at things that didn’t exist— “Conner, that lamppost is judging us”—and leaning on Conner like gravity had a personal vendetta.
When they finally reached the bike, Tim gasped dramatically.
“You brought her,” he whispered, approaching the motorcycle reverently.
“Don’t say it like I brought a sacrificial offering.”
“She’s beautiful,” Tim said, petting the seat.
“Stop stroking my vehicle.”
“I’m bonding with her.”
“Please don’t.”
“Shh,” Tim said. “Let her speak.”
Conner took a slow inhale through his teeth. “Helmet time.”
Tim accepted the yellow helmet, stared at it, and then put it on backwards.
Conner gently rotated it.
Tim blinked and whispered, “Oh. That makes more sense.”
“Yeah,” Conner said softly, buckling the strap. “It does.”
Once Tim was situated on the bike (a process that included him missing the seat twice and grabbing Conner’s shoulders like they were life rafts), Conner climbed on in front.
Tim immediately wrapped his arms around Conner’s waist.
But this time, instead of the usual clingy hug, Tim pressed his cheek directly to Conner’s back and murmured through the Bluetooth, “I missed you.”
Conner froze.
“Tim,” he said carefully, “you saw me three days ago.”
“That’s a long time. Like… hours.”
Conner’s heart did something weird and lurchy.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “We’re going now.”
The ride was loud with wind but quiet through the headset.
Tim didn’t ramble this time.
He just held on.
Tighter than usual. Close, steady, grounding.
Every few minutes, he’d whisper something small like:
“You smell good.”
“Your jacket hugs me.”
“Your back is warm.”
“Don’t go fast, I want to stay like this.”
And every time, Conner’s chest got tighter.
When they reached Crest Hill, Tim made a soft sound—half contentment, half sadness—and tucked his face further between Conner’s shoulder blades like he could hide from reality.
“Hey,” Conner said gently once they parked. “We’re here.”
“Nooo,” Tim groaned. “Take me somewhere else.”
“Like where?” Conner asked, steadying Tim by both elbows.
Tim blinked up at him, serious in the way only very high people and very small children could be.
“Somewhere with no responsibilities,” he said. “And also snacks.”
“That’s not a real place,” Conner replied.
“It should be,” Tim insisted, brows furrowing as if he’d personally invented utopia.
Conner looked at him for a long second.
Red sclera.
Flushed cheeks.
Still wearing Conner’s jacket.
Arms loose around his waist like Conner was gravity itself.
And something in Conner—some soft, tired part of him—snapped.
“Okay,” he said suddenly.
Tim blinked. “Okay what?”
“We’re getting food.”
Tim stared like Conner had just parted the Gotham River. “Now?”
“Yeah,” Conner said, already adjusting Tim’s helmet strap again. “You clearly haven’t eaten. And you’re—” he gestured at all of Tim’s everything, “—like this.”
Tim’s mouth dropped open slightly. “Conner. You’re taking me… out?”
“This is not a date,” Conner said instantly.
“It feels like a date.”
“It’s not.”
“It sounds like a date.”
“It isn’t.”
Tim leaned in, voice lowered to a dramatic whisper. “Are you nervous?”
“Oh my god,” Conner groaned, climbing back onto the bike. “Get on.”
Tim got on with the grace of a sock sliding off a bed, arms immediately finding their way around Conner’s middle. He pressed his cheek against Conner’s back like it was instinct.
“Where are we going?” Tim asked through the headset.
“You’ll see,” Conner said.
“I hope it’s food,” Tim whispered.
“It is food.”
Tim gasped. “You’re my favorite person.”
“You say that to everyone when you’re high.”
“Not true,” Tim argued. “I say it to like… two people.”
“That’s everyone.”
They drove ten minutes down Crest Hill, the city lights growing brighter as they descended. Tim talked the whole way, rambling about streetlights (“they’re tall on purpose”), the moon (“she’s wearing pajamas tonight”), and how tightly he should hold on (“like this?” tightens arms too much “Not like that?” loosens too much “Find the middle, Tim.” “Middle is fake.”)
Conner stopped at a neon sign glowing in the cold:
24 Hour Diner: BREAKFAST ALL DAY! CARB HEAVEN!
Tim perked up immediately.
“You brought me to paradise,” he whispered.
“It’s a diner,” Conner said.
“A carb cathedral.”
“Tim.”
They parked, Conner helping Tim off the bike again. Tim stumbled once, twice, then straightened, pointed at the glowing “OPEN” sign, and said:
“If this is a date, I’m paying.”
“It’s not a date.”
“But I’m still paying.”
“You’re not allowed to make financial decisions right now.”
Tim frowned. “That’s not true. I’m a Wayne. My entire brand is bad financial decisions.”
Inside, the diner was warm and bright—yellow booths, laminated menus older than Gotham’s infrastructure, and the smell of syrup and coffee settling in the air like a comforting fog.
A waitress with pink lipstick and a world-weary expression led them to a booth.
Tim slid in first, immediately sinking sideways until he was half-lying across the seat. Conner took the opposite side.
“Can I get you boys anything to drink?” the waitress asked.
“Water,” Conner said.
“Chocolate milk,” Tim said.
Conner shot him a look.
“It has vitamins,” Tim argued.
“You don’t need vitamins.”
“I need love.”
“That’s not—”
“Chocolate milk is love.”
Conner sighed. “Fine. One chocolate milk.”
“And waffles,” Tim added.
“We haven’t ordered yet.”
“I’m ordering.”
“You haven’t looked at the menu.”
“I’ve used the internet. I know what waffles are.”
The waitress stifled a laugh. “One order of waffles coming up. Want whipped cream?”
Tim looked at Conner with enormous, pleading eyes.
Conner closed his own eyes and surrendered. “Yes.”
“And fruit?” she asked.
“No fruit,” Tim said immediately. “Fruit is betrayal.”
Conner muttered, “You’re so dramatic.”
“You like me dramatic.”
“I literally do not.”
“You do.”
Conner kicked his foot under the table.
Tim giggled.
When the drinks arrived, Tim stared at the chocolate milk like it had descended from heaven.
Then he took a sip.
Then he froze.
Then he whispered reverently: “That’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Conner snorted. “It’s literally powdered mix.”
“It’s an experience!.”
“Okay.”
“You should try it,” Tim said, sliding the glass toward him like it was a peace offering.
“I’m not sharing your drink,” Conner said.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re high and you have no control over where your mouth goes.”
Tim choked on air. “Are you implying—”
“Oh my god! Not like that!”
Tim leaned back smugly. “So you were thinking about kissing.”
“I need you to stop talking forever.”
Tim smirked behind his straw. “Coward.”
The waffles arrived stacked high, drowned in whipped cream, a sugar mountain.
Tim stared at them like he might cry.
Then he ate.
Like he hadn’t consumed food in 48 hours.
Like the waffles had asked him politely to destroy them.
Conner watched him, equal parts fond and horrified.
Halfway through, Tim looked up, mouth full.
“You’re very pretty,” he said.
Conner dropped his fork. “Tim, oh my god.”
“What? It’s true.”
“You’re high.”
“And honest.”
Conner’s face burned.
“Finish your waffles.”
“Yes, dear,” Tim whispered.
Conner kicked him under the table again.
Tim just grinned and kept eating.
When they left the diner, Tim was tired—but steadier. Less floaty. Full of carbs instead of chaos.
Conner helped him onto the bike again.
This time, when Tim wrapped his arms around him, the hold was firm but relaxed, not clinging or shaky.
He rested his cheek against Conner’s back and murmured through the headset:
“Thank you for feeding me.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And for coming again.”
“Yeah,” Conner said softly. “Anytime.”
“Conner?”
“Yeah?”
“I think you like me.”
Conner swallowed.
“You’re high,” he said once more.
Tim hummed. “Still true.”
They reached the manor.
Tim slid off the bike with minimal wobbling this time.
Conner removed his helmet for him, brushing hair out of his eyes without thinking.
Tim blinked slowly. “Will you come next time too?”
Conner’s voice softened without permission.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll come.”
Tim smiled, eyes warm despite the haze.
“Goodnight, motorcycle man.”
“Goodnight, Tim.”
Tim headed inside.
The door closed.
Conner stood in the cold, heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest.
“…I’m doomed,” he whispered.
And he was.
Happily, stupidly doomed.
+1
Conner Kent had absolutely, definitively, unquestionably chosen the wrong day to exist.
It started with Lex Luthor.
Which, to be fair, was how a lot of bad days began in his life.
He was simply walking through the student union— minding his business, carrying an iced coffee he was so proud of for only costing $3.75— when he rounded a corner and ran straight into a very expensive suit.
He didn’t look up at first. He just said, “Sorry,” like a normal person.
And then the suit said, “Watch where you’re going, son.”
Conner froze. Looked up.
Lex Luthor stared at him with the faintest curl of disappointment, as if Conner had knocked over one of his lab experiments instead of just… brushing his shoulder.
“Conner,” Lex said, tone smooth, smug, familiar in the worst way. “Still slumming it around these halls?”
Conner swallowed the urge to throw up.
“I go to school here,” he muttered.
“For now,” Lex replied, checking his watch. “Assuming you can manage not to trip over your own feet.”
Then he walked away.
Conner briefly considered chucking his coffee at the back of Lex’s bald head.
He didn’t.
Because it was $3.75.
And because he was a coward.
The day spiraled from there.
He forgot to take out the trash before leaving for campus. Lois called during his break, and the first thing she said was:
“Conner Kent, did you forget the trash again?”
He tried, “It was dark and I didn’t want to scare the raccoons,” but that made it worse.
Then, after lunch, he realized— with a sinking, nauseated horror— that he never submitted his sociology paper.
The entire seven page paper.
The one worth twenty percent of his grade.
He sat in the campus bathroom for three minutes just staring at his reflection like it had personally betrayed him.
But the final straw— the ultimate cosmic punchline— came at 8:47 p.m., when he finally trudged across the near-empty parking lot, slid on his helmet, turned the key in his motorcycle, and heard:
…nothing.
No rumble.
No whirr.
No comforting growl.
Just click.
He tried again.
Click.
Again.
Click-click-click.
And then:
“Fuck,” Conner whispered. “Oh my god. Please. Not tonight. Not today.”
He tried one more time.
Click.
He dropped his forehead against the handlebars and let out a long, suffering groan that could have revived ancient Greek tragedies.
He stayed like that.
Helmet still on.
Exhausted.
Humiliated.
Defeated by one man, one trash can, one essay, and one motorcycle.
That’s when a voice drifted in from the side:
“You look like the opening shot of a sad music video.”
Conner jerked his head up.
Tim stood at the edge of the parking lot, hands in hoodie pockets, hair tousled from the Gotham wind. Sober. Clear-eyed. Calm in that precise, slightly intimidating way sober Tim could be.
Conner tried to sound normal.
“Hey,” he croaked.
Tim walked over, stopping right beside him.
“You okay?” he asked.
Conner stared at him.
At the one person in Gotham who shouldn’t see him like this. At the one person he wanted to look cool and competent in front of.
Then he sighed—loud, defeated.
“No,” Conner said. “I’m actually… really not okay.”
Tim blinked once. “What happened?”
Conner gestured helplessly at the bike. “She won’t start.”
“And?” Tim asked gently.
“And I ran into someone I’m not a fan of today and he was an asshat.”
Tim’s expression sharpened instantly. “Where?”
“Coffee shop.”
“What did he say to you?”
Conner winced. “He breathed in my direction. That was enough.”
Tim nodded, sympathetic. “Okay. And?”
“My…” He racked his brain for what to call Lois, settling with just: “mom yelled at me.”
“For what?”
“For trash. It’s a long story.”
“Okay.” Tim waited.
“I forgot to turn in a paper.”
“Okay.”
“And now my bike’s dead.”
“Okay,” Tim said. “And?”
Conner blinked. “…isn’t that enough?”
Tim shrugged one shoulder. “It’s a bad day. Not a failure. You’re allowed to have those.”
Conner stared down at his boots.
Then muttered, “Thanks.”
Tim nudged him lightly with his elbow. “C’mon.”
Conner looked up. “What?”
“Get off the bike.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m taking you home.”
Conner blinked. “Tim, I live in Metropolis. That’s like—”
“An hour and fifteen minutes. Forty-five if I’m driving.”
“You’ve—what?”
Tim raised a brow. “I’ve driven to Metropolis before.”
“Why.”
“To pick up Duke from a concert because he claimed he was ‘immersing himself in nightlife culture’ and forgot he didn’t have a ride home.”
“What— you—” Conner sputtered. “You can drive??”
Tim stared at him. “Yes, Conner. I have a license. I’m not a medieval peasant.”
“But— you’re—” Every memory of high Tim flashed in his brain like a highlight reel. “You’re you.”
“I’m me sober right now,” Tim said, amused. “It’s different. I needed my car so I didn’t get high.”
“But— driving?”
“Yes.”
“A car?”
“Yes.”
“A whole car??”
“Conner,” Tim said patiently, “everyone in my family drives except Damian.”
“Because Damian is thirteen.”
“And because no one wants to be on the road with him.”
Conner blinked again.
Tim sighed, reached out, and gently took Conner’s helmet off.
“Give me your bag,” Tim said. “You’re coming to my house.”
“I—I can’t—”
“You can,” Tim said calmly. “Because you’re exhausted and you look like you’re nine minutes away from walking into the river.”
Conner’s shoulders slumped. “I am.”
“Then come with me.”
Tim turned, nodding toward the parking lot’s faculty section.
Parked under a lamppost was a sleek, stupidly expensive black sedan.
Conner stared.
“That’s your car?”
“One of them,” Tim said.
“One—”
“Don’t,” Tim warned gently. “You’ve had a hard day.”
Conner followed him to the car anyway, like gravity had shifted and Tim was the only non-moving point in the universe.
Tim opened the passenger door for him.
“Get in,” he said simply.
Conner obeyed without argument, sinking into a leather seat that felt like it cost more than his entire apartment.
Tim got in the driver’s seat, turned on the ignition, and—
Conner jolted.
“Tim.”
Tim looked over. “What?”
“You drive like a normal person.”
Tim snorted. “What did you think I’d do? Hit the gas and scream?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know anything about your sober abilities!”
“Well,” Tim said, reversing smoothly out of the space, “now you do.”
They drove through Gotham in comfortable, quiet darkness.
No wind. No biting cold. No Parents. No trash. No deadlines.
Just Tim. Calm. Focused. Normal.
Conner sank deeper into the seat.
Tim flicked a glance at him at a stoplight.
“You can sleep,” he said gently. “I’ll wake you when we get there.”
Conner huffed a tired laugh. “I’m not gonna sleep in front of you.”
“You let me sleep in your jacket.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Those times you were— I don’t know— emotionally compromised.”
“And now?” Tim asked.
And Conner didn’t have an answer.
He just let out a long breath and mumbled, “I don’t know, I just… want to be awake with you.”
Tim didn’t smile.
He didn’t tease him.
He just said, very softly:
“That’s okay. I’ve got you.”
And Conner felt something in his chest wobble.
He let his eyes drift shut.
Sleep didn’t come, but something close did— the kind of half-dream state where the world felt safe because someone else had the wheel.
Tim drove like he cared about Conner’s bones. Smooth, steady, confident.
By the time they reached Crest Hill, Conner had fully melted into the seat.
Tim parked the car and turned it off.
“Hey,” he said softly, nudging Conner’s shoulder. “We’re here.”
Conner blinked awake.
“Oh,” he murmured. “That was fast.”
“It wasn’t.”
Conner yawned and hated how fond Tim looked about it.
He opened the door and got out.
Then paused.
“Tim,” he said quietly, “thank you. Really.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do.”
Tim shrugged. “Okay. Then you’re welcome.”
They stood there, awkward for approximately 0.7 seconds.
Then Tim reached out, tugged lightly on Conner’s sleeve— the same way he’d done all those other nights— but this time it wasn’t because he was high.
It was just… him.
“You can stay,” Tim said again, quieter this time. “If you want.”
Conner swallowed hard. His day, his whole life, had been a disaster reel from start to finish. But here—right here—everything slowed down. Softened. Aligned.
“Yeah,” Conner murmured. “Okay. I’ll stay.”
Tim’s shoulders relaxed like he’d been bracing for the opposite answer. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—gentle, hopeful, unbearably earnest.
“Good,” Tim said. “I—”
But he didn’t finish.
Because Conner stepped closer.
Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just certain.
Tim blinked up at him, eyes bright even in the low light, sober and clear in a way that made Conner’s chest tighten.
“What are you—” Tim started, voice barely above a whisper.
Conner lifted a hand, fingers brushing Tim’s jaw, the touch gentle like he was afraid Tim might vanish if he pressed too hard.
“Today sucked,” Conner said, breath warm in the cold air. “Everything sucked.”
Tim’s breath hitched.
“But not this,” Conner added softly. “Not you.”
Tim didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stared at him with wide, startled eyes, like Conner was speaking an entirely new language he desperately wanted to understand.
He didn’t get another word out.
Conner cupped his jaw with both hands and pulled him in.
The first kiss landed slow, warm, deliberate—like Conner needed to feel every millisecond of it. Tim inhaled sharply against his mouth, fingers tightening in the fabric of Conner’s jacket, pulling him closer.
Conner didn’t stop there.
He kissed Tim again—firmer this time—angling his mouth just slightly, deepening the pressure until Tim made a soft noise in the back of his throat that shot heat straight down Conner’s spine.
Tim kissed him back like he’d been waiting for permission.
His hands slid up from Conner’s jacket to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair and tugging gently, urging him closer, deeper. Conner let out a low, helpless sound as he leaned into it, letting Tim pull him exactly where he wanted him.
The kiss grew hotter—still soft, but charged, hungry. Tim opened his mouth just a little, a question without words, and Conner answered it, brushing his tongue lightly against Tim’s bottom lip.
Tim’s breath hitched—sharp and startled—before he pressed in harder, kissing him with a sudden, earnest intensity that made Conner’s knees go weak.
They swayed into each other, chest to chest, breaths mingling. Tim’s fingers curled tighter in his hair. Conner’s hands slid from Tim’s jaw to the back of his neck, then to his waist, pulling him closer until there was barely a whisper of space left between them.
Tim gasped softly against his mouth—just a breath, just a quiet, involuntary sound—but it made Conner kiss him harder, deeper, heat blooming under his skin.
Tim tilted his head and kissed back with a slow, intoxicating eagerness, lips parting again to meet him halfway. Conner followed his lead, savoring the warmth, the softness, the way Tim’s whole body leaned into him like the kiss was the only stable place in the world.
They broke for air—barely—Tim pressing his forehead to Conner’s, both breathing hard, lips flushed and swollen.
Then Tim whispered, voice rough: “Don’t stop.”
So Conner didn’t.
He kissed Tim again, deeper, slower, letting himself drown in it. Tim’s hands slid down to grip Conner’s waist, pulling him even closer, the faint brush of his teeth against Conner’s lip sending a shiver all the way down Conner’s spine.
Tim kissed like someone learning a language he already somehow knew—tentative only for a second before diving in, matching Conner’s pace, heat rising between them in quiet waves.
When they finally parted, Tim’s lips were kiss-bruised, his cheeks flushed, his breathing uneven.
Conner wasn’t doing much better.
“Wow,” Tim whispered.
“Yeah,” Conner whispered back, dazed beyond saving.
Tim blinked up at him, cheeks flushed, voice soft with wonder. “I… thought about that. More than once.”
“Good,” Conner said. “Me too.”
A small, stunned laugh escaped Tim. “So it was a date at the diner.”
Conner groaned quietly. “Don’t start.”
Tim smiled—wide and warm, unguarded in a way Conner hadn’t seen before. “Come inside,” he said, tugging Conner’s sleeve again. “You don’t have to, but… I’d like it if you did.”
Conner kissed him once more—quick, sweet, impossible not to.
Then he whispered, “Yeah. I’m coming inside.”
Tim’s hand slid down his sleeve to lace their fingers together.
And for the first time in a long, awful day, Conner felt okay.
More than okay.
He felt wanted.