Tim took Conner literally, and so Conner didn't go to sleep until about 12:30, after several lengthy texts about how Lord of the Flies was an easily accessible text with a wealth of ironic detail and commentary about the nature of men. A lecture might have irritated him once, but now just made him feel smitten all over. Because either Tim hadn't understood, or he had and even over text he radiated awkwardness.
Conner did his best to keep him going. It wasn't hard. Tim seemed to be genuinely driven by the desire to educate Conner as much as possible. And possibly show off a little. Conner could imagine Tim talking about something brainy like literature or chemistry was similar to how Conner would try surfing or playing volleyball in front of Tana.
He also just didn't want the conversation to end. He didn't regret it for a moment either, even when he nearly slept through his alarm and had to run halfway to school to make it before the bell. It did mean he didn't see Tim until lunch but it had been worth it.
He looked better than he had the day before. He was in one of his supermodel outfits, with the skinny jeans and chunky cable knit sweater that wouldn't have looked nearly as good on anyone else their age. His hair was pushed to one side and he was checking his phone neurotically.
Conner split off from his friends, found a table, and quickly texted Tim.
Behind you.
Tim whipped around. It was cute. And the way Tim turned to his family, awkwardly apologizing as he extricated himself from between Cass and Duke only to beeline in Conner's direction was also cute.
Predictably the first thing out of his mouth was, "I have a copy of the book if you want it. Also annotated and I know Bruner always does open book and-"
"You can give it to me in third quarter when I need it. Right now I just need to pass the midterm and finish up this poetry book before Christmas."
"Right. Of course. Sorry I was getting ahead of myself." Tim sat down across from him and once more Conner found himself alone at a lunch table with Tim Wayne.
Tim also seemed nervous about this fact and he looked around, barely touching his food. "Are you sure you want to sit with me? We could sit with your friends."
"I'm sure," Conner said. "We can always sit with them tomorrow. I wanted to talk to you first."
"About what?" Tim asked, leaning forward and lowering his voice.
Conner grinned and considered asking something ridiculous. But he quashed it because he was technically trying to impress the other boy.
"How's furry problem?"
Tim blinked. Then looked around them wildly then looked back at Conner. "Now? You're asking now?"
"Well geez sorry. I was just curious."
Tim huffed and started digging into his food. "We're working on it. Can't say more about our pest problem in public."
Conner rolled his eyes and snatched a fry off Tim's plate. "You'll text me if you're doing anything stupid dangerous right?"
Tim laughed and stopped when Conner didn't smile or even so much as look away from him.
"I...I can. If you want."
"I'd like that. If I can't be there I'd like to at least know you got home."
Tim turned pink a little, though Conner was still having a hard time telling if Tim flushed because of Conner's attention or just pure embarrassment.
"I'm going out tonight. Late. I'll text you then?"
"Please."
Tim nodded and continued with his lunch. Conner nudged him with his foot under the table. "I'm glad everything's working out. For you, and Jason and stuff."
Tim just smiled. Lunch was pleasant. Hanging out with Tim alone was always pleasant. Conner's nerves buzzed a little because he knew his friends and the Waynes had to be watching them, but he still managed to enjoy lunch thoroughly. Halfway through Tim pulled out his chemistry notebook and they wound up getting lost talking about the upcoming lab instead of talking about anything important. But it was nice.
And for once chemistry was Conner's favorite class.
The first message came at 6 PM. A selfie of Tim and Jason hanging out in what looked to be some kind of gym. Conner could see Cassandra standing in the background, crouched over like she was looking for something on the ground. Jason was wearing workout clothes and holding the camera. And Tim was wearing a hoodie and smiling despite the fact it looked like Jason had caught him by surprise. Conner saved it.
Around 9 he got a follow-up message while he was finishing his Spanish homework.
Tim: Leaving soon. Probably will be out late. Don't wait up.
Conner: How late is late?
Tim didn't answer. Conner wound up sitting at his desk, too distracted to do much more than stare at his homework blankly. At last, around 10:30, his phone buzzed again.
Tim: Text you when I'm back.
Nightmares weren't an uncommon occurrence for Conner. They came packaged with his restlessness and he had long grown used to them. Back in Hawaii he would crawl out of bed at four in the morning and drag himself out onto the beach. Sometimes Roxy would join him. They would smoke or throw rocks out into the ocean and talk until the sun came up.
Conner had tried not to fall asleep. It hadn't worked. Instead, his mind, seemingly aware he had been trying to stay alert for Tim's last message, twisted the world around him. He was vaguely aware of the fact he was lying sprawled across his bed. And he was also aware that the swirling shadows that curled up the walls and the feeling of falling were probably distinctly elements of the dream and not real, and yet in his half-awake state it was hard to believe.
He struggled to breathe, even as he knew the invisible force slowly pushing down on his chest wasn't there, wasn't actually hurting him. He found himself gasping for air that wouldn't come. The room flickered in and out of his awareness.
And his phone buzzed against the hardwood of his desk and he was awake like he had been thrown into the bed. He sat there for a moment, unable to move despite so desperately wanting to. His phone buzzed again.
He had missed a message from about an hour ago from Tim saying he was home. And then, just now, he had received two notifications.
Are you home?
Conner?
Conner frowned and started typing a response when he heard a knock on the window. Light as could be, it still sent shivers down his spine and he turned slowly.
Even though the logical part of his brain knew it was Tim, he still jumped a little at the sight of a pale face peering in at him through his rickety window. Conner went over and threw it open.
"Sorry," Tim said, barely above a whisper. Something in his face made Conner shut his mouth for once in his life. Tim looked tired and paler than usual, which was no small feat, and so Conner stepped back.
He knew from experience clambering through his bedroom window was a tight squeeze that required some slight contortion on his part when he was trying to escape onto the roof to get air. Tim made it look graceful. He slid into the room silently and then stood, looking awkward and scared to touch anything.
"So," Conner said, now more awake and in being more awake, suddenly more aware of the fact Tim had just snuck into his room in the middle of the night. He waited for Tim to make the first move.
"Can I stay here for a little while?" Tim said stiffly.
"Of course."
He relaxed, shoulders falling slightly. He still didn't move from where he stood, between Conner's bed and the window. Whatever was going on, Conner suspected he would have to be the one to take the lead, or else Tim would stand there all night, clutching his arm and staring at the floor.
He listened for a moment to check that Clark was still asleep. Satisfied that he could still hear the other man's snoring from the next room he gestured for Tim to sit on the bed.
Tim did. But he perched himself at the very end of it. He posed himself very carefully, hugging his limbs close to his chest and looking like he didn't want to accidentally touch anything.
Tim was radiating "don't touch me" with every fiber of his being so when Conner sat down next to him, he kept himself a good foot away from Tim. Close enough to be there, not close enough to accidentally brush up against him while Tim worked through whatever it was that was going on.
"I think our neighbors downstairs might have moved out," Conner said. He kept his tone light and the topic anything other than how much watching Tim freak out freaked him out.
Tim said nothing.
"That or they got a divorce or something. They've been throwing fewer dishes lately. Used to keep me up all the time."
It was beginning to get cold and they had left the window open. Conner had half a mind to get up and close it but he didn't want to leave Tim sitting there alone. So he sat, feeling the hair on the back of his arms begin to rise as chills set in.
"You can keep talking," Tim said after a moment.
Conner searched his brain for something to fill the dark silence. "Ok. Ok did I ever tell you about my truancy officer?" at Tim's continued silence he pressed on. "Right so there was this truancy officer, Mack Harlin, at the school, who made it his personal mission to- well I'm not really sure what, but he really did hate me. Used to accuse me of forging my paperwork. Constantly trying to phone Rex or call CPP on us. It never went anywhere. But it sure was funny."
"Honestly I probably skipped school more than you did. Actually. I didn't really have friends there. Small place. Everyone knew me. But outside Roxy and Tana and Rex I didn't hang out with anyone. I was never really normal. So I guess we have that in common. A little bit anyways."
Conner waited. Tim was breathing in a deep, measured pattern. It sounded practiced, like some kind of breathing exercise. "Tim, are you ok?"
Tim shrugged even as he said, "I'm fine. Just wanted to see- I didn't want to be alone for a while. I can leave."
"No," Conner said, and he had reached out to grab Tim before he could think better of it. Tim looked up at him sharply. He was so pretty right now, in the barely there moonlight and the glow from Conner's forgotten phone. "Stay. And you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. Have you been up all night?"
Tim shrugged again but didn't resist as Conner tugged him lightly. They had to rearrange themselves a bit but soon they were both lying back on Conner's too small bed. Conner practically fell off it trying to give Tim room. And Tim moved gingerly, like it pained him to do so.
Eventually, they settled.
As they did, Conner was finding it harder to make himself seem casual. He wanted to grab Tim. But he seemed so small right now Conner was sure he would scare him. So he kept his hands to himself and tried to let the steady rhythm of Tim's breathing lull him into some sense of security.
It had almost worked when Tim turned over.
"Sorry."
"It's fine."
"I should have said something."
"It's fine."
"Bruce doesn't know I'm here-"
"It's fine. Please don't talk about Bruce while we're in bed together."
Tim was silent and in the dark Conner worried if maybe he had overstepped, but then he heard a near breathless huff. Tim was laughing. Quietly, but he did everything quietly so that was absolutely a win.
"Can I ask what happened now?" Conner asked.
Tim shifted again. He was wearing a black long-sleeved turtleneck and dark pants that were unfamiliar to Conner.
"Promise you won't freak out?" Tim asked.
It was Conner's turn to laugh. "He asks, after sneaking through my window, after taking me monster hunting."
Tim raised his shirt slowly.
The immediate reaction Conner's brain had of short-circuiting was interrupted as the dark fabric rose and instead of skin or even kevlar, Conner saw a large swathe of white badges running up Tim's entire torso.
Conner bit back a curse and his hands hovered. He didn't want to touch but he didn't want to feel useless. He was useless.
He couldn't help Tim fight anything and he didn't know the first thing about putting him back together afterwards either. He searched his brain for any kind of first aid and came up empty.
It didn't look like any blood was seeping through, though for how his torso had been bandaged Conner assumed that was because they were fresh and not because the injury was minor. Though he hoped it looked worse than it was.
"Don't worry. Alfred patched me up. Just a flesh wound." Tim had a crooked smile, but he didn't move and when he didn't make any motion to lower his shirt, Conner finally got the nerve to reach out.
He ran his fingers lightly over the bandages. They were softer than he expected, and taped in place with unfamiliar material.
"Tell me it's not that bad."
"It's not that bad."
"Tim-"
"It will scar. So my dreams of joining the swim team are crushed. But it's not that bad. I'll live. I just...I wanted out."
The last part was said incredibly quietly.
"Does it hurt?"
"Only all over. But it's fine."
"I can move-"
"No. No, I already said…" And apparently, finally frustrated at Conner's lack of movement, Tim lowered the hem of his shirt and turned over so that he was pressed right up against Conner's chest.
Conner froze.
Tim also froze, and so they both lay there, neither moving, for longer than was probably healthy for either of them, until the sheer tension was too much and Conner let out a low laugh. It was a low, rumbling sound, as he tried to keep it down but he could still feel himself shaking as he snaked his arms around the smaller boy. He tried to be careful of his injury. He felt delirious. Tim hadn't seemed too concerned with his injury and so he tried to just let himself have the moment for what it was.
Tim relaxed, gradually, tucked up against the crook of his neck and eventually they both settled into something resembling calm. Conner traced little patterns across Tim's back, and Tim's breathing became less forced, less timed, and eventually evened out entirely as he drifted to sleep. Conner laid awake feeling more aware of his own body, of Tim's body, than he ever had before. He felt like he was on high alert, with every slight shift setting off alarm bells. He wanted to pull Tim closer while at the same time he was terrified he'd misread it somehow. Cross a line he hadn't meant to. So instead he lay perfectly still and tried to memorize everything about the moment until at last he fell asleep as well.
Tim was gone in the morning. Conner awoke to an empty bed and an open window, that he shut a little harder than necessary. He hadn't left a note or a message and Conner had to scramble to get ready for school leaving no time for brooding on the matter.
The Waynes weren't at school either. Conner hadn't expected them to be, but he had to sit through Stephanie's pouting between periods. She complained loudly about her missing girlfriend but it felt somehow forced. Like she was putting on a show, pretending to be annoyed to hide that she was worried. Conner could relate but didn't have the heart to participate, which only seemed to further aggravate Stephanie.
He tried messaging Tim all through first period without any response. He thought about trying Jason but stopped himself. He didn't want to look desperate. Not that he wasn't desperate to know what was going on, but he didn't know how to take Tim's departure. Maybe it had just been an 'I'm a mysterious supernatural hunter' thing. Or maybe it had been an 'I had time to think through my decisions and realized it was a mistake' thing.
It's not that Conner lacked confidence, exactly. He knew he was attractive. But Tim was complicated. Conner had blundered through all his previous relationships with a combination of naivete and sheer dumb overconfidence. Looking back he could only imagine how annoying and immature he must have seemed, and he didn't want to make that same mistake. Not with Tim. Not when it felt like he was always one misstep away from sending Tim back into whatever shell he had been in before they met.
He dreaded English. But, as he went through his books looking for the latest worksheet Mrs. Bruner had handed out he found a slightly worn copy of Lord of the Flies, tucked away between his notebooks. There was no note, but when he flipped it open he saw Tim's neat, even handwriting in the margins. He instantly felt lighter.
Tim didn't respond until late and his responses were clipped. Conner understood that Tim either didn't want to or wasn't allowed to, discuss his family's actual activities over the phone but he still found himself annoyed at the vague hints of answers he got. As long as he didn't know what had happened he was free to think up all kinds of possibilities. And each one was worse than the last.
Tim didn't show up for the rest of the week, but he stayed in contact with Conner, and, eventually, Conner turned their conversations towards topics Tim could discuss. Mainly English and History and TV shows from the 90s.
And despite his concern for his friends, Stephanie chief amongst them, Conner managed to be even less attentive than usual to both them and his classes. He checked his phone non-stop and got a slip from Ms. Isley for after school detention because of it.
Conner came to find a sort of rhythm with Tim. He would text him in the evenings to see whether or not he would be going out. Most nights he said no. His injury had been enough to warrant being "grounded" or at least that's how Tim phrased it. Conner wasn't sure if he was actually grounded or that was supposed to be code for something.
Still, Conner would text him in the morning anyways to see if he was coming to school. It didn't go unnoticed. Stephanie in particular seemed to be paying close attention. He didn't ask her directly but it didn't seem like Cass had given her any indication of when, or if, she would be returning to school.
It still bothered him knowing that on some level Tim would be out there again soon. And that even if it wasn't the monster lurking in the shadows of Mercy General, there would be others. He was worried, scared even. Which was a new sensation.
He worried all the time but he didn't think he'd ever been so worried for someone else before. He even went so far as to check the school library for books on first aid. He found one, from the 1980s, but otherwise had been relegated to searching youtube for compression tutorials when he was sure his friends weren't looking. If Tim crawled through his widow again bearing new injuries Conner wanted to be ready.
The most terrifying thing to happen to Conner didn't happen until a full week after Tim had first crawled through his window.
Conner hadn't realized they even had a working doorbell because most of his friends seemed insistent on just walking in and ignoring anything remotely resembling manners or personal space. But on Saturday, while Conner was responding to a rather passionate series of texts from Tim about late 1970's street photography in America, the doorbell rang.
Conner opened it to the looming, smartly dressed figure of Bruce Wayne and he froze.
"Conner," Bruce said with a smile that promised future interrogation. "May I speak to your father?"
Conner couldn't find his voice. It got lodged, somewhere on its way to his mouth, which was for the best because he couldn't imagine he'd have said something smart. Bruce raised an eyebrow and Conner stumbled aside in a vain attempt to not look any dumber than he already did.
Bruce nodded curtly and stepped into their tiny cramped apartment. He took a sweeping look at the room and said. "Lovely home, Mr. Kent."
Conner couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic but finally found his voice.
"Clark! We have a guest."
There was some shuffling coming from Clark's bedroom, and a muffled, "Be there in a moment Conner."
That left Bruce and Conner standing in his living room, neither one seemingly wanting to be the first to move. Bruce cleared his throat, in a practiced motion that felt fake, and then in a low voice, "You, ah, did not tell him, I presume?"
"What?" Conner hissed, caught off guard, "Oh course not-"
Bruce nodded and adjusted his tie like he was nervous. Conner didn't have time to speculate on that though because at that moment Clark bounded into the room, a stack of papers in one hand, coffee in the other, and a pen between his teeth. He also froze.
"Bruce!" he said, though it came out awkwardly around the pen clenched in his mouth. "Lovely, seeing you."
Finally, Clark scrambled to find a surface to put his stuff down on (the kitchen counter, already overcrowded with unopened junk mail) and turned to face them. "Please, Bruce, take a seat. Make yourself comfortable. Do you want coffee?"
Conner's heart was racing. The entire situation felt like a parent-teacher conference, but somehow worse. He searched Bruce's face for any hint of what this was about but found only uncertainty. Which did not help.
If Bruce Wayne was uncertain, then Conner didn't have a chance.
Bruce took an awkward seat on Conner's sofa. It was only now, corduroy fabric bulging under the bulk of Bruce Wayne's weight, that Conner realized the couch was threadbare and too small to fit even two Bruce Waynes, shoulder to shoulder, let alone all three of them. Feeling like he wasn't supposed to leave but not having much of a place else to go to, Conner skirted around the edge of the room until he could lean against the far wall and watch as Clark started a pot of coffee.
"It'll be a few minutes," Clark called apologetically before walking over and, much like Conner, realizing there was no good place to sit and have a conversation. He settled for pulling over a kitchen chair.
"Now," Clark said, "What is this about?"
Conner resented a little the way Clark's eyes flitted to him like he expected Conner was in trouble, but he didn't blame him.
"Nothing at all, Clark I just-" Bruce paused, eyes flicking over to Conner, evaluating, "In light of recent events and my boys' attachment to Conner, I thought it was about time I formally invited you both to the Manor for dinner."
Clark started, and looked at Conner like Conner might have the answers but Conner was still floundering himself from this revelation.
"Oh! I see. Well, you didn't have to come all this way," Clark said but didn't suggest an alternative.
Bruce shrugged. "I don't get out much and I rarely have the opportunity to meet the parents, so to speak, when the kids make friends. I thought that if this was going to be the only opportunity-"
"Say no more," Clark said.
And like that Clark was back to his usual self. He snatched up a coffee for Bruce and the two chatted about the recent article he'd put out on the Wayne family's philanthropy. They talked about Clark's job and Clark asked after Alfred and it all would have been fine except every part of Conner's body was on high alert waiting for Bruce to let something slip. Sometimes the man would look over at him and he would seem almost nervous. But not quite. And Clark was happily oblivious to it all. Conner instead found himself eating scrambled eggs in untold misery while the two traded work details and discussed timing for the dinner.
By the time Clark was showing Bruce the way out, Conner thought he was off the hook.
The door closed with the same sort of soft thump you might close a large book with, and Clark turned the lock before turning to Conner. Even though he knew there was nothing to fear, his heart still skipped a beat.
"What was that about?" Clark asked.
Conner spluttered.
"Conner, I'm blind, not stupid. Is everything ok with the Wayne kids?"
Conner shifted uncomfortably. Sometimes he felt like he was going to say everything, and it was all too much and too messy so he bit down on his tongue, which felt fuzzy and heavy with the lie.
"I...I've been hanging out with them more."
Clark waited. When Conner didn't budge he sighed and ran a hand through thick dark hair.
"They're really good people Conner, I know you said-"
"I know that- I mean. Jason and Tim are my friends Clark. You don't have to worry about that."
"Are you sure? You seem jumpy lately."
Conner stared down at his shoes.
"Is it Lex?"
"What?" Conner's head snapped up, heart beating. He wondered if Clark had gone in his room without asking. No. He wouldn't. And if he had he wouldn't have been so calm.
"You've been different since you came back. I was hoping, I don't know. Do you want to talk about it?"
"I…" Conner couldn't look at him. He really couldn't. He stared down at the floor instead. He heard Clark move and suddenly he was right there. He grabbed Conner by the shoulders and guided him towards the couch, all the while talking gently.
"Listen, if Lex said anything, did anything, you can always tell me, alright? I won't be mad. And for the record, if those Wayne boys are giving you a hard time you can tell me too. I let them over because I thought they were being good to you but if you need me to I can always turn them away next time. And that goes for anything else too. You can tell me and we'll figure something out. I know this is still all new. For me and you, relatively speaking. But I promise you're my first priority right now so if we need to we can do something. Conner?"
Conner just shook his head. Clark didn't sigh. Just sat for a moment. "That's alright too. If you don't wanna talk. You know for what it's worth, you've been great since you got here. I know we didn't really talk about what happened in Hawaii but you know. You haven't been any trouble or anything. People always say teenagers are hard. They had me scared we'd be throwing dishes at each other. Not that- I wouldn't ever throw dishes at you-"
Conner laughed, he couldn't help it, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Clark light up like someone had handed him an exclusive with an upper-crust Gothamite.
"I mean it. No dishes. Not even a spoon."
"You'd miss me anyways, you're too much of a nerd to have good aim."
"I'll have you know I was an excellent football player in high school."
"You were not."
"I was. Pa wouldn't let me stay on the team because he needed help around the farm after school. The guys on the team used to get so mad though because I'd show them up in gym class. Good days."
"He didn't let you play football?" Conner asked, not believing anyone who raised Clark could have been anything other than just a larger, older version of Clark.
"Nah. My parents were older when they had me. By the time I was in high school they needed an extra hand around the farm. And Pa was a little old fashioned. He figured it was better for me than getting involved in small town sports. And I guess he was right."
Clark smiled fondly, eyes seeing something Conner couldn't. Conner shifted, uncomfortable at the thought of family beyond what he had in just Clark. He had never thought of Clark having parents, or siblings, or anything else and now the thought twisted inside his chest alongside the guilt he felt about not delivering Lois' letter.
"Are they still in Smallville?"
"Pa passed away a couple years ago. Ma is still there. If you want to stay with me through the summer, I like to visit her in June." Then, appearing to realize his mistake, he added, "Not that you have to. I wasn't sure if you would want to stay with Roxy or something during the summer."
"No, no," Conner said, "I'll stay here."
And the speed at which he said it must have reassured Clark because he nodded and seemed to relax a little.
"Good. I'm glad."
Getting ready for dinner at the Waynes, Conner threw on Jason's coat, an old black t-shirt, and his last good pair of jeans. They didn't have stains but were wearing thin at the knees, and he struggled more than usual with them.
"I think I'm getting fat," he told Clark, only to receive a fond hair ruffle.
"Maybe not fat. But you've certainly grown a good inch or two."
Conner was incredulous about this because his last growth spurt had been in middle school and he figured he was just about done, given how tall he was already.
"I gained another four inches between senior year of high school and the end of my freshman year in college," Clark said.
Conner tried to withhold any verbal judgment on Clark's clothes. The man owned exactly two suits. One dark blue, and oversized to accommodate his lumberjack frame. The other, which he chose to don today, was a tweed number with mustard yellow and a better fit, but it made him look a little like a sofa.
"Do you think it's too formal?" Clark asked when he saw Conner's clothes.
Conner grinned, already feeling the second-hand embarrassment coming on. "I don't think formal is the word I would use."
Clark didn't seem to notice, or more likely didn't care. He grabbed his glasses, his wallet, and together they left around four PM so that they wouldn't be late due to traffic.
They needn't have bothered. Sunday was lazy, and while the car moved slowly, nothing was at a standstill. Conner felt unfairly nervous. It was just dinner, after all, but somehow it felt like more than that. The only thing that made him feel better was seeing his own nervousness reflected in Clark's face.
"Why do I feel like I'm in trouble?" Conner asked when at last they pulled up to the manor and Alfred could be seen standing on the front stoop.
Clark laughed. "Why do I feel like I'm about to take a math test?"
"Bruce likes you," Conner said, and thought back to his first meeting with the man. It was hard to pin Bruce Wayne down but Conner was positive Bruce respected Clark, maybe even admired him.
"Don't call your friends parents by their first names."
"Tim calls him Bruce," Conner pouted but knew he'd listen when Clark tossed him the most disappointed parent look he'd ever mustered. "Whatever."
They got out of the car and made their way towards the manor where Alfred gave them a suspiciously amused smile and led them inside.
"It is good to see you both again. Dinner will be ready in just a short while," Alfred led them through the maze of manor hallways to the same sitting room Conner remembered from his first visit. But before, while cozy, it had been empty, green chairs and bookcases looking more like they were for show than use. Now, with at least two-thirds of the Wayne's shoved into the room it looked hilariously lived in.
Cassandra was lying in a corner of the room, legs draped over an ottoman while she picked through a book, and Dick, who had been sitting and talking to the much younger Damian, leapt up when he saw Clark.
"Clark, Conner! I didn't know you were coming."
Clark's exaggerated look over his shoulder at Conner told him that he found that hard to believe as well.
"Bruce was quite insistent." Clark said, "Tell me, how's work?"
The two sat, with Dick immediately jumping into a discussion about the new district attorney and Dick's recent move to Intelligence Bureau. Names and ranks flew by faster than Conner could remember and he found himself fading into the background rather quickly.
"Hey."
Duke Thomas peered at him from his place leaning up against a bookcase, holding a black and white cat.
"Oh. Hi," Conner said, then shifted. He wasn't sure what to say.
"Jason and Tim are grounded," Duke said, though that wasn't news to Conner. "They'll be at dinner. I'm glad you're here."
"I'm still not convinced Bruce isn't going to kill me," Conner admitted.
"He would never," Duke said with a grin. "You know if those two ever get too much, I'm told I'm the sane one of the family."
"Really?"
"No. But I'm neither a thief nor suicidally self-destructive, so if you ever want to play videogames or something, I'm probably your guy."
"Thanks?"
"Tim's coming."
"What?"
Conner spun around, and sure enough, Tim Drake was walking into the room with his hair still wet from a shower, and a red sweater three times too big for him. He stopped dead when he saw Conner. Conner's own heart skipped a step and he cursed and hoped his face didn't look as red as it felt. He thought back to the night Tim had snuck into his room, and if he wasn't blushing before he was now.
"Pro-tip, between you and me," Duke said while Conner was caught up looking at Tim, "Bruce is going to ask Clark to review his speech for this year's Thanksgiving Gala. You should ask Tim to show you his latest photography project after dinner."
And then Duke abandoned him completely. Jerk. Duke just grinned as he settled into a seat next to Cassandra.
Tim walked over, looking uncharacteristically off balance. Despite his oddities, Tim always moved with purpose and grace that probably came from his strange habits of climbing buildings and punching vampires. He looked washed out, and his smile wavered. He looked at Conner like he was expecting him to bite.
"Hey," he said quietly, "I didn't know you were coming."
"I'm beginning to think your dad is trying to set me up for some kind of prank. He didn't say anything?"
Tim sighed. "He rarely does."
Before they could do anything more than look at each other with painful awkwardness, there was a chime, and then Alfred was clearing his throat.
"Dinner is served."
Dinner was a wine-braised duck, clear onion soup, and a side salad that was suspiciously delicious. The dining room was long, wood floored, and with a table clearly meant to seat fifteen. Bruce sat at the head of the table with Clark to his right. Conner sat next to Clark, and Dick sat on Bruce's left. Conner ended up sitting across from Jason, who was equally surprised as Tim to see him and sent a devilish grin before spending the majority of the dinner either kicking him under the table or snickering and whispering in Tim's ear.
Seeing all the Waynes in one place, Conner was struck by how much they looked like a family. The kind he'd pictured as a kid, or seen on TV.
"Conner, I hear you play football," Bruce said, sounding incredibly awkward while he cut into his duck.
"Ah, yes, uh sir. I um. Sort of. The coach wants me on the JV team. And I've been going to practice."
"And Tim you met Tim in English?"
"Uh," Conner looked across the table, but Tim looked bug-eyed at Bruce in obvious horror. Jason laughed. "Chemistry, actually. We're lab partners. We just study for English because I'm terrible at it."
"You're not terrible. I hated English all through high school," Clark said in that fond, admonishing way only he could pull off.
"I'm glad, Tim has always been very serious about his studies."
If Tim could vanish, he probably would, he was sinking into his chair with each word out of Bruce's mouth. The dinner carried on much in that manner. Damian snuck scraps of duck under the table to a large greyhound that Alfred eventually shooed out of the room (though not without sneaking him a treat).
Cass was silent on her end of the table, but she and Duke moved with practiced ease, hands dancing, sometimes even drawing Damian into whatever conversation they were having with teasing notes in their eyes.
And Bruce continued to ask poorly timed questions and quietly bragged about Tim's new gallery showing with the Student Art Exhibition, and Clark responded with equally enthusiastic tidbits about how Conner had been doing swell adjusting to Gotham.
He tried, once or twice to drag Conner into the conversation so it wasn't quite as awkward and one sided. Conner stared at Tim trying to impress upon the other boy how much this dinner had not been his idea and how very sorry he was that it seemed neither Bruce nor Clark had any sense of how to carry on a normal, unembarrassing conversation.
But despite himself, Conner enjoyed it. The dinner seemed more like an excuse for Bruce to awkwardly ask Conner questions and Jason beamed every time he did. The bruise under his eye had faded significantly.
Miraculously no one ran out of food. Even as the clock wore on and Conner could have sworn he'd eaten his third stack of potatoes his plate never quite seemed to empty and Alfred seemed to be able to be everywhere at once.
"I actually have been meaning to call you up for a while now Bruce," Clark mentioned casually, in the latter half of the evening. "So it's good you reached out. I'm working on an article that I'd like to see published before my expose drops after Christmas."
Bruce's brow furrowed. "Next month? I thought we were waiting until the election season next year."
"I said I would consider it."
There was an awkward silence at the table as the conversations simmered to focus on Bruce and Clark's exchange.
"And I'm still considering it," Clark said at last. "But what I wanted to ask about was if Dick could do me a favor and look into a couple case files for me. Nothing major."
"Clark, it would be better if the timing of that article is perfect. You know as well as anyone how much the right story at the right time can change things for the better."
"I know Bruce. I didn't mean to disagree. I'm just not comfortable with necessarily being used as part of someone's campaign strategy. I'm supposed to be above that, in some ways."
"No one is above politics," Bruce said, raising a glass full of what Conner assumed was whiskey or something similar. "Now what was this case?"
"The Park Murders. You have to have heard something about them by now?"
Maybe it was only because he was looking for them to slip up, but Conner watched Dick Grayson look at Bruce, only for a split second, before returning to whatever conversation he was pretending to have with Jason. Tim meanwhile stared resolutely at his dinner.
"I thought you were off the crime beat?"
"I am," Clark said, "but old habits and all that. I was just wondering if Dick had anything I could use."
"I'm afraid not Mr. Kent. We're at a loss. Knowing how thorough you are, I'd be more intrigued to see your notes," Dick said and Conner had to wonder at the ease with which he spoke. It seemed practiced. He wondered if Clark had ever been close to something he shouldn't have been before and if Bruce had had to lie to him often.
"Don't tell Bertinelli. You know she hates it when you do that," Bruce chided.
Conner waited. But it seemed the moment had passed. His heart, which had been hammering the moment Clark brought up his investigation, began to return to something resembling a normal pace and he distracted himself with trying to pay attention to the rest of the dinner conversation.
The conversation did eventually run out, however, and not even Alfred's endless food could help that. Conner watched as Clark, ever polite, managed to drag on a conversation about how the local library had cut their hours again when finally Bruce spoke up again.
"Do you mind Clark, I was thinking, I normally give a speech at the annual Thanksgiving Gala that they hold down at the old Opera House for ending hunger in Gotham. I've been giving basically that same speech for years now but you having a way with words, do you mind reading it over for me?"
"I'd be delighted."
And like that the two were up and chatting, more naturally and more casually than Conner had seen the entire dinner. "Do me a favor and ask them to send someone other than Vicki for this event. I know she normally covers the social things but I'd prefer if this year we focus more on the community."
The two drifted out of the room without another glance back and Conner gaped. He looked at Duke.
"Jason, come on," Duke said, "let's help Alfred with the dishes."
"Wait," Tim said, but it was too late, Duke was dragging Jason out of the room by the arm.
Conner swallowed and tried to muster up what courage he had left after the emotionally turbulent dinner. He felt a little silly, but he nudged Tim's leg under the table. Tim's attention snapped to him with an uncanny speed that left him feeling off balance.
"Wanna ditch? You can show me whatever you've been up to in the darkroom, lately." He really hoped Duke wasn't messing with him.