Chapter Text
Conner smells the blood first. Body-salt red in the air, no different from every other fight he has with the team. Always full of breaks and bruises of one sort or another. Except, this time, there’s so much of it.
Conner squishes a handgun like tinfoil, dispatching a security guard who blinks at his crumpled firearm dumbly, and scans the lobby. It’s wreckage and debris. Overturned hospitality couches and service desks, cords tugged loose of wall-spanning flatscreens and spitting electric sparks. There’s a hole in one wall where Cassie tumbled through drywall and wooden supports earlier, and a larger gap in the ceiling where she rebounded, spitting mad and looking ten ways dangerous.
Batman’s growl echoes disapprovingly from his address to the team. Keep it covert.
Oops.
So that’s not ideal, except then Conner finds the source of the blood, and decides they have a bigger problem. Bigger problem being Red Robin, Batman’s kid, leaking blood, like a faucet, in the middle of the room. One hand pressed against his side as red rivulets thread his gloved fingertips, other hand gripping his bo staff tighter than a lock.
Shit, shit, shit, Conner thinks. Tim, what the fuck.
And then he’s crossing the room, tossing aside men in combat gear. “Red!”
“I’m fine,” Tim calls back, face pale around the rim of his mask. “Focus on the mission.”
Bart stumbles out of superspeed, catching himself on the paneling of an upturned coffee bar station. “MissionIsTOASTDude.” And then. “Woah, Rob, you’re bleeding!”
From Tim’s grimace, it’s clear he’s well-aware. Another pump of blood squeezes into his palm and then Tim is scowling as he looks skyward. “Wonder Girl!”
Cassie doesn’t miss a beat.
“Retreat!” she orders, recalling her lasso and diving. She scoops Tim up by the crook of his knees and behind his shoulder blades—Conner knows she’ll get an earful for that later, not that she won’t give it right back—and then the team is making a rapid escape outside.
Conner flashes a grin toward security as the others make their exit. "Hope you like what we've done with the place! Remodel does not come with a satisfaction guarantee."
And then he's bumping the doorframe of the main entrance on his way, watching it collapse. It won’t seal anyone inside, but it’ll slow them down.
“The Zeta,” Cassie calls down, before speeding away, Tim writhing in her grip like a maladjusted cat. Bart nods, adjusts his goggles, and leaves a trail of dust in his wake.
That leaves Conner.
He can hear the security forces gathering behind the demolished entrance. It won’t be long before they advance out a side door, outfitted in gear more appropriate for a clandestine subsidiary organization than the office building front. Conner needs to not be there when that happens.
He gathers his energy, letting TTK envelope him, his leg muscles flex, and then he takes off—
Not enough, Conner thinks, growling, as he wobbles. His arms flap at his sides, hands sifting through air currents, dipping as he streaks unevenly across the sky. An awkward start always shakes his confidence, his control. He does an unintended flip to avoid an inopportune billboard. Hopefully, no-one streetside can see.
At least the Zeta isn’t far.
There’s a moment of fluid air ruffling his hair, buffering against his squinted eyes. He goes high, watches the city outskirt workings, automobiles trekking commutes in bumper to bumper boredom. And then, down.
It’s an awkward landing. Pavement crumpling underfoot, knees half-buckled as a painful shock rockets through them. Staggering, Conner grips the alleyway wall to regain his balance. He can’t help a look around. But no one pops out of the woodwork to lecture him about taxpayer dollars and paving jobs—never mind that the alleyway looks like it’s several decades due for some freshening up anyway. Shaking his shoulders to adjust his jacket, Conner dives into the Zeta, rattling off second-nature coordinates.
The atomic breakdown and reset is always an uncomfortable jolt.
And then Conner is blinking against bight lights, spastic on the inside of his eyelids, and stepping into the Mountain.
The rest of the team is still in front of the Zeta, joined by Red Tornado. The android’s impassive gaze is fixed on Tim, blood down Red Robin’s uniform front and puddling at his shoes as he takes space between where Cassie advances on him. He’s got her jean jacket clutched to his side, red soaking against the denim.
“Tim, what happened?” Cassie reaches for Tim’s side, expression furrowed.
Tim shifts away protectively. He says, “Lucky hit.”
“From what?”
Tim mumbles something that might be ‘gunshot’ and 'barely'. Even Conner’s superhearing is no match for a reluctance to enunciate. Either way, it looks bad.
So Conner whistles lowly and says, “That looks bad.”
Tim makes a face.
“He needs the medbay,” Cassie agrees. She addresses Tim. “You need the medbay.”
And then she steps forward, arms outstretched.
“I can walk,” Tim says, teeth gritted, always reluctant when it comes to the damsel-hold.
“You say a lot of dumb things, man,” Bart says. “But that one is up there.”
There’s a moment where Tim scowls, Bart’s foot taps a nervous hole into the tile, and Cassie looks about one second away from scooping Tim up again—autonomy be damned. But all Conner can fixate on is the spread of blood at Tim’s feet. The uneasy flutter of his eyelashes.
Tim could incapacitate Conner in a hundred ways, but like this? He looks so human—in every way that is fragile. Conner is hit with an inane urge to fetch bubble wrap and kevlar and soft things. He pushes that instinct away, but holds out his hands. The faster they get Tim to the medbay and patched up, the better.
Conner says, "C'mon, Rob. Bleeding out isn't your color."
And when Tim’s gaze catches on his, a look of resignation overtakes him with a sigh. Suddenly, Conner’s got a reluctant armful of knobby elbows, cape, and Robin red. Tim's free arm wraps around Conner's back, fingertips trailing over the shoulder-patch of his battle jacket.
"Don't drop me," Tim says.
Conner snorts. "With arms like these?"
He starts to walk, not surprised when the others follow.
“Your mentors,” Red Tornado says, as they all hurry to the infirmary. “Are on their way.”
Tim groans, forehead thunking against Conner’s collarbone. “Cherry on top,” he mumbles.
Conner glances down at him. Tim’s body is always so cold, but the puddling red liquid, warm and cooling between them, is contradictory. The smell of blood, sweat, and gunpowder is stronger now. When Tim’s head shifts, his hair tickles the hollow of Conner’s throat.
“This is going to suck so bad,” Tim says, biting his lip as Conner’s grip shifts minutely.
“Sorry,” Conner says instantly. Then, “Gunshots usually do.”
Even with the domino, Tim’s eyebrows give a cheeky lift when he rolls his eyes. “I meant Bats. He’s going to eat me alive for this.”
Conner has a realization. “You tripped the alarm.”
They reach the infirmary, Bart speeding ahead to hold the door. Lightly, Conner sets Tim on the bed.
“Bart tripped the alarm,” Tim insists. “I just…was also there.”
Bart crosses his arms. “Dude,” he says. “We made that mess together.”
Tim becomes interested in checking the status of his wound, eyebrows crossed in consternation as Red Tornado connects leads and monitors.
“You need more pressure,” Cassie says and puts herself bodily into the fray, replacing her ruined jacket with a stack of bandages, ignoring Tim's bitten-on yelp. The gauze doesn't saturate as quickly as the jacket.
Tim notices as much. “Bleeding’s slowing,” he says. “I told you guys, it’s just a graze.”
“Your mentors are bringing a League doctor to evaluate your wounds,” Red Tornado puts in helpfully.
Bart peels off his goggles, wincing. Tim groans at the reminder.
“It’ll be fine,” Conner says, weakly. “You’re hurt. Even Batman wouldn’t chew you out with a gunshot wound.”
He meant to be comforting, but the others exchange glances.
Bart's lip twitches. "Yeah, I'll bet they'll let the whole thing slide."
"Maybe Bats won't even mention the gunshot wound," Cassie suggests.
And then the other three teenagers are bursting into a round of dry, decrypting chuckles. Cassie snorts inelegantly, which gets Tim laughing harder, and grimacing, as his wound tugs.
"What?" Conner asks.
Bart continues to snicker in this vicinity of his ear.
Conner doubles down as the others ignore him. "What? Guys what—"
He freezes, words cut off as the Zeta's tubes distant announcement pricks his superhearing. Introducing the Mountain’s latest arrivals.
Oh no, Conner thinks, brain going blank. What is he doing here?
Conner’s throat squeezes as he warns, “Company.”
The laughter dies.
And then moments later, the League enters the infirmary.