Chapter Text
The shift of air on his left side, followed by a sharp whistle, made him react before his brain even registered the movement. He dodged Dick’s not-lethal-but-definitely-dangerous strike cleanly. He leaned down, adjusted his grip, and swung his own staff upward, aiming at every vital point. In his mind, they were just numbers: numbers calculating the remaining distance between his height and Dick’s, body mass index, and how fast he’d seen him react over the years during training.
Bruce had drilled that instinct into him, too. He’d learned to keep the data in mind but to understand that his body had to move before the processing was done.
His staff whistled through the air, hitting nothing. Without hesitation, he swung it down hard—still nothing. He focused on the sound.
Tim realized, not for the first time, how much he hated training with Dick.
It wasn’t rational. It wasn’t logical. It was something deeper—something almost altruistic. Because Dick was never a bad teacher. And that was exactly the problem.
Tim, who had prepared so damn hard.
Tim, who knew exactly how much it took to survive every brutal exercise Bruce threw at him.
Tim, who hadn’t been chosen—Tim, who had chosen himself.
Tim, who still felt every cracked rib, every bruise, every sprain, every blackout from pushing too hard.
And still, none of it was ever enough when training with Dick. And it was devastatingly frustrating. Dick didn’t even train to be lethal. He wasn’t like Damian, whose every connected hit could leave you coughing blood for the rest of the day. He wasn’t like Jason, whose style was built around how much damage he could inflict until you were down and broken. Dick was rough, sure, but his blows never left more than a bruise.
Dick always held back—and even with that, Tim still wasn’t enough.
The smallest differences didn’t escape him: height, weight, body mass—none of it was so wildly out of proportion that there should’ve been such a massive gap between them. And yet… and yet—
A shift, the ground trembles slightly—Tim knows something’s coming. High or low? He doesn’t think, he drops, palms flat on the ground for balance, and feels Dick’s staff graze his hair. He pushes off, twists, and kicks toward where he knows Dick’s knees are. A brush of contact, Dick must’ve jumped out of the way.
He shot back up fast, weapon held high, tracking the sound.
“You’re...” Dick starts, but his voice isn’t coming from the front. It’s behind him. Tim feels a chill. How the hell did he get back there? He shifts position. “A little distracted today.”
God damn Dick’s bullshit emotional intelligence and his uncanny, irritatingly accurate guesses about what everyone else was feeling. Tim knew he should’ve been born with that useless trait, because Bruce sure as hell had never been good with words.
Tim hummed and swallowed hard before answering. He wasn’t about to admit Dick was right—but lying outright would’ve been even stupider.
“I was thinking.”
Footsteps—Dick was circling him now. Tim could practically picture the look of disbelief on his face at that answer. He didn’t move, just focused on the sound, on bare feet against the floor, on the vibration.
“You’re always thinking.” Dick said. Tim’s nerves tightened, not knowing when the strike would come—or why he even cared right now. “Nothing new.”
A cut of air, and Tim almost ate the hit full-on. He blocked it at the last second with his staff. The screech of contact, and then he forced enough pressure to push Dick back slightly. He used the opening to hook his leg around the older man’s ankle, a sharp kick. Dick resisted for a moment before going down. Tim shifted his grip to drive the staff toward his ribs—but Dick was fast. Tim felt him roll, and before he could react, metal swept his legs out from under him. He didn’t even have time to brace against it.
“Tim…”
He didn’t want to hear it. Suddenly everything about Dick pissed him off: the concern, the condescension, the indulgence, the training, the sweat, his goddamn breathing.
Hit to kill, he wanted to say, but that sounded too much like something Damian would say. And logically, if Dick ever stopped holding back with him, he’d probably end up bedridden for days—days he couldn’t afford to lose, days that would be wasted not training, not helping, being useless.
At least the injuries that let him keep moving still let him be useful. He wasn’t going to be dead weight.
But there was another part of his mind—one that craved the pain, because pain meant progress, because suffering was mandatory for growth. He wanted the strain, the broken bones, the taste of blood when he pushed himself past breaking. He missed training so hard he couldn’t move after. Though now, that wasn’t a luxury he could afford.
With blood boiling, he pushed himself up in one swift motion. Dick was still close—but where…?
Right. He sensed it before it happened. He swung—and this time, the staff connected. But it wasn’t enough to keep himself from going down again. He heard Dick’s sharp inhale and his head hit the ground.
“Tim, seriously—”
Tim almost screamed at him. He had no idea how he managed to swallow it down.
“Dick, stop.”
“But—”
“Richard Grayson. Stop.”
Tim stayed down, because as much as he hated his brother’s concern, Dick was right. He wasn’t stupid enough to deny his own limits, or naive enough to dump everything all at once. His tone was a warning, but also a plea—just wait a damn second, let me think, for God’s sake.
He sighed. There wasn’t much to think about, really. He clicked his tongue and yanked the blindfold off, blinking against the harsh cave lights and the sight of Dick standing in front of him.
He blinked a few more times. Dick held out his hand. He wasn’t going to take it, but he did, and somehow the knot in his throat loosened just enough to let him breathe.
“I’ve got patrol with Kon.” he started, and Dick, in his infinite wisdom and perfect sense of timing, just steadied him—nothing more. Tim cleared his throat, trying to push the words out. It wasn’t like they hadn’t talked about this before—hell, every single member of this weird, dysfunctional family had listened to him cry himself hoarse over the half-Kryptonian, but it was still hard, still the kind of discomfort that offered no relief. “It’s hard.” he admitted. “Being around him. After everything.”
Even with himself, he struggled to make peace with what happened. How could he? He’d seen him die.
He’d watched life drain from his body.
He could still feel the warmth of the blood on his arms, the burn in his throat, the tears. Every failed attempt to bring him back—and how every failure made him want to die a little more.
Having Kon back was a reminder that he’d failed ninety-nine times.
He was happy to have him back. Really, he was. He just couldn’t seem to express that happiness louder than the pain that still lingered—pain rooted in past and present, pain he’d probably never fully outrun, because he’d failed. And Kon was here now—but not because of him.
“Why?” Dick asked as they headed for the elevator. Bruce wouldn’t have been happy with the staffs left lying on the floor, or the mess they’d made. But Bruce wasn’t home.
It was a fair question, one Tim actually had an answer for. But that wound was too deep—even for his most emotionally intelligent brother.
So he redirected. Asked the thing that had been sitting in the back of his mind for a while now. Now was the time.
“What did you feel when Jason… you know… died?” he asked carefully. In the elevator now, he watched Dick’s face twist—not quite into a grimace, but close.
A beat of silence, and then:
“We weren’t that close back then, you know.” Dick said, glancing back at him. “I think the thing that comes to mind the most is how badly I felt like I’d failed him. Jason. But also Bruce.”
Tim frowned. Not the answer he’d expected. Especially not from Grayson. Wasn’t he supposed to be the smart one?
“It wasn’t your responsibility.” he said, because it was obvious. Grayson didn’t owe Bruce anything back then, and even less to Jason—who, let’s face it, was a replacement, though the word “replacement” was basically banned in this house.
“It wasn’t.” Dick agreed, with a huff and a half-smile, stepping out as the elevator opened into the manor. “It wasn’t my responsibility. But I worried about Bruce. And I couldn’t help but feel like a hypocrite for that. I worried about him, but what, I didn’t see that leaving him alone would make it worse? That raising Jason after abandoning him could be… dangerous? None of that was my fault. But I thought it anyway.” Tim followed, silent. “Because when you care about someone, you’re supposed to care about what they’re dealing with, too. Jason was… difficult, to put it mildly. But he was a kid. If I’d been around more, maybe…” He stopped—just the words, not his feet. Tim noticed he was leading him to the kitchen.
“It wasn’t your fault.” Tim said, when Dick didn’t continue. Because it was the truth. And because it was still obvious.
In a way, what Dick said felt too familiar. Too close. And in a way, Tim hated how much sense it made. Because it felt good—having someone who understood always felt good. But it also scared him. Dick still carried something that happened years ago. If Tim didn’t know him so well, he’d think it didn’t affect him anymore. But Tim could see the signs: the tension in his shoulders, the steady, level tone he kept through every sentence—results of years of discipline. Because Bruce only taught repression, and release through fists—never through words.
But Dick was different.
Dick had always been different.
He could vault that wall, bypass the conditioning, express what he felt.
Tim had always admired that about him. He always knew what to say, what to do.
And now, seeing him, hearing him talk about family, he realized it wasn’t about jumping the barrier. It was about living with it. Because after all these years, Dick still carried it—probably without even realizing it.
“I think of Bruce as my dad. I know you do too.” Dick said, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and tossing another over the kitchen island to Tim. “Bruce is Batman. And Batman eats Bruce alive. You said it yourself: Batman needs a Robin.”
“What are you saying?” Tim asked, not quite following.
“That even Batman needs backup sometimes. And I—back then, the only backup he had—I left. I knew he couldn’t be alone, and I left. I failed him. And for a long time, I was proud that it hurt him.” He took a sip of water, while Tim sat down with his bottle still unopened. “Then Jason happened, and I couldn’t stop the guilt, because I knew I’d failed him. And yeah, the gods know Nightwing is better than I ever was as Robin, but that didn’t erase what I felt.”
It pissed Tim off, just a little but enough to make him say:
“You’ve always been—and you still are—the best of us.”
The best of us.
Tim rolled the words around in his mind. He’d included himself. Did he even deserve to?
Contrary to what Tim had expected, Dick just looked at him for a moment, then laughed. Like the words had thrown him off balance, or like he couldn’t believe they’d come from Tim.
Jason, Damian, Steph, Cass—even fucking Superman—knew it. Richard Grayson had always been the best. The golden son . Untouchable. None of them could beat him clean—not even close (well, except Clark, but he’s Superman). There was no way Dick didn’t know that after all these years. Batman—no, Bruce—never shut up about him. Was it some kind of inside joke to mess with the rest of them?
Tim’s gaze sharpened, clinical. Dick, sensing the shift, raised a hand like he always did—to stop the spiral before it started. It worked, sometimes.
“It’s just… funny you’d say that,” Dick said. After a sip, Tim set his bottle down. “I’m one hundred—no, a thousand percent sure that all of us think that, more than anyone, the Robin mantle belongs to you. Timothy—you’re the best of us.”
This time, it was Tim who laughed. Because of course. Grayson had always been this goddamn indulgent.
The next two days passed, and Tim couldn’t get a decent night’s sleep. He tried to hide it at breakfast with Damian, but he could never really hide anything from that kid—and if he managed, it was only because Damian didn’t care. Grayson had returned to Bludhaven a day earlier. Bruce? Probably in the cave.
Jason… whatever.
“You look awful.” the gremlin across the table said, picking at his bacon. “Even more than usual.”
Tim rolled his eyes and pushed aside the remains of his breakfast. He didn’t have much of an appetite anyway.
“I didn’t think you cared.” he shot back. A little sharp, yes, but things were usually like that with Damian.
Damian kept eating as Tim retreated to his room.
Sleep was impossible.
And now he was moving across a rooftop, looking for—and finding—a place to perch. Nights in Gotham had always been different—blacker, purer, hard to describe. The air was dense in his lungs, and he often had to remind himself how to handle the adrenaline. Tonight, the weight pressing down on his chest was just as impossible to put into words. But he ignored everything unnecessary.
He brought his fingers to the communicator in his ear to connect.
“Oracle. Robin here.” A beep, and then:
“I hear you.” Babs’ voice. Tim was absurdly grateful for her help right now.
“Connect me to Superboy.” he said.
While Babs made the connection, Tim unclipped his bag, pulling out his tablet to analyze the building’s blueprints. He checked his surroundings briefly before lowering his eyes and focusing.
“I’m patching you through, the line’s open.”
“Hey, Sup— you inside?” he said immediately, fingers skimming over the building’s floors. He ignored the anxiety coiled deep in his mind and the tremor leftover from separating just two minutes ago.
Recon only, he reminded himself. Nothing to fear.
It was obvious he hadn’t slept. His mind felt slow, sluggish.
“Robin.” Kon’s voice sliced through his ear, sent a shiver running down Tim’s spine. Damn high-def audio. At the same time, relief washed over him—he hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until now. “I’m on the roof. Looks like a normal building. Looking down—there’s barely anyone here. Nothing suspicious.”
Leave, Tim wanted to yell, but instead:
“Do you know if…?” Tim expanded the screen to highlight a specific spot. “On the third floor—are there any empty apartments you can get into?”
“Checking.”
Tim could only imagine him hovering up to the floor to look.
“Yeah, one’s empty.”
“North or south side?”
“North.”
Tim oriented himself. There were no legal records clearing up who owned that particular apartment. He dug a little deeper. Only the first owner’s name. He bit his lip. God, he hated Gotham.
“Careful.” Tim agreed. Kon didn’t have to ask. He heard movement, but nothing he could identify yet. “Are you inside?”
“What am I looking for?” Superboy asked.
It wasn’t clear. Last week’s raid in a warehouse kitchen had hinted this was where they kept their stash. If they found enough reason, they’d clear the whole building of its filth. They just needed confirmation—drug lords protecting their own turf aside.
“Use your vision. Look down. Anything off?”
One minute. Two.
Tim bit his lip.
“Empty apartments.” Kon said finally. Tim exhaled, refocusing on the numbers on his tablet. Building specs. Street access. Layout. His mind caught something, froze, and twisted hard enough to make his stomach churn. He double-checked. Triple-checked. The realization hit like a punch.
“Shit.” The curse hissed past his teeth before he could stop it. Kon wasn’t in the right building. Tim was.
No. No, he couldn’t have messed this up. Not this.
“Robin,” Kon murmured in his ear, but Tim barely heard. “Breathe.”
Tim shoved the tablet back into his bag, clipped it shut. His mind running hot, too fast. He had to get out. Now.
“Superboy—” His voice caught, barely able to drag in air to form words. “I’m in the right building.”
He was here. Alone. Kon had superpowers. Tim didn’t.
His hands shook as he reached for his grapple. The comm crackled in his ear.
“What—?” Kon’s voice pitched higher, like he’d been struck. “Get out of there. Now!”
Tim swallowed hard. Gotham’s air felt thicker, poisonous. He shouldn’t be shaking. He shouldn’t feel like this. It was just another mission. Another recon job. But his brain screamed: you fucked up. You fucked up, and now something bad is going to happen.
“Robin, Superboy’s on his way.” Babs’ voice this time. Tim knew that tone—she was about to lose her calm.
Tim didn’t respond. His grapnel latched onto the edge of the ledge, the trigger tensed in his hand—but something made him pause. A sound. First dull. Then clearer—a metallic click on the floor below, like a steel door shutting.
Too fast. Too synchronized to be an accident.
They were waiting for me.
His heart raced. His mind ran with surgical precision as adrenaline made his muscles shake. No more mistakes. He calculated escape routes. Marked positions. Evaluated options.
“Robin.” Kon again. “Talk to me. Where are you? What do you see?”
“Trap.” he managed.
Something moved in his field of vision. More than a couple of figures blocked his frustrated escape route. He didn’t expect them to aim at him yet, so he let go of the grapnel and fell back. He could drop down, but the rooftop door opened suddenly. Could try to go to the next building—but too much ground to cover. He hid behind an air intake, not even knowing who or what came into what he thought was safe space.
Think. He had smoke bombs—but would they help?
He risked a glance around the edge. A bullet screamed past, tearing against the metal he was pressed to. Too close.
He ducked back. Ten men here. Five more across the way. Too many rifles. Too many angles.
Throw the bomb, maybe—but then where? Down was suicide, and the rooftop door could have more men waiting. He’d have to sprint the whole way across to the other side and pray that building wasn’t crawling with them too.
He threw two bombs to the ground nearby, one breath, two—and felt the blast.
Once, he’d asked Bruce his trick for disappearing so fast in the smoke. Bruce had only said, “Instinct”. Tim understood now, because instinct was all that was guiding him. He trusted memory, the mental layout he’d built on arrival.
“Grab that kid!” someone shouted. He ignored it. Couldn’t see a thing.
He ran, and then—Kon’s voice again,
“Robin, wait for me!”
I can’t let you come here, Tim thought, the idea making him stumble over a beam he hadn’t clocked. He stifled a groan of pain, got up, kept going. Facing them wasn’t even an option. No Robin was invincible. Especially him.
Tim saw the rooftop’s edge, tightened his grip on the grapple for the jump. A shot rang out. Then more. Sudden pain exploded in his side and arm, ripping a scream from him. Gaps where the suit couldn’t shield him. The grapple slipped from his hand. So did his footing at the ledge. The smoke must’ve cleared too soon.
He glanced down just long enough to register the mess. Blood. Too much of it. Tim wasn’t a medic, but he knew it was bad. He grabbed the side of his chest, pressing despite the unbearable pain. He climbed to the ledge. Could break into one of the lower apartments with accessible windows. Heard more shots and dropped, trusting his training. But that was before his arm got shot—and he barely held onto the ledge with one hand. Screamed again, pain and frustration clawing at him as he tried to hold with both.
His head pounded. Blood ran hot through his suit. Thoughts grew more sluggish. Time was running out.
Think. Why can’t I think?
The pain was merciless. His mind shrank and twisted around nonsense. Flashes of his brothers, of Bruce, of Kon when he closed his eyes, just to stay calm.
He clung to the ledge with everything he had. Everything his strength had left.
Just a little more strength… and he could swing to the window barely a meter and a half below his feet. If he’d slept, maybe he’d have it. Tim couldn’t even take care of his own body; he hallucinated Damian calling him an idiot for it.
And beneath it all, a dark, flickering thought surfaced through the haze: He deserve this.
He couldn’t expect Kon to save him. He didn’t blame him.
It had been ninety-nine times.
“Robin—!” he heard, unsure if it was through the comm or outside. It didn’t matter. The shouts and the footsteps charging his way from the roof erased any chance of escape. He’d tried grabbing his second grapple, but his other arm wouldn’t respond.
His fingers slipped when his body stopped obeying him.
The void, the fall. And before death could take him, something caught him—soft, warm, strong. The smell of leather felt familiar.
“Kon…” was the last thing he said before everything went dark.
Beep.
He just wanted to keep sleeping.
Beep.
What the hell was that noise?
Beep.
Tim tried to growl, but his throat was so dry all he could manage was a cough. And when he coughed, he groaned too, because the sharp stab of pain that shot through his right side with the movement felt like every nerve was raw and exposed to the cold. Like his brain was freezing over. And then there was the numbness, the pins-and-needles hum in his muscles as they slowly woke up.
He realized too late he shouldn’t be twisting around—but it was already a chain reaction. Once it started, he couldn’t stop. He kept coughing until he felt a hand on his shoulder, steadying him.
“Tim.” He’d recognize that voice even from miles away—Kon.
Kon’s hands were gentle as they settled him back onto the bed. Tim cracked his eyes open, but everything was still a blur, even after blinking several times. Too much light—it felt like it’d been forever since he’d last opened them.
And then the sensations started to line up. He’d been here before. The pain. The dry throat. That bone-deep dread of waking up.
A wave of panic churned in the pit of his empty stomach.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
“Tim. It’s me, Kon. Don’t move, okay?”
His vision cleared a little more, enough to register Kon’s hand bracing the back of his head, the rim of a glass nudging against his lips.
“Easy.” Kon murmured, voice soft. Tim’s throat felt shredded, but the water soothed it instantly. He had to force himself not to gulp it all down at once. His foggy brain was finally, slowly, starting to come online.
What the hell had happened? How long had he been out? What was the last thing he remembered?
Kon just waited, patient. When Tim finally finished, Kon eased him carefully back onto the pillow.
Tim needed to know. Needed something to tether him to reality before the exhaustion weighing down his bones dragged him under again. Sleep called to him, but he fought it.
He reached for Kon’s arm, and the stab of pain the movement caused kept him awake, sharp and clear. He forced his mind to analyze—where he was lying, the rhythmic beeping of a monitor tracking his heart, the sterile-clean smell undercut with that familiar dampness. The med bay. The cave. Kon was here. Which meant Bruce had let him stay.
It had been long enough for his body to feel wrecked. Too long. His lips moved, but no sound came. Kon’s brows pinched in concern.
He tried again. Once. Twice. Until finally, a broken rasp made it out:
“How long?”
Kon looked away, and that was all Tim needed to know. He knew that look.
His weak grip tightened on Kon’s wrist—pathetic compared to his usual strength. Silence, and then:
“Four days.” Kon’s voice barely above a whisper, but enough.
His brain did the math automatically—operations delayed, missions left hanging, contacts waiting—but it felt like trying to run through wet sand. Too slow. Too heavy. Nothing in his mental files was clear. Just blurred numbers and static. Frustration burned, hot and sharp.
He tried to sit up, but Kon’s hand landed firm and steady on his shoulder.
“No.”
No sharp edge, no command, no anger. Just that low, trembling voice Tim had no idea how to deal with.
“Don’t—” he started, but something stopped him for half a second. “Don’t make this harder.”
“Kon.” His voice was barely more than a whisper, a ghost of sound. Memories slammed back, hard. He wanted to apologize. To explain that it had been his fault, that he should’ve seen it coming, should’ve been better. But the knot in his throat strangled the words. Why was Kon still here? Had he stayed through all four days? Tim didn’t dare ask. He didn’t want the answer. “I’m fine.”
“Tim. Stop, please.” The quiet words twisted something deep inside him, made him feel small.
He hated it. Because Kon didn’t deserve this—didn’t deserve to carry his mess, or his pain. Hadn’t he already caused enough damage? He thought he was smarter than this—smarter than lying, at least. So why was it so goddamn hard to be honest with Kon?
He wasn’t fine. And he hated not being fine. Hated it more than anything. He hated himself even more for not being able to just say it. This was the first time Kon had seen him like this—vulnerable, exposed—and not because Tim wanted him to, but because he was too weak to hide it. He didn’t want pity. Didn’t want that kicked-puppy look Kon always got. He didn’t deserve this. He hadn’t done a damn thing to earn it. This was something he should be able to handle on his own.
Robin wasn’t supposed to need saving.
But what burned in his chest wasn’t Kon’s presence—it was the fact that he couldn’t get up. Couldn’t stand on his own and prove that he didn’t need him.
He let go of Kon’s arm and turned his head away. Couldn’t look at him. Not with the knot in his throat, not with the sting building hot at the corners of his eyes. No way in hell he’d cry here. Not in front of Kon. Not in front of anyone.
Kon didn’t say anything.
And that silence was worse than anything.
Tim stared at nothing, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. He could feel Kon’s gaze pressing down on him, heavy, suffocating. He didn’t need to look to know the expression—creased brow, tight lips, the look Kon only wore when he was right on the edge of breaking.
“Do you have any idea what it was like, finding you like that?” Kon’s voice was low, rough, like he was trying to keep it even but failing. “Do you have any idea what it’s like, hearing your voice on the comm, and then… nothing?”
Tim squeezed his eyes shut. Of course he knew what that felt like. He wanted to answer. To explain. To say he’d planned every move, that he’d never—never—risked Kon on purpose. But the knot in his throat held tight, and if he looked at him now, he’d lose control.
“I stayed there, Tim. Watching you bleed. Thinking I was too late this time. That…” Kon didn’t break, not fully. But it was the closest Tim had ever heard. “That this was it. That I’d lost you. So don’t—don’t you dare tell me you’re fine. If it hadn’t been me, if I’d been one second later…” His voice cracked. “God, Tim, I don’t know if I could’ve lived with that.”
The air went heavy, suffocating. Tim wanted it to stop. Wanted to shut it all out.
“Sometimes I can hear it, you know?” Kon’s words were softer now, frayed. “Your heartbeat. I always know where you are because of it. It’s just… your heartbeat. Loud. Steady. Always you. And when I—” A pause. Then a choked sob.
Tim turned his head and it hit him like a punch to the gut. Kon was crying.
He wanted to crawl out of his skin. Wanted to tear himself apart. Because Kon was crying, and it was his fault.
“When I was holding you—I—” Kon’s voice finally cracked. “I could barely hear it.”
Kon clutched the edge of the cot, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs, his face twisted with grief. Tim’s breath caught, lips trembling. He bit his tongue hard, tasting copper, trying to hold back everything rising in his chest. With his good arm, he reached out, careful not to tug the IV, and pressed his hand against Kon’s cheek.
“You’re being a little—” He swallowed hard, his throat still raw and tight, fighting to make the words sound lighter. “dramatic.” His thumb brushed away the dampness on Kon’s cheek. Kon leaned into the touch like he couldn’t help himself, like Tim’s hand was magnetic. Kon’s palm came up, covering Tim’s knuckles, warm and steady. Tim managed a tired smile.
It took everything out of him, but he tried. Because it was Kon. And Kon was—God, Kon was sensitive—every damn Kent felt everything too much, but seeing Kon cry had always been the one thing Tim couldn’t handle. Not then, not now.
He could fall apart later, in private.
So he just left his hand there, steady, on Kon’s cheek. Like maybe that touch could hold them both together.
“I’m sorry.”
The apology came out softer than a whisper, so small it almost wasn’t there—but Kon heard it. His breath hitched for a second, then left him in a shaky exhale.
“You don’t have to—”
“Yes.” Tim cut him off. “Yes, I do. I’m so sorry, Kon.” Because Kon didn't deserve this.
Then—A moment of quiet and, calmer than he felt, Tim asked:
“What about the others?” He realized, for the first time, that he hadn’t sensed anyone but Kon nearby.
Kon didn’t answer right away.
His hand was still over Tim’s, thumb brushing absently against his skin like he needed that tiny motion to stay grounded. His lashes were still wet, clumped together from tears, but his breathing had evened out. Mostly. Tim contains every part of himself that pushes to cry with him.
“They’re… fine.” Kon finally said. “B’s pissed. Dick keeps checking in. Dami and Steph took shifts the first two nights, but—” He hesitated, jaw working. “I told them I’d stay. That I’d let them know if anything changed.”
Tim blinked slowly, processing. That meant Kon hadn’t left. Not once. He’d stayed.
“You shouldn’t have done that.” Tim murmured, his voice rasping but steadier now. Because he didn't deserve to have anyone worry about him. “You should’ve gone home. Slept. Eaten. Something.”
Kon’s mouth twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
“You almost died, Tim.” He said it like a fact. “You scared me, you know.”
A pinch in Tim's heart. Kon didn't deserve this.
“I know.” Tim said, “I’ll try not to do it again.”
Kon huffed, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “You’re terrible at keeping promises like that.”
“I’m still here,” Tim managed the faintest ghost of a new smirk. “Guess you’ll just have to keep saving me, then.”
It was a joke, a stupid, selfish joke, and for a moment, the sharp edge of the room dulled. And for the first time since Tim had opened his eyes, Kon smiled. Really smiled. Small, tired, but real.
“Yeah.” he said quietly, his thumb brushing over Tim’s knuckles. “Yeah, I guess I will.”
Tim didn’t have the strength to say anything else.
He don't deserve Kon.
“Right-sided thoracic wound with severe hemorrhage and compensated hypovolemic shock.” Bruce started, his voice sharp, precise, the tone of a commander drilling his cadets. It had always been that way. Tim could feel the worry—maybe even disappointment—running under the surface of the act. “Wound on the left upper extremity with muscular damage and moderate bleeding. Closed, non-displaced fracture of the sixth and seventh ribs, left side.”
He flipped the page of the report, eyes scanning clinically. “And a sprain in the left ankle.”
Tim groaned when Kon helped him sit up in the bed in his room. He cursed himself, because it hadn’t even been a sharp movement.
It was hard—especially because Tim wasn’t stupid. And it hurt even more, in this context, to not be ignorant. Tim knew better than anyone what that diagnosis meant: useless. Completely useless for at least the next six weeks. He knew perfectly well that if the bullet's trajectory had been a few millimeters off, I wouldn't be here, and maybe that would have been the best.
And the broken ribs?
Had the Kevlar meant to protect him actually caused them?
He’d been through this before. He knew what was coming. But he still couldn’t stop himself from trying to argue.
“I’ll be fine soon. I can still help from the Bat—”
“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m letting you leave this room.” Bruce cut him off, his glare sharp, his tone unrelenting in that way that only meant bad news for Tim. “Tell me, Tim—should I tie you to the bed? Build you a cage out of the softest material in existence and lock you in it? Feed you with a spoon, maybe?” Tim averted his eyes, suddenly painfully aware that Kon was right there, listening. He felt humiliated. “Or will you behave and take the damn rest you need?”
“Bruce—”
“No.” he interrupted again, tone flat and absolute. “Keep it to yourself. I don’t want to hear your excuses. You're out for now.”
“What about the mission?” Tim asked, a thread of desperation creeping into his voice at what this all implied. Bruce benching him wasn’t just an insult—it was a declaration of uselessness. And Tim knew, knew he could still help. Even like this.
He could hack systems. Analyze data. Solve cases that didn’t need him to move an inch. He could—
“There’s no mission.”
The floor must have shaken—had to have—because Tim definitely wasn’t trembling. Six weeks of uselessness wasn’t something he could afford.
He glared at Bruce, anger and helplessness warring in his chest. The logical part of his brain whispered that Bruce was right. The emotional part was screaming, spiraling. Kon’s hand brushed over his shoulder, grounding, but Tim didn’t register it.
“It’s my final word. Don’t make me call Dick.” Bruce said, shutting down any protest before Tim could even open his mouth. He crossed his arms, report still in hand, but when his eyes shifted to Kon, his expression softened. “Kon. You staying?”
No.
Tim wanted to shout it, but Kon spoke first.
“No problem with that, Mr. Wayne?”
“None.” Bruce agreed. “Did you tell Clark you won’t be around the farm for a while?”
“He knows I’m here, yes.”
“Good. Stay in your usual room.” And then, a last glance at Tim—sharp, deliberate. “He’s your responsibility for now. I’ll let Damian know you’ll be here. I need to head out. The others will come when they can.” And finally, back to Kon. “Thank you for taking care of him.” Genuine. Unwavering. Pure Wayne. It sounded so much like Alfred that it hurt more than the ache still burning through his ribs. “You’re a good kid.”
Tim didn’t have to look to know Kon was blushing. He just stared at the wall instead.
“It’s nothing, Mr. Wayne.”
Bruce left after that.
And silence filled the room.