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Tim Drake had more scars than he could ever count.
Well—technically, he could count them.
There was the thin, jagged line along his neck from Clayface, the skin there slightly raised and paler than the rest. The small circular one, right at the center of the first, courtesy of one of Penguin’s hired gunmen, still itched faintly on cold nights. Across his collarbones ran thin white slashes like ghostly handwriting from countless criminals. On his shoulder, a burn mark from an explosion bloomed outward like a warped starburst. Each mark a story; each story another fragment of a life built on sharp edges and quiet pain.
Some scars he wore like medals—earned while saving people, while taking down the monsters that haunted Gotham’s alleys. Others were harder to categorize, given to him by people he loved, betrayals inked into his skin. And then there were the ones he couldn’t speak about without feeling that old weight settle in his chest—the scars he had given himself. Those were different. Those were heavier.
He remembered how it began—back when he was small enough to still believe hurting himself would pull his parents’ gaze away from their endless parties, their business trips, their indifference. It hadn’t worked. His nanny had noticed this instead, and therapy had followed from the age of nine to eleven, a blur of soft chairs and strangers’ questions. But the habit had already rooted itself. By his teens, it wasn’t about being noticed anymore. It was about control. Everything else in his life spun like a broken compass, and it was a release. A ritual.
He could still feel the tile floor of the bathroom that day—cool and unyielding under his knees—when he was sixteen and forgot to lock the door. The band of his sweatpants clinging to his knees, and a blood-stained razor in his trembling hand.
And then Dick’s voice, sharp and frightened, cutting through the haze. The way his eyes flicked over Tim’s body, taking in the new and old scars. Shock first. Then sorrow, deep and heavy. The dull thud of Dick’s knees hitting the carpet beside him as he pulled Tim into his arms, the razor clattering to the floor. Dick’s tears had soaked through Tim’s shirt, warm and salty, the sound of his ragged breaths almost louder than Tim’s own heart.
Alfred had appeared briefly—steady, efficient—only to vanish and return with bandages. Tim still remembered the cool press of gauze, the firm but gentle hands. Later, there had been the talk with Bruce—no cowl, no cape, just Bruce, his voice low and weighted, lecturing him for the first time outside the Batcave. It was the moment Tim realized some wounds couldn’t be stitched up in the med bay or hidden beneath armor.
He hadn’t been strictly free of it since that night, but the stretches between relapses had grown longer. Progress, in its own uneven way. A house full of vigilantes and superheroes made solitude nearly impossible anyway. Privacy was a luxury he could rarely afford, and sometimes he hated them for it—but most of the time, he was grateful.
When Bruce first began keeping a closer eye on him, his attempts had been clumsy. Sending Tim to his room whenever the boy looked overwhelmed seemed logical enough—until the next humiliating and exhausting “leg check,” as Dick had coined the term, revealed the mistake. After that, the rules changed. If Tim was spiraling, he wasn’t left alone. Not anymore. Dick, Bruce, and eventually Jason had all closed ranks around him, making sure someone was there, even if it was just silent company in the dark. Gotham didn’t leave much space for healing, but they tried.
When he joined the Titans, Bruce’s solution had been surveillance. Cameras tucked into corners, security feeds humming in the background. The team had laughed it off as Batman being paranoid, but Tim knew better. He knew it was Bruce’s way of making sure he didn’t slip through the cracks again.
Dating Steph had been easier. She’d known, and she’d claimed her spot on what she jokingly called the “Tim Task Force.” She’d made it feel survivable, even normal. Cassie, though—it hadn’t lasted long enough for her to notice. They’d both seen their differences early, ended things before it got too far. No scars revealed, no explanations owed.
But then there was Kon.
Kon, whom he loved.
And with that love came a voice—small, insistent, cruel—that sounded like the child version of himself. It whispered that he had to hide, that Kon couldn’t see, that if he did, he’d turn away like everyone else surely would. Because how could someone like Kon—bright, good, endlessly steady—look at Tim’s body and not recoil?
Tim knew better. He knew no one who had seen his scars had reacted with disgust—only worry, only care. He knew, logically, that Kon loved him, that judgment had no place in their relationship. But logic didn’t silence the voice. It always rose up when Kon asked to leave the lights on during sex, or when his hands traced too close to Tim’s upper arms, his thighs—territory Tim’s own hands quickly redirected him from.
Kon never pushed. He never demanded answers. He just accepted whatever Tim could give, however much or little. And that acceptance made the voice louder, somehow—because it meant Kon trusted him. It meant one day, Tim might have to trust Kon back.
He just didn’t think that day would have to come so soon.
Patrol had been brutal in the way only Gotham could manage—not one clean disaster, but a string of smaller crises piling on top of each other. By the time they trudged back into the Cave, Tim’s shoulders ached under the weight of it, sweat sticking his shirt to his spine, nerves stretched thin. Damian’s voice was the last thing he wanted in his ear.
“You compromised the mission,” Damian snapped, yanking his gloves off with sharp, deliberate tugs. “Charging ahead without securing the perimeter was reckless. If Grayson hadn’t intervened, the gunman would’ve had you dead to rights.”
Tim’s jaw locked. His own gloves hit the workbench with a flat smack. “We didn’t have time to secure the perimeter, Damian. People were already getting shot at— should we stand around drawing neat little tactical lines while civilians bleed out?”
Damian’s eyes narrowed, green sparking like broken glass under fluorescent light. “Tactical precision saves more lives than recklessness ever will. Your shortsightedness endangered the team.”
“Oh, that’s rich—” Tim cut in, his voice climbing with heat, “—coming from you. I’ve seen you throw yourself into fights with less planning than I had tonight.”
Cass sat cross-legged at the edge of the platform, unlacing her boots with steady fingers. Her gaze flicked between them, quiet and unreadable. When Dick, ever the peacemaker, tried to loop her in—“Cass, come on, you saw what happened. Who was right?”—she shook her head once, lips pressed tight, the motion sharp as a blade— neutrality, absolute.
“Don’t drag her into this,” Jason drawled from where he leaned against the wall, arms folded. A sharp grin cut across his face. “Hell, let them keep swinging. This is better than cable.”
“Jason,” Dick warned, tiredness stitched through his voice. He stepped in, a hand half-raised like he could physically push the tension down. “Look, you’re both right. Tim made a call. Damian, your point about tactics isn’t wrong either. Fighting each other isn’t—”
“Stop coddling me,” Damian barked, stepping forward, chin lifted like he was daring Tim to rise to it.
“Stop acting like I don’t know what I’m doing,” Tim shot back, meeting him stride for stride.
The air between them sparked, taut and electric, muscles wired and ready, neither willing to back off.
“Enough.”
Bruce’s voice sliced through the Cave, heavy as a gavel. The sound echoed off stone and steel, pinning the argument in place. He hadn’t spoken until now, but the single word carried enough weight to make both boys falter. His cowl shadowed his face, but his eyes tracked them—disapproving, exacting, giving nothing away and everything at once.
“You two—walk it off,” he said, clipped and cold, no room for defiance.
Tim’s mouth twitched, open as if to argue, but he swallowed it down. Damian huffed, shoulders rigid, chin tilted high, and didn’t push it either.
The silence that followed was suffocating, pressing against the ribcage, every sound amplified—the hum of the computers, the scrape of Cass’s laces against the floor, Jason’s faint snort. Batman’s authority lingered in the air like smoke, impossible to breathe around.
Tim scoffed, sharp and bitter, while Damian let out a pointed tut. Without a word, they stalked in opposite directions.
Dick reached out, hand brushing Tim’s shoulder, but Tim jerked away like the touch burned. “Don’t, Dick. Stop trying to fix everything,” he snapped, voice sharper than he intended, but he didn’t care.
“That’s not what I’m doing, Timmy,” Dick’s reply faltered at the edges. His gaze flicked downward, not at Tim’s face but to his upper arms, his thighs—places he had checked before, places he worried about.
Tim caught it instantly. He rolled his eyes, heat rising under his skin, and scoffed again. “Fuck off,” he muttered, turning his back, his steps heavy as he stalked toward his bike.
“Tim,” Bruce’s voice followed him—no longer the razor-edged command of Batman, but the heavy, paternal weight of his other voice. The one that asked instead of ordered. Somehow, it was worse. “Where are you going?”
“I’m gonna walk it off, like you said,” Tim mumbled, yanking his helmet over his head.
He could feel Bruce’s eyes tracking him, drilling into the space between his shoulder blades as he swung a leg over the bike. His thumb pressed the ignition button, the roar of the engine filling the cavern, drowning everything else.
“Tim, you don’t have to leave,” Dick tried again, voice straining to be heard over the growl of the motor.
Tim didn’t answer. Every muscle screamed at him to move, to run, to escape. The walls of the Cave felt too close, the air too heavy. Without another glance, he twisted the throttle and shot forward, the entrance yawning open ahead as the tires shrieked against the stone. He disappeared into the Gotham night, the echoes of the Cave swallowed by the engine’s roar.
The night swallowed him whole the moment he left the Cave. The city air was damp, heavy with the scent of oil and rain-soaked asphalt, the kind of Gotham night that clung to skin and lungs alike. Wind cut against his face as he sped through the streets, helmet pressing tight, the hum of the bike beneath him the only steady thing in a world that felt like it was cracking open.
He wove through traffic without thought, muscle memory carrying him past darkened shops, neon signs, the blur of faceless strangers on sidewalks. Every turn felt like running from something he couldn’t outpace. His chest ached, not from exertion but from the pressure of too many eyes—Bruce’s, Dick’s, Damian’s—all burning into him even though they weren’t there. He told himself he needed air, space, control, but every mile only pressed him further into the same restless cage.
He didn’t realize how far he’d gone until the bike’s tires thrummed against the stretch of steel and concrete beneath him. The glow of the city fell away, and Tim found himself on the Metro-Narrows Bridge, its sweeping arches framed in harsh white streetlights. The river below was black glass, rippling faintly in the wind.
He kept going until he was about halfway across the bridge. The stretch of steel and concrete beneath him felt like the closest thing to freedom—finally out of Gotham, out of their sights, their worries, their judgments. For the first time all night, the weight of the Cave wasn’t pressing against his lungs. He was away.
He eased the bike onto the sidewalk, the engine cutting off with a low growl before silence swallowed the air. No cars passed between Gotham and Metropolis at this hour; the bridge was his alone. The only sound was the low murmur of the river beneath, dark and restless as it lapped against the pillars.
Tim leaned against the railing, eyes fixed on the murky water far below. The surface rippled faintly, distorted reflections of the bridge lights bending and shattering. He tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and dragged in a lungful of the night air. It was colder here, cleaner, with less of Gotham’s thick pollution. The chill spread through him, raising goosebumps along his arms, and he shivered—suddenly aware of every scar carved into his body, as if the cold had traced each one in ice.
He needed control over something—anything. Something solid, something that belonged only to him. He tugged off his gloves with quick, jerky movements and set them on the railing. From his belt, he drew a batarang, flipping it in his hands. The weight was comforting in its simplicity—cold metal against skin, sharp edges digging faintly into his palms, every nerve alive under the pressure. He focused on the heft, the familiar shape, clinging to it as if it could anchor him.
Just a minute. That was all he needed. A minute to think, to breathe, to drown out the little voice gnawing at him. A minute where the urge to hurt himself could be muted by something else, something tangible.
Then a shift in the air behind him—subtle, but unmistakable. A presence. A hand reaching, inches from his shoulder.
Tim spun on instinct. In a blur, he seized the arm, twisted it sharply, and shoved the body against the railing. His other hand pressed the batarang to the stretch of neck.
And then he froze.
He knew this neck. He knew the warmth of it against his lips, the way his arms had memorized its slope. He knew the wild curls ruffled by the night wind, and those ridiculous sunglasses—always perched there, even in the dark.
“Kon?” Tim’s voice cracked on the word.
“Hey, Sunshine.” Kon’s grin broke wide even as Tim let go, retreating instantly. He raised both hands in mock surrender, the ease in his posture a sharp contrast to Tim’s tension.
“Sorry, sorry,” Tim muttered, the adrenaline in his veins souring into guilt.
Kon just shook his head, still smiling. “Nah, that one’s on me. You’d think I’d have learned by now—sneaking up on a Bat is practically asking to get maimed.”
Tim shrugged, the motion small and tight, like his shoulders were trying to fold in on themselves. “Yeah,” he said with a short nod, leaning back against the railing. The steel was cold against his spine, grounding. “What’re you doing out here at this time of night? Isn’t your patrol not scheduled until nine?”
Kon frowned, his sunglasses pushed up into his curls, eyes fixed on Tim like he was trying to read between the lines. “Dick called,” he said slowly. “He wanted me to check—”
Tim’s head snapped around, disbelief flickering across his face. “Dick called you? He woke you up to come ‘check’ on me? Are you joking?” His voice rose a notch, sharp but frayed.
Kon instinctively stepped back a little at the edge in Tim’s tone, hands raised slightly in a peace gesture. “No, I’m not— What is going on?” His brows knit together, the crease between them deep.
“Nothing, Kon.” Tim turned away, eyes on the dark water below. “Dick is just being annoying because we got into an argument.”
“Why did he call me over that?” Kon asked, confusion tugging at his mouth. “It doesn’t seem like a Dick thing to do— well, Dick in an adjective sense, not a noun sense— I recently learned the difference between the three, Jon taught me.” His words spilled out fast, like he was trying to fill the silence.
Tim let out a faint sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Very cool,” he murmured, still not looking at him. “I don’t need you here, Kon. Go back home. Go back to bed.” His fingers tightened on the railing as he spoke.
Kon didn’t move away. Instead, he shifted closer, the weight of his shoulder brushing Tim’s, a warm point of contact in the cold night. “Sunshine, what’s going on? Talk to me, Baby.” His voice dropped, low and coaxing, and Tim felt the deliberate pull of Kon’s southern lilt—he always knew Tim’s weak spots.
“I just said,” Tim muttered, still staring out at the black water, “it was just an argument.”
Kon tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Dick doesn’t call over arguments, and you don’t storm out in the middle of the night unless it was bad. What was it about?”
Tim’s jaw tightened. “Just one between me and Damian over the way a patrol went. It wasn’t a big deal. Dick turned it into a bigger deal than it is.” He exhaled, almost a scoff. “You know how dramatic he is.”
“He sounded really worried, Baby,” Kon said softly. He hesitated, biting his lip and glancing at the batarang still twisting between Tim’s fingers. “He also said…”
Tim’s head tilted, suspicion sharpening his eyes. “What? What did he say?”
Kon’s voice went quiet, almost lost to the sound of the river. “He said to take away anything sharp from you if I have to.” His gaze flicked back to Tim’s hands. “I thought it was ‘cause you were pissed and might stab someone, but he wasn’t worried like that. It was a different kind of worry—like you’re gonna hurt yourself or somethin’.” He looked over at Tim fully now, eyes open and raw. “Is that what’s goin’ on?”
“No,” Tim snapped, the word leaving his mouth like a blade.
Kon flinched at the sharpness, but his voice stayed steady. “Then why would Dick ask—”
“Because he’s dramatic and thinks I’m out of control,” Tim shot back, brows furrowed so tight they ached. His chest heaved, words tumbling out faster and louder. “I am perfectly in control right now!”
Kon’s gaze softened, steady as a heartbeat. “You sound like you’re reminding yourself more than convincing me,” he said quietly.
The words dug under Tim’s skin. He spun to face Kon fully, anger still etched in every line of his face, ready to shout again—but then Kon’s eyes flicked downward, alarm flashing there. Before Tim could register it, Kon’s hand shot out, gently but firmly grabbing his right arm.
Tim followed his gaze—and froze. His fist had clenched too hard around the batarang. Thin blades had cut into his palm, bright red already sliding down across callused skin, dripping onto the forearm of his costume. His breath stuttered, eyes wide, as he slowly uncurled his fingers. The batarang slipped free with a sharp metallic clank against the concrete, the sound far too loud in the silence.
“Sunshine,” Kon murmured, voice breaking at the edges. He cradled Tim’s hand in both of his, turning it carefully. His thumbs were gentle against the cuts, inspecting damage that could’ve been worse. The softness in his face was unbearable—gentle, steady, like he didn’t even notice that with one twitch of strength, he could crush Tim without trying.
Tim’s throat closed up. Every instinct screamed to yank away, to run, to snatch the blade back up and finish what he’d started. To wrestle some kind of control back. Anything to escape the unbearable weight of Kon’s eyes on him.
But then—his mind, his heart, his logic collided. He trusted Kon. He knew Kon. He loved Kon. God, he loved him so much it hurt. And Kon loved him back with a stubbornness that had never faltered. That truth burned brighter than the voice in his head.
Tears blurred his vision beneath the domino mask. With a trembling hand, he ripped it off and tossed it next to his gloves on the railing. The cold air stung his wet lashes. Kon’s gaze caught his, those stupid, kind, patient blue eyes—eyes that had always seen more than Tim wanted them to.
“Kon,” he choked, the word breaking into a sob.
Kon pulled him in instantly, wrapping him up in strong arms like he was something fragile. Tim buried his face against his chest, his bloodied hand clutching tight, smearing red across the worn leather jacket.
“‘M here, Baby. ‘M here,” Kon whispered, pressing his cheek into Tim’s hair. One hand rubbed slow circles across Tim’s back while the other cupped the back of his head, fingers combing through the strands like he could ground him one touch at a time.
The dam broke. Tim pressed his face harder into Kon’s chest, hot tears spilling freely now, his shoulders shaking with the force of it. He clung like a drowning man, nails digging into the leather of Kon’s jacket, every sob pulling something raw and painful from deep inside. Kon just held him tighter, steady as stone, murmuring soft reassurances until the storm inside Tim slowly ebbed.
When the quiet finally settled, the only sounds were the low hum of the bridge and Tim’s uneven breathing. Kon shifted just enough to see his face, brushing his thumbs over the damp streaks clinging to Tim’s cheeks. “Sunshine,” he murmured, voice softer than the wind around them, “I need you to tell me the truth. Were Dick’s worries valid?”
Tim’s throat felt tight, raw from everything he’d been holding back. He looked away, the dark water below pulling at his gaze, but he forced the words out anyway. “Yeah,” he rasped, voice cracking. “I’ve had issues for eleven years with hurting myself. When it gets too much, when I feel like I’m out of control, I… hurt myself. There’s some irony there, y’know? Not being able to control the urge to need control?
My dad—Bruce—knows. Alfred, Dick, Babs, Steph, Cass, and Jason too—” his mouth twitched, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.
Tim kept going, “I don’t even know how Jason knew; no one told him. I also haven’t told Duke yet because it’s never come up, and I just think Damian is too young and he’s been through enough—but that’s not the point. I haven’t in about a year. I don’t really know how to keep it at bay, but everyone keeps me distracted enough, and tonight was just too—” He cut himself off, swallowing hard.
Finally, Tim lifted his eyes to Kon. They were rimmed red, his lashes clumped with tears. Kon’s own eyes were glassy now, the reflection of the streetlights catching the wetness. He reached forward, cupping Tim’s face with both hands, thumbs brushing over a small scar near his cheek as if he could smooth it away.
“I’m sorry,” Tim whispered, voice breaking under the weight of it.
Kon blinked back tears and shook his head slowly. “You have nothing—and I mean nothing—to apologize for, Tim,” he said firmly, like a promise.
Tim swallowed thickly. “I’m… I should’ve told you. I know this is probably a deterrent, and I understand if you don’t want to be—”
“Baby, what?” Kon interrupted, still cradling Tim’s face like it was something precious. “Tim, this isn’t a deterrent. You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready to or don’t feel comfortable sharing. I will take any part of you that you give me and hold it close because it’s you. And I love you.” His voice softened again, sincere and steady. “I appreciate you trusting me enough to tell me this.” He leaned in, pressing a slow, careful kiss to Tim’s forehead.
“Yeah?” Tim asked, his voice small but steadier now, the last of his tears drying against the night air.
“I promise,” Kon murmured, pulling Tim back into his arms, holding him as though he could keep every sharp edge of the world away. “Nothing you tell me is ever going to make me love you any less.”
“What if I were a secret supervillain?” Tim asked, his voice muffled against Kon’s shoulder, a ghost of a laugh hiding behind it.
“I’ve always wanted to try being evil on my own,” Kon said with a mock-seriousness, his lips twitching.
Tim gasped softly and smacked Kon’s back, his hand bouncing harmlessly off impenetrable skin. “Kon, you can’t say that,” he muttered, but there was a tremor of something lighter in his voice now—a hint of relief threaded through the exhaustion.
“Let’s wrap up that hand and get you home, okay?” Kon said gently, his voice still threaded with that soft Southern lilt that always managed to break through Tim’s walls. “I can hang out while you do your nerdy stuff ‘til I have to go on patrol.”
Tim gave a small nod, pulling back and digging into his utility belt for the sterilized wrap. “You don’t have to stay,” he murmured, the words automatic, “I’m sure Dick’ll be watching me like a hawk the moment I get home.”
“But I want to,” Kon replied without hesitation. He reached out, taking the wrap from Tim’s hand, his fingers brushing lightly over Tim’s as he did. “Plus, Alfred knows how to get blood out of leather.” His smile flickered, trying to coax something lighter out of Tim.
Tim winced faintly. “Yeah, sorry, I didn’t even realize,” he said, slipping his domino mask back into place as if it could help him rebuild the mask over his emotions, too.
“Sunshine, stop apologizing,” Kon said firmly, though his tone stayed warm. He finished wrapping each of Tim’s fingers with precise, careful movements before sliding the bandage across his palm. When Tim tried to slip his glove back on with his injured hand, Kon’s tactile telekinesis guided the material into place, fitting it snugly without pulling at the fresh bandage.
Once the gear was secured and Tim had his helmet back on, he swung a leg over his motorcycle, the engine rumbling low and steady beneath him. The night air was sharp against his face, cool enough to sting a little after the heat of crying. Kon climbed on behind him without a word, his arms snaking around Tim’s waist. The familiar weight of Kon’s chest against his back and the steady press of his palms against his ribs grounded him in a way the roar of the bike alone couldn’t.
They took off across the bridge, the cityscape unfolding on either side in streaks of orange and white light. Tim leaned into the turns, the machine responding like an extension of himself, while Kon’s grip shifted with each curve, always steady, always secure. For a few precious minutes, there was no Cave, no argument, no little voice—just the hum of the engine, the rush of the wind, and the heartbeat Tim could feel against his spine.
Kon rested his chin briefly on Tim’s shoulder, close enough that Tim caught a quiet, content sound from him—a sigh or maybe a hum. It was something wordless, but it told Tim everything: he wasn’t alone, he wasn’t ever alone, and he was in control of himself.
—
He swung his leg off his bike, boots thudding softly on the concrete, the echo swallowed by the cavernous dark. The low growl of the engine faded, replaced by the familiar hum of computers and the dripping of water from stalactites above. He tossed his helmet down beside the bike with a muted clatter, the motion casual but weighted, and leaned into Kon’s shoulder for a second as they started across the cave. Kon’s hand brushed his back briefly—steadying, grounding—but neither said anything.
At the glow of the Batcomputer’s monitors, he spotted Dick and Jason. Dick was seated, posture tight, eyes glued to the data scrolling past, while Jason leaned over his shoulder, poking at the screen with a gloved finger and muttering something under his breath. Both turned at the sound of footsteps on the metal walkway.
“Tim! Are you—are you okay?” Dick’s voice snapped the tension, his chair scraping back as he stood, only for Jason to sit in it. His gaze swept over Tim like a scanner, cataloging every detail.
“I’m fine, Dickhead,” Tim mumbled, no heat behind it, rubbing at the back of his neck. “You didn’t have to call Conner.” He slipped his hand free from Kon’s, tugging at his gloves like they’d become suddenly too tight. The domino mask came off next, leaving a faint line of sweat around his eyes.
“Whoa, what happened to your hand? Punch a brick or something?” Jason asked, eyeing the bandages like they might tell him a story.
Tim began yanking the top of his suit off, revealing his lean chest, “Batarang,” He replied simply, voice flat as he reached for the folded clothes Alfred had left. He could feel Kon’s gaze on him until Dick’s pointed throat-clearing made a flush bloom across Kon’s cheeks. He turned away quickly, studying the cave walls with forced interest.
“You punched a batarang?” Jason’s eyebrows lifted, incredulous.
“I didn’t punch a batarang, I just accidentally squeezed one,” Tim muttered, peeling off his suit pants with a hiss of damp fabric. He could feel Dick’s eyes still on him, tracking every movement, every possible injury.
“Accidentally?” Dick echoed, his tone dipping lower, like there was more he wanted to ask.
Kon jumped in, nodding. “It was accidental. I was there.”
“Tim,” Dick said again, ignoring Kon.
“I didn’t fuckin’ hurt myself intentionally, God,” Tim groaned, dragging a damp towel over his face and neck, wiping away grime and sweat.
“Okay, okay. I trust you,” Dick said after a beat, though his glance slid toward Kon again. Kon still wouldn’t look at Tim, his jaw tight, pretending to be fascinated by the glow of the computer screens. “Does he…?” Dick asked quietly.
“Yeah. I told him,” Tim said, tugging his shirt over his head. “You kinda forced me to—Kon, we’ve had sex multiple times, you don’t have to look away like a teenager, oh my god,” he added, the words spilling out sharper than intended.
Kon cleared his throat, ears pink. “I think if I look at you while you’re naked, Dick will use the nearest kryptonite on me.”
Dick gave a single, deliberate nod.
Jason raised a finger. “He’s not naked right now, he’s still in boxers—thank god—and I didn’t need to know about the sex thing,” he said, making a face.
“Neither did I,” Dick muttered, running a hand down his face. “And I’m sorry for calling Conner. I just didn’t think we’d get there fast enough if you were gonna…” his voice trailed off, softening. “I just didn’t want you to do something you were gonna regret, and I know you trust Conner.”
Tim tugged on sweatpants, balancing on one foot before hopping forward to get it through. “I do, and I appreciate it, but I also need you to trust me,” he said, dragging the fabric up and then tugging a shirt over his head. His voice was steady, but there was an edge of weariness there, like he’d said this too many times before. “I’m twenty, not sixteen. I’m getting better at coping in healthier ways. It just really pissed me off that when I get upset, your brain immediately goes to that.” He raked a hand through damp hair, exhaling. “And I know, I’ve done it behind your back before, but I promise, I don’t anymore. I’ll talk to you or Bruce, or Steph, or Cass, or even Jason—hell, or any of the thousand people who practically live in this house. I even have Kon now. I don’t need to be babied about it.”
Dick sucked in a sharp breath, shoulders tight. “I know, I know, Timmy. I just… The image of you the first time I found you like that, it’s stuck in my head.” His voice dipped softer, almost hoarse. “I know you’re not sixteen anymore. I know you can handle it. I’ll work on not jumping to conclusions.”
Jason leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Kon, turn around. You look stupid just staring at the wall.”
Kon hesitated, then finally turned, the tension in his shoulders easing when he saw Tim fully dressed. He slumped forward, rubbing the back of his neck, and crossed the room to slip an arm loosely around Tim’s waist, grounding himself as much as Tim.
“I’ll work on not jumping to conclusions,” Dick said again, more firmly this time, and then extended his hand with his pinky held out. “If you pinky swear to actually talk to people when you need to.”
Tim rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched at the corners. “I pinky swear,” he said, hooking his finger with Dick’s. The gesture was ridiculous and juvenile and so painfully Grayson, but it broke the sharp edge of the moment.
“Aw, that’s cute,” Kon said with a faint grin. “Jon and I pinky swear, too.”
Jason lifted a finger. “When our pinky swears are broken, we get to break every bone in the hand.”
“Oh, we don’t— That’s—” Kon started, but Tim was already grabbing his arm, dragging him toward the elevator with quick, impatient steps.
“Let’s go to my room. I’ve got some cases I want to look over before I crash, and you said you’d hang out with me before patrol.” He didn’t let go until the elevator doors slid shut.
—
Tim sat cross-legged on the edge of his bed, laptop open beside a stack of hardcopy files. The light from the screen washed him in a pale glow, flickering over photos, reports, and names as his eyes scanned each page with a precision born of habit. It was quiet except for the soft hum of the air vent and the occasional shift of the mattress behind him.
Kon had leaned in close at some point, his arms wrapped loosely around Tim from behind, chin hovering near his shoulder without actually resting on it. He wasn’t doing anything in particular—just there, warm and steady, like a wall of breath and heartbeat. Tim tried to ignore the way it softened the room’s edges.
Kon’s fingers had been resting lightly against Tim’s forearm, but as Tim clicked through a particularly grim file, they began to move—absently, idly tracing. At first, it was nothing more than a slow drag of fingertips over the sleeve of his shirt. Then, almost without thinking, Kon’s touch slid beneath the cuff to skin.
Tim’s breath hitched. The faint scrape of calloused fingertips followed the ridges of old scars like they were Braille. Not purposeful, not even curious—just there. And Tim froze, the cursor on the screen trembling under his mouse as a wave of instinct surged up: pull away, cover up, make a joke, do anything to deflect.
Kon’s hand stopped immediately. “Sorry,” he murmured against Tim’s shoulder, voice low and careful. His fingers hovered but didn’t retreat yet. “I wasn’t— I’m sorry.”
Tim swallowed, forcing himself to exhale slowly. He closed the file on the screen, grounding himself in the sound of the laptop snapping shut. “It’s okay,” he said finally, his voice tight but steady. “I just wasn’t expecting it. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Kon’s touch resumed, softer this time, deliberate. His fingertips traced once more over the old marks—not reverent, not horrified, just acknowledging. The pads of his fingers skated over raised lines and faint depressions, mapping each one without pressing.
“You’ve been through so much,” Kon said quietly, the words catching at the back of his throat. “And you’re still here. You’re still you. That’s… that’s strength, Tim. Not the scars, but what you did to keep going after. You’re the most resilient person I know, and it’s an honor to love you.”
Tim’s shoulders loosened a fraction. He stared down at his hands, at the faint tremble in them, and let Kon’s words settle somewhere behind his ribs. He didn’t answer. Words felt too clumsy, too exposed. Instead, he shifted in Kon’s arms, twisting just enough that their faces nearly brushed. For a heartbeat, he hesitated, searching Kon’s eyes—eyes that held only patience, only that unshakable steadiness.
Then he leaned in, closing the gap.
The kiss was unhurried, almost tentative, but it carried everything he couldn’t force himself to say aloud: trust, relief, the ache of being seen. Kon stilled only for a second before kissing him back, careful and grounded, one hand steadying at the back of Tim’s neck.
The files lay forgotten, the laptop heavy on the blankets. In that small pocket of quiet, Tim let himself rest against the warmth of Kon’s mouth, the world pared down to the safety of touch and the steady beat of a heart pressed close to his own.