Chapter Text
Lex says image is everything.
Which is ridiculous, because if that were true, Conner Kent would be the most miserable person alive.
And okay—fine—maybe he is a little miserable. But that’s not the point.
The point is: he has standards.
“I don’t like this suit,” Conner says, tugging at the sleeve for what has to be the twentieth time. “It’s too… clean.”
Across the room, Lex barely glances up from his tablet. “It’s tailored just for you.”
“It’s sterile.”
“It’s pristine.”
“It’s boring.”
Lex finally looks at him then, one eyebrow raised in that way that means he’s already decided he’s right. “You’re not meant to look interesting, Conner. You’re meant to look trustworthy.”
Conner slumps deeper into the ridiculously expensive couch. “That sounds worse.”
“You’ll understand eventually.”
Conner doubts that.
The cameras love him.
That’s the problem.
Every time he steps outside, it’s lights and flashes and Superboy saves the day headlines before he’s even done anything worth saving. He rescues cats and stops robberies and poses just long enough for the perfect shot.
It’s not hard. It’s just… boring. There’s no edge to it. No grit. No story. Just perfection.
Which is why the new reporter is… annoying.
Not because he’s bad at his job. No—he’s too good at it.
Tim Drake. That’s his name.
Conner knows that because Lex said it like a warning. “Be careful with the Gothamite.”
Which, naturally, makes Conner immediately interested.
The first time they meet, it’s after a press conference.
Conner is doing his usual thing—standing straight, looking effortlessly heroic, pretending he hasn’t memorized every line Lex fed him—when he hears it.
“Superboy, quick question.”
Conner turns, already smiling—public smile, perfect angle—and then he pauses.
Because the guy holding the recorder isn’t what he expected. He looks… normal. Not intimidated. Not starstruck. Not trying too hard.
Just watching him.
“Go ahead,” Conner says smoothly.
Tim tilts his head slightly. “How much of your operations are independently decided versus directed by LexCorp?”
Conner blinks.
That’s not—
That’s not a normal question.
“My goal is to help people,” Conner says, defaulting to the script.
Tim doesn’t even glance at his notes. “That wasn’t the question.”
Oh.
Oh, this is interesting.
Lex doesn’t like him.
That’s the second thing Conner notices.
“You will not engage beyond necessary interaction,” Lex says later, tone clipped. “He’s looking for something.”
Conner leans against the desk, arms crossed. “Maybe he just doesn’t like me.”
“Everyone likes you.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.”
Lex doesn’t answer that. Which means Conner’s right.
The next time Tim shows up, it’s at a rescue.
Collapsed building. Controlled chaos. Cameras already rolling.
Conner lifts a slab of concrete like it weighs nothing—because it doesn’t—and sets it aside. There’s a kid underneath. Scared, but alive.
“Hey,” Conner says, softening his voice just enough. “You’re okay.” He’s good at this part. He’s always been good at this part.
When he hands the kid off, the crowd erupts. Cameras flash. Someone shouts his name.
And then—
“There’s a pattern.”
Conner turns.
Tim again.
Of course it’s him.
“What?” Conner asks, brushing dust off his hands.
Tim steps closer, careful but not hesitant. “You always arrive just in time. Usually within the early climax of the situation."
Conner smirks. “Sounds like I’ve got great timing.”
“Sounds like someone’s controlling the narrative.”
Conner laughs it off anyway. “You think I’m staged?”
“I think,” Tim says, studying him, “you're not as heroic as people think you are.”
That—
That’s not—
Conner’s chest tightens, just a little.
Which is ridiculous.
He shouldn’t care.
That’s the third thing.
He really shouldn’t care.
But he keeps noticing him.
The way Tim doesn’t flinch when Conner lands too hard. The way he asks questions no one else does. The way he looks at Conner like he’s not a symbol, not a product—Just a person.
It’s… new.
And Conner hates how he likes it.
“You’re distracted,” Lex says one evening.
“I’m not.”
“You’re thinking about the reporter.”
Conner scoffs. “Please. He’s just annoying.”
Lex watches him for a long moment. “He’s dangerous.”
“He’s a guy with a recorder.”
“He’s looking for a flaw.”
Conner rolls his eyes. “You make everything sound like a chess game.”
“It is a chess game.”
“Then maybe I’m bored of it.”
The silence that follows is sharp.
“Careful, Conner,” Lex says quietly. “Being in love with journalists as a Luthor is a bad move.”
Later, Conner finds Tim on a rooftop.
Because of course he does.
“Do you just hang around places I might show up?” Conner asks, landing behind him.
Tim doesn’t jump.
He just glances back. “Do you always look for me?”
Conner opens his mouth. Closes it.
“That’s not an answer,” Tim adds.
“Neither was yours.”
Tim huffs a quiet laugh. “Fair.”
City lights stretch out below them, Metropolis glowing and artificial and perfect—just like everything else.
“You’re not happy,” Tim says.
Conner frowns. “You don’t know me.”
“I know patterns.”
“Stop saying that like it explains everything.”
Tim finally turns fully toward him. “Then tell me I’m wrong.”
Conner—
He should.
It would be easy.
“I have everything,” Conner says instead.
“Yeah,” Tim replies softly. “That’s what worries me. Heroes loose something every time they win. For Batman, it's his morals. For Superman, it's his softness.”
Conner doesn’t understand it. Not fully.
Why this one person—this human with no powers and too many questions—gets under his skin.
Why he keeps coming back.
Why, when Tim looks at him, it feels like he’s being seen for the first time.
It’s inconvenient.
It’s irritating.
It’s—
Something else.
And Conner thinks, distantly, that Lex would call it a liability.
But Conner?
Conner thinks it might be the first real thing he’s ever had.