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The restaurant Kon picked is bougie. Dim lighting and avant-garde ceilings, white tablecloths and real silverware. It’s clear he’s trying to pull out all the stops, really woo Tim Drake with a level of finesse that feels distinctly out of character for the Superboy he knows.
But then again, Tim thought Superboy was straight, so what does he know, really?
And to be fair to Tim, Kon does look a little…uncomfortable, not in a “I’d rather have my eyes stabbed out” kind of way and more a “gosh I hope this goes well” nervous way. It doesn’t take away from how good he looks, of course. A starch-white shirt and dark-brown chinos. His usual jacket traded for a cardigan that does nothing to hide the definition of muscle beneath the polyester weave, leaving him caught between hard and soft, delicate and deliciously masculine.
Tim takes a sip of his water.
At least he kept the glasses. Tim isn’t sure he’d be able to keep himself composed if he were staring directly into those Kryptonian-blue eyes.
“Your appetizer,” the waitress—a woman named Paula or Pauline, Tim had failed to pay attention—announces, setting a plate of charred cabbage, parmesan, pomegranate, and a distinctly sour-floral dressing on the table. It looks delicious.
Tim waits for Kon to start serving before reaching for his silverware, going stock still as Kon dares to serve him first before taking some onto his own small plate, a shy smile playing on his lips.
(Tim hadn’t thought Superboy could make this expression. Before all this—before Kon found him in that coffee shop and asked Tim for his number, Tim certain that Superboy had discovered Robin’s identity—only to be caught two-footed by an ask for a date and a compliment that turned his cheeks painfully red.
Now Tim can’t get enough of that smile.)
They make it through appetizers without Tim lunging across the table to kiss that shy smile, and Tim counts it as a distinct win.
It's as the waitress is setting down the entrees (a steak for Kon and a pasta for Tim) that Tim notices Kon is listening. Not to him, as he has been for the entirety of the night, but to the city. To Gotham.
A few seconds later, his watch buzzes.
Tim takes a moment to mourn. The pasta is good. The setting is romantic. The whole date has been going perfectly. He’d been funny and attentive and he knows he looks good in his suit. Kon had looked, really looked, lingering on the way the cotton pulled across the thighs he’s worked so hard to build and rarely gets to show off.
And then he looks up and sees Kon looking at him with an awkward pull to his lips and knows. The date is over.
Gotham needs them.
“So…” Kon starts, eyes darting away as he searches for an excuse that would force Tim to act cruel or stupid. “I just realized…I um…”
“I have food poisoning,” Tim blurts out before he can think of anything better, anything to stop this careful castle of cards from shattering at their feet. He hopes the flush on his cheeks can be taken as a sign of illness instead of the heart pounding embarrassment it actually is.
Based on how high Kon’s eyebrows have climbed, he doesn’t have much hope.
“The cheese,” Tim scrambles for a lifeline. “I um…my stomach…”
Kon flushes, as much as a kryptonian can (their skin is thicker). “Do you-- I can drop you off.”
“No.” Tim says, too forceful, too final. He watches Kon narrow his eyes and scrambles for a way to soften the blow. “I’m embarrassed” True. “And I just…I’ll call a cab. I just…”
He’s standing, reaching for his wallet before he can think better of it and throws a hundred on the table. His watch buzzes again, three rattles. A B-List rogue--someone like Scareface or Cypher--is just a few blocks away trying to kill someone.
“Sorry,” he adds, grabbing his coat with shaky hands. Kryptonians can’t read minds, but Tim feels skinned bare in front of Kon as he clocks the awkwardness radiating off of both of them. Still, there is no more time for damage control.
“So sorry,” he chokes out as he scrambles for the door.
.
Superboy and Robin save the day.
Which leaves Tim Drake to lie on his bed and plead up at his ceiling like some distant god may strike him down and grant him mercy.
He can’t get Kon’s face out of his head. Even confused, he’s pretty.
Awful. What an awful, wonderful man.
Tim turns to his side and curls into a ball. Maybe if he sleeps he’ll get lucky and smother himself.
His phone buzzes. Probably Steph asking for a friendly update or a well-meaning consolatory text from Dick with an open offer to commiserate the struggles of dating with a secret identity. Neither feel particularly appetizing.
He didn’t even get to eat his pasta. He loves that pasta! He gets it every time Bruce takes him to Mimi’s for dinner.
His phone buzzes again. Tim groans, forcing himself out of his ball to slap blindly at his sidetable and until he finds plastic and glass. If nothing else, he should probably tell them to leave him alone for a bit. Knowing the two of them, he’s likely to wake up with a concerned vigilante hovering menacingly above his bed.
Seeing his chat with Kon at the top of his text messages feels like a kick in a the stomach. Flinging himself upwards, he forces his fingers not to freak out long enough to open the thread.
Kon
Hey!
how are you feeling?
Tim’s chest does something small and painful and bright all at once.
Tim
Im doing better
He types. Hesitates. Deletes. Retypes.
Tim
Sorry about running out on u
Tim doesn’t have to wait long to get a reply.
Kon
its okay! I understand
Tim fights the urge to do something childish (or insane) like scream.
He’s debating how to bring it up, to beg for another chance. Palms sweaty so he has to wipe them on his bedsheet when Kon texts.
Kon
do u think theres a chance I can get a redo
Yes. Yes! Tim wastes no time replying, heart hammering as he bites his bottom lip.
Tim:
Yes! I would love to
Kon
cool
It’s a date then 😊
Tim drops the phone onto the bedspread and wiggles, giggling like a love struck fool. Kon wants another date. Kon wants another date! I haven’t ruined this.
Tim twists onto his back, grinning with an unwarranted self-satisfaction. This time the ceiling looks less bleak.