Chapter Text
Tim could admit when things hadn’t gone as smoothly as he’d anticipated. Letting himself get caught ? Yeah, probably not his brightest idea. But he needed to know where this shipment was heading. Needed even a hint of where they were running their operations. Weeks of tracking them, and all he had to show for it were vague, blurry snippets of CCTV footage. Never enough to pinpoint a location, never enough to act . They were a completely underground , completely offline smuggling ring. Not unusual for Gotham, but frustrating as hell to follow. So he set a trap. And he waited .
Getting taken hadn’t been hard . He put up a fight, just enough to sell it. Just enough to make them think they’d won. Now, all that was left to do was wait for them to lead him exactly where he needed to go.
A meaty fist tangled in his hair, yanking his head back at a painful angle. The guy was practically on top of him, pressing down with all the weight of someone who had never skipped a meal in his life . And god, he stank . Tim’s mind had a bad habit of wandering mid-mission, a particularly inconvenient quirk in moments like these. But honestly? He’d smelled Gotham sewers that were fresher than this guy. The man was huge , bald, dressed in dark clothing, with a few piercings in his ears and heavy rings on his fingers.
Tim had gotten a firsthand introduction to those rings when the guy had driven his fist into his back. He could already feel the bruises forming. He could get out of this. Easily. But that would mean losing a prime opportunity for information.So instead, he sucked in a sharp, pained breath, let his body go slack, just enough to make them think they had him. Then, with a brutal crack , his head was slammed into the concrete floor. Yeah. That one was definitely going to hurt in the morning.
Thankfully, Tim could play unconscious with the best of them. Years of training and, frankly, survival had made controlling his breathing second nature. It helped that he’d had ample practice fooling Kon, who could hear even the slightest shift in his heartbeat.The second guy, leaner than his brick wall of a partner, wasn't much better in the hygiene department. If Bullfrog was all sweat and damp clothing, this one was rat-like , smelling of stale cigarettes and cheap cologne.
Between the two of them, they managed to peel Tim off the concrete, their grips rough and uncoordinated. Bullfrog had barely climbed off him before they started hauling him toward a car, one of those shitty, definitely unregistered vehicles Tim had seen them drive in with.
At least that meant they were taking him somewhere.
And that meant this plan wasn’t a total disaster.
Yet.
The drive wasn’t that long, not objectively, at least. But being hogtied and wedged into the trunk of a car had a way of stretching time. Still, Tim had counted precisely.
Fourteen minutes and thirty-two seconds.
That meant they hadn’t gone far, but far enough .
He had a vague idea of where they were headed, but the moment the car stopped and the trunk cracked open, his suspicions were confirmed. The stench hit him immediately. A heavy, sulfuric musk mixed with salt and gasoline. The harbor.
Well… shit.
There tends to be only so many ways things can go, none of them appealing to Tim right now. Tim had every expectation of just being tossed straight into the harbor, maybe some bricks tied to his feet. Instead, they dragged him inside, shoving him into a rickety wooden chair. Zip ties forced around his wrists tight, cutting into his skin, but his legs were only loosely secured to the chair’s front legs. Amateurs.
He kept his head down, feigning grogginess. Let them think they’d knocked him out; maybe they’d start talking. Tim had been tracking this smuggling ring for weeks, and if he played this right, he could get the last piece of the puzzle before breaking free. Tim forced himself to stay limp, head lolling forward as if the rough handling had done more damage than it really had. If they thought he was still dazed, they might let something useful slip.
He flexed his fingers experimentally, testing the zip ties. They were tight, but not unbreakable. If he could shift his wrists just right, create enough tension in the plastic and snap he’d be free.
But he didn’t move yet. Not until he knew more.
A chair scraped against the floor nearby, followed by the sound of heavy boots pacing in front of him. A voice, deep and thick with a Gotham accent, muttered, “Think he’s out?”
“Doesn’t matter,” another grumbled. “Boss said to keep him breathing. Just needs to learn not to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong.”
He pushed down the urge to smile, this would be a cakewalk. They’d try to rough him up, maybe toss some threats his way, and if he was lucky, they’d get cocky enough to spill something useful. Then he’d break out, subdue them, and leave them wrapped up neatly for the GCPD. Simple.
At least, that was the plan. Then he felt it.
A towel. Over his face. Tim freezes
Oh.
So they weren’t total amateurs.
For a moment, his brain lags, some deep, primal part of him screaming at the realization. He knows what this means. He knows what comes next .
Waterboarding.
It’s a psychological tactic as much as a physical one, meant to break people fast . Tim has trained for this, he’s been prepared for this but training and reality are two different beasts. His heartbeat spikes despite himself.They don’t know him. That’s his one advantage.Tim forces himself to go limp, keeping his breathing slow and even, playing up the dazed, half-conscious act. If they think he’s already broken, already out of it, maybe they won’t follow through. Maybe…
A hand grips his hair, yanks his head back. He barely has a second to brace before the first splash of water drowns his world.
It’s worse than he remembers, by the time the water stops Tim is struggling to hold back his gasping, chest spasming uncontrollably under the sensation. Then the smell hits him again and he has to hold back a gag. Panic claws at his throat as the realization sinks in. That wasn’t just water.
It was Gotham Harbor water.
The putrid stench of oil, rot, and industrial waste clung to him like a second skin.
Tim forced himself to stillness, biting back the coughs threatening to rip out of his chest. If he started heaving now, it would only get worse. His stomach churned, nausea clawing up his throat, but he swallowed it down. He couldn’t afford to show weakness. Not yet.
“See? Told you he wasn’t so tough.” The smug voice of one of his captors cut through the ringing in his ears.
Tim barely managed to keep his expression slack. Right. Play dead. Let them think you’re breaking. He needed them talking. Needed them cocky. Just a little longer.He could still taste the water in his mouth. It burned.
It had taken half an hour before he saw an opening.
Tim could feel it in his chest, a raw, burning ache that wouldn’t fade anytime soon. Every breath rattled, like his lungs were still half-full of that disgusting water, and he had to fight against the instinct to cough it all back up. He couldn’t afford to look weaker than he already did.They’d stopped long enough now, maybe to take a break or maybe just to gloat, but he knew it wouldn’t last. He needed to act before they started up again. His body protested every movement, muscles sluggish from exhaustion, but he forced himself to focus.
He forced himself to stay limp, to breathe shallowly despite the fire in his lungs and the bile rising in his throat. His body screamed for relief, but he couldn't afford to break character yet. Not until they were close enough.One of the men, Bullfrog, Tim decided leaned down, gripping Tim's chin between his fingers.
"Not so mouthy now, huh?" Bullfrog sneered, shaking Tim's face roughly.Tim let his head loll to the side.
Street Rat, the other guy, leaner and sharper, huffed. "Tch. Think he's still conscious?"
Bullfrog snorted. "Yeah, he's breathin'. Besides, if we overdid it, Vince will be pissed. Said he wanted the Bird-Brat alive."
Oh, that’s interesting.
Tim could work with that.
He let out a weak, rattling cough, shifting slightly as if trying to find a more comfortable position. The motion was subtle, just enough to test the tension in the zip ties again. They flexed slightly but held firm. His captors exchanged a few more words, their laughter grating in his ears. Then, as if deciding he was no longer entertaining, they turned away, muttering about going out for a smoke.
Tim exhaled slowly through his nose, centering himself. His arms and legs ached, his ribs protested every breath, and his lungs felt raw from the waterboarding. But none of that mattered.
He had a name. He had an opening.
And now? Now it was time to turn the tables.
Tim clung to that small victory, tucking the name away in the back of his mind. His entire body ached, and his lungs still spasmed from the disgusting water he’d been forced to choke down, but he’d gotten what he needed.
Now he just needed to get out.
The two goons, Bullfrog and Street Rat, were still chatting, their backs turned as they congratulated themselves on a job well done. Tim flexed his fingers behind the chair, letting his weight fall into the plastic of the zip ties. He curled his hands into fists, tensed his arms, and with a sharp twist and pull, snapped them apart.
The sound was quiet under their conversation, but Street Rat must’ve caught the movement from the corner of his eye because he started to turn.
Too late.
Tim moved fast, lunging from the chair in a blur. He slammed his shoulder into Rat’s stomach, using his captor’s surprise against him. The man stumbled back, and Tim drove his knee into his gut before spinning to deal with Bullfrog.
The larger man barely had time to register what was happening before Tim ducked under his swing, grabbing his arm in the process and twisted it at an ugly angle, kicking the meaty back of the man sending him crashing into the chair Tim had just been tied to. Bullfrog hit the ground with a thud, groaning. Street Rat wasn’t much better off, wheezing from where Tim had knocked the air out of his lungs.Tim panted, shaking water from his hair as he stood over them. “You guys really should’ve invested in better restraints,” he muttered, then pulled out his own pair of specialty bat-branded zip ties from his belt because he knew how to secure captives properly.
With both men restrained and unconscious, Tim took a moment to steady himself. His head was pounding, and his throat burned from the seawater, but he wasn’t done yet.
He had a name. He had a location.
Now, it was time to finish the job.
After securing the locations, Tim tapped his comms and called into the Cave. Batman would want to know about this. He just… wouldn’t tell him everything. Like the waterboarding. Or the whole willingly getting kidnapped thing. Bruce wouldn’t approve. Obviously. Tim had gotten what he wanted, and right now? He just wanted to go home, rinse his mouth out with soap, and pass out . If he told Batman the full story, he’d end up dragged to Leslie’s, and frankly, Tim really didn’t have the energy for that. It was fine. He was fine.
A couple of bruises on his back, maybe his ribs. Nothing broken. His head still ached from that slam into the concrete, but it wasn’t a concussion.
It was fine .
“Red Robin to Cave, got a few loose ends here for you to clean up. Related to the ‘Vulture’ case.”
Tim cut the comms before waiting for a response, already moving. He was done for the night. The cold Gotham wind bit at his face as he made his way back to where he’d stashed his bike. The adrenaline was wearing off, and exhaustion was creeping in fast, pressing down on his limbs like lead. He just needed to make it home. A shower and at least four hours of sleep before something else demanded his attention. Typical night in Gotham.
He let out a breath as he stepped inside, rolling his shoulders to shake off the lingering tension from the night. His bike had been parked a good twenty minutes away and grappling after getting waterboarded with what might as well have been sewage water had really taken it out of him. The cold chill in the air seeped right through his suit. The exhaustion was setting in, creeping into his bones now that the adrenaline had fully worn off. Making it to his safe house, he let himself relax slightly.
The time it took to get his gear off, shower, change into his civilian clothes, and then make his way to his penthouse had fully worn him out even more. Tim had nearly fallen asleep in the shower, the heat of the shower burning off whatever brain cells he might’ve had left. Tim had turned up to the highest heat he could stand to try and burn off any remnants of the harbour that were still on him.
The exhaustion settled deep, dragging at his limbs as he stepped inside his apartment. His wet hair had dried slightly from the drive over, plastered uncomfortably to his head thanks to his helmet. The shirt he had grabbed was soft from years of wear, the print slightly faded but still recognizable. Tim tugged it on, the fabric loose around his frame, and let out a slow breath. It smelled vaguely like the manor like old books, expensive cologne, and something distinctly Bruce . It must be an old shirt of his. Weirdly comforting. Just like the man himself.
Alfred had stopped by a day or two ago and cleaned his kitchen, leaving it spotless and organized. It was a small mercy, but it also made the rest of his apartment feel even messier in comparison, scattered files, a few half-empty coffee cups, and a pile of laundry he kept meaning to get to. Tim sighed, running a tired hand through his hair. He should clean up. He should at least move some of the papers off his bed. Instead, he collapsed face-first onto the mattress, deciding it could all wait until morning.
Tim barely registered the feeling of his mattress as he collapsed onto it. His body ached, bruises blooming under his skin from where fists had connected, but exhaustion was heavier than pain. The faint, lingering taste of Gotham’s harbor still clung to his tongue, unpleasant and metallic. He should write his report. He should at least check his phone. Instead, his body made the decision for him. His eyes slipped shut before he could even kick his shoes off. The report could wait. The mission was done.
For now, sleep won.
Tim awoke with a start, his body drenched in sweat, the heat radiating off him like a furnace. The room spun, his head heavy and throbbing, and before he could even process what was happening, his stomach churned violently. Saliva flooded his mouth, the sour taste of nausea rising up fast. He should've known this would happen, did know. He probably should've gotten checked out before coming home.
His legs barely supported him as he stumbled into the bathroom, the cold tiles a sharp contrast to the warmth of his skin. He barely made it to the toilet before his body rebelled, the remnants of his stomach contents splashing into the bowl. Tim gripped the edge of the toilet, his chest heaving, the room still spinning around him. He’d made a lot of mistakes tonight. This, apparently, was one of them.
After his stomach was fully emptied, Tim collapsed forward, resting his face on the cool porcelain of the toilet seat. The contrast between the heat burning through him and the chill of the porcelain was a small comfort, the coolness soaking into his flushed skin like a welcome reprieve. Exhaustion still clung to him, his body heavy, and he could feel the aftershocks of what had just happened ripple through his muscles. His head throbbed in time with his pulse, a dull ache that seemed to grow sharper with every passing second. Reluctantly, he peeled off his damp shirt, throwing it carelessly onto the floor, the fabric clinging to his skin like a second layer of sweat. His sweats had been abandoned somewhere in the night, discarded in his slumber, and now he was left in only the thin fabric of his boxers, too worn out to care.
Sleep dragged him under once more, swift and relentless. His body, still hot and trembling, gave in to the exhaustion that had been creeping in ever since he'd woken up feeling wrong. Tim slumped forward, his face still resting against the cold toilet seat, oblivious to how awkward and pitiful the position was. The rhythmic pulse of his breathing became slower, almost unnoticeable, and his body softened into the stillness of sleep. His limbs felt weightless, the edges of his consciousness fading in and out as fever dream thoughts swirled in the back of his mind, he can’t help but feel like he’s forgetting something.
…
Kon stands at the door to Tim’s apartment, his hand lingering on the handle for just a moment longer than usual. It’s been a while since they hung out like this, just the two of them, no mission, no patrols, no hero work. The last time they were together felt like it was more about the job, less about being friends. He can’t even remember the last time they did hang out, and the thought tugs at something in his chest, a quiet ache he can’t quite shake off. With a deep breath, he steps inside, pushing the feeling aside for now.
He could’ve flown in, he could’ve gone for the usual dramatic entrance. But he knows Gotham well enough to recognize that Superboy knocking on Tim Drake-Wayne’s window would be a little too obvious, even for someone like him. Tim also wouldn’t open the window for him, he was an ass like that.
The door’s unlocked, which is a little strange, but it’s not entirely unexpected. Tim knew he was coming after all. Kon’s dressed casually, light blue t-shirt, underneath a light grey hoodie and jeans, and a thick wool flannel jacket that’s starting to fray around the edges. It’s a far cry from the leather jacket he typically wears; Gotham’s always a little colder than everywhere else, and he’s gotten used to layering up here. The worn leather elbow patches on the jacket show signs of age, but that’s part of the charm, he’s had it for years now. Still, stepping into the apartment, he immediately feels the familiar weight of the city’s chill, even indoors.
“Tim?” he calls out, his voice echoing through the apartment as he closes the door behind him.
Kon glances around the apartment, taking in the familiar sight with a critical eye. It’s very much Tim’s space, everything has that understated, well-worn look, but there’s something oddly pristine about it all. The kitchen is unnaturally clean, the countertops spotless, with barely a hint of a dish out of place. It’s almost too perfect, like someone’s put an effort into keeping it that way, which feels out of character for Tim, who usually seems to exist in controlled chaos. The living room, on the other hand, is a little more lived-in. It’s cluttered in a way that gives it personality, books scattered around, papers on the coffee table, a couple of empty cans sitting on the side. It’s cozy, though, in the way only a space that’s seen a bit of use can be. But despite the welcoming feel, there’s one thing that’s missing.
No sign of Tim.
Kon’s brow furrows slightly as he steps further into the apartment, calling out again. “Tim? You here?” He’s starting to wonder if he missed something, did Tim head out? Or is he just hiding somewhere?
Shucking off his jacket, Kon takes another quick scan of the apartment, his eyes moving over every corner with a growing sense of unease. He checks the couch, lifting up the mountain of blankets that has become a permanent fixture there, but there’s no sign of Tim hidden beneath them. The room is quiet, eerily so. There’s no rustle of movement, no sound of Tim’s voice, and as he looks around, Kon starts to feel the edges of worry creeping in. It’s a bit out of character for Tim to forget he’s coming, especially when they’ve had plans. Plus the unlocked front door. Something’s off. Tim’s always been cautious, too careful for this kind of oversight. The unease starts to twist in his gut, a slow simmer of concern that grows with every second of silence.
“Tim?” he calls out once more, his voice now laced with something more than curiosity. It’s tinged with a hint of worry. He hesitates for a moment, considering the possibilities. But none of them feel right. Not the Tim he knows.
Something isn’t right.
Kon listens intently, tuning out the ambient sounds of the apartment until he can focus on the soft, rhythmic sound of Tim’s breathing. It’s faint, shallow, but it’s there. He takes a deep breath and, like a sniffer dog on the trail, follows the sound. His instincts pull him towards the ensuite bathroom, and he pushes the door open cautiously, his eyes scanning the space. That’s when he sees him.
Tim is crouched down, his body sprawled out awkwardly on the cold tiles. His arms are wrapped tightly around himself, like he's trying to hold himself together, but it’s not enough. Tim’s upper body is leaning against the porcelain of the toilet, his hands gripping it like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. The sight hits Kon hard, like a punch to the gut. Tim’s skin is washed pale, pressed so tightly against the porcelain bowl it almost blends into it. A thin sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead, his usually neat black hair matted and sticking to his face. Dressed in nothing but a pair of boxers, he’s clinging to the toilet like a lifeline, his body is sprawled across the cold bathroom tiles.
He looks like shit.
Kon had seen Tim in all kinds of states, exhausted, bruised, running on fumes but this? This was definitely scraping the bottom of the barrel. Worse, Tim didn’t even seem to notice him standing there, which was somehow more alarming than the scene itself. He can’t remember the last time he snuck up on him, although he can’t really remember the last time they really hung out either… Kon shifted on his feet, debating. If he helped, Tim would probably kill him. But if he didn’t… Well, Tim looked like he was halfway there already. With a heavy sigh, Kon ran a hand through his hair, resigned. Decision made, he crouched down beside him.
“Tim?” He questioned lightly, resisting the urge to press a hand to Tim’s forehead. Instead, he settled for a gentle shake of his shoulder, careful but firm. A quick preemptive X-ray scan revealed no internal injuries at least, nothing obvious. But still, something felt…off. A nagging sense of wrongness he couldn’t quite pin down. Tim’s heart was beating a little fast, but not dangerously so. Nothing alarming. There was also a smell, definitely not Tim smell, that seemed to infect his nostrils when he leaned in too close. What the fuck had Tim gotten into this time.
"Come on, man, this isn’t exactly the five-star welcome I was expecting," Kon jokes, trying to keep the mood light, even if Tim doesn’t seem to be listening, or conscious for that matter. His jokes were always more for his own benefit anyway, a way to keep things from getting too heavy. A way to fill the silence. The small grunt Tim gives in response is enough.
Okay…Not dead. He can work with that.
Kon wasn’t exactly the best nurse. He knew how to handle people in shock, how to keep someone alive in a crisis, but looking after sick people? Not his thing. He can be a good comfort blanket but when it comes to actually knowing what sick people need he’s pretty useless. He racked his brain, trying to remember what normal people needed when they were sick. A few hours in the sun, and he’d be good as new. However something told him that wouldn’t work quite the same for Tim. He’d probably burn and turn to ash, like the nocturnal vampire that he is.
Kon’s hand lingers on Tim’s shoulder, feeling the unnaturally hot heat radiating from him. Tim’s skin is flushed and his breaths are ragged and uneven. There’s a slight tremor to his body, a subtle sign that Tim’s been here for a while. He’s pretty sure a cold cloth helps with a fever, though that does mean he actually has to check for one first, although he’s decently sure Tim has one. With a sigh, he gently pushes aside Tim’s damp, matted hair and presses his palm to his forehead. The immediate wave of heat radiating off him is answer enough.
Yep. Fever. And judging by how hot he feels, it’s a bad one.
"God, what disease-ridden bus hit you?" Kon mutters under his breath, his eyes scanning Tim as he stays hunched over, his hands pressed firmly against his forehead.
The small action is enough to get Tim’s glazed-over blue eyes to flutter open. And God it's been a while since Kon has seen them. Still as striking as ever. That pale, icy blue, always standing out starkly against his too-pale skin. But something about them seems… sadder than he remembers. Maybe it’s just the fever dulling them, or maybe it’s something deeper. Tim isn’t even looking at him, though. Instead, his unfocused gaze drifts past, which… yeah, that’s concerning. But then, just as Conner pulls his hand away, a small frown tugs at Tim’s still-squashed face. Conner does everything not to laugh at his expression. His friend is sick, very sick. Although he is going to be holding this against Tim for a long time.
Refocusing on his original task, Kon scans the bathroom for a cloth. Anything small and soft enough to do the job. But, unsurprisingly, Tim’s bathroom isn’t exactly stocked with anything really, other than some nearly expired medication and a half used medkit. What he does find, however, is a shirt crumpled near the door. A well-worn band tee, slightly oversized. One he thinks he’s seen Tim wear to bed before. Probably what he had on before the fever knocked him flat. It’ll do.
Grabbing it, Kon folds the fabric as neatly as he can before running it under the cold tap, watching as the water soaks through. It’s not perfect, but it’s something. Carefully kneeling beside Tim again, Kon places the damp, folded-up shirt on his forehead, watching as it makes contact with his overheated skin. Tim flinches slightly, a pinched expression on his face and his heartbeat pulsing before it relaxes. Odd. A small sigh of relief escapes Tim, barely more than a breath, as a stray bead of water trails down his face. Weird reaction aside, Kon decides to move onto the next step.
Getting him off this freezing bathroom floor. Seriously, for an apartment as swanky as this, you’d think Tim would have sprung for underfloor heating by now. Kon pauses, weighing his options. He could just pick Tim up, carry him to bed, and walk away. Pretend none of this ever happened. Honestly, Tim probably wouldn’t even remember any of it. Claim something came up and he never stopped by in the first place. As tempting as it was to use this for future jokes at Tim’s expense, he didn’t even really know if there’d be a time for future jokes.
He needs a clean escape. A win-win.
Decision made, he moves quickly, grabbing Tim beneath his arms and hoisting him up. He pointedly avoids looking at Tim’s bare chest, but it’s impossible not to notice. The scars. The newly formed bruises, deep purple and sickly yellow staining his pale skin. He’s seen them before, he’s seen Tim look worse before, but that doesn’t make it any easier. And judging by the new ones that weren’t there last time… yeah. That ugly, familiar feeling curls tight in his chest, threatening to drag him down. Tim clearly had fun last night. Kon lets out a small but disappointed sigh.
Not now. Not the time.
Forcing his focus back to the task, he tightens his grip and starts moving. Even in his feverish haze, Tim's instincts kick in. He starts to squirm, his body attempting to escape Kon’s grip, an elbow swinging out, aimed at his ribs. Kon reacts quickly, setting Tim down to avoid the flailing attack of limbs. But as soon as he does, Tim collapses backward onto the cold floor, the effort too much for him in his weakened state. Nurse of the year award, here he comes.
Kon stands and steps back for a minute. He mutters under his breath, a small laugh escaping despite the situation. “How are you still this annoying when you're delirious? I’m trying to help you here.” There’s no malice in his words, just an exasperated fondness as he watches Tim’s crumpled form on the floor. The sudden movement and commotion knock Tim’s towel t-shirt off his forehead, and it seems to stir whatever illness is wreaking havoc on him. One moment, he’s slumped on the floor, and the next, he’s hunched over the toilet, retching violently. Kon steps back, a cringe appearing on his face, instinctively trying to make space, but the helplessness claws at him. He can’t just leave him like this, but he also knows Tim won’t want help.
But when has he ever listened to Tim?
Conner moves to his side, his movements instinctively gentle as he carefully holds Tim's hair back, one hand steadying him while the other pats his back. The scene, messy and raw, almost feels surreal, more like he's taking care of a drunk college girl than his desperately sick friend. The absurdity of it tugs at him, but the need to be there for Tim overpowers it all. This is what he’s doing now.
"Finished?" Kon asks, his voice low, trying to keep the concern out of it as Tim weakly lifts his head back toward the lip of the toilet bowl. Tim, ever the charmer, glances up at him, recognition flickering in those tired, pale eyes for just a moment. But then, without warning, he goes right back to retching, barely able to respond before his body betrays him again. Kon lets out a chuff of a laugh, a mix of disbelief and fondness, before he resumes gently patting Tim’s back. Rubbing small circles into the knotted muscles of his shoulders, carefully avoiding the deep purple bruising littering his skin. His voice is soft, muttering calming words as if that could somehow ease the turmoil his friend’s stomach is trying to expel.
"Easy, Tim. Just breathe," he murmurs, his hand moving in rhythmic patterns, trying to offer whatever comfort he can. It feels foreign but natural to do. Tim always seemed to elicit that certain feeling.
After what feels like an eternity, Tim finally lifts his head again. His eyes are red-rimmed, and streaks of tears trail down his face. Spit and bile cling to the corners of his mouth and chin, the mess a stark contrast to the frailness in his expression. Somehow, he looks worse than he did when Kon first walked in. Another cringe forms on his face, the smell filling the bathroom is slightly overpowering for his already sensitive nose. Whatever disgusting smelling thing Tim had been dipped in before this, and now the smell of his stomach contents, or what was left of them.
Looking at him, Kon can’t help but wince, the sight of him pulling at something deep in his chest, a mix of frustration and concern. Conner removes his hand from Tim’s hair, his movements almost rehearsed as he reaches for some toilet paper. With a softness that feels too gentle even for him, he wipes Tim’s mouth, brushing away the mess with careful motions. His other hand stays firmly on Tim’s back, grounding him, feeling the slight shiver that runs through Tim’s body, barely noticeable, but impossible to miss. He needs to get Tim off this floor.
Tim looks a little more lucid now, his face resting on his arm instead of the toilet bowl. His eyes are open but heavy, slowly sinking closed the longer Kon watches him. Time’s clearly not on his side. Before he makes any moves, Kon speaks up, wanting to give Tim a heads-up, at least to try and avoid another attack on his ribs. Not that it would hurt him, but it’d certainly make moving him a lot harder if Tim’s still throwing punches.
“Hey, Tim,” he murmurs softly, “I’m moving you now, okay?”
Kon shifts to lift Tim again, bracing himself for whatever weak resistance might come. There's no frantic flailing this time. Just the faintest of attempts from Tim to claw at his arms, a feeble gesture more from instinct than strength. The lack of any serious struggle gives Kon the confidence he needs to pick Tim up more securely, being careful not to put any pressure on his stomach. And, of course, invulnerable skin has its perks. Tim’s nails don’t even leave a mark. Still, it’s a delicate balance, lifting Tim without making things worse, trying to get him to somewhere safe before the fever drags him further under. Positioning him in a bridle carry, seems to be the most effective. Tim’s face falling onto his chest.
Talking to Tim earlier seemed to help, so Kon continues the quiet whispers, the light jokes, soft and steady, narrating every move as he carefully carries him.
“Come on, Boy Blunder. Time for bed,” he lightly jokes, the words barely more than a breath. His tone is playful, but there's an undercurrent of something else, concern, tenderness. A feeble attempt to keep Tim grounded, even if just for a moment. Kon makes his way to Tim’s room, and as expected, it’s an organized mess. Papers scattered in a way that probably only Tim can make sense of. A few old mugs and cans are piled on the desk, their contents long forgotten, an unpleasant mystery of their own. An open laptop showing a screen Kon doesn’t think he can make sense of even if he tried. He never was particularly good at coding. Not like Tim.
The clothes are folded into neat piles, but they haven’t quite made it to the dresser. His bed isn’t made either, the covers draped across the floor as if someone had abruptly gotten out of it, mid-movement. Clearly an indication of what had occurred earlier. It’s a familiar scene, one that’s comforting in its own chaotic way. Tim’s life, in all its cluttered, imperfect glory. Kon gently lays Tim down on the bed, making sure to position him on his side, just in case his stomach decides to betray him again. A moment later, an idea hits him. He quickly moves to grab a bowl, something to catch whatever might come up next. As he goes to move, he gently untangles himself from Tim’s nails, still stubbornly digging into his arm, the sharpness a reminder of how even in his weakened state, Tim is still very much Tim.
Stepping into the kitchen, Connor rummages through the drawers, his eyes scanning for something, anything, that would work. It doesn’t take long before he finds an old glass bowl, one he’s pretty sure Tim’s butler used to give him leftovers in. It’s not much, but it’ll do. Hopefully Alfred doesn’t want this back. He picks it up, turning it over in his hands for a moment, making sure it’s clean enough for what he needs. Next he grabs a glass of water, that always helps sick people, right? Kon’s also pretty sure sick people need medicine, although the sad excuse in Tim’s bathroom didn’t seem like it would help. After rummaging around some more in his kitchen he finds some painkillers and what he thinks is cold medicine.
He returns, placing the covers over Tim with the utmost care, making sure he's as comfortable as he can be in this state. Depositing the bowl on the bedside table, along with a glass of water he acquired whilst rummaging around in the kitchen. He sets the medication down as well before lightly shaking his shoulder.
“Tim?”
“Tim, you need to take this medicine.”
All he gets in response is a scarily Batman-esque grunt and Kon takes a minute to process that thought, a small smile on his face. Tim would kill him if he ever told him of that comparison.
“Alright but don’t come crying when you feel like crap.”
He sets the medicine down on the bedside table next to the glass of water.
Kon is all but ready to leave, ready to forget the entire ordeal, to slip back into his usual routine of pretending nothing ever happened. Maybe he'd dodge meeting up again for a couple of months and act like this never happened. But then, Tim mutters something so soft, so faint, that Kon might’ve missed it if not for his super hearing.
“…don’t leave.”
It’s half mumbled, barely audible but the words are heavy, vulnerable, laced with something raw that makes Kon freeze in place, his breath catching in his throat. Tim’s voice is barely above a whisper, but it feels like a weight that’s impossible to ignore. He’s not even sure if Tim is even conscious but regardless, he can’t leave now. Kon sighs quietly, resigning himself to staying a little longer as he positions himself against the side of the bed. His mind runs through the possibilities. What else can he do? What would actually help? His gaze drifts to Tim’s face, his forehead now bare, strands of damp hair sticking to his skin in some places and sticking up wildly in others. There’s even a flattened patch where he had been leaning against Kon earlier, a small, unintentional imprint of their brief contact.
Kon huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. Tim would probably hate knowing he looks this helpless.
"You’re a real piece of work, you know that?" Kon mumbles, more to himself than anything, his words laced with more fondness than malice. It’s the kind of line they’ve thrown at each other a thousand times, but today, it feels different. An uncomfortable fondness creeps into Conner’s chest, something he’s not entirely ready to acknowledge.
Shaking it off, he pushes himself up and heads back to the bathroom. The discarded t-shirt still sits in a small puddle of water where it had fallen from Tim’s forehead, a reminder of their earlier struggle. He should probably find something more appropriate, something meant for this but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to leave Tim for too long. Instead, he picks it up, runs it under some lukewarm water, wrings it out, and makes his way back to Tim’s bedside. Carefully, he presses the damp fabric to Tim’s forehead, his other hand brushing back the unruly strands of hair that cling to his skin. It’s a small thing, a quiet effort to offer some relief. He tells himself that’s all it is. Nothing more. But Kon can’t seem to take his hand away. Even after adjusting the makeshift towel, his fingers remain steady in Tim’s hair, smoothing through the tangles and mats with absentminded care. Occasionally, his nails scrape lightly against Tim’s scalp, a rhythmic motion he doesn’t fully register until it’s too late to stop.
He should stop. It’s weird . Too soft, too much. But he doesn’t.
And then, Tim,half-lucid, fever-dazed leans into the touch, just slightly. Barely noticeable, but it’s there. A quiet surrender to the comfort, a wordless plea for it to continue.
Kon swallows hard, staring down at him. Yeah. He’s really not leaving anytime soon.
…
Conner wakes with a start, his body jolting slightly as his mind catches up. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but at some point, exhaustion must have won. It takes him a second to process where he is and what he was doing. He was on the floor, right? Keeping watch, making sure Tim didn’t choke in his sleep or spontaneously combust from the fever. But now… now he’s on the bed.
Not just on the bed. He’s practically wrapped around Tim.
At some point during the night, he must have shifted, crawled up onto the mattress without even realizing it. And Tim… Tim is wedged underneath him, facing toward him, his breathing slow and steady. His dark lashes flutter faintly against Kon’s T-shirt, his face so close that Kon can feel the warmth of his fevered skin even through the fabric. Kon doesn’t move. He should, but he doesn’t. His mind is blank, caught somewhere between disbelief and something else, something much harder to name.
He’s officially the worst nurse ever.
Kon is mildly surprised Tim didn’t wake up and drop-kick him the second he got too close, but honestly, that says more about Tim’s current state than anything else. Fever-drunk and exhausted, he’s barely functioning and vulnerable in a way Kon has never really seen before. And yet, here Kon is, fully aware of the situation, still lying there, still touching him. He doesn’t want to let go.
Because yeah, his hand is still in Tim’s hair.
Cradling the back of his head, holding him just a little closer, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he didn’t just wake up to find himself tangled around his delirious best friend in the middle of the night. He should move. He really should. But he doesn’t. Instead, he watches the slow rise and fall of Tim’s chest, listens to the soft, steady breaths against his shirt. And for a moment, just a moment. He lets himself get comfortable.
It had been too long since he last saw Tim, since they talked like they used to, joking, bickering, just existing in each other’s space like it was second nature. Tim had seemed off ever since Kon came back. Distant. Guarded. He heard bits and pieces from Cassie, mentions of how rough things had been when he was gone. And then… Paris. Kon can admit, at least to himself, that he put up some distance after learning about that ordeal. Who wouldn’t? The whole thing was messy, painful, complicated in ways he wasn’t ready to unpack. So he didn’t. But then, in one of the conversations he had with Clark, Tim’s name came up. And Clark, Superman , of all people, wore the guiltiest look Kon had seen in a long time. That had stuck with him.
Kon had been pissed when he found out what happened.
For a group of superheroes who dealt with genius-level villains. Villains who often turned to evil because they were dismissed as crazy. You’d think they’d have more sense than to treat Tim the same way. To brush him off, push him aside, and then, after what was clearly a full-blown breakdown, just leave him alone. It made Kon a little sick to think about. But at the same time… he got it. At least a little. He understood why they didn’t immediately believe Tim. He goes back and forth on whether he would’ve believed him if he had been alive back then.
Which is a weird thought to have. A paradox he doesn’t like dwelling on. He’s still not completely over the fact that he died and he missed things, a lot of things. Maybe he wouldn’t have believed him, but he knows he wouldn’t have left him like that. Not completely. Not alone. Tim had always been able to convince him of anything, anyway. The guy had enough charisma to sell him air if he really tried. He’d followed Tim into crazy battles so many times that there’s not much he wouldn’t believe, Tim’s judgement was always clouded with some sort of reason.
It was an aspect of Tim that he hated as well as loved. As well as the reason they butted heads so often when they first met. Two guys who think they are in charge and know best? Yeah, they were destined to disagree. Kon always thought it was what made them closer in the end as well.
Looking down at Tim, his warm breath against his chest, it’s crazy to think how they started out. If he told himself when he had first met Tim that he’d end up in this situation, he’d probably punt himself into the sun. They’ve both come a long way, a lot of things have happened, a lot of things he doesn’t even know where to begin to understand. Especially his time away. No one seems to know exactly what Tim got up to on his year long excursion. Not even the Bats.
And that’s the part that worries Kon the most. Tim’s always been tight-lipped about his solo missions, about the things he does when no one’s looking. He’s pretty sure half the missions they did as the Teen Titans aren’t even documented.
But for an entire year ? Completely off the radar? No one? Not even the world’s greatest detective has answers. That’s not just secrecy. That’s something else. The new scars, fresh and jagged over old wounds, don’t do much to ease the pit in his stomach either.
Looking down at Tim again, Kon can see some of the newer scars, stark against his pale skin. One in particular catches his eye. A long, jagged line slashing across his chest. He’d noticed it earlier, but seeing it again now, twisted slightly where Tim is still curled up against him, sends a fresh wave of dread through him. He’d X-rayed him earlier, just to be sure. Everything looked fine. But something had felt… off. Like there was something missing, something not quite right. And that unsettles him more than anything.
He wanted to ask Clark if he’d noticed anything weird. He was always better at catching subtle issues with his X-ray vision, probably because he’d had it longer. However, trying to convince either Tim or Clark to interact for the sake of Tim’s health? Yeah, that was a losing battle. Tim would brush it off, act like he was fine even if he was actively dying. And Clark? Clark would just get that look, the one that was equal parts concern and hesitation, like he wanted to help but didn’t know if he should. Kon wasn’t in the mood to deal with either of them being stubborn. One is enough at any given time.
Clark was always a little cagey when it came to the Bats, or more so the Birds.
He loved Nightwing, though, to be fair, who didn’t?
But the rest of them?
There was always a distance, a careful sort of detachment, like he wasn’t sure how much trust to extend. Although, from what Kon’s heard, the new Robin’s friendship with Jon might be changing that perspective. It was both a cute and concerning friendship. He’s not even sure how that one came about and he’s not entirely sure he wants to know.
Clark himself had changed toward him too, ever since he came back. There was something different in the way he spoke to Kon now, more careful, maybe a little more gentle. Like he was afraid Kon might disappear again if he wasn’t careful.
His hands stilled in Tim’s hair as his mind drifted to that particular topic. The pause in movement earned him a displeased sigh from Tim, who unconsciously leaned closer, chasing the comfort. Kon always knew Tim was a sucker for affection, even if he never admitted it. With a small huff, Kon resumed the slow, absentminded motions, letting himself get lost in thought again.
His relationship with Clark had always been a weird topic. Not bad, never bad, exactly. Just… complicated.
Too much history, too many expectations, some spoken, some not. He was never sure where he stood, and now, after everything, it felt even more uncertain. Clark had changed toward him, but Kon wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. If it was better or worse than before. It was just different. And different was hard to place. I suppose that’s what dying does to you. At least Jon still treated him the same, if not a bit more clingy.
Then again, Jon seemed to like a tiny assassin with an attitude problem, who also happened to be the literal spawn of Batman. Kon couldn’t help but laugh a little at the thought. He just hoped that whatever chaotic energy was rubbing off on Jon wouldn’t lead him down the same path. He liked being a normal big brother, the kind who can give advice on whatever weird stuff Jon’s going through, without worrying about his little brother developing a murderous streak.
Hell, Tim struggled with having murderous siblings, and if Tim couldn’t handle it well, Kon wasn’t sure he could either. Jon was his family. He didn’t want to see him dragged into that world of shadows, knives, and blood. He wonders if Clark and Lois think the same, although if they did they probably wouldn’t agree with the friendship as much as they do. What really bothered him, though, was how Clark seemed so hesitant about his friendship with Tim.
Clark had never said it outright, but there was always this undercurrent of uncertainty whenever Tim’s name came up, this almost protective hesitation like he was waiting for Kon to be dragged into something he wouldn’t be able to get out of. It was frustrating, because Kon had been through hell and back, and he knew what kind of person Tim was, terrifyingly intelligent personality and all. Tim was the person to drag him out of all the situations he couldn’t get out of. Tim wasn’t perfect, but he sure as hell wasn’t dangerous in the way Clark feared. But the way Clark looked at him sometimes… It was like he still saw the kid who got caught up in everything and was too much to handle.
And that stung.
As if on cue, Tim stirs slightly, dragging Kon out of his spiraling thoughts. The absurdity of what he’d been doing hits him like a ton of bricks. Petting his sick best friend in his bed while pondering his weird daddy issues. The blush creeps up his neck at the realization. What the hell was he doing?
In his defense, he usually pets Krypto in a similar way when he is deep in thought. That was all it was, the familiarity of running his hands through soft hair just brings it out of him, that’s what he’s telling himself. But This was different. Very different. The feeling was somehow warmer, more intimate, and definitely not something he should be doing so casually. Tim continues to stir, his frown deepening as his body shifts under the blankets. The heat radiating from him feels almost unbearable, and Kon can feel the weight of it, his concern growing. Small mutterings escape Tim’s lips, slurred and filled with pleading. A nightmare.
The kind of nightmare that feels real, too real, from the looks of things. One that is haunting him even in the deepest parts of sleep. He knew the feeling too well. Tim’s brow furrows even more, his eyes squeezed shut, fighting something in the depths of his subconscious. Kon can hear the shaky breaths, the raw edge to his voice, the tears starting to stain his shirt and it tightens something in his chest. He’s seen Tim fight this kind of thing before, but never like this. Not with this level of desperation. Adding to the list of new things Tim seems to have picked up whilst he was gone.
Kon doesn’t know what to do, but the urge to do something is overwhelming. He wants to pull him out of it, make him stop hurting, even if it’s just for a few seconds. He reaches his other hand out, hesitating for a moment, before gently brushing Tim’s hair away from his forehead. His touch is soft, almost careful, like he’s afraid to break him further.
"Hey, Tim," he murmurs quietly, his voice just above a whisper, “You’re safe. You’re alright."
He keeps his other hand on Tim’s head, a subtle grounding touch, hoping it’s enough to anchor him back to the present, away from whatever nightmare is gripping him.
Tim's whimpering only intensifies, his body shifting restlessly beneath the covers. Kon watches as the frantic movements become more desperate, more erratic. The nightmare’s grip still hasn’t loosened, and it’s only making everything worse. Kon can feel it coming before Tim shoots up, his eyes wide but unseeing, the kind of look that screams panic and confusion. Kon knows that look all too well. He knows exactly what it means.
He’s going to throw up again.
In an instant, Kon untangles himself from the blankets, his heart hammering in his chest. He grabs the plastic bowl he had set aside earlier. Tim’s already on the edge, and Kon can’t waste a second. With swift, practiced movements, he maneuvers himself behind Tim, carefully positioning the bowl in front of him just in time. Tim's body trembles, and then the inevitable happens. Kon’s grip tightens on the bowl, his other hand steadying Tim’s back as his body finally expels whatever was tormenting him. The sounds are heavy, guttural, and each one seems to pull something deeper from Tim, a rawness Kon wishes he could take away. He keeps his focus, maintaining that steady hand at holding back his hair, trying to comfort in the only way he can. His heart aches as he watches Tim continue to struggle, but all he can do is be there, silent, present, and steady. Although he’s still not entirely sure if Tim even knows he’s there.
In the end, it seems all he’s got left in his stomach is bile. He sets the bowl aside with a weary sigh, reaching instead for the glass of water, nudging Tim to take a sip. A half-formed memory nags at him, reminding him you're not supposed to drink right after losing your lunch, but it’s better than nothing, right?
Tim, though, with his own brand of weary wisdom, doesn’t drink. Instead, he lets the water swish around his mouth like some half-forgotten ritual before spitting it back into the bowl with a faint, disgusted flicker in his eyes. Tim leans back against him, a moment of acknowledgment flickering across his face. Kon, almost instinctively, pulls his hand from Tim’s tangled hair where he was holding it back, his fingers lingering a moment before they fall away. “You holding up okay?” His voice is soft, hesitant, like he’s bracing for a dismissal he knows is coming. He can almost feel the ticking clock, knowing any second now, Tim might push him away, tell him to leave.
But Tim doesn’t pull away. Instead, he leans into him, a low grunt escaping as he mumbles, “Kon?” His words are thick, slow, but there’s no push to get him to leave, no irritated gesture to wave him off. He’s still in that fog, disoriented, clearly too far gone to even consider sending Kon away. The question in them is obvious, at least to him.
“You did invite me over, remember?” Kon teases, a sarcastic grin tugging at his lips. “Can’t believe you forgot date night.” He knows Tim probably isn’t in the mood for his usual antics, but Conner’s only human, a simple man, really, and that means he’ll keep annoying Tim for as long as he possibly can. Till the end of his days, probably. All he gets in response is a half-hearted groan, Tim burying his face in his hands, leaning forward, the warmth of his skin that was once pressed against him now frighteningly cold. And then it hits him. The awkward realization that they're practically spooning, with Tim still shirtless, in his boxers. It takes everything in Conner not to panic, to fight the sudden rush of heat creeping up his neck. Tim is sick, and above all, he’s his best friend. It's not the time to think about anything else. He forces himself to breathe, to just focus on the fact that Tim needs him, so much easier said than done.
"Can you take these, please?”
It’s a good distraction for his mind as he scoops up the medicine he’d set aside earlier, he’d triple checked the dosage just in case. Tim heaved himself up from his curled shrimp position, head falling back on Kon’s shoulder. Kon holds the small pills out on his hand as Tim carefully picks them up and downs them, taking a small sip from the glass Kon had lifted up to him. A scene that’s vaguely reminiscent of feeding birds, Kon laughs slightly at the thought. Tim was his Robin after all.
Trying to keep things light, Kon cracks a wry smile and gives in to the inevitable.
“You need me to go? As fun as this has been for both of us, we can always reschedule.” He says it with a hint of humor, though inside he tries not to let his hopes rise too high. But after a few moments of silence, with no response from Tim, Kon leans forward to get a better look, only to find Tim, oblivious, slumped back into sleep. His head had fallen forward and to the side in what will be an absurdly uncomfortable position after a couple of minutes . Kon winces at the thought of how bad the crick in his neck would feel if he left him like that. Without a second thought, he gently pulls him back up, settling him more comfortably against his chest, offering whatever small comfort he can, even if Tim is too out of it to notice. I guess that answers that question.
Kon shifts around, trying to get comfortable on Tim’s bed, though with jeans and a t-shirt, it’s a struggle. He’s at least glad he’d taken his shoes off when he walked in, or he'd be even more restless. Tim’s breathing is steady now, deep, rhythmic huffs of air, his head tilted back against Kon’s shoulder. The heat radiating off of him seems to be subsiding, or maybe Kon is just getting used to it, the initial burn of it dulling with time. The makeshift t-shirt towel is nowhere to be found now, either buried beneath them or lost somewhere off the bed entirely, and Kon doesn’t have it in him to go hunting for it. With a slow, steady breath, he shifts his arms around Tim, pulling him in a little closer, making sure he’s comfortable. Then the weight of the day crumbles upon him, the tension finally releasing in his muscles, and before he can stop it, exhaustion creeps in, tugging at his eyelids. He doesn’t know what time it is, probably late, given how dark it is outside but it’s not like it matters. Feeling the warmth of Tim beside him, his heartbeat calming, alive . Kon lets the quiet pull of sleep take over, his mind slipping into a peaceful blur.
…
When Kon wakes again, the world feels disorienting. The warmth of the blankets is around him, but Tim is gone. He blinks a few times, trying to shake the fog in his mind, but the empty space where Tim had been just a few hours ago makes him question whether it all was a dream. For a brief moment, it feels like the whole ordeal, Tim sick, the quiet moments between them was nothing more than a figment of his imagination. But the unfamiliar bed, the strange bedroom, quickly pulls him back to reality. A faint smell of bacon wafts through the air, making his stomach stir, and he hears the soft clink of pans and dishes, the sound of someone moving around in the kitchen. The door to the living room is slightly ajar, just enough for the noise to drift in. Tim must be up, probably feeling better, at least he hopes so. Kon stretches, rubs his eyes, and takes a slow, steady breath, trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep as the scent of breakfast lures him out of bed.
“Tim?” Kon calls out, his voice rough from sleep, as he stretches and scratches at his stomach, a yawn escaping him. He hopes it’s Tim in the kitchen, because the thought of anyone else in the house makes his stomach twist. The other possibilities for who could be behind that door are a list of people he’d rather die again than meet like this. He gives a small shudder at the thought.
As Kon’s gaze drifts toward the kitchen, he sees Tim standing there, he seems to have found some pajama bottoms on but as expected, still without a shirt. He’s standing over a pan of sizzling bacon, the sound of it crackling filling the silence. Tim’s dark circles under his eyes are still there, but they seem a little less deep than yesterday, and the sickly, pale hue to his skin has faded, though not completely. Kon wouldn’t exactly call him healthy , but he definitely looks better, like maybe the worst of it is over. Despite the lingering exhaustion on Tim’s face, there’s a certain steadiness in his movements, a sign that he’s starting to feel like himself again, at least a little. Kon can’t help but smile at the sight, grateful for the improvement, even if it’s small.
Tim’s voice cuts through the air, hoarse and still carrying that nasally undertone, unmistakable proof that he’s still not quite himself. “You want bacon?” Tim asks, his attention half on the pan, flipping the sizzling strips with a practiced ease that seems out of place given how sick he looked the night before. Kon watches him for a moment, taking in the way Tim’s voice cracks slightly, how he’s trying to act normal despite everything. It’s almost endearing, but also a little worrying. Still, the offer hangs in the air, and Kon can’t help but feel relieved. At least Tim’s on his feet. That’s a start.
"Yes, please," Kon replies, his voice light, trying to break the growing tension that seems to hang in the air. He flashes a teasing grin and adds, "You know, I never took you for the housewife type." Tim’s head snaps toward him, and the glare he gets in return is so sharp, Kon can’t help but chuckle. That familiar, annoyed look, he’s missed it more than he realized. It’s a strange comfort, like things are slowly starting to go back to normal, or at least as close to normal as they can get. The tension in his chest eases a little, the air feeling less thick with unsaid things. Maybe it’s just the bacon, maybe it’s the familiarity, but for a moment, everything feels okay again.
Kon’s grin fades as he watches Tim carefully, the words already lingering at the back of his throat. He takes a deep breath, deciding it’s now or never. Might as well get this over with.
"Wanna tell me what happened?" he asks, his voice a little more serious now, as Tim finishes plating the bacon and takes a seat at the kitchen island. The island looks like it could be in some glossy magazine, sleek and polished, completely at odds with the chaotic energy Tim usually brings. But there they are, sitting across from each other in an almost surreal moment, the weight of unspoken things hanging between them. Kon can feel the tension shift again, the air growing heavy. He's not sure how Tim will react. He’s also not entirely sure himself what he’s referring to, Tim being sick could be a fluke though he doesn’t quite believe that. But it’s also an invitation to talk about anything, really. Everything that he’s missed.
“I was sick, what do you mean, what happened?” Tim replies with his usual cutting sarcasm, his tone sharp and dismissive. His eyes don’t meet Kon’s, though, and that speaks volumes. The way his voice stays steady, calm, like it always does doesn’t fool Kon. He’s spent enough time with Tim to know when something’s off, even if Tim tries to hide it behind that indifferent front and steady heartbeat. Conner can see the slight tightness in Tim’s shoulders, the way his fingers fidget around the edge of the plate, trying to distract himself. It’s the little things, the unspoken cues, that always gave him away. And right now, everything inside Kon is telling him that Tim isn’t being honest.
Kon raises an eyebrow, his silence stretching longer than usual. He knows better than to push too hard. Hounding Tim only ever leads to one of two things: getting kicked out or starting a fight, and both of those are things he’d rather avoid.
“Fine,” he finally says, leaning back slightly, trying to play it cool. He’ll tell him when he’s ready. “How are you feeling now then?”
He knows this route probably won’t get him much either, but it’s worth a shot. At least it’s a way in without pushing too hard. He watches Tim closely, his mind already working, trying to read between the lines of that guarded exterior. There’s one thing Kon knows for sure: Tim doesn’t get sick. Not unless something has gone horribly wrong. That alone is enough to make him pause, especially when he remembers how Tim completely spaced on their plans to hang out. It’s not like him. Not at all. Kon’s mind starts turning, a thousand little questions building in the quiet moments. What’s been keeping Tim so busy? What could’ve happened that threw him off so completely?
He watches Tim out of the corner of his eye, trying to gauge whether there's something more buried beneath the surface, something Tim isn’t saying. It’s frustrating, but it also feels like a puzzle, and Conner’s never been one to back down from solving a mystery.
“I feel… better.”
“Turns out trying to throw up your stomach is actually really cleansing,” Tim says, his usual dry humor creeping back into his voice.
Kon lets out a quiet breath, relieved. At least Tim’s back to joking. A dead-serious Tim? That’s a version Kon isn’t equipped to deal with, especially not after waking up in clothes that are still from yesterday, disoriented and already out of his depth. The banter, the sarcasm, that’s what he can handle. It’s familiar ground. So, when Tim cracks a joke, even one that’s just a little dark, Kon feels a flicker of normalcy return. It’s small, but it's enough to remind him they’re not as far off as he feared.
“Yeah, I’m just glad you didn’t manage to spew any on me,” Kon responds with a grin, his tone light and jovial, the words slipping out naturally as he leans back slightly. The familiar teasing feels like a breath of fresh air, and he lets out a small laugh, genuinely relieved to be back to this. Even after everything, their banter is a lifeline, the one thing that hasn’t changed. Tim might be a little worse for wear, but he’s still Tim, and Kon’s not about to let go of that.
"You mind telling me how I completely slipped your mind? Or was this just an elaborate scheme for some free medical care?" Kon teases, a smirk playing on his lips. Keeping things light was always the safer bet with Tim, better this than dealing with the alternative.
"Please, if I were after free healthcare, I’d have gone to Alfred," Tim scoffs, rolling his eyes.
Kon waits, arms crossed, watching as Tim carefully avoids his gaze. He knows the drill, getting a straight answer out of him is like pulling teeth. Silence stretches between them until Tim finally exhales, the weight of the question pressing down on him. "Alright, fine," he relents. "I’ve been a little out of it, and it just... slipped my mind. A stakeout went a little sideways, and I might've taken an unplanned swim. That’s all."
Kon arches a brow. Somehow, he doubts that’s all.
"A swim in Gotham Harbor ?" Kon repeats, incredulous. He watches as Tim’s expression flickers, just a hint of embarrassment, but enough to confirm his suspicion.
"The same harbor that’s basically toxic sludge? Easily the most disgusting water in the country, probably the world? Pretty sure I’ve seen things fall in and never come back up." He crosses his arms, shaking his head. "Tim, that’s not a dip. That’s a biohazard. Explains the smell though.”
For once, Tim actually looks a little guilty. He shifts on his feet, avoiding Kon’s gaze, and the small, rough coughs slipping past his lips are enough to make Kon shelve his lecture for now. "I was down for like five minutes," Tim mutters, as if that somehow makes it better. "Didn’t even finish patrol after." He shrugs, but then, almost as an afterthought, he adds in a barely audible whisper, "Plus, it was more of a waterboarding than a dip." But Kon hears it. Oh, he definitely hears it.
Sighing, Kon runs a hand through his hair, already feeling the beginnings of a headache. "Please, at least tell me you got checked out before coming home?"
Tim rolls his eyes, arms crossing in that stubborn way Kon knows all too well. "Of course I did," he scoffs. "I’m not an idiot." His heartbeat speeds up a fraction and Kon has to stop himself from double taking, he’s slipping.
Conner narrows his eyes. " Debatable. "
Tim meets Conner’s stare head-on, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Coming from the guy who climbed into bed with a sick person.” A faint blush creeps up Kon’s neck, but he recovers quickly. “Said sick person who I was trying to take care of,” he shoots back, crossing his arms.
Tim raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Uh-huh. Great job, Nurse Conner. Really top-tier decision-making. I wonder why all nurses don’t do that.”
Kon huffs out a laugh, shaking his head with a playful grin. “You say that like you weren’t enjoying my top-tier cuddling. You’re lucky I’m not charging you for my expertise.” Tim's face flushes slightly, but he quickly masks it with a shrug. "Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that," he mutters, though there's a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
They continue talking, their usual back-and-forth flowing back with ease, like nothing ever happened. The rhythm of their conversations feels natural again, and for a moment, Kon lets himself relax, savoring the familiar exchange. It’s like nothing’s changed. Tim is still the same, sarcastic, self-assured mess he’s always been. And in that moment, Kon realizes just how much he’s missed this, missed Tim .
Sure, Tim’s a little different, there’s something heavier about him now, something unspoken but he’s still unapologetically himself, and Kon feels a lump in his throat. It’s a quiet ache, the kind that makes him regret waiting so long. He could’ve been here, could’ve been around when Tim needed him. But now, all he can do is enjoy the moments they still have, even if it means carrying the weight of the past along with them.
As they finish their bacon, it’s barely enough to fill the space in his stomach, but it seems to do the trick for Tim. He watches as Tim’s movements grow more sluggish, his usual sharpness dulled, and a deep weariness seems to seep into his bones, like he’s running on fumes. Tim’s still in the same pajamas he wore yesterday, hair a tangled mess, sticking up in odd directions. Kon has to fight back a laugh at the sight. Tim, who’s always been so put-together, now looks like a walking disaster. It’s almost endearing, and for a moment, he lets himself enjoy it, the absurdity of the situation grounding him.
“Dude, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck and then dragged through a bush and then pissed on by a homeless guy, I mean pee-yew” Conner finally says, a hand to hold his nose in fake disgust while the other dramatically wafts the air. His voice teasing, though there’s no malice behind it, just that familiar, affectionate jab.
“You gonna go shower?” Kon asks casually, his voice light as he finishes disposing of his plate, hoping Tim will take the bait. Tim turns to him, a slight hesitation in his gaze, before his eyes flick down to himself. It’s almost as if he’s just now fully processing his disheveled state, pajamas still on, hair a mess, and that pink flush creeping up his ears. Kon can see the realization hit, and Tim hums in reluctant agreement, his voice quieter than usual. “Yeah, I guess I should. You wouldn’t believe that I showered after patrol, would you?.” There's that old dry humor again, even if it's tinged with the weight of the exhaustion still on him.
"Are you staying?" Tim asks, his tone casual, almost as if it’s no big deal. But Kon catches the slight tension in his shoulders, the barely-there hint that betrays the question as more than just a passing remark. It’s an invitation, plain and simple. Kon feels a brief flutter of something in his chest, but he plays it cool, not wanting to overthink it. "Well, I was thinking of sticking around," Kon responds with a grin, matching Tim’s nonchalant tone. "Unless, of course, you want me to hit the road?" He raises an eyebrow, waiting for Tim’s answer, but it’s clear to him now, Tim’s asking, even if he’s pretending he’s not. He wants him to stay, to continue to talk, and maybe he’ll manage to get it out of him what he’s hiding.
Tim huffs out in exaggerated annoyance and tosses a tea towel straight at Kon’s face, the playful gesture breaking the last of the tension. Kon laughs, ducking just in time to avoid it, the sound a familiar, comforting thing. But then, just as Tim is about to retreat into his apartment, he pauses at the sight of Kon, still in yesterday’s clothes, rumpled and clearly uncomfortable.
A small smile tugs at the corners of Tim’s lips, and he tosses out, almost shyly, “There’s some spare clothes in my room if you want.” The suggestion is there, clear as day, even if Tim’s trying to play it off like it’s no big deal. Kon doesn’t even need to think twice. The warmth of his clothes, muggy and slightly sticky with stains from what he hopes is just water although now with the knowledge of where that water had been, he isn’t sure it’s much better than the alternative.
“Yeah, I’ll take you up on that,” Kon says, a little too eager, a hint of relief creeping into his voice. As Tim disappears into the bathroom, Kon hurries toward the room, eager to ditch the uncomfortable mess he’s in. The awkwardness between them is gone for now, replaced by something easier, something Kon is thankful for.
Kon emerges from Tim’s room a few minutes later, now dressed in black Nightwing sweatpants that he’s definitely sure Tim didn’t buy, and a random hoodie that’s just a little too small on him, the sleeves riding up his arms. It’s a comfortable, slightly mismatched look, but he doesn’t care. He’s just relieved to be out of his own clothes. He slumps onto Tim’s couch, sinking into the softness of it, the cushions almost swallowing him whole. There are about a dozen blankets scattered across it, in varying degrees of disarray, and Kon lets himself get pulled into the comfort of the space. He stretches out, adjusting himself before lazily flipping the TV on. Mindless reality channels flicker across the screen, the voices and sounds blending into the background as Kon leans back, letting the calm of the moment wash over him.
Tim isn’t telling him everything, Kon thinks, though he knows that’s nothing new. Tim’s always been good at hiding what really matters, always keeping a few things locked away behind that quiet, unreadable demeanor. But Kon’s not giving up. Eventually, he’ll get the answers he’s looking for, even if it takes time. He wants to know what case he’s working on, what’s weighing on him. He wants to know what’s new and what’s old with Tim. Why he’s got that jagged scar now, why he seems quieter, more distant than Kon remembers. He might even talk about Paris, something that’s been buried for too long. But for now, those questions can wait. When Tim finally comes out of the bathroom, his hair still damp and falling over his eyes, dressed in basketball shorts and a slightly oversized hoodie with the speedster emblem on it, Kon’s thoughts fade away, just for a moment. The weariness in Tim’s face, the exhaustion lingering in his posture, it's all there. But the sight of him, so familiar and so effortlessly Tim, makes something inside Kon soften. He watches as Tim flops onto the couch, his legs stretching across Kon’s, and it hits him all over again. He just wants to enjoy this. Enjoy the softness of being together, the quietness between them. No questions, no weight on their shoulders for now just the warmth of Tim, the closeness of the moment. It’s enough. For now, it’s more than enough.
As Tim slowly fades back to sleep, his body shifting closer and closer to Kon, a warmth settles in his chest. It’s a quiet, comforting kind of feeling, like everything in the world is momentarily on pause. There’s time enough for all the questions Kon has, he’ll make sure of that. He’ll find the answers, piece them together, and get Tim to open up when he’s ready. But for now, in this stillness, with Tim’s presence soft and steady beside him, is enough.
…