Chapter Text
Can anyone really blame him for being sorta, kinda narcissistic?
Being born and raised in a household that contains a confident multitrillionaire father (not that he had known it to be literal for most of the duration of his stay), an egoistic, womanising scientist of an uncle, and an aunt that acts like a babysitter who isn’t paid enough for all the bullshit he’d cause so she lets him get away with everything, naturally he’d turn out the way he did. Not only had he been spoiled, he had been spoiled senseless. Everything he wanted? Handed over to him in a matter of mere moments. Everything he would need for the day? Already shoved in Donovan’s luxury baby bag. No one had denied him of anything, much less the praises that he would frequently seek out for.
Plus, did he mention he’s Superman’s clone? With all the superstrength and superspeed and laser eyes and flight and stuff? Yeah, that’s him. A superhero.
It would make sense that a literal spotlight would hang above him as soon as he had broken out of the cloning chamber and successfully finished all the necessary tests ensuring his stability. He is a scientific miracle , Luthor had claimed in the earlier parts of his life. “A million-dollar experiment gone right.” So, yeah, spotlight. It bathed him in a metaphorical light, amplifying his already loud presence, and luring in everything: scientists of all fields, media, paparazzi, screaming fangirls that might have been behind his missing pair of favourite sunglasses. (Or, three, he doesn’t know. He forgot to keep count.)
And, he loves it, practically thriving from all the due and undue attention. This fact did not change even through spending half of his one year total of existence living as a Kent and not as the Kardashian he’s meant to be. Or, rather Luthor , but, y’know, potato-potahto.
The humble household he had been adopted into is a far cry (—reaching, very far —) from his stay in Luthor’s penthouse. And, not surprisingly, this new lifestyle had mellowed out his overbearing vanity to a lesser annoying and more endurable self-love.
Still, as much as he loves the time he had spent with the Kents, living as though he was a normal teenager in a regular small town (—or as normal as normal can get, what with everyone recognising who he is underneath the blue sweaters and fake glasses at a second glance. How the heck does Clark do it?—), Conner knows what he is, and what he is isn’t not thankful for all the attention.
But, well, there’s always a line to everything, isn’t there? There’s a point where even he would find it to be unappreciated and irritating. And, as he stares at the person across him from underneath the tuft of hair that had slid over his eyes, her figure almost hideously deformed as she continues to drone on and on and on about things she doesn’t understand and doesn’t seem to want to understand—a line had been crossed.
His fingers thrum against the glass table, the soft tat tat tat drowned by the bustle of their surroundings: the pleasant crooning of violins and pianos of the background music, the muffled footfalls of the waiters and waitresses carrying food platters and water refill jugs along the deep red carpet, and the rather loose mouth of his date as she talks about this and that.
He really, really wishes she would talk about anything else other than this and that.
“I mean, without you, they wouldn’t have been able to take down the baddie,” she says, giggling as if it had been a funny joke, and Conner decides that he should stop staring holes at her face before he actually burns holes through it. (He doesn’t need the headline “Superboy: “And, then I started blasting.” More at eight . ” shown in every news channel. The tabloids already got so much dirt on him, he doesn’t want mainstream media raising his notoriety any more than it already has.) “Like, I know one of them is Batman’s sidekick, but they don’t really have any powers.”
They’re not like you , is what she seems to want to convey. It would have been better if she had stated it outright, though. At least then, he could actually agree with her to some extent (—he’s an alien-human hybrid clone, there’s pretty much only one of him in the team—), but she hadn’t conveyed it, choosing instead to gossip about his teammates, finding faults in their beings while assuring him of his credibility as a superhero.
They’re not like you. You’re not like them. It ticks him off.
“Most of them have powers, y’know,” Conner reminds, offering a smile as he runs his finger along his edge of the table. “Like, Beast Boy?”
“The person who saved my ass from being pummelled to near-death by that ‘baddie’ you just mentioned? Y’know, that dude?” he almost adds, but he bites down the remark and watches as her cheeks flush pink from realising too late of the changeling’s existence. Or, maybe it’s from being caught glossing over the others? Who knows.
“True,” she nods, before taking a forkful of pasta. And, that should have been the end of it. It should have been . She swallows. “Speaking of Beast Boy, are the rumors about the earthbending girl true?”
Yeah, no.
It ends instead with him pretending his communicator had beeped in to notify him of a criminal activity he is to stop, throwing a half-assed, “I’ll see you later, beautiful,” before dashing away from the fancy Italian restaurant he had paid in advance for and flying towards the Titan Tower.
It’s not his worst date, but it’s definitely the most infuriating.
Conner leans against the cool wall, the hum of the elevator vibrating through the surface, as his mind churns, twisting and turning until his head feels like it could explode any minute. What things he is thinking of, he couldn’t really say—they were just too many, most of which are questions wondering why he had even agreed on dating her. (He thinks it’s mainly to piss Damian off, but he’s not really sure anymore.)
And, by Luthor’s bald head , he doesn’t even remember her name.
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He shouldn’t have gone out with her. It’s dangerous for both of them, and fuck, he might have screwed up. He’d need to bring this up with Kori soon, just in case someone actually tries to target her thinking that she’s more than just the one meet up to him.
The elevator slows to a stop, and he walks into the common room, noting curiously at the lack of Gar and Jaime fighting over something. Without much of a thought, he looks at the watch on his wrist. 19:13. They’re usually bickering about whatever they had for dinner at this time, sometimes continuing until it escalates into a fight over what they should have for breakfast the next day.
The corners of his mouth quirk upward at the recollection of Donna just straight up decking them after having enough of it one time several nights ago. It had been hilarious—well, until the scarab went full berserk on them and they all had to clean up the mess afterwards.
Huh. “That’s strange,” he mumbles, realising that, not only is there a lack of squabbling, but there also seems to be a lack of presence of anyone. He looks at his watch again, tapping the glass to make sure it works fine.
They couldn’t be all asleep now, could they?
Sighing, he runs his fingers through his hair. Although he’s almost certain that no one has the sleep schedule of an average human being, them turning in for the night early isn’t an impossibility. Damn, and he had wanted to challenge Gar for the Space Cruncher high score. (Conner will lose, he knows it (—the trophy in Gar’s room isn’t just for show, after all—), but it’s really more for blowing off his frustrations on the ugly alien bastards than for the competition.)
Great.
“You’re home early.”
He whips around, shoulders drawn back and hands curled into fists as he gnashes his teeth. A growl escapes him, and, for a moment, he thinks he had gotten the scary Damian Wayne impression down pat.
Well, that is until she smiles, and then he realises it’s only Raven that’s—
His stomach growls, and oh, okay. So, he didn’t get the impression down.
He fumbles with his words, flustered over the fact that he had been ready to punch her and his battle cry had been his stomach saying it’s hungry. Ugh, oh god, he wants to die, and he feels the tips of his ears catch on fire. “Mmhm.” How eloquent of him.
Her mouth twitches again, the curve of her lips quivering as she stifles an amused chuckle, and it’s only then that he realises she’s the only one in the common room; cloak and all that. The last part of his thought nags at him for some odd reason. “Do you ever change out of your uniform?” Conner asks, wincing shortly after when realises he had inquired thoughtlessly.
Still, Conner isn’t one for backing out of something just because of a minor slip up. Of course, he did back out and fled his date, which he should really have thought out more before accepting, and— gah. Stop thinking.
“I do,” she answers. There’s this look that she gives him. It’s rather … off-putting, for the lack of better term, and he finds himself blinking at the sheer intensity it held before it’s replaced by another, more subdued something else a second after. He does a mental shrug. Probably just a Raven thing. “I guess I just got the whole not-changing-out-of-uniform thing from Damian.”
“If you keep going down that path, you might end up smelling like him,” Conner jokes, and the something else morphs into an entirely new something. It’s a bit more pleasant than the last one, he notes, softening the steely edges of her deadpan face, despite the unamused scrunching of her nose.
“You’re kind of right,” Raven tells him, her voice trailing with her as she starts to walk to the kitchen, her cloak swishing around her. “Tea?” she calls over her shoulder, and he decides to follow her.
“Make that hot chocolate.” Conner shrugs off his jacket, folding it over the back of the sofa as he passes by it on his way. “Also, where’s the bird brain anyway?”
“Damian’s at patrol.”
Again? Incredulously, he asks, “Does that guy even chill out ?”
“Hmm,” is her response. It sounds noncommittal, but the smile that tugs on her face makes his steps falter. Oh. It’s an inside joke. He shrugs away the feeling in the pit of his stomach and continues walking. (Conner may be self-centred, but he’s not that self-centered. He knows when to be jealous and when not to be, and this is definitely a time not to be.)
“The rest?”
“They’re at a concert, I think. Something about a DJRat? Jaime offered to chaperone Garfield and Donna.”
Oh, right, he forgot about that. He coughs into a fist, willing his guilt to go away, because how the hell did he forget? (Gar had been raving about it for days now.) “And, you?”
“Someone has to hold the fort,” she shrugs. “And, not to judge, but DJRat doesn’t really sound pleasant to the ears.”
“Hey, to each their own right?”
“That doesn’t change the fact that they're called DJRat.”
“Well, true. ”
The thrum of her powers can be heard in the air as she waves her hand, and he watches in interest at the dark energy that coats the electric kettle. Once the switch is flipped, the energy recedes back to her fingertips, and he could feel his smile deepen at her show of laziness.
“Must be handy.”
“Magic has lots of uses.”
“I’m a bit jealous,” he jokes, but it’s a particularly loud rumble of his stomach that makes her exhale in mirth. Smooth. Real smooth, Kon. Gah.
But, Raven is kind, and she opens the refrigerator. “I think we still have some leftover pizza.” A pause as she seems to look through the fridge. “I’m not sure if it’s vegetarian or hawaiian though.”
“Either one’s fine, really. Not a picky eater.” More like, ‘can’t really taste anything’ eater. It had been a power-up of some sorts Lex had given him, you know, in case anything gross landed in his mouth in mid-battle. (Lex had been thinking more of poison, actually. Conner wouldn’t be fazed from the taste of poison in his throat if he can’t taste, which is, to be fair, a justifiable reason—if one ignores the part where it’s just the taste and not the pain and the after effects that are cancelled out. Not that it would have any effect on him, but still. ) It doesn’t bother him though. Well, not really. You can’t miss something you never really had, right?
The kettle whistles, its switch flipping back to off, and his eyebrows scrunch in confusion at how fast the water boiled. Then again, the water could’ve already been semi-hot when the kettle had been turned on. But, he takes note of the brand anyway as he retrieves two mugs from the cupboard. Maybe he could buy one for Ma Kent. (Last time he called Smallville, she had been complaining that their old one isn’t working as well as it used to.)
It’s a few minutes of silence—just them working their way around the kitchen. Him: trying to figure out how the fuck one makes (brews?) tea; her: going through the whole process of warming up the pizzas in the microwave. This is kind of nice, he thinks after he finishes stirring both of their drinks. He places both mugs on the island counter before taking a seat.
This is nice, and he mindlessly tugs his tie.
“So, how’d it go?” Raven asks after the microwave dings and retrieves the plate. She passes it to him. Ah, hawaiian.
“Hmm?”
“Your date.” She takes a seat on the bar stool nearest to her, and he tries not to be offended when her mouth quirks upward at the result of his attempt at tea-making. Still, Raven takes the mug and lifts it to her lips, and the offence turns into a flustered warmth when she passes him a grateful nod, despite the twitch in her jaw when she takes a sip. “I distinctly remember you telling the team to “not wait out” and “might be back in the morning,” but here you are, not even an hour after you left for your six-thirty reservation at Adagio’s. And, may I add, hungry. ”
Just because he couldn’t taste didn’t mean he hadn’t wanted to eat the spaghetti bolognese that he had ordered. The pasta from Adagio’s had looked so appetising and smelled so heavenly that it would have been practically a sin not to finish. But, the first five minutes of his date’s tirade on Wonder Girl’s work ethics had him bending forks, and before he knew it, the food had lost its appeal and he had lost his appetite.
But, well, how does he explain that?
“Well, the waiters were,” he motions with hands, wiggling them vaguely, before ending with, “slow.”
Because, y'kow, Adagio means slo— Okay, not the best pun. Not even a good pun, and he cringes at himself.
She lets go of a sound that’s more breath than it is laugh, rolling her eyes at him and his stupid joke. At least the humour hadn’t been lost to her, so it couldn’t have been that lame of an ending (even if it did feel like it’s more his pathetic delivery than the actual joke that has her laughing).
He shakes his head.
“Actually, no, the service was great. It’s just that,” his voice tapers off, fading as he stares at that one pineapple at the centre of his pizza. Halfheartedly, he wonders why there’s the whole “hawaiian pizza is gross/not gross” debate, before taking a bite, deliberately taking a pineapple piece or two. Well, it’s certainly … mushy , but, then again, all food are mushy to him.
Ugh, now he’s thinking about wanting to taste. God.
He swallows when he meets her inquisitive, yet patient stare. Conner knows he could just not bring it up, give her some other lame joke, and that would be the end of it. She wouldn’t pry, and he doesn’t expect her to.
But, perhaps that’s the sole reason why he’s setting down the pizza slice back on his plate and leaning forward, elbows on the island table. Because she’s curious but knows not to push. A sharp contrast to what his prior date had been, and god, is it refreshing.
“Do you think I’m selfish?” Conner asks.
Whatever she thought he’d say, it hadn’t been that , and he almost grins at her growing frown. Almost.
Conner pushes the plate away, the ceramic scraping against the surface of the table and his teeth gritting rather loudly in something akin to frustration, but both of them know it isn’t aimed at her. “She just kept insulting everyone,” he huffs as her words seem to replay in the back of his mind, her voice becoming an annoying existence in his head.
It’s really telling how he remembers all the things she said, but not her name.
Raven flinches, and it takes him three seconds to realise that his emotions might have been a bit too loud and invasive to the empath. Hastily, he attempts to keep it under control, but she waves it off, urging him to continue speaking instead.
He hesitates, eyebrows furrowing at her reassurance, before releasing a sigh. “She said a lot of things, I don’t really know where to begin. She said a lot of … mean stuff, and it just—”
Conner groans loudly. For having such vivid recollection of the things she said ringing clearly in his ears, he couldn’t, for the life of him, know how to tell them to her. “She said Robin is mean. She said Beast Boy is obnoxious and loud. She said you were dark and gloomy. She said—She said a lot.”
“Well, to be fair, I am dark and gloomy,” Raven smiles, an attempt at trying to ease up his emotions.
“But, you aren’t,” Conner insists without a second thought, and it takes him several moments until he hears himself too late. Rather, he hears her chuckle, and then he hears himself. “Erm. You certainly are dark and gloomy, but not in the way she thinks you are. She thinks that you’re a witch and—well, that’s—umm. Okay, so you do magic stuff and have like magic spells, but that doesn’t—she—ergh.”
He groans into his hands, and he swears the redness of his skin looks like that of a lobster’s shell. Eloquence and English seems to have left him this evening. “It doesn’t make it right,” he says after a second’s worth of deliberation, cheeks puffed and eyes casted on the floor. “She shouldn’t have said all those things. Not about you, nor about Gar, nor Damian—she shouldn’t have said all those things about all of you.”
“We can’t really control what other people say, Conner. And, it’s their own right to. Even if they aren’t appreciated. It’s not your fault.”
“But, it is though.” Conner sighs as he picks up his mug, fingers tight around the ceramic. He downs it one go, and he tries not to be disgruntled at the lack of taste. (He likes hot chocolate though, but only because it’s something Ma Kent had given him in his first night at Smallville. It’s warm.) “She said all of those things for me. And, I … I kind of get why she did.”
(Because he’s Superboy, and doesn’t Superboy thrive under due and undue attention? Doesn’t he love the attention given to him? It’s because he’s Superboy—Superman 2.0, Superman 2.0.1, ex-LexCorp property, Lex Luthor’s son . Narcissistic.)
He breathes in a shuddering air. “But, am I really that selfish that people think I’d enjoy having my friends be insulted in front of me—for me? ”
It’s not like the team can’t handle their own against people’s opinions and words. But, it’s different—this is different, and he sets aside the mug before it cracks under his tightening grip.
(Because, there are just some lines that should never be crossed, and much more than himself, Conner loves his friends, his team—his family. Because, despite knowing his reputation is dragged into the mud for his past (and still ongoing) frivolity and that three months of being a Teen Titan wouldn’t change it so quickly, it’s frustrating to continuously try to prove that he feels more than what other people think.)
“Well, for what it’s worth,” Raven starts after a short pause, lips still set in that smile of hers, and he blinks (because it’s not something, and he likes this expression on her face a lot. It’s warm). “I don’t think you’re selfish.” His heart flutters. “A little into yourself, but not selfish.”
(But, at least, for the rest of the evening, he doesn’t have to prove himself to anyone.)
--
“Was she pretty?”
He doesn’t know how long they’ve been talking, but he’s pretty sure it’s more than an hour after their “cats vs dogs” debate where they had opted to leave the kitchen and settle in the common room, and he shifts a little deeper into the cushions. In the corner of his eyes, he could see her sit on the other couch, legs drawn up and the book she had seemingly pulled out from nowhere is placed beside her, closed. Conner curls to his side to look at her properly.
He answers: “She was pretty cute, actually. Blonde hair, brown eyes. Had an accent.”
“Your type?”
“Ah, no. I don’t really—I don’t have a type, I think. But, I do have an un-type, or whatever it’s called.”
“Yeah?”
“Anyone that looks like Lois.”
“Lois—Lois Lane?” Her eyebrows furrow. “The reporter?”
“Yeah,” he replies, pointedly looking around at anything but her. “Clark’s-to-be-wife. I—uhh, had this ridiculous crush on her—I got over it,” Conner adds quickly, and oh dear, this is embarrassing. “And, now it’s just weird. So, I made it a point to steer clear of anyone who remotely looks like her.”
“That’s not an un-type if you consciously decide it is,” she chuckles, and, well, Conner knows she’s a bit right. Still, he shrugs, shoulders awkwardly moving from his current lying position.
“True, but you get the idea.”
Raven hums before she picks up her book again, flipping through it until she finds the page she had stopped earlier. He doesn’t mind. They’ve been drifting in and out of conversations for the past who-knows-how-long, and this is fine. Conner shifts back to lie on his back, and he does not care for the wrinkles on his shirt that had formed from his movements.
His date really was pretty cute. She was pretty in her clothes, and she was adorable when they’d arrived at the restaurant, surprised that he had booked them in a rather nice establishment. And, he remembers chuckling at her reaction. It was cute.
She was pretty cute, just like all his other dates were to him, and Conner hadn’t been lying when he told Raven that he didn’t have a type.
They didn’t look anything like Lois, but it hadn’t been like he had actively sought out people who aren’t dark haired and amethyst eyed. It really just so happened. But, ha. He lets his chuckle ring in his mind, because as if there’s anyone who would look like Lois.
How many people have dark hair and amethyst eyes anyway? (Probably a whole lot of people, but he hasn’t seen one other person yet, so.)
He stretches, back arching, and he rises to sit properly. Water. He needs water when he finds an itch in his throat, and he looks at the only other person in the room. “Hey, Rae, want another cup of—” (Her eyes blink from underneath her lashes as she brushes a strand of hair from her cheek. Amethyst eyes and dark hair. ) “—tea?”
Ha. Haha—oh shit.
(Okay, Conner knows he could get wrapped up into himself and his own world, but how the hell had he not noticed? What the fuck?)
--