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Tim splashed water on his face, then looked at his reflection in the mirror. Did he look different?
His face felt hot, head pounding. Why was he here? It was a Saturday night, and he was at a nightclub.
He was a twenty-two year old guy, out with his boyfriend on a Saturday night. He was tipsy—maybe a little beyond tipsy, and he was at a club, and all of this should be normal.
That's what he was now. He was normal, and this is what normal guys did with their Saturday nights.
Except he didn't have a fucking clue what he was doing. It all sounded great in theory. Going out at night, having fun, waking up early enough to get breakfast together.
It still sounded great. In theory.
The music was loud, bodies pressed close together on the dancefloor. Tim couldn't hear a thing over the music, he couldn't survey his surroundings properly. He was on edge, checking for exits, watching for threats.
He wanted to enjoy this. He wanted to be present, he wanted to dance and laugh and kiss and sing along when the DJ played something cheesy, but he just…didn't know how.
The door to the bathroom opened and Bernard came in, looking for him.
"Everything okay, baby?" he asked. Tim cleared his throat.
"Sorry, yeah. Just—" He gestured to his head.
"Loud?" Bernard guessed.
Tim nodded, screwing up his nose. "Sorry."
"I knew you wouldn't be a club guy." Bernard put his arms around Tim and kissed him. "Wanna go home? We could watch a movie or something?"
Tim looked down at his hands. "You wanted to go out."
"Not if you aren't having fun, Tim. C'mon." Bernard took his hand, and Tim followed him out of the bathroom and back through the club, which somehow felt even louder and more overwhelming than before.
They got out onto the street, the frigid cold of Gotham in the late fall. The sweat on Tim's face was suddenly freezing cold, his breath curling in front of him. Bernard burrowed into his side, and Tim wrapped an arm around him, looking up at the thin sliver of sky visible between the tall buildings.
Bernard was warm and soft by his side, but all Tim wanted was to be up there. To sit on the edge of one of those rooftops and look out over the city, all the noise and the sweat and the people just faint concepts. Late night rooftop conversations with Steph, racing Dick across the city, talking shit over comms until Barbara told them all to shut up and focus on the job.
He missed it.
He hated how much he missed it.
"I'm gonna get us an Uber," Bernard said, pulling his phone out and ducking out from under Tim's arm. Tim wandered a little down the street, giving himself some breathing room. He heard a shout from around the corner, and instinct took over, sending him running towards the conflict.
"Tim!" Bernard chased him, stopping him at the entrance of an alley, where he spotted a mugging in process. The masked perpetrator was holding his victim against the wall by their throat, knife in his other hand.
Bernard ran up behind Tim and grabbed his arm, holding him back. "Tim, come—"
Before Tim could pull out of his grip and run headfirst into the alley, a masked figure dropped down from the fire escape and dropped the attacker with a single kick.
The victim ran past Tim and Bernard, and Batgirl spun to look at them.
Tim saw the minute tilt to Cass's head as she looked at him.
"Are you hurt?" She asked.
"We're fine." Tim's heart was racing. Cass watched him for what felt like a lifetime before she nodded and darted back into the shadows, disappearing from view. Tim knew her well enough to know the route she would have taken. He could have followed her, if he were dressed for it.
If he were still Robin. If he hadn't made this choice.
He'd made his choice.
"Uber's here," Bernard said, breaking the silence.
They got in the car, and Tim rested his head against the window, watching the world outside pass by.
"Why did you do that?" Bernard asked.
Tim jumped. "What?"
"You just ran to that alleyway as if you were gonna bust up whatever was going on in there. It could've been anything."
Tim sighed. "I dunno, Bern. I just…I didn't want anyone to get hurt."
"What if you'd gotten hurt? He had a knife, babe."
Rather me than someone else. Tim didn't say that. He just shrugged. "I guess i wasn't thinking."
"Clearly."
They were quiet all the way back to Bernard's apartment. The whole ride in the elevator, into his living room. Tim sat on the couch, putting his head between his legs.
"Tim." Bernard stood at the end of the couch, arms crossed.
Tim knew what was coming. The same argument they'd been having for months, ever since he'd left the mask behind and walked away from the one thing that had defined him for so long.
Bernard looked at him, until Tim met his eyes.
He sighed. "You're never going to tell me, are you?" he asked.
Tim looked down at his hands again, and he heard Bernard walk away.
It wasn't even an argument anymore—they both knew everything the other had to say. There was no new ground to tread, unless Tim told him the truth.
Somehow that felt worse.
Bernard disappeared for a few minutes, then came back dressed in pajamas and carrying a blanket, which he draped over both of them on the couch. An olive branch. Sometimes it was Bernard who offered it, like this—physical touch, wrapping himself around Tim, holding him until the argument faded from the forefront.
Other times, Tim was the one to crack first, bringing home flowers or takeout from Bernard's favorite place which was a little too expensive and a little too far away to get regularly. He smiled, and he apologized, and they moved on, pretending it fixed anything.
Bernard leaned into Tim's side and pressed play on the movie. Ten minutes in, he was sleeping soundly, and Tim didn't know what to do.
It was perfect.
It was exactly what Tim had wanted, what he'd imagined when he'd made this choice.
He hadn't processed a single moment of what was happening in the movie. His fingertips were numb as he took out his phone, checking news sites, refreshing local social media feeds for anything he might have missed.
Muggings, breakouts, suspicious activities.
Maybe he could do just a little light hacking, check out some of the GCPD servers, make sure there's nothing he should be—
Fuck.
He got up as carefully as he could, but Bernard still stirred. He murmured something incomprehensible, and Tim kissed his temple. "Go back to sleep. It's okay."
Bernard sat up. "Should go to bed. Back'll be mad at me tomorrow."
Tim nodded. "Right. Yeah."
He got himself some water and listened to Bernard brush his teeth. "Are you coming?" Bernard asked. Tim swallowed. "I—I need a little air, I think. You go sleep, I'll join you soon."
Bernard looked at him for a long moment before nodding and turning away.
Tim waited five minutes, then ten. He poured himself a drink from the bottle of scotch Bruce had given him when he left. A congratulatory gift.
It tasted sour now as it burned its way down his throat. He poured another.
There was no balcony to speak of in this apartment, but Tim climbed the fire escape up to the roof. They technically shouldn't have roof access, but someone else in the building had managed to get two chairs and a tiny table out there, just big enough for two to sit together, sharing a coffee or a drink.
It was perfect for the two of them. A normal couple who spent normal days together, drinking normal beers and watching the normal sunset together before going home for a normal dinner and a normal night in.
Tim hated it. He hated it for the reminder of what he had given up. He'd traded the entire city for this tiny sliver of a rooftop.
What had it been for?
Love. It was for love.
He looked at his phone, scrolling through his contacts.
If he were in a better mood, he wouldn't even consider this. If he'd stopped after the first glass of scotch, he probably would have stopped himself from hitting the call button.
If they hadn't touched on that fucking argument again, Tim wouldn't put the phone to his ear, eyes closed as hot shame filled his chest.
"Tim? What's up?"
He couldn't help but smile at Conner's voice coming from his phone. "Not much. Just…" he trailed off, looking out over Gotham. "It's been a night."
Conner swore. "Tim," he sighed. "I…I'm sorry. I can't do this."
"What?" Tim frowned. His head was spinning, thoughts slow and sluggish.
"This, Tim. You, calling me every time you're drunk and sad about your life."
"I don't—"
"You do, Tim."
Tim dropped his head to rest on an air vent. His throat felt tight, his eyes prickling. "Kon—"
"I'm just not sure what you want from me. You call, you tell me how much you miss the life. How much you miss m—us." Kon cleared his throat. "You tell me how much you hate your life, and then in the morning, you don't do anything about it."
Tim's face burned, the tears threatening to fall. "Conner, I just..."
"I know. You made this choice. You chose him, and I…You chose him. But I can't be this person for you, Tim."
"I just miss you." Tim's voice sounded small to his own ears, and he hated himself for it. For the sob he couldn't quite stifle in time to keep Conner from hearing it.
"Tim?"
"Why?" Tim asked. "Tell me why you can't be a friend to me in this."
Conner swore under his breath. "Tim, I can't."
"Why not?" Tim grit his teeth, despair giving way to fight.
"You know why not. You made your choice."
Tim caught a flash of a memory, Conner's face when Tim told him about Bernard. When Tim didn't tell him about quitting.
He'd been hurt. He'd been confused.
"Was there another choice?" Tim asked. His heart thumped loud in his chest. He shouldn't push. He never pushed. Not Kon. Not about this.
Conner didn't say anything, but the silence itself was loud.
Tim ran a hand over his face, breathing as hard as if he'd raced across rooftops to get here. "I regret it," he admitted.
"Tim, please don't do this."
"I shouldn't have left. I thought I wanted this, but I…"
"Tim—"
"I hate it, Kon. And it's not just the…it's not just what I gave up. I'm miserable."
"What do you want me to do, Tim?" Conner sounded desperate, on the edge of breaking.
Suddenly, the answer was so clear, Tim didn't know why it hadn't occurred to him sooner. "Nothing." He sniffed, finally letting the tears fall. "There's nothing I want you to do, I just want…I want you, Kon. I think I love—"
"Wow."
Tim spun around at the sound of Bernard's voice, dropping his phone in his surprise. It fell from the roof, clattering against the fire escape on the way down to the ground.
"Fuck. Bernard, I—"
Bernard stumbled back, holding a hand up. "I thought…god, this whole time I thought you were just missing your old…job. Lifestyle. Whatever it was you weren't telling me about. I thought, you know, give it some time, you'd get over it…" He shook his head. "Who was that?" he asked.
Tim felt weak, stomach churning. He shook his head. He'd thrown it all away, given it all up for this man, and for what?
Just to blow it all up? It was ruined—it had been ruined since the day he handed Bruce back his suit in some sort of poorly thought through early midlife crisis.
"I'm so sorry, I didn't—" Tim took an unsteady step towards him.
"You need to leave." Bernard crossed his arms, expression firm. "Go. I can't even—please, Tim. We can discuss this when you're sober, if you want, but I…I'm done, here. I'm done."
Tim ducked his head and hopped off the roof, stumbling down the fire escape. He didn't look back. He barely looked forward. He was about three and a half floors from the ground when he stumbled, missing a step, falling forward. He tried to catch himself on the railing, but it was broken, and suddenly the ground was rising to meet him.
He closed his eyes, braced for impact, and—
Strong arms wrapped around him, catching him before he hit the ground and sweeping him up into the air. Tim buried himself in Kon's arms, in the smell of leather and hair gel and a familiar spicy cologne that Tim knew he didn't wear every day.
Kon flew them to a rooftop—one without boyfriends and tiny tables just big enough for two morning coffees.
Tim's feet touched the ground, but he didn't let go of Kon, he didn't pull his face away from the comfort of his neck or his arms from where they were tucked under his jacket.
Kon ran his fingers through Tim's hair. "Tim," he whispered.
"Thanks for the rescue." Tim let his voice be muffled by Kon's skin. "How did you know I fell?"
Conner cupped Tim's face, gently easing him back so they could see each other. Oh, that was nice. Conner's face was nice.
"I was already there. You said—I took off as soon as the call dropped."
"You came for me?" Tim asked. Then, he understood. "You…you heard that?"
"Yeah. I'm sorry."
Tim shook his head. "No, you're not."
Conner chuckled. "You're hurting, Tim. Of course I'm sorry."
Tim's head was spinning, and he wasn't sure whether it was the alcohol, or the break-up, or the fall, or just how close Conner was. Tim dropped his head back to Conner's shoulder, the look on his face suddenly too much to bear. He placed a kiss there, to the skin just above the collar of his suit. Then another, a little higher, in the crook of his neck.
"Tim," Conner whispered.
Tim slid his hands down from Conner's back to rest over his hips.
"Tim, are you sure about this?" Conner asked. "You've been drinking, and tonight's been…a lot. I need you to be sure, if we're going to do this. "
"I'm sure, Kon." Tim kissed his jaw, then his cheek.
"If you changed your mind about me, I don't think I'd be able to take it, Tim. I love you so much, and you…you were sure before, about him. You hung up the cape for him. "
Tim cupped Conner's face and looked him in the eye. "I did. I wanted what I thought I could have with him. A normal life. A happy ending. And I was miserable, Kon." Tim kissed the corner of his mouth, barely pulling back from it so he could feel Kon's breath against his lips. "I was miserable, and I tried, but I—he wasn't you, Conner. Please, I—"
He didn't finish his plea, as Conner closed the scant distance and kissed him, fierce and desperate, claiming Tim's mouth, erasing every other kiss from his memory. Tim gasped, and Kon took it as permission to go deeper, to lick into Tim's mouth, to lay claim to him.
Tim curled his fingers into Conner's hair, tasting the cocoa on his tongue—he must have been in Smallville tonight—he only drank cocoa when Ma Kent made it for him.
The thought vanished as soon as it popped into his head, though, because a moment later Conner's hand slipped down to his ass, and Tim's mind went blank, nothing left but Kon's lips and his tongue and his hands. He wrapped both of his arms around Kon's neck, pulling himself up.
Kon caught on without hesitation, lifting Tim so he could wrap his legs around him. The new angle meant Tim could control the kiss better, and he dove in, doing everything he could to leave Kon breathless.
Kon was holding his thighs in a vice-grip, but Tim somehow felt a soft touch to his cheek.
"Oh my god," he gasped, pulling back. "Is that—"
Kon grinned, but Tim could see the way his lashes were clumped together with tears. "TTK," Conner confirmed with a subtle brush up the length of Tim's arms. "Lots of fun uses. I've been trying to tell you, it's—" Tim cut him off with a second kiss—how was this only their second? It felt like they had been kissing forever.
This one was more chaste than the last, Kon slowly releasing Tim to settle him back on the ground.
"I don't wanna…" Conner's voice was shaky, less certain than it had been when he'd been openly flirting. "I really…This is big for me, Tim."
"Me too," Tim confirmed. The alcohol was all but gone from his system, the remaining hum in his veins purely from the high of this—of Kon's arms around him, Kon's soft-spoken words in his ears.
"No, Tim. It's…I've been so…It hurt, watching you choose him. Seeing you unhappy with him, while I sat on the sidelines with nobody to blame but myself, because I never said. I'm sorry I didn't say."
Tim hugged him close. "I'm sorry, too—for not seeing it sooner, making you feel like that, when I—" He ducked his head, only for Kon to tip it back up with the help of TTK. "…when I've probably been in love with you half as long as I've known you."
Conner made a strange, strangled sort of sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob.
"I love you, too."
Tim stared at him, at the way his face lit up as he said it. "I love you," Tim repeated, feeling the weight of the words, and the lightness in his body that came from saying them. He said it again, and again, feeling lighter each time, until he was distracted by Conner peppering kisses across his face.
Hours later, as the sun rose over Gotham, they sat at the edge of the roof, hands linked between them. Tim's head rested on Kon's shoulder, the weight of the night hitting him at last. He was exhausted.
"So, what now?" Conner asked. "After you get some sleep, I mean."
Tim yawned. "I guess I should pick up my stuff from his place. Apologize. Talk to Bruce."
Conner froze. Tim picked up his head and looked at him—he looked shell-shocked. "What?"
"Talk to Bruce?" Conner asked. "About us?"
Tim laughed, letting his head drop again. "About me. About…going back, maybe. I don't know."
"You wanna go back to Robin?"
"I quit for him." Tim lifted their linked hands and kissed Conner's knuckles. "I hated it. I want to help again."
"As Robin," Conner prompted.
"Maybe Robin, maybe something else. I don't know yet."
"Something."
"Yeah. Something."
Conner hummed. "You'll always be my Robin."
Tim closed his eyes, just for a moment. He felt Conner shifting a little, felt arms loop under his back and knees. He wrapped his arms around Conner again, trusting him implicitly.
He drifted, and the next thing he knew he was in a bed—which bed, he couldn't be certain. All he knew was that Kon was holding him, and the world was perfectly, blissfully silent.