Chapter Text
Looking back, it's hard to pin down any one reason for the episode in the Batcave. Maybe it's the liminal lighting as I follow Tim— away from the ominous electrical glow of the Bat-puter yet not quite in the half-circle of clinical white light. Maybe the distortion of sound and the distant shadowed shapes mess with my head and make me prone to dizziness. Maybe the mix of the air being pumped in is off and I get a minor case of the bends or something.
It almost doesn't matter why, because what happens when Kon arrives… Well, it isn't exactly my finest moment.
All the air so far in the cave has been almost eerily still, so when a brief gust of powerful wind blows my hair and shirt straight forward, my weight shifts forward unexpectedly, and it feels like I tripped between steps. The smallest spark of 'oh no, I'm falling' trips through my nervous system, but before it can take hold, warmth and weight and sweet, even pressure closes in around me from my shoulders to my toes, and I am…
Surrounded…
Bound…
Engulfed.
Where the sudden, harsh computer voice keeps jump-scaring me, I relax effortlessly into this sensation as though my strings have been cut. Some part of me recognizes this sensation, even before my conscious mind can put words to it, and settles safely into the weightlessness.
Wisps of an older feeling of restraint and blindness ride in on the coattails of this gentle constriction. They curl up in my subconscious and whisper that I am kept and held where I belong, to serve the purpose I was meant to serve, and if I just give into it, I will be…
Fulfilled…
Adored…
Worshipped.
Those whispers are lies. I know they are. Beautiful, poisoned lies.
A faint memory of blood and wine claws across my tongue.
Voices echo in a distant chorus of manic chants, ecstatic cries.
Hot needles itch and burn across my torso.
All if it flits through my brain in the time it takes my nervous system to complete a startle reflex and I gasp, and then—
Every sensory lie is washed away as I inhale ozone and petrichor, and hear a voice that's filled with all the best things in life, sunshine and laughter and real adoration.
A voice that whispers, “Super-hug.”
I’m sure I make a sound in response, but it’s involuntary, whatever it is, and I don’t really hear it anyway — which is probably for the best, because it’s probably really, really godsdamned embarrassing.
I can hear a faraway voice say something cheerful, but I can't parse the words, for some reason...
The cadence sounds like Tim though… even as a disembodied voice, his presence reassures me.
I can't see him though —which is a shame because he's so fun to look at— actually I can't see anything at all…
Which would normally be very concerning… until I realize that my eyes have just fallen shut.
So, that's alright, then…
It'll be okay if I stay here and rest my eyes for a minute... They just feel so heavy, like I haven't slept in days.
But that's alright, too. Tim always has an eye out, just in case.
It'll be okay if I just… rest my eyes for a bit...
Tim probably wants me to get some rest, since I'm this tired… he'll wake me up at some point to feed me, make sure I drink some water…
He likes to fuss like that.
I'm very comfy right now anyway, so there's no reason to even try to open my eyes… or even listen too close.
If Tim needs me to hear something, he'll make sure I'm up enough to hear it.
"You good, man?" This voice is much closer than the other —I can feel it resonate in my chest, but I don't think it's my voice— and that's the only reason I understand the words.
I don't think it's my voice though… it sounds kinda nervous, and I'm way too blissed out for that to be part of my emotional palette.
Maybe if Tim wasn't here, I'd be nervous… probably, I would be.
But Tim is nearby, so even if I don't know the other voice, it must be someone safe…
Tim wouldn't let them near me, his voice wouldn’t sound so relaxed, if they weren't someone safe.
Since it isn't my voice that asked it, I'm pretty sure the question is directed at me. Am I good, man?
I feel amazing, so I nod my head emphatically.
Or at least I… try to.
It feels more like it lazily slops forward and back. But that should still get the message across.
"Huh." I feel a calloused hand on my face, a gentle thumb on my eyelid. "I think you kinda…scruffed him."
His voice still sounds underwater, but he's close enough I can hear the words now. Even if I couldn't, I can tell the hands from anyone.
Another calloused hand moves to support my face —distantly, blurrily, something rough hits my cheek two, or maybe three times— and Tim's voice talks to me this time, "Bern? Hey."
There's a note of upset that gets bigger —but not panic because Tim doesn't panic— as he talks. "Hon, what's going on? I can't tell what this is. Can you give me a status report? Give me a color, baby? Gimme something here, Bernard."
And that— Hang on, a color, that… that means something, I'm pretty sure. I need to…to give him something. Give him a color.
Tim sounds upset, and I need to give him a color so he knows not to be upset anymore.
I think of Tim, and only one color seems right, but it takes so much effort to get the words out.
"Mm, Red…"
"Fuck, we gotta—"
Everything around me tightens suddenly, and it's so good and so safe and —what is that noise, is someone having sex nearby— I probably make another embarrassing sound I'll be glad not to remember later.
It's just that Tim's keeping an eye out and I'm all bound up and protected and my eyes are so heavy, but I need to give him…
"Red… Robin."
"Is that—" Tim starts, then pauses. "Is that your color?"
My color? No, it's Tim's color.
"No, I'm green, silly," is what I try to say, but what I hear coming out of myself sounds more like—
"'M greensy."
"Okay, okay, that's good, baby. Thank you."
Tim pets my hair —his hand might be shaking a little bit, and that's weird for some reason— and kisses my forehead. But he doesn't sound upset anymore, so I did good. I gave him a color just like he asked, and now he knows not to be upset anymore.
"Do you think you can come up for me, just a little?" And yeah, I can definitely do that —I'm so comfy down here, but— I'll do anything that voice asks me to do. "I'm not sure what just dropped you. I need to check in, just real quick, if you can."
Man, whoever this other person is must be someone Tim really trusts. He never talks to me like this in front of other people —oh good, concepts like "never" mean I'm coming up like he asked— never even gotten me like this in front of other people.
He's too possessive, too protective —too perfect— he doesn't want to make me vulnerable where I could accidentally become a target.
Which is great, because I hate being like this in front of other people, being weak and fuzzy and needy and too dumb to—
Aw man, I can feel myself coming up. That was a really good drop, too.
As the Batcave swirls in and out of focus for a few seconds, my body starts checking back in with my brain.
Normally, during an episode the only thing I can hear is my heartbeat thrumming in my ears, but it's calm now, and my breathing is even. Everything else is still kind of muffled, but that doesn't feel particularly important, because wherever I am, I know I'm not alone.
There's a crouched figure floating around in front of me with —oh hey, that's my Tim— with a low voice that's saying my name and the darkest blue eyes I've ever seen, all focused on me.
Even though I can't see him behind me, my other senses know that Kon is there — he must be the solid warmth against my back and around my chest. His telekinetic touch is soft and tight at the same time, just the way I remember it, and the smell of a summer storm rolls off of him like thunder.
I've been saved a handful of times in my life, but… I don't think I knew what it meant to feel safe until this moment.
Not because of the Batcave or the tech kept here. The cave doesn't care about me. Because of them.
It feels like the apocalypse could break out, and they'd stay right here on either side of me while the world ended outside, if I asked. I wouldn't ask, of course —greater good and all— but still.
The instant all of Tim's moving faces coalesce into a single familiar look of concern, the remnants of my floaty dreamy dumb headspace evaporate—
And I'm left with the clear-eyed realization that I'm slumped over in Superboy's arms like a debutante with a case of the vapors.
Ah yes, there's the heartbeat pounding in my ears.
"There you are, good job," he breathes, and we may as well be alone in his bed for as focused as he is on me, as softly Domming as that voice is. "Can you talk yet?"
Can I talk? Yes.
Do I want to? Not even a little bit.
I briefly consider faking amnesia, carrying on as though I don't know why I'm on my knees on the floor of the — fuck my life, I'm the guy who fainted in the Batcave — or why goddamn Superboy's arms are the only thing keeping me from pitching forward onto my face — on the floor of the fucking Batcave, Christ.
I don't want to acknowledge any of what just happened in any fashion to anyone, except, maybe, Jackie.
Even then, I'm gonna need a decade or so of internal processing time first.
There's really only one thing worth saying, at this point.
"Please tell me that didn't just happen." I stare desperately into Tim's eyes, willing reality, or at least the last thirty seconds of this timeline, to rewrite itself for my benefit.
The little smile he gives me is equal parts fond and pitying. "No more lies, remember?"
I do remember him saying that, of course, after he found out just how long I'd known he was Red Robin and actively lying to me on the regular. Of course I remember that, and I remember that specifically, what he said was: "No more lies — unless it's for your own good."
And I, personally, cannot think of a lie that would be more for my own good than this.
"Tim—" My voice comes out so squeaky and begging and pathetic that I can't even finish whatever follow-up I thought I was going to have there.
Okay. Okay. Okay.
This is fine.
I can handle this.
I know how to deflect when I do weird shit like this.
This is, admittedly, the first time my "weird shit" has included auto-terminating PTSD flashbacks, getting Sparta-kicked into subspace with literally no warning or prep work by someone I barely know and have never subbed for, and a semi-dissociative moment of complete psychological safety that will absolutely haunt me until I die, all in front of my boyfriend and his best friend, the guy we're both lusting after — and in my case, crushing on — while actively pretending we're not.
But that's fine, and I can handle it.
"Honestly, I don't think this is a big deal," I say in the most casual tone I can muster, although even to my ears it sounds a little manic.
Hey — Tim's the one who said "no more lies," not me.
"I mean, clinically, liminal spaces plus emotional saturation combined with sensory triggers are a classic recipe for acute dissociative drop. I'm sure it's all laid out in the DSM-5."
Tim blinks a couple of times, then says carefully, "So you're telling me you were… overwhelmed with systemic affection?"
Okay, that's… troublingly close to accurate, actually. I clearly need more deflection.
"Backup theory: It was a stroke. I had just a tiny little baby stroke. Very dignified."
I'm suddenly reminded of how undignified my heart sounds in my own ears, which reminds me that even if my voice doesn't sound manic, Kon can absolutely hear that my heart does.
Tim nods solemnly. "That would be extremely tragic, considering your young age."
"And my excellent bone structure."
The "pity" level in Tim's smile is increasing. Not a good sign.
I huff and pull myself more upright, though I'm still half-hanging from, like, honestly some of the sexiest forearms I've ever seen. The sexy forearms loosen their grip enough that I can at least get my knees under me.
It's at this point I accept that I can no longer pretend Kon didn't see any of what he just saw, so he may as well help me fix it. I nudge him with an elbow in whatever part of him is right behind my elbow.
"Okay, bud, help me out here?"
"Yeah?"
"See that ledge over there?" I nod to the sheer drop-off twenty or so feet past the work tables.
"…yeah?"
"Yeah, help me get over there, and then just…gently yeet me into the abyss."
Tim looks just above my head to roll his eyes and shake his head affectionately.
"He's fine."
I'm not sure if the reassuring tone is for Kon's benefit or his own.
Kon snorts and ducks his head a little bit. I'm still not looking at him, but I can feel his curls sweep across the back of my neck, which is… not helping the heartbeat thing, probably.
The TTK ripples gently around me, a fluttering variation in pressure like someone hovering in a doorway, unsure if they're still welcome. On impulse, I go to soothe it like an anxious friend, but that basically means I rub my own arm in a reassuring manner.
What am I, pack-bonding with superpowers now? This is not helping my case for 'everything about this is normal.'
Still though, the ripples of pressure around me smooth out into something calmer and more even. If the TTK was an anxious friend, I would say the little pulse of energy I feel is a quick hug, before it gently releases my own weight back to me.
"Y'okay?" The question is so small, barely made of real words, and it doesn't match my ideas of Kon-El or Superboy at all, except for how it sounds exactly like when he needed reassurance that he was— that Tim still thought he was being good.
Only—
Only he definitely isn't asking Tim.
"Um," I squeak. My heart is still pounding, and I'm painfully aware that he has to be aware of the way my breath catches when I turn to look up at him. "Just. Y'know. Entirely mortified. Otherwise totally fine, yeah, great this is so good and great and normal and fine."
The image of Superboy staring down at me in concern and no small amount of guilt, backlit by the cold LED of the Batcave is a fucking lot.
With all the cortisol and adrenaline and endorphins kicking around in my system, my brain drops from higher to lower function and all I'm processing is: blue. mine. pretty. safe. kiss.
"Sorry. I didn't mean t— I guess…" Kon bites his lip and then says probably the most mind-altering thing possible. "I got carried away."
So just kidding, my brain isn't even accomplishing lower functioning right now. I'm honestly impressed with myself that I don't erupt into hysterical giggles because…
Because…
I mean, come on.
He didn't mean it like that, obviously. Getting carried away isn't a concept that Tim invented, it's a very common phrase.
It even makes sense in this context — he just hit me with more TTK than planned. He was nervous or excited or anxious or whatever. This is just his version of unhousebroken chihuahua floor-peeing.
Nevermind that the floor-peeing wasn't because he was all heart-eyed over Tim, but—
Never mind.
It's a normal phrase, and he meant it normally, and I'm being a creepy stalker fanboy for reading anything else into it.
…is what I would be able to tell myself if not for the way that pretty pink blush blooms from his ears down across his cheeks.
"It's really okay," I manage after either a moment or a decade of pregnant pause, only he doesn't look any less affectionate or guilty, so I'm not sure where to take it from there.
I… really can't deal with this level of warm emotion on Kon's face.
Other things I cannot deal with include but are not limited to: the deepening furrow in his forehead, the full-body slight staticky sensation that I assume is some kind of TTK bodyscan, having both Tim's and Kon's hands on me at the same time, having both Tim's and Kon’s eyes on me at the same time, the knowledge that they both just witnessed me being a full certified fucking freak — and not in the fun, 'damn that guy's good in bed' way — and how motherfucking nice they're both trying to be about it.
It's that last one that really gets me.
I can handle people being jerks about my episodes, laughing at how weird they look or scared of me after seeing them, but this gentle concern after I completely stole the show and grabbed all the possible attention and was a dramatic little bitch about it—
Yeah, I know what it says about me, and I'll talk to Jackie about it later, but for right now, I simply cannot deal.
I've seen three versions of Kon — subby-vulnerable, happy-chill, and brash-flirty. I need to reassure him that I'm fine and that he doesn't need to feel guilty, and most importantly of all, I need to make him stop looking at me like that. Like something precious that he needs to protect, or like something fragile he's afraid to break.
Okay, then. Brash-flirty mode activated.
I crack a half smirk that hopefully mirrors the token Superboy grin.
"If you're gonna keep looking at me like that, I'm gonna need to get a response team in place to handle this." It's an intentional callback to something I said when we were all in bed together, but even if he doesn't recognize where the words are from, I know he understands that I'm being flirtatious.
Kon ducks his head, and even though he does stop looking at me like something precious he needs to protect or something fragile he's afraid to break, seeing those two dimples pop in his cheeks when he laughs is almost enough to put me right back under again.
Between the three of us, I get back up on my feet — because my worst fears have been confirmed, and on top of everything else that just happened, I am now and forever confirmed as the guy who collapsed on the floor of the Batcave.
Tim's expression is difficult to read, but he keeps a hand on my shoulder until he's confident that I'm steady.
He gives me a gnarly hand motion with a raised eyebrow, like it's a question.
Jesus, that's a high school throwback, when we'd communicate down the hall with goofy hand gestures during passing period.
It gets me to laugh a little bit as I nod and throw a gnarly right back at him.
His expression is still hard to read though. He looks over my shoulder again, does something else with his hand that I don't recognize, nods a bit, and turns back toward the half-circle of lamps and the brightly-lit worktables.
Kon doesn't follow, which I take to mean that I'm supposed to talk with him. Which is confirmed when he speaks softly behind me.
"M'sorry. Didn't mean to be weird with it."
Oh right, because he has a thing about being weird, being too much. That was… he kept saying that when he dropped, or was having trouble feeling safe with submission.
"You didn't do anything wrong. Or weird or too much. Or anything like that."
He doesn't look like he believes me, and I wonder how many people have made him feel guilty for being different, or just being a little more than human. I feel a need to make sure he understands that the trigger may have come from him, but the weirdness was 100% certified-organic Bernard.
"I just had a minor… episode. They happen. Sometimes. To me."
This isn't stuff I tell people, so I don't have a charming, casual way of saying it. It's not that I don't trust Kon with my weak spots — the dude has literally died to save the world, so he isn't new to emotional trauma — but there are some… some darker spots I'd rather keep hidden.
For whatever reason, I'd like to maintain the good-times guy facade with Kon, at least for now, and none of my "so this one time, at cult camp…" stories really mesh with that.
"I promise you didn't do anything I wouldn't have consented to," I add, in case that's his concern. "That was as much a surprise to me as it was to you."
"I'll keep the uh, the super-hugs to myself from now on," he mumbles.
"Don't you fucking dare, please." I swallow every ounce of pride I've ever had to reach out for a hug.
He makes a startled sound and I take advantage of surprising a Super to get both arms around his middle in an awkwardly childish hug. After a moment, his arms drop over my shoulders and he returns it, even nuzzling his cheek into the top of my head. I don't think of myself as being all that short, but Jesus fuck, the guy is big.
I don't have a way to describe the physical sensation, but I can feel him hesitating with the TTK, so I just hang on for another couple of seconds. When my arms gets pulled tighter around his middle, I grin and lean into it, and then I'm all wrapped up again from my shoulders to my toes. He doesn't touch my neck with it at all, but there's a separate pressure on the side of my head, as if a third hand is holding me close there, too.
"I, um, I don't know what happened just now." I say it quietly against his chest, because it's easier to say without looking at him, and I know he'll hear me clearly, anyway. "So I can't promise that it won't happen again. If I know it's you, I think that might help, so maybe just no surprise Super-hugs?"
"I can do that," he says like it's a solemn vow, like it really matters that he does what I've asked, and god damn does that leave me feeling seen and exposed in a way that would usually have me backpedaling with humor but right now just feels really secure. He pulls back just far enough to make eye contact when he says, "I'm sorry for scaring you."
I laugh, not because I'm hiding behind the humor, but because there is genuine humor in his apology. "I'm sorry for scaring you. You signed up for a good time today. I'm the weirdo having a fucking… like, mental health crisis in your arms."
"Yeah, well." Kon hums, and I get a wink that's just a little too shy to be truly roguish as he quips, "You did say you'd be weird about me."
I get partway through a scoffing laugh of indignation before all of my processing power is taken over by a very powerful memory of being balls-deep in this guy while Tim goads him into saying how much he likes me, and declaring that I would be very weird about him in the future.
"Got me there," is the best I can manage to get out, hoarse and half-strangled as it is. Good to know past-Bernard was self-aware, although I wish he'd maybe had more of a filter.
I don't quite realize that my heart is speeding up or that my face has turned every shade of pink available until he knocks into my cheekbone with a couple curled knuckles and mutters, "Pretty."
His face is mostly shadowed, and it looks so soft and tender, a naked affection that borders on something hungrier.
I suddenly want to kiss that face so badly, I might as well be back in Tim’s kitchen, wondering how long they’re both gonna let me keep doing something as unsexy as making out with Kon before wanting to move on to more impressive activities.
Long, long lashes fan across his face in a slow blink that is doing things to me. I open my mouth without any real idea of what I’m going to say, and then–
He shifts to the side just enough that the low light of the Bat-puter shifts over his features and his face is suddenly entirely different. There’s no sign of that yearning look as he turns away to follow Tim.
I take a moment to ground myself and think about the way the Batcave lies.
The way the light can’t fully pierce the gloom – staring out at the massive shapes in the darkness that might be real or might be my eyes playing tricks.
The way the space distorts sounds – stealing a shout but letting us keep our whispers.
The way even my emotions feel so scattered – tripping without warning between love and lust, fear and safety.
What I’ve spent all day learning — from the moment I got into a car borne of its depths, to the moment we drove up to a McMansion in the hills and dropped down into its endless void that isn’t endless at all, to the signs of life and family spread among a secret underground vigilante-infested lair — is that the Batcave lies, and you can’t trust what you find here.
So that look on Kon’s face, of naked affection bordering on something hungrier, that was what I wanted to see, not something I actually saw.
As he heads into the brightly-lit work area, his hips move in a carefully careless rhythm, a swagger and a tease wrapped in skintight spandex and bondage belts. That's definitely not a trick of the light or the liminal space, or even me having a tiny little baby stroke.
Because if there's any truth that even that Batcave can't conceal, it's the way Kon gravitates toward Tim.