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Tim tapped a small rhythm on his thighs, but was otherwise the picture perfect image of a young socialite. It had been a long night- it had been a long week- full to the brim with escaped convicts after the most recent Arkham breakout. Just a few hours ago, Tim had been facing off Poison Ivy and Scarecrow, rescuing hostages and administering antidotes before rushing home to shower and change.
And maybe Tim was running off of the fumes of too much coffee and too little sleep, but he could do this. He could make nice with fancy business heads who saw a sixteen-year-old one way ticket to Bruce’s checkbook and older socialites who liked to coo at him as if he was no more than five.
This was easy. Laughably easy. This was stuff Tim could do in his sleep.
(He remembers reading name after name after name, until all the letters blurred together and his head ached, remembers his mother’s disapproving glance whenever he made a mistake, remembers thinking I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m trying- )
It was one of the many Wayne Charity Galas, and due to social regulations and the overarching goal of keeping the bat clan as far a part from the Wayne family in the public eye, someone had to be there to run it.
So Dick, Damian, and Harper had gone out on patrol with Barbra watching over them. Cass was in Hong Kong still, but Tim knew she was planning on returning for a visit soon.
Which left Bruce and Tim to deal with the gala. Stephanie was hanging around here, too, he knew. He had no idea where, had lost her somewhere about an hour in.
But that was alright: Tim would find her. Eventually.
Or, she would find him, when she was ready, and they would melt away to the edges of the party and watch the rest of the night play out before them, seemingly no more present than ballroom spectres waching one last final dance before they fade into ash, before they fade into nothing.
For now, he made the rounds, shook hands with politicians and business owners, accepted well wishers congratulations, and avoided all those who were trying to prey on ‘easy bait’ and strike up ridiculous deals to get at Bruce.
Easy bait. Tim would show them easy bait.
He was tired, and his ribs ached from where Killer Croc had gotten a hit in, and his head had been pounding for the last two hours something fierce. Tim brushed it off as caffeine withdrawals, and then brushed off the perspiration on his forehead as an effect from all the bodies crammed into the room.
Even so, putting up an amiable front was no big thing. He’d deal. He’d get through this and then he’d sleep and everything was going to be just fine.
Plastering a smile on his face was as natural as breathing, years of training from socialite parents and ridiculous parties just like this one, even if the grins never stopped feeling fake and plastic.
A middle aged man- desperately trying to hide grey hairs through a bad dye job- was looking back at him, his own lips pulled into an almost languid smirk, teeth too white and straight to ever be natural.His breath smelled faintly of alcohol, even though his current drink was simply a sparkling apple juice, and his dark navy suit looked as if it was made for someone a few sizes smaller around the middle- most likely a couple of years old and no longer fitting due to the passage of time and its effects on the human body.
Tim took all this in within a blink of an eye, sometime after when the man had first approached and before their hands clasped in a firm handshake. A quick rifle through his memory brought up a name to match the face: Connor Jones, a businessman from a rich family whose company was doing poorly and whose relationships were doing even worse. Based on the poor state of the guy’s clothing and his desperate attempts to look younger, Tim felt quite confident in presuming the man was on his last legs, desperately trying to get a deal with Wayne Tech to save him from bankruptcy, or at least trying to find a hot rich date to tide him over.
“Timmy!,” aaaand now he was leaning way too much into Tim’s personal space, “it’s been an age since I’ve last seen you, my boy. You’ve grown so much! Tell me, how are you?”
The teen took a step back, giving himself room to breathe and letting loose a strained fake smile. The fact that the man had given him an appreciative one over had not escaped Tim’s notice, even with all the other pains distracting him, and it made his nerves stand on end.
“Fine, Mr. Jones, how are you?”
The guy laughed, the sound too loud and almost grating against Tim’s eardrums.
He wished his headache would go away. He wished it wasn’t so hot in here. He wished that he could lie down and sleep for a million years.
“Doing rather well myself, Timothy. But, please, call me Connor- Mr. Jones makes me feel old.”
You are old, Tim wanted to say. But he didn’t.
(Tim, at least, had excellent restraint like that, even if none of his siblings did.)
Somehow, in the point five seconds he had been distracted, the man had managed to step too close again, close enough that Tim’s face was level with his chest, that he could smell the guy’s cologne and how it completely failed to cover the stench of the guy’s sweat.
Despite his best efforts, Tim couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose against the offensive smell: there were some things even restraint couldn’t hold up against.
“Now, Timmy, I have a proposition and I was wondering if you would be willing to hear me out. Would you like a drink?
And then the guy’s hand was on Tim’s waist and that was a big no no because, yeah, okay, it’s one thing for physical contact with Dick and his friends, people he was used to, but quite another for a basic stranger to do it.
(Tim had twelve years under his belt growing up with nothing more than the occasional shoulder pat. It had led to him having his own little personal air bubble of okay zone and the minute someone uninvited crossed it he was tensing up all over and taking the quickest steps to make the other back off. And it was times like those where he wished he was nothing more than a ghost, that no one could touch him, that no one could see him, that he could just breathe and breathe and breath and disappear.)
Sliding out of the grip was easy, even if it was executed a bit too quickly to pass as casual. But the man made Tim uncomfortable at a foundational level, and Tim wasn’t one to ignore his gut feelings.
“Sorry, Mr. Jones, I’m afraid that Bruce needs my attention. I’ll be going now.”
With that, Tim disappeared into the crowd, watching as the businessman blinked at his sudden lack of conversation partner and then scowled, and then walked off into the opposite direction, probably to get another drink.
Tim smirked, took just a moment to rub at his pounding head. Somehow, the man’s stink had made the pain even worse.
Then, because he had a responsibility to perform as one of the Wayne heirs, he began the whole process anew, shaking hands, flashing false smiles, and all and all dealing with the richest of the rich of Gotham City.
Eventually, he found himself by Mrs. Charline, one of the oldest members of the gala. If Tim remembered correctly, her husband had died just over two years ago...
“You must be so excited,” the lady crooned at him, patting his cheek, “with all those hints ol’ Brucie is dropping about giving you the company one day…”
Smiling suddenly felt a bit more natural. He and Bruce had had a long talk a few weeks ago while burning the midnight oil about Tim’s future, and what he wanted to do with it. The little “hints” about the next heir for Wayne Enterprises started popping up in Bruce’s interviews soon after.
He spent so long giving everything he got, and now it almost feels like he was sort of getting somewhere.
“The fact that Bruce thinks so highly of me is really an honour, Ms. Charline. I look forward to-”
He froze. Blinked. Somewhere just out of sight he could have sworn that- that-
He breathed, closing his eyes just for a second. It had been a hard week, a long week, and he was tired beyond belief. Every night he had been out till four in the morning- or later- helping out in containing the escapees and stopping baddies left and right. A lot was happening, right now, and he really needed some coffee, or even better some sleep.
That was all. That was all. There was no way in hell that he had just seen-
Breathe, breathe, blink the ghosts out of your eyes and get on with it, Drake, come on.
“Sonny, you alright?”
Tim tore his gaze away from the far off corner of the room, forcing himself to refocus on the woman in front of him.
“Fine, Ms. Charline. I just- I thought I saw someone I knew.”
“Oh, who are they, then? Maybe I know’em and can help you spot’em in the crowd.”
Tim laughs, but it sounds a little strained even to his own ears.
“No, no I don’t think there could be anyway you would have known him, Ms. Charlene. Besides, he um- it couldn’t have been him either way.”
And it’s true. There was no way that could have been Kon El, because the teen was six feet under, because Tim had attended the funeral, had held the teen’s corpse and had felt the blood slick on his hands, had thought No, no, no, no, no-
It was almost funny, really, in a morbid way, that Kryptonians seemed so invincible, because the moment they die they become just as small and mortal as everyone else.
It was almost funny, in a way, how half a year could fly past and sometimes Tim still looked around and expected to find him, to see Conner's face or hear his laugh. It was almost funny, in a way, how sometimes Tim could just feel so normal and then a second later he’ll remember and it’s like someone punched him in the gut and driven away all the air.
It was almost funny, in a way, how Tim sometimes missed him so much it hurt, kept him awake those precious few hours he’s dedicated to sleep, kept him dazed and unfocused those many hours devoted to work, kept him curled up in the center of his bed in his messy room in his messy apartment not doing anything at all because why should he? Why should he get to do things when Kon El couldn’t do anything at all, because he was dead.
It was almost funny, in a way, how half a year could pass and Tim could look up for a half a second in a room full of socialites and spot a tall strong back and wide set shoulders and a head of black hair, and just immediately think- Kon.
Except, you know, how it’s the exact opposite. How it was so not funny it made Tim want to puke.
Breathe, breathe. Focus. C’mon, Drake, you’re seeing ghosts.
But then- there - again- tall frame and strong back, that shock of black hair. Who the hell was that guy, and why the hell did he look so much like Conner Kent?
“Would you excuse me, Ms. Charline,” he said, throat suddenly very dry, and then he stepped around her and rushed off into the crowd, fingers very finely trembling. Some small part of him that sounded just like his mother was positively shrieking for how rude he was being, but he had to know, he had to know, he had to know.
Moving fast made his ribs twinge painfully, made his head pound all the harder, but it didn’t matter, it didn’t matter because-
Because this was impossible. This was impossible because Kon El was dead, because Tim had held his dead body in his arms, there hadn’t been a pulse, hadn’t been a breath, only a cold sort of stillness and so much blood-
Tim was chasing a ghost. It was the only logical explanation. He was going to stumble upon the guy he was following and it’s just gonna be some rich socialite kid trying to act out and be cool with some gelled up hair and Tim’s gonna feel like an idiot and that will be that.
Except-
How many times have heroes risen from the dead? How many times had Tim wished c’mon, c’mon, just one more miracle, one more miracle, just bring him b a c k-
He remembered that mission, remembered how it all went wrong, remembered peeling off his costume, how it wasn’t the right colour of red with all the dried crusted blood, remembered gagging because of the smell, the way his face was too pale and the world too distant, the way Dick had found him and held him and held him and held him as Tim just shook for reasons beyond anything he could grasp.
And in his head, a voice, listing his symptoms, listing the treatments, monotone and far away, like the sound of static, like the breath of a ghost.
Shock: a critical condition that is brought on by a sudden drop in blood flow through the body. The circulatory system fails to maintain adequate blood flow, sharply curtailing the delivery of oxygen and nutrients to vital organs. ...
How much do you have to give before the world gives you a break? Because Tim felt like he had been giving up pieces of himself from the day of his birth, and now he was running on spare parts and jittery hardware, felt like he was playing that old guessing game he used to go through with his parents but with the very universe itself.
Am I enough yet? I did what you asked, did my very best.
I put up with everything you put me through.
(Why is that never enough?)
He spotted the guy by the food table, and his breath caught in his throat.
It was him.
Kon.
It’s a ghost, a voice whispered in his head, you’re seeing things, you’re going insane, but Tim ignored it because- because-
Because that was Kon, right there, wearing a suit with his hair purposely stylized all crooked and that stupid smile on his face and a glass of some sparkling apple juice in his grip and he was there, he’s there he’s here he’s alive.
Tim very suddenly couldn’t breathe.
One more miracle, one more miracle he had asked and life had given him one more miracle because he’s right there, he’s right t h e r e-
He needed to compartmentalize. He needed to breathe and get his shit in order right here right now, because otherwise Tim was going to start crying in the middle of a massive gala and he wasn’t going to be able to stop.
“ Conner?’
Cracking, his voice was cracking and sounding wet and dry and broken, and Conner just turned around- the ghost just turned around- and winked.
“Hey there, I see you-”
It was his voice. It was Conner's voice, and despite himself Tim felt his eyes well up.
Shit shit shit- compartmentalize, compartmentalize, get it together, Drake, figure it out-
“What are you doing here? How did you- How did- How- I don't understand- ”
“Whooaa, there. Slow down. Here- just- wait here and I'll get you a drink, okay?”
And Tim nodded, because okay, okay, he was feeling a bit dizzy on top of his headache and the air was coming on a bit too fast- jarring his ribs, ow- and Kon did seem to know what the hell was going on while Tim had entirely no clue.
He closed his eyes, breathed deeply through his nose, held it, and let it all go.
He half expected for Kon to never come back, for it all to have been some coffee withdrawal and sleep deprivation induced hallucination, but no, no, there he was, balancing another flute of sparkling juice, the size of his hands making the glass seem absurdly small.
Tim frowned, because Kon El knew that he didn't really like the grape kind, but then again maybe that was a message inside of itself, or maybe with the all the chaos of coming back to life the Kryptonian forgot or maybe-
He didn't know. His head was pounding too hard to make sense of any of this, so he just took the drink and sipped at it, grimacing slightly at the flavour.
Tim didn't make a habit of drinking things he didn't like. Somehow, he thought that the flavour has gotten worse since he was last forced to try some of the stuff.
But in the long run, it didn't matter, because that was Kon El, right there, in front of him, and his chest was moving up and down, up and down, and Tim had to resist the temptation to reach up and check for a pulse point.
It wasn't the time. He needed answers, needed to figure out the situation he was in, to learn how the hell Conner was walking and talking in front of him, and why the older boy was so freaking calm about it.
I BURIED YOU, he wanted to scream, but he didn't.
Now was not the time to make a scene.
Or maybe it was? Sometimes, Tim knew, when he as panicking he reverted to the rules drilled into him when he was younger, those habits that were half attempted to be broken but were still struggling to be heard every moment, like some sort ghost possessing his body long after it had been exorcised. Kon El had returned from the dead. Did anyone know, besides him? Should he call the Kents? The Titans? Or is this supposed to be a secret?
His mind was working overtime, his face was blank, but at the smae time, at the same time-
He felt nauseous, felt jittery all over, felt too hot in this crowded room. He wishes that they were alone, that Tim could scream and shout and rage and have no one look weird at him, and then maybe cry and hug Kon so tight that it hurt.
Tim closed his eyes, breathed in deep, and pushed the pain and dizziness and tiredness and everything else down down down.
Compartmentalize. Focus. Figure this out, and deal with all the emotions later.
“Alright, can you please tell me what's going on now? How you- how you're here?”
His throat felt so dry, and his voice rasped and cracked at the edges, and Tim took another sip of the awful drink and pushed through it, pushed through it.
Kon was peering down at him, eyes furrowed in a concerned look, downing the rest of his drink.
“Are you sure you’re feeling okay there, Timmy?”
Tim blinked, and his eyelids struggled to rise back up, just a bit.
Tired, tired, just so tired.
“Don’t call me that,” spilled out instinctively, and then he sighed and closed his eyes and gripped at the stem of his glass just a little harder, “and- Fine,”
It came out forced out through gritted teeth, but he meant it. He could be fine, he could, he just needed answers first, and maybe to run a full scan on Kon El to be absolutely sure he was real and not a living, breathing ghost, or some figment of his imagination.
Please don’t be an illusion, please don’t- please-
“Just- talk to me. What’s going on?”
When did it get so hot in here?
Kon El just watched him for several more moments, and then glanced at the crowded room around them. Tim wondered if the older teen was disoriented somehow, or still dealing with whatever side effects that came with- what? Rising from the dead?
Was he even dead in the first place?
( He had to have been. Tim had held his dead body, had felt that too solid weight in his arms, so still and so inanimate and too far gone for any hero to save him-)
Either way, something was off, and his mind felt like it was in overdrive trying to figure it out, running too hot for it to keep up with his servers. There were too many questions and not enough brain capacity to keep up, and every time Tim looked at Kon the pounding just got worse.
Just when Tim was about to really start screaming, appearances be damned, Kon opened his mouth.
“Is there somewhere we can talk? Alone?”
Tim blinked. Right. Right. Conner couldn’t very well talk about their alter egos in a room full of possible eavesdroppers.
Right.
Tim knew that. He swiped at his brow, getting rid of the sweat that had started to bead there. He was just tired and overheated, and his head had become the steady pounding of a beating highly painful drum.
“Y-yeah. Good point.”
He looked down at his drink, the fizz bubbling its way to the top. He needed to get his game together: maybe the cold liquid would clear his head? At the very least it should help with his parched throat.
Decided, he put the glass to his lips and swallowed the rest of the golden liquid, grimacing at the taste. Then he placed the flute down on the table and grabbed at the blue of Kon’s suit- real, real, real, real and physical and here , not a ghost, you’re not crazy, he’s really here- and started leading the other teen out of the ballroom and towards one of the spare guest bedrooms and- if you knew the trick- one of the secret entrances into the batcave.
(On the way out, he thought he caught sight of Bruce peering curiously at him from across the way, but dismissed it: Bruce would understand how important this was.)
Tim stumbled halfway down the hallway, forced to lean against the wall to catch his balance.
“I’m fine,” he murmured instinctively, bangs hanging sweaty from where he was bent over and staring at the ground, trying to push down the nausea, to ignore the pounding in his head, “Just dizzy.”
Kon reached a hand out to help anyways, and Tim had have the mind to swipe it away, but the minute he took another step his legs start giving out again and he’s forced to aquience.
Besides, the temptation of being able to have a constant source of physical proof that the Kryptonian was well and truly there was too much to resist.
A hand slipped around his waist, and Tim pushed down the slight discomfort he felt because It’s Kon, it’s Kon, c’mon, you idiot, it’s been a while but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s Kon and you can trust him.
By the time they reached the end of the hallway, Tim could hardly keep himself upright, much less function and move forwards by his own violation. The nausea and dizziness were also much worse, and his head was positively killing him. The Kryptonian was taking almost all of his weight, and Tim would feel embarrassed if not for how awful he felt, or for the fact that he was so relieved that the other was even there at all.
Also, something was very obviously, terribly wrong.
Tim blinked, blinked, blinked sweat out of his eyes, trying to just think and categorize his symptoms and failing miserably because all his thoughts were slipping out of his grasp like water pooled in loosely cupped fingers, too fast to understand.
It was rather a surprise, then, when he opened his mouth and words actually slurred out of it.
“I think I’ve been drugged,” he said, and blinked blearily at the pale cream wooden door in front of them, because wait, that’s not right, why aren’t we going to the batcave, and then, also, oh, drugged, that actually sounds quite feasible.
There was no time to think. Tim blinked again and suddenly time was warping oddly all around him and he was in one of the spare bedrooms- head pounding, pounding, pounding- and Kon was locking the door behind them.
He was swaying, swaying, and the movement made his ribs hurt and there was sweat at the nape of his neck and for some reason Tim couldn’t quite place alarm bells were ringing in the back of his mind.
“‘Kon?”
His mental processors were malfunctioning, or something, because one moment the other teen was by the door and the next he was by his side, pressing him against the wall, supporting him, holding him up.
“Conner?”
Weak- weak. His voice sounded so weak and he hated it but at the same time things were become very blurry, now, and his control over his limbs seemed very fluid and difficult to manage because the other teen was very, very close and still holding him, still supporting him, and there was something he was supposed to be doing but he couldn’t quite remember over the pain of his headache and the way every single silent alarm system Tim had was shrieking silly.
He felt disconnected. He felt like he was running on two percent battery and quickly shutting down. He felt like a ghost, as if he was outside of his own body and something else was controlling his limbs.
Something’s not right about this.
Kon El was looming over him, pressing against him too close too tight against the wall, smelling like bad cologne and sweat.
Wait, wait, he thought, everything slipping out of alignment and going topsy turvy, that’s not what he’s supposed to smell like. He’s supposed to smell like strawberries and storm clouds, Kryptonians don’t even sweat, what- what-
“Kon,” and Tim didn’t like how slurred his words were coming out, not at all, “ Kon- back up- I- too close-”
But Conner wasn’t backing up. In fact, he was leaning closer, and there was something definitely not right about this, something very definitely wrong, and all around his head danger signals were exploding like fireworks.
Tim wasn’t one to ignore gut feelings.
Except- there was no coordination to his limbs, and when he pushed the other teen off him- shouldn’t be have been able to do that, he’s a Kryptonian, super strength, shouldn’t have been able to move him, shouldn’t have been able to budge him and i n c h- Conner was back in moments, slamming up against his chest- ribs, ribs, shit that hurt his freaking ribs ow, ow, ow- pressing against him even closer, pinning him to the wall.
And he didn’t want this, didn’t want this, this wasn’t how this was supposed to go, his head was spinning and pounding and he had asked for a miracle, one more miracle, please, please, not this, not this, not being pressed against a wall with no air left to breath and no control and no coordination, no mental room to compartmentalize and no physical room to lash out and all words of protests and sounds of discontent ignored like they were nothing, like he was nothing, like he wasn’t even there, like his opinion meant nothing more than that of a ghost’s.
Compartmentalize, he thought, but he wasn’t sure how. Was confused, because this was Kon, this was someone he trusted, but this wasn’t something Kon would do, so what? What? Was he being mind controlled? Was he trying to pass on some secret message? If so, why not use a previously established code? Why all this?
Slipping, slipping, all his thoughts were slipping and Tim had no idea what to do, and he was left thinking, wait- wait-
Time became captured and distorted, skipping forwards moments every time he closed his eyes, dragging out and moving too fast all at once, and Tim couldn’t even start to catch up.
Blink, blink-
He was being pressed against too close and his ribs burned with the pressure and his feet weren’t quite on the ground anymore and all he could smell was sweat and stale cologne and Kon doesn’t smell like that.
He should get out of this. Should lash out with a leg and twist the hands pinning his till the wrists dislocate, should unlock the door, duck around the corner, disappear and regroup with people who were currently not acting insane-
Blink, blink-
And suddenly the Kryptonian’s mouth was on his and all he could think about was the fact that all he could taste was sparkling grape juice and Kon El knew that Tim didn’t like that kind.
Move, he thought. But everything was sluggish and disconnected, and his scrambling limbs couoldn’t find purchase to lash out, not like this, not when it felt like they were moving through lead.
Blink, blink-
Warning bells in his head, all over, so loud, too loud, and Tim hadn’t even thought to listen to them, and now this- this- This Not-Conner who was Conner who’s not was kissing him and Tim sort of wanted to throw up, but couldn’t, not really, because even though it was so very clearly happening he couldn’t even focus enough to tune into his body and do anything.
Blink, blink-
Tim sort of wanted to close his eyes, wanted to block the whole wide world out. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t, all he could do was just sort of- be there. He felt so out of control. He felt so trapped. He felt like- He felt like-
He didn’t even know. He didn’t even know. Reality was slipping out and Tim was being left behind, thinking, Wait- wait- w a i t-
Blink, blink-
This was not Kon El. This couldn’t be Kon El. This was not-
Tim blinked, and for a moment the figure pressing against him warped into someone else entirely, older and fatter and uglier and Mr. Jones and Tim wanted to throw up all over again, wanted to hit something, wanted to wash his mouth out with bleach, because the smell, the smell, in his mouth, these greasy hands touching him-
But then he blinked again, and it was back to being Kon, and his slipping sliding thoughts tied themselves in knots and all Tim could do was scramble at the hands holding at his wrists, scramble for purchase, and he was pretty sure he could hear someone making muffled yells and he was pretty sure that it was him-
Blink, blink-
Someone was pounding down the hallway. Tim could hear it, despite the distorted way his eardrums were picking up noise, catching onto some things too loud and ignoring other things entirely. Like his heartbeat. It was so loud in his head and yet he could feel the vibrations of Not-Conner’s throat and there were no groans echoing in his ears, so- so-
( Not-Conner kept flickering in and out of focus, like a broken hologram, like a spectre in a looking glass, and one moment he was Kon El and the next he was Mr. Jones and all Tim could do was try to keep up and think, Wait- wait- wait-)
Blink, blink-
There was a leg being shoved between Tim’s own, and some part of him was thinking This is not happening, and everything else was a furious rant about how he just needed to get his limbs under control, just needed to compartmentalize, come one, come one, useless, you’re useless, come on , and then the door burst open and all the pressure on his chest just- disappeared.
Time was so topsy turvy, so far away, and one moment he was pinned and the next he was free and then the next Bruce was there, Bruce was there, kneeling in front of him from where Tim’s buckling legs had given out on him and slipped to the ground.
“ Are you okay?” he was saying, and it all sounded so far away, like it was coming from underwater, like it was coming from another life, “ Are you okay?”
And Tim nodded, nodded- shook his head. Nodded again. He thought he might be crying. He should probably be embarrassed. But all he could really do was shake and tremble and shake, all over, suddenly very, very cold, and he had no control of his limbs and no control of his voice and no control over anything at all.
“I thought- I thought- And- He- Kon- the smell- I-”
He sort of just- leaned. Forwards. Sort of just collapsed. But one moment his back was against a too cold wall and the next Bruce was gathering him in his strong arms and his own shaking limbs were trembling, trembling, grasping at the material of the older man’s suit jacket with a grip that had no strength.
Someone was murmuring something, tone attempting to be soothing, the vibrations filtering in and out, and all Tim could hear was ringing.
Kon was lying on the ground some feet away. Tim could see him from over Bruce’s shoulder, the way he was curled in on himself, the way there was a quickly growing bruise on his temple. Kryptonians don’t get bruises, not like that, but still all Tim could think was oh gods, oh gods, he’s dead, he’s dead, I just got him back and now Kon’s dead-
Tim had managed to kill a ghost, and it made him shake all over.
He didn’t want to face it, didn’t have any control, and somehow his face was buried in the space between Bruce’s shoulder and his neck and the elder was running a soothing hand up and down Tim’s trembling back, and those were definitely tears.
This was embarrassing. This was beyond embarrassing. Tim was an embarrassment. Stand up, you idiot. Report. Symptoms: tell him you that you have had a headache the past three hours and felt overheated, tell him that you’ve been feeling dizzy and disoriented, that you’ve been drugged, that-
Tell him that that man over there looked like the spitting image of your dead friend, the one you held in your arms, the one who used to smell like strawberries and storm clouds, who laughed and fought and lived with so much vigour it seemed like it would never end until one day his life was cut off far too soon.
Tell him. Tell him. You can kiss your booboos better in the shower later like a good boy, when no one can see you or hear you, when you don’t have anyone left to disgrace, c’mon Drake, c’mon, idiot, c’mon, tell him how useless you were-
Out of sight, out of mind, why are you always getting yourself in such trouble? Why can’t you just follow simple instructions?
Selective hearing. Bruce murmured, “I got you, I got you, you’re going to be okay, Tim, you’re going to be okay- ” and Tim thought, Wait- wait-
And then everything caught up with him, all at once, and Tim was passing out before he could even remember how to breathe.
Time warped, slipped out of his hands like he was trying to hold onto a dream even after he woke up, and later, later, and Tim was lying down on a cot in the medical ward in the batcave, filtering in and out of consciousness, ears catching words at random before spitting them all back out again.
“... mixed strain of Scarecrow’s fear gas and Ivy’s pollen… slow acting…”
“...sleep deprivation…”
“...keeps asking about Conner?”
“...influenced optical receptors…”
“...tests show signs of Rohypnol…”
“...busted his ribs again…”
“...should have kept a better eye, been faster…. “
“...knew something was wrong-”
In and out, in and out, the whole wide world was drifting in and out, and Tim just let it. He didn’t want to deal with reality anymore. At least, not for a while.
At some point, when he was caught between sleep and wakefulness, he caught sight of bright blue orbs and a shock of black hair, and he squinted his eyes open a little wider.
“...Kon?”
But no- no- the figure leaned in- worried and bright and living and alive and real- and it was just Dick, and Tim hated how disappointed that made him feel.
Tim was blinking ghosts out of his eyes like teardrops: they were everywhere he looked.
Something empty and painful curling up angrily in his chest, Tim let himself slip back into unconsciousness to the feeling of someone pressing a kiss to his forehead.
The kids at his old elementary school had lied. It didn’t make him feel any better.
Later, later, and Tim wondered if somehow that night he ceased to exist. It felt like he was wading through cotton balls, as if each step he took could leave no impact on the ground.
(It felt like he was a ghost. It felt like he wasn’t even there at all.)
Tim trained and hacked and talked and ate and chatted and fought and it just-
It felt like he was going through the motions. It felt like-
Like-
He didn’t even know. It didn’t really matter.
But later, later, it was five in the morning and Tim had not slept for three days, to the point that he was unraveling at the seams, just a bit, and there were no more cases to work on and no more justifiable reasons to avoid sleeping and dreaming and the nightmares and-
And Bruce walked in, tired and lumbering and slow, and Tim- stood up. Fumbled. Excuses spilling from his lips and falling flat.
Out of sight, out of mind, simple instructions and yet you somehow always, always mess it up-
(Bruce stared at him, and it made Tim feel tired. Made Tim feel small, nine years old and not quite sure how to hold someone’s hand other than his own.)
Silence. Long, aching, echoing silence. Tim didn’t know how to assuage the older man’s worries. Didn’t know how to assuage his own. Whenever people offered him drinks he found himself reaching for a drug testing kit, or pouring it down the drain.
He never knew how much coffee dregs on white porcelain could look like failure.
Tim didn’t know how to say He was my best friend and I trusted him and I know it wasn’t really him but it felt like it- it felt real- and-
Didn’t know how to say He was my best friend and I held his dead corpse and went through so much pain and then he was back and for once on my sorry life I thought everything was going to turn out alright.
Didn’t know how to say, He was my best friend, he died, and now I wish that he would have stayed dead and I would have never seen him alive again, because everytime I think of him I think of that and now I’m blinking ghosts out of my eyes every time I see a shock of black hair.
Didn’t know how to say, This is perfectly irrational- it wasn’t him, wasn’t Kon, was someone else entirely, Superboy never made it back- but it’s perfectly real in my head and sometimes I try to find the words and it still feels like I’m pinned to that wall , struggling to breathe, struggling to think, so out of control my body doesn’t feel like my own anymore and it’s terrifying, it’s terrifying, help, help, help, helphelphelp-
Tim didn’t know how to say it. So none of it came out.
And then, finally, after a silence that dragged on too long-
“Here,” and opened arms.
And Tim, haunted by the face of a young dead man brought back to life and feeling more and more like a spectre himself every passing day, kind of steps forward, kind of steps back.
For once, Bruce didn’t let him walk away, reached out and held him, held him, held him so close and so tight it was almost like he was trying to ground him in reality with solely the strength in his arms.
There was the ghost of lips on his hairline, and Tim held onto the back of Bruce’s shirt all the tighter and told himself firmly that the liquid leaking out of his eyes wasn’t shameful, even as he very carefully let himself remember how it felt to hold onto someone else’s hand for a while, to not just be independently pulling himself along.
They should probably talk. Tim should probably talk.
But they didn’t. Neither of them were very good at words. At emotions. At being scared.
They just held each other.
Sometimes, maybe, it was all you could really do.
Sometimes, maybe, it was enough.