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Tim surveys the miniature armory, mouth curling in distaste. The tranquilizer guns are better when his aim is to hit a singular target; for situations involving multiple marks, it won’t fire rapidly enough to be useful. Pocket explosives, however, are always useful. He makes sure to grab a handful of those along with a few sonic batarangs and some exploding pellets containing liquid nitrogen. A little cold won’t hurt Tim, but it will certainly impede whoever he throws it at.
And then there’s the matter of his bo staff. His current one is plain and rather unremarkable, but his armory has one that’s outfitted with rechargeable batteries to reproduce an electric shock not unlike a taser. That is, if the taser in question was only dubiously street legal and possessed enough voltage to take down a horse. The downside of such a weapon is it’s heavy and slightly unwieldy. It’s good for shorter fights where Tim needs to quickly take down his opponents, but it would pose a disadvantage in anything more drawn out.
He runs one hand down the polished metal of the electrified bo staff, considering his options, when a familiar voice drags him out of his thoughts.
“I’m sure whatever you have will be fine.”
Tim turns around and finds Conner standing in the doorway to the armory. “Fine isn’t good enough. I can’t let them hurt you,” he replies, desperately gripping his bo staff as if that motion alone could make Conner understand the gravity of the situation.
However, as a half-Kryptonian, obeying gravity has never been Conner’s strong suit. Under most circumstances, he’s nearly untouchable, but now all of Tim’s instincts are screaming at him: danger, danger, danger. Conner’s blood is dripping into his gauntlets as Tim cradles his body, eyes locked onto the gaping wound in his chest, drawn to it as if it were a black hole. Later that night, he finally takes off his Robin gauntlets and scrubs at his hands until there’s no more blood caked under his fingernails, but Conner is still lying dead somewhere, and--
“Tim,” Conner says clearly, “Breathe. Slowly, now.”
Tim forces himself to draw in one breath, then another. It feels like there’s a vice squeezing his chest, like someone is driving a stake into his heart, but he breathes. Conner nods once and opens his arms. “Good. Come here, sweetheart.”
Ducking his head, Tim steps forward until he can press his forehead into Conner’s neck as his arms wrap around Conner’s waist. He inhales the familiar smell of Conner’s old superboy leather jacket to steady himself.
Before he steps away, Conner drops a kiss into his hair. “Better?”
Tim nods, even if it still feels like his heart is about to beat out of his chest. “Better.”
Even under the stark fluorescent lights, Conner is radiant. His earrings wink in the light as he tilts his head and smiles. “Well, then come on, boy wonder. Let’s go see when to expect our visitors.”
Tim nods and follows Conner into the heart of his safehouse. There’s not much to look at beyond white walls, sterile white floors, and an impressive dual-monitor computer at Tim’s desk. Even though he never uses this safehouse, there are still stacks of papers sitting on the desk that Conner has to move out of the way before he can sit down.
Absentmindedly typing in his password, Tim pulls up feeds from the security cameras surrounding his building. Conner leans over to peer at the screen as Tim frowns at the grainy video.
“We’ll have company in a minute,” he murmurs, warm breath puffing against Tim’s ear.
A bolt of fear lances through Tim’s chest. One minute, maybe two, to prepare. There’s not much to do except double check that all of his security systems are engaged. They are, so Tim nods and stands up, holding onto his bo staff for dear life. Under his gloves, his knuckles are surely white.
Part of Tim notes that his hands are shaking. His breathing isn’t quite even, either. Is he panicking? No. All that matters is that nobody gets to Conner. If they do, they’ll--
They’ll--
No. He can’t bear losing Conner again.
The worst year of his life is years behind him, now, but its ghosts still rattle around his skull. If he’s not careful, if he doesn’t do everything perfectly, then it could happen again. He could end up kneeling next to Conner’s corpse again, mourn him again--
Tim swallows bile, and straightens up just in time for a knock on the door. Conner locks eyes with him and nods. Returning the gesture with a tiny nod of his own, Tim faces the door with his bo staff in hand.
There’s another knock on the door, and then--
“Tim? Are you in there?”
Tim’s blood runs cold. This safehouse is Red Robin’s. If someone made the connection between Timothy Drake-Wayne and Red Robin-- fuck. They’re so fucked. Tim, his entire, family…. Headlines from Tim and Kon’s engagement announcement several months ago flash before his eyes. If someone connects Conner Kent to Red Robin, then it’s only a short leap to Superboy and the Kents. Dozens of heroes’ identities could be compromised, and it would all be Tim’s fault. It would be yet another mistake in the series of fuckups that happens to be his life.
Maybe Tim isn’t good at much, but he can at least try to protect Conner from the people after them. His heart couldn’t bear having to stand next to Conner’s lifeless body a second time.
The window squeaks open behind him and Tim whips around, staff already twirling in his hands. His would-be assailant must not have been expecting the blow because it sweeps him off his feet with a muffled curse. The next person through the window shouts something and throws herself at him, but Tim knocks her across the room.
Momentarily turning his back on the puddle of purple struggling to rise on the floor, Tim turns his attention to the hulking black figure who bursts in through the front door. He dodges a punch that cleverly hides a right hook, which forces Tim to duck. A handful of smoke pellets distracts his opponent long enough for Tim to pull his respirator on, slip away, and regroup.
At least, it should’ve let him regroup, but he runs into yet another person. This one’s shiny red helmet both seems to filter out the smoke and keeps him from landing any punches to the jaw for a one hit knockout, but that doesn’t stop Tim from feinting one towards the face as he swings his bo staff to knock painfully into the other person’s shin. They shout and Tim ducks under their next blow, spinning to the side.
On the side of the room, one of the figures from earlier is coughing while the other pulls on a respirator. Wait-- only Batman’s respirators can filter out the smoke. Either these people are more well-funded and experienced than their pulled punches indicate, or they’ve stolen Batman’s tech.
No. No way. Unless-- are they here to kidnap Tim and Kon? Do they plan on dragging Kon back to Lex Luthor?
“Shit,” Tim hisses, tossing a couple of freezing exploding pellets over at the two people off to the side before he darts into the next room. He needs to find Kon, needs to throw himself between him and whoever is here to kidnap them. Sending Kon back to Luthor would ensure a fate worse than death.
Tim’s heart pounds in his chest like a bird’s as he scans the starkly furnished living room. No sign of Kon. Where did he go?
He almost misses the large, surprisingly stealthy black-clothed man trying to sneak up on him, but Tim’s senses are sharp. After all, he was trained by the Batman himself. He parries the first blow, dodges the second and third, and is moving to sidestep the fourth when he notices something right behind him, and-- his reflexes must be off today, because then the man from earlier with the red helmet slams into him.
Tim has a split second to think, for fuck’s sake, before he’s falling. The man clearly intends to pin him down and Tim almosts manages to twist out of his grip before the black-clad man grabs Tim’s arms.
His back collides with the floor as one of his assailants holds down his arms and the other, his legs. The respirator falls out of his mouth and lands somewhere on the floor next to him. Snarling, Tim manages to kick at the helmeted man until he drops one of his ankles with a muffle curse. Tim twists his head to get a better view of his other opponent, and that’s when he sees it.
No. No.
The shiny silver pauldrons and gold piping on Superboy Prime’s uniform still haunt the more desperate corners of Tim’s nightmares. It gleams in the shitty fluorescent lights of Tim’s apartment as he looms over Conner. Eyes fixed on Superboy Prime, Conner scoots back until his back hits the wall. Abruptly, he tears his gaze away from Superboy Prime and manages to make eye contact with Tim.
“Tim,” he pleads softly, words echoing through the room. “I need your help, please, I--”
Tim’s heart seizes in his chest as his brain dissolves into sheer, blank terror.With a sound like an animal ripping its leg out of a clawed trap, Tim just barely manages to wrench his other leg free from the helmeted man’s grasp.
“Conner!” he screams as black speckles dance at the edges of his vision.
His bo staff is on the ground-- when did that happen?-- and Tim throws himself into a backwards somersault. Either the man holding his arms will let him go, or Tim will dislocate both of his shoulders trying to escape. Compared to losing Conner, the pain would be nothing.
Luckily, the man releases him-- maybe their orders are to bring Tim back unharmed? Regardless, Tim takes advantage of the moment to hurriedly roll to his feet and sprint into the next room.
He skids to a halt a few feet away from Superboy Prime, heart about to jump out of his chest. With his bo staff forgotten on the floor in the other room, Tim’s only weapons are his hands. He only hesitates for long enough to see the wide, terrified look in Conner’s eyes before Tim is hurling himself at Superboy Prime.
His fist is an inch away from Superboy Prime’s face before something tackles Tim from the side and he goes down, hard. He hits the floor with a grunt and twists, trying to dislodge his attacker, but to no avail. The man in a red helmet rejoins them, adding his weight to the pile, as does the man in black.
(“How long until the antidote gets here?” the man in black growls, but Tim ignores him.)
With all three of them pinning him down, Tim can’t do much more than writhe. Superboy Prime’s pauldrons glint menacingly, and Tim lets out a wordless scream. He manages to slip a batarang out of his sleeve and slices at the face of the nearest person, who happens to be the black-and-blue man. Ha, bet they weren’t expecting that. Face twisting into a frown, the man catches Tim’s wrist with both hands before trying to pry the batarang out of his hand. Tim holds on so tightly that it cuts into his gloves, but he pays it no mind.
The man twists his hands, forcing Tim to either drop the batarang or sprain his wrist. Snarling, Tim drops it and reaches down to his utility belt for another batarang, only to be stopped by a set of purple gloves. A fruitless struggle ensues for several seconds, or at least until out of the corner of his eye, Tim catches sight of Conner and the wound slowly dribbling blood from around where his heart is.
Or rather, was.
Tim inhales, and then screams like he’s the one who’s dying.
Multiple sets of hands try to disarm him, but they stopped mattering as soon as he saw Conner’s body. Tim thrashes as he tries to force his way over to Conner. He’s pretty sure that he’s still shouting Conner and Kon and no, no no. He’s pretty the others try to stop him from moving, but he’ll claw his way over if he has to. After all, it’s for Conner, and Tim would gladly swallow the sun if Conner asked him to.
The gaping black hole in Conner’s chest stares at him. It feels like it’s ripping Tim apart cell by cell, atom by atom. It feels like being eaten alive, like being consumed by the ever-present specter of his own guilt.
Nothing matters, really. Not the people trying to hold him down, not the way his throat grows hoarse from shouting. Nothing matters except for the precious few feet separating him from Conner.
And then--
And then.
A strong burst of wind hits Tim in the face, forcing him to close his eyes on reflex. He blinks and opens his mouth to start screaming again, but then Conner is right in front of him, only inches from his face. His curls are disheveled, like he raced over without fixing his hair, but he’s warm and familiar and here and alive.
“Hey, sunshine,” Conner murmurs, reaching down with one hand to touch Tim’s cheek. Something flashes in his other hand, but Tim is too busy staring at Conner’s face to track the movement. Sure enough, Conner’s other hand slides over so he’s cupping Tim’s face with both hands.
“Kon,” Tim tries to say, but only a faint whisper comes out.
Conner smiles, but it’s tired and his eyes are strained. What happened? Is he okay? “I’m here, Red. I’ve got you.”
His eyes flicker over to one of the people holding Tim down. Tim tries to track Kon’s gaze, but then Kon runs his thumbs over Tim’s cheekbones and oh, that’s a much nicer sensation. Come to think of it, it kind of feels like Tim’s skin is crawling and his heart is about to burst out of his chest, but Conner’s hands on his face give him something to focus on.
Something pinches his thigh and Tim whines. “Kon,” he manages to rasp. “Conner.”
Conner tucks a loose strand of Tim’s hair behind his ear. “I know, sweetheart. I know. I’ll stay with you, okay? Promise.”
Tim groans in response but finds his eyelids growing heavier and heavier. The last thing he sees is Conner’s blue eyes watching him, and then nothing at all.
Tim is warm. It feels like his head is stuffed with cotton and he’s lying on a cloud, but it’s very nice. Nice and safe and--
Safe. Conner. Their assailants. Superboy Prime.
Tim’s eyes fly open and he tries to sit up, only to encounter two obstacles: first, a gentle hand on his chest pressing him back into bed and second, his muscles are fucking sore. It feels like he was run over by the Batmobile.
“Hey,” Conner says from his chair next to Tim’s cot. “I know Bats are allergic to rest, but Bruce might take my head off if he finds out that I let you do anything except lie there.”
Tim gives up and leans back into bed with a sigh, but that slight exhalation ignites dull red-hot pokers up and down his throat. Fucking ow. Something must show in his face or his heartbeat because Conner is frowning.
“You were screaming a lot. We put you on pain medication for your throat.” Oh. That would explain why his head feels so floaty. “Does it still hurt?” He reaches forward to brush his fingertips over Tim’s cheek.
Tim doesn’t have the heart to lie when Conner is giving him such a concerned look. Given the pain in his throat, speaking seems like a bad idea, so he simply nods. Conner drops a kiss on Tim’s hand before leaning over to fiddle with something in his IV. Even that small separation creates a pang of phantom pain in Tim’s chest so he distracts himself by looking around the medbay. Happily, or perhaps unhappily, the medbay is deserted. Going by the silence surrounding them, so is the Cave.
Next to him, Conner finishes whatever he was doing with the IV bag before glancing at Tim and hesitating. As best as he can manage, Tim scoots to the side in his cot and pats the empty space he just deserted. Conner gives him such a sad look as he climbs in-- what the fuck happened to make him look like that?-- before curling up against Tim’s side.
“Scarecrow came up with a new strain of fear gas,” Conner says at last, after throwing an arm over his waist and Tim started idly stroking his hair.
Antidote? Tim mouths.
Conner glances up before shaking his head. “The old antidote didn’t work, so the Bats had to come up with a new one. The thing is, Crane managed to hit you with the fear gas when you were split off from the group, so....” He trails off, fingers lightly digging into the fabric of Tim’s uniform, before continuing, “They had to track you down. You ran into one of your safehouses and we think you were hallucinating pretty badly. About me.”
There’s a familiar guilty look in Conner’s eyes, like he’d like to assume responsibility for Tim’s fear gas-induced hallucinations resembling him. Tim leans down and kisses Conner’s forehead. The gesture causes Conner to look up and he watches Tim’s expression for a moment before nodding, glancing down again. “I know, I know, you don’t want me to blame myself. It’s just… hard.”
Tim taps the side of Conner’s face to get his attention. This time, when Conner looks up, Tim nudges him into a gentle kiss. Conner meets him halfway, tangling one hand in Tim’s hair and clutching his waist with the other like he’s afraid Tim will slip through his fingers if he lets go. The feeling is mutual, and they don’t let go of each other after they pull apart, not really. Even though Tim’s entire body feels like pure, organic, all-natural shit, he still tangles his legs with Conner’s and pulls him closer so he can tuck Conner’s head under his chin. It’s a little awkward with the IV, but they make it work. With a quiet sigh, Conner presses his head against Tim’s chest and closes his eyes.
He’s probably listening to Tim’s heartbeat. The thought is oddly soothing; even if Conner can hear his heartbeat from hundreds of miles away, he’d still rather listen to it from right next to Tim.
“Sorry,” Tim rasps quietly.
Conner’s eyes snap open. “You’re sorry? Tim, sunshine, light of my life, you have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing at all. Do you understand?”
Biting his lip, Tim glances away to avoid Conner’s gaze. However, Conner Kent is not a person easily avoided. He sits up and twines his free hand with Tim’s before leaning in, lightly pressing their foreheads together.
“None of that was your fault. You were under the influence of fear gas, you probably saw some-- terrible things,” Conner’s voice catches in his throat before he continues, “And nothing that happened was your fault. You were scared out of your mind, sweetheart. I could hear your heart racing when I was flying in from the asteroid belt.”
Tim shuts his eyes and breathes in, breathes out, before sliding his free hand over to cup the back of Conner’s neck. They stay like that for a few long minutes, soaking in each other’s presence and breathing in each other’s air.
At last, Conner speaks again. “By the way, you’ve gotten some pretty nasty bruises, so you’re benched for the next few days. Alfred’s orders.”
The face Tim makes lets Conner know exactly what he thinks of that idea, but Conner just laughs.
“What, you don’t like the idea of spending a few days cuddling with me?” He flops back down onto the bed and holds one arm out in invitation. Tim regards him with narrowed eyes before he finally gives in, squirming closer so their bodies are pressed together from head to toe. Despite his injuries, Tim is delightfully comfortable, especially with Conner’s arm around his waist.
After a moment, Tim lifts his head up from where it was tucked under Conner’s chin. It hurts to speak but some things need to be said. “Love you,” he whispers.
Conner’s eyes soften. “I love you too,” he replies in an equally hushed tone, and leans forward to kiss Tim again.