Disclaimers: If they were mine, I'd always be making
these silly little sounds of joy and contentment. Not
good.

Spoilers: Vague and AU-ized ones for various old
storylines across the Batverse *and* the Superverse.

Summary: He'd never thought of it that way.

Ratings Note: NC-17.

Author's Note: Another in the Angels You Need series.
Takes place during *and* after Heaven tonight, and
won't make a lick of sense without the others.

Acknowledgments: Would not exist without the help
and hand-holding received from Mary, Jack, LC, and
Livia.

*

He's never had home-made fried chicken before.
Granted, the scope of his experience with home-cooking
(somehow, Alfred just doesn't count for this. Duck a
l'orange simply cannot be categorized as home-cooking,
no matter what.), is entirely limited to the various
forgettable specialties of their various forgettable
live-ins, but... still.

There's something distressingly profound about the
chicken thighs on his plate. About their golden-brown
color and entirely un-KFC-like texture. The juiciness,
the seasoning (garlic, he'd guess, and salt, and
pepper, and... he doesn't know), and the utter...
*home-made-ness* of it.

He's aware that he's staring at his plate (there are
also green beans on it, and home -- yes, *home* --
fries).

He's aware that the Kents and Superboy are staring at
*him*.

He's aware that it's very odd indeed to stare at one's
dinner as though it has the answers to the universe,
or perhaps just God's blueprints to the whole of
Creation, in all of its divine horror.

He can't, actually, do anything about it.

"Tim? Dear?"

Martha Kent is already calling him *dear*. Perhaps
it's just a verbal tic.

"Are you... allergic to chicken?"

Tim swallows. This... this chicken, these tics, and, oh
yes, the imperfect clone of Superman currently
mouthing 'no pie if you don't eat your dinner, dude"
at him. *This* is the shape of his immediate future.
Of his *life*.

"Oh, my," she says, trouble obvious and guilt-inducing
in her tone. "I'm sure we have *something* else..."

Tim drags on a smile, and hopes his impression of
rueful is somewhat accurate. "Sorry, Mrs. Kent. I'm
just having a little..."Don't say 'culture lag.' Diplomacy
is *key* before you discover the lay of any given
new land. "I just feel a bit disoriented."

He picks up a thigh and begins to eat.

Mr. Kent smiles at him, nodding over a forkful of
green beans.

Mrs. Kent looks at him as though she'd believed his
performance with about eighty percent of herself.
Which is fine, as it was only about eighty percent
honest, and only about sixty percent realistic. Facts
without scope, or depth.

"It's very good," he says, and means it.

It's the sort of good which makes him want to run
screaming into the night. He's *not* thinking about
why.

*

"Aaand here we have... another field."

"So we do."

Kon -- never, actually, Superboy, as far as Tim can tell --
snickers and flies them in a lazy zigzag over the stubbled
field. They're *just* high enough that 'stubble' seems
entirely accurate. Well, when he doesn't turn up the
gain on his optics.

And... it's interesting to be flown around by someone
who...

It's difficult to describe. There's something soothing
about being carried by someone who seems to
experience your weight as something akin to a
small paperback book... as opposed to a *page*
from a small paperback book.

"So... you can see why I've been, like, staggering
your 'Grand Tour' out. Don't want to kill you with all
the thrills and chills."

"Solicitous of you."

Kon sighs and takes them up higher. Farmland as far
as the eye can see -- human or otherwise. Or...

He follows Kon's look and sees something almost like
a city on the horizon. Certainly more like one than
all of *this*. And Kon seems distinctly wistful.

*This* sigh is pretty much wist in its purest, ear-vibrating
form.

"You'd rather be there."

"I'd *rather* be in Hawaii."

"Hm." Tim's been here less than two days, and he
already knows -- by heart -- six different ways Kon has
of saying that particular phrase. That was #4 --
"Explanation to Slow Child."

Kon squeezes him beneath his arms and does a slow
and entirely random loop.

This, too, has happened often enough that Tim is
used to it, and tucks his legs automatically. It's an
interesting sort of exercise.

"Wanna buzz the cows?"

"Not particularly."

Kon sighs again. And really... there's no reason *not*
to ask.

"Why *did* you agree to come here, Kon? Why are
you *staying*?"

The position they're in makes Kon's shrug a rather
interesting gravitational experience. "I don't know,
man. Does *Batman* have to give *you* orders?"

"He... really wouldn't." And it's not the same. "He
doesn't, save in the sense of directing all of us where
we need to go." And I don't have to explain this to
you. "We..."

He doesn't have to say any of it *out loud*.

"In any event, it's not really the point."

"Uh-huh, so we're actually flying over Gotham, and
you're just *pretending* to be bored out of your
skull?"

There's a smirk in Kon's voice. It isn't new -- there
often is. It's just that there's something *about*
Kon's smirks that's... different.

It *is* a smirk, it just doesn't feel like one. Certainly, it
doesn't feel like one of *Jason's* smirks. As opposed
to just a more *focused* (not sharp, and *not* cruel)
kind of smile.

"Does that dead silence and furrowed brow mean
you've decided to hate me?"

Also not the first time for that question -- or its like.
"Not yet," Tim says mildly.

"Good to know." Another squeeze -- it really is a
good thing he's not ticklish -- and another lazy turn
through the air.

Tim tucks in.

"So... is there anything you *do* wanna see? Or
do.

"And what I'm *actually* asking is 'do you have any
idea what the hell we *can* do in this place?' I ran out
of ideas, like, forever ago." Kon manages to sound
rueful, curious, *and* hopeful.

Impressive. And just a little... painful isn't the word,
quite. Disorienting, maybe. No one has ever given
Kon even the remotest amount of training in keeping
his emotions out of his voice. "I was thinking of
seeing what I could do to upgrade the Kents'
computer."

"Oh. Do... do you want me to take you back to the
house?"

There's a... 'nudity' is more correct, but *nakedness* is
the only word which could truly describe the *feeling*
which fills Kon's voice. Tim doesn't know what to do
with it.

He can't *imagine* what Clark was thinking to bring
this boy back *here*. Theoretically, it's to train him in
the structure and maintenance of a secret identity --
Conner Kent will attend Smallville High School in the fall
 -- and this is all well and good and useful, but...

But Kon is flying them back to the house as he...
fails to speak. "Stop."

Kon stops with rather intriguing suddenness. "What?
What is it?"

Nothing but eagerness in response to Tim's command
voice. At this point, the invasion of Smallville by
hostile aliens bent on world domination would probably
be a relief, as it would give Kon something to *do*.

And... well. Tim gives *himself* no more than
fifty-eight hours or so before the honest-to-god
sympathy he feels becomes the sort of empathy which
might prove dangerous.

And he can feel Kon looking at him. Expectant.
"What... what do you usually do. On days like this?"

Kon squeezes his underarms -- again -- with a sort
of absent inattention. "Well. I mean,  sometimes there
are chores I can help with. You know, extra ones."

Tim wonders if there's really any such thing as an
'extra' chore on a farm. "And when there aren't?"

For a long moment, Kon doesn't answer. And even
after they begin flying again he doesn't say a word.

"Kon...?"

"I... training," he says, and it's more of a mutter.

"Oh. That sounds --"

"Only not, because all of my powers are really
TTK-based, and Clark can't really help with that,
and...

"It's not like you. You know exactly what to do to
keep yourself... you know. Good."

Which would explain the curious -- very curious --
sense of envy and... and other things Kon had been
giving off yesterday morning while Tim had been
doing his -- really *very* basic -- exercises.

Kon broadcasts emotions the way Clark broadcasts heat,
really. The way *both* of them broadcast heat. And
emotion. The endless fields of wheat are clearly
affecting his brain. Perhaps he has chaff in his port, or
a distinct shortage of CO₂ and other useful pollutants.
Perhaps...

"Perhaps I can help."

Kon... that squeeze isn't absent at all. He knows *exactly*
what he's doing. "Really?"

"I don't have any powers, but... we could think about
the sort of things you could do. Your limits and the like."

"Aw, man, *yes*!" The rush of wind is sudden and
quite literally breathtaking. It whips Tim's hair back
and forces his eyes closed. (His eye, and his
still-sensitive-to-reflex artificial iris.)

Kon is flying them rather high.

"Uh. How far up is too far? For you."

With their speed, it's more a matter of feeling the
vibrations of Kon's speech than it is of *hearing* him.
"Let's find out."

*

He wakes up to a soft, thudding *clank* beside him,
and then *wakes up*.

No one has been able to approach him as closely as
the woman beside the bed has done since... since
he'd gotten the first enhancements.

No one.

However, since the woman is Mrs. Kent, and the noise
is a box full of machine tools, WD-40, and various
metal-polishing powders...

He should probably stop aiming his index laser at
her. Now.

"Um."

"Goodness!"

Tim winces and tucks his hand beneath the blanket,
willing it back into a safe -- or at least not *actively*
belligerent -- configuration. "You startled me," he
says. "I'm very sorry."

Her recovery has the sort of rapidity that only seems
super-human until one remembers just who she had
raised. As it is, it's no more than remarkable.

And she's... ruffling his hair.

"Well, I guess I did, dear! Lots of people accustomed
to city-living.... Well, I suspect you were sleeping pretty
deeply."

That much is obvious. But.... Tim frowns. "I hardly
exercised at *all* yesterday."

Now she's *petting* his hair. "That's not what *Kon*
says. Oh, he was so *excited*!"

Which is... warming. But. "He's already awake?"

She blinks at him, and beams. "Well, it *is* after *ten*,
dear."

Tim rushes through his breakfast as much as
politeness allows and goes for a run. He makes it a
half-mile before Kon flies up to pace him, two pancakes
wrapped around a sausage and what looks like most
of an omelet.

Tim keeps running, listening to Kon's chewing and soft,
unconscious sounds of enjoyment.

The breakfast really was very good, even though
Mr. Kent hadn't let him escape until he'd eaten two
sausages -- drowning one in syrup first.

That was good, too.

"There's still plenty of food back at the house," Kon
says.

"I know."

"Did you... do you feel okay?"

"Yes."

"Because you're..." Kon laughs, a little, and loops a
lazy turn around Tim -- just fast enough to avoid
making Tim have to change his pace. "Man, okay,
so I totally don't *know* you, but you still seem... I
dunno, off."

Kon's expression -- no, his entire *posture* -- is
rueful. Right down to the way he's holding his ankles.

It's like a particularly random interpretive dance.
Cirque du Smallville.

There's a part of him which is absolutely sure that
there's a *correct* way to respond -- to respond to
Kon in *general* -- beyond inanities, irrelevancies,
and the painfully obvious. He has no idea what that
might be.

"Yeah, uh... should I leave you alone?"

He doesn't want to be alone. He's usually *better*
at thinking when he's running. He *likes* running.
He's -- "I overslept," he says.

"Uh... okay?"

"I don't oversleep."

"I... oh." This loop is distinctly thoughtful, with
something of an absently graceful flourish as Kon flies
approximately five stories into the air before picking
up speed to join -- and pace -- Tim again.

Kon needs no practice whatsoever with flight, which
is interesting, considering his age.

Perhaps it's a matter of having spent several months
without paying so much as lip service to the ideas of
subtlety and secrecy.

"Hm."

"Yeah?"

"How far are you... allowed? To fly."

"Well, we're about ten miles out of town, and the
nearest neighbor kinda *expects* to see dark-haired
dudes in the sky, periodically, so... not far *enough*."

The metahuman equivalent to the fact that there is
very, very little equipment he can use -- or even
modify -- to practice his already woefully inadequate
acrobatics.

"Why?"

Perhaps it doesn't, actually, matter if he states the
obvious for Kon. With him. "It must be very...
frustrating."

"Well, *yeah*."

"What do you do?"

"To deal, you mean?"

Tim nods.

"Speed-laps. Lots of 'em."

Which is sensible, but... "You haven't, since I've been
here."

"What? Oh. Heh." Kon grins at him and sweeps behind
to cup his hands under Tim's arms and lift them up.
"I've had other things to distract me."

Tim watches the ground shrink and gain breadth
even as it loses detail. It's more reflex than command
to raise the gain on his optics, which is a good thing.
"I really do need to finish my run, Kon."

"Uh, huh, but it's prettier out *here*."

Kon takes him to a stand of thin, weather-battered
trees, about the size of one of the 'glades' in Robinson
Park. They're approximately three point two miles
away from the farmhouse.

"I could've run here, Kon. I *should've* run here."

"Think of it as a head-start?" And Kon *is* joking,
but there's that same cautious *edge*. That same...

And it takes a moment, but Tim gets it. Or
*remembers* it, and why that edge is so damned
familiar. It 'tastes' like Gotham and reeks of insecurity
and it makes him want to grind his teeth, no matter
how unpleasant that act has become. Tim frowns.

"I could take you back?"

Tim frowns harder. "Are you... afraid of me?" I
haven't *done* anything yet.

Kon sets him down and flies up to stand on -- no,
to hover *over* -- a branch some ten feet above
Tim's head.

Tim waits.

"Don't get me wrong, dude. I'm pretty sure I could
take you."

Maybe. On a *very* good day.

"I just..."Kon stares up at the sky. "I don't know. The
Kents told me *Robin* was staying with us for a while,
and then I see you and you're just this short little
kid, but then you're also a *cyborg*, and...

"You don't act like a kid, is all." And Kon shrugs and
looks down at him again.

"You don't exactly act like an infant, Kon."

"Hey, that's just --"

Tim smiles, a little. "Your chronological age?"

Kon glowers at him for a moment, but then he
laughs. "Yeah, okay, point. You're *still* not exactly
easy to... figure out."

("Once, just *once*, would you tell me what's going
*on* in your head?")

Jason is only fifteen hundred miles away from his
*body*.

"I don't... mean to be." And he doesn't actually expect
that to work -- it never does.

And Kon *does* keep frowning, and shifting as if he
can't quite decide whether or not to come down,
but. "So... you *know* you can just tell me to fuck
off, right? I'm bored, not a sadist."

"Yes. I know."

"Okay," and Kon nods slowly. "So... did you wanna
run?"

Tim raises an eyebrow. "Are you going to kidnap me
again?"

Kon grins. "Maybe."

*

"So what *I* don't get," Kon says while surreptitiously
moving hay away from Tim's shovel. Pitchfork. Farm
implement.

Surreptitiously for Kon, anyway. "Kon. You could get
this hay from here to there with a... gesture?
Thought."

"Yeah -- "

"And it wouldn't do you any good, because it expends
next to no energy, *and* you already know you can
do it."

"Uh-huh."

"Whereas this, for *me*, is the closest I can get to
maintenance strength and stamina training."

Kon nods. "Yep. I got that."

Tim blinks. "So why...?"

Kon grins and sends hay flying in a small, disturbingly
anthropomorphic dervish. "Hee hee, Taz."

"*Kon* --"

"No, I'm totally just fucking with you, dude," Kon
says, and shoves the hay back towards Tim's pitchfork.
"I was *asking* about something else."

Just... fucking with him. Tim blinks rather a lot.

"Earth to Very Serious Robin, come in *Extremely*
Serious Robin --"

"Why don't you call me Tim?" He honestly didn't
expect that to be the first thing out of his mouth.

There's a pause. But Kon only says, "hunh?"

And the *falseness* makes Tim tense, hard, though
he can't figure out... any of it. "What is it?"

Kon actually *blushes*.

Tim doesn't know *anyone* who blushes. Other
than Clark.

"It's... it's stupid."

Tim sets the pitchfork on its... tines and tries to look
supportive.

Kon winces.

Tim goes with 'blank.' "Tell me."

"Well... *you* never told me your name, or what I
should call you. Clark did."

He's blinking too much again. Too much, and rather
idiotically. "I... I'm used to people telling me how
best to refer to their allies," he says, after a moment.
"Security. Diplomacy."

"Yeah," Kon says. "I know, it's stupid --"

"Kon."

He didn't, actually, *mean* to use his command
voice, but it's nice to be able to watch it work
again. More than nice, really. Warming in a way
that makes him think about that conversation with
Max Mercury about Impulse, and --

He shakes it off. He's *Robin*, but he's also fourteen.
And grounded. And Kon is looking at him, and
waiting.

"Call me Tim," he says, and thinks about it.
"Please."

The only way for the smile on Kon's face to be
more viscerally palpable is if Kon actually --

"Okay. I will."

Says something. Tim blinks *again* and bites the
inside of his cheek to keep from shivering. "I'm... what
were you going to ask?"

"Hunh? Oh!"

Happiness, curiosity... Tim bales hay and tries not
to drown under all of the emotion. It's a lot like the
first can of Zesti he'd had after the Quake, and after
some three months without refined sugar.

He's pretty sure someone else's emotions won't
give him a hangover, though.

"... oversleep? I mean, don't you work nights
anyway?"

As opposed to just getting him *high*. Tim pitches
forks? Tosses? -- more hay and focuses. "I tend
to sleep for two to four hours at night, do whatever
needs to be done in the morning -- like go to school --
and then sleep again until it's time for training. Or
patrol."

Kon nods, slowly.

"You're moving my hay."

"Oh, sorry, dude --"

"Hmm... all that just because you're standing in that
pile?"

Kon shrugs. "TTK."

"But you're wearing boots."

"Yeah?"

Tim strives for patience. After all, he's still just thinking
about this stuff himself. "And you're moving hay
you're *not* touching."

Kon frowns. "Well, I mean... the hay-stick's connected
to the other hay-stick, you know?"

"Hm."

"'Hm?'"

"Just hm. For now."

Kon gives him a kind of odd look -- something between
hopeful and apprehensive.

Most of the people who look at him like that tend to
be people he's rescuing. Which is... it's *wrong*.

He hasn't even managed to get them a decent cable
signal yet. "Kon?"

"Yeah..." Kon shakes his head, hair flopping a little.
It's very thick and glossy.

Tim wonders if he's dehydrated or something.

"I was going to say..."

"Yes?" Pitching. It's a pitchfork, ergo he's *pitching*
the hay.

Kon shrugs. "Anyway. You're not working *now*.
You're not even in *Gotham* --"

"Don't. Remind me."

"*Hawaii*, dude. *Hawaii*."

Tim sighs. "Mm. I'm out of hay."

Kon walks over to the new pile and pokes at it. And
sends it back to him. "That good?"

Inefficient. Random. Brilliant. "Yes," he says. "Thank
you."

Kon grins. "You're welcome. But, you know, Gotham."

"Yes?"

"You were there after the *Quake*. You can't *tell*
me you were keeping regular hours *then*."

("... on-duty twenty-four-fucking-seven...")

"Well..."

My point," Kon says, spreading his hands and smiling.
"You haven't had a regular schedule in, like, forever,
and now you don't *need* a regular schedule. So,
like, you *can't* oversleep."

The logic isn't *entirely* flawed, but. "I do need it,
Kon. I need... I need a schedule."

"I... oh."

Tim forks more hay.

*

The sound is only unfamiliar until Tim remembers where
he is and stops trying to compensate for architecture
and infrastructure that doesn't actually exist out here.

It's easy to forget when he's running. Even now, when
he's technically running back to the farmhouse.

Kon mostly lets him make his own time, these days,
but he still catches Tim up a half-mile out.

"Clark's visiting --"

"I know."

"You saw him?"

Tim shakes his head. "Heard him. I'm used to the
sound."

Kon nods, and settles in to fly... beside him. Hm.

"You're not in a hurry."

"Well... no." Kon shrugs. "It's hard to be around him,
sometimes, you know? Everything I'm supposed to
be."

Clark feels the same, of course. Everything he
actually *is*...

"Anyway, it's not like he's bringing me any more new
bats."

Tim grins. "Well. Unless Huntress pissed Batman off."

And he's joking, but Kon just frowns at him.

"What?"

"Batman's that... touchy?"

Tim pretty much has to stop, lest he trip over his own
feet. "No. Just... *really* no."

Kon's still frowning. "Well, I mean.... when you got
here, and Clark asked if you wanted... and, well, the
Kents kind of *warned* me.

"Multiple times, even."

"Batman didn't... he." Tim almost certainly should've
predicted this... this *reaction*.

He didn't.

"I'm not here because we fought, Kon. I'm here
because we disagree."

He's never actually seen Kon frown for this long.

"I know that doesn't make sense. But... it's true."

Kon nods slowly, then turns and looks toward the
house. And... blushes.

Tim turns up the gain on his 'comm' and hears:

" -- inseparable! I swear, Clark, I wonder if I shouldn't
have *bothered* giving Tim his own room."

"And Kon isn't... I mean, Tim is... tolerating --"

Tim turns down the gain with a thought. Look not
through keyholes, right, Clark?

"Uh... yeah." Kon isn't looking at him. "I think I'm
gonna --"

"Kon."

"What, Tim?"

The low, vicious *frustration* in Kon's voice is almost
enough to make Tim flinch. But he doesn't. "There's
something... I need you to show me something."

Kon looks at him, searching and serious.

"He didn't send me here for you," Tim says, and bites
the inside of his lip.

"What --"

Tim shrugs. He pretty much has to plow ahead *now*.
"I know that look, I think. From. From inside."

Kon nods and spares one more look at the house
before grabbing Tim under his arms and lifting off.
"Where are we going?"

"Where we trained before is fine."

"It's *Clark's* place. This whole --" The low sound
Kon makes this time is a different color of frustration.
Flavor.

Something. "Then take me somewhere else."

"I can't --"

"Fly high enough and no one looks, much less
*sees*."

"But... I mean... you'll get --"

"Cold, vaguely damp, and a bit dizzy. You do remember
my limits, don't you?"

Kon is silent for a moment, and Tim knows he's
remembering that day. When he does speak, he
sounds wondering. "I thought you were *playing*."

"I was," and Tim smirks, just a little. "But I never
*just* play."

"I... *dude*."

Tim calls up the aerial maps in his head, and wishes
for a connection that will let him update his *ground*
information.

"So... where?"

It's an annoying fact of life -- is there *any* other
kind? -- that you never really have the full picture
about what you need for a given trip until you
*get* there.

But.

"West," he says. "I need a city. You... don't have
to choose the *closest* one."

"Yes, *sir*! But... dude, let me know if you're going
to pass out or freeze or something."

High enough, fast enough for sound to be reduced to
vibrations and the translation of same. He'd have to
turn up the gain and calibrate for wind-speed -- which
no one has yet taught Kon to calculate for himself --
to get more.

It's still...

It seems strange that it should feel like nothing less
than his trip to New York.

His *first* trip, after he realized just how easy it was
to slip past his parents' attention for long enough to
get into New York City, and to the *Tower*.

The old one.

And he'd known going in that he probably wouldn't
get good pictures -- even as good as the ones he'd
lucked out with those few times when he'd managed
to pick a good rooftop and camp there for a few
hours. And he was *right* about that -- by the time
he'd had to go back to the station for the last reliable
train to Gotham he'd had some of the best pictures
ever taken of the Tower as a whole, but nothing
whatsoever of any of the *Titans*.

(Except for a blurry through-the-window shot that
just made him wonder what sort of cameras private
detectives used.)

Still, that feeling wouldn't go away. That sense of...
of half-satisfied hunger, or the moments just before
he managed to get something like total recall of a
particularly good dream.

Potential and... pleasure. Freedom and, perhaps, a
little transgression.

"Woo-hoo!"

It's a fair assumption to make that Kon feels it, too.

"Aw, *man*, Tim, I just can't believe..."

He can't feel the outside of his face, and so for a
minute he isn't sure if he'd just somehow *missed* the
end of the sentence. But the vibrations come through
as strongly as ever.

At this point, it's less about sensing Kon's sounds than
about *feeling* Kon. Excitement and raw,
uncomplicated happiness.

Tim smiles, quite helplessly, and only the fact that he
*is* that happy keeps the... emotional *bleed*-through
from being as disturbing as it could be.

Of course, smiling at this speed and altitude is a little
*painful*, and --

Well.

"Man, I can't believe I didn't think of this before."

'This' being Tim spun around to have his face pressed
against the soft, well-washed cotton of Kon's t-shirt.

He wonders if it had belonged to Clark, as well.

He wonders... "Perhaps because it's a bit... intimate?"

"Hunh?" Kon hitches Tim tighter and higher against
himself, until Tim has to either strain his neck or
bury his face against Kon's throat.

"Intimate," Tim says again.

"Well... do you mind?"

It *is* a lot warmer. And more comfortable. "I
usually prefer to see where I'm going, but... no, I
don't."

Kon squeezes him. "Good. Your face was getting
all red and stiff-looking, man."

Tim considers pointing out just how many stakeouts
he'd been on in the middle of blizzards, but...

He'd had his *uniform*, them. Armored and insulated
and everything these jeans and this flannel he's
wearing *aren't*.

He can feel Kon all over.

"Besides, you feel..."

Another sentence Tim would dearly love to hear the
end of. He's almost sure he *can*, that it's just
beyond the edges of his perception, but *not*
beyond the edges of his enhanced *potential* to
perceive. A matter of gain-increase, perhaps, or
just --

Or just *that* sound. Again.

"Incoming, Kon."

"Wha -- aw, *crap*."

He hears the flap of Clark's cape, and starts to turn.
Kon, for his part, does an excellent job of rearranging
his hold on Tim.

It's cold again. Hmm.

"'Incoming?'" Clark is giving him the Superman-knows-
best look, and for a moment it's so ridiculous that
Tim can't quite credit it.

But then he realizes that Clark is giving *them* the
look -- meaning Kon -- and it makes a little more
sense. Frustrating sense. Tim raises an eyebrow. "It
seemed appropriate."

It's satisfying on a number of levels, not least of
which is the opportunity to watch Clark eye them
both with a distinct -- and obvious -- sense of
consternation.

He really *can't* talk to Tim the same way he talks
to *Kon*.

"So, where are you boys --"

"What can we do for you, Clark?" It's all the more
reason to steer the conversation back to *him*.

The look Clark gives him is almost redolent with
frustrated conspiracy.

Tim is, apparently, supposed to be on Clark's side.
"Well?"

And... it comes out before he can think about it,
but once he does... he really is being just a little
*bit* more confrontational than strictly necessary,
isn't he? Is it bleed-through?

Or... Kon. Kon's *breathing* isn't dangerously
erratic, but it certainly isn't *steady*. There's
anxiety, and shock, and... hmm.

"Tim...?"

Tim shakes it off internally and focuses on Clark.
"I'm fine. I say again, what can we do for you?"

Clark frowns, and Kon tightens his hands on Tim's
waist. It's enough to make Tim wonder if Kon is
experiencing his *own* sort of bleed-through. He
can't worry about that right now.

"Never mind, Clark. Just answer me this -- do you
trust me?" He knows Clark can hear the emphasis. He
hopes Kon can't.

"Of course I do --"

"Then you know I have no intention of jeopardizing...
your plans."

Clark frowns hard enough that his brows draw
together. It makes him look like a thunderously
angry -- and deadly -- four year old. "I never
thought --"

"Then you'll let us continue on our way?"

The frown gets even deeper for a long moment, and
Kon's fingertips are leaving bruises. Tim doesn't let
himself shift. And Clark... sighs.

It's a sigh he hasn't actually heard since Gotham,
and it's all about... him. And how people find him
ever-so-frustrating to deal with. He hasn't stopped
finding uses for that.

Clark smiles ruefully. "I was hoping to get to spend
some time with you today, Tim." He looks at Kon.
"Both of you."

It only feels like an afterthought because Kon *thinks*
it is. It's all through Kon's *breathing* and in the pound
of his heart...

Tim *thinks* it's just because of Kon's insecurities.
"Another time," he says.

Clark nods. "All right."

"Perhaps you'd consider calling ahead."

This time, Kon chokes. It's not a laugh, but it's very,
very hard to keep his own face straight. Still.

"We do have a busy schedule, Clark."

And Clark's expression is really rather fascinating. It's
the sort of knowing-ness that would suggest Tim
had gone much too far, the sort of lead-in to a verbal
slap he's come to look *out* for, but...

It's also entirely rueful. Entirely *Clark*.

"I suppose I should have guessed you'd find a way
to *give* yourself a busy schedule. Even here."

Tim doesn't bother responding.

"Shall I tell Ma and Pa to expect you boys to be
late?"

"I had every intention of calling them myself, Clark."
He can't quite hold in the whole of the wince when
Kon digs his fingers in again.

Clark frowns.

And while it's a *good* thing, overall, that Kon loosens
his grip, Tim can't help feeling somewhat irritated by
the fact that Kon does it *clearly* as a response to
Clark.

He's getting himself involved in a pissing contest in the
sky. He'd blame it on all the oxygen, but there simply
isn't all that *much* up here. Perhaps it's just a
function of deprivation.

"Clark?"

"I... I didn't mean to suggest you'd be irresponsible,
Tim."

He nods.

"But I *am* here, and I *can* tell them, and... the
two of you can focus on whatever it is you have
planned."

"I see. Thank you, Clark, but no. We really ought to
call the Kents ourselves, I think. Right, Kon?"

"Yeah, I... yeah."

Clark nods slowly. "Then that's settled, I suppose.
Is there anything --"

"No," Tim says, and Clark nods again and swallows.

"He misses you."

He sent me *away*. Tim bites the inside of his lip.
"Another. Time."

Clark nods again, clearly unhappy, and waves.

And flies away.

"*Jesus*, Tim --"

Tim reaches down to squeeze Kon's wrist.

"Hunh? Oh, *jeez* --"

"You might not want to just let go."

"Crap --"

"I don't especially *want* to be a greasy smear on a
field --"

"I am *so* sorry, Tim --"

"Though I imagine your guilt will be amusing in the
afterlife."

"... *what*?"

"If there is one."

"You... you're *fucking* with me."

Tim grins, more pleased that he'd ever really want to
admit. It's not often that people... well, that they
*know*, without Tim having to work to be infinitely
more transparent. And... anyway. "Thought I'd return
the favor."

"Uh, huh." Kon lifts and spins him until Tim once again
has an excellent view of Kon's neck. "You're supposed
to do it at the *time*."

"And surrender the element of surprise?"

"I..." And Kon laughs, but there's something...

It's not that there's anything 'off' about it so much as
that Tim isn't sure if he's *getting* all of it. Or...

They aren't actually moving, yet, so he can hear Kon
perfectly, but...

"Kon? Is there something wrong?"

"Wrong? I... no, but..."

Interesting. It's a moment -- a *tone* -- that seems
to suggest the use of a nervous habit or two, but Tim
isn't at all sure how that will translate with them both
in the air.

Really, he can *feel* Kon's disquiet (anxiety seems a
bit too *much*, somehow), and it seems strange that
the only thing Kon's doing is rearranging his grip
on...

Hmm.

Kon isn't so much altering his grip on Tim as...
stroking absently -- and gently -- at the places where
he's bruised. In all honesty, Tim isn't sure whether or
not he should *tell* Kon about that. Because he'll
almost certainly stop, and he probably *should*...
because the only other person who's ever paid that
much attention (absent or not) to Tim's bruises is
Jason.

And somehow "you know, Batman used to touch
me like that all the time, until we broke up," just
doesn't feel like the kind of sentence Tim could
comfortably utter.

Kon breaks up the thought -- thankfully -- by sighing
and starting to fly again. Not especially fast, this time,
and Kon hasn't actually *stopped* rubbing at Tim's
side through his shirt.

"Kon?"

"No, I just... you really tore Clark a new one."

He really could've been much worse. By rights, even.
"Does it bother you?"

"I'm... I'm not actually sure. I mean, I was pretty
pissed at him about how he's been acting, and... well,
other things --"

"I know."

*That* makes Kon stop petting him and tense. "I...
guess I was pretty obvious."

"I suppose I wasn't."

"What?"

"You weren't the only one... irritated. With Clark and
with the entire situation."

Tim isn't sure if he's ever been hugged like this
before -- it feels like something caught between
aggression and the search for... validation? Comfort?

It's not possible to be sure. "Kon --"

"I just don't get it. I mean, he *respects* you. He
likes you, and wants to be your *friend* --"

Tim blinks. "Stranger things have happened." Mostly
to other people.

"No, I -- not *that*."

And Kon squeezes his sides again, hard enough to
make Tim wince --

"Christ, sorry, I just... I wanted to see your face."

Tim raises an eyebrow.

"Heh. Yeah, like that."

When Kon smiles like that, it's very difficult to
remember that he'd been Robin for months before
Kon was even... decanted.

"Anyway, I just... I mean. I don't get why *you* were
upset with him. He didn't say anything..." Kon shrugs,
and Tim wonders...

It's a good question.

It isn't the one he's actually considering. Still.

They're high enough that, when Tim blows out a breath,
it's 'smoky' and just a little strange. Atmospheric --
quite literally. "He was impugning my taste, Kon," he
says, as lightly as he can.

"Oh."

And Kon just keeps holding him there, and looking at
him. It isn't *quite* a searching look, or even a
particularly piercing look.

Or...

It's not at all uncomfortable to *be* looked at, like
this. Perhaps it's something like Kon's smirks. An
inherent gentleness, a reflexive comfort, a...

He really does need more oxygen.

"Let's go, Kon."

*

The internet café has more to recommend it in terms of
its computers than of its coffee. Between Alfred, Victor,
and, now, the Kents... well, it takes quite a lot to make
Tim see coffee as something worth buying from a
restaurant. He *has* caffeine supplements, after all.

Though there's something rather endearing about Kon
with whipped cream on his nose.

A little too endearing, actually -- he'd taken the picture
before he'd thought about it.

Sooner or later, for the sake of courtesy *alone*, he's
going to have to explain to Kon exactly how many
modifications he has, and what they do. For now, it's
enough that Kon can sprawl in such a way that Tim's
reasonably sure no one sees him pull the cable and
adapter from his pocket (you really *don't* ever
know) and jack in.

And... oh God, it had barely been a *week*, but it
feels...

Strange and wonderful, a half-forgotten *memory*.

"Dude --"

"Keep sprawling. I haven't gotten what I need."

"I... okay."

He hasn't even uploaded anything yet. Just the
*sensation*, the *potential* --

"Is it... is that..."

"It's not uncomfortable." Rather the opposite.

Kon drums his fingers on the table and gulps at least
half of his remaining coffee.

Tim's tempted to ask if *that* was uncomfortable,
considering the fact that his own coffee is still hot
enough to scald. But... no. And using these
computers... well. He's going to have to finish
those upgrades on the Kents' computer sooner or
later, but he's not going to rush until he *knows*
he can get broadband to them.

DSL just isn't *enough*. Not for the systems *he*
has to get into.

"It will be a few minutes, I think."

"Sure. Uh..."

In truth, this was coming. He hasn't had the opportunity --
reason, *reason* -- to use any of his more... obvious
enhancements since he's been out here, and while
Kon has been remarkably sanguine about
everything...

"Tim, can I ask you something?"

"Of course." And really, the biggest surprise is that *he*
feels sanguine about it. Something beyond the
inevitability of questions, and into... he isn't sure. He
finds the maps he needs, and --

"How... you said it's not uncomfortable."

"It isn't. And I'm going to be making a small sound
very soon as I upload."

"What? Oh. I just... does it feel..."

Tim has grown accustomed enough to the process of
uploading large amounts of information in various
media that he now knows the sound he makes is...
pretty much equivalent to a human doing a
reasonable impression of a busily working CPU,
but --

"Dude."

He can't stop making it. Feeling it.

"I... *dude*."

"There."

"Uh. That sounds... um."

"Hmm?"

Kon.. shifts. Visible in his shoulders, and in the odd
tension of his neck.

"Are you all right?"

The laugh isn't false so much as choked. No, *shocked*.

Hmm. "Did that... surprise you?"

"I... uh. Can I turn around yet?"

Tim catches himself smiling and... lets himself. It's a
very specific sort of smile, and bleed-through is really
only part of the problem. If it is a problem. "It's
safe."

The first thing Kon does is look at him. And that
wouldn't be especially... *special*, but it's a rather
serious look. An examination, a cataloguing... Tim is,
abruptly, very aware that his cheeks are probably
still flushed from the flight, and that his artificial
right eye almost certainly isn't showing the same sort
of expression as the left.

After all, if he's managing to look blank, right now,
it's purely by accident. Especially when Kon reaches
out and...

Doesn't touch him.

He clenches his hand into a fist just before his
fingertips would've brushed the skin beneath
Tim's -- right -- eye.

"Uh. Sorry. I just --"

"If I looked strange, you should tell me. I haven't spent
a great deal of time in public like... this."

Which prompts another searching look. "I think I'd like
to see you like that," he says, and looks down again.
"You know. In your uniform."

"Maybe --" You can come to Gotham sometime after
I've convinced Jason to see reason. Tim bites his
lip. "Was there anything?"

"Hunh...? Oh, no. Nothing... I mean, it was weird
when you kind of just narrowed *one* eye at me,
but --"

"Hm. I'm going to have to work on that."

"I guess? I mean... I was... paying a lot of attention.
Uh. Yeah, anyway, so you never told me about
Gotham."

Tim checks the temperature of his presumably mediocre
coffee and takes a sip. Mediocre. "What did you want
to know?"

"Well, I mean, come on. You *have* to have stories."

And there's something about Kon's voice. Again, not
*false*, per se... "About?"

Kon finishes the rest of his coffee and starts playing
with the mug. Staring at the mug, really, and...

It's not like he isn't *used* to people feeling the
need to change the subject whenever his enhancements
come up, and to helping them do so. But (Kon isn't like
that) this feels different, somehow, and. He kind of
wants to push. "Do my enhancements make you
uncomfortable?"

Kon tenses again, and his mug clatters against the
table.

Question answered.

"Uh. No. Not... I don't. Mind them."

Tim frowns. It should be -- it *absolutely* should be --
easy to dismiss that as the lie of a polite and
generally, genuinely friendly boy. He can't.

Everything about Kon -- from his breathing to his
posture -- is demanding Tim take the statement at
face value.

He settles for nodding, and takes another swallow
of his own coffee.

"Do you always take it black?"

Tim raises an eyebrow. "Unless someone corrupts it
before I can stop them."

Kon nods, but he still isn't looking at him. "It's just...
it's pretty obvious you think it's nasty."

"Mm."

A shrug. "Even bad coffee is drinkable with cream and
sugar, man."

Which seems... plausible. "I'll keep it in mind."

The smile Kon gives him is brilliant and -- brief. He
looks down at his mug again.

"What... what did you want to know? About Gotham."

"Clark keeps talking about B -- your boss."

Jason. The reports he's been filing are entirely
adequate. He knows exactly what's going in Gotham,
and that the last of the metahumans are expected
to be shown the door within two weeks. He knows
that Batgirl is still working with them, and that
the Spoiler has taught Huntress any number of nasty
new things which she is, in turn, teaching the others.

He knows that no one has been injured in any major
way, and...

He knows *nothing*. He bites it back and double-
checks the computer to make sure he's sufficiently
covered his tracks.  "Yes?"

"Well, the way he talks about... the way Clark talks
about him..."

And it -- whatever *it* is -- is right there. Tim
*knows* it is. But... "I... think I need you to be
more specific."

Kon glares so hard at his mug that Tim starts wondering
just what, precisely, triggered Clark's heat-vision the
first time.

"Kon?"

"So." Kon blows out a breath and... squares his
shoulders. It's the only possible description for it. And
then he looks at Tim. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

Tim blinks. "No."

Kon nods slowly. "Are you... dating anyone?"

"Are you asking me if I'm gay?"

"Uh."

That strange, fascinating aura of Kon's had kept his face
from getting wind-burned during their flight, or even
flushed. Clearly, it's no protection against
embarrassment.

"I just... I mean, you keep changing the subject or
totally ignoring me when I bring up girls, and..."

And once again, he can *feel* it. This... this terrifying
empathy, this *emotion* which isn't his. Or shouldn't
be. Perhaps it's strange that he's never had this
conversation before. Perhaps he just owes Steph a
debt of gratitude for making it extremely difficult to
make *him* blush.

"Yeah, I guess that was kind of personal --"

"I am."

"-- and it's not like that question wasn't totally --
what?"

"I'm gay."

"Oh." Kon runs a finger around the rim of his mug.
Abruptly, it starts to spin in the opposite direction.

"Does *that* make you uncomfortable?"

And Kon looks at him, letting the mug spin to a stop.
"No."

Tim nods.

"But I still... I want to know if you're seeing anyone."

And Jason... they haven't talked about it, but Jason
hasn't touched him since just after he'd found out
about Tim's optics. Tim can't say he didn't see that
coming. They didn't really need to talk about it. "No.
I'm not."

There's an extremely visible conflict on Kon's face,
something that leaves Tim straining, half-desperate
for Kon to say something. To make it *clear*.

And... it's a familiar kind of strain, now that he
thinks about it. He's been spending a great deal of
time *focused* on Kon, just lately. The Kents say
exactly what they mean, often in excruciating
detail.

He has no great need to learn the inner emotional
workings of animals he expect to eat for Sunday
dinner.

And Kon is... well, of course he'd focus on Kon, and
of course that greater degree of focus would lead to
a greater degree of emotional... bleed. He's
accustomed to Gotham, and while everyone with
the experience to judge seems to think that he has
far more in common with the dead (though not
Dick. Never Dick.) than with the rest of his
family...

Well. He thinks even Steph would want to put a
mask on Kon, just to see if it would turn the
*volume* down, a little.

He doesn't actually want to put a mask on Kon.
At all.

Though he wouldn't precisely need Kon's *face* to
recognize a certain degree of internal distress. Not if
Kon keeps doing things like causing small, localized
earthquakes. Their entire table is shaking.

"Kon."

"Ah -- fuck." Kon shoves his chair back and raises
his hands, and the table clatters to a halt.

Tim pushes the computer back out of range of
disaster.

"*Dammit*."

"You should know -- if I ever mind you asking
questions, I'll tell you."

"Yeah?"

There's something pleading in Kon's voice, something
*reaching* -- "Yes. Go ahead and ask."

Kon nods and splays his hands on the table. "Okay. I
mean, I know you said... that I was thinking the
wrong thing about... your boss. But. He sent you to
*Smallville*. And you... you *were* seeing him.
Right?"

Really, he probably should've guessed that giving
Kon that sort of blanket permission would lead to
*that* sort of question.

"You know, it's funny. You don't really scowl or
glare or anything when you don't want to talk
about something. You just kind of... shut down."

Tim raises an eyebrow. "Perhaps I'm merely in
power-save mode."

"I... you *do* that?"

"I don't have quite that many enhancements yet."

Kon nods, and looks at him as if he's trying to will
X-ray vision to develop.

"Would you like to know just what I *have* had
done?"

"I..." Kon blinks, and then... laughs. "Man, you can
barely even... if you put a pair of sunglasses on
and kept your collar buttoned on your shirt, no one
would even *know*... and you'd still rather talk
about that than... your ex."

Tim needs, very badly, to get Kon active. If only
to watch other people underestimate him to their
detriment. Tim smiles, perhaps more for himself than
for Kon. "I still don't mind the question."

"Just the answer?"

Tim stares at the computer and idly considers
dumping one of the virii he'd pulled from the thing
on a routine scan back into the system. After a
modification which would make sure the computer
could never be used by *anyone* to discover things
which needed to be kept private. And while he
could *probably* do it in such a way that the thing
would only need reformatting, and *probably*
wouldn't infect the others in the café...

It's still a little too much like shooting the messenger.
Tim stands up, double-checking to make sure the
collar of his shirt is even, and sets a finger on Kon's
mug to keep it from spinning. "I don't want to talk
about it. Here."

"That was supposed to be *one* sentence, right?"

Tim smiles. "Maybe."

Kon doesn't push, even after they've walked a few
blocks. There are a number of reasons why he's
grateful for that -- not least of which is the fact that
it's simply *disconcerting*.

Kansas City isn't his, and he's pretty sure the last time
he'd done more than fly over it was for some abortive
family vacation when he was still too young to notice
how ridiculous the concept was. But it's still a city,
and it's still...

Loud.

He'd *forgotten*...

Because while Steph had assured him that the first
several minutes after the Quake -- and the initial
building collapses -- had been eerily silent, *he* hadn't
been there. And he'd been used to the noise of
Gotham, and the...

Part of it *has* to be the fact that it's day, and so
the human sounds are more intense, but.

He's going to have to start thinking seriously about
just *how* he'll go about re-acclimating himself
when he gets back home. He very clearly needs a
plan.

For now, he grounds himself by keeping Kon walking
on the outside, so that he remains, at all times,
within Tim's enhanced peripheral vision. His heartbeat
isn't as steady as it could be (and hasn't been,
since... that little discussion), but his breathing is...

And it hits hard, and more than a little cruelly: When
he goes back to Gotham, he'll have his family, and
the city itself, and... hell, even the Cave should be
fully renovated by then. And he'll have spent God
only knows how long *focused* on Kon.

Breathing him, talking to him, and *listening* to
him.

It's entirely possible that he'll need -- actually,
physically *need* -- some sort of plan to re-acclimate
himself to Kon's absence, as well.

"Tim?"

"Yes."

"You... are you okay?"

I've turned you into my drug. Something neurotropic and
desperately in need of *control*. He pauses in front of
the hardware store the maps he'd uploaded located for
him. "Why do you want to know?"

Kon frowns. "If you're okay?"

"No."

"Uh... okay. It's just -- wait, you want to talk *here*?"

"It's reasonably empty," Tim says, and starts picking
out a few things. A nicely complicated -- and thus
overpriced -- doorknob, an especially fragile-looking
(and also overly complicated) light-fixture, several
grades of rope...

"Tim...?"

"I'll explain later."

"Okay..."

He listens to Kon scrubbing a hand back through his
hair, and wonders if he should... try to cut back. If
going cold-turkey for this sort of thing...

And it doesn't matter that he'd done just that with his
family. He'd never *had* this sort of constant contact
with any of them. Not when everyone involved was
fully *conscious*.

Tim does his best to focus on the other people in the
store, instead, but beyond being absolutely sure that
the one other customer is, in fact, having a deeply
personal discussion with the bathroom fixtures and
that the clerk is reading a magazine approximately fifteen
feet to the southeast of the actual counter... There's
nothing *there*.

Nothing he needed to *focus* for.

And it's not like he *needs* to know that Kon's
heartbeat is speeding up again (he's going to *say*
something), it's just...

"I want to know because. Because it seems like you...
you and your boss --"

"Partner."

"Okay." Kon takes a breath. "You say you aren't seeing
anyone --"

"I'm not."

"But Clark's acting like you two are Romeo and Juliet
or something."

Jason is, actually, quite terrible with a sword. And
Steph would want *him* to wear the dress. "But
*why* do you want to know?"

This breath is... shaky and loud and irritable and...
hungry. "Don't you know?"

Tim closes his eyes for a moment, and wonders what
he's going to do when Kon figures out that these
moments he takes rarely have anything to do with
thinking about his response... as opposed to feeling
the question.

All over.

He looks back over his shoulder. "Tell me anyway.
Or just --"

"I want you."

Tim bites the tip of his tongue. Lightly.

"And. I don't... I don't want anyone to be in the way.
If I can have you at all."

"He. He isn't in the way. He wouldn't... interfere."

Kon frowns. "But what about *you*, man?"

"What about me?"

Kon takes a step closer. His breath smells like coffee
and the cocoa he'd had in it.

For a long, long moment, Tim reconsiders his decision
to avoid the olfactory enhancements. A computerized
vomeronasal 'organ' would make this... Even more
overwhelming than it already is.

"Did you... are you in love with him?"

And... oh. "I don't think I know what that is."

Kon frowns harder.

Tim wants, very badly, for Kon to say something else.
Ask something else, no matter how awful. Just...
that *hunger* --

"I... do you want me?"

"Yes."

The kiss is sharp and sudden, Kon's teeth scraping
over Tim's lower lip before Kon cups his face and tilts
it up. Into it.

Tim knows, intellectually, that Kon's moan was
quiet, but it drives right through him, and it's a
matter of missing time.

He's aware of his knees starting to shake, and of
Kon's pounding heartbeat, and of the struck tuning
fork of need. He's aware of the *next* moan, and
how it's more of a gasp, and how it's his *own*... but not
much more than that until Kon pulls away, dragging
the back of his hand over his mouth and panting, "I
didn't mean to do that."

"Accidents happen." He doesn't have a power-save
mode. He does, apparently, have an autopilot. He's
rock hard and holding the doorknob much too hard
with his artificial hand.

"I didn't mean to do that *here*, where I can't..." Kon
takes another shaky breath and stares at his own
hand. And licks it.

"Kon."

"Buy your stuff. And... and tell me where we can
*go*."

Tim nods and starts walking toward the counter. "We
could always go back to the  farm. Mrs. Kent already
wants us to room together."

Kon snorts. "And if she was talking about *that*..."
He runs two fingers down Tim's spine. "I don't want
to know."

And up again. Curiously, it feels less suggestive
than just another way for Kon to touch him. That...
there's a *constancy* to that. He shakes it off as
much as he can. "Noted. Of course, there are other
benefits to going back to the farm. For... this."

"I'm listening. I'm... thinking a *lot*, but I'm listening."

Tim gives the clerk his blankest look and watches
the man snap his mouth shut on whatever inanity
he was about to utter. To Kon he says, as evenly as
he can, "I don't imagine there are many *more*
effective ways to make a place feel like your own."

"I... you're talking about marking my *territory*."

Tim smiles, and gives the clerk the debit card for Tim
Drake's one official and, thus far, entirely innocent
account. "I just want you to feel comfortable, Kon."

The laugh is rough and low and...

And Tim *feels* it enough that he can't decide whether
he wants to sneeze or just adjust himself in his pants.
Autopilot lets him hold on to his bags and shove his
wallet back in his pocket.

Kon gets him out of the store and into the alley beside
it... and into the sky.

"Tim," he says, and kisses him again.

At least, like this, he has an excuse for the light-
headedness. There's only so much oxygen he's getting
even though he *does* know how to breathe -- and
keep breathing -- through his nose.

It's just that Kon doesn't stop moaning.

And his hands... the vibrations from the paths his
hands are taking over Tim's clothes are thin, light
things. The 'sound' isn't enough. The *feel* isn't
enough... for entirely different reasons.

"Tim," Kon says again, and pants against his ear. "Oh
*Jesus* --"

"Sorry --" He couldn't *stop* his hips from jerking.

"Oh fuck, you're so *hard*." And Kon sounds like...

Like Tim's giving him a *gift*. And he thinks it
wouldn't be half so strange if... well, if he didn't
know how that felt. From the inside. "Oh --"

"God, let me -- let me touch you..." Breathy and low,
right there against his ear, and Kon has one arm
locked around Tim's waist and the other stroking his
hip. Stroking hard, restlessly... "Tim..."

"Not. Not in the sky --"

"Anywhere. *Everywhere*, just --"

"Land."

The sudden increase in speed snatches the air out of
his lungs, makes his ears pop, and *slams* him
against Kon's body. It's only practical to wrap his
legs around Kon's hips and hold on with his thighs.

He has never told a bigger lie than that, not even
to himself.

And frankly, he isn't sure how Kon is steering,
considering the way he keeps licking Tim's ear and
the side of his throat, biting -- *moaning*.

He doesn't care if they crash. It would be nice to
have an excuse to replace -- to --

"*Kon*."

They 'land' at a run, with Kon doing an admirable
impression of a 747 coming in fast. They kick up so
much dust that Tim isn't precisely sure *where*
they are, even with the optics -- he isn't focusing
on the optics --

"Kon..."

"I just... please let me --"

"I --" The rest is coughed out on a grunt. There's a
wall -- probably wood -- behind him, and Kon
*pushes*. One hand splayed on his chest and -- he
isn't pushing hard. He's *holding* Tim.

The other hand is at the back of his neck, stroking,
petting -- "Please let me."

"You don't --" Understand.

"I just. I need to touch you so bad..." So low, so
desperate. So *honest* and real and the only thing
distracting Tim from it enough to let him focus is
the fact that Kon's *eyes* are open.

Focused on him, searching him all over, stripping him
with intent -- "*Fuck* --" He fights, but he can't stop
his hips from arching, jerking toward Kon --

"Oh man..."

There is, at least, a part of him *aware* enough to
realize that Kon's aura is still holding him still --
holding him in *place* -- even when Kon moves his
hand.

To be fair to Kon's conceptions of his own powers,
it's true that Kon hasn't actually stopped touching
him, but --

But --

On him. His port and his *dick*.

"*Kon* --"

"You just... you tell me how you like it. Everywhere.
I --"

"I can't *feel* it on the port --" And he cuts *himself*
off with a gasp when Kon actually stops.

Sometime later he'll expend some thought on just
what does and doesn't seem to cut through the
layers of... everything between Kon's id and Kon's
superego. Right now, he just...

He's struggling against Kon's hold on him before
he's even aware of how much more he *wants*.
He's... well, he's actually thirty feet up. In a barn.
He stops struggling.

"You... what?"

Tim closes his eyes and breathes. And sneezes
from the dust, and tries again.

"Tim --"

"Don't stop."

"Oh *fuck*, yeah --"

The moans feel like words when Kon kisses him again.
*Taste* like them, like there's something he should
be paying attention to beyond the slick eagerness of
Kon's tongue --

"Taste you --"

Beyond his own grasping *need*. The hunger that
makes him lunge against Kon's hold on his upper
body and tighten the hold he has on *Kon* with
his thighs --

"Tim --" Panting moans against his mouth, into
his mouth because Tim wasn't -- *isn't* -- ready to
stop kissing. Not yet. Not when shifting the position
of his face just makes Kon drag his mouth (soft,
soft and *warm*) up over his cheek and back to
his ear. "God, Tim..."

He can't hold back the moan and he's holding on
to Kon so tightly that he's rapidly losing feeling in
his thighs.

"You like that. Your... ears?" Kon bites the lobe
gamely, licks him, but -- "Tell me... tell me what to
do, man --"

"Just... tell *me*. What you want." In detail. With
your mouth right -- "*Kon* --"

"That. I want... fuck, you feel *good* in my hand.
So hard... and you're. You're getting all wet..."

"Keep... keep going --"

Kon swallows hard and gasps against his ear. "You...
you can't feel it on the port. But. I want to..."

"Around. I can feel -- still sensitive *around* --
*oh* --" Spun around and --

"Sorry, I -- too rough --"

"Don't *fucking* stop, Kon --"

And Kon squeezes his dick *hard* with one hand and
shoves on Tim's shoulder with the other, leaning in,
*breathing* --

"Keep -- keep talking --"

"You don't know how good this looks. You don't...
you don't know how fucking *hard* I get every
time you *talk* about uploading or -- and then
you *did* it."

And Kon sounds almost *angry*, and Tim thinks
about the way Steph would curse them out in the
first few weeks of her training, the way she'd look
at Jason and him like they had all the secrets of
the universe and were just *taunting* her with
them.

It feels like that, it -- and it's not like he ever
really *questioned* Steph's attraction for Jason,
it's just that now he really *gets* it.

And probably it's wrong -- or at least *strange* --
that he's having inappropriate and deeply politically
incorrect lust for a frustrated Batgirl while a
somewhat less frustrated -- he doesn't think he's
ever been pinned spread-eagled against a wall
before -- Superboy is molesting him, but...

He's a drug. It's the only possible explanation for --
for *any* of it. Corrupting his perception and making
everything so difficult. So...

"Tell me how to make you come," Kon breathes,
and swipes his tongue around the edge of the ring.

Twice.

And starts to bite.

"I -- *Kon* --"

"Sounded... sounded like you were coming right
*there*. In the coffee shop, like you were being
*fucked* right... right in your little metal *hole* --"

All things considered, Tim is quite happy that he
*doesn't*, actually, sound like he's coming when
he's uploading. That would make the occasional
need to do it publicly inconvenient at best.

"Oh. Fuck."

Tim lets his head fall forward against the wall and
starts the process of catching his breath. "This was.
My thought."

"Oh... fuck." And Kon slides his hand out from
between Tim's thighs. "I... no one's ever come on
me before."

Tim blinks. "You're... you're a virgin?"

"Um." Kon's heartbeat is rapid, erratic beyond even
his metahuman status and sex. "God, I can *smell*
you  -- *fuck* --"

Tim doesn't even time to remind himself not to panic
before Kon catches him with an arm around his chest.
"Kon, are you --"

"Sorry, I -- fuck, you taste so *good* --"

Sucking sounds *just* behind him. Kon had caught
him, consciously or not, with his *clean* hand. Just
so he could...

"I... I'm *tasting* you --"

"Kon." The attempt to use his serious-voice (if not,
necessarily, his command voice) is less than effective.
On either side of things, because Kon is pressing him
to the wall again.

And because Kon is pressing him to the *wall* again,
sucking his own fingers *right* behind Tim's ear and
grinding against his ass.

"You want to fuck me."

Kon whimpers and bucks hard enough against Tim
that they shake more dust loose. And make the wood
creak.

And.

"*Jesus*, Tim. I..." The groan is wordless, and Kon
shakes and presses him to the wall, holds him there
and *keeps* shaking.

And Tim realizes that Kon just came in his pants at
pretty much the same time that he realizes he wants
Kon to fuck him. But. He really hadn't ever considered
the possibility that Kon might be a virgin. "Are you
all right?"

Kon groans against the back of Tim's neck, making
Tim shiver, making him --

*Focus*. "Kon."

Well, all right. Command-voice apparently makes
Kon's dick twitch hard enough for Tim to feel it.

He tries again, in a more neutral tone. "Talk to me."

Kon pulls Tim off the wall -- with his power, and it
sort of feels like his early childhood imaginings of
what a 'tractor beam' might be like -- and into his
arms. Rather more of a trip than it should've been,
considering, but Kon is apparently flying them...
somewhere.

Hmm. Tim shifts, trying to turn around and *face*
Kon --

"Wait -- just. Please." And Kon squeezes him.

"All right." He can't... he's not sure what he's hearing
in Kon's voice. Or... he's not sure how *much* of
everything he's hearing is there, or to what degree --

His heartbeat and breath is easier, and a more
comprehensible gauge. He can hear Kon trying to
steady his breathing, and doing a fair job of it. And
he doesn't think he could avoid feeling -- almost
*smelling*, at this point -- the pound of Kon's heart
if he tried.

If he wanted to try.

When they land this time, it's softly enough that
they only kick up a little dust. Tim looks around -- as
much as he can, considering Kon's grip -- and...
well, he hadn't *really* thought Kon would fly them
back to the Kents' barn for sex, but it's a relief to see
that he didn't, just the same.

He really *doesn't* mind the idea of having sex
with Kon on the farm, but he'd really like to plan it
a little better first.

This barn is... hmm. "It's abandoned?"

"I think so. No one lives in the house, and the fields
are all overgrown."

Tim nods and looks up -- squinting carefully -- along
the path of a shaft of sunlight. The roof has more
holes than wood. It's entirely possible that they'd only
made the wall creak because it's old and in desperate
need of repair.

Tim turns up the gain on his 'comm' and listens. A
lot of mice, a few cats. Too many birds, and some
larger animals. Dogs or foxes. He thinks there are
foxes out here.

If he concentrates, he can hear what sounds like a
very, very old truck moving slowly. A long way away.
Tim smiles. "It's a good place."

Kon squeezes him again. "I found it the first time I
explored. Before Clark told me to, you know. Keep a
low profile."

It's perfectly understandable that Clark would want to
protect his parents. Tim still wants to thank Clark
for dredging Bruce's Kryptonite from the bottom of
a chasm with a nice great big chunk of it to the face.

It's getting harder to tell himself that he's just picking
up on the bleed of Kon's emotions, especially since
Kon still sounds more dazed (shocked, wanting,
happy, *hungry*) than anything else.

Especially since he doesn't *have* to listen that
closely. "Kon."

"I'm... heh. Still a little. You know."

Embarrassed. "You should've told me you hadn't ever
had sex before."

"I was going to. I just got a little... I didn't expect
you --" Kon sighs and shifts behind him, somehow
managing to get them even closer together.

Tim bends his head forward, just to stretch a little,
but Kon moans again and... nuzzles him. Soft mouth
on the back of his neck, and then the deep-seated
nothing that means Kon's mouth is on the port, and
then Kon's tongue on the other side.

And back again.

"Kon..."

"Does this... does it feel as good to you as I think it
does? You... you just got all." Kon breathes, soft and
ragged. "It feels like I could just..."

Bend me over? That would be... no. Focus. "It feels
wonderful. Stop."

Kon gasps and does it.

"Now let me turn around."

Kon lets go of him, which... well, it wasn't what Tim
*meant*, exactly, but it still works. Kon's hair is
mussed and flopping over his eyes. He needs a
haircut as much as Tim does, though there's nothing
Kon wants to hide at the back of his neck.

"Look at me."

And Kon's eyes are wide and... and Tim isn't sure
what he thought he'd accomplish by this. He'd have
better luck just *listening* to Kon... except for the
fact that Kon seems to have lost the ability to use
language that doesn't make Tim need to come.

Still. "Are you all right?"

"I..." Kon looks away, but he doesn't stop Tim from
moving closer.

And he almost seems to *relax* a little when Tim
puts his hands on Kon's shoulders. Which... also
works. Tim squeezes.

Kon sighs. "I just. I mean, I've spent a lot of time
*thinking* about it, and there were all these girls..."

Tim raises an eyebrow. "You know, it does *count*
if you've had sex with a woman."

"Have you?"

"No." Tim smiles. "But I've been told by reliable
sources."

Kon grins back at him, as easy as if he's remembering
being teased by Steph, too. Or maybe just like he
enjoys smiling with Tim. He reaches up to cover one
of Tim's hands with his own.

No, to cover his *left* hand.

"It feels... I mean, it only feels a little different than
the rest of your skin." He pulls it down between them
and Tim watches him stroke over the back, and his
fingers. "You can't feel that, right?"

Tim nods. "I only wear the sleeve for camouflage. It
was grown from my own epithelial cells, but Cyborg
says the process is never exact."

Kon laughs, a little. "Like me, right?"

It's not an *entirely* honest laugh. "I'm sure Cyborg
would love to know the process the scientists at
Cadmus used with you. You're... you're rather
amazing."

Kon frowns. "I don't... what do you mean?"

"You're a clone. You're entirely artificial. And yet you
can feel, and think... you're an individual. I can see
aspects of Clark in you, but..."

Kon's hands shift on Tim's own, and Tim thinks he
might be squeezing. It's too gentle to trigger any
of the built-in alarms, though he thinks he could
measure the pressure if he focused on it.

"What's wrong?"

"I never... I mean, it was just kissing, and a little
touching with the girls."

Tim blinks, and realizes Kon is responding to the
earlier conversation. "All right."

"But... yeah. I mean, I know I'm not like Clark."

Tim narrows his eyes. "You... think that's a bad
thing?"

Kon shrugs. "I'm supposed to be. It's what I was
built for. What they wanted --"

"Everybody wants something when they make a child.
No one gets it, as near as I've been able to figure
out."

"Tim, you don't. I mean... you're *human*."

Tim smiles, and knows it isn't a nice one. And squeezes
Kon's hand.

"Uh... ow?"

"Kon. You're the most normal person I know. No, that's
not right --"

"Still ow."

"You're the most normal person I've ever *wanted* to
know." And he waits until Kon's looking at him again
before he loosens his grip.

"Oh. Dude."

The kiss is uncomfortable with his hand trapped
between them, but Kon doesn't move even when Tim
starts to push. Correction, he doesn't move *away*.
Which is... interesting. Tim drags the hand
deliberately down the center of Kon's chest and
opens his eyes in time to see Kon *squeezing* his
shut.

"Oh God, Tim. I know you can't feel that, but..."

Lower, and it's less than a thought to cup Kon, to
squeeze him, and Kon groans into his mouth and
bucks.

"You -- you're gonna make me come in my pants
*again*."

Tim licks Kon's mouth and pulls out of the kiss
entirely, waiting for Kon to open his eyes again.
"You should take off your shorts."

Another buck. "*Tim* --"

"They must be uncomfortable."

"I... oh God. Oh God --"

Hunger and shock and *hunger*. Tim licks his lips
helplessly. He can't even remember what he wanted
to talk about. "I could... do you want me to jerk you
off with this hand?"

Kon whimpers and his hands spasm in Tim's hair.

Tim isn't sure when Kon's hands got *into* his hair.

And then Kon pulls away from him, just far enough
for him to undo his jeans with shaking hands and
push them down and. "I need. God, I don't want
you to let go --"

Tim lets go and Kon whimpers again, louder, and
shoves his jeans and shorts down to his thighs.
Unscarred and faintly golden and --

"Please. Please, Tim --"

"Yes." He curls his human hand over Kon's shoulder
again and reaches and... pauses.

"Tim...?"

"Do you want me to take the sleeve off? I can't do it
without damaging it, but I packed extras."

He can see Kon's dick twitching and...

"We can do that later," he says, and squeezes.
"Harder?"

"Please -- *please* --"

It's fascinating on a number of levels. Tim really
doesn't think he'd be able to focus at all if he was *feeling*
this as more than just the motion of his arm and a
phantom ache.

It's hard enough with the look on Kon's face -- pained,
but not... He's sweating, and panting, and biting his
lip...

Part of it has to be the fact that no one has done this
for him before. The first time Jason had jerked him
off, he'd barely managed to get his pants off. But part
of it...

The last time he'd used -- *almost* --  this much
pressure on a man's genitals, it was a deliberate --
and effective -- crippling blow.

And Kon is fucking his fist. He's slick with his own
pre-come, but the friction *alone*...

"Oh fuck -- oh *fuck* --"

It's enough to make Tim wonder what the average
individual with super-strength *does* when they
get involved with a human. The compromise must
be immense.

"Don't... don't stop..."

"I won't. I want you to come for me."

And Kon's eyes fly open, wide and dazed. His pupils
are half-blown and -- "Tim..."

Barely a breath. Difficult to hear even with his
enhancements. Impossible not to *feel*. "Kon."

He would like to feel Kon coming on him, but
watching it is... compelling.

His hand is a mess, and he's going to have to change
his shirt pretty much immediately after they get back
to the Kents. And Kon's knees buckle as soon as Tim
lets go. He manages to catch himself, which is a
good thing, but it still makes Tim somewhat regretful.

There's something compelling about the floor of the
barn, too, despite the fact that doing *anything* down
there would kick up so much dust he'd spend the
entire encounter sneezing.

As it is...

His hand is still a mess.

It's interesting. He's never touched Jason with this
hand. Jason never *wanted* him to --

He's never stuck these fingers into his mouth before.
He can't decide if the strangeness is the fact that
he *knows* that there's nothing but metal and a few
very powerful and specific plastics under the sleeve,
Kon's only partial humanity, or the fact that neither
he nor Cyborg have come up with a way to impart
anything like realistic texture to the sleeve's fingers.

He doesn't actually care.

"*Jesus*, Tim." Kon tugs on his wrist until Tim
stops sucking... and promptly shoves Tim's fingers
into his own mouth. And moans.

Tim would definitely like to feel *that*. Or --
The alarm in his head is one of the minor ones.
The sleeve...

"Oops." Muffled, because Kon is pulling the remnants
of the sim-skin covering for Tim's middle finger out of
his mouth.

Tim's pretty sure that's disturbing.

Kon frowns. "Um. You... said you had spares, right?"

"Yes," Tim says, and takes the sim-skin away from
Kon. He doesn't have any specimen vials on him, and
he doesn't want to just *leave* it here, and he
*really* doesn't want to put it in his pocket -- it's
already starting to stiffen without the lubricant his hand
is programmed to exude for the sleeve -- but...

"Maybe we could... bury it?"

"Hm."

*

It's barely four when they make it back to the farm --
there'd been no need to call -- and Clark had apparently
trusted them enough *not* to tell the Kents that they'd
gone.

Which is obvious by the stack of sandwiches Mrs. Kent
had left on the table for them for lunch. Still, she'd
covered them tightly with plastic wrap, and there's
nothing *especially* perishable about peanut butter
and jelly sandwiches (on home-baked bread, naturally),
so...

Lunch.

Really, he *had* planned on getting straight to work,
but he actually is kind of hungry.

And Kon is busily devouring a sandwich before Tim
even picks up the note.

<i>J and I are running errands in town. We'll probably
get a snack while we're out, and we should be back
by five, but if you boys get hungry before then, you
can go ahead and put the roast in the oven. (Covered
 pan on the bottom shelf of the fridge. Cook it for two
hours on 350. )

Love,

Aunt Martha

P.S. There's some cookies in the jar, but don't ruin
your dinner, Kon!

P.P.S. Drink some *milk*.</i>

It's tempting to wonder if *he's* allowed to ruin his
dinner, or if she just trusts him to have better impulse
control.

It's also tempting to wonder, as Kon works his way
through his third sandwich, if Kon *could* ruin his
dinner.

He has a dollop of jelly at the corner of his mouth
which Tim isn't going to lick off.

He hands him a napkin, instead, gets a sandwich of
his own, and pulls the milk out of the fridge.

"Mmm, gimme."

Tim pours them both glasses and sits down.

"Dude, you know she wants you to drink a whole
glass."

"Hm."

"Isn't it supposed to make humans grow?"

Tim narrows his eyes.

"She'll *ask* me if you drank all your milk. You know
she will."

"I don't *like* milk."

Kon dunks a quarter of his sandwich in his glass. "I've
noticed, dude, but I'm just saying -- when you went
out for your run the other day? She muttered
something about buying you decaf or just dumping
milk in your regular coffee."

Tim pours more milk in his glass. "You could always
just *lie* to her and drink my share. You *like*
milk."

"Man, I am *so* not lying to Aunt Martha, so stop
scowling at me and chug."

He's not scowling.

"You could put chocolate in it. I'm pretty sure that
counts."

Chocolate milk and peanut butter sandwiches and a
warm, sunny kitchen and a roast for dinner which
will probably be excellent and tender and juicy
and surrounded by wholesome, farm-grown
vegetables and enough potatoes to choke a horse.

He's gaining *weight*, and he's not sure if he can
pitch enough hay to make up for it.

Maybe he can go for longer runs. Or... well, he *did*
get that rope. "I'm going to need your help in a bit.
Before the sun goes down."

"Sure."

And nothing even remotely resembling a question.
It's the nature vs. nurture thing which he can usually
avoid considering in terms of Kon. Would he be
this trusting if he hadn't spent the last few months
here?

Would he be this... invested in Tim's friendship if
he weren't the closest relative to a man who seems
physically incapable of *not* seeking out the
friendship of Gotham vigilantes?

It would be one thing if it were just Jason -- everyone
seems to like Jason once they get to know him, except
for Essen, of course. But Bruce's old files on
Superman were extensive, and full of obliquely
terse references to Clark's tendency to push for more
emotional contact.

And certainly, Clark seems to be the only person in
the known universe who *he* can't put off.

Whether or not he's trying.

It seems wrong to hope that there's some sort of
genetically programmed need in Kon to seek out the
companionship of the antisocial and the emotionally
difficult, but... he does.

He doesn't want to chase Kon away, and there's
something like an emptiness inside  him, a *lack*.
He's.

He's been *lonely*. And Kon... likes him. Wants him
and *likes* him. Kon has been lonely, too. It's a
different sort of alarm in his head, something
irrational and emotional and horribly familiar.

Tim knows himself well enough to know that he'd
do just about anything to keep this, now that he...
has it.

He drinks his milk.

Kon beams at him.

*

The light-fixture is somewhat the worse for wear
after the fall it took in that abandoned barn. He really
should've purchased one *without* an included
light bulb. The damage isn't bad to the rest of the
materials, but he doesn't really want to experiment
with it until he's sure he's removed all the shards of
glass.

The doorknobs, on the other hand, are perfectly
fine.

He sets the box on the desk the Kents have loaned
him and grabs the ropes.

Kon meets him when he's halfway down the stairs,
eyeing the bag curiously.

"Just the ropes," Tim says, and... hmm. "Do you
know how old Clark was when his X-ray vision
kicked in?"

Kon shrugs. "He says he pretty much had everything
by the time he was a senior in high school."

"And you were... aged to sixteen?" Which seems...
odd. Why not full adulthood? Why not younger,
if the people at Cadmus were looking to create a
controllable superbeing of the sort Luthor had
always failed to make?

And Kon is basically glaring at the steps.

"What... is there a problem, Kon?"

An obvious tension in his shoulders, a hesitation,
and a smile so false it makes him want to flinch
*and* spend time teaching Kon how to act.

Sometime later. For now... "Tell me."

"I..." Kon turns away and scrubs a hand through his
hair. "I don't age."

Tim blinks. "What?"

"I don't *age*. I'm, you know. Stuck. At sixteen."

"That's... that's *asinine*. What possible reason
could there be to keep you at sixteen?"

"I don't *know*, okay?!"

Tim stops, takes a breath, and analyzes. Kon is...
honestly upset. About this, and possibly about the fact
that Tim is asking. "Do you want to stop talking about
this?"

"Crap, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you. I mean.
I usually try not to think about it."

Tim nods. He doesn't know any gene-therapists,
offhand. He could, possibly, *make* himself one. He
needs the records on Kon. He needed them
*anyway*. "Has anyone tried to correct the
situation?"

Kon shrugs and runs his hand along the banister. "I
don't know. I haven't really heard from anyone at
Cadmus since I busted out. I kind of think things
weren't entirely on the level there."

"Hm." Tim turns and goes back to his room. He
doesn't need to, in order to do this.

But then, he theoretically could've done this at any
point, and never mind the distance. Because he
never did reprogram *all* of the little things Victor
had left in him, and... and because he didn't want
to know if it *didn't* work.

He gestures Kon over to sit on his bed and tosses
the bag of rope on his desk.

"What *are* those for, anyway?"

"Later."

"Okay..."

"Cyborg, this is Robin."

"And since you're the only one who *can* contact me
on this 'channel...'" The laugh is brief, but it still
makes Tim's nostrils flare.

Kon is staring at him, and Tim holds up a hand. "Are
you busy?"

"Only if you're calling to convince me you need
more surgery."

Not *this*. "My reasons were sound --"

"They always are, but I can't say I disagree with
Batman about you taking some time off."

Tim pauses. "He spoke to you?"

The sigh expresses itself as something like a ghostly
cramp low on Tim's back. "He sent a letter. I can't help
but think that's improvement."

Especially since there'd been no signs of it when
*Tim* had checked the Cave's systems. But it isn't
important now. "That isn't why I'm calling."

"All right."

"Who do you know at Cadmus?"

"No one, personally. A few by -- questionable --
reputation. They were one of the institutions
recommended to me when I was still trying to offer
my services as a surgeon for amputees. The
unofficial word is that it always had a few shady
donors. A certain presidential candidate comes to
mind."

"That's... unsurprising in an unfortunate way."

"Uh, huh. So what do you need from them?"

"Everything on the Superboy project. Hard copies, too,
if possible."

"Sounds like a job for --"

"Don't say it."

"Hmm."

And that was really a very *direct* non-committal
sound, enough that Tim feels himself raising his
eyebrow solely in reaction.

There's more than one reason why he saves this
sort of communication for special occasions.

"It's really not the sort of work he does, Victor."

No sound, but the pause is equally telling.

"Victor."

"It's the sort of work *you* do, isn't it?"

This time, he fully *intends* to raise his eyebrow. "I
didn't bench *myself*, Victor." But the response is
less satisfactory than merely yet another example of
how most people tend to underestimate Victor, but
how *he* no longer has even the slightest excuse:

"No, you didn't. But you *are* just looking for an
excuse to take yourself *off* IR."

"I was never *injured* in the first place."

It would be better if it was a long-suffering sigh, or
even and *irritated* sigh. It isn't. It's... 'sad' isn't
enough for it, *couldn't* be enough for anything
which makes his knees try to buckle, that makes
him feel so *heavy*.

"Victor... I'm still not calling you for... for
enhancements."

"Not today."

"No," Tim says, and closes his eyes. "Not today."

This sigh is somewhat better. "Is there any chance
you could give me a good reason for sending you
this information?"

Tim tries a smile, or something like it for the benefit
of a man receiving digital information directly into
his brain. "Other than the fact that you're just the
*fastest* way I can get it right now?"

"Yes," Victor says, and he isn't smiling at all.

The worst part, he thinks, is the fact that he can't
blame the way it makes him feel on bleed-through.
There's just... there are too many people who
don't --

"Tim..."

The shock in Victor's voice -- the *guilt* is enough to
make Tim wince and it's almost reflex to slam down
the walls. The visualization is as crude as it *can* be
-- it really does involve a number of walls -- but it's
still effective.

"Ouch."

"I'm sorry. For... broadcasting," Tim says.

"You do realize... *that* makes it more difficult to
hear you."

Tim closes his eyes. "But you still can."

"Yes," Victor says.

"Good. Then here's your reason -- the Superboy project
was designed to be, at most, a partial success." Tim
ignores the confusion and... and *hurt* in Kon's eyes
as much as he possibly can. "I need to know why,
who, and how I can go about correcting that."

"I... you're with him now?"

"Yes."

"Is he in *danger*?"

It's an excellent question, for his purposes. It couldn't
possibly be better. But...

Tim had gotten into the habit of telling Victor as much
of the truth as possible even when they were safely
in each other's actual *presence*. It's not a habit he
feels a need to break.

"Not that I can see, not immediately. But he's been
effectively hobbled. No, that doesn't get the point
across. Someone's *bound* him, Victor. Like a
mutilated foot. I refuse to allow that to continue."

The pause is long, but not especially ominous.
More... thoughtful. "I could use this rare opportunity to
point out that the use of the word 'mutilation' is...
telling."

He knows everything Victor is and isn't saying. He still
doesn't have the time for it. "I'm not planning  an...
extensive rebellion. I'm qualified, available, and..."
I need him. "I have a stake."

He feels himself nodding, and doesn't bother to resist
the bleed. It takes effort to hold the walls up, though
he suspects that it has more to do with the fact that
he's communicating with *Victor* than it does with
any inherent difficulty to the act.

Which is interesting, and --

"I'll think on ways we can test that theory, kid."

"Thank you, Victor."

"You're welcome," he says, only it feels more like
pleasure and amusement than general language.
"Here it comes," Victor says, quite clearly, and Tim
braces himself, because --

"Nn -- nnn..."

Because --

"Nn -- Interesting."

"Yeah, we haven't tried a direct transfer of this
much information before. Well, not in this direction."

"True. Thank you again, Victor." Tim fights back a
sneeze, and knows Victor is laughing at him.

"*Near* you, kid. I should've known you'd be
going out tonight."

"Perhaps just for surveillance. It depends on the
resistance we meet."

"Uh, huh. Luck. Cyborg out."

Tim rolls his head on his neck, more out of reflex
than anything else, and... pauses. The pain is
surprising, and almost alarming, and he reaches
back -- *also* out of reflex -- and...

Ah. Bruises.

Kon clears his throat and Tim focuses on him
again. Kon is still sitting on his bed. Sitting, not
lounging. His fingers are curled over the edge, digging
at the coverlet. "Kon?"

"I... yeah. Sorry about that. You kind of have --"

Tim smiles. "I noticed. And I don't... mind." There
have been very few occasions in his life when he's
been quite this conscious of providing quite this
*much* of an understatement.

Especially because the look Kon gives him is both
searching and hungry. It's difficult to focus on just
the searching.

"How much of that conversation were you able
to follow?"

"Uh... yeah. That's the thing." Kon stares at the
floor.

Tim raises an eyebrow.

"I'm used to... I mean, I *don't*, and I don't even
*think* about it, but... I can *always* hear the
other half of conversations, and I just... I could
only hear. You know. Your machines. You were
talking to... Cyborg? The Titan?"

Tim nods. "He's the one who did my enhancements
for me. He's quite an accomplished surgeon, on
top of everything else."

"Well, okay, but..."

"There was never really any 'sound' for you to pick up
from him. Rather more like an instant message. Why
are you... troubled?"

"Those things you said... you. You think I'm crippled?"

And it takes a moment to figure it out, and he doesn't
particularly *like* making Kon wait while he thinks --
it *bothers* Kon, and it makes Tim *conscious* of his
own silence in a very disturbing way -- but...

He remembers the hurt on Kon's face.

Tim walks to the bed and sits next to Kon, enjoying
the way it's dipping with Kon's additional weight in
an entirely irrelevant way. When Kon turns to look
at him, his breath is warm and faintly milky against
Tim's cheek.

It... isn't difficult at all to rest his hand on Kon's
thigh and squeeze before speaking.

"You *are* crippled. Artificially. *Obscenely*.
You're... I used the word 'amazing' before, and I
meant it. The fact that you're being stopped from
reaching your *full* potential -- whatever it might
be -- is..." Tim frowns. It seemed so clear in his
own mind, and it's something of a shock to
realize that the feeling he'd had was just *that*.

A feeling -- lacking almost entirely in intellect. If it
were anyone else, he'd want to go, and regroup,
and *think*, even though the people in his life
tend to respond nearly as well (if not *better*) to
these sort of emotional motivations as they do
to reason.

But he wants. He wants Kon to *know*. "It's
wrong," he says, finally, and stares at his hand
on Kon's thigh.

And *stares*, because it actually is somewhat
disturbing to look at the ragged edges of the sim-skin
just about the knuckle of his middle finger.

It isn't that he hadn't replaced the sleeve before,
and that process had always been somewhat
messy -- the texturing Victor had added to all of
the hands he'd made for Tim's use had, at best,
one practical purpose, to snag on the inside of
the sleeves and help hold them in place -- but...

This is different. He makes a note to give the
matter some thought, and then loses the thread
when Kon's hand covers his own.

His hands are quite large, actually. Disproportionately
so in the way of most human teenaged boys. That
quality called 'gangly,' which he has never felt regret
over missing out on, despite the fact that the lack of
it tends to make him wonder if his own (lack of)
size will be permanent.

He knows how warm Kon's hands are on his skin.

Watching his fingers stroke over the sleeve and the
bare finger is maddening, fascinating. *Distracting*.
"Kon."

"Oh, I -- should I stop?"

Tim swallows. He shouldn't have to think about it.
"For now," he says, at last. "Do you... do you
understand?"

Kon laughs as he pulls his hand away from Tim's
own. "Which part?" He still isn't meeting Tim's eyes,
and his lashes are dark on his cheeks.

"Why I think there's a problem."

Listening to *Kon* swallow shouldn't be quite this...
wonderfully obscene. "Yeah, I think so. I still don't
know exactly what you were talking about with
Cyborg."

"Raiding Cadmus for your records."

*That* makes Kon look up. "Really? But..." A frown.
"I mean... what do you think you'll get from them?"

Tim smiles. "More than I have now. That's enough...
for me. What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Well. I was hoping you'd come with me. I can get
to Metropolis on my own, but..."

"You want me to fly us to Metropolis? And break
into Cadmus? In *Metropolis*?"

And while Kon *is*, quite honestly, incredulous, he's
also instantly excited. His heartbeat makes Tim think,
seriously, of far too many things which have nothing
whatsoever to do with necessity.

"I think I'd mentioned something earlier about
marking territory..."

Kon laughs, teeth showing. "Man, I..." He shakes
his head.

"What?"

Kon cups Tim's face, thumb dragging over his
cheek. "I'm glad you're my friend," he says, and before
Tim can ask anything, or *say* anything -- How
*does* Kon define friendship, precisely? -- Kon is
kissing him, soft and wet and then *hard* and wet,
moaning into Tim's mouth and pressing closer.
Moaning *louder* when Tim squeezes his thigh
reflexively, when Tim sucks Kon's tongue in
something he can almost -- *almost* -- *tell*
himself is a reflex.

"*Jesus*, yes," Kon says, pulling away to turn and
lean in and --

"Later."

"Uh...?"

Kon has one knee up on the bed and one hand cupping
Tim's waist and... not *much* later. Tim smiles again.
"We have work to do."

"Dude."

"But first we should leave the Kents a note. And put
the roast in the oven."

Kon blinks at him. "Okay..."

Tim twists out of Kon's grip and pulls his duffel out
of the closet. And... "I didn't, actually, intend to
pack this," he says, and releases the hidden panel to
reveal a small, lead box. "I forgot this was in here
until after Clark... well." The combination is the
date Jason gave the first uniform to him, multiplied
by 2, divided by 3, and cubed, respectively.

He'd always meant to come up with something
better, but...

But. "You did say you wanted to see me in this," he
says, and pulls out the suit, letting it find its shape
again.

"*Dude*."

"Not entirely accurate. I only have the birdarangs I
carved out of those spare tractor parts, which are
balanced well but not especially strong --"

"When?"

"I was bored."

"Uh --"

Tim starts stripping. "And I've yet to come up with a
way to store the belt or its usual contents compactly,
so I'll just be going without --"

"Uh-huh..."

It feels so good going on, so *right*, that he almost
wants to drag out the process. Almost. "And,
obviously, I don't have *my* boots..." Or the knives
in them, or the explosives... Tim bites his lip. "The
work boots will do for this, I think."

"Tim..."

Tim looks up, and lets himself grin, a little, as he
slips the mask into place. "Go back to calling me
Robin."

*

The flight out was somewhat distracting, for a number
of reasons. They'd flown with Kon's arm around his
waist, and Tim had used far too much of his mental
capacity trying to figure out if the sound of Kon's
fingers moving restlessly and, apparently, absently
over his tunic *was* different from the sound of
Jason's.

More to the point -- trying to figure out why he
wanted it to be.

However, despite the fact that Kon never did actually
*stop* stroking him during the flight, he also didn't
do anything else.

Kon wants this.

He...

The restlessness in him is obvious. The way he's
holding himself, the way he keeps plucking idly at
the straps around his thighs, the way he *isn't*
pacing.

He's crouched just behind and to the left of Tim,
entirely unremarkable to the casual eye until one
realized that he's actually hovering *above* the
surface of the rooftop.

Kon has asked no questions since Tim had nodded at
his "Here?"

Kon appears content to follow his lead, and...

Tim's been leading people, officially and not, for
quite some time. He'd stopped being taken aback
by others' willingness to take orders from him so
long ago that he doesn't really remember what
it was like beyond not -- quite -- this.

It's different. The feeling manages to be both
soothing *and* faintly disturbing, and a part of
him can't quite lose the nagging image and
memory of one particular Gotham sunrise after one
particular Gotham night -- one of the few where the
soreness and exhaustion was patently obvious in
a way it usually wasn't until after he'd gotten an
inadequate amount of sleep and had had time to
think about all the death.

All the blood which he hadn't been able to stop
from being shed.

Something about inevitability.

But it's only a part of him. The rest of him is...

Well, he *hadn't* really gotten the opportunity to
*use* his optics, before. Not like this. He hadn't
done surveillance alone -- he hadn't *had* to --
since long before he'd gotten them installed.

He *had* had a large amount of time to grow
accustomed to the fact that no one in his family
save Cassandra was entirely comfortable with
the use of his enhancements more than strictly
necessary.

Tim had actually reached for his scope before
he remembered that it was back in Gotham with the
belt he isn't wearing.

But now...

He can do what he wants. He can do what he *can*.

It's nearly six, and, whatever else Cadmus is, it's an
American business. They've been watching people
leave at a steady pace. There are only three cars
left in the lot, and two of them are far too old and
beat up to belong to anyone but maintenance
staff.

The third, perhaps, belongs to the flare of red
moving with the slow, cautious movements of a
scientist in one of the third-sublevel rooms which
are unlabeled on the most recent blueprint Victor
had sent.

The other flares *move* like maintenance staff --
and are all above ground.

A list of statistics scrolls down the far right of his
vision, an endless stream of calculation on the flares'
relative speeds and the amount of time they spend
in each of the -- probably useless for their needs --
rooms.

There's no real point to it but the collection of data,
the absent thoughts he'd always entertained himself
with while on surveillance given exactitude and some
degree of permanence -- he does know how to
safely and thoroughly delete information he doesn't
need, but he is, as of yet, less than comfortable
doing it.

Not for the first time, he wishes Bruce had gotten
the opportunity to study Clark's X-ray vision
enough to provide more theories Tim could work
with, more chances to recreate the effect
mechanically -- if at all possible.

Not for the first time *tonight*, he imagines a Kon
given the entirety of the powers which are -- almost
certainly, but he *must* not forget the 'almost' --
his birthright, and...

He's been biting his lip, but the truth is, short of some
massive change, he *will* be taking them in soon.
And. He wants to know.

"Would you let me study you?"

Kon starts, but recovers well -- his shoulders twitch,
but he's still below the waist.

Tim nods approvingly before he can stop himself.

"Uh... I mean. You aren't already?"

Which is... an excellent point. But still. "Only casually.
Reflexively."

Kon nods. "You mean, like, in a lab?"

"Possibly." He watches Kon frown out of the corner
of his human eye, and tries not to stiffen. "I
wouldn't --"

"I trust you," Kon says. "And..."

"Yes?"

Kon shrugs, but the movement is careful and small.
"That's it, really. I figure you'd take me down hard if
it ever had to happen, but that you wouldn't... you
wouldn't just lock me away or something."

Tim resists the need to move, to *hit*, to move. He
knows it isn't his. The urge to cause actual,
permanent damage is. And has already become
familiar, for this. "No," he says. "I wouldn't."

"Mm-hm."

Absent, calm, utterly... Tim closes his eyes for
a moment before opening them again. "I'm glad you're
my friend, also," he says.

Kon exhales, and it isn't -- quite -- a sigh. "Just so
you know, I'm putting a lot of willpower into the whole
not jumping you right here thing."

"Noted. We're going in."

"Yeah? I mean, even though I can't remember exactly
where --"

Tim waves it off. "They would've moved it, anyway, if
they'd had half a brain
between them."

"And you know where they *would* move it?"

Tim starts to point before he realizes he would,
essentially, just be pointing at the ground. The
wave of rage, of *need* for Kon's... fucking
*safety* to come off is powerful, frighteningly
intense, and *entirely* his.

The possibility occurs to him that he is, perhaps,
personalizing this even more than is entirely
understandable (if not reasonable), but...

It doesn't matter.

"Rob?"

Tim shakes it off, internally, as much as he can.
"There's barely any pause at all when the maintenance
crew move from room to room -- there's almost
certainly nothing better than basic, key-card level
security on the upper floors."

Kon nods slowly. "So... how many basements are we
about to explore?"

Tim smiles. "As few as possible. We're heading straight
for the fifth sub-level."

"Now?"

"Yes."

"*Rock*."

He accesses the part of his brain he'd left working on
the photo he'd snapped half-absently of the keypad
next to the loading bay, and is surprised (and perhaps
a *little* disturbed) to find, in its place, a highly
enhanced version of the photo focusing on those
numbers with smudges and/or very obvious layers
of human fingerprints.

And sixteen potential combinations, listed in order
of probability.

The surprise is in the fact that he hadn't, actually,
given much thought to his processing speed --
despite the fact that the speed of his integration of
new information really should've told him
*something*.

The disturbance is in the fact that he doesn't have
any real conscious memory of giving himself this task
to begin with. Perhaps he should --

Kon sets him down gently in front of the bay, and
doesn't say a word -- or even react -- to the fact
that the first combination Tim tries (97.1%) gets them
in immediately.

The door opens as soundlessly as it had for everyone
else, but Tim holds up a hand just the same.

"Doesn't it start to close if --"

"Yes," he says, and slips off his left gauntlet. The
screwdriver punches through the sleeve over his index
finger, and his middle finger is already ready to
access -- yes. "Take off your glove and cover my
mouth."

Kon does, unquestioningly. He could -- and has --
done this, when necessary, with his own right hand,
but Kon's hand is larger, and the oils in their skin
make the seal far more efficient than it would be with
his gauntlet.

It also feels very, very good, though he really should
start designing an easy to remove work-gag. (Has he,
already? Somewhere in his mind he doesn't know
about? Did he begin doing so just by asking --)

He jacks in and has enough time to be viscerally
*satisfied* by the fact that this really quite vulnerable
station is directly connected to the entire building's
security systems. The inefficiency of his enemies
remains a wonderful treat.

He's out again within seconds, new security
information overwriting what Victor had sent.

And then they're inside.

And he *had* considered this. It would be safest if
Kon flew them through the building, making sure
they failed to make contact with any of the walls or
floors, but one, he *is* the building's security now,
and two, he's taking point on all of this little mission
unless it's absolutely necessary for him to pull back.

No matter how good Cadmus' security simply
*isn't*, it would be too much to ask if *someone*
here didn't have a better idea of Kon's weaknesses
than "energy weapons and Kryptonite." The risk is
unacceptable.

They move quickly, Kon pacing him in flight and
watching his back. Tim pauses at the elevators,
and... keeps going.

It doesn't matter that, at any given moment, he
could set off alarms on, say, the roof of the building,
sending everyone out of their path. It doesn't matter
that the act of pausing brought up a 'screen' which
'asked' him if he wished to divert a car to the ground
floor for them.

Taking the stairs is an irrationally inefficient choice
that, at the moment, feels too good and right to
ignore.

He stops them again on the landing for the third
sub-level long enough to switch back to infrared -- the
unknown scientist is still pulling his -- or possibly her
(very *tall*) -- overtime.

He keeps moving.

The lights go up to half as soon as his foot touches the
floor, and he pauses again, but the security grid remains
a cool (Robin) green in his mind, with the addition of
moving red dots indicating the maintenance crew. He
is... not *entirely* sure how he's doing *that*, but --

The ignorance doesn't last. The unspoken question sends
a scrolled list of all of the active motion detectors (and
which ones require maintenance) he's currently tapped
into.

Tim swallows, reels, and focuses. These are support
systems, on an entirely different system -- or set of
systems -- than the security systems. He knew this.
He *expected* this.

"Your heartbeat --"

Tim holds his hand up. "Got it. Unexpected data. We're
go."

Kon nods.

"Get that tile I stepped on a moment ago," he says,
pulling back. "Gently."

Kon drops into a floating crouch and places his fingertip
on the tile. It pulls free immediately, with a creak that
Tim reminds himself is only loud because of his
enhancements and his adrenaline levels.

"And the pressure-sensor. All of it."

He knows, suddenly and with a lack of reasonable
confidence he clings to as much as he can, that a part of
his processing power has abruptly devoted itself to plans
for artificial hormone control. And a smaller, more efficient
pressure sensor than the one which had tripped him. Or
rather --

He bites the inside of his lip and fights back the urge to
study the maintenance panel beneath with his human
eye before he does anything else. It doesn't matter --
his hand is already primed to jack him in. He *needs*
this information. Now.

He imagines, with a pleasure which feels nostalgic for
no reason he has time to discover, some engineer or
other jacking in with a palm to make sure everything is
operating at peak levels.

Kon covers his mouth without being asked and --

So much.

So much.

The support systems have an admirable level of
redundancy which loses all admirability by the fact
that there are hardly *any* blocks between them
and the network the Cadmus scientists use.

He has their passwords, their e-mails, their browser
histories.

Doctors Grant, Billings, and Heath apparently do much
of their banking when they're supposed to be working
on their projects in the robotics, human genetics, and
metahuman genetics departments, respectively.

Heath leads him to Westfield, and he's helpless to it,
yanked along on a stream of data at turns irrelevant,
fascinating, and enraging. He's taking everything,
he'd meant to take everything, he --

"Rob...?"

No, he's *integrating* everything, taking --

"Robin?"

Splitting off. He's still following Heath. He has access to
databases at M.I.T. and Stanford. Donations?

Another split and he's in administrative. The flood of
information widens, crashes in. The irrelevancies
stack up like -- like --

Series of holding companies. Interesting --

"*Robin*."

His body. His body must --

Jerking, twitching. Mouth wet. Too much at once.
Too --

No. Not enough.

Westfield. *Westfield*.

He feels himself arrowing in, pushing through, coming
together -- not entirely. Part of him is still following
the trail of holding companies, reflexively attacking
every security measure he hits. No, absorbing --

"Come *on*, man --"

Westfield doesn't work here anymore. Sabbatical -- no.
Cut and run. Slash and burned his own systems. Not
good enough to protect him.

Not from *him*.

Still integrating. Still -- no. He can't bring the money
trail to his conscious mind, not yet. His conscious
mind is *busy*. Operating capacity exceeded,
exceeding --

"*Please* --"

So close -- so --

Wet. Face is --

The alarms in his head go off all at once, quite real and
quite --

Impossible to ignore. The phantom of his left hand
*howls* and he knows --

Everything --

He's pulling out. Too soon, emergency abort --

All at once, he's not so much back in his body as
*trapped*, spasming, every sensation confused,
shuffling under the mountain of new data. He knows,
intellectually, that the amount wasn't as much of a
problem as the fact that some part of him had insisted
on real-time integration, as opposed to the usual
*entirely* reasonable lag.

His body is insisting that it's all the equivalent of trying
to simultaneously clean up behind and feed billions --
*trillions* of new guests at once with nothing but a
whisk broom and a plate of cheese.

"Shit, what the *fuck*, dude --"

"New data. Integrating. Mission successful --"

"You're *bleeding* --"

"Get us out of here."

He isn't *very* upset by the fact that his body is
interpreting what is, undoubtedly, an incredibly
uncomfortable airspeed as an attempt to absorb cake
frosting directly into his pores -- no, *veins* --  but...

It's still a relief when it starts to hurt the *right* way
after an interminable string of seconds.

He comes back to himself with his face pressed to
Kon's chest and a scrolling list of the damage he'd
incurred. "I'm all right, Kon."

"*Fuck* that, you're *bleeding* --"

"Blew two blood vessels in my left eye. Chafed the inside
of my right eyelid. It'll be ugly, but the damage is
superficial --"

"Your *mouth* --"

"Chewed my lip. Again, ugly, but --"

"*Tim*!"

The anger is the thinnest possible skin over the
*terror*, and Tim pauses. And thinks.

He *can* think again, and he makes a command
decision to use the ability to shove *all* of the new
data into standby mode. The fact that a part of
himself seems deeply surprised by the behavior is...

As damning as everything else. He takes a breath. "I
have the information we needed."

"God fucking *dammit*, man --"

"I made the mistake of trying to take everything I
*could*."

They land hard, but Kon absorbs the vast majority of
the jar. *Protecting* him... just before yanking Tim
away from himself and shaking him. "What. The
*fuck*."

Tim spits blood in the... dust. They're back. At their
barn. He regroups, and licks his lips. "I panicked."

"You... *what*?"

"I made several new discoveries about my processing
capacity --"

Kon glares at him again. "*English*, you fucker!"

"I found out that I could do things I'd never even
considered. That I'd *been* doing them without
consciously -- or even half-consciously -- considering it.
It frightened me badly, which made me... reckless. I
will not do that again."

Kon pants and squeezes his shoulders. "The mistake
or the fucking -- giving yourself a *seizure*?"

It wasn't, technically, a seizure. It also doesn't matter.
"If I have to, I'll do it again. I never had to do it in
the first place. I don't anticipate having to do so in the
future. I... I wanted to know," he says, and knows
it's true. "I wanted to know the Superboy project,
and I half-consciously did everything possible that
would *allow* me to know it as quickly as possible."

"You..." The frown is back, but it's not even remotely
steady. "You *hurt* yourself."

The hurt in Kon's voice... it's too much. Literally. "Put
me down."

"Tim --"

"Before I puke on you."

Kon lets Tim go, but catches him around the waist again
when he stumbles while turning. He still manages to
retch on the *ground*, but it doesn't feel like much of
a victory.

The scroll tells him about the nutrients he's surrendering.
*Off*, he thinks, and he's abruptly blind on the right
side. He doesn't mind at all.

"Tim... Tim, please, you have to talk to me."

"I have what we need," he says.

"I don't *care* about that!"

"I do. But." He spits again, and wipes his mouth on
his gauntlet. He turns, slowly and carefully, and sees
that Kon has the other shoved in one of his thigh-
straps. This particular variety of 'too much' is all his
own. "Only because I care about you. Very much."

"I... you..."

There's a wave of a very powerful sort of *nothing*,
but the pain in his left arm is so shatteringly intense
that he can't quite figure out what it was... until he
hears the series of clanks.

His artificial hand is, currently, in very precise pieces
all over the ground. It's just a little soothing to know
that he'd apparently been mostly correct about the
way Victor had put it together in the first place. The
cap on the stump is -- slightly -- askew. He shoves it
back in place reflexively, and makes a sound more
like a bark than anything else at the pain. "Kon."

"Holy... I didn't -- oh *fuck*, Tim, I'm so *sorry* --"

"I. Have a spare. Perhaps we should retrieve it." He's
reasonably sure he shouldn't give in to the overpowering
urge to laugh his head off.

He's unreasonably sure that laughing his head off
would, at this point, be literal.

"Kon."

"Jesus. *Jesus* --"

Tim sways on his feet, nearly entirely accidentally,
and Kon catches him and holds on.

"Kon --"

"Tell me what I need to *do*," he says, and squeezes
him.

"Take me home. Fly us... directly into the bathroom.
Unless someone is in there."

"Okay --"

"I'm going to clean up. And then I'm going to... I'm
pretty sure I'm going to pass out."

"Okay. Okay. Just... we'll take it slow."

Tim wishes he had the capacity to squeeze back. "Thank
you. And..."

"Yeah?"

"I won't, Kon. I won't..." It's as easy to feel, to *know*,
as it was with the fact that Kon had been *limited*. It
shouldn't be, logically. He's almost *sure* it shouldn't
be. But he has the fear -- his own and Kon's -- and
he... "I'll find a way to... avoid that. In the future."

"Tim, you don't know how much I *need* you. *I*
didn't know how much I need you," Kon says, and flies
them not very far at all into the air.

Tim's stomach lurches, and he swallows back the
laughter and bile. "We... we'll get this right. I think.
I'm tired."

"I've got you."

"I know," Tim says, and closes his eyes. Carefully.

*

It should probably mean more that Mrs. Kent hasn't
quite met his eye since he woke up to find her
glaring at the very clearly miserable Kon who'd been
sitting near his bed. He *knows* it should.

He can...

There is, effectively, no real way to ground two
people with as much power and experience between
them as he and Kon have. The fact that it would be
an entirely reasonable response to waking up in the
 morning to find one of your charges beat up and,
well, *incomplete* while the other looks guilty and
fails to say anything  probably just brings the point
about the power and experience -- and essential
*independence* -- home.

He understands it. He... he *wants* it to mean more,
in a way that's fascinatingly painful.

When he looks at Mrs. Kent, he thinks about his
mother.

He hasn't looked at her much.

Mr. Kent, for his part, hasn't really said much of
anything. There's a chore-list in his handwriting that
feels...

It feels like it should be typewritten, somehow.

The fact that Tim has experience with just how well
apologies without explanations *don't* work doesn't
make it any easier this time.

He knows it shouldn't be easy.

It is, probably, already too much that Kon is with
him. For the chores, for the meals.

In his bed while Tim is in his, because, as it happens,
his body apparently found their trip to Metropolis more
stressful than the short list of injuries would reasonably
account for.

Their bedrooms aren't, actually, next to each other --
the linen closet and Mrs. Kent's sewing room are
between them -- but that doesn't matter.

When Kon whispers, "Are you awake?" he might as
well be right there. Soft and careful and so close.

"Yes," he says, and turns onto his back. He doesn't
*need* to have both ears 'free,' for this, but... he
prefers it that way.

Kon laughs, and Tim feels his nose trying to wrinkle.
It *isn't* digital information improperly translated, but
it feels... right. Better. Somehow.

"What is it, Kon?"

"It doesn't matter how much I whispered -- I'd wake
you up *anyway*."

"Probably."

Kon takes a slow breath. "Would you tell me, if I did?"

"Would it make you make some futile attempt to force
me to go back to sleep?"

"Yeah?"

"Then no," Tim says, and smiles.

"You *need* your rest, dude. You --"

"I overextended myself --"

Kon snorts.

"I didn't break anything."

"No, *I* did --"

"Kon."

Kon sighs. "Man, when you say my name like that, I feel
like I should be saluting or something. Maybe checking
my posture."

Tim raises an eyebrow. "It *is* a command voice."

Kon yawns and Tim can hear him shifting. Stretching,
probably. "No, your *command* voice is all... there's,
like. A difference." Another shift.

"I have more than one."

"It's true," Kon says, but there's something a little
off about his voice. A sense of...

Tim frowns. "Kon?"

Another laugh. "And then you do *that*, man. You
*say* you're not really psychic --"

"I told you. I process voices differently now. It's easier
to hear undercurrents. You could probably do the
same. Even with my enhancements, you still hear
better than I do."

"Yeah, but..." That shift was probably a shrug. "I just
don't... I think it makes a difference that *you're*
always *looking* for undercurrents, anyway. I'm
just, you know, listening."

Tim thinks about it. "My theory is that people who
are born with enhanced senses, but who aren't raised
with people who *also* have enhanced senses..." Tim
shrugs. "No one has ever really *shown* you what
you can do."

"Except for you." This time, the undertone in Kon's voice
is... familiar.

And makes him shift.

"Tim?"

"Do you like it... when I help you train?"

"Jesus, yeah. You... I mean, you don't even *have*
powers, but you still... it's like you've *thought* about
all of this so much, and you make *me* think about
it. I feel like I'm ten times *better* than I was before,
you know?"

"I like helping you."

Kon shifts again, mattress creaking beneath his
weight. "Heh."

Tim hasn't been on Kon's bed yet. It seems...
strange.

"Even when I'm so busy trying to get into your pants
that you have to use the command voice just to make
me pay attention?"

"Hmm." It would be too much to ask to keep the
smile out of his voice. He doesn't try. "It really
shouldn't have taken you quite so long to install
those new doorknobs."

"You were *crouching*, and you had that little frown
on your face, and your lips were still all red and
swollen, and -- I don't think that was my fault."

Tim licks his lips. Quietly.

"Dude. Did you just --"

"We were in the hallway. The Kents were less than
one hundred feet away."

The sound Kon makes is a growl, somewhere between
frustrated and hungry. "I only got to kiss you twice."

"It's true."

"And we haven't..."

Tim closes his eyes. He can... he can almost *smell*
it. "What do you want, Kon?"

Kon's moan is quiet, muffled by... skin. His hand.

"Kon."

"That's... fuck. That's a command voice, too."

Tim smiles slowly. "Does it make you want to check
your posture?"

"It makes me want to suck you."

"Oh."

"Yeah. I... man, you need to get this place hooked up
to the internet. I still don't... I mean. I know what I
*want*, but I think I'll want more when I know...
when I know everything we *can* do."

"I'll try to do it tomorrow --"

"No. No, we're gonna do our chores and then we're
going back to that *barn*, Tim."

Tim smiles a little wider. "Are we?"

"Yeah. And. And I'll take your jeans off. I want to. I
wanna touch you through your shorts."

"Tease me?"

Kon gasps. "Fuck. Tim. I don't..."

"Kon. What else?"

"You smell. Really good. You." Kon swallows. It's a
wetter sound than usual, because Kon is probably
salivating.

So is he.

"When you do those pull-ups in the barn, I just want
to push my face against your jeans --"

"You can."

Kon's moan is low and pained. "Tim. Fuck, I *want*
you --"

Tim tries to get his breathing under control. "I know."

"What..." The sound is less a shift than a long, slow...
stroke. Kon's hand, on the sheets. Moving... down?
"What do *you* want, Tim?"

"For you to do to me? Or for me to do to you?"

Another gasp. "Both. Either. *Both*, dude --"

"I want your mouth on me. I want to touch your face
with my left hand."

"Hold... hold my hair --"

"It's." Tim teases the roof of his mouth with his
tongue. "Very long."

"More. C'mon --"

"Let me hear you touching yourself, Kon."

And Kon isn't panting, quite, but his breath is ragged,
loud. "Tim, I -- oh God --"

"Squeeze. Like it's my hand."

Another muffled moan, ending in a whimper. "So --
oh *God* --"

"Again."

The covers are almost certainly on the floor, and Kon's
mattress creaks --

"Yes, Kon. Brace your feet. Spread your knees for me."

"You... you want --"

"Squeeze."

Kon's breath is closer to a sob than anything else.
"*Tim* --"

"Again. Faster now. You... you're very close."

"Yes, I. Oh God. Is this..."

Tim can't translate the moan. He almost -- *almost* --
doesn't care. He reaches beneath the covers and
pushes his own shorts down, then balls his hand in
a fist and rests it on his hip. "Again. Again."

"*Tim* --"

"Ask the question."

"You -- this is how -- *fuck* -- you do it?"

He's panting now, too. "Sometimes."

"Oh fuck -- oh *fuck* --"

"Are you going to come for me?"

"T -- "

The slap has a faintly hollow sound -- Kon's hand over
his mouth. The scream still makes Tim arch and
*tense*. "Kon."

"I -- I --"

"I'm here."

Wet sounds. Sucking sounds.

"Oh, Kon --"

"Go -- go to the window. Now."

Tim is out of bed and moving before he remembers to
open his eyes. By the time he gets to the window, it's
shivering in the frame. Tim unlocks it before Kon can
break the mechanism and snatches his hand away
before it can fly up and crush his fingers. "Careful."

"Yeah, I *know*," Kon says, and yanks him out into
the sky.

He's only wearing pajama pants, and his stomach is
wet. Hot and... sticky. "Kon --" Yes, he says into Kon's
mouth, and then they're flying.

Not far.

The dirt is soft beneath his back, and the world smells
like green and sex. "I don't. I don't want to get your
metal dirty --"

"It's all right."

Kon groans and cups Tim's hips. "You already... you
were gonna jerk *off*."

Tim stares up at the stars and smiles. "The idea had
occurred to me."

"You drive me so *crazy*," he says, and digs in with
his thumbs.

Tim reaches up -- with his left hand -- and strokes
Kon's face. He hasn't bothered to put on the new
sleeve, and the scrape of the texturing -- not precisely
the same as it was on the other -- against Kon's skin
sounds sharp and dangerous.

"Tim..."

"Do what you want, Kon."

And Kon licks his lips and pulls Tim's hand into his hair
before leaning in. And nuzzling his dick.

"Yes..."

"Tell me. Just tell me --"

"Suck me. Kiss me. Lick me. Whatever you want. I --
*oh* --" Sucking kisses up the underside of Tim's dick,
and Tim forces himself to keep his hand still until he
remembers that Kon doesn't want that. He closes
his fingers and tugs.

"Oh God, oh *God*, you taste --"

And Kon licks the head with the flat of his tongue,
again and again, and Tim lets his hips buck.

"Were you gonna jerk off *that* way?"

"Not... don't have the control. Right now -- *Kon* -- "

The head is in Kon's mouth, and it's wet and
unnaturally hot, it's *Kon* --

"*Oh* --"

*Hard* suck and Kon pulls off. "How. Tell me how --"

Tim hears himself whimper and knows he's arching.
"Make you... make you tell me how *you* do -- it,
*fuck* --"

All the way in, and he can *feel* Kon choking, but he
can't keep himself from thrusting, because Kon is
still *moaning*, still licking and sucking, and Tim feels
spit ribboning down, over his balls --

"Please --"

And Kon throws his leg over Tim's own and *grinds*
against his calf and pulls back just enough to let
himself suck so hard it *hurts* --

"*Please*, Kon --"

And Kon tightens his hands on Tim's hips and
whimpers after every suck. Tim feels himself shooting
pre-come and bangs his head aga