Archive of Our Own

This is Tim’s first time in rural Kansas. 

He double- triple checks the contents of the Batplane, every switch and display and compartment, and smoothly hops out, landing with a muffled thud in the grass. He hikes up the bag on his shoulders, does a quick perimeter check, and starts making his way to the large farmhouse in the distance. He’s not sure why the auto-pilot insisted on landing this far away, but he’ll figure it out by the time he gets there.

The wind tousles his hair and billows his cape, curling waves through the field of grass. Nothing but grass all around. It’s honestly weird that he can see the horizon at all. It makes his hand twitch, reaching for his staff like a security blanket. No matter. If he plays his cards right, he should be home by dinner.

The grass starts getting patchier after a few minutes of trudging along, and Tim vaguely recognizes that this must be a pasture. There’s globs of dried mud around that he avoids just in case. He scans the horizon for any cattle, but they’ve either made a run for it or even farm animals can’t handle the midday summer heat. Tim wouldn’t know. He’s not a cow.

Even through his lenses he has to squint against the sun overhead, spying a figure at the farmhouse. They seem tense as they step outside and stand in front of the door, like some glorified bouncer. That must be Superboy, then. Already off to a bad start. 

Excellent. He won’t even have to do anything.

He has an image to maintain, however, if he wants to make this believable for the bodycam, so he keeps his pace steady and determined.

He examines the famous Kent home, the chipping paint and wooden steps, the little indents of scratch marks leading to the door. There’s what looks like a utility shed beside it, the door half-open and sagging, wedged into the dirt. From this angle he can only see a rusty wheelbarrow pushed up against the wall. 

His eyes slide past Superboy to the barn a few yards away. And there are the cows. They cut an interesting shape, lying or grazing, speckled across the shadows cast by the massive silos beside the barn. One of them looks up at Tim and chews on grass in the way cows tend to do. He resists giving it a small wave.

He lets his eyes wander back to Superboy, who’s looking more and more displeased with every second. Tim’s probably past the line where it’s socially acceptable to ignore the person you’re directly walking up to, so he nods. “Superboy.”

“Robin,” he grits out, as Tim comes to a stop in front of the wooden steps leading to the door. It’s a pretty standard intimidation tactic, forcing him to stare up at Superboy like a child, though he’s not sure how much of that is deliberate. Either way, it works out. Let him feel superior. “What are you doing here? Got kicked out of the flock?”

He seems like the type to hate formality, so Tim hams it up. “Did Batman not inform you of the mission?”

Superboy looks a little skeptical, but strangely eager. Okay… not the reaction he expected. “What are you talking about? What mission?” 

“We scheduled this meeting a week ago.” And here Tim starts the verbal barbs, “Superman agreed that we should start testing the limits of your skills and powers. We need to verify the legitimacy of your Cadmus files.”

Superboy clenches his jaw at just the right moments. An obvious wave of disappointment ripples through his body language, sagging shoulders, a deep frown. He really wears his heart on his sleeve, huh? Amateur hour.

“Are you serious? Superman doesn’t get to decide stuff about my powers.”

Tim pauses. That’s interesting. “You didn’t know this was happening.”

“No.” And Tim starts to see the specifics of this bus he was thrown under. “So you can scram.”

Superboy leans back against the wooden door, arms crossed, head tilted up. Tim wonders how he could move this confrontation inside, because the Kansas sun is bound to burn a domino mask into his face, even past the three layers of sunblock.

“Do you want to look over the files, at least?” He taps his bag, filled with some general Bat-tech. Like a high-end laptop, for one, which has to be better than continuously zooming in and out on your phone. 

See? He’s being plenty reasonable. It’s Superboy who’s uncooperative, a trait he has displayed multiple times over the past year. What is he supposed to do as a poor, powerless human? He can’t force him into testing. Not to mention the ethics there.

Superboy frowns at him, contemplating. He looks extremely irritated when he says, “Fine. But after that, you scram.”

Tim nods easily and follows the boy inside. The door has to be slammed shut to stick and the deadlock is warped to the point that Superboy doesn’t even bother with it. It’s an appalling lack of security, but to be fair, there aren’t many home invaders around Smallville anyway, even less that would be able to hurt the Kents. 

“Uh. Don’t,” Superboy tells him. He looks up, hands stopped midway through unbuckling his boots. There’s a pinch between Superboy’s brows, all the more visible from this angle. “It’s fine. Keep your shoes on.”

Tim stands and watches the boy shake himself. “Come on. Let’s get this over with and you can run back to your bird nest or whatever.” 

He takes them past a staircase, the small and large pictures on the wall. There seems to be little rhyme or reason behind their placement, some of Clark when he was a child, a graduation photo, one with Kara in a football stadium.

They step into the kitchen and Tim wastes no time setting up on the dining table. It’s just as worn as everything else in the house, with a suspiciously hand-shaped dent in one corner. He’s delicate with his bag and his laptop, pulling out a chair in the few moments it needs to start up. He pauses over the keyboard.

Tim stares at Superboy, who’s looming by his shoulder.

Then Superboy blinks and steps away. “Do you want anything to drink?”

It looks like the Kents work fast, instilling that Southern politeness in the most stubborn of teenagers. And to think Superboy was lounging around with his feet on tables just a few months ago. “Water, please.”

The boy pointedly turns around, rattling through cupboards for a glass, and Tim types in his password. He can see Superboy make a face once it doesn’t stop at the tenth character. His lips twitch. It’s pretty fun to mess with him. Might as well enjoy this little meet-and-greet while it lasts. Tim wonders how he would react if he asked for an autograph.

He pulls up the appropriate files, running a hand through his hair, which has got to be at least ten degrees hotter than his skin. It isn’t much cooler inside, even without the Sun beating down on him. He hasn’t started sweating yet, but he’ll probably have to change his compression shirt on the plane. Ugh. Kansas. He spies a boxy, yellowing A/C tucked between the fridge and the wall, one of those meant for the window, and he briefly considers checking it out, but quickly abandons that thought. He won’t be staying that long.

Superboy places a glass of water closer to the laptop than Tim feels comfortable with, and he thanks him, downing half of it at once. He gets a baffled look for it. “Okay. There’s a lot here and we had to reorganize everything, but I highlighted a few dubious things we wanted to confirm.”

Superboy rolls his eyes, “Dubious,” but finally stops hovering, pulling a chair close until they’re practically sitting shoulder to shoulder. Tim tries his best not to fidget. Is he always this… touchy?

The chair thumps on the floor as Superboy shifts around, one leg slightly shorter than the others. He squints at the labeled folders on the laptop and Tim waits patiently.

“What is this?” 

“…Like I said, your Cadmus files.” What little remains, at least.

Superboy keeps frowning at the screen and lifts a hesitant hand to the track pad. He scrolls through folders, slow enough to tell that he clearly has no idea what he’s looking at. It dawns on Tim then and there.

“You didn’t agree to this at all.”

Superboy glances at him, an annoyed tilt to his brows. “Yeah. That’s what I said.”

“No, you said-” He sighs. There’s mistake number one that he’ll get chewed out for. “You implied that you didn’t agree to the tests. Did you give your consent to any of this?” 

No. There’s no way, right? There’s no way Tim was tasked with turning Illegal Cloning Experiment Boy into a lab rat. That’s so messed up on so many levels, even for Batman.

Superboy straightens and crosses his arms, abandoning the files completely. His chair thumps. “Dude, just spell it out already.”

Tim stares. 

“These are your medical records,” he starts slowly. Superboy’s face wavers into confusion. “The ethics are a bit wishy-washy in this situation, but you should be the one with final say over who gets to see it and how it’s used.” 

Technically Superman could claim custody and access them as a parent/guardian, but as far as Tim knows they’re registered cousins. Did the Kents claim guardianship? Could Luthor…? He really needs to look into this. He kind of went into this whole ordeal without doing much research, hoping to pass the case onto someone else once Superboy proves himself ‘uncooperative’. 

Ah. Mistake number two that he’ll get chewed out for.

Superboy scoffs. “Didn’t you say Superman agreed to it?”

Tim closes his eyes for a moment. 

He pulls his laptop closer and navigates through his virtual machine, accessing the Watchtower’s mission reports. Sure enough, he finds an entry made by Superman requesting Batman’s help, which was passed onto and officially signed with Robin’s name. Everything else he already knows. Everything except for the most important part. 

He’s doing this job for Superman. He’ll have to answer to him, not Batman. In fact, Batman had no hand in this at all.

Superman, as a senior and founding member of the Justice League, has the authority to access almost everything with appropriate justification. Which there’s no way he has here. Superboy hasn’t done anything dangerous to others or himself, other than being a cocky asshole, but who would press Superman on the topic of his non-consensual clone? 

Everyone knows how he feels about Superboy. It’s painful just how much everyone knows. The imposter Supermen have been the only topic of conversation since Clark returned. Tim has complained about it before, feeling sympathy both for Clark and the poor clone who didn’t choose to be born into these circumstances. Next time he’ll know to never open his mouth around Bruce again. This was absolutely a set-up. 

“God dammit.” He pinches the bridge of his nose.

Superboy jumps and stares at him. “Uh…”

Is this a test of his detective skills? One he failed pathetically, if so. A test of his moral compass? How well Bruce knows his moral compass? How to put aside his moral compass? Can this get worse? 

Of course it can.

“Do you even have a copy of these files?” He tabs back into the Cadmus folder.

Superboy sighs, annoyed, and drops his head on his hand, elbow propped up on the table. “No. How would I even read it? I don’t have a phone or a laptop or anything.”

He freezes. “What do you mean you don’t have a phone?”

Superboy taps on a random folder and flicks past another column of files. “Broke it last week. Can’t afford another one and Ma says we have the landline, so.”

Tim recalls the old plastic phone on the wall, right beside the front door.

“Not like I have anyone’s number,” Superboy mumbles under his breath.

And people are surprised that he’s unruly? Immature? Lashing out? He used to be a teen celebrity and now he’s isolated in rural Kansas with only a landline to contact the outside world. Crap, he’s completely cut off from the superhero community, too. Which is his only community, because he doesn’t actually have a civilian identity, oh my God.

What if he ran away? Which he would be entirely justified in doing, in Tim’s opinion. He’d just piss off the epitome of ‘Hope’ and ‘Heroism’ and not a single person would take his side. Other than Batman, apparently, and Robin by unfortunate association.

What a disaster. Made as a replacement for Superman, found inadequate, and tossed aside. Does he even have a name besides Superboy?

Subject thirteen, Tim thinks bitterly.

But what does Bruce expect him to do exactly? If he hasn’t been able to give Clark the reality check he’s clearly in need of, then Tim sure as hell can’t. He has absolutely zero leverage right now. Nothing to work with.

Except…

Tim closes the laptop. 

“Hey! I was looking at that.”

“It’s fine. I’ll buy you a phone and send the whole thing over.”

Superboy’s jaw drops. “Wh- Huh?”

“Probably a laptop, too.”

“What?”

Tim packs his laptop away, doing a quick check of his bag out of habit. “I’m gonna need some prep time, but I’ll be back on Monday at the latest. We’ll reassess and start planning.”

“What the heck are you talking about?” ‘Heck’, that’s cute.

“And you-” Tim snags the little camera tucked into the crevice of his chestplate. “I hate you.” And buries it into the bottom of his bag, just to be petty.

He can’t give Clark a reality check for so many reasons, but Robin is currently the one tasked with the ‘Untitled Superboy Mission’. All information goes through him.

With some carefully worded reports and thorough coaching of Superboy, he could maybe get Clark to ease up a little. Honestly, this is for the benefit of everyone. The last thing they need is a mini-Kryptonian going evil for entirely justified reasons.

“Pretend I was never here,” he tells a bewildered Superboy. “Monday.” He dashes out of the house, booking it to the Batplane.

He nearly runs into a cow and realizes, oh, that’s why he had to land so far away. The animals. That makes a lot of sense.

Tim may have forgotten about Mr. and Mrs. Kent. He just got so caught up in planning and intermittently glaring at Bruce from the Batcomputer that he completely forgot about them.

He’s Robin, taught and trained by Batman, he shouldn’t be making these amateur mistakes. Something about this entire case has him rattled, though he’s not entirely sure why. It’s… annoying. Frustrating.

His gala training kicks in the moment Martha Kent opens the door, and he slaps on a plastic smile. “Hello, Mrs. Kent.”

She lifts an eyebrow, a more honest smile on her face. “Well, hello there, hun. It’s Robin, right? Superboy mentioned you might be stopping by.”

Tim nods, clasping his bag with both hands, but she continues before he can say anything more than, “It’s nice to meet you.” 

“Gosh, it’s lovely to see some friends come and visit. He’s been awfully lonely lately. Come inside, hun. And call me Ma, please.”

He shuffles in after her, a little uncomfortable and definitely not going to correct her. She’s the exact kind of all-American doting mother that Tim has never actually met in person. Sure, his own parents love him, and Bruce is definitely fond of him by now, along with Alfred, but none of them are really good at showing that. Not that Tim’s any better.

“Thank you, Ma. I don’t mean to intrude.”

“Oh, nonsense!” She herds him into the kitchen, which is turning out to be the most familiar room in this house, and sits him down at the table. “Come have some cobbler, sweetheart. You don’t have a peach allergy or nothin’?” He shakes his head. “Superboy’s still in town getting some groceries.”

He’s content to go along with the ride, munching on some really good peach cobbler. He makes sure to compliment it, laying it on thick. It’s definitely best to stay on the Kents’ good side. 

“Is Mr. Kent-” She gives him a look and he clears his throat. “Is Pa around?”

“Oh, he’s out there haying, don’t you worry.” Tim has no idea what that means. “I told him not to push himself, his knees ain’t what they used to be, but that man never listens!” She tuts and he nods along.

“Can I… help somehow?” 

She waves her hand, piling some more food on his plate. “Absolutely not! Thank you, hun, but no guest of mine is getting put to work! That darling boy will get Pa inside.”

She refills his glass of water and he mumbles, “Thank you…”

“That boy is so hard-working, y’know. I keep telling Clark, but he’s so goshdarn stubborn. Always been!”

She proceeds to tell a story about Clark as a child, determined to change the tractor’s tires himself and failing miserably until the entire axle broke. Tim can’t help his wince when he imagines doing that to the Batmobile. The absolute disappointment on Bruce’s face…

“-I go out on Thursday to feed the chickens and wouldn’t you know it, there’s Superboy, bless his heart, doin’ the same exact thing. He reminds me so much of Clark sometimes.”

Tim freezes with his glass halfway to his mouth, shifting in place. It’s… strange hearing Superboy act like a teenager, like any normal person. Which definitely reveals some personal issues he has to work on, but the cocky, teen superhero act is incredibly convincing. Is Superboy actually a good actor? Does he put on a mask the same way Tim does for the press, the way Bruce does to preserve his secret identity?

He does have Luthor’s DNA and spent quite a while under his care. Tim wonders, for all that Superboy looks like an identical copy of Clark, if the only thing Superman can see is Lex Luthor looking back at him.

Tim hears hurried footsteps and turns to the door. “Ma,” Superboy groans, standing in the doorway, hands braced on the wall. He’s flushed bright red.

She just smiles. “Yes, hun?”

He grunts and places a flower-patterned cloth bag on the counter, unpacking the groceries and pointedly avoiding Tim’s eyes.

“Superboy,” Ma chides, nudging him aside to put the groceries away. Honey, jam, and the like. They all look homemade, like the ones from farmers’ markets, with colorful cloth tied around the lids.

The boy groans again. “Hi, Robin.”

“Hi, Superboy,” he echoes, hiding a grin in his glass of water. He gets a nasty glare in response. “Ma was just telling me about an incident with the tractor.”

Impossibly, the boy flushes even deeper and purses his lips, definitely holding back a comment or two.

“Come sit, son. Have some cobbler. It’s your favorite.” Superboy dutifully sits down, facing Tim, and moodily digs into his food. The first bite seems to cheer him up immediately and Tim can’t help the ‘cute’ that crosses his mind. He really needs to stop that.

They have lunch like that, with Ma chatting away while Tim chimes in here and there. He plays the good, polite boy, but does actually enjoy himself. Martha Kent is the exact kind of sweet, doting person everyone describes, and then some. Tim’s not the trusting type, to put it lightly, but even he can’t help but be charmed.

Once Ma deems that they’ve had enough food, Superboy leads them up to his bedroom. As he kicks some laundry under his bed and off his desk chair, Tim does a quick sweep of the place. It’s a modest room with a bed that seems a little too small, a scuffed shelf filled with a random assortment of books. There’s a few comics and manga that he’s fairly sure belong to Superboy, but others, like biographies and histories, dictionaries, a few different Bibles, he thinks are just random books they didn’t have space for anywhere else. There’s a few band posters on the wall and Tim snorts at one of them, showing so much cleavage he’s surprised Ma let it get hung up. 

“Shut up,” Superboy rolls his eyes, dropping down on his bed, bouncing once and leaning back on his hands. He lets his head tilt to the side, styled curls falling into his eyes. 

It’s the same deliberate, yet casual move Tim would pull for the press. He lifts an eyebrow behind the mask, but takes a seat on the desk chair, all cracked leather and a little too worn to be comfortable. His cape bunches at the small of his back.

He doesn’t say anything, letting Superboy stew in the mystery, and slips a brand new laptop out of his bag, placing it on the desk. He decided it wouldn’t be appropriate to buy something too expensive, so he went with mediocre specs that’ll suit Superboy’s purposes just fine. He takes out a phone, too, touch-screen but outdated by a few years. He tried to be funny and stuck a bat symbol on the back.

“Your phone,” he says, tossing the thing at Superboy. He fumbles for it, but catches it with a baffled look.

“You were serious about that?” He turns it to and fro, huffing at the bat symbol. He turns it on and fiddles with it while Tim tries his best to identify the right chargers. “Dude.”

He hums and finally frees the right ones, held in loose loops with a velcro tie. From the state of this room Tim doesn’t have high hopes of that tie being put to good use, but he can always hope.

“Robin.”

Tim looks up. Superboy is grimacing, squeezing the phone in his hands. 

“What? Breaking it already?” 

Superboy drops it on the bed like it burns. He runs a hand through his messy curls, then drags it down his face. “Can you please tell me what you’re doing in my room, dude?”

Tim feels his lips twitch. Too easy. “You brought me up here.”

Superboy groans and Tim sets up the laptop. He already did the actual set-up needed, but Superboy will have to choose the password and sync everything across devices. “Do you have an email?”

“No,” he grumbles. “My agent took care of that stuff…” Which he no longer has.

“Get an email. I handled the virtual machine and the Watchtower connection, so you won’t have to worry about that.” Tim twists the chair around. Superboy hasn’t dropped that half-irritated half-confused look on his face, but Tim just barrels on. “You’re logged in under one of my anonymous accounts. I put you through a few proxies, so the IP should be hidden. You’ll be registered as a guest, though.” 

“I have no idea what any of that means.”

“It’s secure, let’s leave it at that.” Superboy rolls his eyes.

Not that Batman, or any particularly good hackers, couldn’t track him down, but Tim doubts anyone in the League would look that deep into it. As for anyone on the outside, the Watchtower is locked down tighter than Bruce’s bank account. And several off-shore accounts. And anything related to Batman. Just a lot of security everywhere.

“I’ve also downloaded your Cadmus files. That and obviously the Watchtower is top secret, so I suggest keeping the laptop somewhere safe.” Superboy stares at it, then his phone, vaguely concerned. Tim waves his hand. “Your phone is fine. It’s just a phone. It’s got my number. And one of Batman’s.”

Superboy stares at Tim for a beat too long. “You’re serious. You’re actually giving me all this.”

He nods and Superboy drops his head into his hands, sighing. Tim tilts his head. It’s the only way to telegraph confusion with the mask covering his features, but he enjoys the way it resembles a bird. It fits.

Superboy lifts his head. He looks conflicted, an unhappy twist to his mouth. “Fine. What do I owe you?”

Tim fidgets with the little crack in the chair’s armrest. “Nothing.”

An incredulous noise. “Nothing?”

He shuts the laptop, using the excuse to turn his back to the boy. “Consider it a mission expense.”

A sigh. “Yeah. The mission you still haven’t told me jack about.”

Tim thought about how to phrase this for a few days, because while he has everything figured out, convincing people of plans is actually where most of them fall apart. What Tim’s trying to do here is highly suspicious, since no one will believe him if he says Batman and Robin are trying to help a destitute clone boy who they have no connection to. No one ever believes him that the Bat is soft and mushy inside. He’ll have to sell this mission as something more detached than it is.

Tim wheels back around until the chair gets stuck on some laundry and he’s face to face with Superboy, about a foot between them. He steeples his fingers and leans back, loose and mysterious, even as his cape digs into the base of his spine. It’s a cross between Batman and a Bond villain, which is usually what people think Batman is like. 

“I want an ally.” 

It’s an easy excuse. Adult heroes are a dime a dozen, but young ones are much rarer, not to mention that anyone under eighteen is treated like a toddler. Tim doesn’t even get the parent-approved playdates, though he knows that Flash has been trying. He can’t believe he set out to help Batman and ended up with a helicopter pseudo-parent.

Yes, searching for peers is a perfectly good excuse.

Superboy narrows his eyes. “Uhuh.”

“...Uhuh?”

He huffs, gesturing at Tim’s… everything. “What are you doing, man? What is that?”

Tim drops his hands on the armrests with a sigh, stopping the Bond villain act. “Listen. I’m supposed to run tests on you and report to Superman. You don’t want that, right?”

Superboy’s face scrunches up. The disgust soon morphs into something darker and Tim continues before things start breaking. It was a rhetorical question anyway.

“Yeah, thought so. We’re not doing that.” Superboy relaxes almost immediately, leaning forward on his knees with a tired air about him. He blows his hair out of his eyes, only for it to flop back into place. 

For someone who’s technically an infant, he looks like he’s been through hell and back. Which, Tim thinks, is a real possibility. Metaphorically. Cadmus made sure to destroy the methods to Superboy’s creation and training, so no one’s sure what he went through to be able to control his powers. 

Clark once confessed to Bruce in the Cave, though he knew that Dick and Tim were listening, how difficult it was for him growing up. How hard it was to temper his powers, to stop crushing doors, to touch people without the fear of breaking bones. Not to mention trying to hide that from his friends, peers, and adults. It took basically his entire childhood to reach the level of control that Superboy has.

It’s a harrowing thought and Tim’s heart pangs with sympathy. “I can just approximate from watching you and throw in some compliments. It’ll get Superman off your back. For a while, at least.”

Superboy watches him, suspicious. “Okay. And what, you want a favor?”

Tim rolls his eyes. “Like I said. You don’t owe me. This mission is… a gesture of good will. I want to be allies.”

Superboy squints at him. Tim channels his irritation into tugging his cape out and draping it across his lap. “Which part of this don’t you understand? I help you, you help me. We work together.”

“Aha!” Superboy straightens with a smug smile. “So it is a favor.”

Seriously? Robin is the one who’s supposed to be cagey and suspicious, not a Super. Boy or otherwise. “Sure. Whatever. If it helps you sleep at night.”

“Batman kicked you out, huh? Tough break.” He’s really perfected that punchable smile and Tim applaudes himself for his self-control. “Fine. You help me, I help you.” 

Tim sighs. At least now that they’re on the same page, he can move on to the interrogation. He needs specifics and all of them. He has a few ideas on how to go about writing these reports, but he'll need to make sure their stories line up. ‘Superboy has perfect control of his powers and would never hurt anyone’ doesn’t sound very convincing if Superman has seen him smear some orphans on the wall. Or something. He probably wouldn’t do that.

Naturally, Tim will keep his questions broad and then slowly ease him into the Batman-like obsession with detail. He’s not an idiot. 

He takes out his own laptop and places it on his lap, on his cape. Superboy props his head on his fist, balanced on one knee. He lazily lifts an eyebrow. A convincing display, all things considered. The casual, smug charade is clearly a well-worn one. “Okay, but like, what brought this on? Got in a fight with your little friends? Feeling lonely at recess?”

Tim gives him a flat look. He knows he has a baby face, but that’s a bit rich from an infant. “How old do you think I am?”

He blows on his fringe again. “I dunno, twelve?”

Tim doesn’t dignify that with a response.

“I’m joking. Don’t get your panties in a twist. You’re what, fifteen?”

“I’m ignoring you. So, most of the Justice League are adults and I’m sure you’ve realized during your ‘house arrest’,” Superboy grimaces, “that they tend to be-”

“Fucking annoying,” he spits. Then freezes, shoulders hiked up to his ears. He glances down at the floor, a strange sheen washing over his eyes, one that Tim has seen from Superman before. He must be looking through the floorboards. “…Freaking annoying.”

Tim thins his lips, struggling to suppress a laugh. 

“Shut up.”

He successfully flattens his expression and pulls up his list of a few hundred pre-written questions, because if he’s good at anything, it’s learning from his mistakes. He actually wrote and researched the entire thing in the Batcave while Bruce was going through his pre-patrol routine, hoping he’d absorb the skill via proximity. He’s in dire need of it.

Whether that worked is a fifty-fifty. He’ll have to wait until Dick visits the manor to determine.

“Like I said, there’s only so many young heroes. Therefore-” 

‘Therefore’, Superboy mouths, mocking. He really needs to get another joke. 

“-it would be beneficial for both of us to stay in touch.”

“Yeah, whatever, as long as you keep it to a minimum.” Which is interesting, because as Tim recalls, ‘he’s been awfully lonely lately’. “Are we done here?”

“Not even close.”

Superboy groans and falls back onto his bed, arms spread. But the lack of any serious objection just confirms Tim’s thoughts. 

He thinks of the weeks stuck in Drake Manor, nothing but empty halls and ringing silence when all he wanted to do was follow Batman and Robin across rooftops, to watch his heroes in action. He exhales. These constant little barbs of sympathy just won’t leave him alone. Everything about Superboy is uncomfortably familiar. 

There’s no way Bruce planned that part, did he? There’s no way he has the emotional maturity.

He grimaces. He has to know this information anyway. “Have you met Batman before?”

Bruce was definitely involved in Superboy’s care, that’s for certain, since he had to do everything Luthor never bothered to. Such as setting up Social Security, a birth certificate, proof of schooling, etcetera.

He watches from his seat as Superboy works his jaw, a strange expression on his face. “Yeah. We met.”

Tim waits for the elaboration, letting his eyes slide to the window and the wheat field in the distance. It’s bright yellow for miles and miles and Tim wonders if it’ll be ready to harvest soon. Or maybe it needs another month, a year, he has no idea. Not for the first time, he looks around this farmhouse in Smallville and finds a world he doesn’t recognize. 

“Oh, I get it.” Superboy sits up, a smirk on his face, and Tim watches, perturbed. “If you wanted to be friends, Robin, you could’ve just asked.”

He sighs. It’s a very transparent way to change the topic, but he lets it go. And jots that down in his notes.

He scrolls back up to the SupermanRelationship subsection of his notes and idly says, “I wanted an autograph, actually.”

Superboy’s eyes widen, a light flush spreading across his cheeks. Tim blinks.

“Oh! Uh.” He pats the sides of his sweatpants, pulling the pockets out, then jumps up. Tim is trained well enough not to flinch, but he watches the entire display with wide eyes.

Superboy runs around him, nearly tripping on the same pair of jeans that the chair is stuck on, and yanks out the desk drawer. He digs out a scrap of paper and a red Sharpie with a triumphant grin. 

In the blink of an eye, Tim has an autograph in his hand. He stares at it while Superboy saunters over to his bookshelf, running his fingers across the spines. It’s probably meant to be a nonchalant and vaguely cool move, but all it does is make Tim cringe in second-hand embarrassment.

He stares at the scrap of paper. There’s a shield drawn around the ‘S’, like the Superman symbol. Cute. It’s clearly a practiced signature and, now that he thinks about it, he definitely remembers Superboy’s several meet-and-greets with fans. He flips the paper around and finds some surprisingly complex math written on the back. College-level, definitely. Interesting.

“Thanks,” he says, almost numb.

Superboy turns back around, nearly dropping the manga in his hands. He tosses it on the bed and stuffs his pockets back into his pants. “Yeah!” He clears his throat, casually leaning against the shelf. “Yeah, y’know. Always happy to meet a fan.” He smiles, all pearly whites and lidded eyes. 

Tim does his very best not to react to the finger guns that go along with it.

“Okay.” He’s just going to move on. He sticks the scrap of paper in the hinge of the laptop’s screen and keyboard. “I wanted to clear some stuff up before I leave.”

Superboy walks the few paces to his bed, dropping down and slouching with the motion. “Right. For the mission.”

“…Yes.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Sure, fire away.” 

It turns out that Superman has been ‘kind of’ passive-aggressive and ‘definitely’ avoiding Superboy, which makes the choice to stow him away with his parents even more baffling. If he's so irresponsible and immature, then why would he stay on the Kent farm with very vulnerable, very human loved ones? 

Tim’s current theory is that it’s complicated. Surprise, surprise. Clark’s emotions are clouding his judgement, horrified about this entire cloning situation while also reeling from his literal resurrection, but his good nature shines through here and there. Tim admires that. He’s not sure he would have done the same. 

It also turns out that ‘house arrest’ wasn’t entirely off the mark. Superboy is not allowed to leave Smallville, unless explicitly asked for, in which case he is strongly advised to stay in sight at all times.

“In human sight,” Superboy says from his spot lounging in bed. He lifts his manga to reveal a grin, wide and self-satisfied. “Already played that card.”

Tim huffs and Superboy grins wider.

It takes a few hours until he gathers enough information to get a general idea of Superboy’s circumstances. They’re just as miserable as he thought. If not more so. 

“Okay. I think that’s enough for today.”

Superboy sits up slowly, frowning. “Oh. Cool.” He glances at the analog clock on the wall. The glass is covered in thin scratches, opaque at the edges. The back plate is painted with yellow, glittery stars. “I gotta go and get Pa, anyway.”

Tim hums as he packs his laptop away. He should probably head home and finish whatever schoolwork he can before patrol. Though, Tim has the suspicion that if he asked, he’d be allowed to sit out patrol and work on the Superboy mission. It makes him want to wring Bruce’s neck, to be honest. He gets sentimental out of nowhere during the weirdest moments. Tim has no idea what brought this on.

Bruce has progressed a lot since… his mental health crisis and Tim wonders if another kid to dote on, even from afar, has helped speed up the process. 

His mind wanders as they makes their way out of the bedroom and down the stairs, already drafting his first report to Superman. It’ll be his preliminary observations, such as first impressions, Superboy’s general mood, his politeness and cooperation, his reluctance and frustration. Robin is thorough, you see, and preparation is of utmost importance. Building rapport with the subject, establishing a baseline, assuring informed consent. He could whip up a real consent form, actually, and detail Superboy’s reservations, just to rub it in. 

One of his main goals in these reports is to include as many relatable anecdotes and emotions as possible. A good sob story. No one will read his work and think of Superboy as Luthor 2.0.

Not that Luthor doesn’t have emotions. In fact, he has a little too many of them, in Tim’s humble opinion.

He blinks when Ma sticks her head out of a doorway opposite the kitchen. He stops in his tracks and registers the quiet, tinny sound of the TV in the background. It’s some kind of advertisement for a knife set.

“Oh, leaving already?” 

Right, he should’ve said goodbye. He’s not used to meeting the parents, so to say. His role at galas has always been the picture-perfect heir. Stand there and look pretty and say something smart, but not too smart. His parents handle the introductions and goodbyes. 

Tim plasters on a polite smile. “Yes, unfortunately. I’m sorry, but I really have to get going. Homework won’t write itself,” he jokes. She chuckles. “Thank you for having me, I had a great time.”

“Anytime, sweetheart. Now.” She shuffles into the kitchen, calling back, “Don’t you leave without some casserole!”

He shares a look with Superboy. When did she make casserole? They both shrug. 

Silence settles between them. 

Tim has always liked silence. It’s been a consistent companion throughout his life; at home, on the streets of Gotham, on the rooftops as Robin. Superboy clearly doesn’t share the sentiment. He starts to fidget, shifting his weight.

“So.” He shoves his hands in his pockets.

Tim adjusts the bag on his shoulders, bunching his cape under his arm, and leans against the wall. “So?”

Superboy leans over and next to him, shoulder to shoulder, reminiscent of when they sat side by side at the dining table. Tim feels that pang of sympathy again. Definitely touchy. Touch-starved, maybe.

He drags his eyes away and admires a picture of Clark as a child, grinning wide with most of his front teeth missing. His canines already grew in, making him look like a chubby, tiny vampire.

“So,” Superboy continues. Tim tilts his head in that bird-like way, eyes still stuck on the pictures. “Got a look at your screen. How long is this ‘mission’ going to take exactly?”

Tim turns his head, just slightly, because they’re too close to face each other properly. Something squirms in his stomach, but he doesn’t pull away. He can give Superboy this much.

“Not sure. But I’m prepared to see it through,” he assures him, answering the silent question. At least, what he thinks is the silent question. He’s starting to suspect that Superboy is a lot more insecure than he lets on. “I don’t do things by halves.”

Superboy snorts, relaxing against Tim’s shoulder. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”

He wonders if that’s a jab at him. It wouldn’t fully make sense, since they’ve only met twice, but what else could that mean? Something about Batman? Possibly. He’s clearly missing something here.

“We’ll probably continue this next week. I’ll text you the date and time.” Superboy blinks, a small smile tugging at his lips. Tim looks away. “I’ll send you the final draft of the mission report, too. Tell me if you want anything changed. Remember, it’s going directly to Superman.”

“Cool.” He nods and Tim nods back. 

Ma appears in a flash with a cloth bag packed to the brim, the handles tied into a bow. Tim stiffens as he lets her shove it into his arms. “Um.”

“There you go. Get that tupperware back to me when you come by, alright?”

He nods, a little dazed, and mutters his thanks. Superboy jumps to open the door for him and Ma nods approvingly. Of course. A true gentleman only opens doors for his mother’s approval.

Tim steps out into the mild heat, taking a second to breathe in the fresh air, and turns to say goodbye. Ma is fussing over Superboy, brushing his fringe from his forehead, tugging at his shirt to sit right. The boy flushes red, almost shy under all the attention. He sees Tim’s smirk and glares.

Ma tuts to herself. “Now, go get Pa back home. And don’t take too long!” she says, smoothing down her apron. Tim spots some carefully stitched flowing patterns at the hem. He imagines Martha Kent sitting in front of the TV, sewing along with the morning news. She turns to him. “And you be safe with that plane of yours, you hear?”

Tim plays along, crossing the chestplate by his heart, over the Robin ‘R’. “Yes, ma’am.”

She smiles wide and Tim starts his trek across the pasture, back to the Batplane. The wind is lukewarm, ruffling his hair and pushing his cape around. He sighs, shaking off the usual tension from meeting new people. Especially people like the Kents. It’s not an insult by any means, but it’s… a lot. 

There’s a few cows out and about, but most of them are far off and grazing near the property line. One of them is licking the wire mesh fencing, sticking its tongue through the holes. 

Tim’s not sure why, but he turns around halfway, walking backwards and spotting the two figures by the front door, still watching him leave. Ma starts waving and elbows Superboy to do the same. He gives Tim a short wave, more of a twitch, really, and he huffs a laugh, waving back. It looks like Ma lets him go after that.

Tim catches him looking back, just once, before disappearing behind the barn.

He stops by his guest room in Wayne Manor.

The northern wall is decorated with his photography, collected over years of sneaking into the city in the dead of night. Some of them are a little incriminating if you think too hard about the angles and locations, so he doesn’t dare keep them at home. It’s nothing obvious, though. Just Gotham’s gargoyles snarling in the shadows, the twinkling streetlights from above, the flowers that contrast with the dull, gray concrete. Everything and nothing that caught his eye. The moments he wants to preserve in his memory.

He sticks Superboy’s autograph on the wall right next to them. He doesn’t know why. It just fits, like a puzzle piece slotting into place.

The first mission report is a success from what he can tell. He hasn’t been to the Watchtower to confirm it with Superman himself, but Bruce gave him a firm nod, which is as good of a sign as any. He’s visited Superboy a handful of times since then and they set up a pretty consistent schedule. Two days a week, usually on the weekend. This way Tim can go to school, comfortably patrol in Gotham, and write his homework on the farm, if necessary.

They actually discussed some of the Cadmus files, no tests involved, and Superboy knows a surprising amount of information about his abilities. He can recite extremely specific details, like the length of time he can maintain his heat vision, down to the millisecond. That he can calculate the angle of refraction before the heat rays even hit a reflective surface. That he knows its exact maximum temperature when focused to a single point. Tim suspects that he needed to memorize this information to be Luthor’s perfect little weapon, or had it packed into his brain ‘in utero’, along with everything else they found important for Superman’s replacement.

It works out in Tim’s favor. It makes his stomach churn.

Superboy twirls his pencil around his thumb. “Okay, but like, you’re wrong.”

Tim rolls his eyes. He taps the practice sheet impatiently, packed with math problems as dense as he could make it. It starts at a tenth grade level and proceeds all the way into a Master’s in mathematics. Superboy scoffs, but keeps going, scribbling math equations and pushing down on the paper until it nearly rips. He has the attention span of an insect and it's been driving Tim up the wall.

“Great, but I’m objectively not,” he says. Superboy sticks his tongue out. “Wonder Woman could beat Superman any day. Magic, simple as that.”

“Oh, come on. That’s like saying Batman could beat him with Kryptonite. It doesn’t count.”

“Please explain to me why that doesn’t count.”

“It’s a handicap! We’re talking no mojo, no green rocks, just Batman as a human and Superman with his genetic super powers.”

“Super powers aren’t his baseline. Or yours, for that matter.”

“What? Yes, they are.” 

“Krypton’s red sun would beg to differ.” Superboy groans, nearly drowning out his words. “He doesn't have powers on his home planet, it absolutely counts! Wonder Woman, on the other hand, just is magic.”

“Oh my God. You’re so annoying.” He angrily jabs his pencil into the desk and snaps the tip off.

“Pot, kettle,” Tim smirks.

“Glass houses,” he snaps back.

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Wow.”

“Aw, what’s wrong? Is Robin a little sensitive?”

“Give me that,” Tim snarls, reaching over the desk chair and snatching the practice sheet away. Superboy makes a grab for it, but doesn’t bother with his super speed, so Tim manages to jump away and execute a small flip, landing on the bed.

“And I’m the show-off?”

Tim shoots him a flat look, reminded of yesterday when he lifted the entire tractor so they could pull out one of the farm cats hiding underneath.

He smooths the creases of the practice sheet and goes through the questions one by one. Just as he suspected, the answers are all correct, first try and not a hint of hesitation. He urged Superboy to show his work wherever possible, but apparently his thought process is hard to articulate. He wonders if Clark has the same issues, if it’s a Kryptonian thing or a ‘having the life experience of a child’ thing.

He hums. Superboy has turned around with his desk chair, head propped on his hand, leaning on the armrest. He’s got that punchable, smug grin on his face. “Just admit it, Rob. It’s perfect.”

Tim folds the paper and stuffs it into one of his pouches for now. “Careful. Your head’s getting so big you won’t need super powers to fly.”

Superboy just grins and Tim lets his lips twitch. 

His phone vibrates by his hip. He digs around in his utility belt and pulls it out, frowning at the text from ‘N’. “Sorry, one sec.”

Superboy’s smile drops. He clears his throat. “Yeah, no. Uh. It’s cool. I’ll go get us something to drink.”

“You don’t-” But he’s out the door before Tim can finish. “-have to do that.” He sighs. He didn’t want to kick Superboy out of his own room, it just felt impolite to start texting someone right in front of him.

They’ve developed a strange relationship over these past weeks. It’s nothing like Tim has ever experienced. Sometimes it feels like they understand each other without words, other times it’s like they’re having completely different conversations. Tim’s always been good at reading people, but he’s struggling to figure out what the problem is. 

He huffs, pushing that aside for now, and opens his chat with Dick.

N: Where are you?

N: Robin?

N: Robin

R: on a mission y?

N: In Kansas? 

Tim frowns. Dick must have checked his tracker, which is strange. If he’d asked Bruce where he was, he would already know why he’s in Smallville. Are they fighting again?

Tim was lucky enough that Dick took to him very quickly, definitely quicker than Bruce. He’s clearly trying to be an older brother, but it’s still awkward. Tim’s not actually part of the family, just some kid who barged his way in. He has his own parents and an entirely separate life. He gets it. He insists on it. It’s not his place.

R: ask b. he put me up to this

Three dots dance on the bottom of the screen. They both know he won’t.

N: Okay, okay. Just say no next time geez

N: You’re gonna be in Kansas then?

R: just weekends

N: Got it

Three dots.

N: Text me when you leave next time?

Tim hisses through his teeth. Of course. Stupid, stupid. The last Robin who disappeared without a word was- is- Tim sighs. If he didn’t realize the implications, it’s no wonder Bruce didn’t, and failed to inform anyone. Typical.

R: yeah of course. sorry. i wasn’t thinking

N: No, it’s okay

N: I don’t expect you to think of that stuff. I know you’ve got your own things going on

R: i do think of that stuff

R: sorry

N: It’s okay, really. Thank you :-)

R: np

He waits for another text, counting the seconds, and turns the screen off at the one minute mark. He sighs, dropping his head back and staring at the ceiling.

He hears some shuffling outside of the room, just out of sight, and snorts. “You can come in now.”

Superboy steps inside, holding two glasses of orange juice. Tim narrows his eyes. It’s his favorite. He takes the glass with a nod and takes a sip, savoring the taste. Pulpy, just how he likes it. 

Superboy sits back in his chair and takes a sip, scrunching his nose and places it down on the desk. He’s not a fan of pulp, apparently. 

“Everything okay?” The boy looks around, nonchalant, trying to cover up his genuine concern, and Tim feels his lips twitch. He’s so obvious. “Batman calling you back to the nest?”

“It’s a cave, actually.”

Superboy narrows his eyes, debating whether that was a joke or not. Tim doesn’t give anything away. Messing with Superboy has quickly risen to the top of his favorite activities, right under Robin, of course. It doesn’t hurt to keep him on his toes. 

And something about it… It sends a small thrill up his spine. 

He sips on his juice. “No, that was Nightwing checking in.”

The boy tilts his head in a familiar bird-like way, confused. Tim blinks at that, at his own quirk reflected back at him, and clarifies, “Nightwing. He works with Batman, too.”

At this point, that’s pretty much common knowledge in the hero community, so he’s not divulging any kind of secret, really.

“Oh,” Superboy squints. “Right, Robin number one. I thought you were that Robin at first, but you guys act totally different.” 

“Way to make a guy feel special.”

“Aw, come on, Rob! You’re my favorite bird, I swear!”

“Yeah, yeah.” 

Superboy grins and starts kicking the bed, rattling the entire frame and Tim on top of it. He kicks back, but it’s like hitting a steel beam. Ugh. Super powers. 

“Don’t leave me hanging, dude. I already know you’re a fan.”

He rolls his eyes. He knew that autograph would come back to bite him. 

“Fine. You’re my eleventh favorite superhero.” That’s really generous, actually.

His mouth drops open. “Eleventh?!” 

Superboy sinks further in his seat until it’s only his powers holding him up, kicking Tim’s legs with his heels. Tim grabs the socks stuffed between the bed and the wall, lobbing them at the boy’s head. Why are there so many?

Tim pauses, frozen in place. “Wait. How did you know that Nightwing was Robin?” 

That’s not possible. Bruce has always been paranoid about his sidekicks. For a long time it was only Superman who knew they existed at all. Later came Wonder Woman, and currently there’s a very select few members of the Justice League who are in the know. 

Not to mention that Superboy wasn’t even alive when Dick was Robin. 

The boy grunts and floats up, letting all the socks drop to the ground, and wiggles to settle back into his chair. He crosses his ankles, gesturing at his head. “It was kinda just up here.”

The implications of that are a little disturbing and he’ll definitely have to inform Batman about it. Neither Bruce nor Tim found information on superheroes in those Cadmus files and they were thorough. They could only speculate how much data was destroyed before the League got their hands on it, but it looks like they underestimated them by quite a lot. It’s worrying, to say the least.

“So,” Superboy starts.

Tim snorts, snapping out of his thoughts. “You’re really bad at that.”

“So-”

“Awful.”

“Sooo,” he drags the word out and out until it gets unbearably annoying. 

“What?”

He shrugs. “You wanna talk about it?”

The conversation with Dick replays in his mind. The range of emotions hits him again, sharp and uncomfortable.

He shifts in place, pulling his legs onto the bed and fiddling with the fabric of his socks. It feels a little embarrassing, but he’s itching to share his feelings with someone, anyone. They’ve been brewing in the back of his mind since he forced himself under Batman’s tutelage and he knows it’ll overflow one way or the other. 

If anyone would understand, it would be Superboy.

“I just…” He tries to gather his thoughts. “Everyone was a little distant when I became Robin, which makes sense. Um. Long story.” He traces a pattern on his ankle. “It got way better, but sometimes it feels like…”

Just like every Kryptonian he knows, Superboy’s eyes are bright and piercing. Alien, for a lack of a better word. It’s like they see through him, down to his core.

He finds a spot on the wall, some kind of faded stain.

“Sometimes it feels like they look at me and… see someone else. Like they want me to be someone else.” Superboy’s face falls and Tim winces.

He wouldn’t dare tell the whole story. It’s not his place and it still hits him with a debilitating sense of grief. Jason was his hero. 

He still thinks he did the right thing forcing Batman to accept another Robin, but he’ll never forgive himself for replacing Jason. For taking the mantle without his permission, even if Dick gave his approval. 

So Tim understands. He gets it. He’s not Jason and he never will be. And he didn’t even know him personally. He can’t imagine what Dick, Bruce, and Alfred are going through. What everyone who knew him is going through.

But still. Still he can’t stand that look in their eyes. Hasn’t he done enough? Hasn’t he proven himself over and over again? He can’t be Jason, but why can’t he just be Tim?

“That…” Superboy exhales. “I’m sorry, Rob. You don’t deserve that shit.”

He suddenly feels itchy, flayed open. He clears his throat, desperately searching for a way out of this conversation. “Language,” he says. “What would Ma say?”

Superboy’s mouth twists, annoyed. “You don’t deserve that crap.”

Tim purses his lips, muffling a laugh. It’s half embarrassment, half actual amusement. He feels out of his depth, more than he has in a while. 

Superboy grins wide. “He laughs!”

“Shut up.”

“It’s okay, man. You have a normal laugh. Didn’t even sound like a raccoon.”

Tim groans, cursing the hot flush of embarrassment that washes over him. “Fuck you.”

Superboy winces. “Okay, you were joking, but seriously. Language.” He glances at the floor, somewhere in the direction of the living room.

So Tim yells. “Fuck! Shit! Bitch!” 

God, why does he become a child every time they hang out? But he can’t keep the smirk off his face.

“Stop!” Superboy lunges at him and Tim scrambles out of the way, tossing a pillow at his face. Superboy bats it away and it sails across the room, smacking against the wall. “I swear, if I get grounded because of you, I’ll-”

“Asshole! Pussy!” Superboy catches him by the legs and they tumble off the bed, landing with a thump. “Oof.” They grapple on the floor and Superboy holds back just enough to make it an even fight. Tim flips them so he can straddle his waist and smack a hand on his face, pushing him into the floor. He leans down into his ear. “Cocksucker.”

Superboy flushes immediately and shoves him off. “Robin!”

Tim cackles like a madman. The boy groans, falling onto his back. 

Then he starts chuckling. Then laughing. Then they’re both lying on the floor, laughing like children. Tim kicks his feet out and catches him by the shin, playing footsie until his stomach hurts from laughing.

“Ow. Ow, ow,” he wheezes.

Superboy lifts his head and smirks. “Serves you right.” Then he darts up onto his hands and knees and Tim jumps. He scrambles back until his hand slips on a shirt, knocking his elbow into the desk. 

Superboy picks up the shirt and holds it over his head threateningly, a wicked grin on his face. “No, wait-” And tosses it at his head. Tim brings up his arms with a yelp. “Eugh!”

“Bitch,” Superboy tells him. Tim laughs.

He stands awkwardly in the middle of the pasture, watching the tiny calf stumble around her mother. Superboy has his hands on his hips, smiling wide. His eyes seem to twinkle in the afternoon sun, his skin almost glowing.

“She’s cute, right? The birth was kind of a mess so me and Pa had to tie a rope around her legs and pull her out.”

Tim blinks at the little thing. She barely reaches his knees and still has that tiny, boxy figure of a calf, all gangly legs and awkward on her feet.

Superboy leans down, beckoning her over. “It was disgusting.” He shoots Tim a huge grin. “It was awesome.”

He can’t imagine what that was like. He’s never witnessed anyone or anything giving birth, let alone helped the process along. A part of him feels slimy just thinking of all the… fluids, but another part of him marvels at the symbolic meaning. Tim has saved plenty of lives, pinned muggers to the ground, pulled children out of rubble, stopped unspeakable acts, but he’s never brought a brand new life into the world. He knows that Batman has, actually, an unfortunate incident where the stress of a shooting sent someone into labor.

It’s special in a way he can’t describe.

Superboy clicks his tongue and makes kissy sounds. “C’mon, come to papa!” Tim snorts. “I named her Metal Gear Solid, by the way. Metal for short.”

He rolls his eyes. “Of course, you did.” The mother lifts her head, lazily chewing on grass, watching her calf stumble towards them and struggle past a large clump of grass. 

“And mom’s called Buttercup Princess.” He leans over with a hand cupping his mouth. “You’d never guess, but Superman came up with that one.”

They smirk at each other. He’s never going to blackmail Superman, but that kind of information is bound to come in handy at some point. Maybe in a doppelganger scenario. The real Superman would know about the Buttercup Princess.

Little Metal finally reaches them, lifting her head and accepting Superboy’s petting. He plays with her ears and she wiggles out of his grip with a skip and a moo. Superboy elbows him, tilting his head towards her.

Tim reluctantly shuffles closer and leans down. Metal looks up at him, blinking with her long eyelashes. He tentatively puts his hand out, but she doesn’t seem to care much. She looks around the pasture and projects such an air of innocence that Tim feels guilty just trying to touch her.

His hands have hurt people, broken bones and hit them until they bled.

“Getting shy on me, Rob?” Superboy grins.

Tim huffs and braces himself on his knees, looking up at the boy with a frown. He pauses to appreciate the framing of this moment, of Superboy haloed by the Sun, his hair brown and golden at the edges, his dimpled smile and bright blue eyes. He’s wearing overalls with that leather jacket of his, looking stupid and endearing at the same time.

Tim lets out a shaky exhale and tries to reach out for the calf again. She stays still this time and he gently pets her side, the short fur that’s a little rough when he strokes it against the grain. He’s got his gloves on, but she’s warm and real under his hand. A moving, breathing creature.

“It’s cool. She’s, um, cool.” He swallows and pulls away, straightening and looking back at Superboy. He’s got a soft smile on his face as he watches Tim. 

“I know, right?”

Tim writes a report about it, noting Superboy’s control over his strength. The delicate handling of a baby calf. Bringing a new life into this world.

Tim arrives to a tense atmosphere in the Kent household. Superboy doesn’t greet him at the door, which is strange in and of itself, but even Ma has a frown on her face when she ushers him inside.

“He’s upstairs,” she tells him. She squeezes his arm and leaves for the living room. Tim pops his head inside, curious.

“Hi, Pa,” and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to those nicknames, but when in Rome…

“Well, evening, son. How’ve ya been?” He’s laying back on the recliner as the TV, a boxy old thing, drones on about the latest Superman story. He only turns the barest amount to face Tim. He’s smiling, but the lines around his mouth deepen.

“I’m good. Is everything all right?”

Ma cups her husband’s cheek and pushes his head back to face the TV. He huffs a little but looks at her fondly. They seem to have some kind of silent conversation so Tim averts his eyes, noticing the bottle of pills on the coffee table. Prescription pain killers. 

“‘Course it is! And you tell that boy, too, maybe he’ll listen to ya.”

Tim blinks and stands aside as Ma brushes past him, calling back and tutting, “The tractor broke down this morning, that darn thing, right as Superboy was mowing. Pa pulled his back tryin’ to see what’s wrong and that poor boy keeps blaming himself. He’s been in his room all day.”

He looks up at the ceiling as if he could see through it, banking on Superboy eavesdropping. From the sound of a faint thump he thinks he was right.

“I’ll talk to him,” he says, and Ma smiles brightly, back to her warm self. Even Pa relaxes into the recliner. Tim pushes down a wriggly feeling in his stomach and makes his way up the stairs.

He finds Superboy lounging on his bed and pointedly reading manga. It’s clearly a favorite, the covers creased and bending, the paper worn thin. A comfort read, Tim thinks. He unlatches his cape and drapes it over the desk chair. The boy peeks out over his book, watching. This is the first time Tim has dropped any part of the Robin suit. 

It’s long overdue, really. He’s just as strict about his secret identity as Bruce and Dick are, naturally, but he’s not going to hurt… a friend by being cold about it. Superboy says he understands, but he’s never kept that kind of secret, he doesn’t get it the way other heroes do.

He takes a page out of Superboy’s book. “So.”

The boy scoffs, but doesn’t reply, turning back to his manga.

The tense atmosphere throws him off-balance. He hasn’t seen Superboy like this since the first few days they worked together. It makes him appreciate just how agreeable the boy tends to be, for all his rebellious reputation. It’s something flattering he can write into his report, actually. ‘A generally positive, friendly attitude. Ideal for calming civilians and allies.’

Tim taps his knees. It’s getting to him. He’s always been the type to mirror emotions, trying to help wherever possible, but Superboy clearly doesn’t want to talk about it. His hands itch with something to do.

He’s never tried to fix a tractor… They’re built very differently from commercial cars, or the Batmobile, the modified race car that it is. He’ll have to do some research back home.

Would that be presumptuous? He already knows that Ma and Pa would tell him not to worry about it. He might be able to convince them if he framed it as a way to help Superboy, like the phone and laptop, that it’s no big deal anyway and he needs the practice.

That’s a problem for later. But his hand still itches.

“It’s pretty warm. Middle of summer.” Superboy stays silent. “Especially with this suit.” He awkwardly knocks on the armored plating, wincing at himself.

Superboy lowers his manga, an eyebrow raised. He can almost hear the response, ‘get to the point, Rob.’

“I wanted to fix the A/C downstairs. If that’s cool.”

Superboy’s face spasms and Tim thins his lips.

“Whatever,” Superboy says, flipping a page and firmly ignoring him. Tim hesitates, but takes that as his cue to leave. 

He walks down the hallway, filled with framed drawings and finger paintings, probably made by a young Clark. They all depict the farm in one way or another, and a blue and red figure saving people from giant monsters. Tim wonders how long the super suit has been in the making. 

He jogs down the stairs, his fringe bouncing on his forehead. He finds the A/C easily, still tucked between the wall and the old, humming fridge. It’s not in terrible shape, all things considered, and he carefully lifts it onto the table. 

That’s when Ma walks in, giving him a curious look. She doesn’t address it though, only gives him a soft smile, shooting a look at the ceiling. Maybe he won’t have to convince them, after all.

Tim gives her a weak smile and shrugs. He mouths, ‘working on it.’

She must see something in his posture or on his face, because she leans over to brush his hair out of his forehead. It just bounces back. “You take care of yourself, ‘kay, hun?”

Tim stiffens, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Okay.” She smiles and heads over to the cupboard, pulling out a clear glass and filling it with water, then leaves the kitchen.

Tim taps the side of the A/C, listening to the small metallic sound. There’s a toolkit in the plane with everything he needs for a potential malfunction. It’s definitely enough to fix an old air conditioner.

He walks out of the room, past the pictures and the landline, out the door, making sure it closes softly behind him. He jumps down the porch, feeling a little strange without the cape pulling on his shoulders. 

The cows are grazing in the distance and he spots Metal prancing around her mother. That name is still ridiculous. He lets himself smile, just a bit.

Once he reaches the plane, he presses the small remote attached to his belt. His hair blows in the wind, blessedly cool as the cockpit hisses open. He hops inside, pressing the switch that opens the hidden compartment in the fuselage. He reaches back past the second seat and slides the hatch away. There. 

The toolbox is heavy and a bit cumbersome, but as compact as Bruce was able to make it. Everything is lined up with obsessive neatness, not wasting a single bit of space. Tim can appreciate the efficiency, but it’s such a chore to put back together. He pops up the handle, grabs it, and jumps out of the plane. The cockpit hisses shut behind him.

He taps the little remote and makes his way back to the farmhouse, enjoying the breeze. He nearly stumbles into Superboy when he opens the door.

“Robin,” he sounds a little startled, tense all over. Tim is frozen at the door, blinking at him.

“Superboy.”

They stare at each other for a moment, until a soft flush rises on Superboy’s cheeks. He coughs and stands aside, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Tim lifts an eyebrow, though he knows it’s not visible under the mask. “Is… everything okay?”

“Yes,” he snaps.

“…Okay.” Tim shuffles past him into the kitchen. 

He sets the toolkit next to the A/C to assess just what he’s working with. He turns the thing until he finds the screws that hold the back plate in place. He flips the kit open, thumbing past the million wrenches aligned in neat rows.

“My room,” Superboy starts. Tim looks up. The boy shifts his weight, his shoulders hunched. “Do you wanna… do that in my room?”

Tim blinks at him, bewildered. He kind of thought Superboy needed his space, but he’s not going to reject the olive branch. He can work at the desk anyway.

“Sure.”

Superboy grabs the toolkit before he can even blink and nearly runs out of the kitchen, thundering upstairs. 

Did he think that Tim was leaving? …But he left his cape on the chair. He shakes himself and hefts up the A/C, following the boy at a sedate pace.

When he enters the room Superboy is sitting on the bed, slightly awkward, the kit on the cracked-leather chair. He keeps glancing at the cape, a little pink in the cheeks. Cute.

Tim balances the A/C on the edge of the desk and brushes some loose papers aside, some pens, the laptop with the screen gone black. It lights up, showing an open game of Minecraft frozen on the death screen. Tim rolls his eyes but doesn’t comment. He can picture the scene vividly. Superboy sulking, playing Minecraft until Tim arrived and spooked him.

He takes the toolkit from his seat, sitting down and searching for whatever he might need, arranging them in a neat row before getting to work. It’s soothing, in a way.

Superboy steps into his periphery and snatches his laptop away, retreating to the bed without a word. Tim stifles a smile.

That’s how they spend the evening, with Tim fixing an old, dusty air conditioner and the sounds of zombies, bubbling lava, and breaking blocks.

Tim speaks up after the tell-tale sounds of a frustrating video game death. “It’s not your fault.”

He doesn’t get a reply, so he bites down on the small pocket flashlight, aiming it at a particularly messy bundle of wiring. Looks like the insulation burned through. 

The sound of the laptop flipping shut. “I guess.”

He puts the flashlight down for a moment and starts stripping the wire. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

“What?”

Tim’s always been solution oriented. Guilt is all fine and good, he’s more than familiar with the emotion, but it’s a sign for either apologies or solutions. Otherwise it’ll eat you up inside, get you angry, ruthless, trying to make up for a hole that’ll never be filled. It’s the exact way he found Batman after-

Sometimes even apologies or solutions can’t help, sometimes the world is just cruel, but this isn’t one of those times.

He repeats, “What’re you gonna do about it?” He clicks the flashlight off, puts the wirecutter down and wheels around. “Apologies or action steps?”

Superboy looks at him, wary, sitting up against the headboard with the laptop on his lap.

“I, uh, already apologized.”

“But you still feel guilty.” Superboy thins his lips, which is answer enough. “So what’s the actual issue? And what can you do to fix it?”

He rolls his eyes. “I don’t know, Miss Therapist.”

“Mister Therapist.”

Superboy’s mouth twitches, almost a smile. He runs a hand through his hair, fluffing it up just so. It’s such a practiced motion that Tim can picture him day after day in front of the mirror, fussing with hair products. Not so long ago, Tim would have found that vain and annoying, but now he just feels fond.

He considers the non-answer and settles back into his chair to prepare for this conversation. “You don’t know or you don’t want to talk about it?”

Superboy looks away. He shrugs.

Tim tilts his head. “That’s not an answer.”

“Shut up.” Superboy places the laptop aside and pulls his phone out with the Batman sticker. Tim watches him evenly, then tries his best to suppress a grimace when he opens one of those mobile games with too-loud music and obnoxious sound effects.

“Listen.” That annoying music becomes louder. “Superboy.”

“What?” He dies in that game as well, glaring at the screen.

Tim averts his eyes, a squirming feeling in his gut. “We’re friends, okay? You can tell me if- you know. Whatever you’re comfortable with. If you don’t want to, that’s fine. Just don’t do the passive-aggressive,” he gestures around vaguely in the air, “cold shoulder stuff.” He pauses. “Please.”

When he looks up Superboy is gaping at him. 

“What?” Tim asks, shifting in his seat.

“We’re friends?” The boy leans forward, eyes shining, and Tim has to look away from those bright blue eyes.

“I mean… yeah? Or not, if you don’t-”

“No!” Superboy jumps up, scrambling to the edge of the bed, hooking a foot around the leg of Tim’s chair and dragging him forward. Tim blinks at him as their knees knock together. 

He seems to remember that he has some kind of reputation he wants to keep and lets go of the chair, casually leaning back on his hands. “Yeah, no, totally. We’re friends. Had to take pity on you, you know. You were practically begging for it.”

Tim rolls his eyes so hard it’s probably visible even through the domino mask. Superboy huffs, not quite a laugh. 

Then his eyes grow distant. Tim waits patiently, sitting still with that small bit of warmth where their knees touch. It’s barely anything, but it’s not nothing.

“I just… I don’t want to cause problems for Ma and Pa. They’ve been…” He clears his throat. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Tim nods easily. “Okay.”

He feels the pang of sympathy like a spear through the heart. Superboy, cocky and annoying, always smirking, he doesn’t want to be a burden. 

Tim thinks of Bruce stepping away from the computer to correct his stance for the tenth time that night, of Alfred arranging an extra plate with his picky preferences in mind, of Dick worrying while he protects a city all on his own.

Superboy nods gratefully, something like a smile on his face. It’s a start. Tim knocks their ankles together and wheels back to the desk. 

He feels slimy when he jots his notes down back at the Cave. It doesn’t lessen when he sends it to Superboy for editing. They don’t talk about it the next time they meet.

The question pops into his mind as he’s doing his physics homework. He’s sitting against a bale of fresh, green hay and sheltering from the Sun in its stark shadow. It smells overwhelmingly like grass.

Superboy is sprawled out next to him, dozing in the warm light.

He finishes his calculations, underlining the answer twice, and brushes off the eraser shavings. “Can you survive in the vacuum of space?” 

The response is immediate, clipped and low. “No.”

Tim stares. He stares at Superboy’s fists, curled into the grass. He stares at the crease between his brows. 

Superboy has never been off-planet. Tim has combed through the Justice League’s and Batman’s database, so he knows that for certain. They’re very meticulous about tracking any object or person flying in and out of orbit.

The machines in that Cadmus facility are suddenly reframed in his mind. He’s starting to understand why Bruce had them destroyed.

Tim swallows. “…Sorry.”

Silence. 

Superboy relaxes slowly, limb by limb.

“It’s fine.”

It’s not. 

He doesn't make a report that night.

A soft thump makes Tim pause. He squints up at Superboy, haloed by the Sun. He’s got his hands on his hips, standing on the massive tire of the tractor. For a single second Tim’s surprised that someone noticed he was out here, then remembers super hearing.

“Dude,” Superboy says.

Tim leans over to grab his hammer. “Dude.”

“What the heck are you doing? Why didn’t you come inside?” 

Right, he forgot the pleasantries. Hi, Ma. Hi, Pa. Hello, Superboy. How are you? I’m great. Can I fix your vehicle?

“I’m replacing a tire rod.” He hammers the metal into place, once- twice to align the bolt holes and grabs the power screwdriver, thumbing through the bolts in his hand.

“Oh. Is that what broke last time?” Superboy leans over to take a better look until he’s floating upside down, his stupid curly hair getting in Tim’s face.

“Hey,” he swats the boy with a greasy glove and he lets out a mangled sound, trying in vain to wipe the oil off his shirt. Tim smirks and screws the bolts back into place with that grating, sharp sound of the screwdriver. Once he’s satisfied, he greases the ball joint and pats the tire for a job well done. 

“It wasn’t broken, but I had to replace it.” ‘Had to’ in the most liberal meaning of the phrase, but he doubts Ma or Pa would accept his money otherwise. It’s one thing to fix an A/C and another to replace entire parts of a tractor. He stretches his arms above his head, leaning side to side. 

He shucks his gloves off and fans himself with the hem of his compression shirt. It’s not very effective, but at least he had the good sense to take off the Robin suit. 

Save the mask, of course. He can already feel the damp underneath. Ew. The curse of a secret identity.

“I checked out the engine, too, and replaced the alternator belt. That’s why it broke down. You’re lucky it didn’t overheat.”

Superboy is staring at his stomach and Tim looks down, searching for a grease stain. Nothing but pale, pasty skin. He really needs more sun, but he’d rather not risk it. Nine times out of ten he burns rather than tans.

“Yeah. Lucky. Um. Anyway, Ma made some pot roast, so.”

Nothing like comfort food to make you feel better. Not that Tim feels bad or sad or any other word that rhymes. He’s just a little frustrated. 

Yesterday, the Joker escaped Arkham Asylum. Bruce has been on edge, to put it lightly. They were too late to catch him on the island and the clown has gone underground, no clues as to what he’s planning. Being too late always grates on Bruce’s nerves, even more so when the Clown is involved, and even more so when Tim was stupid and nearly broke a rib getting flung from the highway bridge. But he didn’t. So.

He got benched. He has a bruise and he got benched. It wasn’t one of his finest moments, admittedly, but he got out of it with minimal damage and it doesn’t warrant getting benched. He can still work plenty fine and Bruce goes on patrol with injuries every other day. 

Plus, it’s not like his brain was bruised. 

Now Batman is trying to track down the Joker all on his own. Detective work, which is Tim’s specialty and Robin has been benched.

He grinds his teeth, squeezing the fork in his hand, while Superboy watches him warily. Ma is sending him looks as well and Pa seems unbothered, but Tim is long since used to blank-faced worry, so he can spot the signs. He tries to ignore it.

The Joker is plotting something that will cost lives and Robin is benched. Batgirl is still out there, but even she was limited to patrolling certain parts of the city, ordered to retreat from any kind of clown-themed apparatus immediately. She’s holding the fort while Batman works. Without Robin, has he mentioned that?

He angrily tears into his beef, cuts the carrots and peppers with his fork and scoops the mashed potatoes into the perfect bite, chewing with vengeance. 

“I’ll show you vengeance,” he mumbles to himself. Superboy looks at him, eyes wide, like he belongs in Arkham. Stupid super hearing.

“So, Robin,” Ma smiles. It’s a little strained at the edges. “How’ve you been, hun?”

Tim keeps his mouth in a neutral line, thankful that the mask hides most of his expression. He’s not in the mood to put on much of an act, but he doesn’t want to offend.

“Fine.” He racks his brain for something vague but appropriate. “Fighting crime, solving cases. The usual.”

Ma lifts an eyebrow. “And how’s school?”

“Good. Straight ‘A’s.” Superboy scoffs. Tim would stick his tongue out if he wasn’t feeling so bitter right now.

She smiles. “That’s great, hun. You know, that reminds me, back when I was a girl-” And she launches into a story from her school days. Her grades, her parents, and her escapades that are slightly concerning but probably common for the time. Tim listens intently, trying to forget about Batman and the Joker.

It doesn’t really work. He already had his eyes on the broken door of the utility shed. He’ll just have to get back to that.

After some admittedly amazing pot roast, which he makes sure to compliment profusely, Superboy follows him outside. He leans against the shed, silent as Tim works, watching with knowing eyes. Tim would like it if those eyes knew things somewhere else. 

He finally puts the door back onto its new, shiny hinges and puts his hands on his hips. What else needs a little maintenance on the farm? There’s plenty to choose from, like scratch marks, splintering wood, and the million things that could use a new coat of paint. He thinks he saw the fence bending in a few places…

“All right, that’s it.”

Tim frowns and looks up at Superboy. “What?”

“We’re going.” He grabs Tim’s wrist and pulls, dragging him off in the direction behind the farmhouse, onto the dirt road. “You haven’t been to town yet, right? We’re going on the grand tour.”

“A grand tour in Smallville?”

Superboy pulls him until they’re walking side by side, hands brushing. “Wow. That was bad, even for you.” Tim huffs. “You’re off your A game, Rob. You clearly need a vacation.”

What he needs is the Batcomputer and a cartoonish trail of footprints that’ll lead him straight to the Joker and whatever he’s planning. Probably something purple and green and covered in confetti. But sure. Who cares about what Tim wants, right?

Ugh.

It’s a long, boring walk on the dusty path to Smallville. The Sun has no mercy when surrounded by flat wheat fields and Tim wipes the sweat off his forehead, feeling utterly disgusting. He should’ve asked if he could take a shower before this.

Superboy chatters about random things he’s seen online, games he’s excited to try, the conversations he’s stumbled upon using his anonymous Watchtower account. The last of which would have Bruce tearing his hair out. It looks like they'll have to hold another Discretion on Online Forums seminar.

Smallville finally comes into view as the dirt path turns into cracked concrete, the grass and fences disappear, replaced by brick buildings and quaint little shops. It’s a lot more open than Gotham, for a lack of a better word, with wide roads and wider parking spaces. He feels like a tourist as he looks around, sticking close to Superboy, walking past little stores and rows of trees planted by the pavement. He keeps expecting trash and litter and rats darting out from little nooks and crannies, but they never do. 

Tim’s reality is made up of two worlds. Tight alleys, skyscrapers, and scowling gargoyles. And massive green gardens, the isolation of a giant manor, no neighbors in sight. Not this strange in-between. 

It’s like he walked into a Hallmark movie. Stranded in the middle of Nowhere, Kansas where he meets some rugged love interest EXT. SMALLVILLE - DAY and learns the merits of slowing down and enjoying life, leaving his work in the Big City behind.

Tim glances at Superboy, his wide smile, his strong jawline, those bright eyes. He’s still talking about Call of Duty and how they have to play once he gets a PS4 again. His shirt stretches as he gestures with his hands, his shoulders loose and confident. 

Tim quickly looks away, inspecting the little flower shop with American flags plastered all over it.

They come to a stop at a railroad crossing, just when the lights start flashing and the gates lower. He watches with mild interest as the freight train grows in the distance. Their hands brush together and Tim looks up at Superboy.

He’s smirking. “Wanna jump it?”

Tim raises his eyebrows. “What?”

That gets him a sharp elbow into his side, right where his ribs are bruised. He holds back a reaction, exhaling evenly. “C’mon, wanna jump it?”

“Not particularly.”

Superboy pouts. 

The wind reaches them first, tossing their hair, then the train rushes by, clacking over the tracks, drowning out any further conversation. Superboy wiggles his eyebrows. 

It’s a very long freight. Probably coal or grain.

Tim narrows his eyes. He does kind of wanna. He smirks. Superboy grins wide. 

They look around stealthily, only seeing an elderly lady by a store window, staring intently at a mannequin, and Superboy scoops him up in the blink of an eye. 

He yelps instinctively. “A little warning?!”

The boy cackles as they jump the freight, tapping the roof with his feet for just a moment, the show-off, and they land with a soft thump on the other side. Tim tumbles out of his arms with a breathless laugh, still clutching onto his shoulders. They giggle like children, heart beating fast, but there’s something thrilling about breaking Superman’s rules. Somehow even more than Batman’s.

Tim sees a woman pushing a stroller and he turns them to face the other way, heads ducked, shoulders pressed together. “Shh!”

They lock eyes and elbow each other, this time avoiding any bruised ribs. 

Tim’s laugh trails off as he watches those bright blue eyes, shining with joy. There’s something alien about them, something uniquely Kryptonian. Even in the yellow sunlight the color is an even shade, strange and saturated, downright unsettling.

Unsettling the way Gotham’s gargoyles cast shadows over the city. The way streetlights cut through the night. The way the Computer illuminates the Batcave. In a way that feels like home.

Tim steps away from Superboy, rattled.

He doesn’t seem to notice and perks up at something behind Tim, sneakers scuffing on the concrete. “Check it out! There's the Ball.”

He forces his mind to switch tracks, to crumple that thought and toss it way into the back of his mind. He turns around. There’s what looks like a ball of twine in the distance, one of those roadside attractions, though much smaller than the ones he’s seen across the country. Online, that is, because he doesn’t actually travel that much. His parents don’t bring him along on their excavations abroad, and haven’t for a long time, not after he disappeared in Peru when he was five. He was petting stray cats. 

He understands, of course, but a part of him suspects that it’s not about child safety anymore.

“Huh.”

“‘Huh’ is right. Couple families started it like ten years ago. Then it got too big to move.” 

Tim tilts his head as they walk over to the small park. It’s a little oblate for a ball, and placed in the middle of a grassy park to bleach in the sun. 

Superboy leans over, their shoulders knocking together. Tim’s heart skips a beat. He firmly ignores that. “Sometimes I sneak out at night and add to it. A few kids noticed it was growing and they sound crazy. The Twinespiracy.” He snickers.

That’s when they’re close enough to get hit by the smell. Tim grimaces. “Ugh. What the hell?”

Superboy nods. “Oh, yeah, it always stinks. I have to take like three showers after, but it’s totally worth it. Their faces. Hilarious.”

Tim feels his lips twitch. “You’re so lame.”

“Yeah, says you. I’m freakin’ awesome.”

Tim would never admit it, but he kind of is. 

They choose a nearby bench to settle down, far enough to not smell the twine, but still get a whiff of it when the breeze blows by. They shoot each other grimaces, but neither of them make a move to get up.

Tim leans back and bumps into Superboy’s arm, sprawled across the wooden backrest. He freezes, but Superboy doesn’t react. He doesn’t even look over from whatever he’s seeing in the distance. His eyes are unfocused, which could mean anything from zoning out to watching a baseball match across the country. Tim slowly relaxes and lets his eyes wander. 

Two little birds hop around the trees above, dancing across branches and trilling at each other. American robins, ‘Turdus migratorius’, a name that always made him giggle as a child. Regrettably, it still makes him smile a little. Just a little. A crow rushes in with a cry, making the birds scatter.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Tim startles. “About what?”

Superboy blinks a few times, adjusting, so he must have been watching something miles and miles away. His eyes are focused again, that eerie, pretty blue. 

‘Pretty?’

“Whatever had you murdering the pot roast, man.”

Tim thins his lips. “I was eating normally. Like a normal person.”

“Uh huh. Rob, seriously. Friends, remember?”

Tim sighs, sagging into this seat. His head hits Superboy’s arm like a pillow, and his gut squirms, but he can’t bring himself to move. It’s warm and comforting and his heart is racing. Superboy glances down at his chest with a frown. He’s really had enough of this super hearing.

Long clouds drift across the sky.

“Batman,” he says. Superboy lifts an eyebrow. “Just Batman being Batman.” He pauses. “I guess you don’t know what that means.”

Superboy shrugs and Tim’s head bounces with the motion.

“I got hurt and he benched me. That’s why I’m here so early.” 

He just had to leave the manor or he’d go insane. It’s the same stupid routine every time that damn clown comes into the picture. Bruce’s cold, blank expression and Alfred’s stoic worry, none of them able to talk it out like adults. God forbid Dick comes over, that’s when the shouting starts. 

So here he is.

He scowls.

“Dang. I was wondering about that.” Superboy blinks. “Wait.”

A strange sheen washes over his eyes. X-ray vision. TIm sighs. “It’s just a bruise, you won’t be able to see anything.”

His eyebrows jump up, startled. “How did you-? Nevermind. That’s always freaky.”

Tim tries to smile. “I’m just that good.” Superboy snorts.

“But that’s normal, right? You get hurt, you get benched until you heal.”

Tim turns back to the clouds. A few patches of cumulus drift so slowly that they might as well be standing still. In Gotham they’d be gray and towering by now, cumulonimbus, ready to drench every inch of the city.

“Yeah, if you break an arm or something. It’s just a bruise, I can barely feel it.” Superboy’s mouth twists, brows creasing. Tim groans. “I’m fine.”

He gets a suspicious look response, but it’s better than the worry. Everyone’s so worried all the time. Not just the constant simmering grief in Wayne Manor, but the entire world seems to be holding its breath, still reeling from everything that has happened with Superman. It’s exhausting. 

There’s a knot in his chest that only eases when he’s working or distracted, when he’s watching Superboy embarrass himself trying to do a handstand without his powers.

Maybe his need to track down the Joker is a little more selfish than he was ready to admit. That just makes him feel worse.

“Batman won’t even let me near the Cave. I just want to do something.” He crosses his arms, grinding his teeth and glaring at a puffy cloud. “The Joker. Always the Joker.”

He can see Superboy frown in his periphery. “Okay, first of all, the Bat-Cave is real? Second, that is a little harsh. Third… I mean, I get it.”

Tim whips his head over, betrayed. Superboy lifts his free hand, palm out. “Woah, chill out. He’s worried, right? I get that, you get that.”

“Yeah.” Tim frowns. Worried. Always worried.

“And it’s the Joker, dude. Even Lex is kinda scared of the guy.” Superboy taps two knuckles against his temple. “Got it in my head to avoid him if I can. Uh. Don’t tell him I said that.”

“Why would I ever do that? When would I even get the opportunity?”

“I don’t know! Just don’t!”

Tim chuckles and Superboy smiles. 

He visibly struggles with his words for a moment and Tim tilts his head.

“I met Batman a few times.”

The sentence is delivered casually, like people just meet Batman on the regular, for a little coffee date, maybe. Tim sits up in a flash. Superboy blinks at him. “Um.”

“Go on.”

“…Okay. He was ‘in contact’, or whatever, for a bit. Making a birth certificate and all that jazz. A terrible texter, by the way.” Tim is very aware. It’s always ‘K’ or thumbs down or left on read. He absolutely does it on purpose and it took Tim way too long to figure that out. One of the more shameful moments of his detective career.

“He also, uh, made a college fund for me.”

Tim sighs. “Of course he did.”

Superboy quirks a smile. “It’ll open in two years, I think. Not that I’m gonna go to college or anything.”

Two years would mean eighteen, if Superboy’s approximate age of sixteen is correct. Makes sense. “Why not? Too easy?”

The boy rolls his eyes, but Tim just watches. “Wait, you’re serious?”

He shrugs. “I mean, yeah. You’re leagues above a Bachelor’s in math alone.” He’s still putting together worksheets for STEM subjects, then moving onto humanities. He’ll have a pretty accurate measure of Superboy’s academic abilities by the end of the month.

Superboy looks away, a flush spreading across his cheeks. He clears his throat. “Um. Thanks.” Tim smirks, but it’s a soft, fond warmth that spreads in his chest. “Anyway. It was kind of stressful just hearing about the stuff he was doing. It’s like he thought of every single thing that could go wrong.”

Tim picks at the fabric of his pants. He does. Anything and everything. 

“But… I just… I don’t know. He didn’t just think of me going bad, y’know?”

The pieces of this puzzle start arranging in Tim’s mind.

“Just-” Superboy runs a hand through his hair, tugging once and dragging the hand down to rub at his neck. “He looked at me like I was… me.” 

The pieces click into place. When Bruce looks at Superboy he doesn’t see a replacement, an illegal experiment, a bomb waiting to go off. Not even a kid, a teen celebrity, or Superboy, the cocky hero. Bruce looks at him and sees a person. 

It’s the Batman he has always admired.

Which gives him pause. It makes him wonder if all those grating looks from Bruce, Dick, and Alfred, if it’s not about wishing that Tim was Jason. Who could ever replace Jason? 

The bodycam footage of that explosion… He shouldn’t have access to it, but he had to see, had to understand if he wanted to keep this broken family together. 

It was horrific. Jason, bloody and broken, Bruce screaming in agony, it’s a scene that visits him in his nightmares.

Maybe that’s what they see when they look at him. A body buried in the rubble.

Apparently he was silent for a bit too long, because Superboy stutters, “It’s- It’s stupid, forget I said that.”

Tim jumps. “No! No, I get it.” He reaches out to put a hand on Superboy’s shoulder, but the angle isn’t right, so his limbs get a mind of their own, awkwardly patting his leg. Christ. “Yeah, um. That’s who Batman is, deep down. Sometimes he gets…” Twitchy and angry, lost in the depths of his grief, his guilt. “But that’s who he is. It’s why I became Robin.”

Superboy tilts his head, smirking. “You were a fanboy? Makes sense.”

“For the last time, that autograph was a joke.” 

“Sure, Rob. Whatever you say.”

He groans and knocks his head back against Superboy’s bicep. It’s a warm pillow, sue him. The boy leans back as well, strangely content, his smirk falling into a soft smile.

Tim should get back to the Cave and try again. He has to break this stupid cycle of everyone talking past each other, letting stress pile up and simmer until it blows. If every adult around him chooses to be a baby about this, well, Tim’s ready for a tantrum. 

Bruce has probably cooled down by now and might actually listen to what he’s saying. Emphasis on ‘might’. Those protective emotions of his could be turned in Tim’s favor if he plays his cards right. He’s learned from the best when it comes to badgering the man. He always gives in to a boy with round cheeks and wide eyes. 

The ‘best’ being Dick, of course.

“Thanks,” Tim says, because this entire escapade was about making him feel better and he’s too busy planning the encounter with Bruce to feel annoyed about it.

“Hey, what are friends for?” Though his voice sounds a bit strange when he says that.

They sit there for a few hours, enjoying the breeze and watching the clouds. Tim plans around Bruce’s possible responses and forgets to make notes entirely. 

That night, after a lengthy talk bordering on an argument, Tim is allowed access to the Batcomputer. 

Finally, they caught the Joker. Tim is back on patrol and he’s been planning.

He directs the plane to land further from the farmhouse than usual. It barely touches the ground, silent as the night, before he slams the button and the cockpit hisses open. 

He jumps out and pulls his hood up, full stealth armor, the dark cape snug around his shoulders. It’s one of the alternative Robin designs Bruce made years ago, just in case one of them decided that being a moving traffic light wasn’t the smartest choice for a costume. Dick was offended at the mere thought and honestly Tim was, too. All black just isn’t Robin.

He stalks through the patchy grass, through chirping crickets and the faint smell of impending rain. It’s a lengthy walk, but after a few minutes he finally arrives at the Kent property and hops the fence, illuminated by the moon. It’s starting to wane but it’s bright enough to turn off the mask’s night vision.

Superboy would have heard him by now if he was awake, but no one appears in front of the farmhouse, so Tim circles around the back and locates the right window. He grins and takes a few steps back, crouches and darts forward, kicking off the wooden planks of the wall. He just manages to grab onto the window ledge and heaves himself up. He doesn’t even have to pick the window lock, he knows it’s broken and rusted over.

The window snaps up and Tim can barely blink before a hand grabs the collar of his cape and drags him inside. He’s met with the sight of two red, pinprick eyes. 

“Hey,” Tim whispers.

Superboy startles and drops him on instinct, the red vanishing as quickly as it came.

“Robin?!” He whisper-shouts. “Dude! I almost lasered you!”

Tim straightens and adjusts his cape. He smirks.

“Wanna sneak out?”

A moment of baffled silence. 

“Hell yes.”

They clamber out of the window, softening the fall with Superboy’s telekinesis, and rush across the pasture back to the plane. Usually Tim wouldn’t dare break both Batman’s ‘no metas’ rule and Superman’s ‘house arrest’, but Superboy has gotten incredibly restless lately. He’s even started doing his laundry. Tim watches the boy’s face as they dash between the trees, giddy and grinning wide.

The phone and laptop visibly made it worse, in a roundabout way. Actually seeing and speaking to the outside world again has clearly made Superboy bitter and resentful, and Tim would rather not report about an outburst when there’s a very obvious way to circumvent them. Namely, getting the hell out of Smallville.

Tim presses the small remote and the Batplane hisses open.

“Oh heck yeah, I’m driving.”

Tim glares and Superboy shoots him a toothy grin, hopping into the back seat. Good. Tim settles into the driver’s seat and starts some preliminary checks as the windshield slides back into place.

“Where are we going? Is there a bad guy begging to get clobbered? Please tell me there’s a bad guy.”

“Sorry to burst your bubble, but even I can’t cover our tracks if you start punching Killer Croc.”

“Boo.”

“Check under your seat, there’s a cloak. You’ll need it if we’re gonna blend in.” Especially in a T-shirt and sweats.

Batman and Batgirl are in the middle of patrol, but that’s exactly what they need. Tim has all of their routes memorized, he knows exactly where they’ll be at any point in time. He knows their patrol routes so well he could recite it in his sleep.

He hears Superboy rooting around with a curious hum. “Spooky. Check it out.”

Tim turns and Superboy has the cloak tied around his shoulders, the hood up. He lifts his arm, covering his face with the cape. “I am vengeance. I am the night.”

Tim grins. He mimics the pose and they growl in unison, “I am Batman!”

They snicker. He turns back to the controls, ready for take-off, and switches on Stealth Mode. They slowly rise into the air, hovering, the engine humming quietly, and take off with a blast. 

“Okay, listen up. We’re going to Gotham.”

“Boo!”

“What? You wanna turn around? I’m happy to leave you in Wichita.”

“Uh. Whoo!”

Tim rolls his eyes. “Did you find the mask, too?”

“Do I have to? It’s so dumb.”

“Yes. It’s tactical. It has night vision, heat vision- The actual kind, not the lasers and-”

“I don’t even need that stuff!”

He sighs and tunes into the radio of the nearby ATC, just to be sure he doesn’t stumble into someone’s flight path. The voice crackles in his ear. “Whatever. But remember, Batman has a ‘no metas’ rule, so try not to use your powers.”

“Lame.”

“I don’t make the rules.” Superboy groans behind him, dragging it out. “Shut up, I’ll teach you how to use the grapple.” That gets him a much happier noise. Dummy.

“Nice. I’ll be like Robin number three.” 

Tim’s mood immediately sours. It takes all of his self control to hold back a sharp comment. 

Fourth. Fourth Robin, which will never happen without Dick’s consent. But Superboy doesn’t know the history, read: disaster, of the Robin mantle. He doesn’t deserve to get snapped at. Tim takes a deep breath, then exhales.

Superboy must sense his change in mood, because he drops the joke and leans forward, throwing an arm around Tim’s seat. “So what are we doing if there’s no bad guy?”

Tim tilts his head, trying to phrase this without being too sappy. “I know you think Gotham is a dump.”

“Whaat? No…”

“Shut up.” Tim tries to smack him, but he ducks out of the way. “I wanna show you the real Gotham.” And he turns until he can look Superboy in the eye, a fond smile tugging at his mouth. “The Gotham that Robin fights for. That Batman fights for. There’s plenty of bad, yeah, but there’s good, too.”

Superboy softens. “Yeah, all right. Let’s see Gotham au naturel.”

“And, you know, maybe we could beat up a mugger or two.”

“Now you’re talking.”

The Batplane can manage the thousand or so miles in the proverbial blink of an eye, but Tim usually doesn’t go past Mach 2, enjoying the hour ride. It’s pretty relaxing to just turn your brain off, with the occasional navigation and radio checks. But that means he’ll have to keep to that speed if he doesn’t want to raise any suspicion. Bruce, the paranoid maniac, has the plane monitored down to the smallest details, especially since he’s started loaning it to Tim every weekend.

It’s a different kind of trip with Superboy in the back seat. They talk about anything and everything while the boy buzzes around his seat like a fly. Sometimes he floats forward until he’s elbowing Tim into the wall of the plane, to gesture or force eye contact, other times he presses his face to the glass, watching the world go by.

“You can fly. How is this so fascinating to you?”

Superboy sticks his tongue out. “It’s different.” 

They drop in altitude only once they cross Gotham Bay, getting as close to the city as possible, closer than any commercial jet would be allowed. He flips a few switches and sets the autopilot to ascend in two minutes. It’ll start circling to conserve fuel, ready to change course at the press of a button. God, he loves this plane. One of the best parts of being Robin are definitely the planes and cars and the Computer. He wants Batman’s access code so bad, but he hasn’t been able to hack it.

Yet.

He plugs in his handy USB, starting a program for moments just like this. It should ping the Batcave and send a few signals to make it seem like the plane has arrived home, parked into its designated spot. Even Alfred won’t check, since Tim is supposed to be the one down in the Cave, manning the Computer. They should be done by the time Bruce gets home to actually check on things.

“All right. Ready?”

It’s raining like hell, classic Gotham, beating down on the windshield without mercy. The noise is muffled to near silence, but it must be deafening out there. Perfect. 

Superboy leans forward, blinking. “Ready for what?”

“Extend your arms, grab the cape. You’re heavier than me, but it should work fine.”

“What?”

Tim tightens the hood until it sits snug and shakes his arms out, stretching his legs.

“You better not do what I think you’re gonna-”

“No powers!” Tim presses his remote and the cockpit hisses open. The rain deafens him immediately, pouring into the plane, and all he can see is Superboy, eyes wide, reaching out, and Tim grins. He jumps.

The wind rushes past, howling like a banshee. The rain batters his costume as he falls backwards, tucking his cape close. All he can see are the gray, angry clouds, the pinprick drops of rain and the small shape of Superboy, growing larger. It’s only thanks to his mask, made for any weather conditions and time of day, that he can see at all.

He laughs to himself, a sound he can’t hear past the noise, and looks down. He tucks the cape closer, more streamlined as he speeds up, faster and faster. He fights the tugging and tossing of the wind as the twinkling lights of Gotham grow steadily closer, the skyscrapers nearer. He’s feeling reckless, the adrenaline burning in his veins, but he’s not that stupid.

He looks back up and sees Superboy rushing over. Tim thinks, ‘cheater’. He grabs his cape tight, knowing his wingspan well, braces himself, and snaps it open just as Superboy is about to reach him.

He barks out a laugh at the boy’s baffled expression, visible for a fraction of a second before he’s wrenched upwards, nearly tearing his arms off. Not in the literal sense, though the pain is convincing. Ouch. 

He maneuvers himself carefully, ready to grab his grapple if he has to. The cape wasn’t strictly built to be a parachute, but Bruce designed them to withstand an emergency drop if need be. He eases down, circling a skyscraper, scanning for a spot that won’t immediately land him on his ass. 

He finds a nice bit of Neo-Gothic spire that’ll stop him if the downpour tries sending him off the ledge, and drops down. Sure enough, he slides a few feet, slipping in the layer of rainwater, and grabs onto the spire to jerk to a halt. He laughs, breathless, his heart hammering against his ribs.

“Are you crazy?!” Superboy screeches past the rain and thunder. Tim turns, grinning like a shark.

He doesn’t bother shouting past the noise. Super hearing is good for something, after all. “I run around fighting crime in Gotham. What do you think?”

Superboy touches down on the rooftop much more gracefully and tugs his hood back on his head, though it’s a bit late for his hair. Like this, the dark cloak covering him head to toe, he looks like another Bat stalking the city.

“Holy crap, dude.” Superboy rushes over, hands hovering, scanning Tim up and down. His arms drop. He chuckles. Then cackles. “That was awesome!”

Tim grins. “You cheated.”

“Sorry that I didn’t want to make a crater on this roof.” He stomps on the stone as if to demonstrate, thankfully not hard enough to actually crack it.

“Sounds like someone’s a sore loser.” Tim makes his way to a gargoyle, his boots splashing in the rushing water.

The indignant reply is mostly muffled by the wind and Tim carefully balances on the massive gargoyle’s head. It’s some kind of creature between a mammal and a bird, spitting water down onto the lower story, and the next, where it gathers in larger drain pipes. They’re quintessential for the Gotham aesthetic. 

He looks out at the city, the jagged yet symmetrical buildings, valleys and hills of gray stone, metal, and glass. Streetlights cut the city into neat segments, a few gaps in the dotted pattern. Probably broken or smashed. A lot of the smog has been blown away by the storm, leaving the pleasant smell of rain in the air.

He watches car headlights rush past, the tiny smudges of people roaming the streets, umbrellas held securely above them. All Gothamites are used to the rain. 

The feeling of home washes over him. 

Smallville is beautiful, all nature and small-town charm, but this is where he belongs. This is his city, these are the people he’s fighting for.

Superboy drifts over to his side and Tim immediately notices him hovering a few inches off the gargoyle’s head. He probably doesn’t want to slip or accidentally push Tim off. Doesn’t change the fact that he’s cheating, though.

“Strike two,” he says, pointing at his feet. Superboy rolls his eyes. “Three and you’re out.”

“And what, you’re kicking me from the lineup?”

Tim shrugs. “A yearlong Gotham ban.”

“Dude.”

He smirks. “What? Are you chicken?” Superboy narrows his eyes and drops down onto the gargoyle. “Catch me if you can, country boy!” 

“I am not a-”

Tim runs and leaps off, whipping his cape out. He doesn’t try for anything fancy, making himself an easy target to follow. He soars past windows, across the street down below, and lands on an apartment complex. It’s just a few stories shorter, a good distance for beginners. He turns to watch Superboy glide over, a little unsteady and too fast in the air. 

“Hey, easy-” 

The boy drops and trips and tumbles face first onto the roof. Tim winces. He goes to stand over him, boots splashing in the water, hands on his hips. Superboy groans into the concrete.

After a moment, he flops over and stares up at the gray sky, rain pounding on his face. 

“Well. Not bad for your first try.”

“Ugh.”

Tim extends a hand and pulls him up. Superboy shakes himself like a dog, whipping the cloak around, and looks up. His fringe is plastered to his forehead and poking him in the eyes. He blinks rapidly, trying to bat it out of his face. Cute.

Tim huffs a laugh, reaching over to comb through the curls until they’re slicked back, but a single stubborn strand pops forward. It’s very ‘Superman’. Is that specific look genetic? Is it Kryptonian somehow? Or just the House of El? Questions, questions.

Superboy clears his throat, a flush rising on his cheeks. Tim blinks and wrenches his hand back, turning slightly and searching for the next building to glide to. He firmly ignores the way his face burns. 

There’s a smaller, wider building, twenty stories maybe, bracketed by what he’s sure are a few Wayne Ent. skyscrapers. Must be a data center. The height isn’t ideal for massive servers, but in the heart of Gotham real estate is hard to get your hands on, even for a multi-billion dollar company. At least, not without displacing people.

He points it out. “We’ll glide over there and I’ll show you how to use the grapple. Then the real fun starts.” 

Superboy grins. “Less talking, more flying!” He’s really getting into it, huh?

Superboy dashes off the building and does a much better job gliding this time. It’s a little suspicious, but Tim can’t spot the familiar pink tinge of his telekinesis. He follows at a slower pace and he’s kind of impressed by the landing, too. 

Superboy is a fast learner, though that’s nothing new at this point. Planning isn’t his strong suit, not by far, but he’s adaptable, changing tactics on the fly and tailoring his fighting style to the enemy, to the environment. It’s something Tim noticed immediately when analyzing clips of his fights, then confirmed in some truly awful Civ games.

He could be a great superhero, in Tim’s humble opinion, but he’s a diamond in the rough. With a little training, experience, and a tactical mind to help him out… 

Soon enough they’re racing across the city, gliding and grappling, laughter muffled by the downpour. Tim leads and keeps them in Coventry, where Batman finished patrolling a few hours ago, while Superboy has them darting around and stopping petty crime wherever he hears it happening. 

They stop muggings, calm the victims, help a lady with her groceries. He shows Superboy Gotham’s infamous Bat-themed burger joint and the cashier rolls her eyes as he orders a truly impressive amount of food.

It’s… fun. Very fun. He hasn’t had this much fun in a long time.

“Hold on,” Tim says, angling left when he spots the little nook he found on Thursday. He hasn’t had the time to return and this heavy rain isn’t ideal, but it’ll have to do.

He drops down and inspects the Gotham skyline. There’s a clear view of Wayne Botanical Gardens cutting through the concrete city, and he wanted the scene to look like a green haven, surrounded by urban buzz and bustle. The garden is a lot hazier right now, washed out by the fog and rain. The implications are a little more bleak, a little grim, but it still carries the message of hope. Maybe it’s better than what he had in mind.

He walks around the roof, trying to get a good angle, stepping up onto the ledge, then crouching down. He digs around in his pouches for his compact camera. Not one of his better ones, but he doesn’t want to risk those when he’s out as Robin. 

“Uh, what are you doing?”

“Shh.”

“Did you just shush me?”

He holds up a finger and finally finds the right angle, crouched just so. He messes with the camera settings while Superboy approaches and crouches down beside him. “Woah, you’re a photographer?”

He shrugs, a little sheepish. “I like to take pictures.” He lines up the shot, twisting the focus.

Snap.

“That’s cool.”

Snap.

“Can I see?”

His hand slips. Snap. 

He scrambles with wet gloves, but manages not to smash his camera like an idiot. The picture came out as a blurry, gray smudge. He blinks up at Superboy.

“Oh. Um.” He coughs and navigates to the camera’s gallery. “Yeah. Sure. This doesn’t have much on it, but I can… send you some more, if you want?”

Superboy nods quickly. “I want! I mean- Yeah, that would be cool.”

Tim chuckles and flips to a few pictures he likes, shielding the screen with his cape. Superboy doesn’t have much to say on the technical aspects, which is understandable, but he seems to like the colors and various landmarks, a few nature shots. Tim takes the compliments as badly as he always does, his gut squirming, unable to make eye contact.

Superboy snatches the camera out of his hands and he swears his heart actually stops for a second. “Don’t do that, Jesus.”

“Yeah, yeah. Come on, let’s take a selfie!” He turns the camera lens first and holds it out, tugging Tim close, an arm hooked around his waist. Tim feels his face burn, awkwardly hugging back. He tries to arrange his face into an acceptable expression while Superboy puts on a practiced smirk.

Snap. 

Snap. Snap. Snap.

“Okay, that’s enough.” He swipes the camera back.

The pictures came out fine, if a little off center. He looks incredibly awkward, which is downright embarrassing after years of playing nice and smiling pretty for socialites, while Superboy looks perfect, even drenched as he is. A handsome, dimpled smile, artfully wet curls. He’s so gorgeous it’s downright insulting. Tim’s shoulders tense up, intimately aware of the boy plastered to his side.

He racks his brain for anything to say and eventually mumbles, “Should’ve gotten the gardens in the background…”

Superboy perks up and they spend the next few minutes messing around with selfies. It takes a while, but eventually Tim relaxes and actually looks passable in the pictures. Superboy badgers him into a faux photoshoot with obnoxious modelling poses, which both of them are familiar with.

Tim has more experience in this regard, actually. He’s been staging photos for the press from the day his parents presented him as Heir to Drake Industries.

That’s until he spots a shadow moving behind them. He freezes. 

Superboy reacts immediately, fists coming up as he looks around, eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?” 

Tim doesn’t say anything, relaxing into a trained neutrality. Superboy takes that as a cue to stay silent, but doesn’t back down.

“Robin,” comes a gravelly voice from the shadows of the roof access. Superboy jumps, darting in front of Tim so fast that he feels the gust of wind even past the raging storm. He falters only when he sees the person who steps out of the fog.

“Batman,” Tim replies evenly.

“And Superboy.”

Superboy swallows, then drops his fighting stance, putting on his cocky bravado. “Batman! Long time no see. Still dressed for Halloween, huh?”

He steps back to stand beside Tim, shoulders touching, a united front. Tim feels his heart swell at the gesture, not that it’s needed. 

Batman locks eyes with him and Tim stares back. He reports quickly and efficiently. “I’ve instructed Superboy not to use any of his powers. So far, he’s broken the rule four times in small scale events, gone unnoticed. We stopped thirteen petty crimes. Muggings, assaults. All non-lethal, mild injuries, and reported to the police.”

Superboy looks between them, barely keeping up his bravado. There’s a frown on his face, deepening with every second of the tense atmosphere. Tim ignores him for now, maintaining his focus. He obsessively scans Bruce’s face, what little is visible under the cowl, for any reaction.

The barest twitch of his lips. 

Tim sags. “Hey, B.” 

“Good job.” Bruce stalks closer, because that’s what he does when he puts on the cowl. Stalks and growls, even when he’s being affectionate. He ruffles Tim’s hair, jostling the hood of his cloak, and he tries his best not to lean into the touch. That would be mortifying.

Tim huffs, annoyed. “How’d you figure me out?”

“I know my tech, Robin.”

Always so mysterious. Ugh. There’s probably a tracker on the stealth suit that he hasn’t found yet. He’ll look into the Computer’s logs though, just to be sure his program worked.

Superboy watches them, looking back and forth, bewildered. “You people are so freakin’ weird, man.”

He can imagine the deadpan way Bruce tends to lift an eyebrow. Exactly like Alfred. “How have you been?”

Tim snorts. As if he doesn’t read the reports.

“Uh. Fine, I guess,” Superboy says.

“You guess.”

He shifts his weight, looking anywhere but Batman. “Yeah, I mean, Robin and I have been working on the mission. Goin’ good so far.”

“I know.” 

Tim rolls his eyes and tucks his arms into his cape, letting it cover him head to toe. Superboy tries not to squirm. He’s clearly psyching himself up to say something, but Bruce interrupts.

“Have you decided on a name?”

Superboy freezes.

That’s… interesting. Tim has been wondering about that for quite a while, though he didn’t want to pry. They weren’t close enough for that and then it didn’t really matter. It’s none of his business what people call themselves.

Still, the reaction stokes his curiosity.

The boy crosses his arms. “Where’s Superman?” 

Bruce watches him for a moment, silent, but lets him change the subject. He looks out at his city and tilts his head ever so slightly, his shoulders shifting minutely. Exasperation. The same type that rears its head when Dick pulls a stupid stunt and he can’t start one of their shouty arguments in public.

“In the Philippines, assisting with typhoon evacuation.”

Superboy nods, staring at the ground. Tim hesitates but eventually places a hand on his shoulder. He relaxes under the touch.

Bruce watches them. “He’s considering a probationary period. He was impressed by Robin’s reports.”

Both of them perk up. They share a look. Tim nudges his shoulder. “Told you.”

Superboy smiles, a lopsided, fond looking one. “Yeah. You did.” Tim’s heart picks up speed. He looks away hastily. 

A mistake, because Bruce is looking right at him. Those white lenses stare into him like a mind-reader. He doesn’t comment, but there’s no way this is the last that Tim hears of this. Crap.

Bruce turns his head. “You’ll do fine, Kent.”

Superboy sucks in a sharp breath, a small crack in the cocky attitude, but he covers it up quickly. …Huh. 

“Obviously. Why wouldn’t I?” 

Tim doesn’t see the shadow this time, but something makes his neck prickle. He follows Bruce’s gaze and watches Cass emerge from the shadows. She wiggles her fingers at them and Tim waves back with a small smile.

Superboy jumps. He squints and looks around warily, as if expecting another Bat-person to pop out of thin air. Tim stifles a smirk.

Bruce nods. “Batgirl.”

Then, he watches a disaster unfold in slow motion. Superboy sags into a comfortable stance, shoulders loose and confident. He glances at Tim, a glint in his eyes. A very familiar glint. One that always precedes some phenomenally bad ideas.

Superboy strolls forward, head tilted just so, confident and flirty, and Tim narrows his eyes. Something bitter coils in his gut.

“Batgirl,” he purrs. “The name’s Superboy.” He shoots her a charming smile, all dimples and mischief, and Cass shifts her stance into what Tim recognizes as amusement. “But you can call me anything you want, babe.”

Tim pinches the bridge of his nose. “Superboy.”

He looks Cass up and down, and that she doesn’t appreciate as much. “So, how old are you?”

Tim takes a deep breath and stomps over, grabbing Superboy by the shoulders and pushing. “Look at the time, we gotta go. Sorry, Batman. No metas, I know.” He hisses at the boy, "It won't happen again.”

Superboy lets himself get manhandled a few feet, then plants his feet, and suddenly it’s like Tim’s pushing against a brick wall. Super powers are the worst.

The boy winks over his shoulder, “Call me!” With the hand sign and everything.

Tim feels the angry flush on his face and smacks the hand down. “You’re such an ass,” he whispers under his breath.

Superboy cackles and lets himself get shoved off the roof, floating above the thirty story drop until Tim hits the edge too. 

He smirks. “You’re too easy, Rob.” And he falls, limbs loose, like cutting the strings of a marionette. Tim’s heart drops, though he knows there’s nothing to worry about, and Superboy whips his cape open. He glides across the street to the adjacent building and disappears into the fog and rain.

He’s gotten annoyingly good at that. 

Tim turns around warily. Both Bruce and Cass are watching him, thoroughly amused. Fantastic. Just fantastic. He shudders at the thought of Dick hearing about this. And he will hear about this. 

Cass giggles. They melt into shadows and leave Tim alone on the roof, face burning.

They watch the sunset from the barn roof. It’s a slow process as the sky changes color, probably even slower for Superboy’s enhanced senses. They might as well be stuck, a pin to a corkboard, in this moment of stillness. He loses himself in the atmosphere. The familiarity.

Because Tim has stood still all his life. Endless days at home and at school, only his parents breaking the monotony, spending time with him between trips abroad. It might be lonely and a little sad, in hindsight, but it’s what he’s used to, his comfort zone. Even Gotham, as much as the city changes from year to year, has a steady rhythm if you bother to pay attention.

Wayne Manor is similar, yet different. Alfred is a stoic, calm figure, always around and always ready to help. And Bruce, Bruce is only busy in his own head. Tim can always see something churning in there, but on the outside he’s a meticulous person, quiet and efficient, never wasting an ounce of energy. Dick is an interesting case, unusually high energy for someone who was raised by The Batman, but when he feels comfortable, he tends to go quiet as well. 

A part of him wants to stay in that manor. Badly. Another part of him quivers and curls up at the idea, retreating into the familiarity of an empty home. Little supervision, no questions or prying eyes. Only him and himself.

But then… Why is he here? In rural Kansas, watching the sunset with a boy. 

The ‘mission’ doesn’t justify hanging out, laughing, or talking about video games. It doesn’t explain the mess of feelings in his chest. The giddy joy, the jittery nerves. 

Tim blinks out of his thoughts, rolling his shoulders. They’re a little stiff from staying in the same position for so long. The Sun is touching the horizon now, a clear beam of yellow light in the cloudless sky. The gradient of gold to blue isn’t as picturesque as it was yesterday, but Tim curses under his breath regardless. He definitely missed a few good shots. 

He picks up his camera and quickly flips through the settings. A few bugs buzz from below. The breeze gently ruffles his hair. It’s always so breezy here without the tall buildings to catch the wind. 

Superboy lifts an eyebrow, smiling easily. “Back to Earth, Rob?”

Ha. Ha.

He hums a vague answer and twists the focus ring, snapping a few shots, then picks up his second camera, bulkier but just as expensive, replicating the same exact shots. He’s trying to see if the newest model with a brand-new, state-of-the-art, that’s-what-they-all-say processor is actually as great as the advertisement claims. Because he doesn’t trust the review of some random website with a million ads. He ranks his cameras himself, thank you very much.

Superboy picks at a loose thread of the faded, plaid blanket they’re sitting on. It’s clearly well loved, like most things in the Kent home. Worn and loved and busy. Tim likes it, but it’s not still.

He moves his camera and Superboy’s hand comes into focus, soft and smooth, no calluses, neatly trimmed nails. Can he even get calluses? Maybe under a red sun… The boy stops and Tim makes an unhappy sound.

“Don’t freeze up.”

“Um. Okay.”

He continues fiddling with the thread and Tim captures the way it bends around his pointer finger. It’s unusual in a subtle way. His skin doesn’t have as much give as a human’s, the thread doesn’t cut into his circulation when he pulls it tight.

“Interesting,” he hears himself say. Superboy snorts.

“Whatever you say, man.”

Tim tears himself away from the viewfinder and meets those shining blue eyes. He pulls his camera up and zooms in on a single eye, on the saturated, blue color of the iris, untouched by the yellow sunlight. This time Superboy visibly struggles to act natural, but the picture comes out fine. 

Tim makes a vague motion and the boy shuffles over, taking the excuse to press close, as always. It sends a tingling warmth up his shoulder. “Look, your iris is all the same shade.”

Superboy frowns, though Tim’s not sure why. He opens his gallery and flips through hundreds of pictures, knowing exactly where to find what he’s looking for. He opens an image of Bruce’s eye, his darker lashes, the flecks of different blues in the iris, a few that edge into brown.

“See? It’s normally not an even color.” Superboy is still frowning, so Tim hastily adds, “It’s really interesting. Must be a Kryptonian thing.” That eases the boy’s expression, back to his neutral smile. 

“Your pupils are always relaxed, too.” He flips back to Superboy’s eye, the pupil much larger than Bruce’s.

“Okay, and?”

Tim blinks at him. “What do you mean ‘and’? We’re basically staring at the Sun right now and your pupils are still relaxed.” 

“Okay,” Superboy says, bemused. 

“I wonder how much light they’d need to constrict… Maybe a floodlight…”

The boy huffs a laugh. “Thanks, but I’d rather not go blind.”

He leans back on his elbows, his shirt stretching over his chest. He watches Tim through his lashes, eyes gleaming. It’s the same expression he gave Cass back in Gotham, though much less exaggerated, like he’s taking it seriously. Like he’s-

Like he’s actually flirting.

Tim swallows and feels his face burn. He looks down at his camera, practicing the breathing technique Bruce taught him; even breaths and visualization to slow his heart rate. 

Though the Supers are their allies and friends, after a while the lack of privacy starts to grate on people’s nerves. It’s something the Justice League treats very delicately, much like J’onn’s telepathy. It’s part of their nature, after all, part of how they navigate the world. It would be unfair to tell them to just… stop. If that’s even possible.

Except Batman, of course. He always gives Superman a glare and a lengthy talk after mentions of his heart rate and breathing, or worse, an X-ray for injuries. The world shivers when Batman finds out that someone’s worried about his health.

“You don’t know innately?” Tim asks. “How much light your eyes can take in, I mean.” All the information packed into Superboy’s brain is extremely detailed in some areas and confusingly lacking elsewhere.

“Nope,” he pops the ‘p’. “I can see in the dark.”

Tim suspects that they simply didn’t think of certain things. Superman can see in the dark and the opposite doesn’t really matter, does it?

But. Some missing information seems deliberate, almost. Sinister. He knows very little about things like fast food or Mary Shelley or building a snow man. Average, every day human experiences. Theoretically, with certain gaps in knowledge, Superboy would still know how to save people and punch things, but the world would be foreign enough to keep him under control. 

But that’s just conjecture.

He moves around the picture of Superboy’s eye, still zoomed in to see the minutiae. The pink corner of his eye is larger and paler than a human’s, which must be the nictitating membrane peeking out. Altogether not that different from the fauna on Earth. He flips back to Bruce’s eye to mark the differences in his head.

“Whose eye is that?" 

Tim blinks. It’s not like this is revealing information, but… He doesn’t like playing with Batman’s secrets, no matter how small. 

“Someone I know.”

Superboy lifts his eyebrows. There’s a sharp edge to his voice when he says, “Very specific.”

Tim looks at him, slightly confused, but just sighs. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry, but… Secret identity stuff.”

The boy tilts his head, the sunlight catching on the curve of his jaw. “Bet your eyes are real pretty.”

He freezes. He has to keep practicing that breathing technique, because Superboy glances down at his chest, a smirk growing on his face. Tim glares at him. 

Two can play at that game.

He hums and leans forward, casting a shadow over Superboy’s face, blocking the sunset. He makes for a perfect picture, his shirt pulling across his chest, his neck bared as looks up to make eye contact. Tim lines up the shot, watching those bright blue eyes widen in the viewfinder.

He lowers his voice, smooth and intimate. “I could show you. If you make it worth my while.” 

Snap.

Tim pulls away with a smirk. Superboy lets out a shaky breath. He’s flushed pink, fingers twitchy, like he wants to reach out. Now this is a picture for his bedroom wall. 

…That sounds creepy.

“If you finish Brave New World, maybe.” 

Superboy collapses on the roof with a groan, draping an arm over his face.

“You’ll have to start someday, you know.” Superboy is officially homeschooled at the moment, but the Kents were very insistent on enrolling him into public school, which will start as soon as his civilian identity is decided on. “The Great Gatsby, Catcher in the Rye, To Kill a Mockingbird-”

“Stop! Robin… It hurts…” He holds a hand out, shaking dramatically, like he’s growing weak from a chunk of Kryptonite. Tim huffs a laugh.

“I still don’t get why it’s so hard. Can’t you read super fast?” 

‘Like Superman,’ he doesn’t say. He’s found that these comparisons don’t go over very well, positive or negative. It’s one of those things that Tim just can’t seem to figure out. Sometimes it’s like Superboy hates Superman, resenting the power and influence over his life, other times he has that adoring shine to his eyes. Tim hasn’t brought it up, though he’s burning with the need to know. 

That… has been happening more lately. A deep and primal need to know every one of Superboy’s thoughts, how his brain works, what he likes, what he dislikes, anything and everything. It’s a familiar kind of obsession that he’s experienced many times in his life, but never directed at a person. 

A topic, a subject, a symbol like Batman and Robin? Yes. An actual person? Never.

Superboy crosses his arms. “Just ‘cause it’s fast for you doesn’t mean it’s fast for me.”

Tim considers that. “Touché.” 

He crosses his legs and turns back to the sunset, letting a comfortable silence settle over them. He takes a few more pictures and scrutinizes those, too.

Eventually, Superboy starts to fidget. The Sun is halfway below the horizon, a shining spot of light above the golden wheat field. Tim glances at him, curious. He’s lying on his back, hands clasped on his stomach. His legs are crossed at the ankles, one of them bouncing.

Superboy makes eye contact. “I know you wanna ask.” 

Tim blinks. He hesitates. “You’re gonna have to choose a name eventually. You don’t even like ‘Superboy’.”

His mouth twists. “It’s- It’s fine. There’s nothing else to call me anyway.”

Tim looks down at his camera, flipping through his pictures of the sunset, not really seeing any of them. “There would be, if you chose one.”

“Yeah. Duh. But it’s not that easy,” he snaps. Tim doesn’t take it to heart. This isn’t about him, clearly. He’s not the one who brought it up.

“Why not?”

“Because that’s not how it works! People don’t name themselves!”

“...They do. All the time.”

When has that ever bothered Superboy? How things ‘work’? What ‘normal’ is? Nothing about him has ever been normal. 

Ah.

Superboy huffs, frustrated. “Yeah, well. Whatever.”

“But you don’t want to.”

The boy turns his head until Tim can’t see his expression, his leg bouncing as he does.

“It… It’s stupid. I don’t… I’ve never had…”

Tim hesitates, but eventually puts his cameras aside and shuffles closer, laying down on his back and pressing their sides together. Comforting, he hopes. He watches the cloudless sky.

“It’s not stupid,” he says. 

And the dam breaks.

“It sucks. It sucks to fucking pop out of a tube and have no one.” 

He jostles Tim as he moves to hug himself. Tim presses closer, his heart cracking at the pain in his voice. 

“Lex was the closest to- anyone. But he- I don’t even know if he cares. Batman had to make my birth certificate. He had to tell me that, sure, I’m half alien, but apparently human enough for cavities and stomach aches and- And I’m sixteen so dating a twentysix-year-old is fucked up.”

Tim feels his blood boil. “It’s not. They’re fucked up for-”

“I know.”

He snaps his mouth shut, eyes trained on the sky.

A moment passes and he thinks he messed up, bad. He thinks he should have addressed this after all, should have let Superboy know that he was here if he ever wanted to talk. This is clearly bigger than an unconventional name, than getting used to having a secret identity.

Then Superboy continues, quieter, exhausted. Tim squeezes his eyes shut. 

"It sucks. I just want someone to care. To give me a name. Ma and Pa are great, they love me, I know they do, but-” Tim tilts his head, watching him struggle with words. He wants to reach out, but doesn’t know how, doesn’t know if it would be welcome. 

“-I just want it to be Superman.”

His voice cracks and he turns his head, looking into Tim’s eyes. But he’s not, is he? He’s looking at the white lenses of a mask. He would never look through it, never betray Tim’s trust like that, even when vulnerable, when flayed open.

The mask is comfortable. The mask is still.

His chest squeezes. He exhales, shaky, and takes it off.

Superboy’s eyes widen and they’re so close like this, no buffer, no excuse. Superboy reaches out, almost in a daze, then catches himself and drops his hand. But he doesn’t move away, doesn’t stop staring. Tim squirms, fighting past the tangle of emotions in his chest, the fear and the consequences. He’s playing with Batman’s secrets. Robin’s secret. Nightwing’s and everyone who relies on them. 

But he trusts Superboy. 

“I’m sorry.”

Superboy’s eyes shine, wet. “Rob, I just… Is there something wrong with me?” 

Tim clenches his jaw. There’s a fierce rush of protectiveness that envelops him. An overwhelming feeling to take Superboy, steal him away to Gotham and never return. Fuck Superman and fuck everyone else.

He opens his mouth, but how does he even begin to articulate-

Superboy jerks up, digging his hands into his hair, burying his head into his knees.

“What does it say about me, Rob?” And his voice rises with every word. “That Superman can’t even look me in the eyes!”

Tim sits up. He can’t stand this a second longer. He grabs and pulls the boy into his arms, holding on as tight as he can manage. His skin doesn’t have as much give, Tim could never squeeze him strong enough, but he tries.

“Nothing,” he says. Superboy goes limp, burying his face in Tim’s shoulder. “There’s nothing wrong with you. I promise.”

He lifts a hand, carefully combing through Superboy’s hair, arranging his curls in no particular pattern. He feels the boy shiver under his touch.

“Clark Kent can’t see it right now, but I promise he will, because I look at you and- And I see…” Someone who cares so deeply, who’s so smart, so resilient, so good.

Superboy shoves him away and his heart drops. Fuck. 

Then his mask gets pushed onto his face and Tim scrambles to put it back into place. Superboy hastily wipes at his eyes and Tim finally understands what’s happening when the gust of wind tosses his hair and the corners of their blanket.

Superman is smiling gently as he hovers in the air and Tim has to crane his neck to look him in the eye. “Robin. Superboy.” His smile falters as he watches them and Tim bristles. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” he says, curt.

There’s a line between his brows, so similar to Superboy, but it quickly smoothes out. “Sorry for barging in like this! I wanted to talk to you. Both of you, if you have the time?”

A part of him wants to reply something snarky, something ‘Batman’, but the thought vanishes as quickly as it came. He’s not quite brave enough for that, though he’s sure Bruce would get a kick out of it. Dick, too. As much as he admires Superman, he loves pushing people’s buttons even more.

Superboy leans past him and there’s that familiar cocky, fake grin on his face. Nothing seems off about him, no red eyes, no frown, not a hint that he was baring his soul just seconds ago. “I dunno, I’ll have to check my schedule.”

Tim thins his lips, but Superman just lifts his eyebrows, amused. 

Huh…

They share a look, suspicious, and Superman’s smile becomes a bit strained.

“I wanted to thank you for being so thorough in your… mission. I was impressed.”

Tim perks up, despite it all. There’s still a bitter knot in his chest, but he can’t help it when Superman is impressed.

Superboy is practically glowing. He straightens under the man’s gaze, but falters ever so slightly, because Superman’s not looking him in the eyes, not really. Just an inch to the right. Seriously? Tim feels his blood boil, even more when the man turns to watch the sunset instead, solemn. The sky is starting to darken, the Sun dipping below the horizon.

“I wanted to suggest a sort of trial run to see your progress in person.” They blink at him. “Now, there are some rules you’ll have to follow and I can’t say when the next,” he gets an exasperated look in his eyes, “disaster will happen, but I’d appreciate the help.” He turns back to them, hovering in the air. “What do you think?”

Tim watches Superboy as his fists clench, digging into their blanket. He stands up and dusts himself off, and Tim stays still, melting into the background of this conversation.

“Why?” Superboy asks. His voice is airy, but his shoulders are stiff, head held high. “Why now?”

Superman pauses. He drifts down onto the roof and the slant of it puts them at the same height. His cape billows in the wind. The last rays of sunlight dip below the horizon, letting the sky melt into a deeper blue. Two pairs of Kryptonian eyes shine in the dark.

“I wanted to let you acclimate. I understand that this,” he gestures at the farm, “is very different from what you’re used to. Plus, the press has finally stopped hounding the League about Superboy.” There’s a strange twist to his mouth. It looks eerily close to Bruce after an exhausting gala. “Mostly.”

Superboy shoots Tim a look and he tilts his head, just a twitch. That wasn’t a lie, which he’s sure Superboy heard from his heartbeat, but it’s not the whole truth either.

“Okay. A trial run. Sure.”

Superman smiles and nods. “Good! I’ll call for you. Keep an ear out.” 

Call with a phone or yell and hope that Kryptonian hearing does the rest? It’s not like they have Clark Kent’s number.

Superboy nods wearily.

“I’ll leave you be, then.” He turns to Tim with that patented all-American charm. “Tell Batman I said hi.”

Tim thinks, in the gust of wind that follows, that one day he’ll convince people Batman and Robin aren’t joined at the hip. “Right,” he says into thin air. 

They sit in the silence of Superman’s departure, feeling a hole where he used to be. A usual side effect of all of that ‘Hope’ and ‘Justice’ and blah blah blah. Tim generally tries not to buy into the symbol too much, and forces himself to see the person behind the costume. Because those two are separate; Superman and Clark Kent, Batman and Bruce Wayne, as much as Bruce himself disagrees. 

After a lengthy silence, Superboy sits down beside him, presumably once Clark is out of earshot. Or at least, as out of earshot as he can be.

Then he smiles. A wide, toothy grin that dimples his cheeks and reaches his eyes. He jerks forward, grabs Tim’s shoulders and shakes. He goes along with it, his head bouncing back and forth, his own smile rising slowly.

“You did it, Rob! The mission! The reports! Holy crap!” He cackles.

Tim grins. “Are you kidding? We did it.”

Then Superboy tackles him and he laughs. He gets dragged up a few inches off the roof, twirling in the air. His heart skips a beat. 

That quickly sours when he gets twisted upside down with the pink glow of telekinesis.

He crosses his arms and glares. “I take it back. I did it. You get none of the credit.”

Superboy laughs and Tim gets dragged into another spin in the air.

When he returns to the Batcave, Bruce is leaning back in his chair, cowl off, the smallest smile on his face. Tim walks over and gets a look at the computer. It’s the Watchtower’s database. 

‘Untitled Superboy Mission’ is marked as a complete, total success.

It feels good to be in his suit again. The sunglasses and the leather jacket (he’s been wearing those, though not as often as he used to), they were just wrong without the whole superhero get-up. But now-

Superboy is back, baby!

He scans the battlefield, which is in the middle of Metropolis, as usual. Superman is trying to corral the aliens in those sleek and shiny robot suits (or are they the robots?) out of the city, not that it’s working very well. He’s too busy avoiding them, not engaging as much as he usually does, but whatever. Who is he to question the Great Superman?

What’s up with all these aliens, anyway? They sure love to trash the Earth. And how do they keep getting past the Green Lanterns? Are they twiddling their thumbs up there?

He drifts through the air like one of Lex’s security drones, close to the ground and listening for heartbeats, focusing past the noise of cracking and crashing alien metal (some kind of weird composite material).

Well, he’s (half) alien, too, but he was made on this blue marble, he’s as human as they come. (At least as human as the Amazons and Atlanteans.)

But no, seriously, where are the Lanterns? Are these robots or just suits? Are they sapient? They definitely do more punching than speaking. Terrible intel all around. Why's it only Robin who tells him anything?

Robin. He pretends like he’s all mysterious and stoic (like Batman, and wow he’s bad at hiding how much of a fanboy he is) but he’s so kind and smart and inspires Superboy to be a better hero. A better person. Before Robin he never would have agreed to Superman’s patronizing trial run.

He’ll prove himself, because Robin believes in him.

His heart beats in his chest, quick as a rabbit. He sighs. Right on cue, there’s that warm flutter in his stomach. (Always when he thinks of Robin.) He smacks his cheeks twice. Not the time. 

That’s when it reaches him, the sound of a wailing child. Three heartbeats, frantic and fast beneath the rubble of destroyed buildings.

His TTK takes the full hit of a red laser beam and he whirls around with a grimace. There’s a robot towering over him, the metal of its body arranged in jagged points, shifting minutely as it aims a massive gun straight at his head. He takes a second to check his hair in the shiny reflection, then a quick jab makes the hunk of junk stumble back and fall on its ass. He sticks his tongue out and darts away to search for the three civilians. There, under a mountain of rubble. He lands with a thud. 

He grabs a steel beam and lifts it easily, but slowly. It’s best to be careful. One wrong move could make the entire mess collapse and immediately crush these people. The steel screeches from the strain, moving the rock and rubble around it, and he extends his shield to catch the glass that rains down. 

“Go!” 

It's two men and a toddler caked in dust and dirt. The adults are too panicked to do anything other than run for it, so the kid gets left behind, crying his eyes out. He curses, tossing the beam aside with a crash. 

“Where’s your mom, little dude?” The tiny guy just cries, big ol’ tears that feel like a gut punch. He scoops him up, ducking under another laser aimed at his head. “Or where’s your dad? Because I’m progressive like that.”

He darts away from a hit, the robot’s shiny metal arm swinging down like thunder. Yeesh.

He’s itching for a fight. He’s been craving one for ages now and as much as he appreciated Robin’s invite to Gotham (which was the kindest thing anyone has ever done for him), it didn’t do much for his cabin fever.

But it’s fine. This is probation or whatever (even though he didn’t do anything to get thrown in Smallville prison), so he has to be a good little Superboy and hang back, rescuing civilians and staying out of the way.

He’s starting to really feel Robin’s frustration about being benched.

He folds the toddler into his telekinetic shield and flies high into the air to search for a distressed parent. He doesn’t find anyone, just random people fleeing in every direction. Okay, so, it’s not like they’re going to have a neon sign above their heads: ‘Toddler here, please!’ But he’s trying his best, okay?

A laser hits his shield and he flies out of the way, grimacing, weaving through shot after shot. Two of the robots seem to have gotten bored of Superman and started marching in his direction. It’s not hard to guess the trajectory of their beams, but they’re smarter than the usual bad guys, trying to aim for where he’s going, rather than where he was seconds ago. (Because hello? Super speed? Get with the program, bad guys!)

He dodges well enough, but doesn’t expect a laser to refract on the shiny window of a skyscraper (stupid mistake) and gets clipped and flung a few feet in the air. He hisses, curling around the crying boy. 

The robots obviously catch on (okay, actually, don’t get with the program) and start aiming for both him and the windows everywhere around him.

“Kid, as much as I don’t mind babysitting, I’m not even getting paid for this-”

He’s dodging from every angle now and focusing on the shield and scanning the area for a safe place to put the toddler down and he’s good at multitasking, but not that good-

There’s a sharp burn between his shoulder blades and he’s sailing through the air, the world rushing by, right at a skyscraper that’s already crumbling. The few seconds are enough to twist and take the full brunt of the impact instead of the kid, (crash, boom), but it shakes the entire building. For a moment he’s terrified that he’ll have to hold up a skyscraper with a toddler in his arms. 

But it stabilizes and he sighs in relief, half-stuck in a crater on the wall. 

“Superboy!” 

He groans, “I’m fine,” and stumbles onto the floor, dust raining down on his head. (Man, his hair.) He adjusts his sunglasses and sighs. It’s cool to know someone cares, at least. (Was that Superman?)

The little boy is fine, glowing a faint pink from his TTK and still crying. A good (?) sign. He shakes himself and looks around. He got blasted into some kind of office with cubicles and computers. (Ew.) Is that a fax machine? Who uses fax machines?

He’s not dumb enough to fly out from where he came (and get a faceful of laser beam), so he sends a quick ‘sorry’ to whoever owns this building and turns to kick the broken wall down. (Pow!) The wall cracks, rather than breaks, and he blinks at the concrete. He rears back and kicks as hard as he can. It finally blasts apart.

They’re red laser beams. It must have a wavelength similar to red sun radiation, weakening his super strength. He frowns. He’s half human so he’s a little more resilient to things like red suns and Kryptonite, but this doesn’t bode well for Superman. 

Oh. That’s why he was so focused on dodging.

He floats out of the building and looks around. There aren’t any robots here, though there’s plenty of destruction, rubble and smashed cars. He spots a small crowd of civilians looking around frantically, like they’re not sure where to run. 

How far was he flung? He squints off into the direction he came from and counts around five miles, not bothering with the decimals. Yikes.

He drifts down to the crowd. “Anyone looking for a kid?”

The people turn to him, startled, but quickly calm down. He puffs up with pride, smiling. (They still remember him? Or is it just the shield on his chest?)

“Listen, you gotta get out of here. There’s a shelter-” He sweeps his gaze across the city and shifts the kid in his arms, pointing northwest. “-that way.”

A man pipes up. “A homeless shelter. I know the one.” A few others nod in agreement.

“All right, cool. You lead the way.” He blinks down, noticing the distinct lack of baby cries. The boy seems to have tired himself out, starting to doze in his arms. “Okay, but seriously, can someone take him? I don’t know where his parents are, but-”

A woman splits from the crowd with a little girl holding her hand. She looks determined, headstrong, but there’s a line of stress around her eyes. “I’ve got him.”

He projects the most reassuring grin he can, cocky and casual. Even if the attitude annoys people, it does the job of distracting them.

“Thanks a bunch.” He drops the shield and hands the toddler over. He winks at the little girl and she giggles. “You guys head out. Superboy’s got this, no problem.”

He’s already spent a bit too much time unaccounted for. Stupid probation. Who knows how Superman will react if he’s out of sight for too long. He can’t afford to waste this opportunity Robin got for him. (All of that work down the drain? Absolutely not.)

He steels himself and takes off into the sky, slow enough to shoot the crowd one last grin and a two-fingered salute, then darts away with a sonic boom. 

He weaves between buildings, his TTK shielding his poor hair and glasses from the wind. Through the concrete and metal of skyscrapers, he spies the robots that blasted him away. They’ve refocused on Superman, but a little payback surely can’t hurt. 

He arrives in the blink of an eye and comes to a sudden stop. The pure force of the wind is enough to send the junkbot flying towards Superman. He’d rather not punch them at that speed and put a fist straight through them, just in case there’s a living thing in there.

He dodges under a red beam, noting with a grin that Superman smacked the robot down like a volleyball. A good ol’ one-two.

A few more blasts miss him as he darts around (serpentine, serpentine) and listens for heartbeats, scanning the street. There’s no one left, but he does another sweep just to be sure, because Robin’s paranoia has started rubbing off on him. Annoying. (But it sends his heart racing. It’s like Robin is here, even when they’re apart.)

He ducks and frowns at the punchable robot but reluctantly flies around it. “Come and get me, bolts for brains!” That should be enough to draw it towards Superman.

Who seems to be handling things well. He’s thrashing the last few robots and his eyes burn red, shooting twin lasers past Superboy and knocking out his little friend back there. He sighs wistfully. He could’ve done that, too.

It happens in the blink of an eye. Superman gets struck from behind and he yells, dropping a few feet in the sky. Superboy flinches, jerking forward on instinct, but stops. He can’t engage. Those are the rules.

Superman turns around to retaliate, so he doesn’t see the shots coming, one refracted from a window, another two heading straight for his back.

This time he can’t stop himself.

His shoulders hit Superman’s, back to back, and he sweeps his arms wide. His shield reflects every shot, smashing into the concrete below. Huh.

“Superboy! Stay back!” 

He ignores the warning and focuses on the robots. This time he’s ready, intercepting one beam, calculating the angle and reflecting it right back at the robot. It’s smart, though. It brings its arms up to block the hit, already aiming the next shot.

Not smart enough.

Superboy grins as the beam flies past robot number one and hits number two behind it, reflecting off of its shiny dome and nailing both of them. They stop in their tracks, their guns fizzled out, and he takes the opening. He darts forward, leaning into the momentum for a roundhouse kick. The metal shrieks and they go flying. Crash. Boom.

He floats there, adjusting the collar of his jacket, waiting. But nothing happens.

Looks like they’re down and staying down.

He drifts higher, well above any buildings, and looks at the mess of broken robots scattered across the city. Most of them are in pieces, sparking and spitting out plumes of smoke. 

Superman is beside him in the blink of an eye. He grimaces at the wind that nearly sends his glasses flying.

And takes a deep breath. Time to face the music.

“Are you okay?”

The question catches him off guard, but he’s gotten a lot of practice reacting to Robin’s whacko behavior, so he has enough sense to reply. “Yeah. You?”

Superman nods with a smile. “Thanks for the save.”

Superboy stares at him, eyes wide. Superman lifts an eyebrow, but he still has eyes on the battlefield. No doubt checking his work. (Great. As if he hasn’t gotten enough schoolwork from Robin.)

They whip their heads up at a shrill sound in the exosphere. Superboy squints and sees that the Watchtower finally got a good angle, blasting the mothership out of orbit. It gets caught in the gravity of the moon, slingshotting and heading straight for Mars. Not a direct hit, of course, but a little too close for comfort. Both of them wince.

Superman’s comm crackles, “Superman, report.” 

The man turns his head slightly to the right and Superboy follows the angle on instinct. He’s probably searching for the Watchtower, or more likely, someone on the Watchtower.

He focuses his vision as well, spying Batman on the monitors, flipping through images of cities hit by the invasion. A few heroes are gathered around, waiting for him to delegate, while others are already punching coordinates into the Zeta-Tube.

“Batman. All clear in Metropolis. Do you want me to pursue?”

“No, Lantern has it handled.” There’s an edge to his voice, clearly annoyed that Green Lantern didn’t have it handled before the stupid aliens touched down on Earth. Superboy crosses his arms, satisfied. Great minds think alike, after all.

Batman continues, “Do you need backup? You were hit the worst.” 

Superman smiles while he takes a second to think, probably an automatic gesture. Superhero-ing does that to you. Always smiling and reassuring and radiating hope like a tonne of uranium.

“Yes,” he decides, glancing at Superboy. A bitter feeling bubbles in his gut. What, is he not good enough for clean-up? But it all dissipates when Superman says, “Is Diana busy? J’onn?”

He gapes at the names, casually thrown around, and snaps his mouth shut before he can blurt out something embarrassing. Sure, Wonder Woman and Martian Manhunter (he can just shapeshift) don’t actually do much to hide their identities, but where the heck did this trust come from? He’s- Why is he tearing up, dammit?

He catches Superman looking, a soft expression on his face, and he looks away to adjust his sunglasses. He focuses his vision and finds his crowd of people, miles in the distance and halfway to the homeless shelter. The toddler is asleep in the woman’s arms. (Phew.)

Batman sighs. “Codenames.” 

“B, we’re more than two thousand feet in the air, I’m pretty sure we’re safe.”

“I have drones looking right at you. I could easily fly them closer.”

“Not before I’d shoot ‘em down.”

“I built them to withstand anti-armor munitions.”

“But are they fast enough to catch me?”

A pause.

“Insufferable.”

“You love it!”

The comm shuts off.

Superman just grins, fond, and Superboy is starkly reminded of the way he banters with Robin. His face scrunches. Those are some horrific implications.

Robin. He can’t wait to get home and text Robin. This was awesome and he saved a bunch of people and Superman himself and Robin’s going to have that smile where he pretends not to care, but his heart speeds up just a bit-

Screw that, he’s calling Robin right now. He fumbles with the zipper of his pocket, digging his phone out. This shaky, giddy need to talk to Robin is embarrassing, but nothing new. Every time something funny or strange or mildly interesting happens, he wants to call Robin and tell him all about it. He wants to hang out, to just sit in the same room, to watch the sunset from the barn or a Gotham rooftop (because he loves that dump of a city so much). 

They could make a thing of it, who knows? Robin looked so calm and relaxed, so carefree when they watched the sunset. Maybe this time… Maybe he would wear something casual and take off that mask again (those baby blue eyes, the slight flush on his cheeks). They could pack something to eat, like a picnic, or just grab some burgers. They’d be sitting close, pressed against each other, and he could lean in and Robin would let him-

Superman clears his throat. “Superboy.”

He jolts and nearly drops his phone. He jams it back into his pocket. “Superman.”

The man’s smile jumps a little, amused. He’s looking him in the eyes and Superboy holds his breath, nearly chokes on it. “I wanted to apologize for the way I’ve treated you.” 

He watches, eyes wide.

“You didn’t deserve that. It was my mess to deal with and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

A ‘mess’. Understatement of the year.

He shifts in place, drifting a few inches in the air. “Um. It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” Superman places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. He can’t help but melt into the touch. A part of him is still bitter and angry about everything, but he’s wanted this for so long. For Superman to acknowledge him, to look at him. “I understand if you can’t forgive me, but I truly am sorry.”

“I forgive you,” he blurts out, wincing as soon as the words leave his mouth.

Superman blinks. “Thank you! That means a lot.”

Superman lets go and he can finally breathe again. 

“What I’m trying to say is: you did a great job today.”

He crosses his arms, shoulders hiked up to his ears. He feels his face burn. “Well, y’know. Just another day for Superboy.”

They stall for a moment and he dares to glance up at Superman’s face. He looks a little awkward, clearly gearing up to say something. 

The man huffs and quirks a smile. “Superboy, I’d like to invite you to the Fortress. There’s something I want to show you.”

The Fortress of Solitude? 

His phone buzzes in his jacket. He freezes. That has to be Robin. 

His hand moves to unzip his pocket but stops halfway. He looks up at Superman, who lifts an eyebrow, a playful smile on his face.

“I, uh. Yeah, the Fortress. That would be cool.”

His phone buzzes again. He scrunches his nose.

“Do you have somewhere to be? If you’re busy, we can talk about this later.”

“Um.” There’s no way he can blow off Superman and the Fortress of Solitude, but- His phone buzzes again and again. He unzips the pocket and stuffs his hand inside, silencing the stupid thing. His thumb brushes over the bat sticker.

Superman puts his hands on his hips. “That’s Robin, right?” Superboy flushes and the man gets a glint in his eyes. “It’s okay, really. I can make this short.”

Superboy nods, shoving both hands in his pockets. They float above the city, the Sun high in the sky. Metropolis shines around them, through the plumes of smoke and heaps of rubble.

“I would be honored if you joined the House of El.”

He hears the words, understands them individually, but can’t quite put them together. Blood rushes in his ears.

“Kryptonians are much like humans, where family isn’t decided by blood alone. Family is chosen. The House of El has adopted cousins before and…” 

His eyes wrinkle with a smile. “I’ll tell you, show you the full story in the Fortress, but for now… I’d be honored if you accepted the name ‘Kon-El’, just as you did ‘Kent’.”

Wait, he already had Kent? Is that why Batman called him Kent? Why does nobody tell him anything?

His eyes burn. His hands shake in his pockets. “I- Yeah- That-” 

He clears his throat and watches the brilliant, yellow Sun. The shining skyscrapers, apartments and offices, parks and playgrounds. In the distance, the acres of grass and crops, some wild, some portioned out in neat squares. Oceans across the planet, mountains that touch the clouds. People in the billions laughing and crying. It seems so long ago when he was just a confused little thing that popped out of a tube. When all he knew were white walls and men in lab coats.

“That would be cool.”

“I’m glad.” Superman’s cape billows in the wind. He lets the moment linger. “Now, I won’t hold you. Go have fun. And tell Robin I said hi!” 

They both turn and see Wonder Woman miles off in the distance, with Martian Manhunter not far behind. Superman shoots him one last smile and nods. “Kon-El.”

And he’s gone. 

Kon-El drifts down onto a rooftop, dazed. His knees buckle. He squeezes the phone in his pocket. 

He cries.

Tim has his eyes glued to the Batcomputer, leaning forward in his chair. A warm sense of pride fills his chest as he watches the battle through Justice League drones. 

Batman’s drones, really, but that’s beside the point.

The feed zooms in on Superman and Superboy high in the sky, probably waiting for backup. They’re talking, but the drone’s too far away to hear anything. He drums his fingers on the table. Should he text Superboy? Right now? Later? 

He’s probably going to be busy cleaning up the wreckage and watching Superman argue with City Council. There’s bound to be a flock of reporters to deal with, too, descending like vultures now that the coast is clear. Other than Lois Lane, of course, who was there the moment the invasion touched down and had to be dragged to safety by Superboy.

He hears the familiar buzz of the Zeta behind him and glances over the back of his chair. It’s Dick and Bruce. They stroll in, loose and casual, and huh, it’s good to see them getting along. Even if it took a world-wide catastrophe.

“Tim!” Dick grins and Tim turns back to the computer. He presses a few keys that tap him into Oracle’s network, spanning across the entire city. There’s nothing exciting going on. Just a few teens spray-painting vulgar stuff on the side of a police station. Honestly, the anatomy isn’t half bad.

“Gotham’s still kicking?”

Tim hums. “Thankfully. The last thing we need are some Decepticons wrecking Arkham.”

Tim watches a deserted Gotham street. Most people are still huddled up inside their homes thanks to the emergency broadcast. People who aren't currently tossing spray paint and running from an angry cop.

“Decepticons? They’re not boxy enough for that.”

“I’m talking about the Michael Bay movie.”

Dick snorts. “Kids these days. No appreciation for the classics.”

He rolls his eyes. “I can’t help it if you’re old.”

“Old? I’m in my prime, thanks-”

“Ew.”

“-and you’ll know that once you’re old enough to drink, Timmy.”

“Boys.” And that shuts them up pretty quickly. A Robin reflex, drilled into them over years of running across rooftops and fighting at Batman’s side. It’s a little creepy sometimes.

Dick and Bruce stop by the computer, the latter still in vigilante-mode, so Tim hops up and lets him take the chair. Ever paranoid, Batman pulls up both Arkham’s and the Justice League’s camera feeds. He’s switching between them like a maniac. Not that Tim’s judging. He’d be paranoid too if he had Bruce’s experience, but it’s a little dizzying to watch.

Dick leans against the table. “Anyway.” And Tim braces himself. Here we go. “How’s your boyfriend? Heard he’s on a trial run.”

His cheeks burn against his will. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“You know, I remember my first puppy love-”

“It’s not puppy love-” He snaps his mouth shut. Dick lifts an eyebrow. “It’s not- I’m not twelve. Go away.”

Batman lifts his hand and both of them hone in on it immediately. Except, this time it’s not an order to come over or shut the hell up, because he has Tim’s phone in his hand.

He snatches it back, nearly stumbling, and Dick smiles wide and foreboding. Tim runs around to the other side of Bruce’s seat, far enough to check his notifications without getting harassed. 

Nothing pops up.

“What?”

Bruce doesn’t even look over. “You’re free to leave.”

Leave? In the middle of a world-wide catastrophe? Leave?

Tim gapes at him and Dick cackles. “Oh, Timbo, you’re in for it now.”

“Bruce, if you’re saying what I think you’re saying-”

But the Batman doesn’t relent. “Tim. You’re smart enough to know this-" Tim narrows his eyes. “-but it has to be said. You’re young and I can’t stop you, so stay safe. Use protection.”

Dick cackles even harder and he buries his face into his hands. “Bruce. We’re not- He’s not- I’m begging you-”

Bruce twists in his chair to face him, elbows on the armrests, hands steepled. He shoots Dick a sharp look over his shoulder, which finally gets him to shut up. As soon as Bruce turns his back, though, he’s grinning like a shark again.

“Tim, I’m proud of you.” Bruce’s voice is a little gruff, as it always is when doling out compliments, but he’s definitely trying. Tim shifts in place. “I thought this mission would be beneficial for you. I’m glad I was right.”

He sighs and finally asks the question that’s been bugging him for months. “What brought this on?”

Dick snorts, because he truly can’t help himself, the jerk. “You’re so smart, Timmy, but so dumb at the same time.”

He glares and quickly turns back to Bruce. The man takes his cowl off and runs a hand through his hair. There’s a fond, exasperated look on his face. “Kid, I know what ‘lonely’ looks like.”

Tim squeezes his eyes shut, burning with shame and- and gratitude. He steadies his breathing, but can’t even begin to reply. What does he say to that? 

Stop meddling in my life, dammit.

Please don’t look at me like that. 

I swear, if you throw me under the bus again-

I love you?

“All right, B. I think it’s time to stop parenting him before he explodes.” Bruce smirks, ever so slightly, and turns back to the computer.

Dick reaches over the chair to ruffle Tim’s hair and he weakly slaps the hand away, ducking his head. “Go on. Text your, ah, friend.”

Tim glares at him, but does just that, stalking away from annoying, prying eyes. He chews on his lips as he opens Superboy’s chat. What should he even say? Superboy did phenomenally. He knows that because he watched the entire thing, but he doesn’t know if Superman agrees. 

How could he not? You’d have to be willfully blind at this point to not see Superboy’s potential.

He jumps when a shadow appears by his shoulder. Cass wiggles her fingers. Christ.

The cowl is bunched around her neck, her short hair sticking to her cheeks. She smiles and taps at his chest. “From the heart.”

Tim feels his face flush, but smiles back. “Yeah, you’re right. Thanks.”

She gives him a playful wink and saunters off to greet her family. He watches them for a moment, the way Dick gives her a tight hug and Bruce nods with a small smile. They look comfortable. Whole. Complete without him. He lets out a shaky breath and looks down when Dick catches his eyes.

wonder boy: dude i saw the whole thing! you did amazing

wonder boy: really proud of you!!

wonder boy: everything okay with superman???

Tim winces. Maybe that was a little too eager.

wonder boy: that was quick thinking jumping in to save supes

wonder boy: its breaking the rules but it would be kind of hypocritical to call you out for it

He pinches the bridge of his nose. Triple texting is embarrassing enough, let alone quintuple texting.

He taps the side of his phone, faster after every second without a reply. The chat still marks Superboy as offline, but he watches the bottom of the screen regardless, waiting for those dots to appear at the bottom.

“-in Central City.”

“Got it. Where are you going?”

“Aquaman called for backup. We have a malfunctioning dam in Brazil and Terrific is-”

Tim jumps at the buzzing in his hands and hastily unlocks his phone.

BoySuper: meet at home

His heart drops. Something’s wrong and judging from the lack of stupid emojis and text-speak, it’s either time-sensitive or bad. Really bad.

He glances up and Dick is watching him. There’s a strangely serious look on his face. He must have picked up on Tim’s panic. 

He mouths, ‘Go,’ and Tim wastes no time in sprinting over to the Batplane. He jumps into the cockpit and flies through preliminary checks, his foot tapping a rapid rhythm as the Cave readies the launch pad. If Superman did anything to upset Superboy-

…Tim’s not sure what he would do. Only Bruce has access to his Kryptonite stash and that could backfire just as easily, but with some detective work and a little elbow grease he’s sure he could figure it out.

“Rob!” Superboy yells as he slams into the Batplane. Tim wobbles in the cockpit and presses the button to open the hatch. 

“Dude! Batman’s going to kill me if you- Are you crying?!”

Okay, so, there are thirtytwo hiding places he’s aware of in the Cave, but none of them are lined with lead-

“I’m not,” Superboy sputters as he whips around and very obviously wipes the tears off his face. Then he’s back, leaning over the edge of the cockpit and right into Tim’s face. “Okay, fine, I am. But I’m not a wuss-”

Tim rolls his eyes and pushes on Superboy’s face, urging him backwards so he can finally get out of the plane. “I didn’t say you were. And just so you know, I’m adding six more slides to the toxic masculinity presentation.”

Superboy is smiling wide when he finally hops down and lands in front of him. Something about the expression makes Tim pause. It’s so open and affectionate, so fond that he feels his stomach squirm.

“You’re such a loser,” the boy says. But it has none of the bite with that look on his face. Tim fiddles with the bo staff clipped to his waist.

“Are you okay? What happened?”

Superboy just watches him for a long moment and now Tim is really getting worried.

“I can see you spiraling, Rob. I’m fine. Everything okay in Gotham?”

“…Yeah? The invasion never reached us. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Superboy bites his lip and Tim feels his heart flatline.

“Rob.” He smiles, all dimples and radiant eyes. He whispers when he says, “I have a name.”

Tim stares.

Superboy grins down at him. “I have a name!”

It finally sinks in. “You- Wh- Superman gave you-?”

“Yes!” He laughs, just a tinge hysterical. 

Tim runs a hand through his hair, shell-shocked. “Oh my God.”

“Oh my God!”

“Oh my God!” Tim grins and tackles him into a hug. Superboy grabs him tight and spins them around, and he laughs.

“When? How? What is it?!”

“Kon,” he says, pulling away just enough to look each other in the eyes. There’s a child-like wonder in his voice. “It’s Kon-El.” And then the babbling starts. “I can also use Kent, which is obviously gonna be my civilian name, but Kon isn’t exactly human, right? I mean, maybe, but not English. But it has to be similar to Kon, because duh-”

Tim snorts. “Kon, calm down.”

The boy stutters, then laughs, giddy and almost painfully sincere, and Tim becomes abruptly aware that they’re still standing in a loose hug. He clears his throat and pulls away. “I’m really happy for you, man. You deserve this.”

“I have to tell you everything.”

And he does. Kon tells him every excruciating detail of the battle, his hands gesturing wildly. The robots, the people, his inner monologue, saving Superman, and Tim is too busy watching the sunlight shine in his hair, golden on his skin, to interrupt. 

“It was awesome. Seriously.”

“Mhm.”

“Honestly, I did hate ‘Superboy’ at first, but I swear those people recognized me.”

“Mhm.”

“And, like, that’s the point, right? To be a symbol or whatever? A hero.”

“Mm.”

“Rob.”

“Hm.”

“Robin.”

Tim blinks. “Yeah?”

“I…” He seems to brace himself. “This is going to be really embarrassing so shut up for a sec.”

Tim rolls his eyes, but nods.

“You mean a lot to me.”

He-

“I said shut up,” Superboy whines. He drags a hand down his face. There’s a pink flush rising on his cheeks, sweet and rosy, contrasting the color of his eyes. Tim stares, his heart hammering. “Just- Thank you. I don’t care what you say, you made this happen. For me.”

Tim thins his lips, shutting up, even if he wants to insist that it was both of them-

Superboy glares. “Shut.”

“I wasn’t-” He sighs.

Kon grins. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Tim feels his eyes go wide. He’s eternally grateful for this stupid mask.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He turns more and more red with every word, his nose scrunching, like the vulnerability pains him. 

“You’re my best friend and…”

Tim freezes. There’s an ugly, possessive thing in his chest that coils tight. He’s almost trembling with the feeling. “I- Yeah. You’re my best friend, too.” 

Kon snaps to attention, a smirk growing on his face. “You don’t sound happy about that.”

He can feel his palms sweating. “What? No. You’re my best friend.” What is he supposed to say? 

Anything other than ‘I’m obsessed with you.’ 

“You mean a lot to me, too.”

Kon softens and his infuriating smirk drops into a smile. He slowly steps forward, like he’s approaching a skittish animal, and Tim narrows his eyes. He’s close enough to touch, to watch him blink against the wind that tousles his hair. 

“Do you think you could…” Kon lifts his hands and Tim freezes when he reaches for the mask. He doesn’t pull it off, he wouldn’t, he just holds Tim’s face, thumbs brushing over the smooth material.

“Kon,” he warns, voice shaky.

“Please?” 

He squeezes his eyes shut, breathing in, then out. He nods. It’s nothing new, really, Kon has seen his face, but it’s still nerve-racking and he has no idea why.

The mask is taken off, carefully, almost reverent. Kon’s hands are warm against his skin, thumbs caressing his cheeks.

“Your heart’s beating like crazy. Tell me I’m not imagining this.”

Tim watches his bright, unsettling eyes, focused and wide. Desperate. He takes in the red flush on Kon's face, his sloping nose, his jawline, his slightly chapped lips. He finds himself looking at another perfect picture, wishing he had his camera.

But a picture could never do Kon justice. The things that really make him glow; his heart, his mind, his mannerisms. The way he always pays attention, remembering Tim’s favorite things, going along with his whims, distracting him when his mind won’t stop churning. Making him happy.

He can’t snap a picture of this, not really. Of them and their connection. The way they understand each other and poke fun and tease. When they press close and talk quietly, or argue and bicker. The closest he can get is to look up from the camera and-

“You…” He wets his lips and those blue eyes dart down to follow the motion. He huffs a laugh. “You’re not imagining it.”

He’s way too far, the few inches between them is excruciating, and Kon seems to agree because he crowds Tim against the plane and dips down. 

It’s a chaste kiss, all things considered, and not what he’d expect from Superboy, but it makes his heart soar just the same. Kon slides their lips and places a kiss at the corner of his mouth. His breath stutters.

“Say my name.”

He doesn’t know when he started reaching up, but he grabs Kon’s jacket and holds on tight. He blinks out of a haze, “What?”

“My name.” Kon looks up from under his lashes, such an obvious calculated move, and Tim lifts an eyebrow.

“Kon.”

He gets a peck on the lips.

“Kon?”

Another.

“No,” Tim groans. “That’s so corny.”

Kon grins. “Say it, c’mon.” He slides a hand down Tim’s chest and squeezes his waist. He can barely feel it through the armor. He’s never been so frustrated at clothing. “Please?”

He swears his heart is going to burst. “Kon.”

This time the kiss is slower, deeper, and he thinks he could do this forever. He thinks he could handle whatever the world throws at him if he can have this. 

There’s Robin and Batman and an endless fight for justice. So many tragedies, so much pain, but life keeps moving. From an echoing manor to a grieving family, from watching his heroes to stepping in when they needed his help. A new day, new memories, Smallville and Gotham, and another chance to look into those bright blue eyes. Again and again. For as long as he’s able.

They pause between breaths, more for Tim’s sake than anything, and he can feel Kon’s impatience for the few moments that it takes. It sends a thrill up his spine to be wanted like this. He leans in, but just as a tease, smiling against Kon’s lips until he groans.

“Rob, you’re killing me here.”

Tim trails his hands up and around his neck, fingers twitching from nerves. But it’s only fair. A name for a name. “Tim.”

He should’ve run this by Bruce first, but he feels so full. So giddy and reckless.

“Tim?”

His heart skips a beat. “My name.”

Kon grins, crouches down, and Tim yelps. Suddenly he’s looking down at that punchable smirk, held up against the plane by the hands under his thighs. Instinctively, Tim locks his ankles at the small of his back.

Kon watches him with lidded eyes, head tilted just so, something eager in his expression. His hair fall into his eyes, golden in the sunlight. “You wanna do this here or my bedroom?”

Tim makes an embarrassing sound and the boy nods to himself. “Here.”

“Absolutely not.”

He gets pulled off the plane in the blink of an eye.

Tim pushes Kon away from his neck, the damn vampire, and he’s pouting, his lips shiny and swollen red. “What?”

He catches his breath. “Is it cool if I’m kind of codependent?”

“You realize who you’re talking to, right?”

He laughs and Kon doesn’t hesitate, diving back down to bite. Ow.