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“If you close your eyelids, do you see nothing or do you see black?”
“All I see is your face, and it’s beautiful.”
“Try again.”
“Call me Doctor Fate, because I can see our future?”
“Conner, seriously. This counts towards my final grade in a week, and I need to analyze the data before I can even write the paper.”
“Dude, seriously. I have dinner reservations at this French restaurant ina week, and I need someone to go with so they’re not hittin’ me with: tay-buwl foh jest haun!? HonHonHon!”
It was a gentle, May, Sunday evening in the city of Gotham. With the new Titans taking up weekend shifts, Red Robin and Superboy were able to take a break from their regular duties to work on the psychology homework that’s been destroying Tim Drake. Unsurprisingly to no one (ESPECIALLY Conner Kent), Tim’s expertise in criminal psychology meant diddily squat in a class focused on the psyche of everyday people.
In the past, Tim rarely cared about school. However, lately, it would seem that Damian’s ability to be more regulated than him by balancing playdates, homework, and Teen Titans has him embarrassingly competitive enough to try to be normal.
“Focus.”
“It’s silly that you expect me to focus when yah look…like that.” Conner stretched his arms behind his head and fluttered his eyelashes. Tim was, clearly, using all of his practiced restraint to will his eyes to not cement themselves to the veins running up and down Superboy’s skin. The guy who can speed read through mission reports in under five minutes had still not turned a page in his textbook in over twenty.
“Something up with my hair?” And yet, YET, he continued with his precarious game of pretend (or Tim is just that dense. Listen, Conner had not yet taken psychology at Smallville High, so what does he know outside of the general assumption everyone is into him?).
“No, Tim. For Pete’s Sake. Yah need wooin’ lessons…I meant –“ Conner waved his hand up and down at Tim’s form to highlight how well he wears a white t-shirt and grey sweats, “Alluv dat.”
“This is my room, dude. Why would I get dressed up to finish homework?”
Conner took a full, patient, inhale before thinking better of it, and hitting Tim with: “then you make everythin’ look good if for you this is casual.”
Tim blinked, unmoved.
“I don’t understand you.” Because he was allergic to charm and wit! Apparently.
What was the whole point in Kon risking his literal life by being within the same hundred square feet of Batman if all they were going to do was prove that Sigmund Freud knew nothing about cognitive science? How is it that the Boy Wonder that could decode private messages between government officials in six different languages (including Cantonese AND Kryptonian) can’t read Kon’s intention of being here? Crazy work, honestly.
“I don’t understand why we still haven’t figured out if I’m pickin’ you up for dinner on Saturday. Didja wanna drive instead?” But dagnabbit. Conner still had to try. Because it was absolutely filthy how tight those sweats stretched across Tim’s–
“If you’re doing all of whatever this –“ Tim gestured up and down at Kon with dramatic frenzy, uncharacteristically frazzled, “–is because you’re hungry, then say something. I’ll just ask Alfred to bring something up.”
Conner was stupefied. He didn’t know if his best friend was super friend-zoning him, or if Boy Perfect just thinks he’d super humiliate himself thirsting like a hound dog for just about anyone. But, what else could Conner say but: “…chocolate chip cookies.”
Superboy grinned with super confidence that he read the room super correctly. Tim rolled his eyes theatrically so that it was unquestionable how affronted he was by Kon’s audacity.
“Done. Now will you help me finish?”
“I’ll always make sure you finish.”
“Bruce. No. Bad.”
“Clark, yes. Always.”
In the downstairs sitting room, the so-called chaperones of the evening were lounging over microbrews Clark flew in (with his arms, not a private delivery jet, no thank-you Brucie) from a locally owned brewery in Smallville. Unsurprisingly, the only way Bruce was ever going to be privy to all things ‘hip and tasty’ was if someone else brought it to him. That. And only when it was physically shown to him in a Youtube video on someone else’s phone (you can’t even tell him it’s a Tik Tok, that’ll just confuse him). Not because he was a billionaire, but because the man only consumed for fuel – which is insane to Clark; and he’s the alien! Bruce doesn’t even know about run clubs. He would definitely fit into a run club if he were willing to be Brucie Wayne during static stretches just for the fun of the game.
Currently, Metropolis’ most darling reporter was trying his darndest to coach Gotham’s ditziest philanthropist on how to appropriately engage with the wily ladies of the city.
Clark clapped his hands together after taking a hefty swig of his beer, “let’s try this again!”
“Enchant me, Smallville,” he’s often marveled to himself if he was only person in the universe that has ever seen the Batman waggle his eyebrows outside of his little performances – Catwoman included.
“If a girl talks to you at the par–“
“Why am I talking to a girl.”
“If a girl tal–“
“Why am I talking to a girl.”
“Fine, yeah no for sure. If a woma-“
“Why am I talking to woman.”
“No. Let me finish.”
“I can help you with that.”
Clark sighed with the exasperation of a first-grade teacher in a classroom of mostly boys after recess. Only true soldiers could understand such a sentiment, “…if a woman talks to you, and said ‘you smell good’, what would you s–”
“–I wouldn’t be talking to a woman, and I would never be close enough for them to smell me.”
“Why won’t you let me help you?”
“Why won’t you come closer and tell me if you like how I smell?” Bruce clicked his tongue and actually winked.
Clark fought down a smile, embarrassed with himself over how much he actually liked it, and skirted over the ridiculous suggestion in his tone, “I thought you wanted my expertise in P.R. training for your next gala?”
“No. We were talking about how I get through those charity nights, and then I explicitly said: Superman, why don’t you show me your super charm up close. But I’d say you are pretty expert in the art of razzle dazzle, right now.”
Clark was about to snark back when – Abruptly!
“Ohmygawd.”
He was slapped with the gross reminder of how vulnerable his sensibilities were when caught too off guard to exert focus towards muting his super hearing…
“Why do you look so flushed, Kent?”
Because. He was simultaneously confusingly flustered by Bruce AND utterly mortified by his son.
What was Kon-El insinuating about Tim and his cookie?! Where in Sam’s Hell did that boy think it was a bright idea to carry on as if both he and Bruce weren’t in the same building?! Was he raised in a barn?!…Okay, that’s his own fault, because technically now Conner was…but c’mon! Did Superboy not realize what Batman was capable of when it comes to Kryptonians? Did he forget there was a no-meta rule in Gotham for a reason? Maybe not THIS specific reason (although, with Dick Grayson in consideration, maybe it was for this particular reason), but maybe Bruce did have a point when he invited him over to help…’supervise’.
“N-nothin’. Nothing at all! I’m just sooo…” With all of the ingenuity of an accomplished writer with accolades from an award-winning newspaper, Clark Kent squeezed out of a biting grin, “…razzle dazzled by your uncontrollable, foxy rizz.”
Superman beamed, proud of everything he just said, psyched he’ll be able to share with Jon that he did learn something from young folks! Bruce squinted at Clark, affronted by the audacity.
“I hated that.”
“Rude. Alfie makes the best.” Tim defended, annoyed that anyone could ever insult the meticulous baking skills of Alfred Pennyworth, that of which Kon would never, ever actually do. But how could he explain to his best friend what was currently cooking downstairs?
“Wrong, Ma does. But, not…these are fine. I don’t hate them. I just…egh…OH GOD. MAKE IT STOP.”
Red Robin grabbed his communicator and straightened his posture into battle-ready concern, “hey, are the neighbors coming over?”
Superboy shook his head, frantically grabbing at Robin’s hands to stop him, trying not to unnecessarily worry his notoriously paranoid leader, “no, it’s not one of –FUCK. GROSS. WHAT?!”
“Kon–“
“I’m just a virgin, PLEASE!”
“Wha-bu…no you’re not.” Tim’s cheeks glowed red, instantly, reminded that Conner was still gripping him. Despite everything, Superboy still found it in himself to tighten his hold and angle in closer…
“Wanna find ou- I’M BEGGIN’ YOU TO STOP!!!”
“Titans–“
“Hey. No. Calm down. Sorry, it’s not what yah think, and you don’t wanna know.” Conner tried to reassure, before his body violently recoiled, cringing at –what does Clark mean by ‘Rizzing all over the place’?! Oh, he was so totally going to tell Lois to delete Tik Tok off of Jon’s phone.
“Ti–“ Superboy was quick to grab the communicator and toss it across the bed, capturing Rob’s hand back into his own for good measure…annnnd, because they’re just so textured and nice.
Oh god, Rob’s hands were rough.
Conner held Tim’s gaze with great severity, “your daddy is rizzin’ all over the place with Clark.”
“…fuck. Gross, what.”
“That’s what I’m sayin’!”
“And there’s no way you can turn the super hearing off?”
“Ummmm…I might’ve been skippin’ out on lessons with Clark lately to surf with Bart –” Kon let go of Tim and jerked his body towards the floor, jabbing his finger at the ground wildly, “…oh! Like you weren’t usin’ the extra free time to get dirty with Daddy-Bats!”
Tim could only sit back and watch, looking torn. He appeared to be deciding if it would be better for his sanity to assume his best friend has lost his mind or believe that Batman was trying to get into Superman’s tights.
“Dude. You’re freaking me out.”
Kon quickly turned his attention back to Tim, yanking on his biceps to shake him, “and Clark is freaking ME out…” Kon had taken note of how warm Tim’s flesh was beneath his fingers, “oh. Huh. I just realized somethin’.”
Based on the speed in which Tim’s blush bloomed across the rest of his body, Conner decided it would be a slick idea to shrink the space between them.
“What, that the Batman has better game than you?” Tim tried for nonchalant, but the way his upper body unintentionally leaned in closer gave him away.
“For your information, I’m subscribin’ to his substack. What’s it called? Also, does he have a podcast? Do I need to become a Robin just to learn how to pull? Are you failin’ as a Robin because you can’t pull?”
“’I am the Night-Life’. No, no, and of course not. And I too can pull.” Tim shoved Conner away, self-conscious at his own defensiveness, “shut up. I’ve had like 5 girlfriends and 1 boyfriend. How many have you’ve had?”
“A kajillion girls, duh!” Superboy bragged, but he quickly realized it was mistake as Tim shrunk in on himself with the carefulness of Robin.
“Right. Guess we all knew that.”
Conner is so used to looking at Robin as if he were the most confident, smartest, prettiest, most untouchable Boy Perfect in the universe, that he often forgot that Tim Drake has insecurities. It just then occurred to him that Tim was neither friend-zoning him nor was he missing all the social cues like Beast Boy at a goth rock venue (who knew Raven could be such a gossip). Tim did not believe Conner could be genuinely interested in him. Superboy needed to prove him super wrong.
“And I’m workin’ on gettin’ my first boyfriend as we speak. Wanna help me out with that?”
Tim’s eyes snapped to his with Bart Allen speed, and Conner couldn’t help the fondness in his chest at how hopeful he looked, “I thought I needed ‘wooing’ lessons?”
“Now why would I ever say that? I’d say you’re doin’ just fine.”
“You’ve never even seen me flirt,“ Tim scoffed, trying to hide the zeal in his voice, but they’ve been best friends for three universes, and too many years. There was no concealing anything from Kon-El now.
“Then why am I already feelin’ woo’d?”
“Okay. Whatever, Casanova. What were you going to say, earlier, anyway?”
“If my detective-ing skills are top-notch better than Batman’s, I’d say Clark was only invited here so Batman can seduce him.”
“Well, knowing Bruce’s inability to be direct about what he wants– “
“Besides Justice.”
“Besides Justice.”
“And besides vengeance.”
“And besides vengeance. You have investigated well.” Tim humored him with a small smile, sending flutters up Conner’s chest.
“Y’know what this means?”
“You’re ready to become a Robin? Gotta warn you though, you’ll have to battle it out with Dames for the mantle. And he already wants to stab you for free.” Conner internally cheered and pocketed away that information for later when he’d have to confront Jon about the money he now owed him. He knew he could always depend on a Bat to be predictably, needlessly, stabby (Yes, Steph and Duke included).
“Psh, no way! But go on, tell me…” Conner gravitated towards Tim for the third time that night, noses close enough to smell the fresh softener from his white t-shirt, dipping his tongue out to wet his lips, deepening his voice, “yah really think I need flirtin’ lessons?”
For the first time that night, he was grateful for his super hearing. The syrupy swallow Tim took sent a hot shiver down his body and his head exploded with imagination, before a heated whisper blew against his mouth, “why ask me?”
“’Cause Pretty Bird…I really only care about what you think of my seduction skills.” Conner was now all but in Tim’s lap, chest to chest, large hands languidly stroking his sides, pausing to give the other boy a chance to give in to the hunger in his eyes.
“I…” Tim’s voice was breathy with want.
“God, Tim. Your lips.”
“C-Conner.”
“And since Daddy-Bats is busy, I’m gonna assume that he doesn’t actually care if I–“
“Step away from Red Robin or I will neuter you with a kryptonite-lined emasculatome.”
OH GOOSE SHIT.
Kon-El grabbed at his ears as he launched himself off the bed with immediate fear landing with a loud thump to the wooden floor. He craned his neck as his head darted in all directions for possible exits. Every drop of blood inside of him drained out in that single threat only super hearing could have possibly picked up.
“What the fuck is a mask-ca-la-la-time-malone?!”
“What is what?“ Tim pulled a blanket over himself, appearing both agonizingly frustrated and alarmed. His eyes glanced at the insanely deceptive, weighted teddy bear Bruce gifted him for his finals, just today. Robin kicked himself for not noticing the familiar curvature of the glass in the eyeballs given that he was a prolific photographer himself.
Panic, then, truly set in for Superboy as he heard the pounding of footsteps leaping up the grand stairway…
“Oh my lanta, Bruce! They’re teens! This is what they do! I’ve been monitoring them this whole time.”
“Kent, you traitor.”
“WHY IS IT GLOWING?”
“Bruce! Not to be the heck police, but why in tarnation’s do you even have a kryptonite-lined wrench in the first place?!”
“Why, the fuck, haven’t we gotten dinner together yet?”
“Do not distract me mister…and we’ve eaten together plenty.”
“Tim, shield me!”
“Nope. No thank-you. Off my bed. This was all him Bruce. Get ’em.”
“Let me take you somewhere nice, I promise I won’t touch you with my…wrench.”
“Oh. My. Gawd. Bat-Daddy-in-Law, teach me your ways.”
“BRUCE, PUT THE WRENCH DOWN.”