Chapter Text
Kon POV
To Kon, most heartbeats sounded the same. In the constant cacophony that hounded him—noise layered over noise—he’d learned to filter out everything that didn’t matter. Even in the middle of a fight, he could zero in on the Titans, the Kents, Cassandra.
Instinctively, though, it was Tim’s heart he listened for first.
Maybe it was because Tim was human in a world full of metas. Maybe it was because Tim Drake had the self-preservation instincts of a quokka. Either way, Kon had long since gotten used to keeping half his attention tuned to his best friend’s pulse.
Which was why, stuck in a Watchtower debrief and surrounded by Supers and Bats alike, his focus kept drifting back to the uneven cadence in Tim’s chest.
From the corner of his eye, Tim looked fine. Relaxed, even. Red Robin’s uniform was immaculate, the mask hiding the familiar blue eyes and the shadows beneath them. He leaned against a console, listening—really listening—as strategies and contingencies were thrown around the room. Kon knew he should be paying attention too. If a situation required both Supers and Bats, it was guaranteed to be a nightmare.
Still, the rapid flutter of Tim’s heartbeat scraped at his nerves.
They were safe. The Watchtower wasn’t exactly known for surprise ambushes, and this wasn’t Tim’s first briefing before a major conflict. After so many years, “end of the world” sounded less like a warning and more like a recurring season.
And yet.
Kon caught the faint whisper of fabric as Tim clenched and unclenched his fist. The measured inhales he took before asking a pointed question. The way he leaned forward to type something into the console, then paused—just long enough for his heart to stutter—before straightening again.
Something was wrong.
And if Kon had to hazard a guess, he knew exactly where the problem was sitting.
On Batman’s other side perched the prickliest of Robins, spine straight in an obnoxiously perfect posture. Damian Wayne twirled a knife between his fingers, flicking it in and out of the hidden sheath in his sleeve with the idle precision of a magician killing time. The motion was lazy, almost bored—and yet not a single person in the room doubted how fast that blade could find a target.
Kon liked the kid. He really did.
What had once been a sharp-tongued brat with a fuse shorter than his patience had grown into a reliable, even-tempered hero. Ironically, the calm had made him more intimidating. Damian no longer needed violence to announce himself; he carried himself like a predator instead—quiet, measured, perpetually stalking. People had been more afraid of him now than they ever were when he was openly volatile.
It didn’t help that adulthood had only sharpened the effect.
His uniform had changed over the years: sleeveless tunic layered over armor, leaving his arms bare. Rippling muscle was on full display, emphasized further by the compression sleeves hugging his forearms—almost certainly hiding more knives. He’d grown taller, leaner, yet moved with impossible grace. Like Orphan, Damian could shift his considerable frame without making a sound.
Kon hated to admit it, but Damian was beautiful.
His hair was still kept tidy and short, though soft black curls framed high cheekbones and bronzed skin. Sharp, lidded green eyes looked perpetually down his nose at the world, heavy with condescension. A face carved to sneer.
And yet—by no means was Damian a bad person.
He’d proven himself a hero more times than Kon could count, loyal to a fault and unwavering once he chose a side. He was also a punk: rebellious, confident, utterly unafraid to make waves.
Loyal and rebellious?
That was practically Kon’s motto.
Still, the childish part of him hadn’t quite let go of the grudge. Years ago, Tim would come to him fuming, heart racing with a mix of fear and anger over whatever Damian had done that week. Bruises and cuts that hadn’t come from patrols, but from simply existing too close to Bruce Wayne’s biological son.
Over time, the war between Robins cooled. Open hostility gave way to a brittle ceasefire—a cold war of barbed words and clipped cooperation. Even now, Tim’s heart still occasionally spiked when the two bickered.
A few years back, he’d tried to probe—subtly, carefully, pretending he didn’t notice half the things he absolutely did.
“Do you need me to come with?” Kon had asked casually, watching Tim work a swinging sandbag.
“I thought you had a lead to follow,” Tim grunted, switching from punches to kicks.
“I do,” Kon shrugged. “But if you need backup, that takes priority.”
“Robin will be assisting,” Tim supplied.
“Yeah, but—” Kon hesitated. “That’s not exactly giving have-your-back energy, is it?”
Tim had caught the bag, stopping its swing, and stared at him in confusion. “I mean… it is? Robin and I are handling it together. If something happens, he’ll be there.”
Kon had waved it off. Protective instincts, that was all. He didn’t want to admit that his best friend—someone who had once been far more than that—relied on someone else now.
Someone they were both supposed to hate.
Tim for valid reasons.
Kon… for solidarity, he guessed.
The memory faded as Batman’s voice cut through the Watchtower hum, pulling Kon back into the present.
“We have a lead,” Bruce said, already scrolling through data. “Tim. Damian. You’ll follow up together.”
Tim’s heart jumped—sharp, sudden—but not in the way Kon expected. Not fear. Not irritation.
Damian stilled.
He stopped twirling the knife and finally looked over.
No mask. No armor hiding his expression. Just those sharp green eyes locking onto Tim with a long, assessing stare that lingered a beat too long.
Tim didn’t move.
But his heartbeat—
It skyrocketed.
Kon nearly missed the next sentence as the sound roared in his ears, faster than he’d thought humanly possible. Heat, panic, adrenaline—everything spiked at once, so intense it made Kon glance over sharply.
Damian’s lips curved, just slightly.
He noticed everything about Drake—every micro-hesitation, every carefully concealed tell.
Tim recovered quickly, spine straightening as he addressed Batman, voice steady and precise. Efficient. Professional. The mask snapped back into place so seamlessly that anyone else might have believed the moment had never happened.
When Tim tossed Damian the case file, he caught it without looking, eyes never leaving him. The faint hitch in Tim’s breath did not go unnoticed either.
Then Tim was gone—already moving, already steps ahead.
Damian lingered just long enough to murmur something to Batman about operational flexibility and plausible deniability, then followed.
Damian Wayne POV
The club reeked of sweat, cheap cologne, and something chemical lurking beneath the bass—metallic and wrong. Damian inhaled deeply anyway. Familiar territory. Vice always hid behind excess.
The bass thudded through the floor, vibrating up his legs, settling into his bones. Neon lights strobed overhead in lurid purples and reds, barely illuminating the mass of bodies packed together—grinding, laughing, drowning themselves in sound and substances they didn’t understand.
Trafficking hub confirmed.
He adjusted his jacket as he entered, posture loosening as predatory precision gave way to cultivated ease. Malik slipped over him like a second skin—smooth smile, lazy confidence, kohl-lined eyes that promised trouble and delivered worse.
Ahead of him, Alvin Drapper leaned against the bar.
Tim—Alvin—had ditched the stiffness almost entirely. His hair was mussed just enough to look intentional, a sleeveless mesh top exposing the muscular curve of his pale back. He held a drink Damian knew he hadn’t touched, yet swayed to the beat as if he’d been drinking since yesterday.
Damian slid in beside him.
“You know,” Malik drawled, voice warm and unhurried, “if you glare at the bartender any harder, he may cry.”
Alvin didn’t look at him. “If you stand any closer, people are going to think you’re with me.”
“That,” Damian said pleasantly, leaning in just enough for his breath to ghost Tim’s ear, “is the idea.”
Tim finally shot him a look—annoyed, sharp, threaded through something dangerously close to flustered. Damian catalogued it with ruthless satisfaction.
“I thought we were going to flank the room solo,” Tim hissed under the music. “Not join in on the debauchery.”
Damian leaned closer and nipped at Tim’s shoulder. “I prefer this plan.”
He signaled the bartender for something dark and strong, then turned back, eyes openly raking over Tim in a way Malik absolutely would—and Damian absolutely enjoyed.
“Besides,” he added, “you blend in better if you look… distracted.”
Tim scoffed. “By you?”
“Precisely.”
The bartender returned. Damian paid without looking, crowding Tim just enough to force him to turn. He downed the drink in one smooth motion, pressing closer so Tim could feel every inch of him. Glass clinked against wood, and before Tim could regroup, Damian had another drink in hand.
Tim was breathing hard, refusing to acknowledge the excitement pooling low in his stomach. The heat of the club and the hazy lights were going to his head, making him feel reckless.
This time, Damian took his drink slowly.
Small sips. Deliberate. He watched Tim’s gaze track the movement of his throat with every swallow, the tension in his body tightening by degrees. Satisfying.
Damian released the counter he’d been using to trap him and instead cupped Tim’s face, fingers firm but careful. He took another sip before capturing Tim’s lips, the burn of liquor mixing with the heat of Tim’s mouth in a way that threatened to shred his self-control.
For a second—just one—Tim pulled him back by the hair.
Then, desperately, he yanked him in again, clearly intent on wiping the smug curve from Damian’s mouth.
Damian loved it.
He loved him.
The way Tim panted into the kiss, too embarrassed to let out any real sound. The way Damian didn’t even need to remove the shirt to feel the heat of his skin when he wrapped his arms around Tim’s hips.
There were a million things they were supposed to do.
But when Damian caught the elegant curve of Tim’s spine, the messy fall of his hair—exactly the way Damian had once whispered he liked it—something slipped loose inside him. Control frayed.
They broke apart, both panting, skin slick with heat. Damian lifted a hand to Tim’s face, tracing the soft freckles scattered over pale skin. For a moment, he forgot where they were.
This wasn’t supposed to be Damian and Tim.
This was Alvin and Malik. Two people meant to be nothing more than a hookup.
But Damian had never been a good actor.
He couldn’t deny the depth of his desire—or the possessive edge beneath it. The urge to make it clear to anyone watching, anyone waiting for an opening, that Tim was his.Entirely. Chosen. Claimed.
He slapped a fifty on the bar and dragged Tim toward a side hallway, conveniently tucked beneath the security room’s glass-and-steel perch. The further they wandered, the more the club dissolved into pure indulgence. Bodies crowded alcoves and shadowed corners, hands roaming, mouths pressed together, laughter breaking apart into breathless sounds that blended seamlessly with the music.
Excess as camouflage. Perfect.
Damian barely had time to appreciate the positioning before Tim stopped short.
Hands fisted in Damian’s jacket, pulling him close—too close for a casual touch, just right for pretense. Tim leaned in, mouth brushing Damian’s ear as he spoke.
“The guards rotate in about thirty minutes.”
The heat of his breath sent something electric down Damian’s spine, sharp and unwelcome in how effective it was.
“We should linger,” Tim continued quietly. “Watch for an opening.”
Damian exhaled slowly, eyes flicking over the hallway. On either end, patrons were thoroughly occupied, attention turned inward, oblivious to anything resembling surveillance. The kind of place where no one looked twice.
Tim’s fingers slid lower, hooking into Damian’s waistband with deliberate intent before pulling him flush. The contact was calculated—meant for anyone watching—but the way Tim pressed in betrayed him. Too warm. Too real.
“I suppose,” Tim added, voice carefully neutral, “it makes sense for us to blend in. Avoid suspicion.”
His ears were bright red now, the color creeping down his neck.
Damian nearly laughed.
An insatiable surge of desire roared through him—violent, possessive, greedy. A darker part of him reveled in the idea of being seen like this, of others registering what he had, what they could not. Tim Drake, brilliant and devastating, choosing him. Touching him.
“Duty calls,” Damian murmured, grin sharp and eager as he stepped backward into the shadows, pulling Tim with him.
Kon POV
Kon felt it before he understood it.
A spike—sudden and sharp—cut through the noise of the club like a blade. Tim’s heartbeat, which he’d been half-tracking out of habit, lurched violently upward. Not the steady rise of exertion or adrenaline.
This was something else.
“What—” Kon muttered, head snapping up.
The music was too loud, the crowd too dense, but he could still hear it. Too fast. Too erratic. And then—
Gone.
Tim’s heartbeat slipped out of range, swallowed by the led lacing this old building. Kon’s jaw tightened.
He scanned the club again, vision cutting through smoke and light until irritation curdled into something sharper. He couldn’t spot either of them—no flash of Tim’s movement, no familiar predatory stillness that usually marked Damian’s presence.
Damian was supposed to be watching him.
Protecting him.
A growl rumbled low in Kon’s chest as he shoved off the wall, weaving through the crowd with sudden purpose. He didn’t care if he blew his cover.
Whatever Damian thought he was doing— Kon was going to make damn sure Tim was still safe.
Kon followed the echo of Tim’s last heartbeat down the hallway, shoulders tense as the music dulled into something more muffled and obscene. The further he went, the worse it got.
He immediately regretted it.
The club’s side corridors were less “hallway” and more a series of shadowed pockets where privacy was more suggestion than reality. People were pressed into walls, sprawled over benches, tangled together with an enthusiasm that made Kon’s ears burn. He averted his eyes on instinct, gaze snapping to the ceiling, the floor—anywhere but the enthusiastic commitment to bad decisions happening at eye level.
“Why does no one have shame,” he muttered under his breath, pushing past a pair of people who didn’t even notice him.
The air was thick here—hot, humid, heavy with sweat and perfume and the sharp tang of alcohol. Kon focused, trying to tune out everything except what mattered. He strained for Tim’s heartbeat again, filtering past the noise, past the thrum of bass vibrating through concrete.
There.
Faint. Close.
Relief flickered—then stalled.
Because the sound wasn’t panicked. It wasn’t fear. It was fast, sure, but rhythmic. Controlled in a way that made Kon slow his steps, dread pooling in his stomach.
He rounded the corner—and stopped short.
Tim was there.
Very much there.
Pinned against a large, raised ottoman, Tim lay sprawled back, head thrown and half-hidden beneath an arm draped over his face. His other hand was tangled in a familiar spill of black curls between his parted thighs. Kon could hear it—the soft, broken moans, the breathless murmurs cut off as Damian kept a firm, unyielding grip on him.
Kon froze.
“Oh,” he said faintly.
Tim’s heartbeat spiked—sharp and immediate.
Damian finally released him and shifted upward, Tim following instinctively, propping himself up just enough to meet Damian halfway for a kiss. Damian cradled Tim’s face with surprising tenderness, thumbs brushing warm, flushed skin as he pulled back—
—and opened his eyes.
Their gazes locked.
For half a second, Kon felt like a kid caught sneaking out past curfew. Wide-eyed. Flushed. Unsure whether to apologize or flee.
Damian, on the other hand, didn’t look surprised at all.
If anything, he looked… amused.
Kon cleared his throat loudly, heat rushing to his face. “So. Uh. Found you.”
Tim straightened instantly, scrambling for composure as he shoved Damian back just enough to reclaim space. “Kon—this isn’t—”
“We’re undercover,” Damian cut in smoothly, tone lazy, one brow arching. “Try to keep up.”
Kon stared at him.
Then at Tim—disheveled, flushed, lips swollen and unmistakably kissed raw.
Then very deliberately at the wall over Tim’s shoulder.
“Right,” Kon said, voice cracking just a little. “Undercover. Cool. Definitely looks… strategic.”
Tim groaned, dragging a hand over his mouth as if he could erase the evidence. “We were waiting for the guard rotation.”
“And blending in,” Damian added, unapologetic. He looked no less rumpled himself—hair tousled, collar open, satisfaction written plainly across his face.
Kon sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Okay. Cool. Great. Love the communication. Next time maybe warn me before you disappear into—” he gestured vaguely around them, “—whatever this is.”
Tim opened his mouth to reply—
And somewhere above them, a door opened.
Footsteps echoed briefly, followed by the low murmur of guards beginning their rotation.
Damian’s expression changed instantly. The teasing vanished, replaced by sharp, focused intent. He leaned in and kissed Tim again—far too deep, far too lingering, considering Kon was still standing right there.
“Showtime,” Damian murmured against his mouth.
Kon swallowed.
Whatever this was—whatever was clearly going on between them—could wait.
The mission couldn’t.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Kon said quickly, already backing away. “Talk to you later, Red.”
As he retreated down the hallway, cheeks still burning, Kon had the unmistakable feeling that he was about to learn far more than he ever wanted to know about Tim Drake and Damian Wayne.
A relationship he never, in a million years, saw coming.
Epilogue
The city was quiet again.
Too quiet—always the way after a successful takedown. Sirens had faded into the distance, evidence logged, tech seized, and the trafficking ring neatly severed at the source. Oracle had signed off. Batman had given his clipped approval.
Mission complete.
Tim barely had time to breathe before Damian was at his side again.
Not touching—not yet—but close enough that Tim could feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of his shirt. Possessive in proximity alone. Damian didn’t say anything at first, just guided him away from the others, one hand firm at the small of Tim’s back as they ducked into a shadowed rooftop stairwell.
Tim exhaled. “You know Kon’s still freaking out, right?”
Damian hummed, locking the door behind them. “Yes.”
That was it. No elaboration.
Tim turned, arms crossing. “You’re not even going to pretend you didn’t notice?”
Damian stepped in, crowding him effortlessly. “I noticed the moment he entered the club.”
Tim blinked. “You—what?”
“Felt the shift in the room,” Damian said calmly. “He is loud, for someone who thinks he is subtle.”
Tim stared at him, a flush creeping back up his neck. “Then why didn’t you stop?”
Damian’s mouth curved—slow, sharp, unapologetic. “Why would I?”
He reached out then, fingers catching the hem of Tim’s shirt, tugging him closer until their foreheads nearly touched. Tim’s pulse jumped. Damian felt it. Smiled wider.
“You were safe,” Damian continued. “The mission was progressing. And…” His thumb brushed the line of Tim’s jaw, possessive in its familiarity. “I wanted him to see.”
Tim swallowed. “See what?”
Damian leaned in, voice low and intimate. “That you are not unattended. That you are not available. That following you has consequences.”
“That’s insane,” Tim said weakly, even as his hands curled into Damian’s jacket.
“Perhaps.” Damian’s grip tightened. “But effective.”
Tim huffed a quiet laugh. “You realize Kon’s going to put this together, right?”
“I am counting on it.”
Damian pressed a kiss to the corner of Tim’s mouth—deliberate, claiming, not nearly as restrained as he should have been post-mission. Tim melted into it anyway, breath hitching.
“You used the mission as an excuse,” Tim murmured.
Damian didn’t deny it.
“I used the opportunity,” he corrected. “You were already mine. I merely reminded him.”
Tim shook his head, fond and exasperated all at once. “You’re impossible.”
Damian smiled against his lips. “And yet—you chose me.”
Tim didn’t argue.
Outside, somewhere, Kon-El paused mid-step, an inexplicable chill running down his spine. Someone was talking about him, he was sure of it. He really, really fucking hoped it wasn’t Damian.