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The lie is a good lie, right up until Kon comes back to life.
The lie is working, right up until Kon comes back to life.
Tim walks into the Kent farmhouse after getting back from his shift at the plant nursery and leans over to take off his dirt-covered work boots as he calls out, "I'm home!"
Kon says, "Yeah, that's going around."
Tim . . . blinks, very slowly. Looks up from his boots, one off and one on. Kon is sitting at the kitchen table, looking a little sheepish. He's wearing jeans and the same old S-shield T-shirt and a soft-looking blue and red flannel, and his hair's cut too short for his curls to show, but still a little windblown anyway.
Tim feels a cold thrill of terror go up his spine, because Kon is dead. Kon is dead, so this isn't Kon. This is—this is—
( how did he find out? how did he find out, how did he find THEM, how did he how did he how DID he, Tim was so CAREFUL! )
He thinks of the contingency plans. The knife. The ring. The—
Clark comes down the stairs. He's smiling, very softly.
Tim . . . pauses.
"Hey, man," this-isn't-Kon says, offering Tim an awkward little wave. Tim looks at him. Looks at Clark. "Um . . . I mean . . ."
"It's alright, Conner," Clark says reassuringly, laying a hand on this-isn't-Kon's shoulder and squeezing it. "You don't have to keep up the act. I told you, Tim told us. Which—well, I'm sure that's not how you would've wanted anyone to find out, but . . ."
Clark thinks this is Kon. Clark . . . would Clark really know for sure, though, if . . . ?
"I mean, I was dead," might-be-Kon says, half-shrugging awkwardly. "Not, uh, not really concerned about, you know, uh . . . that."
By "that", he of course means how Tim had told everyone that they'd slept together before he'd died. Told everyone that they'd been . . . that they'd . . .
Tim hadn't actually said they were together-together. Not technically. Not like that. But everyone had kind of just . . . assumed, for some reason, and Tim . . .
He just hadn't wanted anyone thinking that they'd just fucked around once or twice without any feelings involved and had just been being stupid or irresponsible about it or anything like that. Just not when . . .
It'd been a little bit because the Kents were all so soft and romantic and domestic and so was just about everything about Smallville, but mostly it'd ended up being because Kon had once very, very quietly told him how fucking crazy it'd made him sometimes, the way that people always acted like he was such a fucking creep or such a fucking slut just because he'd been too much of a flirt when they'd been younger—just because he hadn't known all that many ways to actually talk to people, just because he'd wanted some attention or affection, just because he'd been lonely and defensive and self-conscious and had just wanted to be wanted, and hadn't known how else to get that.
Kon had just wanted to be wanted. Had just wanted to be . . .
And also . . . also it'd made the lie more convincing, if they'd been together. It'd made the lie more convincing, and it'd made a lot of things that Tim has done since Kon went and died on them make sense.
A lot of things that Tim has done since thirteen days since Kon went and died on them, that is.
So when everyone had been making assumptions, Tim just . . . hadn't argued. He hadn't provided details, but no one had ever pressed him for any.
Of course they hadn't, with . . .
Of course they hadn't.
Tim had made himself a thing of grief because he'd already been most of the way there anyway, and no one had ever questioned his dramatic mood swings or his erratic behavior or his anger or . . . or any of it. He'd just made it all look like grief over all the dead people who'd kept happening to him; grief over his dad and the blood on the floor, over a girl he'd been friends with and together with and fallen out with, over one of his best friends who'd pulled away from the rest of them, over . . .
Over a boyfriend they all thought he'd had; a relationship that the two of them had thought they'd had to hide, that they hadn't quite known how to admit to the existence of, that they'd thought . . .
It isn't like Tim is . . . he's not cis, obviously, but he's not—it's not like—
Kate had talked to him about it once. The hiding, and all the different facets of it. How it felt, and how she'd understood. How he could talk to her, if he ever needed to.
How just because someone hadn't asked didn't mean there wasn't something there to tell, one way or the other.
Tim had hated that conversation, because he hadn't deserved a single damn word of what she'd said to him.
He hadn't deserved a single damn word of what anyone had said to him, after he'd told them all the lie. Even Cassie . . . even Cassie hadn't . . .
She'd just said she'd understood why they had—why Kon had—why he wouldn't have wanted to tell her. Why he'd have felt like he . . . couldn't.
Then she'd blinked a little bit too fast and smiled a little bit too bright and told Tim that if he ever, ever needed anything, she'd be there.
He hadn't wanted to hurt her. Not ever. Not any way, but especially not a way like that.
He hadn't wanted to hurt her, but he'd had to lie.
Tim . . . swallows.
If this is really Kon, he hurt her for nothing. If this is really Kon . . .
Kon will tell everyone the truth, and then the lie won't work anymore.
"What happened?" Tim asks, feeling distant and numb and still sick with terror. He needs the intel. He needs to know. If this is Kon or isn't Kon—
There's two worst-case scenarios here, and one of them is definitely happening no matter what.
So he needs to know if he needs—( the knife, the ring, the— )—one of the contingency plans that he's already made, or if he needs to come up with something else right now.
"Thirty-first century," Clark says. "Kryptonian healing pod. It's a little bit of a long story, to be honest, but Conner and Impulse are both back. I don't know if you want to get into all the details yet, Conner, or if you two would rather . . . well. Have a moment alone, or . . ."
Clark glances back towards the stairs, for obvious reasons. Tim . . . swallows. Can't even be happy to hear about Bart, assuming it's even actually Bart who's "back" at all.
After all, Kon's not the only one who's been . . . the only one with a . . .
"Um," Kon says a little bit hesitantly, flicking his eyes towards the stairs too. Tim keeps standing by the door wearing just one dirt-covered work boot and still holding the other and having the insane person's urge, which is the urge to just fucking gaslight his back-from-the-dead best friend into submission on this one; to just keep lying and lying and lying until even he thinks it's the truth.
He . . . he'd pretended it was, sometimes. He'd . . .
It'd helped, pretending that. Pretending that it'd been . . . that Kon had been . . .
He still pretends that, sometimes.
"Up to you, babe," Kon says, glancing back to him with a familiar look in the back of his eye, and Tim feels like an even more insane person as he realizes—Kon's following his lead on this. Assuming that there's a reason for this. Assuming that there's a plan and that the plan is gonna work, that the plan is the right thing to do, that the plan is necessary, that—
Kon's following his lead, even after all this time.
Even after he lied like this.
Tim wants to cry. He could, he guesses. Clark wouldn't think it was weird or suspicious, if he cried over his dead boyfriend coming back to life. Over his . . .
Tim swallows again.
"Have you met her yet?" he tries to get out in a normal tone of voice. It doesn't work very well, but that's still not cause for suspicion, he thinks. Not under the circumstances. Not under what Clark thinks the circumstances are.
"Uh, no," Kon says, shifting a little in his seat. "Ma and Pa both said you'd be back soon before they cleared out, and I thought I should . . . wait. For you. And she's asleep anyway, I guess, so . . ."
"Right," Tim says. They'd probably cleared out to give them room to have this . . . "reunion" in private, and Clark had just stayed to help explain things. They'd probably thought . . . "Yeah. It's—she always knocks out by three. But, uh, we could go . . . go look in on her. If you want."
"I want," Kon says quietly, digging his fingers in against his thighs and giving Tim an impressive imitation of a soft look. Like—very impressive, actually. If Tim didn't know better, he'd actually believe it was sincere, and not just Kon faking it until he can get the rundown on what the fuck is actually going on here.
Kon's not really that good an actor, Tim thinks, disconnected and clinical. Kon's not, but he was always—
This is Kon, Tim tells himself. Clark wouldn't have brought him here, if he weren't Kon. If he weren't sure he was Kon. Not to his own parents' house.
Clark's been wrong about someone being Kon before, though.
They all have.
Tim thinks of the contingency plans again. He thinks about how badly he's missed his best friend; how stupidly and desperately he's wanted him back.
He thinks about the last time he saw Kon's face on someone besides Clark, and how Kon hadn't been the one wearing it.
Clark steps back. Kon stands up. Tim thinks of the contingency plans, and of exactly what it'd feel like enacting those plans against someone wearing Kon's face.
And he wishes enacting those plans would be harder than he knows it would be, after what happened the last time he saw that face.
He wishes that so, so badly.
"I'll give you two some privacy," Clark says kindly, which presumably means he'll be on the opposite side of the planet with his fingers stuffed in his ears, but who knows. Tim keeps calm and steady and hopes the acceleration in his heartbeat sounds like anticipation or nerves and not sheer terror.
This is Kon, he tells himself. Clark wouldn't have brought him here if he weren't. Not if he weren't sure.
And if this isn't Kon . . .
If this isn't Kon, there's the contingency plans.
But even if this is Kon, that doesn't mean there's nothing to be terrified of.
“Thanks, man,” Kon says, then glances at Tim. “Um . . .”
“This way,” Tim says as he finally manages to finish taking off his boots and sets them by the door, like there's any possible way that Kon would need the direction. Even if Kon didn't have incredible alien super-senses and TTK, it's not that big a house and there's extremely limited options for where they'd be going right now.
Though they've both lived in it for about the same amount of time, now.
Just not at the same time, obviously.
Tim heads up the stairs. Kon follows. Tim hears the front door close as Clark leaves and then a rush of air outside. He thinks of the contingency plans, again. Calculates and categorizes them. If this isn't Kon, he has to take the nuclear option immediately. If this isn't Kon, he can't hesitate. Not for anything.
If this isn't Kon, he has to kill him.
She'd never be safe otherwise.
Ma and Pa had repurposed the attic for Tim to sleep in, which had been nice of them. Much nicer than they'd needed to be. And they'd repurposed Kon's old room—Clark's old room—for her. Made space for both of them in their lives, and not asked a thing in return for that space.
They're going to be upset, when Kon tells them the truth. Probably not angry, because neither of them is easy to genuinely anger without a direct threat to either someone's life or basic sapient rights being involved, but . . .
They're going to be upset, Tim's sure. And they'll feel taken advantage of.
And—and that'll be true. That they've been taken advantage of.
But Tim would've done worse, for her. Will do worse soon enough, he's sure. He's already lied to everyone he knows about her; about Kon. Lied about his dead best friend who died to save the entire world because . . . because . . .
Because it was easier for him, except in all the ways it was harder.
But mostly because it was safer for her.
Tim leads Kon to the other's old room and doesn't let himself cringe or stiffen in guilt as he quietly nudges the door open. It wouldn't mean anything even if he did. He'd lied. He'd chosen to lie.
He'd have kept lying, if Kon hadn't come back.
So no, his guilt doesn't mean a damn thing right now.
Tim walks into the room. Kon slips in after. That used to go the other way around.
The crib is right under the window, right where the sunlight hits first every morning. There's a little blue and yellow child-sized patchwork quilt folded over the railing by the foot of it and a mobile with plush stars and spaceships hung above the head. The sheets are sky blue; not red or black. She's lying on them fast asleep in the Wonder Woman onesie Cassie got her and the Flash socks that Tim had thought Bart would've, if he'd been alive to. She has a headful of curly black hair, and she's tiny and pale and chubby and her pale blue eyes are closed, her expression soft and settled.
She was born a month premature, so she's four months now. Old enough to hold her head steady and pick things up; old enough to understand a few words. To sit up and roll over.
And smile. And laugh.
And she can recognize people, and respond to affection.
“Her name's Kyra,” Tim says quietly, looking down into the crib at her. He keeps his voice low, but he knows she'll sleep through it. She sleeps like a rock every time she goes down. “Kyra Constance Drake-Kent.”
Kon steps up beside him. Looks down at her too.
“I named her after you,” Tim says, although it's so blindingly obvious that he did that that it's almost an insult to point it out. It's just something to say, though. Some way to fill the silence while Kon processes everything else; some pathetic attempt at . . . not a justification or even an apology or an excuse, because none of those things would mean anything when he'd do it all again in a heartbeat, but . . . but.
Just—“but”, Tim supposes.
“You were the only way I could explain her,” he says, stiff and abrupt. “I said—I told everyone that we'd slept together. They all just assumed I'd meant that we'd been together. And I thought . . . it doesn't matter. I just—you were the only way I could explain her.”
The only way he could stand to explain her.
“I had to explain her,” he says, and his voice doesn't want to come, but it doesn't have the right not to. He owes Kon this explanation. Owes Kon the truth.
Part of him still wants to keep lying, though.
Every part of him wants to keep lying.
“It's not her fault,” he says, and doesn't take his eyes off Kyra's sleeping face. “And I don't—if he'd ever found out about her, I thought . . .”
Tim feels Kon's eyes shift to him. He still doesn't take his own off Kyra.
“After you died,” he says very, very evenly, and means "thirteen days after you died". “I . . . ran into him, a couple weeks after. Alone. And then he—and I couldn't—and you were the only way I could explain her. If anyone ever . . . ever looked at her DNA, or—or if she got sick, or got . . . got powers, or . . .”
Tim doesn't think about the last time he saw Kon's face on someone besides Clark. Doesn't think about—
He doesn't think about it.
“You can—you can say whatever you need to say to—to everyone. Obviously,” he manages to stutter out, his chest clenching and gut twisting with nausea as he doesn't think about it. “I'll take the fall or the blame for whatever story you want to make up. I just—I just—just—j-just please, please don't—don't tell them that Kyra isn't . . . that she's f-from . . .”
“Tim,” Kon says very, very carefully.
Tim tells himself—he tells himself Kon lived through having both Paul Westfield and Lex Luthor as “fathers”; through not having Clark as one. He tells himself—he tells himself—
“I'm sorry,” he chokes like it means something; like he wouldn't do it all again if he thought it'd work. Like he's not a selfish, terrified asshole and a horrible person who lied about his dead best friend and let everyone else believe whatever they wanted to about it. “It was the only thing I could think to do, it was . . . I couldn't . . . c-couldn't tell anyone, because . . . because if I told anyone, that meant someday I'd have to tell her, or that he—he m-might find out about her, and . . . and you were—you were my best friend, and the only way I could explain her, and I told myself . . .”
Kon looks at him for a long, long moment. Tim tells himself—tells himself this is Kon, and he doesn't need the contingency plans. The knife. The ring. The . . .
He doesn't need any of that. Because this is Kon, who'd never hurt Kyra. Never hurt him.
Not Match, who already did.
“I told myself you would’ve said it was okay,” Tim rasps very, very quietly, staring down at Kyra's sleeping face. “I told myself you would've . . . would've let me lie about it.”
“I would have,” Kon says, his own voice just as quiet as he looks straight at him, eyes intently, inhumanly blue. “And I'm gonna.”
Tim bursts into tears like the selfish, terrified asshole he is, because he's selfish and terrified and an asshole. Kon just leans over the side of the crib and brushes the back of his knuckles against Kyra's soft little cheek with all the terrible gentleness of unfathomable superhuman might compressed down into touching some fragile, precious, impossibly delicate thing.
“Hey there, Kyra,” he murmurs with that same terrible, terrible gentleness. “Nice to meet you. I'm your pa.”
It takes a very long time for Tim to stop crying after that.