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The evening had been proceeding with a rare, fragile sense of peace. The dinner dishes were soaking, the house didn’t smell like anything had been burned, and Tim was actually sitting on the sofa with a book that wasn't a forensic report or a quarterly earnings brief. Beside him, Conner was sprawled out, his head back and eyes closed, finally letting the tension of a long day of "being a pillar of the community" drain out of his shoulders.
The clock on the mantle chimed softly: eight o’clock. A safe time. A time that usually signaled the beginning of the wind-down.
Then, the heavy thump-thump-thump of small feet echoed down the hallway.
Thomas appeared in the archway of the living room. He wasn't wearing his Superman cape for once; instead, he looked uncharacteristically small, clutching a crumpled piece of neon-green construction paper to his chest. His brow was furrowed with a gravity that usually only appeared when he was deciding which action figure was his favorite.
“Papa?” Thomas’s voice was small, hesitant.
Conner opened one eye, offering a sleepy, affectionate grin. “Yeah, pal? Everything okay? You look like you just found out we’re out of cereal.”
Thomas walked closer, the green paper crinkling in his grip. “I need help with a project for school. My teacher says it’s very important and everyone has to do one.”
Tim looked up from his book, a faint sense of dread beginning to prickle at the back of his neck. He knew that look. He had seen that look on every Robin’s face at least once. “Of course, bud. We’re always happy to help with schoolwork. What’s the project?”
“It’s a family tree,” Thomas announced.
Conner sat up, stretching his arms over his head. “A family tree? We can handle that. We’ve got glue, we’ve got markers... we can do a really big one. When do you need to start working on it?”
Thomas bit his lower lip. “Now? It’s due tomorrow.”
The silence that followed was thick. Tim and Conner shared a look—the "Parental Solidarity" look. It was the silent communication of two people who had survived world-ending threats but were currently being defeated by a seven-year-old’s lack of time management.
“Tomorrow, Tommy?” Tim asked, his voice remarkably calm despite the mental list of "things he wanted to do tonight" that was currently dissolving. “You’ve known about this for a while, right?”
“Miss Gable gave us the paper on Monday,” Thomas whispered, looking at his shoes. “But I forgot because I was busy being a hero.”
Conner let out a huff of a laugh, reaching out to ruffle Thomas’s hair. “Can’t argue with that logic. Being a hero is a full-time job. But the ‘Family Tree’ mission is officially priority alpha now.”
Tim sighed, already standing up to check their supply of craft materials. A quick scan of the "junk drawer" revealed three dried-out markers, a glue stick that was more hair than adhesive, and exactly zero pieces of poster board.
“We have nothing,” Tim announced, turning back to the room. “No poster board, no markers and no cardstock. If we’re going to make this look like anything other than a disaster, we’re going to need a supply run.”
“Road trip!” Conner cheered, trying to keep the energy up for Thomas’s sake.
“I heard ‘road trip’ and I also heard ‘store,’” a new voice joined in. Caitlyn leaned against the doorframe, her phone in one hand and a look of opportunistic hunger in her eyes. “We are out of the good spicy chips and I’m pretty sure that constitutes a household emergency.”
“It’s eight thirty on a school night, Cait,” Tim reminded her, though he was already grabbing his keys.
“Exactly. It’s the perfect time for a snack run,” she countered.
Tim and Conner sighed.
—
The twenty-four-hour superstore was a vacuum of neon light and commercial hum, a stark contrast to the quiet, suburban darkness they had just left. It was nine at night, and the store was in that strange late-evening lull where the only patrons were tired shift workers, people who had forgotten a single vital ingredient for dinner, and parents like Tim and Conner, currently being held hostage by a second-grader’s procrastination.
“Mission status: Critical,” Conner whispered, pushing the shopping cart with a flair that made Thomas giggle. “Target acquired: Aisle fourteen. School Supplies.”
Thomas sat in the main basket of the cart, his legs swinging excitedly. He was pointing at things as they zoomed past—vibrant boxes of cereal, towering displays of soda, and the occasional toy that he knew better than to ask for on a night this serious.
Tim walked beside them, his eyes locked on his phone’s notepad, mentally mapping the store for efficiency. “We need the heavy-duty white poster board. None of that thin stuff that curls at the edges when you put a drop of glue on it. And we need brown paper for the trunk—construction paper, but the large sheets.”
“Don’t forget the leaves!” Thomas chirped. “They have to be green. Very, very green.”
“And glitter?” Conner suggested with a mischievous glint in his eye.
“If a single speck of glitter enters this cart, I am walking home,” Tim said, his tone perfectly flat. “I’m still finding gold flakes in the laundry from your ‘Super-Sparkle’ birthday party last year, Kon. Never again.”
Caitlyn trailed a few paces behind them, her hands buried in the pockets of her ripped jeans. While the boys were on a mission of academic survival, she was on a mission of pure, unadulterated indulgence. She broke off from the group at the snack aisle entrance, throwing a two-fingered peace sign over her shoulder.
“I’m going to the spicy section. If I don't come back in five minutes, tell the authorities I died doing what I loved,” she called out.
“Get the family size!” Tim called back, knowing full well she’d eat half of them before they even reached the driveway.
The school supply aisle was a graveyard of picked-over folders and bent notebooks. Conner stood in front of the poster board, his fingers trailing over the options. He felt a slight pang in his chest, one that reminded him that he never got to make a family tree as a kid, that it was stripped from him before he even knew it was an option to have.
He shook the thought away. Right now, he was the dad who was at a store at nine at night because his son needed a tree.
“Look, Papa! Markers that smell like fruit!” Thomas held up a pack of scented markers. “We can make the tree smell like apples!”
“As long as the apples don't bleed through the paper, I’m in,” Tim smiled, tossing the markers into the cart.
They gathered the rest: a fresh bottle of glue (no sticks this time), a pack of multi-colored felt for "texture," and a set of stencils because Conner knew his own handwriting was a mess of forensic shorthand that no teacher could decode.
By the time they reconvened at the front of the store, Caitlyn was waiting with two giant bags of flaming-hot chips and a bottle of blue sports drink that looked like it contained enough electrolytes to power a small jet.
“Found the treasure,” she announced, tossing the loot on top of the poster board.
The drive home was filled with Thomas’s excited chatter about where Auntie Cass and Grandpa Bruce would go on the branches. Conner drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the center console, where Tim instinctively placed his own hand. It was a silent acknowledgement of the chaos, a shared "we’re doing this" that made the late-night stress feel manageable.
When they pulled back into the driveway, the house looked peaceful, but Tim knew the next two hours would be a whirlwind of glue and debate.
“Alright, team,” Tim said as they unloaded. “Conner, you’re on lead-crafting duty with Tommy. I need to get the kitchen under control.”
“Kitchen control?” Conner asked, grabbing the bags. “I thought we were doing the project at the table.”
“No, it’ll be better to do it in the living room,” Tim said, checking his watch. “If I don't meal prep for tomorrow now, we’re going to be eating Batburger leftovers for lunch, and I promised Thomas I’d make that honey-glaze chicken he likes for dinner tomorrow. I’ve got chicken to marinate and veggies to chop while you guys are architecting the tree.”
Conner nodded, kissing his husband’s cheek, “Whatever you say, Baby.”
They entered the house, and the living room immediately transformed into a construction zone. Newspapers were spread across the floor, and Thomas was already laying out his "vision" for the tree.
Tim headed into the kitchen, shedding his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. He pulled the cutting board from the cupboard and began retrieving the produce from the fridge.
A soft rustle of plastic sounded from the breakfast bar. Caitlyn had hoisted herself up onto the counter, tucking her legs under her and hugging her giant bag of spicy chips. She looked like a gargoyle of teenage snark, perched and ready to observe.
“You’re staying?” Tim asked, a small smile playing on his lips as he began washing a bunch of kale.
“The living room is too loud,” Caitlyn said, popping a bright red chip into her mouth with a crunch that echoed in the quiet kitchen. “Pops is trying to explain the physics of glue-drying to a seven-year-old, and Tommy keeps insisting that the tree needs a ‘secret base’ at the bottom for his action figures. It’s a lot.”
“So you’re hiding out with me?” Tim teased, the knife rhythmically hitting the board as he sliced through a stack of carrots.
“I’m keeping you company,” she corrected, waving a chip at him. “You look like you’re doing high-level math in your head. You need a distraction so you don't accidentally chop a finger off.”
Tim laughed softly. “I appreciate the sacrifice, Cait.”
For a while, the only sounds were the muffled voices of the boys in the next room and the steady tock-tock-tock of Tim’s knife. It was a familiar, soothing rhythm. Caitlyn sat in silence, her eyes following his movements, the bag of chips crinkling every few seconds.
“Dad?” she asked after a moment, her voice dropping a register, losing some of its habitual edge.
“Yeah, honey?”
“Is he going to put... you know... the Drakes or Luthor on there?”
Tim’s hand paused for a fraction of a second, the knife hovering over a red bell pepper. He didn't look up immediately. He thought about the family tree project he’d done as a kid—the way he’d carefully drawn the Drake crest, the way he’d tried to make the lines look as perfect as possible.
“That’s Thomas’s call,” Tim said, resuming his chopping. “It’s his project. But if you’re asking if I want them on there... the answer is no. A family tree is supposed to show where you get your strength from. Where your roots are.”
Caitlyn nodded, crunching thoughtfully. “I told him we should put the Kents on one side and the Waynes on the other. Like a giant wall of people who would actually fight a monster for us.”
Tim smiled, a genuine, warm expression. “That sounds like a very sturdy tree.”
“He wants to put Alfred and Mama Kent at the very bottom,” she added. “He says they are the dirt because they hold everyone up and make things grow.”
Tim snorted, nearly missing his cut. “I should tell Alfred that. He’d probably find it remarkably poetic before telling me my vegetable dicing is uneven.”
Caitlyn hopped off the counter, moving closer to watch him work. She reached out and snagged a raw carrot slice from the corner of the board, crunching on it between chips. “You’re doing the thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The ‘I’m worried everything has to be perfect’ thing,” she said, pointing a spicy-dust-covered finger at him. “It’s just a school project, Dad. Tommy’s going to get glue on his face, the tree is going to be lopsided, and Miss Gable is still going to give him a gold star because he’s cute and he can explain the difference between a sidekick and a partner.”
Tim sighed, leaning his hip against the counter. “I know. I just... I want him to have the 'normal' experience, you know? I don't want him to ever feel like his tree is 'broken' just because it’s shaped differently.”
Caitlyn leaned her shoulder against his arm, a rare, soft gesture of affection. “His tree isn't broken, Dad. It’s just bigger than most. It’s got a lot of branches. That just means there’s more places to hide when you’re playing hide-and-seek and that’s all he cares about because he is seven.”
Tim reached out and ruffled her hair, ignoring her indignant squawk. “When did you get so smart?”
“I learned from the best,” she smirked, reaching for another carrot. “And by the best, I mean Mama Kent. You’re just the guy who provides the snacks.”
“Gee, thanks.”
—
The living room was a sprawling landscape of creative debris. Sheets of neon-green felt, scraps of brown construction paper, and the caps of various markers littered the rug. In the center of the storm sat Conner and Thomas, hunched over a massive white poster board that was slowly becoming a map of their lives. Conner held a ruler with the kind of intense focus usually reserved for disarming a bomb, while Thomas chewed on his lower lip, his small hand hovering over a sheet of silver star stickers.
Conner paused, his marker hovering over a blank space near the center of the board where the "trunk" split into its first major branches. He looked at his son, his expression softening into something profoundly tender.
"So, for you and Caitlyn," Conner began, his voice dropping into that low, patient frequency he used for the big talks. "We’re going to do a dotted line to represent adoption. Do you remember what that word means, Tommy?"
Thomas stopped fidgeting with his stickers. He sat up a little straighter, his dark curls bouncing as he gave a single, firm nod. "It means you guys didn't get me like other people get their kids," he said, his voice bright and certain. "It means you chose me."
The air in the room seemed to shift, warming with a sudden, quiet weight. Conner reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Thomas's ear, his hand lingering for a second longer than necessary. "Mhm. And you and Caitlyn were the best choices for my and your daddy's lives. Ever."
Thomas beamed, the kind of smile that could power a city, before turning his attention back to the names they had already written. He pointed at the section they had labeled the "Wayne Branch," where the lines were thick and overlapping.
"So," Conner continued, steering the marker back to the board. "Your daddy was adopted by your grandpa Bruce, along with your uncle Dick, uncle Jay, aunt Cass, and uncle Duke. Your uncle Dami is his biological son, but he loves all of them very much. That’s why the lines all go to the same place."
Thomas followed the lines with his finger, nodding along as he processed the complex geometry of the Bat-family. He understood that Grandpa Bruce’s house was big and that all his uncles and aunts were different, but the concept of "biological" was still a relatively new addition to his vocabulary. He looked at the empty space next to Tim’s name, then back at Conner.
"Does Daddy have biolog— biologal parents?" Thomas asked, the long word tripping over his tongue.
Conner’s smile didn't falter, though his eyes clouded for a brief, imperceptible moment with the memory of the evening at the Batburger. "Biological," he corrected gently. "And yes, he does."
Thomas tilted his head, his brow furrowing in a way that looked achingly like Tim. "Does Daddy miss them? He never talks about them."
In the kitchen, the steady tock-tock-tock of Tim’s knife against the cutting board suddenly faltered. The silence from the next room was absolute. Tim stood over a half-diced bell pepper, his shoulders hunched, his breath held tight in his chest. He could hear Tim’s heartbeat—steady, warm, and honest—as he prepared to answer the hardest question a seven-year-old could ask.
"Oh, honey cakes," Conner said, his voice a soothing balm. "He loved them a lot. It can make him really sad sometimes that he can’t see them like everyone else does, but it’s the best for everyone."
Thomas looked down at the poster board, his small hands resting on his knees. He was quiet for a long time, the gears of his empathetic little heart turning. He thought about how he felt when he couldn't find his favorite toy, or when he had to wait for Conner to come home from a long trip. He couldn't imagine a "sad" that meant you never saw someone at all.
"Is there anything we can do to help Daddy?" Thomas asked, his voice a tiny, hopeful whisper.
Conner’s heart ached. He shifted on the floor, pulling Thomas into a one-armed hug and tucking the boy’s head under his chin. "You help him every day just by being you, Tommy. The love he has and receives from you and your sister—and me—it helps him manage that sadness a lot. You do a great job at helping your daddy just by being yourself, okay?"
Thomas squeezed Conner’s arm, his eyes bright with a new, solemn mission. "Okay! I'll hug Daddy more. And if he ever gets really, really, really sad, we can play trains. No one is sad when the steam engine is going fast."
Conner let out a soft, wet laugh, pressing a kiss to the top of Thomas’s head. "That sounds like a perfect plan, pal. A perfect plan."
A soft, hitching sniffle drifted from the kitchen, barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator. To anyone else, it might have been a stray sound, but to Conner, it was a siren. He heard the way Tim’s breath caught—a jagged, sharp intake of air—and the way the kitchen knife finally clicked against the wooden cutting board as it was set down. Tim was listening. He was standing in the shadows of the kitchen, surrounded by the scent of marinating chicken and chopped kale, anchored to the spot by the words of his son.
Conner didn't interrupt. He didn't call out to Tim or offer a comforting word through the wall. He knew Tim needed this moment to be a silent observer of the life they had built together. Instead, Conner just held Thomas a little tighter, shifting his weight so the boy could lean against his side. He watched as Thomas’s eyes drifted across the poster board, moving past the "Wayne Branch" with its thick, tangled lines of brothers and sisters, and settling on a small, blank space off to the side of Conner’s own name.
Thomas tapped his chin with the end of a blue marker, a smudge of green ink already staining his thumb. His expression was turning thoughtful, the kind of heavy, analytical look he usually reserved for figuring out how to beat a difficult level in a video game.
"Papa, do I have to include Mr. Luthor?" Thomas asked.
The name hung in the air like a cold draft. Conner’s posture stilled for a second, a phantom chill touching his spine. Lex Luthor was a shadow that had loomed over Conner’s entire existence—a biological necessity, a source of DNA, and a constant reminder of a legacy built on ego and power. But to Thomas, Lex was something much simpler: a man who had been cold, a man who had made the adults in his life tense and unhappy.
Conner took a breath, keeping his voice incredibly gentle, carefully stripping away any of his own lingering resentment so his son could make his own choice. Something he never got when under Lex’s control.
"Well, that's the cool part of this project, Tommy," he said, looking Thomas directly in the eye, his gaze steady and honest. "You get to choose what family you want to have. A family tree isn't just a list of names in a book. It’s a map of the people who love you."
Thomas looked back down at the board, his eyes tracing the empty space where a "Grandfather" might have gone on the Kent side. "But I don't know if I want him or not. He's... he's part of the story you told me, right? Miss Gable said we follow the roots."
Conner leaned in, resting his elbows on his knees. "Roots are important, yeah. But sometimes roots are just where you start. It’s the branches that decide where the tree goes. So, let’s think about it. Does he make you happy?"
Thomas didn't have to think. He shook his head almost immediately, the curls on top of his head bouncing with the force of his conviction. "No. When he talked to us at the weird hospital place, he was being really mean to us— and he was saying mean things— and I was scared."
"Does he make you feel safe?" Conner asked, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, protective rumble.
Thomas paused, twisting the marker cap between his fingers. He thought about the tall, sterile building and the way the air seemed to get thinner when Lex had entered the room.
"Hmm, no," Thomas said, his voice small but firm. "And he was really mean to Cait and Daddy. He said things that made Daddy’s face go all tight. I don't want to put someone on my tree who isn't nice to people, especially the people who keep me safe."
In the kitchen, the silence deepened. Tim was perfectly still, his hand resting on the counter, his heart swelling with a mixture of grief for what had been and an overwhelming, fierce pride for the boy in the living room. Thomas, at seven years old, had a clearer understanding of loyalty and love than most of the adults Tim had dealt with in the corporate world of Gotham.
Conner felt a surge of that same pride, a warmth that started in his chest and radiated outward. The weight of his own complicated origins—the half-Kryptonian, half-Luthor heritage that had once felt like a curse—seemed to lighten, falling away in the face of his son's simple, devastating clarity. Conner reached out and squeezed Thomas’s shoulder, his thumb brushing against the fabric of the boy’s shirt.
"That's okay," Conner said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "He doesn't have to be on our tree. Our tree is for the people who show up for us. The people who help us grow."
"Like Grandpa Bruce?" Thomas asked, brighten up. "And Mama and Papa Kent? And Auntie Cass?"
"Exactly like them," Conner agreed.
Thomas smiled, a bright, uncomplicated expression of relief. He turned back to the board and, with a flourish of his blue marker, drew a thick, sturdy line toward a large green leaf. He didn't look at the empty space again. He was too busy deciding which color to use for Uncle Dick’s name.
The "Family Tree" sat between them, a work in progress, lopsided and covered in glitter-glue and ink, but it was the most honest thing in the house. It was a tree that didn't care about bloodlines or legacies; it only cared about the hands that held the markers and the hearts that kept the beat.
Conner looked toward the kitchen, his super-hearing catching the sound of Tim finally picking the knife back up. The tock-tock-tock resumed, but it sounded different now—lighter, steadier.
—
The night continued, and the living room was finally settling into a state of peaceful exhaustion. The heavy, difficult decisions had been made—the names chosen had been written in bold ink, and the names of those who brought no safety had been left off the board. Thomas was now meticulously filling in the background of the poster board with small, shaky drawings of clouds and suns, but his mind was still clearly drifting back to the very bottom of the paper, where the roots began.
He paused his coloring, the yellow marker held mid-air as he looked up at Conner. His eyes were wide and curious, devoid of the defensive heaviness that usually accompanied questions about the past.
"Papa?" Thomas asked, his voice soft against the quiet hum of the house.
Conner looked down from where he was helping Caitlyn organize her snack wrappers. "Yeah, Nugget? You need more green for the leaves?"
Thomas shook his head. "No. I was just thinking. We talked about Daddy’s other parents and Grandpa Bruce. And we talked about Mr. Luthor." He hesitated, his small fingers twisting the hem of his pajama shirt. "What about my... my other ones? The ones before you and Daddy?"
In the kitchen, the sound of the faucet running suddenly cut off. Tim didn't move to dry his hands; he gripped the edge of the sink, his heart hammering against his ribs. This was the conversation they had rehearsed in their heads a thousand times, the one they always feared they wouldn't get right. He stayed perfectly still, trusting Conner’s voice to carry the weight across the hall.
Conner shifted on the floor, sitting cross-legged so he could face Thomas fully. He didn't shy away from the question; he met it with the same steady, sun-warmed honesty that defined everything he did.
"Your parents were really good people, Thomas," Conner said, his voice dropping into a gentle, resonant tone that felt like a hug. "I want you to know that first and foremost. They weren't like the people we talked about earlier. They were kind, and they were brave."
Thomas leaned in, his eyes bright. "Were they heroes like you and Daddy?"
Conner smiled, a small, sad pull of his lips that was filled with genuine respect. "In their own way, yeah. They were explorers. They loved to travel and see the world, to find things that were hidden and learn about how the earth worked. They were always looking for the next adventure."
"Did they like trains?" Thomas asked, searching for a connection in the only way he knew how.
"I bet they loved them," Conner said, a soft chuckle escaping him. "But the most important thing you need to remember—the thing I know for a fact—is that they loved you very much. You were their biggest adventure, Tommy. They would be so proud of the person you’re becoming."
Thomas looked down at the poster board, specifically at the dotted line they had drawn earlier. It didn't feel like a gap anymore; it felt like a bridge. He reached out and touched the spot where his name sat in the center of the tree, surrounded by Kents and Waynes.
"So they didn't leave because they didn't want me?" Thomas whispered.
"Never," Conner said firmly, reaching out to cup Thomas’s face in his hand. "Life is just really big and sometimes really complicated, and things happen that we can't control. But their love for you didn't stop. It just... it passed the torch to us. Daddy and I are just the ones lucky enough to carry it the rest of the way."
Thomas leaned his head into Conner’s palm, a long, contented sigh escaping him. The uncertainty that had been hovering over his little head all evening finally seemed to dissipate, replaced by a sense of belonging that stretched back further than he realized.
"I think I'll draw two small stars at the very, very top of the tree," Thomas decided, reaching for the silver marker. "For them. So they can see everything from up there."
"I think that's the best idea you've had all night," Conner murmured, his eyes shining.
Tim stepped out of the kitchen then, his eyes slightly red but a soft, resilient smile on his face. He walked over to the pair on the rug, sinking down beside them and pulling both of them into a loose, warm embrace. Caitlyn, seeing the moment from her perch, didn't hesitate; she slid down and joined them, wrapping her arms around Tim’s neck and leaning her head against Conner’s shoulder.
The family tree was finished. It wasn't perfect—it was covered in marker smudges, crooked lines, and far too many stickers—but as they all sat there, tangled together in a single, solid hug, Tim knew it was the most beautiful thing they had ever created. It was a map of a family that wasn't built on obligation, but on the deliberate, daily choice to love one another.
"Alright, Superman," Tim said, his voice steady and full of love as he squeezed them all a little tighter. "Let's get this masterpiece moved to the counter to dry. It’s past your bedtime, and we have a big day tomorrow."
—
The house had finally surrendered to the heavy, velvet quiet of the late hour. The "Family Tree" rested in state on the kitchen island, the glitter-glue stars catching the faint, rhythmic pulse of the stove’s digital clock. The air in the hallways still smelled faintly of markers and spicy chips, the lingering scent of a crisis averted. The kids were deep in the kind of sleep that only comes after a night of intense emotional labor; Thomas was likely dreaming of explorers and steam engines, and Caitlyn had finally retreated to her room, her "company" no longer needed once the glue had dried.
In the master bedroom, the lamp on the nightstand had been dimmed to a warm, low amber glow, casting long, soft shadows against the walls. Tim was already under the covers, propped up against the headboard with a discarded book resting facedown on his lap. He wasn't reading; he was simply breathing, letting the silence of the house wash over him like a cool tide.
When Conner finally emerged from the bathroom, the change in his energy was immediate. Usually, Conner moved with a steady, unbreakable confidence—a physical manifestation of his strength and his upbringing under the wide Kansas sky. But tonight, his shoulders were slumped, his head was bowed, and his movements were heavy, as if the gravity of the Earth had suddenly tripled for him alone.
He didn't say a word as he climbed into bed. He didn't reach for the remote or ask about the schedule for the morning. Instead, he moved instinctively toward Tim, seeking him out like a compass needle finding north. He pulled Tim into his arms, collapsing against him and burying his face in the crook of Tim’s neck. His large frame, usually a solid wall of protection, was trembling.
At first, it was just a hitch in his breathing—a jagged, uneven rhythm that Tim felt against his own skin. But then, the dam that Conner had held shut all evening finally, violently, broke.
Conner let out a jagged, muffled sob against Tim’s shoulder, the sound raw and thick with a pain he had been suppressing since the moment Thomas asked about "Mr. Luthor." His hands clutched the back of Tim’s cotton shirt, his fingers bunching the fabric tightly, as if he were an anchor-less ship clinging to a pier in a gale.
"I’ve got you, Kon," Tim whispered, his voice a steady, grounding vibration. He didn't ask what was wrong; he knew. He knew the weight of being a "project”, the fear of a tainted legacy, and the agony of hoping your children never have to feel the shadows of the men who gave you half your DNA.
Tim wrapped his arms around Conner’s broad shoulders, pulling him as close as the laws of physics would allow. He ran his fingers through Conner's hair in a slow, repetitive motion, a soothing rhythm he knew helped quiet the cacophony of Conner's senses. He let Conner’s tears soak into his shirt, offering his own strength as a silent sacrifice. "It’s okay. Just let it out. I'm right here."
Conner’s voice was broken, sounding nothing like the hero who could move mountains. "He’s just so good, Tim. Thomas... he’s so pure. And when he sat there and said he didn't want him on the tree... I just... I didn't realize how much I was holding my breath. I didn't realize how much I was terrified that he'd see something in that man that he wanted to be." He let out another sob, his chest heaving. "I spent so long being afraid I was just a copy, a weapon. And tonight, hearing him choose us... hearing him say he felt safe because of us... It just broke me, Tim. I don't deserve that kid. I don't deserve any of this."
"You deserve everything," Tim said fiercely, pulling back just enough to look Conner in the eyes. In the dim light, Conner’s face was wet, his blue eyes red-rimmed and vulnerable. "You didn't give him your DNA and walk away, Kon. You gave him your time. You gave him your patience. You gave him the man who helps him build family trees on a Sunday night because he forgot to mention it beforehand. He rejected Lex because Lex isn't a person to him—he’s just a ghost. You’re the reality. You’re the root, Kon. You’re the trunk. He’s safe because you chose to be more than what you were made to be."
Conner let out a shaky, exhausted breath, his head dropping back onto Tim’s shoulder. The violent sobbing slowed into heavy, rhythmic hitches, the kind that come when the worst of the emotional poison has finally been bled out. He held onto Tim with a desperate, quiet strength, letting the warmth of the room and the steady, familiar beat of Tim’s heart anchor him to the present.
In the silence that followed, the world outside—with its villains, its legacies, and its expectations—felt infinitely far away. There was no Superboy here, and there was no Red Robin. There was just a man who had been hurt by his origins, and the man who had spent his life learning how to heal from them.
Tim didn't let go. He held him through the last of the tremors, through the quiet sniffles, and into the heavy, peaceful silence that followed. He continued to stroke Conner’s hair, whispering low, inconsequential things about the morning—about how they’d make pancakes, and how Thomas would wear his best shirt for the presentation—until he felt Conner’s muscles finally go slack.
He stayed awake long after Conner’s breathing had evened out into the deep, restorative sleep of the truly exhausted. He held the man who held the world on his shoulders, making sure that for this one night, Conner didn't have to be a pillar. He just had to be a husband, a father, and a man who was loved exactly for who he chose to be.