Work Text:
It’s supposed to be a clean op.
Quick recon, neutralize the targets, disarm the prototype Ivy-tech gas, and get out before anyone ends up tangled in sentient vines or kissed into a coma.
Easy peasy.
Except the moment Tim cuts the green wire, everything goes to hell.
A hiss fills the room, sharp and collective like a nest of snakes coiling in unison. A violent burst of gas detonates outward in shimmering shades of gold and pink. It rolls through the air in a thick cloud, glittering like pollen under a microscope. The sweetness hits him first, suffocating and cloying, coating his tongue and settling in his throat.
His mask seals half a second too late.
“Damn it.”
The curse breaks into a cough, itchy and tearing in his throat. A wave of dizziness washes over him and the world blurs at the edges, shapes bending as if someone has twisted the room into a kaleidoscope. Each breath scrapes through his chest, hot and heavy, like inhaling steam instead of oxygen.
He registers the symptoms instantly, cataloging them by instinct, but the sensations hit faster than he can label them. His pulse spikes. His nerves flare. There is a buzzing beneath his skin that feels nothing like adrenaline and far too much like trouble.
“Rob?” Kon’s voice slips through the comms, sharp with alarm. “What was that sound? What happened?”
Tim staggers until his back finds the wall. His gloves drag across the surface, anchoring him. His legs feel unsteady, unreliable, like they belong to someone else. He draws a breath and forces words out through the tightness in his throat.
“Canister… triggered,” he manages. The sentence fractures into a ragged inhale. “I’m fine. I just…”
He isn’t. Not even close.
The room pulses gently like it’s breathing with him. His heartbeat slams against his ribs in a frantic rhythm and there is heat building low in his stomach, blooming outward in slow, relentless waves. It curls through his muscles, up his spine, catching fire in every nerve. A hunger rises with it, sharp and instinctive, impossible to reason away.
His suit feels too tight against his skin, the pressure unbearable, every seam a point of friction. His hands can’t seem to stay still, fingers twitching against the wall as if reaching for something he refuses to acknowledge.
“Shit,” he mutters, teeth clenched. “Shit, come on, focus.”
But he can’t focus. His mind keeps slipping toward the same place.
Kon.
Kon’s laugh. Kon’s hand on his shoulder after a mission. Kon’s dumb half-grin that always appears right before he says something reckless. Kon looking at him like Tim is the anchor in the room, like he matters. The low warmth in Kon’s voice when he says Tim’s name. The way it feels to stand close to him, too close, close enough that Tim can feel the heat radiating off him even through armor.
The way it’d feel if Kon’s hands pushed him back and touched him where he’s only ever imagined–
“Fuck.”
“Robin?” Kon’s voice cracks through the comms again, closer, more urgent. “Talk to me. What’s going on? You—your heart’s going crazy.”
Panic climbs up Tim’s throat, tightening everything it touches. His breaths stutter in and out, shallow and uneven. He presses a hand to his chest, but it barely registers through the heat flooding him.
"Get me out of here." he manages. The words scrape out, thin and unsteady. He keeps his eyes fixed on the floor because looking up feels dangerous, like he might give something away. His thoughts are thick and sluggish, dragged down by the burn building inside him. "Please. I… I can’t…"
Kon’s response dissolves into static and a harsh curse. Then the world shifts.
Hands slide around him, warm and impossibly steady, lifting him with a gentleness that doesn’t match the urgency in Kon’s voice. Tim’s feet leave the ground and his stomach drops, but the heat in his body spikes even harder.
It’s too much. Too much touch, too much warmth, too much of everything.
His breath hitches sharply, every place Kon touches lighting up like a fuse. Kon’s arm slips under Tim’s knees and the pressure of Kon’s chest against his side sends a surge of heat through him that curls low in his stomach. Even the air around Kon smells like sunlight and open sky, threaded with that faint ozone charge he always carries.
Tim’s fingers curl into Kon’s suit before he can stop himself, gripping tight, clinging. He needs the anchor. He needs it too much. The urge to bury his face against Kon’s neck hums through him, hot and dizzying.
He wants to move. He wants contact. He wants things he has never let himself think about, not like this, not with his body begging for it in every breath.
He wants too much.
Kon’s voice drops, low and worried, close enough that his breath skims Tim’s skin. "You’re burning up." He adjusts his grip so carefully it hurts.
Tim shakes his head quickly, forcing the motion even though it makes the heat flare higher. “Don’t,” he gasps. The word comes out raw, a warning and a plea tangled together. “Just… fly. Now.”
Kon doesn’t question it. He never does.
Air rushes past them as they break through the shattered skylight. The cold wind lashes at Tim’s skin, but it does nothing to cool the fire inside him. If anything, the contrast makes the heat feel sharper, deeper. His hips shift without his permission, chasing pressure, chasing anything that might ground him for a second. It makes him want to crawl out of his own skin.
Every shift of Kon’s arms, every brush of their hands, every tiny jolt of contact pushes another breath out of Tim in a shaky gasp. His body is betraying him in ways he can’t hide, can’t fight, can’t control.
"Almost there." Kon says, voice steady and focused, like he has no idea what Tim is struggling against. Like this is just another extraction.
Tim can’t bring himself to answer. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to blot out the sensation, trying to keep himself from reacting. His hands fist tighter into Kon’s suit, knuckles straining through the gloves.
Nothing helps.
The fire keeps spreading. His thoughts keep slipping. His body keeps pulling toward Kon like gravity has recalibrated around him.
He can feel himself losing control.
And he’s terrified of what happens if he doesn’t stop himself in time.
_________________
They land in the Cave in a rush of cold air and the sharp whine of the platform sensors kicking on. The sound cuts through Tim’s skull like a blade, too loud, too bright, like everything else around him.
Kon touches down lightly, his grip still careful, as if he’s afraid Tim might crack apart if he jostles him even a little. It’s not far from the truth.
Tim’s boots hit the floor and he practically falls out of Kon’s arms. The loss of contact sears through him, unbearable, and he stumbles forward on unsteady legs, ripping his gloves off. They hit the floor with a sharp slap, and he barely registers the sound. His breathing jerks, uneven, and he tears at the collar of his suit with frantic, clumsy hands.
Every seam feels like it’s cutting into him. Every thread itches like a live wire. His own skin feels too small, his body too hot, too tight, like something inside him is expanding with nowhere to go. Sweat trickles down the back of his neck, his face flushed to a furious red. His chest rises and falls in quick, shallow bursts.
“Tim.” Kon’s voice cuts through the ringing in his ears, steady but thick with worry. He keeps his hands raised slightly, as if he’s trying to help but is afraid touching Tim again could make everything worse. “Tim, talk to me. What was that gas? What did it do? Do I need to get Alfred? Are you going to die?”
Tim forces air into his lungs, forces the words out even though his throat feels scraped raw. “I’m fine. It was a pheromone compound. Ivy’s new experiment. Supposed to… throw people off. Distract them.”
He doesn’t need to spell out the rest.
Kon’s face tightens. Confusion flickers first, then realization spreads slowly across his expression, sinking in deep. His eyes widen with something like dawning horror. “And it hit you.”
Tim manages a stiff nod. His shoulders curl inward like he’s trying to fold himself smaller, hiding everything slipping loose inside him. “Got a full dose.”
Suffocating silence drops between them. He turns away abruptly, dragging both hands through his hair. His scalp prickles under his fingertips. Shame claws at him, hot and choking.
“You should go,” he mutters, voice thick with heat he can’t get rid of. “Before I—before I do something I can’t take back.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Kon’s answer comes without hesitation, solid and steady. “You’re not thinking straight. I’m not leaving you like this.”
Tim spins around, hands curled into tight fists, the desperation clawing its way out of him. “That’s exactly why you should go! I can’t think straight and you’re standing right there and I can’t–” His voice collapses mid-sentence, cracking apart. The sound that escapes him is raw and jagged, a sharp mix of frustration and something dangerously close to a sob.
Kon doesn’t step back. He doesn’t look scared. He takes one quiet, deliberate step forward.
“I’m not going to let you do anything you’ll hate yourself for.” he says, voice warm and steady, as gentle as a hand on a bruise. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
Tim freezes. His breath hitches sharply.
Kon’s eyes meet his, wide open and unguarded. There’s no fear, no judgment. Just concern and something softer threaded through his expression, something that feels like a hand reaching toward him even without touching.
He’s too good.
Too damn steady. Too patient. Too safe.
Too perfect.
And maybe that’s why Tim moves. Because he knows he shouldn’t. Because everything in him is screaming to stop, but he can’t. Not when Kon’s looking at him like that, not when his body feels like it’s going to burn itself alive if he doesn’t do something.
For once, he doesn’t think. Doesn’t plan.
He surges forward, grabbing fistfuls of Kon’s suit with shaking hands, and yanks him down, crashing their mouths together in a kiss that’s all heat and panic and desperation twisted into one reckless, fever-hot moment.
It’s violent. It’s starved.
Kon makes a startled sound, half-sharp, half-confused. One hand twitches like he means to catch himself, but he doesn’t push Tim away. His palm settles on Tim’s jaw, warm and steady, grounding him in a way that only makes everything worse. His other hand finds Tim’s waist, keeping him upright, keeping him close.
And Tim kisses him like he needs it to breathe. Like if he stops, he’ll come apart at the seams.
Then something inside him lurches.
He stops, freezes like someone has doused him in ice.
He pulls back a few inches, gasping, eyes wide with horror. His lips are red and slick and trembling. His hands are still knotted in Kon’s shirt, but they’ve gone slack.
“Oh my god,” he whispers. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t mean—”
“Tim–”
“Don’t,” he breathes, and it’s not anger. It’s fear. Pure, clawing, desperate fear. “Just—don’t.”
And then he runs, bolts like something’s chasing him. Like if he doesn’t get away, he’s going to shatter into pieces on the cave floor.
Kon doesn’t follow.
Tim’s footsteps echo through the cavernous silence, each one louder than the last. He doesn’t stop until he hits the door to his room. He slams it shut, flips the lock, and slides to the ground like he’s been shot. His back hits the door with a dull thud. His legs curl to his chest. He folds inward until he’s nothing but ragged breaths and trembling limbs, the world reduced to the pulse in his ears and the fire in his chest.
The shame crashes over him all at once.
It’s suffocating.
His lips still tingle. His chest still burns. His fingers still remember the shape of Kon’s shirt.
He doesn’t know if it was the pollen or something deeper. Something real. Something he’s been hiding from even himself.
But he kissed Kon.
And Kon kissed him back.
And that terrifies him more than anything.
So he stays on the floor, breath hitching in his throat, and buries his face in his knees. He pretends the walls aren’t closing in. Pretends the silence isn’t deafening. Pretends he isn’t still shaking from the feeling of Kon’s hands on his skin.
Pretends he doesn’t want it to happen again.
_________________
The drug wears off slowly.
Not like a switch being flipped, no sudden clarity or gasp of lucidity. It’s more like fog burning away under a reluctant morning sun, inch by agonizing inch, leaving him raw and trembling in its wake.
By the time it finally fades, he’s shaking, breathless, and painfully aware of what he’d let himself imagine. The way Kon’s hands might feel against him, the warmth of his chest pressed close, the low, rich cadence of his voice echoing in Tim’s mind in ways that made his stomach knot and pulse race. His body remembers too vividly, the phantom touches he can’t unthink, how easily his mind had slid from panic to something far more dangerous.
He clamps it down, tries to push it away, but the memory won’t let him. It hits him like a sucker punch to the chest.
Not just the memory of what happened, not just the kiss, but how much he meant it. Every word. Every fever-warm touch. Every thought he shouldn’t have indulged in as the fog burned away and left him feeling scorched and exposed.
And that’s the problem.
The next morning, he doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t explain the tremor in his hands or the way his pulse races when Kon’s eyes nearly meet his across the Cave. Doesn’t explain the ache that lingers long after the fog has lifted. Some things are better left unspoken.
He mutters a hollow excuse to Bruce, something about needing air or space, and then vanishes.
After that, he avoids everyone.
No patrols with Bruce. No League calls. No late-night visits to the kitchen where he and Kon used to argue about cereal brands and galactic policies until they were too tired to fight.
He ignores Kon’s texts. Leaves his messages on read. Lets silence do the talking. Every unanswered ping feels like a shield, every delay a barrier between him and the craving he refuses to name.
It’s not subtle.
And Kon’s not an idiot.
So when Tim finally drags himself back to the Cave, Kon’s already there. Waiting.
“Seriously?” His voice cuts through the quiet like a crack in glass. He’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed, jaw tight. “You’re ghosting me now?”
Tim stops mid-step. Freezes like a guilty teenager caught sneaking in past curfew.
“I’m not–” he starts, but the words ring false even to him.
“Don’t.” Kon’s already moving. His boots echo on the metal floor, slow and deliberate. “Don’t give me some half-assed excuse. I know you, Tim. You’ve been avoiding me for days. What the hell is going on?”
Tim says nothing. Just watches the floor like maybe if he stares hard enough, it’ll open and swallow him whole.
Kon’s voice sharpens, brittle and low. “Is this about the kiss?”
That makes Tim flinch.
Like a reflex. Like it hurts.
“It was the drug,” he mutters, voice clipped. “It wasn’t real.”
“Bullshit.”
Tim’s head jerks up. His eyes meet Kon’s and for a moment, they’re both breathing too loud.
“You can lie to yourself,” Kon says, taking another step closer, his voice edged with something raw. “But don’t lie to me.”
“I wasn’t thinking straight,” Tim says, quieter now. “I wasn’t myself.”
“You were thinking something,” Kon shoots back. “You think I don’t remember the way you looked at me? The way you touched me like—like you were afraid I’d disappear if you didn’t hold on tight enough? You think that was just the pollen?”
Tim’s voice goes flat. “It doesn’t matter. I crossed a line. It won’t happen again.”
Kon stares at him for a beat. Then steps in closer, too close. Close enough for Tim to feel the heat radiating off him, steady and solid and impossible to ignore.
“You think that drug made you want me?” Kon asks, voice soft but dangerous. “You really believe that?”
Tim doesn’t answer. He can’t. His throat feels like it’s closing up, his chest tightening with something more than guilt. Every nerve in his body is screaming, remembering the night the pollen had taken hold. The way he’d imagined Kon, the heat of him pressed against every desperate thought, every impossible touch conjured in his mind.
“Then why,” Kon says, quieter now, “are you still looking at me like that?”
Tim doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.
He stares like Kon has reached straight into his chest and pressed a thumb to something bruised and breaking.
“Stop,” he whispers.
Kon’s gaze doesn’t waver. “No.”
Tim backs up, shaky and off-balance, but Kon follows, slow and steady. Like he’s not afraid of the mess, like he’s willing to walk straight through it.
“You still want me,” he says. “Drug or not.”
“That’s not the point,” Tim snaps, turning on his heel and pacing like a caged animal. “I can’t want you. You don’t–” He stops himself short, jaw clenched, the words choking on the edge of his tongue.
“I don’t what?” Kon asks, stepping into his path. “Feel the same?”
Tim finally looks at him.
Really looks at him.
And this time it’s not anger behind his eyes, it’s fear. Raw and aching. The kind that carves deep and never quite heals.
“Don’t do this,” Tim says, barely more than a breath. “Don’t stand there and make it harder. I’m trying to do the right thing.”
Kon’s voice softens, almost tender. “And what if I don’t care about the right thing? What if I care about you?”
Tim flinches like he’s been struck. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I do,” Kon says, stepping closer again, slow and careful. “I know exactly what I’m saying. I’m not going to let you shove this into a corner and pretend it never happened just because you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared.” Tim lies.
Kon smiles, soft and heartbreakingly gentle. “Yeah, you are. So am I. But I’m still here.”
Tim’s eyes flutter shut.
Because yes, he is scared. Terrified, really. Of messing this up. Of ruining the only steady, stupidly good thing in his life. Of letting Kon in and not knowing how to be soft with him, how to keep him. He’s scared of being wanted. Of wanting back. Of opening the door and letting someone see what’s really inside.
But Kon is still here. Still reaching for him. Still waiting.
And Tim is so, so tired of pretending.
“…I like you.” he murmurs, barely audible. The confession unravels him, loosening every thread he’s been gripping tight. “Not just because of the mission. Or the drug. I liked you before.”
Tim’s heart pounds in his chest. The confession feels almost too big to contain, but Kon’s smile, gentle and warm, lets him breathe, lets him feel safe with those words.
“I like you too.” he says, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “I think I always have. Since the beginning.”
Tim’s chest tightens, the vulnerability in Kon’s voice mirroring the uncertainty Tim’s been hiding for so long. He feels a sudden rush of warmth, a sense of relief and understanding. Because this isn’t just about the mission, or the pollen, or any of the things they’ve been tangled in. This is about them. About every missed glance, every lingering touch, every quiet moment that meant too much.
Tim can’t hold it in anymore. Not when Kon’s standing here, so close, with that gentle smile and those kind eyes. Not when his heart feels so full of everything that’s been left unsaid for far too long.
He reaches up before he can stop himself, fingers curling against Kon’s jaw, grounding himself in the warmth there. He leans in and kisses him.
It’s not slow, it’s not messy. It’s soft, slow, a confession in itself. Kon kisses back just as gently, arms slipping around Tim’s waist, pulling him close like he’s afraid of letting go. Like this, they, are worth holding onto.
When they part, Tim’s breath is ragged. His mind is still racing, but there’s something different now, something that wasn’t there before. Something steady.
Kon presses his forehead against Tim’s, his eyes closed, breathing in the same unsteady rhythm. “I’m not going anywhere, Tim,” he murmurs, his voice rough but certain. “I’m not running from this. I don’t care what happens. I care about you.”
Tim’s chest tightens again, but this time it’s different. It’s not fear, not anymore. It’s something that makes him feel open, exposed, but in a way that feels like freedom. He’s been running from this, running from letting anyone get close enough to break through. But Kon’s not running. He’s staying, and that’s enough.