Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim Drake was having a perfectly normal morning, which, in his world, meant mildly existential dread, caffeine withdrawals, and an internal debate about whether or not Bruce would notice if he replaced the entire Batcave coffee supply with decaf just to watch him implode.

He woke up groggy, limbs heavy, brain foggy. He reached for his slippers — which felt wrong. Too big. Too... farm-boy-sized.

Weird.

“Whatever,” he mumbled, his voice unusually deep and velvety. Oh well, puberty’s final revenge, maybe.

Half-asleep, he shuffled across the creaky wooden floor toward the bathroom. His body felt heavier than usual, meatier. Like he'd accidentally gone to the gym in his sleep and done too many deadlifts. Bruce would be proud, he thought, yawning.

He flicked on the bathroom light.

And froze.

No, worse than froze. His brain did a hard reboot, the kind of glitch that made you question reality.

The face in the mirror was not Tim Drake’s.

It was... sculpted. Heroic. Square-jawed and obnoxiously symmetrical. Sun-kissed skin. Hair like it had been personally styled by a Pantene commercial. It was the face of someone who didn't know what existential dread felt like. It was the face of someone who probably said things like, "Golly, shucks!" unironically.

The face of...

“CONNER KENT?!” Tim screeched, except the voice that came out was deep and heroic, like Superman reading an inspirational TED Talk.

The scream was so loud, the mirror cracked.

Nope nope nope nope—

Before Tim could recover, a warm, motherly voice floated down the hall:

“Conner, sweetie? Are you alright?”

Tim’s brain short-circuited.

Sweetie? No. No sweetie. I am not a sweetie. I am chaos incarnate, a creature fueled by coffee and spite—

And then, Ma Kent appeared at the doorway, wearing a cozy robe, her expression concerned but endlessly kind. The kind of woman who could bake pies and guilt-trip you into therapy with just one look.

“Oh heavens!” she gasped, seeing the shattered mirror. “What happened, honey?!”

Tim—in Conner’s body—snapped to attention like he’d just been caught breaking into Wayne Enterprises. Think, Drake. Think fast.

“Uh, hi, Ma—uh, Mom. Ma’am. Martha.” His mouth was moving, but the words were like throwing spaghetti at a wall and hoping for poetry.

“I, uh... screamed. Because. Uh. Spider.”

She blinked. “Spider?”

“Yes,” Tim said smoothly, pulling on every ounce of his Bat-trained lying skills. “A very... aggressive spider. Like, mutant aggressive. I screamed to scare it off.”

Martha tilted her head, her mom-sense clearly screaming liar, but her actual voice was warm. “Well, you always were dramatic in the mornings. You sure you’re alright, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

Tim’s soul left his body.

“Totally fine! Peak physical condition! Not panicking internally at all!”

He slapped on what he hoped was a Conner-ish grin, all teeth and farm-boy charm.

“By the way, uh, have you done something with your hair? Looks nice.”

Martha narrowed her eyes, clearly not buying it, but she was also too polite to question it further. “I’ll go make some pancakes. You get yourself cleaned up.”

As soon as she left, Tim slammed the bathroom door shut and hyperventilated.

“Okay,” he whispered to himself, clutching the sink. “This is fine. Totally fine. Normal, even.”

He stared at his—Conner’s—reflection, horrified.

“Why do you have such perfect cheekbones? That’s rude.”

He poked at his own—Conner’s—abs.

“Seriously? Eight-pack? Do you grow these in Kansas? Is it the corn?”

Tim splashed water on his face. It didn’t help.

“This is a dream. This has to be a dream,” he told himself. “Any second now, I’ll wake up in my normal, scrawny, Gotham body with at least three bruises and a migraine.”

He slapped his cheek. Hard.

“OW. Nope, still here. Great.”

The worst part? Out the bathroom window, all he could see was flat farmland and a giant red barn.

“...Where the hell am I?!” he demanded.

The answer came to him in a horrifying flash of realization.

“Kansas. Oh my god, I’m in KANSAS.”

Tim groaned, dragging a hand down his too-perfect face.

“Okay, okay, focus. Step one: don’t let Ma Kent realize her ‘sweet farm boy’ has been body-snatched by a neurotic detective gremlin. Step two: figure out what happened. Step three: wake up. Step four: yell at Conner for having the audacity to have this face.”

As he stalked toward the kitchen, he practiced his best Conner impression:

“Aw, shucks, Ma, I sure do love corn and justice!”

But inside, he was already plotting fifty-seven different escape routes—and possibly a way to blame Bart for this mess.

Tim Drake—trapped in Conner Kent’s annoyingly perfect body—sat at Ma Kent’s kitchen table, trying not to have a nervous breakdown while surrounded by gingham placemats and the faint smell of farm-fresh wholesomeness.

The room was so aggressively cozy it felt like a Hallmark movie had personally attacked him. Every surface was either covered in a quilt, a pie, or a well-polished ceramic chicken. Tim, who had been raised in Gotham where "home décor" meant bullet holes, was on the verge of screaming again.

And then there was breakfast.

Martha had cooked a feast—pancakes stacked like architectural marvels, bacon that somehow looked like it came from a stock photo, eggs so fluffy they could double as clouds.

It should have been paradise.

It was hell.

Because there was no coffee.

Tim sat there, staring at a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice like it had personally betrayed him. His left eye twitched.

“Um, Mrs. K—uh, Ma,” he said carefully, forcing Conner’s voice into something resembling farm-boy cheer. “Do you happen to have, you know, coffee? The nectar of life? The elixir of productivity? Liquid motivation?”

Martha smiled sweetly, and Tim immediately knew he was doomed.

“Oh, Conner, you know I don’t let you have coffee. It makes you too jittery.”

Tim blinked.

“Jittery?” he repeated flatly, internally screaming in Gothamite. “Jittery? No, Ma’am, caffeine balances my internal chaos. Without it, I will start seeing God and he will not like what he sees.”

Out loud, he said:

“Right! Haha. No coffee. Because… we’re wholesome here. Yay, orange juice.”

He downed the glass in one go like it was a shot of whiskey. It didn’t help.

Martha set a plate of pancakes in front of him, and Tim immediately began plotting her murder. Or maybe just a gentle kidnapping so he could interrogate her about where she hid the coffee machine.

He picked up a fork and took a bite, glaring at the golden perfection of the pancake like it had personally insulted him.

“Of course it’s delicious,” he muttered darkly. “Why wouldn’t it be? Everything here probably tastes like sunshine and moral superiority.”

Tim was halfway through trying to figure out how to fake Conner’s metabolism when a knock came at the front door.

Martha beamed. “Oh, that must be Clark! He said he was stopping by this morning.”

Tim’s entire body froze.

Clark?

As in Clark Kent?

As in Superman?

As in the literal most terrifying father figure on the planet—even scarier than Bruce because he smiled while judging you?

“No,” Tim said instantly. “Nope. Bad idea. Tell him to go home. Or fly into the sun. Either works.”

Martha gave him a puzzled look.

“Conner! That’s no way to talk about your father.”

“Not my father,” Tim muttered under his breath, then realized his mistake and quickly slapped on a fake grin.

“I mean, haha, Clark! Love that guy. So much. Can’t wait to… bond.”

The door opened, and there he was: Clark Kent, in all his corn-fed, all-American glory.

The man radiated sunshine and Dad Energy like it was a superpower. His smile was so bright it could have powered Gotham for a week.

“Conner!” Clark boomed, swooping into the room with the unstoppable force of a golden retriever who had just spotted his favorite human. “Son, I’ve been looking forward to this all week!”

Tim internally combusted.

Son?! I am not his son! I am a stressed-out detective gremlin trapped in a beefcake body! Oh god, oh no, he’s hugging me—

Clark scooped Tim into a bear hug so strong it was basically a friendly kidnapping.

Tim wheezed.

“So… strong… can’t… breathe…”

Clark laughed heartily and set him down.

“You’ve been working out!”

“Ha,” Tim said, voice high-pitched with panic. “Yep. Push-ups. Sit-ups. Fighting for my life. You know. Classic farm fun.”

Clark’s grin widened.

“I thought today we could do a little father-son bonding. Maybe some chores around the farm, then head into town for some ice cream, maybe even—”

“—kill me,” Tim whispered.

“What was that, son?”

“I said, uh, thrilling! Ice cream! Love it. Big fan of dairy-based bonding.”

As Clark launched into an enthusiastic speech about fence repairs and cow grooming, Tim’s detective brain kicked in.

Clark was watching him too closely. Not in a paranoid way—no, Clark’s scrutiny was terrifyingly gentle. Like a microscope wrapped in a hug.

Tim could tell Clark already suspected something. The slight narrowing of his eyes. The way his smile was just a fraction too sharp.

Oh god, he knows. He totally knows I’m not Conner. I’m about to be heat-visioned into ash before I finish this pancake.

Tim needed a distraction. Fast.

He grabbed another pancake and dramatically shoved it into his mouth, talking through it like a total menace.

“Mmph y’know, Pa, jus’ thinkin’ maybe we should—mmph—resched’l our lil’ bondin’ day. Y’know. Somethin’ came up. Kryptonite allergy. Very serious.”

Clark blinked. “Kryptonite allergy?”

“Yes!” Tim swallowed, fake-grinning like a shark. “Terrible thing. Highly contagious. Don’t want you catching it.”

Clark’s brows furrowed, clearly unconvinced.

“Conner, are you feeling alright? You seem… off.”

Tim’s heart stopped.

This is it. I’m dead. He’s going to laser me through the skull and Ma Kent will have to mop me off the quilted placemats.

But outwardly, Tim gave his most Conner-esque chuckle, all false confidence and farm-boy charm.

“Me? Off? Nah. I’m totally normal. Super normal. Kryptonically normal. Just your average, everyday corn-fed alien clone!”

Martha, bless her oblivious soul, clapped her hands.

“Well, I think you two should go out and have some fun today. A little fresh air will do wonders!”

Tim stared at her, silently screaming.

Fresh air meant exposure. Exposure meant being discovered.

Being discovered meant dying horribly in Kansas, surrounded by cows and moral righteousness.

“Yaaaaay,” Tim said weakly, as Clark clapped a giant hand on his shoulder with a grin.

“This is going to be the best day ever, son!”

Internally, Tim was already writing his will.

Tim Drake had been through some terrifying experiences in his life.

He’d been kidnapped by homicidal clowns.

He’d fought ninja death cults before breakfast.

He’d once had to explain TikTok to Bruce.

But this?

Standing in a Kansas field while Clark Kent—the literal Superman—beamed at him like a proud dad about to teach his kid to ride a bike?

This was a new circle of hell.

“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” Clark said, hands on his hips, framed by a backdrop of rolling fields and aggressively blue skies.

Tim squinted at him, the sunlight stabbing into his Gotham-trained retinas like a weapon.

“Sure,” he said, voice flat. “Beautiful. If you like wide open spaces and corn that’s probably plotting against you.”

Clark laughed warmly, as if Tim hadn’t just insulted half the Midwest.

“Come on, son, let’s get going.”

And then—because apparently gravity is optional for Kryptonians—Clark floated off the ground, rising smoothly like a goddamn helium balloon. His cape fluttered dramatically in the breeze like it had been personally choreographed by the wind.

Tim’s jaw went slack.

“Cool,” he said faintly, blinking up at him. “Yeah. Totally normal. Love that for you.”

Internally: WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL, HOW DO PEOPLE LIVE LIKE THIS?!

Clark looked down at him expectantly.

“Well? Aren’t you coming?”

Tim’s stomach dropped.

Oh. Right. Flying.

Conner could fly.

And right now, everyone—including Clark—thought Tim was Conner.

Which meant Tim Drake had to somehow fake flight.

‘It’s just like parkour,’ Tim told himself desperately.

Except without rooftops.

Or ropes.

Or any connection to the ground whatsoever.

Okay, fine, it’s nothing like parkour, but how hard can it be?

He bent his knees slightly, like he’d seen Conner do before.

“Yup. Just… gonna, uh, launch myself into the sky like a majestic bird. Totally got this.”

Tim jumped.

Nothing happened.

He jumped again, harder this time.

Still nothing.

Clark, hovering serenely above him, tilted his head.

“Everything alright down there?”

“Peachy!” Tim wheezed, trying to maintain dignity while looking like he was failing at invisible jump rope.

“Just… warming up! Gotta, you know, stretch the—uh—flight muscles. Safety first!”

Clark floated a little lower, confusion starting to crease his perfect farm-boy face.

“Flight muscles?”

“Yes,” Tim said firmly, because if you said a lie with enough confidence, it became truth. “Very important. Wouldn’t want to pull a wing. Or, uh, a sky tendon.”

Clark blinked.

“A sky tendon?”

Tim gave him the brightest, most Conner-ish smile he could muster.

“Exactly! You don’t want me falling out of the sky like a sack of potatoes, do you? Because I’m feeling a little… tight today. Kansas humidity, you know how it is.”

Clark’s confusion deepened, but he didn’t press—because of course he didn’t. He was too nice.

“Why don’t I give you a hand up, then? You seem… off.”

Tim’s soul left his body.

No, no, no, no, no. If he physically grabs me, he’ll know something’s wrong. He’ll hear my heartbeat going Mach 5. He’ll figure out I’m not Conner and heat-vision me into next week.

He raised his hands quickly, as if to stop a charging bull.

“No! Uh, I mean, no thanks. It’s just… you know, Pa, I was thinking…”

Time to improvise, Tim Drake–style.

“…maybe it’s better if you fly solo today. Build up those cardio gains. I’ll, uh, catch up later. On foot. For health reasons. Doctor’s orders.”

Clark floated there, utterly baffled.

“Doctor’s orders? What doctor?”

“Oh, you know. The, uh, Kryptonian… bone doctor. Very specialized field. Hard to get appointments.” Tim nodded sagely, as though he wasn’t actively lying through his teeth.

“Turns out my, uh, solar cells are a little overcharged. Can’t risk spontaneous combustion midair.”

Clark’s brow furrowed, genuine concern slipping through.

“Spontaneous combustion? Conner, why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

Tim seized the opportunity like a drowning man grabbing a lifeline.

“Because I didn’t want to worry you, Pa. You’ve got enough on your plate saving the world and milking cows or whatever it is you do here. I’ll just… jog behind you.”

There was a long, tense pause.

Clark studied him with those terrifyingly perceptive Kryptonian eyes, and Tim was this close to folding under the pressure.

Finally, Clark sighed and gave him a sympathetic smile.

“You really are growing up, Conner. Alright. If you say so. But don’t push yourself too hard, okay? I’ll keep an eye on you from above.”

Tim plastered on his most heroic grin while internally screaming.

“Totally. Absolutely. No pushing myself. I’ll just, uh, be here… appreciating gravity.”

Five minutes later, Clark was soaring majestically through the clouds, and Tim was trudging through a muddy Kansas field, muttering like a madman.

“Stupid alien clone body can’t even fake flight,” he hissed, kicking at a rock.

Above him, Clark’s voice boomed cheerfully through the sky.

“Keep up, son! Isn’t this fun?”

Tim looked up, mud splattered on his too-perfect face, and gave a thumbs-up he absolutely did not mean.

“Fun,” he called back, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Loads of fun. My favorite thing. Just me, the dirt, and the crushing weight of deception.”

Clark waved, oblivious, and soared higher.

Tim muttered, “At least Bruce never tried to make me fly.”

Then he slipped in a puddle.

“...I take it back. This is worse than Gotham.”

Tim Drake—strategic genius, crime-solving prodigy, Batman’s favorite liability—was officially at the end of his rope.

He had spent the last thirty-seven minutes trudging through Kansas mud while Clark Kent soared through the sky above him like a sentient red balloon, blissfully unaware that the “son” beneath him was actually a caffeine-deprived Gothamite gremlin.

The sun was too bright.

The birds were too cheerful.

The cows? Judging him.

Every step squelched ominously in the mud. His perfect alien thighs were probably going to chafe.

Conner’s thighs. Not mine. This is not my body. My body is safe in Gotham, hopefully drinking coffee without me.

Tim groaned, dragging a hand down Conner’s annoyingly flawless face.

“If I survive this, I am banning all Kansas-related missions for the rest of my life.”

Above, Clark’s voice boomed like divine judgment.

“Conner! Hurry up! You’ve got to see this—it’s beautiful!”

Tim glared skyward, teeth clenched.

“Oh, sure,” he muttered. “Just let me activate my totally functional flight mode, Clark. Or maybe I’ll sprout wings out of sheer spite.”

Clark waved encouragingly.

“Come on, son! You’ll miss it!”

Tim exhaled sharply through his nose. Fine. If he couldn’t fly, he could run.

Running was safe. Logical. He was a Bat; he’d been running across Gotham rooftops since puberty hit like a truck.

“Alright, farm boy body,” he hissed, crouching like a track star about to prove a point.

“Let’s do this. Just a light jog. Maybe a sprint. Totally normal human physics—”

WHOOSH.

The world exploded.

One second, Tim was standing in a muddy field.

The next, the Kansas landscape blurred into streaks of color, vanishing so fast his brain nearly rebooted.

Wind slammed into his face like a brick wall. His hair whipped back violently. His eyes watered so badly he couldn’t see anything except speed.

“WHAT—THE—FUUUUUUUUU—”

The scream ripped out of his throat, carried away by the hurricane-force winds.

When Tim finally skidded to a stop, his sneakers dug deep trenches into cobblestone streets.

The smell of fresh baguettes filled the air.

Somewhere nearby, an accordion was playing.

Tim blinked, gasping for breath, his entire body vibrating like he’d just been shot out of a cannon.

In front of him was a sign:

BIENVENUE À PARIS

Tim stared.

Then very calmly said, “Oh, hell no.”

He spun around, wild-eyed. Instead of Kansas cornfields, he was surrounded by French cafés, wrought iron balconies, and a whole crowd of Parisians staring at him like he’d just crash-landed from Mars—which, to be fair, wasn’t far off.

A man on a bicycle shouted, “Qu’est-ce que c’est?!”

A woman clutched her tiny dog, screaming something about le démon rouge.

Tim clutched his head.

“Oh my GOD. I’m in France. I ran into France.”

His voice cracked.

“I HATE KRYPTONIANS.”

Somewhere back in Kansas, Clark hovered over the same muddy field, tilting his head in confusion.

“Conner?” he called. “Where’d you go, buddy?”

Silence. Just the mooing of a very judgmental cow.

Clark frowned, scanning the area with his x-ray vision, but somehow missed the exact trajectory to Paris.

Meanwhile, in Paris, Tim was having a meltdown.

“Okay. Breathe,” he muttered to himself, pacing wildly.

“This is fine. Totally fine. Just accidentally ran across the entire planet in less than a second.

Completely normal day.”

He jabbed a finger at Conner’s chest—well, technically his chest right now—which was annoyingly broad and heroic.

“You stupid alien clone body! You couldn’t even give me a warning? A speedometer? A ‘hey, maybe don’t sneeze or you’ll break the sound barrier’?!”

The Parisians were whispering now, phones out, recording the strange American man ranting in perfect English while wearing ripped-up Kansas mud-stained jeans.

Tim spun toward them, snapping, “Don’t you dare put this on TikTok!”

They all immediately kept recording.

He groaned.

“Great. I’m going viral in France. That’s exactly what I needed today.”

Then his communicator—Conner’s communicator—buzzed in his ear.

“Conner?” Clark’s voice crackled through, sounding slightly alarmed but still obnoxiously cheerful.

“Where’d you run off to, son? You missed the sunrise!”

Tim froze. His brain whirred like a finely tuned machine, calculating lies at record speed.

“Uh,” he said, voice rising several suspicious octaves. “Funny story! So, uh, I might have… jogged a little too fast.”

Clark’s pause was full of farm-boy confusion.

“Too fast? Conner, how fast could you possibly—”

“France.”

Tim winced.

“I… might be in France.”

There was a beat of silence so profound Tim swore he could hear a cow mooing back in Kansas.

“…France?” Clark repeated slowly.

“Yes,” Tim said quickly, trying to get ahead of the inevitable grilling. “The country. You know, croissants, Eiffel Tower, existential dread. Beautiful place. Would recommend. Five stars.”

“Conner,” Clark said carefully, “how… did you get to France?”

Tim threw his hands in the air.

“Your guess is as good as mine! One minute I’m running, the next minute boom, suddenly I’m surrounded by French people and bread! This is YOUR genetics, by the way, not mine. I’m just the victim here.”

Clark didn’t even sound suspicious, which was somehow worse.

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “I suppose that means your powers are developing faster than we thought! That’s wonderful news, son!”

“Wonderful?!” Tim screeched, drawing even more attention from the Parisians.

“I just invented accidental international travel, Clark! You know what Gotham’s public transportation is like? I was prepared for a subway delay, not continental teleportation via cardio!”

“Calm down, Conner,” Clark said soothingly. “Just stay where you are. I’ll come get you.”

“No need!” Tim said immediately, panic shooting through him.

“The last thing I need is you showing up and realizing I don’t even know how to land. I mean, uh, I’ll just… run back! You know, for the exercise.”

“Run back?” Clark echoed, sounding like a proud dad at a science fair.

“Wow. That’s my boy!”

Tim hung up before Clark could say anything else and buried his face in his hands.

“This is my life now,” he muttered. “Stuck in a stupid perfect alien clone body with stupid perfect alien powers I can’t control.”

He peeked between his fingers at the Eiffel Tower in the distance.

“And no coffee.”

A soft growl rumbled in his throat.

“Kryptonians,” he hissed. “I hate Kryptonians.”

Then he sighed, stretched Conner’s legs like a man preparing for execution, and muttered:

“Alright, Paris to Kansas. Please don’t launch me into space this time.”

And with a WHOOSH, he vanished, leaving a crowd of confused Parisians and one very traumatized French poodle behind.

Tim Drake had been in some bad situations before.

Buried alive? Check.

Kidnapped by homicidal clowns? Double check.

Stuck in an alternate dimension where Jason wouldn’t stop making jokes about the multiverse? Triple check.

But being in Conner Kent’s ridiculously perfect body, accidentally running across the planet at speeds that mocked the concept of physics?

That was a new level of absurdity.

A WHOOSH later, Tim skidded to a stop in Germany.

Not Kansas.

Not Paris.

Germany.

He stumbled forward, catching himself on the side of a beer garden sign shaped like a giant pretzel. A crowd of very startled Germans stared at the mud-splattered, wild-eyed “Superboy” standing in the middle of their peaceful town square like he was about to audition for a very intense heavy metal band.

Tim gasped for breath, leaning against the sign.

“I hate this stupid alien body,” he wheezed. “I hate physics. I hate Clark. I hate—”

He cut himself off, looking around.

“Wait. Germany?”

A man holding a stein of beer pointed and said something in rapid German.

Tim’s limited language skills translated it roughly to: “Why is Superman’s kid here and why does he look like he just lost a bar fight with a tornado?”

“Don’t you people have Oktoberfest to get back to?!” Tim snapped, flailing dramatically.

The crowd immediately took out their phones to record him.

Tim groaned, running his hands down Conner’s infuriatingly symmetrical face.

“This is going to be all over TikTok. #FarmBoyGoesFeral. Just great.”

He slumped down on a bench, glaring at the horizon like it had personally betrayed him.

“Okay, think, Drake. You are a detective. A genius. A man with a very fragile grip on sanity but a great GPA. You can solve this.”

Tim closed his eyes, inhaling deeply.

“You went too far because you didn’t calculate. Running at Kryptonian speed isn’t like jogging across Gotham rooftops. It’s like firing yourself out of a human-shaped railgun.”

He began muttering to himself, fingers twitching like he was writing equations in the air.

“Distance from Paris to Kansas… approximately 7,300 kilometers. Speed output… unknown, but let’s assume Mach 6, based on the sonic booms. Factor in wind resistance, Earth’s rotation, body mass…”

The Germans nearby were whispering nervously.

To them, it probably looked like Superman’s clone was having a nervous breakdown while solving physics equations in real time.

Which, to be fair, was exactly what was happening.

Tim’s eyes snapped open, gleaming with manic certainty.

“Yes,” he whispered, grinning like a lunatic.

“Math. Math will save me.”

He stood, dramatically pointing toward the horizon.

“Alright, alien body. We’re doing this my way. Science over instinct. Precision over chaos.”

He crouched low, calculating every muscle movement like a man playing 4D chess with gravity itself.

“If I run at approximately 62% of my previous speed and decelerate 0.7 seconds before touchdown, I should land squarely in Kansas. Probably. Hopefully. Worst-case scenario, I overshoot and end up in the moon’s craters.”

He spat into his palm and rubbed his hands together like a mad scientist.

“Let’s ride, nightmare legs.”

WHOOSH!

The world blurred again, but this time, Tim’s mind was sharp, counting every microsecond, every shift of air pressure. He adjusted speed like a conductor leading an orchestra of pure velocity.

“Seventy-five percent speed,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “Now decelerate at the Rockies, adjust for curvature of the Earth—oh god, cows incoming—”

He slammed into a muddy Kansas field with surgical precision, stopping just before faceplanting into a hay bale.

Tim staggered upright, covered in mud but victorious.

He threw his hands in the air and screamed to the heavens:

“MATH! I LOVE YOU!”

A startled cow mooed in the distance, unimpressed.

“Conner?”

Clark’s voice floated down from above, warm and oblivious.

He descended gracefully, cape fluttering like the smug flag of someone who didn’t have to deal with surprise international travel.

“Where did you run off to, son? I couldn’t find you anywhere!”

Clark looked Tim over, eyebrows furrowing.

“Why are you covered in mud… and, uh, sauerkraut?”

Tim froze, glancing down.

Sure enough, somewhere in Germany he’d apparently run through a street food cart.

“Long story!” Tim blurted, standing at attention like he hadn’t just broken the sound barrier twice.

“Super boring, though. You’d hate it. Nothing heroic at all. Definitely not international. Let’s just… never speak of it again.”

Clark smiled indulgently, clearly buying every word because Tim had spent years perfecting the art of strategic lying.

“Well, at least you’re back safe and sound. Ready to see that beautiful view I wanted to show you?”

“Absolutely,” Tim said, plastering on a smile while silently screaming.

“Lead the way, Pa. But maybe, uh… let’s walk this time.”

As Clark floated gently ahead, humming happily, Tim muttered under his breath:

“Stupid Kryptonian legs. Stupid perfect alien powers. Thank god for math.”

He glanced upward, glaring at Clark’s back.

“Next time, I’m staying in Gotham. The only thing there that moves this fast is Bruce when he smells someone using his private coffee stash.”

And with that, Tim trudged after Clark, plotting how to murder Conner once he got his own body back.

Chapter Text

Conner Kent woke up feeling amazing.

The kind of amazing you only get from a good night’s sleep, a solid breakfast, and the smug knowledge that your hair will always look perfect no matter what the universe throws at you.

He stretched luxuriously in bed, yawning.

“Man, I feel good today,” he said to himself, his voice weirdly… raspy?

Whatever. Probably morning grogginess. He was a morning person—he would fix it with toothpaste and charm.

Conner swung his legs off the bed and immediately paused.

This wasn’t his room.

Where were the Kansas posters, the soft morning light through the curtains, the vaguely homey smell of Ma’s pancakes?

Instead, the room was dark. Oppressively dark. The furniture was made of cold, expensive wood and there was a general vibe of… foreboding.

Like the room itself was silently judging him.

“Huh,” Conner said slowly, tilting his head.

“Did Ma redecorate? Real gothic-chic thing going on here…”

Still, he wasn’t one to question interior design first thing in the morning. He got up, slipped on a shirt, and strolled toward the door.

“Let’s get some breakfast!”

On his way to the bathroom, Conner didn’t even register the fact that there were no windows. That the house was eerily silent, and every surface looked like it had been polished by a brooding billionaire.

He was too busy humming to himself as he brushed his teeth.

“Laaa, another perfect day to be me,” he mumbled around the toothbrush. “Man, my teeth feel… weirdly small today. And my jawline feels less… jawline-y.”

Still not suspicious.

Still not alarmed.

It wasn’t until he left the bathroom and headed for the stairs that he started noticing something was off.

Halfway down, his foot slipped.

“Wha—WOAH—”

THUD THUD THUD CRASH!

Conner tumbled down the entire staircase like a human slinky, landing in a tangled heap at the bottom.

For a moment, he just lay there groaning, staring up at the dark ceiling.

“Okay, that hurt. Like… a lot.”

He sat up, rubbing his head.

“Wait. Why did that hurt?!”

Because Conner Kent didn’t fall.

He floated.

Gravity didn’t get to claim him. He hadn’t had a stair-related accident since he was, like, five.

And yet here he was, lying on the floor like some sad, grounded mortal.

His eyes narrowed.

“No way.”

Conner scrambled to his feet, spotted a tall, ornate mirror in the hallway, and stumbled over to it.

He stared.

He blinked.

He stared harder.

The face staring back at him was not Conner Kent.

Instead of his usual sun-kissed skin and naturally perfect Kryptonian jawline, he saw a pale, slightly gaunt face with sharp, restless eyes.

The hair was dark and messy, like its owner hadn’t slept properly since… ever.

The posture? Awkward.

The vibe? Deeply neurotic.

“Uh,” Conner said intelligently.

Then louder:

“WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL?”

He slapped his cheeks. Nope, still the same face.

He tugged on the hair. Still there.

He poked the jawline. Much less heroic than his usual.

“Oh, no no no no no. This isn’t me. This is…”

His voice dropped to a horrified whisper.

“...Tim.”

Before Conner could fully process that horrifying reality, footsteps echoed ominously behind him.

Enter Alfred Pennyworth, carrying a silver tray like some sort of classy ninja.

“Master Timothy,” Alfred said calmly, though there was the faintest hint of surprise in his tone. “Awake… early, I see.”

Conner spun around, panicked.

“Oh! Uh! Yes! Awake! Super awake! Not at all panicking about body theft!”

He plastered on what he hoped was a Tim-like smirk. It probably looked like a nervous raccoon trying to bluff its way through a poker game.

“Just, uh, thought I’d… get a head start on the day. Y’know. Be productive.”

Alfred’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly.

“Indeed. Shall I inform Master Bruce that you are joining him for breakfast?”

“Breakfast!” Conner said, seizing the lifeline. “Yes! Food! I love… tiny fancy portions of things I can’t pronounce.”

He coughed awkwardly.

“I mean, uh, coffee and stuff. Sure. Let’s… do breakfast.”

As Alfred turned to lead the way, Conner hissed to himself:

“Okay, keep it cool, Kent. You’re Tim now. You just have to be… moody. Broody. Maybe insult someone’s combat form. Easy.”

Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to test this plan before they entered the Wayne Manor dining room, where Bruce and Damian were already seated.

Damian, who usually looked like a tiny medieval executioner, was currently sipping tea like a judgmental cat.

Bruce was reading a newspaper, radiating silent intimidation.

Both looked up when Conner entered.

“Good morning, Tim,” Bruce said, his voice a perfect mixture of suspicion and fatherly disappointment. “You’re up early.”

Conner froze.

“Uh. Yeah! Crazy, right?”

He laughed way too loudly.

“Haha! The early Bat catches the… uh… crime worm.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

Damian tilted his head, studying him like a hawk about to pounce.

Conner immediately panicked and blurted,

“By the way, Damian, your hair looks… pointy today.”

Damian’s brows furrowed.

“Pointy?”

“Yeah! Like… in a cool, assassin-y way. You know. Totally… symmetrical.”

Conner gave him two awkward finger guns.

“Nice job, kiddo.”

Damian blinked slowly. “…Hn.”

Alfred appeared behind Conner, expression unreadable.

“Shall I bring Master Timothy some coffee, sir?”

“YES,” Conner said immediately, almost shouting.

He froze, realizing that Tim was famously a coffee addict and it was the perfect cover.

“I mean… yes. Please. Coffee. Dark. Like my soul.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow, but departed to fulfill the request.

Bruce folded his newspaper with terrifying precision.

“Tim. You seem… unusually cheerful this morning.”

Conner gulped.

“Oh, uh, that’s because…”

He paused, frantically searching for a believable Tim-esque excuse.

Lie, Kent. Lie like your life depends on it. What would Tim say?

“…I’m plotting a crime boss’s downfall,” he blurted.

“A very complex, multi-step plan. Super secret. Definitely not something fun like pancakes or sleeping in.”

Bruce gave him a long, unreadable Bat-stare.

“…Good,” he said finally.

Then he returned to his paper.

Conner exhaled in relief so hard he almost faceplanted into the table.

Oh man. That worked. I’m a genius. I’m—

Damian’s sharp voice cut through his thoughts like a dagger.

“Father, may I request that Timothy spar with me later? He seems… strangely energetic today. Perhaps he needs a challenge.”

Conner’s fake grin faltered.

“Uh, about that…”

He scratched the back of his neck nervously.

“See, I… fell down the stairs earlier.”

Damian blinked. “You… what?”

“Fell. Big tumble. Like… thud-thud-thud-BAM!” Conner demonstrated with wild hand gestures.

“So, you know, maybe no sparring until my… uh, fragile mortal body recovers.”

Bruce didn’t look up, but there was a subtle tightening around his jaw.

“You fell down the stairs?”

“Totally,” Conner said, nodding way too fast.

“Classic Tim move, right? Ha ha… ha.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked up, sharp as knives.

“Tim,” he said slowly, “are you feeling alright?”

Conner smiled, the very picture of awkward teen angst.

“Absolutely, B-man! Just your average, everyday, totally-not-body-swapped Gothamite!”

Bruce stared at him for a long, terrifying moment.

Then, mercifully, he nodded.

“Fine. But Alfred will check you for a concussion later.”

“Great! Love concussions!” Conner chirped, before realizing that was a weird thing to say.

“I mean… uh… hate concussions. Obviously.”

Damian sipped his tea, still glaring.

Alfred returned with a steaming cup of coffee, placing it in front of Conner like a lifeline.

Conner grabbed it with both hands, whispering a heartfelt, “Thank you.”

As he chugged the bitter liquid, his brain screamed:

Okay. Step one: survive breakfast. Step two: figure out why I’m in Tim’s body. Step three: never tell anyone I fell down stairs like a mortal.

Conner trudged back up to “his” room, nursing the coffee Alfred had mercifully shoved into his hands like holy water to a vampire.

Breakfast had been… tense. He had survived it with the grace of a giraffe on roller skates, but he was still alive. And alive meant he had a chance to figure out what the hell was happening.

He shut the bedroom door behind him, leaned against it dramatically, and exhaled.

“Okay, Conner. Focus. You’re in Tim’s body. You’ve fooled the Bat-family for, like, an hour. You haven’t blown your cover—unless Bruce can smell lies, which he probably can. But you need answers. Real answers.”

His eyes fell on the nightstand.

And there it was.

Tim’s phone.

The holy grail of detective-domestic crossover chaos.

Conner lunged for it.

“Bingo.”

The first thing that hit him wasn’t the security.

It was the wallpaper.

He blinked, tilted his head, and then his mouth fell open in a slow grin.

It was a photo. Of them. From their first anniversary.

Tim had set it as his lockscreen.

Conner nearly dropped the phone, clutching his chest.

“Shut up. Shut up! He actually—? Oh my god, that nerd.”

He flopped backward onto the bed, staring at the screen with a dumb smile.

“That’s so cute. He’s so cute. He pretends he’s all serious and broody, but he’s got me as his wallpaper. I’m gonna marry this boy. Right after I stop being him.”

Conner shook his head, forcing himself upright.

“Alright, Kent. Focus. Don’t get soft. You’ve got snooping to do.”

Password screen.

Easy.

Tim was paranoid, but Conner had kissed that paranoia enough times to think he could guess it.

He typed in the first thing that came to mind:

“Conner<3.”

The phone buzzed. Wrong.

“Okay, fine. Worth a shot.”

He tried again.

“DrakeWayne666.”

Wrong.

“Ugh. Of course not. He wouldn’t be that obvious.”

He tried again.

“ILoveCoffee.”

Wrong.

“Okay, definitely not obvious.”

He flopped back onto the bed, groaning.

“This is going to take forever.”

And it did.

Two. Hours. Later.

Conner was sprawled across the bed like a corpse, his eyes bloodshot, his thumbs sore from typing, and his patience worn down to a thin, bitter thread.

He had tried everything.

Batman jokes.

Bird names.

Gotham zip codes.

Every conceivable variation of “Kon-El is hot.”

Nothing.

Until, finally, mercifully—by some miracle of swapped-brain memory—he typed:

“password123.”

The phone unlocked with a cheerful click.

Conner sat up so fast he gave himself whiplash.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!”

He stared at the glowing screen in disbelief.

“Two hours. Two. Hours. And the answer was password123?! Tim Drake, Boy Genius, Ruler of Firewalls, Guardian of WayneTech, international computer wizard—and he uses password123?”

He threw his hands in the air.

“I can’t decide if I’m impressed by the irony or if I should revoke his nerd license!”

Still fuming, he scrolled through the phone.

Calendar: seventeen color-coded schedules.

Notes app: absolute chaos, ranging from “remind Damian to oil his sword???” to “Clark looks like he says ‘golly.’”

Photo gallery: 60% surveillance shots, 40% blurry selfies with Conner in the background.

Conner grinned despite himself.

“Oh my god, he’s ridiculous.”

Then his grin faltered as he noticed folders. Plural. Labeled things like:

‘Backup Plans A–Z’

‘If I Die, Open This One’

‘For Conner (If He Ever Finds Out)’

Conner froze.

“…Okay. That’s… that’s not ominous at all.”

He set the phone down gently, staring at it like it might explode.

“Timothy Jackson Drake. You adorable, insane, paranoid genius. What have you gotten us into this time?”

He sighed, rubbing his face.

Conner sat cross-legged on Tim’s bed, Tim’s phone glowing in his hands like a magic eight ball of doom. He had been scrolling through folders titled things like “Contingency: Kryptonian Invasion” and “Contingency: Conner Eats Last Slice of Pizza” when he stopped, staring at the contacts list.

And there it was.

Conner Kent ❤️

He chewed on his lip. On one hand, calling himself was maybe the dumbest idea ever—like horror-movie-tier dumb. On the other hand, if he was in Tim’s body, then Tim was probably in his. Which meant his own number might… actually ring.

“Okay,” Conner muttered, running a hand through Tim’s floppy hair. “Best case scenario, Tim picks up and we fix this. Worst case scenario, I hear my own voice and die of existential dread.”

He pressed call.

The phone rang twice. Then—

“Uh. Hello?”

Conner nearly dropped the phone. Because that was his voice. Coming through the speaker. It was exactly like hearing yourself on voicemail, only worse because it was breathing back at you.

“Oh my god,” Conner blurted. “That’s me. That’s me! I sound so… smug!”

“Conner?” Tim’s voice—Conner’s voice—cracked slightly. “Is that—holy crap, it worked! I knew you’d try my phone eventually!”

Conner froze. “…Tim?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” Tim said, except it wasn’t Tim, it was his own stupid perfect Kryptonian tone. “I’m in your body. Which is… uh. Complicated. But also—”

There was a weird whooshing noise on the other end of the call. A sharp intake of breath. Then—

“Conner?” Tim’s voice came out panicked. “Uh. Slight update. I think I’m flying.”

Conner shot upright in bed.

“You’re WHAT?!”

“Flying!” Tim yelped. “Like, not just hovering, I mean several feet off the ground and rising! Oh god, oh god, how do you turn this thing off?!”

Conner leapt to his feet, pacing in circles.

“Okay, listen to me—don’t panic. Flying is natural, it’s instinctual, it’s—”

“INSTINCTUAL?” Tim shouted through the speaker. “Do I sound like I’m having instincts right now?! I’m a detective, Conner, not a 747! This is not natural!”

“Tim, calm down—”

“I AM CALM!” Tim’s voice cracked about an octave higher than Conner thought possible for his own vocal cords. “I’m just calmly, rationally noting that your stupid Kryptonian body has decided to defy Newtonian physics while I’m still in my pajamas!”

Conner winced, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“Okay, okay, first rule of flight: don’t flail.”

“Too late!” Tim yelled. There was another whoosh noise, followed by what sounded suspiciously like tree branches snapping.

“I just flew into an oak tree! Do you know how humiliating it is to get stuck in a tree when you’re basically a demigod?”

Conner couldn’t help it—he laughed.

“Ha! Oh my god, Tim, you’re me and you’re stuck in a tree. That’s—” He wheezed, clutching his stomach. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“This is NOT funny!” Tim snapped. “Do you have any idea how terrifying it is to look down and realize the ground is, like, fifty feet away and you don’t remember leaving it?!”

Conner, still grinning, flopped back on Tim’s bed.

“Relax, babe. You’re fine. You’re built for this. Flying’s easy once you stop overthinking it.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Born-With-A-Cape,” Tim snarled. “Next time you’re in my body, try hacking an encrypted server with shaky human thumbs and then tell me what’s ‘easy.’”

Conner’s laughter sputtered into silence. “…Wait. Did you just insult my thumbs?”

“Yes,” Tim said flatly. “Your thumbs are clumsy. They’re like beefy little sausages compared to mine.”

Conner gasped.

“You take that back. My thumbs are majestic.”

“They’re inefficient,” Tim shot back. There was another whoosh, then a muffled curse. “Also, I think I just hit a church steeple. Your stupid Kryptonian depth perception sucks.”

Conner sat up again, suddenly very serious.

“Okay, listen to me. You’ve got this. Flying is just like… like swimming, but in the sky. You move with your will, not your body.”

There was a long pause. Then Tim muttered:

“…That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Hey!” Conner protested. “It works! Just… focus on where you want to be. Imagine yourself there. Don’t think about falling. Don’t think about—”

There was a scream in the background.

“TIM?!”

“I’M THINKING ABOUT FALLING!” Tim wailed.

Conner smacked his forehead.

“Okay, okay—look. Just aim for the ground gently. Like you’re trying to… kiss it. With your feet.”

“Conner, if I survive this, I’m going to strangle you.”

A minute later, there was the sound of Tim landing—not gracefully, but with the distinct crunch of someone hitting dirt hard.

“Ughhh,” Tim groaned through the phone. “Your body is the worst. I hate it. I hate you. I hate Kryptonians. This is cruel and unusual punishment.”

Conner couldn’t stop grinning.

“You’re doing great, babe.”

“Shut up.”

Conner sprawled back on the bed, utterly delighted.

“This is the best day of my life.”

They decide to meet at one of Tim's safehouses in Gotham. 

By the time Tim actually made it to Gotham—in Conner’s Kryptonian body, after approximately three false starts, two accidental transatlantic trips, and one near-miss with an airliner—he looked like the physical embodiment of a caffeine withdrawal headache.

Conner (in Tim’s much shorter, much more breakable body) was waiting by the safehouse door, bouncing on his heels like a golden retriever pretending to be a ninja.

The moment Tim landed—crashing into the fire escape with a metallic clang that rattled half the block—Conner winced.

“Wow. Subtle,” he called up. “I’m sure no one noticed the flying alien pancake routine.”

Tim groaned, peeling himself off the metal.

“Don’t. Start.” He dusted off Conner’s leather jacket—because if he was going to impersonate a half-Kryptonian, he might as well look the part—and muttered, “You try driving a nuclear-powered meat suit without crashing into Paris.”

Conner grinned, opening the safehouse door.

“You made it on the third try. That’s progress!”

“Don’t patronize me,” Tim snapped, storming inside.

The safehouse was exactly what you’d expect from Tim Drake: spartan furniture, three laptops humming on a desk, whiteboards filled with complicated flowcharts, and a coffee machine in the corner that looked like it could double as a missile launcher.

Conner whistled as he flopped into a chair.

“Wow. Very… you. No windows, no warmth, no fun. Just the bare essentials.”

Tim glared, crossing Conner’s very broad arms.

“You’re one to talk. You live in a barn.”

“Hey,” Conner shot back, pointing with Tim’s skinny little finger. “Barns are cozy. This place screams ‘haunted accountant.’”

Tim ignored him, pacing.

“Alright. We need to figure this out before Bruce realizes I’m not me and you accidentally tell him your favorite breakfast cereal.”

Conner blinked. “What’s wrong with telling him it’s Lucky Charms?”

Tim stopped pacing and stared at him.

“Exactly. That’s what’s wrong.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the situation pressing in.

Tim finally said what they were both thinking:

“How the hell did this happen?”

Conner leaned back, tapping his chin dramatically.

“Well, yesterday we were fighting that… warlock guy.”

Tim narrowed his eyes. “The one with the bad robe and worse goatee?”

“Yeah. Mr. Dollar-Store Doctor Strange.” Conner snapped his fingers.

“He zapped us. Remember? Right before you disarmed him. And then…” He gestured vaguely between their bodies. “Boom. Freaky Friday.”

Tim froze, eyes widening.

“…You mean this is your fault?”

Conner’s eyes darted to the side. “Well—I mean—technically, the zap hit me first, sooo…”

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course. Of course this is your fault. I should’ve known. Warlock hits you, I get cursed. That’s peak Kent.”

“Hey!” Conner protested. “Not my fault my body makes a bigger magical target than yours. You’re like a ninja ferret—nobody can hit you.”

Tim arched an eyebrow. “…Did you just compare me to a ferret?”

Conner raised Tim’s hands innocently. “A very competent ferret!”

Tim sighed, dragging a hand down his face.

“Okay. Fine. Say you’re right. Warlock zaps you, now we’re in each other’s bodies. We just need to find him, make him undo it, and—”

Conner interrupted, wagging Tim’s finger.

“Or—and hear me out—we leave it like this for a week. You get to be invulnerable, I get to drink coffee without it tasting like dirt, and maybe Bruce finally praises me for waking up early.”

Tim shot him the kind of look that could curdle milk.

“Conner. If I spend one more day in your body, I’ll commit a crime against gravity itself. Do you understand how humiliating it is to faceplant into a church steeple?!”

Conner bit back a laugh, his lips twitching.

“…Yeah. I heard that part. Still funny.”

Tim growled.

“I hate Kryptonians.”

Conner leaned across the table with Tim’s pale, too-polite face and said sweetly:

“And yet, you’re dating one.”

Tim muttered something unprintable under his breath and sat down, rubbing his temples.

Conner smirked.

“Don’t worry, babe. We’ll fix this. You do the brain stuff, I’ll… sit here and look Tim-ish.”

“You’re terrible at looking Tim-ish,” Tim deadpanned.

“I fooled Alfred!” Conner argued.

Tim snorted.

“Alfred lets Bruce walk around in a cape. His standards are not the bar.”

They both sat in silence for a moment, glaring at each other. Then, finally, Tim muttered:

“…We have to find that warlock.”

Conner nodded.

“Agreed. Because I don’t think Gotham is ready to see me fall down the stairs again.”

Tim blinked. “…Wait. You fell down stairs?”

Conner immediately turned red.

“No.”

Tim’s grin spread slow and merciless.

“You fell down stairs.”

“Shut up,” Conner mumbled, pulling Tim’s hoodie over his head.

Tim leaned back, laughing for the first time since Paris.

“Best. Day. Ever.”

The safehouse was quiet. Too quiet.

Tim (still stuck in Conner’s annoyingly perfect body) was mid-rant about the impossibility of finding Warlock Goatee when he suddenly froze, eyes wide, his expression shifting from “I hate magic” to “I’m about to throw up.”

“Conner,” he said “Something’s… wrong.”

Conner (still in Tim’s body, currently balancing a chair on two legs just because he could) frowned. “What do you mean, wrong? Wrong like magic wrong, or wrong like Batman-will-ground-us wrong?”

Tim pressed his hands against his ears, wincing.

“Everything’s loud.”

Conner tilted his head. “Loud?”

“Yes, loud. As in—I can hear everything.”

And then the floodgates opened.

Tim stumbled, groaning, as the safehouse dissolved into a symphony of chaos.

A subway rattling under Gotham, brakes screeching.

A couple three blocks over screaming at each other about who left the milk out.

A kid laughing on the next street, chasing a soccer ball.

The hum of every lightbulb in the building.

The drip-drip-drip of a leaky faucet twelve rooms away.

It was all crashing into his head at once.

He staggered to the table, gripping it hard enough that the wood creaked under Kryptonian strength.

“Conner—I can’t—It’s too much—shut it off, how do you shut it off?!”

Conner dropped the chair legs to the ground instantly, all sarcasm draining from his face.

“Oh. Ohhh. Okay. Yeah. That’s the super-hearing. It sneaks up sometimes.”

“Super-hearing?” Tim snarled through gritted teeth, eyes squeezed shut. “This isn’t hearing. This is—this is sonic waterboarding! Who lives like this?!”

“Relax, relax,” Conner said, rushing over. He reached for Tim’s shoulders, grounding him with a firm grip. “Hey, focus on me, alright? Just me. Forget everything else.”

Tim’s breathing was sharp, ragged, but he forced his eyes open to glare at Conner with all the fury of a man whose eardrums had declared war on him.

“You’re telling me to forget everything else when I can literally hear a dog barking in Metropolis right now.”

Conner gave a nervous laugh. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

He squeezed Tim’s shoulders, leaning in until they were almost nose-to-nose.

“Okay. Listen. It feels like every sound in the world is crashing into your head, but you don’t need to catch all of them. Just… pick one. One sound. Anchor to it.”

Tim groaned. “You make it sound like a meditation exercise.”

“It is! Except with way more dogs barking.”

Tim growled something unholy but forced himself to focus. He tried to ignore the arguments, the traffic, the Gotham chaos bleeding into his skull.

“Pick me,” Conner said softly. “Just listen to me.”

For a second, Tim wanted to argue, because sarcasm was his blood type. But Conner’s voice—his actual voice, warm and steady—was the only thing cutting through the storm.

He locked onto it. Just Conner. Just the words, the stupid, earnest words.

“Good,” Conner said, smiling a little as Tim’s shoulders eased beneath his grip. “That’s it. You’re not a radio tower, you don’t have to catch every signal. Just… tune into one station.”

Tim let out a shaky laugh. “Of course you’d compare your powers to bad FM radio.”

“Hey, it works!” Conner grinned wider, relief flooding his face. “Station Kon-El: now broadcasting exclusively for you. No commercials, just soothing farm boy wisdom.”

Tim groaned, covering his face with his hands. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“…Unfortunately,” Tim muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

A long silence stretched between them. For the first time since the swap, Tim’s breathing steadied. The city noise dimmed into the background, leaving only Conner’s voice and his stupid optimism.

Tim cracked an eye open. “You deal with this all the time?”

Conner shrugged, still holding his shoulders steady.

“Yeah. Sometimes it’s worse than others. I usually just… remind myself to shrink the world down. Find one person, one sound, and hold onto it.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “And what’s your anchor, usually?”

Conner smirked. “Take a wild guess, detective.”

Tim groaned again, but this time he buried his face against Conner’s shoulder to hide the fact that he was smiling.

Conner patted his back with Tim’s very un-broad hands. “See? You’re fine. You’ve got this.”

Tim mumbled into his hoodie, voice muffled but sharp enough to sting:

“If I survive this swap, I’m buying you noise-canceling headphones the size of Kansas.”

Conner laughed, his chest shaking under Tim’s cheek.

“Deal.”

The safehouse was calm again. Well—“calm” in the sense that Tim wasn’t currently trying to claw out his own eardrums and Conner had stopped pacing like a caffeinated hamster.

And then Tim’s phone rang.

The sound was sharp, loud, and tragically cheerful.

Ring-ring. Ring-ring.

(Why Tim Drake, master of stealth and subtlety, had chosen the Teen Titans theme song as his ringtone was a question Conner would ponder for years.)

Conner—still trapped in Tim’s body—went rigid. His eyes darted to the glowing screen.

“Oh no. Ohhhh no. This is bad.”

Tim, lounging in Conner’s stupidly broad Kryptonian body like a man who’d already accepted damnation, glanced over. “Relax. It’s probably spam. Nobody important calls me on that phone without a coded signal.”

Conner, horrified, turned the phone so Tim could see the caller ID.

It read: Dick Grayson.

Tim froze. Then groaned.

“…Oh. Right.”

Conner hissed, whispering like the phone could hear him. “Why is Dick calling?!”

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “Because today is my scheduled Bat-Family bonding day. You know, the one where I grit my teeth while Jason pretends to shoot me, Damian actually tries to stab me, Duke tries to keep the peace, Cassandra silently judges my every breath, and Dick plays Camp Counselor?”

Conner blinked. “You scheduled that?”

“Yes.” Tim sighed, resigned. “Family doesn’t just ‘happen’ in Gotham, Conner. It has to be managed.”

The phone kept ringing.

Ring-ring.

Conner was panicking now, fumbling with it like it was about to explode. “What do I do?!”

Tim gave him a flat look. “Answer it.”

Conner’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head. “Are you insane?!”

“You’re in my body,” Tim said, deadly calm. “Which means you are me. Which means you are expected at family bonding time. And you cannot dodge Dick Grayson. He is like—like joy incarnate, Conner. He will find you.”

Conner flailed, whispering harshly: “Tim, I cannot lie to Cassandra! She sees through me every time. It’s terrifying!”

Tim smirked. “Good thing you’re not lying to Cassandra, then. You’re lying to Dick. Much easier.”

The phone buzzed again. Conner yelped and hit accept without thinking.

“Uh—hi! Tim here! Totally Tim! Very normal Tim speaking!”

There was a beat of silence on the other end.

“…Tim?” Dick’s voice was soft, suspicious. “Why do you sound like you’re confessing to a crime?”

Conner scrambled. “What? No! I’m just—uh—stretching my voice box! Vocal warm-ups! You know me, always… exercising. Ha. Ha-ha.”

Tim facepalmed so hard it sounded like a gunshot.

“Riiiight,” Dick said slowly. “Anyway, we’re meeting in thirty. Jason’s already making bets on how long you’ll last before Damian tries to kill you. Cass says fifteen minutes.”

Conner froze. “…What did she bet?”

“Five bucks.”

“….She’s going to win,” Conner muttered, forgetting himself.

Tim kicked him under the table. Conner yelped but plastered on a fake laugh.

“Uh—I mean—pfft, no way! I’m great with Damian! We’re… bonding. Like glue. Super glue. Epoxy even.”

Tim muttered, “You’re digging your own grave.”

“Okay, Tim,” Dick said, sounding far too cheerful. “We’ll see you soon. Don’t be late!”

The call ended.

Conner dropped the phone onto the table like it had burned him, running both hands through Tim’s hair in distress.

“I’m doomed. I’m so doomed. Cassandra’s going to look at me once and say, ‘You’re not Tim,’ and then Batman’s going to know and then I’m going to die in your body, which means you’ll die in my body, and this is the worst plan ever!”

Tim, infuriatingly serene, leaned back in the chair with his arms crossed. “Relax. Just do what I do.”

Conner gaped. “And what’s that?!”

Tim smirked, eyes glinting. “Lie. Strategically. Casually. Like breathing. And when Cassandra inevitably notices, redirect. Throw Jason under the bus. Works every time.”

Conner groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“I’m going to die. I can’t lie to Cass, Tim. She’s like a human polygraph who’s also a ninja.”

Tim stretched, already plotting his own escape route. “Don’t worry. Worst-case scenario, I’ll fly by and distract everyone with laser eyes.”

Conner peeked at him through his fingers, horrified. “That’s your plan?”

Tim grinned. “Of course. Always have a distraction ready, Conner. Preferably one involving heat vision.”

Chapter Text

Conner was pacing the safehouse like it was a cornfield maze. Still in Tim’s body, still visibly panicking.

“Okay. Okay, problem number seventy-two: I don’t know where to go. I mean, I know where Wayne Manor is, but Tim knows where every hidden door, booby trap, and panic room is. I’ll step in the wrong patch of grass and Bruce will drop from the ceiling like an angry bat piñata. And then what?!”

Tim (lounging on a couch that was several sizes too small for Conner’s Kryptonian shoulders) checked his non-existent watch. “Well, technically, we’ve already wasted fifteen minutes listening to you spiral. So unless you want to make Dick cry—and he will cry, I promise you—we’d better head out.”

Conner stopped dead. “…You’re coming?”

Tim gave him a look. “You’d get lost without me.”

“That’s… not true,” Conner muttered. Then, after a pause: “…It’s very true. Please come with me.”

Tim smirked. “There it is.”

Wayne Manor loomed in the distance like a gothic haunted dollhouse. Conner was sweating bullets (which was ironic, since usually bullets bounced right off him).

Tim, walking at his side with irritating Kryptonian ease, looked perfectly calm. “Relax. You’re just me today. All you have to do is keep your head down, roll your eyes at Jason, glare at Damian, and avoid prolonged eye contact with Cassandra.”

Conner muttered, “That’s like saying all I have to do is juggle chainsaws while blindfolded.”

“Exactly. You’ll be fine.”

They hadn’t even stepped through the front doors when Dick Grayson spotted them.

And, of course, Dick’s smile was as bright and dangerous as the sun. He leaned against the doorframe like he was hosting his own sitcom, arms folded.

“Well, well, Timmy,” Dick drawled, eyes sparkling as he looked at Conner (in Tim’s body). “You actually showed up on time. Color me impressed. What happened—alien abduction? Secret clone replacement? Did Gotham’s coffee supply run dry?”

Conner froze like a deer in Bat-signals. “Uh. Um. Nope! Just me. Totally Tim. On time. Because I’m… responsible. Ha. Ha-ha.”

Tim, beside him, bit the inside of his cheek so hard he thought he might draw Kryptonian blood.

Dick raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Wow. Someone’s chipper today. Usually, I have to drag you in here like a moody cat.”

“Right, well—today I’m a dog! Uh, metaphorically. Because… dogs… show up. Punctual. For bonding. With family. Yes.”

There was a long silence.

Tim deadpanned, “Smooth.”

Dick blinked at Conner. Then at Tim (in Conner’s body, who was standing there like this was the funniest movie he’d ever seen). Then back at Conner again.

“…Okay, what’s going on here?” Dick finally asked, suspicion creeping into his grin.

Tim, ever the menace, clapped Conner on the back hard enough to make him stumble. “Nothing at all, Dick. Absolutely nothing. This is just me—myself, my body, my punctual nature—being me. Right, Tim?”

Conner, panicked, nodded so fast his hair flopped into his face. “Exactly. It’s me. Tim. Doing Tim things. With my Tim body. Which is me. Tim.”

Dick stared. Then burst out laughing so loud the echoes rattled down the hall.

“Oh my god. You’re so weird today. This is going to be fun.”

Tim muttered under his breath, “You’re doomed.”

Conner shot him a glare that promised revenge.

Or, at least, promised whining later.

The moment they crossed the threshold of Wayne Manor, Tim (in Conner’s very tall, very broad body) slowed down. His sharp detective brain had already done the math: two Drakes in the same room = suspicious. Suspicious = Cassandra raising an eyebrow. Cassandra raising an eyebrow = death.

So he leaned down—because of course he had to lean down to talk to Conner now—and muttered, “I’m leaving.”

Conner’s head whipped around so fast you’d think he’d heard a dog bark in space. His blue eyes (currently Tim’s blue eyes, which was deeply confusing) went wide. “What? No, no, no—you can’t just abandon me here!”

Tim raised an eyebrow, calm as a bomb. “It would be weirder if I stayed. Think about it: Conner Kent just casually loitering in Wayne Manor while you’re supposed to be bonding with your siblings? Suspicious.”

Conner’s voice cracked like a preteen’s. “Suspicious is better than me being alone with them! They know things, Tim! They smell fear!”

Tim smirked. “Then stop being afraid.”

Conner grabbed his arm in desperation (well, technically Tim’s arm). “Tim, please. You don’t understand. If Cassandra looks at me for too long, I will cry. If Damian asks me a question, I will cry. If Jason makes fun of me, I will cry. You’re the only thing stopping me from crying right now!”

“Good luck,” Tim said, smoothly slipping out of his grip and heading toward the door. “Try not to tell them your Social Security number.”

The door closed behind him.

Conner stood frozen, his soul already ascending to the heavens. And then—because the universe was cruel—he heard a voice behind him.

“Well, well, well,” Dick Grayson drawled, leaning against the wall with that smile. “That was… interesting.”

Conner turned, blinking rapidly to keep the tears in. “Huh? What? No! Nothing interesting! Just normal, average Tim behavior, happening right here. Ha. Ha-ha.”

Jason, sprawled on the couch with his boots on the coffee table, smirked. “He’s crying.”

“I’m not crying!” Conner yelped, his voice wobbling. “I just—I have allergies!”

“Inside the Manor?” Damian deadpanned from the corner, arms crossed. “To what, the wallpaper?”

Cassandra tilted her head, silently watching. The weight of her stare nearly made Conner drop to his knees.

Dick walked closer, his grin positively lethal now. “So… Conner Kent walks you to the door, you practically beg him not to leave, and now you’re standing here blushing like a schoolgirl.”

Conner sputtered, “I—what—blushing? No! I don’t—Tim Drake doesn’t blush!”

Jason barked a laugh. “You’re pink, Replacement. You look like someone just told you Conner was shirtless on the roof again.”

Conner’s entire face burned hotter. “I—he—I mean—ugh!”

Dick clapped him on the shoulder. “Relax, little brother. We get it. You miss him already.”

Conner’s brain short-circuited. “I—no—I—yes—I mean—shut up!”

Dick winked. “Aww, don’t worry. It’s cute. Really. You and Conner are basically Gotham’s weirdest power couple. You—”

Jason cut in, laughing: “More like Gotham’s most obvious couple. I swear, I could spot you two making heart-eyes from three rooftops away.”

Conner buried his face in his hands. “Please, please stop talking.”

“Never,” Jason said, leaning back with a wolfish grin.

Damian muttered something in rapid Arabic that Conner didn’t catch, but from the smirk, it was definitely an insult.

Cassandra finally spoke, quiet and blunt: “You like him.”

Conner peeked through his fingers, voice very small. “…Yeah.”

The room went dead silent.

Jason started clapping. “Wow. Incredible. Honest feelings. Out loud. This is new.”

Dick was positively glowing. “Oh my god, Tim. You’ve gone soft. I love this for you.”

Conner groaned, wishing the floor would open and swallow him whole. “Tim’s going to kill me.” he grumbles.

The vote was unanimous—or, more accurately, Jason suggested sparring, Damian smirked like it was bloodsport, Cassandra nodded once, and Dick clapped his hands like a camp counselor. Which meant, of course, that Conner—currently trapped in Tim’s very human body—was doomed.

Down in the Batcave, the mats waited. Jason peeled off his jacket, Damian tied his belt with military precision, Cassandra stretched like a panther, and Dick launched into a series of flips that no normal human had any business doing.

Conner braced himself for humiliation. Tim had warned him—warm-ups, technique, discipline. Warm-ups were important. Conner didn’t need them in his real body, but now? Now he had to somehow pretend like his boyfriend’s body wasn’t fragile glass compared to Kryptonian steel.

He tried. Tentatively. A stretch. A bend. A roll of his shoulders.

And to his absolute shock—

“Oh. Oh, this is… easy?”

Jason paused mid-stretch, narrowing his eyes. “Since when do you warm up without whining, Replacement?”

Conner straightened, trying to look bored. “What, me? Whine? Never. Stretching is… my thing.” He touched his toes with infuriating ease. “See? Look at that flexibility.”

Dick grinned, hanging upside down from a bar. “Wow, Tim! Usually we have to drag you kicking and screaming through warm-ups. What’s gotten into you?”

Conner panicked, then blurted the first thing that came to mind: “Uh… hydration?”

Jason barked a laugh. “Hydration? Oh my god, you’re getting lamer.”

Damian squinted at him, suspicious. “You are acting strange, Drake. More tolerable than usual, but strange nonetheless.”

Conner tried to mask his terror with a smirk. “Maybe I’ve just… turned over a new leaf. Personal growth. Very inspiring.”

Cass, mid-stretch, tilted her head at him. Just one sharp look.

Conner nearly collapsed.

Inside, he was screaming: Oh god, oh god, they’re going to see through me, this is it, I’m dead.

On the outside, he bent backward into a bridge and forced a grin.

“See? Totally fine. I’m, uh… limber.”

Jason muttered, “That’s not the word I’d use.”

Meanwhile, miles away, Tim (in Conner’s body) was combing through magical crime scenes, rolling his eyes as he pieced together the warlock’s trail. Somewhere, deep in his detective gut, he knew his boyfriend was making a fool of himself in Gotham.

“Alright, match one: Tim versus me.”

Those six words were a death sentence.

Conner—currently doomed inside Tim’s very, very mortal body—blinked, then pointed at himself like an idiot. “Me? Wait. Against you? You you?”

Dick was already peeling off his hoodie, tossing it aside, all Broadway showman swagger. He grinned like he was about to host a fitness DVD. “C’mon, baby bird. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Jason snorted from the sidelines. “This’ll be good. Hey, Replacement, try not to cry in the first thirty seconds. Embarrassing.”

Damian, arms crossed, looked bored. “Grayson will crush him.”

Cassandra tilted her head, gave the tiniest shrug, and muttered, “Maybe not.”

Which was worse, somehow. Because Cass knew things.

Conner stood frozen on the mat, staring at Dick Grayson, who—just to remind everyone—was a literal ninja trapeze god hybrid. This isn’t sparring, this is murder.

He swallowed, glanced at his borrowed hands, and thought: Okay, Conner, you’re screwed. You’ve got, like, three options: run, fake a sprained ankle, or… hope Tim’s scary little brain left some kind of autopilot in here.

The whistle blew.

Dick moved.

And Conner—by some miracle—moved too.

Not because he knew what he was doing, oh no. Conner hadn’t trained seriously in hand-to-hand a day in his life. When you can bench-press a tank and casually yeet yourself into orbit, you don’t exactly dedicate hours to learning how to throw a human-sized punch.

But Tim had. Tim had lived in training mats, had studied every move, every counter, every way to use leverage instead of strength.

And apparently, Tim’s body remembered.

Because suddenly Conner’s arms snapped up in a block that wasn’t his, his legs shifted into a stance he didn’t know, and he barely avoided a takedown that should’ve planted him face-first on the mat.

Conner blinked. “Oh my god. Did I just—”

WHAM.

Dick swept his legs out from under him, and he landed flat on his back.

Jason howled with laughter. “Ten seconds in! New record!”

“Shut up!” Conner wheezed, scrambling up. His ribs ached. His pride more so.

But something strange happened. Each time Dick came at him, Conner’s body twitched, moved, blocked—clumsy but not hopeless. His brain was three steps behind, panicking and shouting WHAT ARE WE DOING, but his limbs… they remembered Tim’s training.

It was like riding a bike. If the bike was possessed by a terrifying demon.

Dick spun, fluid as water, aiming a kick for Conner’s head. Conner ducked just in time.

“Oh my god. I ducked.”

“You sound surprised,” Dick teased.

“I AM surprised!”

Jason shouted from the bench, “Grayson, stop talking and finish him already.”

Dick rolled his eyes, then swept Conner’s legs again.

Conner hit the mat for the second time in under two minutes.

Damian sighed like he was wasting his afternoon. “Pathetic.”

Cass tilted her head again. “Less pathetic than usual.”

Conner, sprawled on the mat, groaned. “Oh thank you, that’s so comforting.”

By round three, he was sweating buckets, his borrowed hair plastered to his forehead. Every block felt like it came half a second too late, every punch landed too weak. He was clumsy, jerky, off-balance.

But he wasn’t getting obliterated.

And he knew why. He felt it in every automatic pivot, every sloppy but functional guard: Tim’s body remembered. Muscle memory was doing all the heavy lifting.

Literally saving his ass.

Finally, Dick swept him down one last time and pinned him. Conner tapped out instantly. “Okay! Okay! Mercy! I surrender, you absolute demon!”

Dick grinned down at him. “Not bad, little brother. You lasted longer than usual.”

Conner blinked. “Wait. Usual?!”

Jason cackled. “Oh, he’s gonna milk that for weeks.”

Damian muttered, “The bar is low.”

Cass just gave Conner the tiniest approving nod.

And Conner, lying flat on the mat, wheezing in Tim’s body, had one thought and one thought only:

I hate this family. I hate Tim’s family so much.

Chapter Text

Tim, technically six-foot-something and stuffed into Conner’s Kryptonian biceps, was lounging on the Kent farmhouse porch with a glass of water he didn’t even want. He missed coffee like a Victorian poet missed his lost muse.

But he was—dare he say it—calm. Zatanna had been by earlier. She’d squinted, muttered some spells, frowned a lot, and then informed him she’d be back in a day to fix this. Which was basically a magical post-it note reading “Do Not Panic.”

Tim could live with that.

And okay, yes, he’d miss the height. The muscle. The casual way Conner’s body filled out a T-shirt like a Calvin Klein ad. He’d gotten attached to opening doors without needing a step stool. But sacrifices had to be made.

Then Jon Kent dropped out of the sky.

Literally. Dropped. Like a meteor in sneakers.

“Hey, Conner!” Jon called cheerfully, jogging up with the eager energy of a Labrador retriever.

Tim froze. Conner. Right. That’s me. I am Conner.

He adjusted his face into something resembling warm, big-brotherly charm.

“Uh—hey… buddy?”

Jon plopped down next to him like this was routine. His cape was crumpled, his cheeks were flushed, and he looked like a kid about to spill state secrets.

“So, um… I need to talk to you about something.”

Tim’s internal alarms went off immediately. He had sat across from enough criminals, witnesses, and traumatized teenagers to know the tone. This was the confession tone.

Jon fidgeted. Tugged at his sleeve. Finally blurted out:

“It’s about Damian.”

Tim blinked. “Damian.”

“Yeah. I think I… like him.”

Tim: Oh no.

On the outside, Tim kept his face neutral. Calm. Nodding politely, like the world’s most muscular therapist.

Inside? He was screaming into the void.

I can’t be here for this! This is private! This is—oh god, Jon’s pouring his heart out to Conner, not me. I’m eavesdropping by existing. This is unethical. This is actual identity theft.

Jon went on, words tumbling out faster than bullets ricocheting off Superman’s chest. “I don’t know how to tell him. He’s so… you know. Damian. He’d probably laugh at me. Or stab me. Or both.”

Tim nodded slowly, calculating seventeen possible responses, twelve strategies, and a get-out-of-this-conversation-alive clause.

“Well…” he began, carefully. “Damian’s… complicated. But, uh, he respects honesty. And confidence.”

Jon’s eyes widened. “So you think I should just tell him?”

Tim’s brain screamed: Abort mission! This isn’t my lane! This is someone else’s therapy bill!

But his mouth—traitorous as ever—said warmly, “If you feel ready, yeah. Honesty’s usually best.”

Jon smiled, relief spilling over his face. “Thanks, Conner. You always know what to say.”

Tim’s heart sank. Oh god. He thinks he’s talking to Conner. He’s trusting Conner. I’m just a fraud in designer Kryptonian jeans.

For a brief moment, Tim stared out at the Kansas fields, guilt gnawing at him like a crow on roadkill. He hadn’t asked for this body swap, but now he was walking around collecting people’s secrets, being let into moments he had no right to.

He hated it.

…But also, Jon was looking at him like he’d just been handed the moon, and Tim couldn’t exactly shatter the poor kid’s trust.

So he smiled back, all Conner-charm and big-brother warmth, and thought to himself:

Conner is never, ever going to let me live this down.

Tim landed in Gotham like a pro this time—no Paris detour, no Germany pit stop. Straight from Kansas to Wayne Manor in seconds. He even paused outside the gates to bask in the victory.

Finally. Competence. Look at me, Conner, I’m basically a GPS with abs.

Then he walked inside.

And froze.

The entire Bat-family was assembled in the sitting room. Dick on the couch, Jason with popcorn, Damian glowering with his sword like a medieval curse, Duke leaning against the wall trying not to laugh, and Cassandra—perched, silent, staring.

At Conner.

Who was sweating through Tim’s body like he was in a police interrogation.

“Tim,” Dick started, “you’ve been… weird.”

Jason cut in, grinning. “Weirder than usual.”

Cass tilted her head, gaze narrowing. “Not Tim.”

And that was it. No debate. No hesitation. Just a verdict.

Conner flailed instantly. “Okay, okay! I’m not Tim! You’re right! You’re all right! It’s me, Conner, I swear, it wasn’t supposed to be like this—there was this warlock guy, and he hit us, and now I’m Tim, and Tim’s me, and I’m so sorry I lied, but oh my god please stop looking at me like that!”

Cass didn’t move. Just kept watching him with those terrifying, all-seeing eyes.

Conner blurted, “Also I once accidentally burned a hole in my jeans with heat vision and told Tim it was a moth! And I can’t parallel park! And I sometimes pretend to understand Tim’s tech stuff but I don’t! And—and—”

“CONNER.” Tim’s voice cut through like a blade. He stepped forward, arms crossed, calm but sharp. “Shut. Up.”

Conner slapped both hands over his mouth, muffled noises squeaking out.

Jason was doubled over. “Oh my god. She doesn’t even have to ask questions. He just—he just confesses.”

Dick was grinning, equal parts proud and horrified. “It’s like… truth serum without the serum.”

Damian scowled. “Pathetic. Drake would never collapse under interrogation so easily.”

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, Damian, thank you for your glowing vote of confidence.”

Cass, still watching Conner, said softly, “Not lying. He can’t.”

Conner yelped behind his hands, “SHE’S RIGHT!”

Tim groaned.

The room descended into chaos:

Jason: “Tell us another secret, farm boy!”

Duke: “No, seriously, this is wild. It’s like Batman’s worst nightmare—someone who can’t keep their mouth shut.”

Dick: “Okay, okay, let’s not abuse this. …But also, Conner, when did you and Tim actually start dating?”

Conner: “Three weeks earlier than we told you! He made me wait because he said you’d tease him!”

Tim slapped a hand over his own face. “I am going to murder you.”

Tim finally dragged Conner away from the Bat-Intervention-of-Doom and into his room. He shut the door firmly, leaned against it, and exhaled like someone who had just walked through a minefield.

Conner sat on the edge of Tim’s bed, legs swinging nervously, wringing his hands like a kid in trouble. Except, of course, it wasn’t Conner’s body doing the wringing—it was Tim’s body. Which made the whole visual unsettling in about fourteen different ways.

Tim crossed his arms. “Okay. Sit. Shut up. Breathe. And for the love of God, stop confessing every embarrassing thing you’ve ever done to my siblings.”

Conner looked sheepish. “I can’t help it. Cass stares at me and it’s like—bam! Instant word vomit. Honestly, it’s kinda impressive. Terrifying, but impressive.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Well, good news, Boy Scout. This isn’t permanent.”

Conner perked up. “What?”

Tim smirked, savoring the moment. “Zatanna stopped by earlier. She knows what happened and said she’ll fix everything tomorrow.”

Conner blinked. Then slowly, his expression melted into pure joy. “So—you mean—this—” He gestured at himself, at Tim, at their mismatched bodies. “—isn’t forever?”

“Not unless you’ve developed a sudden interest in algebra and sleep deprivation,” Tim said dryly.

Conner laughed—loud, relieved, head thrown back. “Oh thank god. I was seriously worried I was gonna be stuck as you forever. No offense.”

Tim arched an eyebrow. “Offense taken.”

---

Conner leaned back on Tim’s bed, grinning. “Y’know, this isn’t so bad, though. Your body’s kinda… flexible.”

Tim narrowed his eyes. “Don’t.”

“Like, when I stretched earlier? I was impressed. Do you even realize how bendy you are?”

“Conner.”

“You could literally join the circus. Or, you know—” He wiggled his brows. “—other recreational activities.”

Tim groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate you.”

Conner, unbothered, rolled onto his stomach and propped his chin on his hands. “No, you don’t. You love me. Even like this. Especially like this. Admit it.”

Tim looked at his own body sprawled across his bed and felt his sanity slipping. “You are insufferable.”

“Insufferably hot,” Conner shot back instantly.

Tim’s jaw clenched. “That’s my face you’re calling hot.”

“Exactly!” Conner beamed, utterly shameless. “I win either way.”

---

For a moment, Tim just stood there, silent, calculating the thirty-seven ways he could shut this down. None of them worked, because Conner had a talent for bypassing logic entirely.

Finally, Tim muttered, “Tomorrow. Tomorrow this nightmare is over. One more day, and you’ll be back in your own body, and I’ll never have to look at myself trying to flirt with me again.”

Conner grinned wider. “You sure about that? ’Cause I think me—like this—is kinda your type.”

Tim threw a pillow at him.

Conner caught it easily, hugging it to his chest like a prize. “Admit it, babe. You’re into yourself. Can’t blame you. I’d date me too.”

Tim turned, muttering as he pulled open his laptop. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you about Zatanna sooner.”

Conner called after him, sing-song: “You loooove me!”

Tim didn’t answer. Because unfortunately, it was true.

Tim decided—against his better judgment—to stay the night at the Manor. The warlock mess was technically in progress, but with Zatanna scheduled to fix things tomorrow, there wasn’t much point in spending the night patrolling Kansas cornfields. Besides, he couldn’t risk leaving Conner alone with his family again. Not after that Cassandra incident.

So, naturally, it ended with both of them in Tim’s bed.

Conner (in Tim’s body) was sprawled comfortably on top of the blankets, still looking way too at home for someone who’d just cried to Dick Grayson an hour earlier. Tim (in Conner’s body), meanwhile, was trying to figure out the logistics of lying down without breaking the bed frame. Being Superboy-sized came with challenges.

Conner grinned when Tim slid in beside him. “Cozy, huh?”

Tim gave him a flat look. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?” Conner asked innocently, scooting closer.

“You know what,” Tim muttered, but then he stilled. Because Conner’s body—his body—was huge. He couldn’t curl into Conner like he usually did, not unless he wanted to risk crushing him with superhero biceps. For the first time in history, Tim Drake realized he was going to have to be the big spoon.

The horror on his face must’ve been visible because Conner laughed immediately. “Oh my god. You’re panicking.”

“I am not panicking.”

“You are. Babe, relax. Just embrace it. This is your moment. You’ve been promoted.”

Tim glared. “This is not a promotion.”

“Oh, it totally is. Look at you, all tall and broad and… spoon-shaped.” Conner wiggled his brows. “I feel so protected.”

Tim sighed like a man being executed. But then he rolled over, pressed up against Conner’s back, and wrapped his (Conner’s) arms around him. It felt weird. Too easy. Too… right.

Conner smirked into the pillow. “See? Natural. You’re like… custom-built for this.”

Tim’s voice was dry. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I’m just saying, you’ve got the arms for it. The pecs. The whole vibe. Honestly, I feel like I should be calling you Daddy right now.”

Tim choked. “Conner.”

“Kidding!” Conner said quickly, though his grin was anything but innocent. “Mostly. Unless you’re into that. In which case—”

“Shut up before I throw you on the floor.”

Conner laughed and wiggled back against him. “You wouldn’t. You love me too much.”

Tim buried his face in Conner’s hair (or technically his own hair, which was unsettling if he thought about it too long). “One more day,” he muttered. “Just one more day and you’ll be back to normal.”

Conner sighed contentedly, leaning into the warmth. “Mhm. And then you’ll never get to be the big spoon again.”

Tim squeezed him tighter in retaliation. “That’s the plan.”

But even as he said it, he didn’t let go.

Tim woke up to sunlight streaming through the curtains and the soft weight of Conner pressed against him. Normally, this was the part where he did his best impression of a normal, functioning boyfriend and refused to move so Conner could keep sleeping. But today was different. Today he was six-foot-something, Kryptonian, and had biceps the size of Bruce’s bank accounts.

Also, Alfred had let Zatanna into his bedroom.

Tim cracked one eye open, squinting at the sorceress standing over his bed like some kind of gothic fairy godmother. “Morning,” he mumbled. Then, without hesitation or hesitation’s lesser-known cousin, forethought, he swung his arm at her face.

Zatanna ducked with an exasperated sigh, hair bouncing perfectly back into place. “Cute. Assaulting the mage who’s here to fix your ridiculous problem.”

“Reflex,” Tim said blandly, lowering his fist like nothing had happened. “Don’t sneak up on me before coffee.”

“Tim,” Conner whispered (from inside Tim’s body, still groggy and clutching the blanket like a shield). “You almost punched Zatanna.”

“She dodged. She’s fine.” Tim stretched like he hadn’t just tried to deck their only hope. “She’ll live.”

“I’ll live,” Zatanna confirmed dryly, crossing her arms. “But you might not if you try that again, hero boy.”

Conner scrambled upright, flustered, cheeks pink on Tim’s face. “Sorry about him! He’s—uh—he’s not usually so…punchy in the mornings. More broody. Sometimes sarcastic. But not violent, I swear.”

Zatanna raised one brow, eyes flicking from Tim’s borrowed Kryptonian muscles to Conner’s nervous apology. “Mm-hm. You two are lucky I like you.” She wiggled her fingers. “Shall we get this over with before Batman shows up demanding a magical receipt?”

“Please,” Tim said, completely calm. “I miss being small enough to sit in chairs without breaking them.”

“See, that’s a complaint I don’t hear every day,” Zatanna muttered, already drawing sigils in the air. “Hold still. Both of you.”

The spell came in a rush of light and whispered syllables that sounded like someone muttering palindromes underwater. Conner gasped, Tim blinked, and then—

Bodies. Fixed.

Conner Kent was back to being six-foot-tall, broad-shouldered, Kryptonian golden boy. Tim Drake was back to being lean, deceptively fragile-looking, caffeine-dependent chaos incarnate.

Tim looked down at his hands, flexed his fingers, and nodded. “Good. Back to factory settings.”

Conner, however, just stared at him, scandalized. “You didn’t even say thank you!”

“I didn’t punch her that hard.”

“You didn’t even hit her!”

“Exactly,” Tim said smoothly. “You’re welcome, Zee.”

Zatanna pinched the bridge of her nose. “You two exhaust me.”

“Wait,” Conner said suddenly, eyes narrowing. “Why do I feel like you liked being me for a day?”

Tim smirked, already sliding out of bed and tugging on a hoodie. “What can I say? It was nice being tall. Also, your mom makes a mean breakfast.”

Conner froze. “You ate Ma’s pancakes? Without me?”

“Yep,” Tim said, utterly unapologetic. “And I even frowned when she tried to stop me from drinking coffee. I committed to the role.”

Zatanna, halfway out the door, snorted. “Unbelievable. You two are the weirdest couple I know, and I hang out with Harley Quinn.”

As the door shut behind her, Conner turned to Tim with wide, betrayed eyes. “You spooned me as me last night.”

Tim’s smirk sharpened. “You were surprisingly cozy.”

Conner groaned into his hands. “I’m never living this down.”

Tim patted his shoulder on the way out of the room. “Correct. Now come on, Daddy, we’ve got a warlock to track down.”

Conner made a noise that could only be described as a dying whale.

By the time Tim and Conner wandered downstairs, Alfred had already laid out a spread worthy of a royal banquet: eggs, bacon, waffles, tea, fruit, toast—basically everything except coffee because apparently Gotham mornings demanded sobriety. Zatanna had vanished with a theatrical poof (because of course she had), leaving Tim with his restored body, a dangerous amount of serotonin, and the kind of spring in his step that immediately raised red flags.

Bruce was already at the table, black coffee in hand, reading the Gotham Gazette like it had personally insulted him. He looked up just in time to see Tim practically bounce into the room, Conner trailing behind him looking guilty, like a Labrador who’d just knocked over an antique vase.

Bruce froze. He stared at Tim. He stared at Conner. Then back at Tim.

Finally, he said flatly:

“Explain.”

Tim didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, right, funny story. Conner and I got magically body-swapped by an angry warlock, but it’s fine now. We’re back to normal. All fixed. Pass the waffles, please.”

Bruce blinked. Slowly. Very slowly.

Conner, sitting stiffly in his chair, coughed into his napkin. “Uh—hi, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce didn’t acknowledge him. His eyes were locked on Tim like he was staring down a Rubik’s cube that had lied about being solvable. “…I didn’t notice.”

Tim poured syrup over his waffles, cheerful as could be. “Yep. I spent an entire day in Conner’s body, living with his mom, accidentally traveling to Paris, learning how to fly, and then spooning my own boyfriend with his arms—and you didn’t notice. World’s Greatest Detective, indeed.”

Alfred, ever composed, set a teapot down on the table. “Congratulations, Master Timothy. I trust your…experience was illuminating.”

“Enlightening,” Tim said, grinning. “Turns out super-hearing is terrible, super-speed is a nightmare, and muscles make chairs deeply uncomfortable.”

Bruce’s gaze slid toward Conner, who was already shrinking into his seat. “And you.”

“Yes, sir?” Conner’s voice cracked.

“You let Timothy pretend to be you. In front of me.”

Conner swallowed hard. “In my defense, sir, Tim’s really, really good at lying. I—I’m not. At all. I may have cried twice. And apologized to your butler four separate times. But in my heart, I was trying.”

Bruce sipped his coffee. “…Komodo.”

“Conner,” Conner corrected softly, then immediately flinched. “But Komodo’s fine. Komodo’s great.”

Tim burst out laughing. “Komodo? Oh my God.” He clutched his stomach. “That’s a new one. What happened, Bruce, did you finally run out of K-names to call him? Kleenex, Kombucha, Krampus—now Komodo.”

Bruce ignored him. “And this warlock. Still at large?”

Tim waved his fork, already chewing. “Relax, Zee’s got it handled. She said something about magical feedback loops and chaos inversions, then disappeared in a puff of sparkles. Totally trustworthy.”

Conner muttered into his orange juice. “She also said we were idiots.”

“She’s not wrong,” Alfred added politely.

Bruce stared at the two of them, his expression unreadable, but his eyebrow twitched ever so slightly—the Bruce Wayne equivalent of fainting from shock. “I missed a body swap under my own roof.”

“Cheer up, Dad,” Tim said with mock sympathy. “You can’t win ‘em all. Besides, you’ve got so many kids, keeping track of who’s in whose body is basically impossible.”

Conner choked on his juice. “Dad?!”

“Okay,” Bruce said finally, pinching the bridge of his nose. “One more time. You switched bodies.”

“Yup,” Tim said, mouth full of waffle.

“And Zatanna fixed it.”

“Yup.”

“And I. Did not. Notice.”

Tim beamed. “Correct. Detective of the Year, everyone.”

Conner nearly choked. “Tim—”

“Oh, relax, Con,” Tim said, patting his arm with exaggerated pity. “He only spent, what, sixteen hours with you walking around as me? That’s not enough time for him to notice his own son’s been replaced with a Kansas himbo. Happens all the time.”

Bruce glared. “Do not call him a himbo at my table.”

“Sir,” Alfred interjected mildly, sliding a plate of bacon between them, “you’ve referred to Master Kent as ‘Krampus,’ ‘Kombucha,’ and—most recently—‘Komodo.’ One might argue ‘himbo’ is a step up.”

Tim nearly fell out of his chair laughing. Conner, however, ducked his head, cheeks burning. “…I don’t mind Komodo. It’s kind of cool. Like…dragon-y.”

“See?” Bruce said flatly. “He doesn’t mind.”

“I mind,” Tim said, stabbing a waffle for emphasis. “You can’t just call my boyfriend after random pantry items and holiday demons. His name is Conner. With a C. Say it with me, Bruce. C-O—”

Bruce sipped his coffee like a man plotting homicide.

Before Conner could crawl under the table from embarrassment, heavy footsteps echoed down the hall. Jason strolled in first, followed by Dick, Damian, and Duke. Cassandra slipped in silently, already making a beeline for the tea.

“Oh good,” Jason said, spotting Conner. “Your boyfriend’s here. Did you finally tell him you cry in your sleep, Replacement?”

“Jason,” Tim said sweetly, “one more word and I tell Alfred about the time you used his silverware to pry open a safe.”

Jason froze mid-step. “…You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

“Morning, Conner,” Dick cut in, grinning as he clapped him on the back hard enough to almost knock him into his juice. “Or should I say Tim 2.0? I heard you pulled off a mean impression yesterday.”

Conner stammered. “I-I didn’t—Tim did all the—he told me to—”

“Oh my God,” Damian muttered, sliding into a chair. “He’s even more pathetic than Drake. Unbelievable.”

Tim threw an entire piece of toast at him. Damian caught it one-handed without looking.

Cassandra, sipping her tea, tilted her head at Conner. “You cried,” she said simply.

Conner’s soul left his body.

Tim was practically in tears from laughter. “Oh my God, Cass, don’t! He already told Bruce!”

“Wait,” Duke said, blinking. “So…you really switched bodies? That wasn’t a joke?”

“Not a joke,” Tim confirmed, leaning back in his chair smugly. “And, for the record, I flew to Paris on accident, learned how to aim super-hearing, and spooned Conner with his own arms. It was a productive day.”

Jason spat out his coffee. “You WHAT?”

Conner groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Please stop talking.”

“Never,” Tim said cheerfully, stealing a piece of his bacon. “This is payback for calling me short for three years. I got to be tall, muscular, and terrifyingly pretty. I deserve bragging rights.”

Bruce, still seated like a granite statue, muttered into his coffee:

“…Komodo.”

And that was the final straw—Tim dropped his fork and cackled so hard Alfred had to quietly slide the syrup out of reach, lest he weaponize it.