Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

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It has been nearly four days since Tim left Superboy in Smallville. It took him approximately half his bike ride back to the airport before he started to feel bad about their argument. He reevaluated all their interactions throughout his entire plane ride back to Gotham, and his laptop was open within the first thirty seconds upon entering his father’s old apartment.

His laptop was open again now, with an old article about Superboy’s appearance in Metropolis on the screen. It wasn't that Tim was obsessing over his mission with Superboy; that would be insane. He didn't even know the guy. What reason could he have to obsess over him? 

He came to the conclusion on the plane that Superboy was just too sensitive. That had to be why he was upset, and Tim found that to be an incredibly annoying reason. Tim had only asked him a question, a reasonable question, and Superboy had completely blown things out of proportion. Granted, after doing a modicum of research on the Superboy, Tim realized why he had reacted so poorly. Tim would probably be freaked out, too, if they were doing recon inside something that looked so much like what was essentially his personal prison cell. 

Still, it was information that Superboy should have shared with Robin. Tim was certain that Superman would have told him. This was why he hated working with new heroes. The entire mission would have gone significantly better if Tim had known that Superboy was in a state of potential weakness or fear. Tim should have researched him more thoroughly before he left. There was no excuse; he had had a hunch, and he should have followed it. Dick would have. 

It wasn't as if Tim hadn't looked Superboy up online before the mission. The file in the Batcomputer on Superboy was sealed, and Tim hadn't been able to unseal it before his plane had landed. His preliminary online research concluded with limited information that Tim considered helpful at the time. Superboy had so much presence in the media that it was difficult to sort through all the information in order to actually find something useful.

Tim had only recently managed to crack the Batcomputer’s file on Superboy. When he was finally able to read it, he found that it was just as dense as the information readily available online. God, did this guy ever shut up?

Batman’s file confirmed a few things: First, how Superboy was connected to Superman was a mystery, but he was definitely connected in some way beyond the ‘S’—maybe he was his cousin, or brother, or maybe his nephew or son. Second, Superboy was kept in a lab, away from human contact for most, if not all, of his pre-adolescent life; though how this lab found him wasn’t clear, even to Batman. Third, his likeness was owned by a random guy named Rex Leech and had been since Superboy first appeared as a hero. Fourth, Superboy was very chatty with the public and even worse with other heroes.

The lab that had kept him was called Cadmus, and its connection to LuthorCorp was confusing to say the least. Tim discovered through the many resources available to him—from Batman’s research, to the information offered to the Justice League, and his own connections—that Luthor donated money to the lab for a variety of different research projects. 

He clicked through the files. The soft glow of his laptop screen the only light illuminating the vast sitting room of his parents’ old penthouse. Tim’s bags lay untouched where he had dropped them in the entryway a few days ago. He had no reason to put them away; no one ever came over, and there was nothing of value inside. Tim sat alone in the white-painted sitting room, encased by tall ceilings and large windows which showed the gloom of the Gotham skyline. Tim had made himself comfortable, perched on the edge of what was likely a very expensive sofa in the dark of the sitting area. 

Tim hasn't changed anything since his father died. In contrast, his father had had the room nearly wiped clean after Tim’s mother's death. It had been sterilized by his father in grief, and Tim didn’t want to attempt to bring the place back to life. The entire apartment was lonely, unnaturally dead and empty. It almost felt like it was frozen in time, a relic, reflecting the empty space where Janet and Jack Drake should be.

In their wake, they had left Tim more than enough: more money than he could ever need, majority ownership in their company, this apartment, and a vacation house on every continent, but Tim would trade it all for as little as another minute with them. He didn't like to think about it. He didn't like to be in this house at all. So, he worked.

Drake Industries is a leader in medicine and in biological research alike. After the death of his father, Tim inherited it. As he filtered through the names on the list of people Luthor was paying at Cadmus, he recognized a few—well, one in particular: Dr. Lisa Cameron. She was a leader in her field. She had also interviewed with Drake Industries around four months ago, but she had rejected the job offer, citing a better offer that must have come from Luthor. Dr Cameron was smart, and not the above-average kind of smart Tim liked to think of himself as. She was a genius, far beyond her years, and marked by Batman as a potential threat.

Cameron was also one of the names of the scientists Superboy had heard talking about molecular engineering when they were in the LuthorCorp building in Smallville. Tim clicked through the tabs open on his laptop, looking for his mission report.

He paused, his eyes locked on an image attached to an article from Superboy’s time in Hawaii, it outlined Superboy’s success defeating a particularly fearsome foe: The photo was of Superboy standing alone on a beach somewhere across the ocean, a cocky look on his face, his head tilted to the side, with a smile plated on, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. To Tim, he looked almost nervous, like he had just realized what he had gotten himself into, or maybe Tim was just imagining things.

Tim knew from his initial research that after Superboy had left—escaped?—Cadmus, he spent a while traveling the world, and that he had ended up living in Hawaii. He had been living there when they first met, and he had been even more eager to speak to the media back then. 

A lot happened in Hawaii, all of it documented. It seemed that Superboy had found his very own 'Clark Kent', a reporter who was obsessed with him. She had written article after article about him, detailing everything he did, from saving the island to judging a bikini contest. Tana Moon was the kind of reporter that made Tim’s skin crawl. She was more paparazzi than journalist in Tim’s opinion.

The public's opinion of Superboy was a mixed one. He wasn't Superman, which seemed to upset many citizens of Metropolis when he lived there. Tim wondered if that was why Superman had shipped Superboy off to Smallville. That was hardly Superboy’s fault. 

Overall, most of what was known was known because the guy was charming to civilians, flirtatious with reporters, and never shut up about himself. Tim thought he would tell a pretty girl his Social Security number if she asked him right. It was disappointing, to say the least. The guy seemed like he needed someone to keep an eye on him, and Bruce had been right; Tim didn't have a lot going on.

Tim sighed into the mostly empty room, opening the old mission report, and sure enough, there was the name: Dr. Cameron. That was a lead at least. His phone chimed. When he looked down at it, there was a message from Impulse lighting up the screen. 

Tim wasn't really sure how Impulse had gotten his phone number to begin with; again, he was going to blame Dick, but he had had it for a while. Impulse seemed nice; he occasionally invited Robin to do whatever superhero-y thing it was he was doing, and Tim almost always rejected the invitation. An invitation to a casual hang out was rare, suspicious, but Tim had never accepted in the past, and it had been months since Impulse had asked. It wasn’t that he didn't want to go; it was just hard to leave Gotham, especially this late. He had work to do. Still, there was something in him that made him almost want to say yes, to say fuck it and skip out on his duty as Robin. 

Superboy was probably there. He wondered if Superboy had told Impulse that they had worked together. Tim would be a little surprised if he had talked about it, considering the way the mission ended. Hopefully, his little escapade with Superboy didn’t mean that they were gonna start inviting Robin to everything. Tim didn't particularly like parties, but he did like arcades… and he was starting to feel guilty for constantly rejecting Impulse. 

Tim sighed, looking back at his laptop, his hands hovering uselessly over the keyboard. He really should socialize soon. Seeing other heroes was just always so hard. In Tim’s opinion, Robin wasn't the sort of person who went to arcades and hung out with other teenagers. Keeping up the Robin persona that Dick and Jason had built was important, even if most ‘Justice League-affiliated’ heroes knew that Tim was not the same person. If Tim really wanted friends, he should make them as Tim Drake, not Robin; he should hang out with Bernard or Ives again soon. It had been so long since Tim Drake did anything aside from going to school and being a miserable loser. In his defense, the loss of your father tended to turn you bitter. Plus, even though Tim Drake’s life was lacking, Robin has plenty of relationships. Dick or Bruce were almost always available if Tim really needed something. Not that Tim would bother them with something as silly as being unsure about going to an arcade. 

He pulled out his phone again, scrolling through the apps to find something to eat for dinner before his patrol with Bruce when he got another text notification.

Tim sent the message automatically, his instincts inviting the sender to give Tim more information. He wasn't sure who all Impulse was friends with, but he was sure that the list of potentials who would be bold enough to send him that message shrank that list substantially. 

Him. Of course it's him.

Tim didn't respond; clearly, Superboy was still feeling bitchy about their argument. He didn't have the energy to entertain that right now. Mostly, he just wanted to shower and go to bed. He closed his laptop and waited a beat before opening it again, deciding to go over his mission report one more time; maybe he missed something.

He ordered whatever takeout would arrive fastest and slowly scrolled through his report, reading over everything carefully assuring me hadn't missed anything. He came to an extra note he had added detailing Superboy’s unease inside LuthorCorp. A few momnets passed. He considered deleting the note, for some reason, Robin was worried one of the other Bats might use this information against the Kryptonian. It's not like Tim would care—why did it matter if they did? They would have a good reason to. He kept scrolling. His phone buzzed again, presumably the food he had ordered, but when Tim looked, it was another message from Superboy.

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Kon reread the message for what felt like the hundredth time in the two days since he received it. He isn't sure what he had been expecting. Robin wasn't interested in working with him, and every interaction he had with Robin made him like the guy less. Superboy only offered his help because it seemed like Robin never wanted to do anything that wasn't all business, and Superboy had wanted to be his friend.

He dropped his phone on his worn-out, hand-me-down bed and looked over to the worn-out, hand-me-down window. That is how it is in Smallville: worn-out and hand-me-down. From his room to his clothes, everything he had had once belonged to Clark, the genetic donor who was hypothetically his father.

Unfortunately for Superboy, sometimes hypotheses don't want him. Sometimes they would rather move him to Kansas and burden their parents with him than actually have to look at his genetically engineered face. 

Clark would never say that. He told Kon he was trying to protect him, that his parents had experience with helping kids growing up with developing powers. The hour-or-so distance, even at Kon’s top speeds, was just a coincidence. Not that Kon’s speed mattered. Clark could get here in less than a minute if he wanted to, but he would rather stay in Metropolis.

Smallville is nothing like Metropolis; it was more like Hawaii, with never-ending skies and stars that shone through the clouds. Unfortunately, that seemed to be about where the similarities ended. Kon couldn't see LuthorCorp from his window on Ma and Pa Kent’s farm. He couldn't see anything from the window; even with his enhanced vision, there was nothing but rolling fields of never-ending grain. There were no people in need of help, or adventures to be had. He rolled away from the window. 

He could hear Ma’s radio playing the oldies station from the kitchen, and he could also hear Ma and Pa Kent out on the front porch, just sitting together. He never listened to what they were talking about when they sat out there, partly because he knew it was rude to eavesdrop, partly because he was afraid of what he might hear. 

If he were them, he would be mad that Clark had left Kon here, had expected they would take care of him, and then had left, doing nothing to help. If he were them, he would be plotting to get rid of him and considering the moral complications of abandoning a teenager who was only two years old and wasn't really a person at all. Doesn't seem that morally complicated when you put it like that.

Kon closed his eyes, attempting to outrun those particular thoughts. He misses Hawaii. He misses Tana, and Dubbilex, and Guardian. He wondered what life would have been like if he never got sick. If Tana never left. If he never met Rex in the first place. It wasn't worth thinking about; it always just made him feel worse. Kon was not a desirable person, so what? He was barely a person at all. Who cares if everyone thinks that he is too reckless? So what if Superman looks at him and feels disgusted and violated? What was Kon going to do about it? Nothing, that's what. So who cares if Tana thought he was too immature, and who cares if Robin doesn't want his help? Kon didn't care. 

Kon brought his knees up closer to his chest, ignoring the pit in his stomach, blinking the building sting out of his eyes. So what if she made him important? Who cares that she made him a person, because she left. Kon couldn't quell the sickening ache before he fell asleep. 

The next time that Kon heard from Robin was exactly one week after their mission at LuthorCorp. He was shoveling cereal into his mouth, sitting at the kitchen table. Pa was sitting across from him, the morning paper open on his lap, reading absently. 

They often had afternoons like this. Kon would wake up after Ma had already left for the day—whether she was out with her friends or, like today, doing a bit of shopping—and Kon and Pa would just exist together, hardly talking, not that Pa never tried, but Kon always shut it down before he could really start. So, Pa just sat with him, reading his paper while Kon read manga, or while he ate lunch, or worked out back, existing as a comforting presence should Kon need it. 

Kon’s phone chimed. He's expecting it to be Ma, out at the store asking if they are out of confectioner sugar, or maybe Bart, asking what he is up to this weekend, but when he looks at who had messaged him, he nearly drops his phone into his cereal.

Kon reread the message from Robin three times before typing out a reply because surely this was a mistake. Robin had been quite clear—and concise—that he did not want Kon’s help.

Kon hesitated before pressing send; adding the emoticon felt risky. He wanted to seem cool, casually confident, but he was scared of coming off too immature or, worse, flirty, but really, it was just a part of his brand—hopefully not the part that was driving everyone away.

Kon rolled his eyes, typing the coordinates into the map app on his cellphone. A small rural town in Kansas popped up. It wasn't too far from Smallville, less than twenty minutes away by flight. 

He looked up at Pa, something uneasy wavering inside his chest. Usually, when Kon had a Superboy mission, it was Clark who had given it to him. He knew normal teenagers were supposed to ask their parents’ permission to do certain things, to go out, especially that far away, but Ma and Pa Kent may be worn-out and hand-me-down, but they are certainly not his. 

He pushed his cereal away, unfinished, making Pa raise his eyebrows at him, his eyes drifting between Kon and the morning news. Kon wondered if he was reading something Clark wrote, or if he was just pretending to be focused on the page to spare Kon the awkwardness of eye contact. “Are you all done there, sport?” He asked, looking back at the paper as he flipped the page.

“Yeah, uh, I got a mission a few towns over, so I gotta bounce. Tell Ma not to wait for me,” Kon rambled quickly as he got up, the movement catching Pa’s full attention.

Pa opened his mouth to speak, but Kon didn't wait for an answer, wishing off into the air and grabbing his suit at superspeed.

As Kon approached the modest family home the coordinates led him to, his eyes flicked up to the roof, half expecting to see Robin waiting there for him. There was, unfortunately, no sign of him. Robin couldn't fly, and despite how cool it was to spot Robin picking that lock to Lex’s roof access, there was no reason for Robin to be on this roof; at least Superboy didn't think so. Superboy didn't know why Robin had asked him to come here. It must be important for him to ask to meet in the middle of the afternoon. Kon probably should have asked, but the excitement of being invited at all had overshadowed all his better judgment. Superboy would have just assumed that this was just where Robin lived if he had been anyone else, but it was obvious that the Bats all lived in Gotham.

He landed in front of the house, looking up at it. It seemed old, but someone had clearly fixed the bright slatted siding and done an updated paint job. Kon even spotted yellow curtains just visible through the downstairs windows. It isn't the kind of place Kon assumed someone with bad intentions lives, but he supposes most people wouldn't assume someone with bad intentions would live in an overpriced penthouse or rundown beachside apartment.

He closes his eyes, using his super hearing to sense if there is anyone inside. He heard the murmur of voices up and down the block—mothers with babies, young children playing, the occasional cough, bark, or soft clack of a home computer—he tried to focus, filtering everything out and zeroing in on this house. Kon recognized the soft pitter of feet, the metallic clank of something like dog tags, the hum of a refrigerator and air conditioner.

“Standing out in the middle of the street in full gear? Subtle as always,” Robin’s voice said from somewhere behind him. 

Kon spun around quickly, losing focus. He scanned the street for signs of life, recognizing the uneven breathing before spotting someone lurking in the shadows across the road. It wasn't often that someone was able to sneak up on him. Even while he was distracted, his super senses were usually attentive enough that he could hear them coming a mile away.

“You didn't give me a dress code,” Superboy joked as Robin emerged from the darkness. 

Regardless of how Kon wanted to feel about Robin, he had to admit he had flair. Robin was wearing the usual red and yellow, too, but he was nearly covered by his cape. That, mixed with his dark hair and silent demeanor, blended him into the shadows seamlessly. Superboy scanned his face, wondering what changed in the few days since he had denied Kon’s help. The white lenses stared back, untelling.

“Breaking and entering is usually best kept in the dark, but she's out all day and up all night. Plus, who would think Superboy is doing something morally questionable?” Robin flashed a wicked grin, which made Kon take in a sharp breath with enough force that he almost choked. Robin would be the type to assume Kon would have complaints about breaking into this house. He probably thought Superboy was some kind of Boy Scout, like Clark.

Superboy looked away, turning back to the house. “What? Who lives here?” he asked, silently praying that Robin was not reading into anything, and just assumed that he was dealing with internal conflicts about breaking and entering.

The house was nice. The lawn was well-maintained and guarded by a metal fence. A white-painted wooden deck stood on the front of the house, with white-painted wooden stairs to match. It was a typical two-story family home, maybe a bit smaller than most, but unremarkable in Kon’s opinion.

“Dr. Cameron,” Robin told him, as if that cleared up everything. He started walking towards the gate, opened it, and turned to make his way around the porch, not looking back to see if Kon was following him.

“And who is that?” Kon called out, glancing around for cameras before he chased after Robin, just as Robin must have assumed he would. Kon closed the gate behind them, walking as casually as he could. Just because there are no cameras doesn't mean that no one is watching.

“She’s one of the women from that LuthorCorp building. You were the one who identified her.” Robin didn't look at Kon while he talked. All his focus was on his task, scanning the house for weak points as he walked. 

“Why are you breaking into some random female scientist's house for?” They walked further around the building, slowly treading the perimeter. “Do you even know what you're looking for?” Kon asked, leaning against the house as Robin poked at the siding.

“Why are we,” Robin corrected, not offering an explanation. “And ‘Woman scientist’ is the more politically correct term, though I don't see why her gender is of any importance. We’re looking for an open window, or another similar entry point,” he told Superboy, standing on his tippy toes in a futile attempt to peer through what looked like a bathroom window. It was cute, even with his enhanced sight, and the most Kon could see from here was the frost on the glass, there was no way Robin would be able to see anything.

“I thought you wanted to break and enter?” Kon teased, watching the other boy intrigued.

Robin rolled his eyes so forcefully that it was visible even with the mask. He pulled a small tube out of his belt, clicking it and letting it expand into a long rod, which he used to fiddle with the window above. He turned back to look at Superboy, a small smirk on his face.

“Come on, Superboy,” Robin gave the gadget one last shimmy and the window clicked open, “that's a crime, you know.” Robin turned away, collapsing the rod into his belt with one smooth motion. He jumped, grabbing onto the wall, and pulled himself up by the window ledge, slipping inside the house with practiced ease.

Superboy just stared at him, feeling mildly flabbergasted. God, this was weird. Robin was bantering with him, smiling at him. Something had undoubtedly changed since they had been at LuthorCorp. Robin seemed so much more comfortable, less on edge; Kon was deadly curious as to why, but he sure as hell wasn't going to risk it by asking. Superboy took a second to follow him, taking a deep breath before floating up behind him.

They were in a bathroom, as Kon predicted. The room is white, with white tiles and newly painted white trim transitioning into fading white walls. The shower curtain stood a ghastly green and pink floral pattern, with a matching pink bathmat. Robin’s face is hidden behind the mirror where he rummages through the medicine cabinet. Kon’s own reflection is staring back at him. His hair is messy, and there is a slight pink tinge at the tops of his ears.

“Looks like Dr. Camoren is taking Leukine,” Robin says as soon as Superboy’s feet land on solid ground. He raises a small bottle over the cabinet for Superboy to see. It's filled with a clear, unidentifiable liquid; the bottle is the kind that someone can stick a syringe into.

“That information means nothing to me,” Kon admits, leaning over to dodge the mirror and peer into the cabinet beside Robin.

The medicine cabinet is uninteresting, the same Tylenol Ma buys on the shelf along with random medications and bandage boxes Kon has seen a hundred times in convenience store aisles. The only thing of any intrigue is an orange bottle with a bright white lid. What’s more interesting is Robin. He can smell him this close. He smells good, like fresh air and salt mixed with a particular musk that must be cologne. There is a layered edge to the lenses on his mask, which must be what gives him the ability to make expressions. They're extended now, conveying the appearance of squinting. 

“Leukine is a chemical compound, or presumably, a stimulant of white blood cells. White blood cell medication, I wonder what's wrong with her. I'll have to ask Oracle to look into medical records.” Robin doesn't look at him as he explains, but his eyes widen a bit, settling into a more natural position.

“What's the prescription bottle?” Superboy asks, his voice low. He points to the second bottle, his eyes fixed on the eyes of the other boy’s mask. Kon, pointedly disregarding that insane invasion of privacy, also doesn't ask about Oracle. Instead making a mental note to ask Bart about it later.

Robin pulls a small black case out of his belt, extracting a syringe and a small glass bottle. He extracts a few drops of the liquid before packing it all back in the case and slipping it into his belt. He takes the pill bottle from the shelf, turning it over in his hands. The only indication of the contents is the torn white remains of the label sticking to the outside.

“Seems like she doesn't want us to know,” Robin comments, popping open the container and pulling out a wad of cotton. “It's empty,” Robin tells him, finally looking over to Superboy, where he was squeezed beside him.