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Conner, “Kon-El,” Kent hated suits.
Not his superhero suit; he loved that second skin of blue and red, the way it felt like power made wearable. No, he hated the fancy, gala suits. They were suffocating, a miserable prison of expensive, restrictive fabric that pulled tight in all the wrong places and made his Kryptonian muscles feel like they were about to shred the seams. The very act of taking a deep breath felt like a minor rebellion. It was worse than just being uncomfortable; he hated the forced uniformity. No studded belts or spiked bracelets, no rogue chain looped from a pocket, and he wasn’t even allowed to clip in his fake face piercings—his only tiny acts of sartorial defiance. It was, truly, hell on Earth.
The truth was, without his leather and his piercings, he felt utterly naked. Stripped of his identity, left with nothing but a borrowed, ill-fitting veneer of politeness.
Conner, “Kon-El” Kent also hated the galas he was constantly dragged to by Lex. The air in these places was thick and cloying, smelling of perfume and old money. The older men and women in their black-tie armor would track his every movement, their judging eyes lingering when his southern accent slipped out like a lasso or he stumbled over some overly complicated bit of social etiquette. Then there were the girls, all tight little dresses and curated politeness, who would flutter over and ask him to dance with a blush plastered on their faces—not that he didn't appreciate the attention, but his mind always went to other places. More complicated, more frustrating places, centered around one brilliant, slightly batty genius.
Today, though, at least he wasn’t completely alone. He had friends with him, undercover like him, with tiny communication devices snug in their ears so they could coordinate if their target appeared. Lex Luthor—who had somehow gotten wind of the intel—had informed them of a wanted weapons dealer expected to stop by this specific charity gala to exchange a sizable amount of money with a slippery diplomat.
What did Lex get out of helping them? Nothing noble. He absolutely hated the diplomat, and seeing him arrested or humiliated would bring him more pure, gleeful joy than any new scientific breakthrough.
And Kon? He just wanted to use this misery of a night to actually do some good.
He took a slow sip of the sparkling water—the only thing he was allowed to drink—trying his best to ignore the way the suit’s expensive, slick material stretched and screamed a silent protest against his bicep. He cast a glance over at Cassie, who looked effortlessly cool even in a slim-fit tuxedo that showcased her Amazonian strength. Her sleek blond curls flowed elegantly on her shoulders as she leaned over a small, marble-topped table, her famous smirk firmly in place as she talked to a flustered, clearly mesmerized girl.
“Is that so?” he heard her purr through the comms, her voice all low and flirty. The girl across from her blushed a vibrant crimson, instinctively adjusting the thin strap of her expensive dress.
Kon rolled his eyes, a tiny, unseen movement behind his glasses, before turning to look for Bart. The speedster was on the opposing side of the room, near a grand table laden with food, carefully excavating an entire tray of fancy, soft cheeses, being meticulously careful not to get any oil or crumbs on his dark suit.
“Anyone see anything that looks like a clandestine money exchange, or is just a lot of rich people pretending to care?” Kon murmured into the mic, keeping his voice low and casual.
Cassie simply flicked a brief, practiced glance around the room, playing it off with a charming smile before looking back at the girl who was now rambling, wide-eyed, about some kind of ambitious college class she was taking.
“I just see Cassie being a raging lesbian,” Bart chuckled quietly, his voice a muffled whisper of delight and chewing.
“Yeah, my classmates are idiots too. They just hate seeing a beautiful woman accomplishing things that they can only fantasize about,” Cassie drawled smoothly, her grin widening, which earned a breathless giggle from the girl.
“Rude,” Kon muttered, automatically adjusting the bridge of his glasses. He was painfully aware of how much he resembled Clark right now, all business and mild manners. He knew he was handsome, but the glasses just felt like an uncomfortable, phony mask on his face.
“She’s so mean to us. Who left her in charge, anyway?” Bart mumbled, managing to sound put-out despite the happy chewing noises in the background.
“Tim,” Kon answered softly. And just like that, the air of the room got about ten degrees colder for him. He missed Tim.
Tim wasn’t dead or gone or anything dire; he just had a mission with the Batman that "couldn't be left unattended" and, apparently, he was the only one capable of handling it. Yeah, that highly annoying certainty was just another notch on the list of things that irked and intrigued Kon about him.
He knew Tim was an amazing vigilante— great, smart, and talented in every single possible way— and maybe that overwhelming competence was exactly why Kon had the fattest, stupidest crush on him. Tim had only come out to the team as bisexual by casually mentioning a male character in a TV show was attractive, and frankly, no one was remotely surprised.
But Tim was also the primary, defining reason Kon knew for sure that he liked boys. But Kon didn’t just like boys; he liked Tim.
He had figured it out when he started obsessing over how much he wanted to touch Tim. He was already very tactile—holding hands with Bart, looping his arms around Cassie’s shoulders—but Tim was different.
Every time he touched Tim, whether it was leaning his heavy head on his shoulder during movie nights, looping his arm through Tim’s when they walked side by side, or throwing his leg on top of Tim’s during their group cuddles—yes, it was absolutely a real, necessary thing they did—he always found himself craving more from Tim, wanting to linger longer, to touch more skin, to simply be closer. He’d realized that the level of desperate, constant, physical longing he felt for the Boy Wonder was probably not what someone straight wanted.
“Tim hates us,” Bart muttered, pulling Kon out of the deep end of his thoughts.
Kon huffed, the sound a sharp, quiet expulsion of air, “He doesn’t hate us. He just knows Cassie has the most leadership experience of us three.”
Before Bart could get another jab in, Kon heard a familiar, oily throat-clearing from directly behind him. He spun on the heel of his polished shoe, his face instantly hardening. His eyes locked onto his DNA donor, Lex Luthor, who looked offensively smug in a flawlessly tailored black suit. The fabric stretched just tight enough across Lex's shoulders to suggest power without actual muscle, and the wide, utterly false grin on his face made Kon’s stomach churn.
Standing next to Lex was a man who looked like he was carved from expensive marble: taller, with slick black hair, a rock-solid jawline, a careful shadow of designer stubble, and a perfect, impeccably tailored suit.
Bruce Wayne.
Yeah, Kon watched the news, so what?
He was just another big shot billionaire from Gotham, notorious for throwing excess amounts of money at galas and partying too much while actual heroes like Batman and his crew—including Kon’s missing favorite genius—fought crime in the shadows. He epitomized everything Kon hated about this room.
“Mister Wayne, this is my son, Conner,” Lex introduced, his palm landing on Kon’s shoulder like an ownership tag. Kon resisted the urge to physically recoil.
“It’s a delight to meet you, Conner,” Mister Wayne said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that sounded like it belonged in a boardroom or an interrogation. He extended a hand.
Kon forced a bright, charming, utterly fake smile onto his face and met the grip. “You too,” he replied. Mister Wayne’s hand was massive, his grip surprisingly strong and calloused. Kon’s mental catalog of hero details flashed to life: the placement of those thickened patches was eerily similar to the ones Kon knew were hidden beneath the gloves of a certain hyper-competent, crime-fighting bird. They reminded him of Tim’s hands.
“I saw you modeled for the latest line of Luthor watches. My younger cousin was a huge fan,” Mister Wayne continued smoothly. He glanced briefly to his side and motioned his head, and a girl seamlessly appeared from behind his broad frame.
She had long, poker-straight black hair that flowed like liquid silk over her bare shoulders, complete with little side bangs that immediately and painfully reminded Kon of Tim's always-a-little-too-long swoop. Her makeup was soft—a light pink lip gloss, subtle eyeliner—and those bright blue eyes that looked directly, unflinchingly into Kon’s own.
She wore black gloves that extended all the way up to her forearms, accentuating her long fingers. Her dress was a dramatic, off-the-shoulder red that was cinched tight around her narrow waist, only to flow down to just below her knees. A provocative slit ran up her left thigh, accentuating long, pale legs that ended in black, ankle-strapped heels. (Heels? Kon's mind supplied uselessly, remembering that two-hour Martha lecture about the difference between a wedge and a stiletto after he’d messed it up.)
She looked so much like Tim. Like a female Tim who somehow knew how to wear makeup and didn't look like she lived exclusively on caffeine and adrenaline. Kon didn’t even realize his jaw had dropped open until the dry air hit the back of his throat.
She smiled sweetly at Kon, her teeth a perfect, flashing white. “I’m Caroline,” she said, her voice quiet but confident.
“I wasn’t aware you had a younger cousin, Bruce,” Lex said, his smile still plastered on but with a new edge of calculating interest. He gave Kon a discreet, sharp nudge with his elbow, a silent order to close his mouth.
Mister Wayne seemed to smile wider, though his eyes remained watchful. “She doesn’t like being in the public eye. Her father was a distant uncle; I took her in when he passed a few years ago,” he explained.
“Our most sincere apologies for your loss,” Lex replied, executing a polite, practiced nod toward her.
“Thank you,” Caroline said simply.
Kon was still staring, his mind running a thousand miles an hour, trying to rationalize the resemblance. Is this... is this what Tim would look like as a girl? Kon was gonna explode.
“Oooo, Kon’s gotta crush,” Bart’s voice suddenly chirped, loud and clear, through the comms. Kon tore his eyes off of Caroline and flashed a swift, silent, murderous glare toward the far side of the ballroom where Bart was now trying to look innocent while dipping a piece of brie into a fountain. Kon prayed to Rao that the volume on the earpiece wasn't leaking.
Lex raised a knowing, oily eyebrow. “Perhaps we should discuss some business inquiries, Mister Wayne? I’m sure Conner will keep Caroline good company.” He punctuated the sentence with another sharp nudge to Kon’s ribs, and Kon, feeling the desperate pull of attraction and distraction, found himself nodding automatically, like a golden retriever being offered a favorite chew toy.
Mister Wayne, however, did not look amused. He placed a large, almost possessive hand on Caroline’s shoulder, his eyes narrowing slightly into a hard glare directed squarely at Kon. The look was intense, protective, and immediately set Kon’s hero senses on edge, despite the suit and the setting.
Mister Wayne looked between the two of them, his scrutiny stopping on Caroline, who offered a small, reassuring nod. “I’m a big girl, Bruce, I can take care of myself,” she said, her voice gentle but firm.
“If you say so,” Mister Wayne replied with a heavy sigh, squeezing her shoulder protectively before letting go. “Find me if you need me.”
“I will,” Caroline promised. “Go be a businessman.” She gave him a sweet, sisterly command that earned a playful, almost fatherly eyeroll from the billionaire before he turned to leave.
“Remember your manners, Conner,” was all Lex said, his tone a quiet, insidious warning, before he fell into step beside Mister Wayne, following him off toward a more secluded corner of the ballroom. Kon didn’t bother watching them go; his focus was already elsewhere.
They stood there for a beat longer, surrounded by the swirling noise of the gala, yet feeling isolated in their own bubble of silence. Kon cleared his throat, the sound a ragged rasp in the suddenly tight air.
“You look really nice,” he managed, the words sounding too simple for the complicated rush of feelings she was conjuring.
Caroline glanced away briefly, a delicate blush blooming high on her pale cheeks, and her sleek side bangs fell into her eyes in the exact, familiar way Tim’s always did when he was focused or embarrassed.
Yeah, Kon thought, fighting the sudden, sharp pang of longing for his friend. I can work with this. If he couldn't confess his complicated, overwhelming feelings to Tim, he could at least enjoy a few minutes of distracted, innocent flirting with his unnervingly beautiful look-alike. It felt like a terrible, desperate compromise, but it was the only relief he had.
“Thank you. You look nice, too,” she responded, her blue eyes meeting his again. Kon couldn't fight the warmth that flushed his face in return, a genuine, teenage reaction that felt far more authentic than the expensive suit he was wearing.
“Would you like something non-alcoholic to drink?” Kon offered, already motioning toward the distant bar, extending his hand in a gesture he hoped was gentlemanly and smooth.
She nodded, her lips curving into a small smile as she easily slipped her hand into his. Her touch was light and warm, and the simple contact sent a distracting buzz up Kon’s arm. He led her over to the crowded, mahogany bar and deftly steered them both to an open space, seating her on a stool before taking the one next to her.
“Can we have two club sodas, please?” he asked the bartender, who nodded swiftly and professionally.
“Add it to your tab or cash?” the bartender asked.
Kon frowned, raising an eyebrow. “My tab?” he repeated, confused. He definitely hadn’t started a tab. He took his glasses off, folding them and putting them on the counter. He glanced over Caroline’s shoulder at Cassie, who was leaning against the counter a few feet away, sipping some bright, fancy colored liquid that Kon was fairly certain was not alcohol.
“Pretty girl in the suit said you gave her your credit card,” the bartender deadpanned, nodding pointedly toward Cassie.
Kon felt his jaw clench slightly, “Yeah. I did,” he muttered. He most definitely had not given her his credit card; she had simply relieved him of his wallet that morning while he was struggling to figure out which direction the tie went. “Just add it,” he sighed. It didn’t matter too much, anyway. It was Lex’s money, and Lex could afford the extravagant bill that was sure to pile up.
Caroline glanced over Kon’s shoulder, her bright eyes lingering on Cassie for a beat before smoothly moving back to him. “Is she your girlfriend?” she asked, her tone casual. As she settled back on the barstool, she gracefully crossed her long legs, causing the red dress to ride up a tantalizing few inches above her knee. Kon couldn’t help the way his gaze momentarily snagged.
Kon let out a sharp, genuine snort. “No. Not in a million years,” he replied, shaking his head with force. “Cassie and I are more like siblings who occasionally try to destroy each other.”
“Oh.” Caroline thanked the bartender as he slid their glasses across the counter, then passed one to Kon. “Do you have a girlfriend, then?” she asked, taking a careful sip of the carbonated water.
Kon felt the confidence kick back in, fueled by the rush of their playful conversation. He grinned, leaning in just a little, closing the small, comfortable distance between them. “You volunteering?”
“That doesn’t answer my question, Mister Luthor,” she countered, her voice dropping to a warm, low register. She didn't back up; if anything, she leaned in closer. The motion brought the scent of her hair soap—a clean, subtle floral—right to him. It was so similar to the mild shampoo Tim used that Kon felt a genuine, dramatic pang of internal agony. He was going to die.
“Call me Conner, please,” He said, earning a nod. “And no, I don’t have a girlfriend,” he conceded, the grin softened by the immediate attraction. “You got a boyfriend?” he countered, taking a long, cooling sip of his club soda.
She glanced off to the side again, a subtle, complicated look in her eyes. “No, but there is someone who piques my interest,” she said, her eyes returning to him, and she bit her lower lip slightly as she held his gaze.
“Got a thing for rich boys?” Kon asked, the question carrying a faint, self-deprecating edge, knowing full well he was wearing Lex Luthor’s brand.
“Not exactly,” she murmured, tilting her head. “What would I need your money for? I’m already related to Bruce Wayne,” she said, a hint of playful arrogance in her tone that was utterly charming.
Kon felt a bold impulse. He slid a casual hand onto her thigh, resting it just above the slit of her dress. He held her eyes for a deliberate moment, seeking permission. When she offered a small, affirmative nod, he allowed his fingers to subtly squeeze the expensive fabric. “So, is it just my modeling that attracts you?” he asked, his voice rougher now.
She tilted her head again, a gesture that reminded him so fiercely of Tim analyzing a data stream that he almost pulled his hand back. “Well, I’m kinda into your whole alternative outfit thing too,” she admitted, her blue eyes sparkling with appreciation. “I’ve seen your modeling for that one company—the underground stuff. You had those fishnets and spikes everywhere. You looked really good.” She emphasized the last two words and, to solidify her interest, placed her own hand directly on top of his.
Kon’s face immediately flushed. He turned slightly away, looking toward the shelves of liquor behind the bar, taking a moment to collect himself. That was his style, the one he fought Lex for, the one he rarely showed. “Yeah, they let me style myself,” he explained, his voice low with pride. “My dad doesn’t exactly let me wear it to these functions, though.”
“What a shame,” Caroline giggled, a light, silvery sound that made Kon’s chest feel breathless.
“Truly,” Kon agreed, his voice a low rumble, still locked in her gaze. His mind, however, was already racing ahead, plotting how quickly he could shed the restrictive, oppressive suit for his own beloved leather and chains—the only uniform that ever felt like him.
The sound of her giggle echoed in his ears, momentarily drowning out the din of the gala—the tinkling of glasses, the murmur of self-important conversation, the bland orchestral music. He was acutely aware of the warmth of her hand resting over his hand, a tangible, real weight that was anchoring him in this moment, pulling him away from the stifling formality of the evening. He wanted to change the subject, to pull back the polite curtain and find out more about her, about this startling connection they seemed to share.
“So, Caroline,” Kon began, lifting his chin slightly. “Aside from being into underground fashion and being related to Gotham’s most famous Playboy, what’s your deal? You at college? Or already conquering the world?”
Caroline’s smile widened, a mischievous spark in those bright blue eyes. “I’m taking classes, yeah. Online, mostly, but I live in Gotham. I actually just moved into the massive, creepy old manor with Bruce and his… very large family.” She paused, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “It’s like a five-star hotel that’s haunted by ghosts with trust funds.”
Gotham. Bruce Wayne’s manor. That’s where Tim lives. The immediate, dizzying thought sent a jolt of alarm through Kon. The physical resemblance was one thing; a geographic link was another entirely.
“Gotham,” Kon repeated, letting the word roll off his tongue casually. He took a long sip of his club soda, allowing the sharp fizz to mask the sudden nervousness. “I’ve spent some time there. Work-related, obviously. You ever get down to Metropolis?”
“A few times. Always rushed, always something dull,” she dismissed with a wave of her hand. Her fingers shifted on his hand, a light, distracting caress that made it impossible for Kon to maintain a smooth exterior.
He looked down at their joined hands. He was a creature of impulse, of touch, and she was responding to his natural intensity perfectly. This felt easy, comfortable, and yet utterly exhilarating. It was the feeling he constantly sought from Tim—that effortless synchronicity—but magnified tenfold by the undeniable heat of pure attraction.
It’s just flirting, Kon. She looks like him, and she’s nice. It’s okay to enjoy it. He tried to reason with the little voice in his head that felt like he was somehow cheating on an imaginary, future relationship with Tim.
“So, you’re stuck with Mister Wayne and all his little… wards?” Kon asked, trying to keep his tone light and innocent. He deliberately avoided saying the name Tim. “Must be tough. Do they make you follow curfews and dress codes, too?”
Caroline let out another melodic giggle. “Oh, they try. Bruce is a complete dinosaur about things like security and, well, manners,” she said, dramatically leaning closer again, sharing a secret. “But I’m pretty good at slipping out,” she whispered, winking.
Kon found himself laughing, a genuine sound this time. “You're a rebel, then? I like that in a person.” He gently ran his thumb over hr thigh. “It sounds like you need an accomplice. Someone who can appreciate good fishnets and help you defy the billionaire overlords.”
“Maybe I do,” she mused, her bright blue eyes fixed on his. The intensity of her stare felt like a physical promise.
His plotting was diverted when he heard the music shift, transitioning to that slow, intimate piano music. He immediately stood, dusting off nothing from his suit before bending over slightly, extending his arm. “Care to dance?” he asked, taking the opportunity to escalate the physical contact.
“Wouldn’t be a Luthor gala without it, now would it?” Caroline said, taking his hand once again and sliding gracefully off the stool.
Kon led her to the dance floor, not caring about the glasses left behind, their hands still intertwined when they made it. Kon quickly slid his hands onto her waist, pulling her close, and her hands settled onto his shoulders. They were pressed close, swaying to the slow rhythm.
Kon stared at her, his eyes glancing down to her lips for a fraught moment. “Mister Wayne said you’re not a fan of public appearances. What made you change your mind for this one?” he asked softly.
She moved her hand to the one on her waist and extended both their arms, still intertwined. “I just bought this dress and wanted to show it off,” She said, stepping out and letting Kon spin her carefully.
“Yeah?” Kon said, watching her as she spun, their fingers dancing above her head. “It looks perfect on you.” His hands fell back on her waist, pulling her flush against him, and her hands returned to his shoulders.
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Conner,” She said, her gloved fingers running lightly, thrillingly, against the closely shaven, detailed parts of the back of his hair.
“What will get me somewhere?” He asked, leaning in close, practically pressed against her.
“Depends on where you want to get,” She said, tilting her head, the look in her eyes daring him. Yeah, Kon was gonna die.
“How far would you let me?”
She hummed in response, smiling at him.
Kon didn’t know exactly what happened next—the transition from the public dance floor to this private, breathless confinement was a blur of electric urgency. One moment, they were swaying to the piano, the next, they were in a deserted stairwell, Kon pressing Caroline against the cool, unforgiving concrete wall.
The sudden intimacy was overwhelming. One of Kon’s hands was cupping her jaw, his thumb roughly stroking her cheek, the other tight and possessive on her waist. Caroline’s hands were holding a white-knuckle grip on the lapels of his suit jacket, using him as leverage against the wall. The kiss was hot and messy, a desperate consumption of soft lips and shared breaths. He could already taste the sickeningly sweet, cherry flavor of her lip gloss—no doubt smeared all over his own mouth now.
He didn't hesitate, pressing a knee firmly between her legs, crowding her against the wall, demanding her full attention. Her response was instant and feverish; her hands tugged viciously at his suit jacket, ripping it slightly as she threw it onto the floor, scattering their decorum.
Her cool, gloved hands then ran up his shirtfront, flat and searching over his chest. Kon groaned into her mouth, a primal sound, and grabbed her thigh, pushing the red dress up slightly as his hand went in through that slit. His fingers gripped her hip, the skin extra soft there; he could feel the texture of a few scars, but he wasn’t going to ask right now, not when his attention was drawn to the delicate edge of her panties under his fingertips. He let out a sharper sound of pure pleasure.
Every part of his brain that had learned manners from Martha screamed at him for treating such a pretty girl—such an obviously cultured, expensive girl—in such a messy, immediate way. He didn’t care because she was kissing him so hard and desperately.
“Fuck,” she whispered against his lips, the word ragged and honest.
“Yeah, exactly,” Kon managed to smirk, connecting their lips again, plunging them back into the thrilling chaos.
“Kon! Code Yellow. I see him. Target one is heading toward the North stairwell.”
The voice, Cassie’s sharp, professional whisper, sliced through the heady atmosphere via the comm in his ear.
Oh fuck. Right. The mission.
Oh fuck. He was in the North stairwell.
Before Kon could process the location, much less regret the past sixty seconds of intense, identity-forgetting kissing, Caroline did. She pulled back first, emitting a soft groan as the back of her head hit the concrete wall behind her.
“What is it?” Kon asked, his voice strained, still grappling with the sheer force of the attraction. He reluctantly began to back his body off hers, though his hands stayed glued to her. Simultaneously, his supersenses snapped to attention, listening past the pounding in his own ears for the distinctive sound of the target.
“I have to go, Bruce’ll get worried,” she said, looking up at him with narrow eyes that were now entirely focused. Her hands, surprisingly steady, slipped off his shoulders and slid behind her back.
“Oh, it’s okay,” Kon said, trying to sound calm, though his entire body was screaming in frustration. He could now clearly hear the distinct, quickened heartbeat of a third person entering the stairwell, descending the steps right toward them. “You should probably leave—now,” he urged, trying to figure out how he was going to execute a super-speed costume change, subdue the target, and hide his secret identity, all while his lips were still stinging from lipstick.
“Yeah, yeah,” she said vaguely, glancing off to the side. The moment Kon’s hands reluctantly fell off her waist, she smoothly adjusted the hiked-up red dress, straightening the hem with a practiced motion.
Suddenly, the heartbeat was right behind him, dangerously close, and Kon felt the cold, hard circle of a gun muzzle pressed against the back of his skull.
Are you fucking joking?
“Don’t move, little Luthor,” a gruff voice snarled from behind him.
Kon squeezed his eyes shut in pure exasperation. He was so distracted that he'd let the target walk right up behind him. “You don’t wanna do this, man,” he said, stalling, trying to determine the angle for a speed move.
“Who’s that pretty thing?” the voice asked, laced with leering amusement.
Oh, Kon is going to kill him.
He opened his eyes and looked at Caroline, ready to apologize for the coming violence. Instead, he saw a look of intense, cold determination settle over her face. In that moment of grim focus, she had never looked more like Tim.
He watched Caroline’s hand flicker—a movement too quick for human eyes, but slow-motion to Kon—from behind her back. There was a small ding sound, and suddenly, the guy behind Kon let out a strangled, hacking groan of pain. The gun was no longer pressed to the back of his head. Kon didn’t hesitate; he spun and delivered a clean, concussive punch to the man’s jaw, effectively knocking him out before he hit the ground. That’s when Kon noticed the small, razor-sharp batarang sticking out of the man’s side.
He whipped his head back to Caroline, who was now swiftly taking out her hairpins, letting the long black extensions fall to the floor in a dramatic cascade. Extensions. Remember what Lois said.
She looked up at Kon, and now he could clearly see the tiny, beige communications device nestled in her ear. She pressed it. “Hey, B,” the voice that came out was no longer quiet or breathy; it was solid, commanding, and instantly recognizable. “Target one has been taken down. I’ll meet you out back.” The voice echoed through the stairwell.
Oh.
Oh Rao.
Caroline was Tim. Tim was Caroline.
Kon had just been in a desperate, breathless makeout session with Tim Drake.
Tim Drake had just had a desperate, breathless makeout session with Kon-El.
“Tim?” Kon whispered, the name a sacred, disbelieving sound in the sudden silence of the stairwell, just in case he was wrong. But he knew he was right. He would know Tim’s voice, Tim’s focused intensity, and Tim’s ridiculous ability to pull off an unexpected rescue—and unexpected cross-dressing—anywhere. He’d recognize Tim anywhere.
Apparently not in drag, though, Kon's stunned mind supplied.
Tim gave Kon a fleeting, lopsided smile—the genuine, slightly exhausted one Kon knew so well—before efficiently grabbing the unconscious weapons dealer. With an almost casual strength that belied his costumed persona (or lack thereof, at the moment), Tim cuffed the man and hauled him over his shoulder like he weighed nothing more than a duffel bag stuffed with tax returns.
“Sorry,” Tim mumbled, the apology hanging ambiguously between the sudden mission interruption and the preceding stairwell activities. He didn't offer an explanation, didn't meet Kon’s wide, disbelieving eyes, and simply descended the staircase without another word, leaving Kon entirely alone.
Kon stood there dumbly, his back still pressed against the cool concrete wall. The air in the stairwell felt suddenly freezing, despite the frantic heat of just moments ago.
He kissed Tim.
He flirted with Tim.
He danced with Tim.
Oh god, he didn't just dance with him—he had felt Tim up. He had tasted his mouth, grabbed his thigh, and pressed his knee between his legs, all while Tim was working and in costume. A costume Kon hadn't recognized.
“Oh fuck,” Kon groaned, the sound raw and low. He dragged a shaky hand down his face, wiping off the lingering smear of cherry lip gloss. His jacket was still on the floor, a crumpled, damning piece of evidence.
A familiar voice crackled in his ear, sounding far too cheerful for the emotional chaos Kon was experiencing. “So, you finally confessed to Tim?” Cassie asked through the comms. “How was it?”
“Shut up, Cassie. There was no confession, I didn’t even know it was him,” Kon mumbled back, too stunned to be truly angry. He leaned his head against the cold wall right where Tim’s back had just been, inhaling faintly, wondering if he could still smell that clean shampoo.
He heard Bart chuckle, a clear, high-pitched sound, amplified through the comms.
“You knew it was Tim?” Kon asked, the disbelief evident in his tone. The realization that they had all been watching, or at least informed, was a fresh wave of humiliation.
“Dude,” Bart chirped. “You literally have supervision, and you couldn’t tell it was Tim?”
Kon rolled his eyes heavenward, a futile gesture against the ceiling. “I don’t use my supervision for that,” he defended hotly. “It’s invasive! And besides, the dress, the wig, the makeup—it was a good disguise!”
“It was a red dress, Kon. We saw the file on his ‘Caroline Hill’ persona like two weeks ago,” Cassie interjected dryly. “You’re just so lame, you poor dumb boulder of a boy.”
“I didn’t make the connection! I wasn’t paying attention!”
“Did Tim at least get the guy he was after?” Cassie asked, pivoting to business, though Kon could hear the lingering amusement in her voice.
“Yep. I think he’s working with Batman. He had a batarang, and he just… tossed the perp over his shoulder,” Kon explained, still reeling from the sheer domestic efficiency of the takedown.
Kon pushed himself off the wall, running a hand through his hair. His cheeks felt hot, and his heart was still thundering from the double shock of the kiss and the reveal. He scooped up his crumpled suit jacket, shaking his head.
Tim was here. Tim dressed up. Tim kissed him like that.
“Good. Well, Bart and I got the diplomat. He’s tied up, looking miserable, and waiting for the local cops, so our job here is done,” she said, sounding utterly relaxed. “We should ditch this place and go get some actual food. This rich people shit is crap.”
“I think Kon wants a certain rich person to eat—” Bart started, his voice already dissolving into a fit of giggles.
“Bart!” both Kon and Cassie snapped simultaneously.
—
“You really didn’t know it was him?” Bart asked again, his mouth half-full of a dripping cheeseburger, crumbs dusting the corner of his lips. The persistent question cut through the comfortable, greasy air of their usual late-night diner booth.
“Are we gonna keep talking about this?” Kon groaned, pulling his heavy body from the vinyl seat and slouching against the wall, trying to melt into the faux-wood paneling. His slightly torn suit jacket was tossed carelessly on the seat beside him, a symbol of the night's disastrous formality.
Cassie took a long, noisy sip of her thick chocolate shake. “Definitely,” she nodded, not even bothering to look up.
Kon threw his hands up in frustrated surrender. “I just thought it was his girl doppelgänger or something! I spent an hour trying to figure out how he had a cousin who looked exactly like him! And he was flirting with me! That’s evil. He’s a supervillain in another life. It’s like he knows about my feelings and was just completely messing with me!” Kon felt his cheeks burn with renewed humiliation, remembering the sheer intensity of the kiss.
“Everyone knows you like Tim, dude,” Bart stated plainly, wiping his mouth with a napkin that was already beyond salvage. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Tim knew you liked Tim,” he said before efficiently shoving the other half of the cheeseburger into his mouth, his attention already drifting to the fries.
“Well, he definitely knows after tonight,” Kon muttered darkly, letting his head fall dramatically onto the sticky, checkered tabletop. The smell of stale coffee and fryer oil was a welcome change from the cloying perfume of the gala.
Cassie let out a burst of sharp laughter. “Yeah, definitely. Also, next time you decide to make out with someone, turn your comms off. I don’t want to hear that ever again,” she said, making a vigorous gagging motion with her tongue out.
“You were literally flirting with the diplomat’s daughter,” Bart pointed out, defending his own recent mission distraction.
“It was mission-related, and she’s not the evil one. Even if she was, I might’ve made an exception. Did you see those eyes? I’d kill a man for them.” Cassie swirled the last of her shake, her gaze distant and calculating.
“You’d kill a man for fun, Cassie.” Another voice said.
All three of them—Bart's head whipping up from his fries, Cassie pausing her shake, and Kon lifting his head stiffly—snapped their attention behind them. They could all hear the distinct sound of a chair being pulled out from a neighboring table.
Tim stood there, leaning slightly against the back of the empty booth next to theirs. The illusion of 'Caroline' was entirely gone. He was no longer in the expensive red dress, but dressed down in familiar, worn-out civilian clothes: a dark, slightly stained hoodie and some loose-fitting jeans that looked a few sizes too big—definitely for comfort, not style.
However, the ghost of his undercover work lingered. A faint, tell-tale trace of cherry lip gloss still smudged the corner of his mouth, and a smudge of the black eyeliner he'd worn was visible on his cheek, serving only to emphasize the dark, sleepless circles already under his eyes. He looked simultaneously exhausted and entirely too pleased with himself.
“Jesus, dude, how do you manage to jumpscare three metas?” Bart mumbled, genuinely perplexed, instantly breaking the awkward silence. He lowered his voice, but the astonishment was still clear.
“So much training,” Tim mumbled back, his reply dry. He stepped closer to their booth, his eyes continuously glancing to Kon, whose own gaze was glued to him, cataloging the subtle differences between 'Caroline' and 'Tim'. The lingering cherry lip gloss on his cheek felt like an accusation.
“You’re right, I would kill a man for fun,” Cassie nodded, finally finishing her shake and setting the sticky glass down. “Are you gonna sit and eat, or did you just come by to gloat about your win?”
“Or are you and Kon gonna start making out again? 'Cause I don't want to be here for that,” Bart added, leaning back as a preemptive measure.
Kon scrunched his nose in fresh mortification, and Tim let out a long, suffering sigh. The exhaustion around his eyes deepened.
“Neither,” Tim said, his tone decisive. “I was hoping I could actually borrow Kon?” He now turned fully to face Kon, the playful amusement gone, replaced by a serious, focused intensity. “We need to talk.”
Kon felt a familiar dread pool in his stomach, cold and heavy. He hated those four words. They were always followed by an uncomfortable truth, an apology, or some complicated emotional dismantling. He was definitely going to die.
“Is that code for makeout?” Cassie asked, her voice deliberately loud and innocent.
“Stop talking,” Kon mumbled, his voice strained as he began the painful process of sliding out of the booth, his legs already shaky.
“That’s misogynistic,” Cassie murmured, though her lips twitched with suppressed laughter.
“You should never tell a woman to shut up! You let women tell you to shut up,” Bart exclaimed, nodding proudly to himself, pleased with his progressive stance. Cassie patted his head approvingly.
Kon said nothing more. His embarrassment had reached a critical mass, and his anxiety about the impending conversation eclipsed everything else. He followed Tim out of the brightly lit, warm restaurant. The cold, sharp air of the night flowed over them instantly as they walked to the side of the building, moving to a secluded space, ensuring there was no one and no cameras to witness the conversation. The transition felt like walking from a comedy show into a dark, tense drama.
For a heavy, stretched minute, neither of them talked. They simply stared at each other, the cold air biting at their cheeks, taking in the full, unadulterated appearance of the other. Tim, without the heels, was significantly shorter than Kon remembered, his hoodie pulled over his head, shoulders hunched against the chill. Kon, still in his dress shirt and slacks, looked large and disheveled.
Kon was the first to break the silence, his eyes darting to the side, unable to hold Tim’s gaze. “I didn’t know it was you,” he admitted simply, his voice low. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
“What?” Tim asked, raising a finely sculpted eyebrow, a gesture that was pure, analytical Tim. “I lied to you. I should be apologizing. I am sorry for pretending to be someone else, Kon.” He shifted his weight, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Why’d you do it?” Kon finally asked, shrugging off his own embarrassment for a moment, genuinely curious.
Tim sighed, looking up at the gray cement wall of the building. “Batman said he needed an inside man, someone who could effectively distract the diplomat without being noticed. I’d already done undercover work as Caroline Hill before, so I just switched up the appearance a little. I ended up getting distracted with you, but Bruce told me through the comms that I could just use it as a way to get the target without drawing attention. He figured it would be front-page news if a diplomat got caught flirting with a pretty girl at a high-profile gala.” Tim hesitated, then added, “And Bruce saw you three and knew we had the full Superboy, Wonder Girl, and Impulse backup, which is why he didn’t get on my ass the moment I went off with you.”
“Wait,” Kon interjected, his face scrunching up in genuine confusion. “Why is Bruce Wayne in on this? He’s just a rich guy, right?”
Tim stared at Kon, utterly deadpan. “Kon, are you being serious right now?”
“What?” Kon asked, shrugging again, genuinely clueless.
“Kon,” Tim repeated, leaning in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “Bruce is Batman.”
“What?!” Kon’s eyes went wide, and his jaw dropped for the second time that night. “Is he gonna kill me for knowing that? Clark has told me how much kryptonite he has!”
Tim rubbed his temples, a flicker of genuine annoyance mixed with deep fatigue. “He thought you knew! During the debrief, he actually asked me what issues you had with him personally! And then he wouldn't let up on why you were flirting with 'Caroline' so intensely!”
“Oh my god,” Kon said, feeling the blood drain from his face, remembering the judgmental stare from Mr. Wayne. “Batman saw me flirting with you.” He dragged both hands over his face, scrubbing away the lingering cherry flavor. “I’m a dead man. I am so dead.”
He looked back at Tim, who was now shorter than him, tucked into a cozy, too-large sweater. “So,” Tim asked, his voice softening, a cautious curiosity in his blue eyes. “It was flirting?”
Kon deadpanned him, unable to believe the question. “I made out with you in a stairwell, what do you think, Greatest Detective in the World?”
Tim smacked his arm, a gentle, familiar tap. “Hey! I thought you were just… being friendly! Or testing my commitment to the role! I don’t know what you do with girls!”
“In all honesty, I only made out with ‘Caroline’ and was doing all that because I thought she looked exactly like you,” Kon confessed, stepping the final distance, closing the gap between them.
Tim’s back hit the cold brick wall behind him with a soft thump. “Well, she is me,” he said, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips.
Kon’s heart pounded, a heavy, hopeful rhythm. His hand slid up Tim’s hip until it settled on his waist. “So, you know how much I like you, right?” Kon asked, the question hanging heavy in the cold air.
Tim nodded, his gaze meeting Kon’s squarely. “Yeah. And you know I like you too, right?” Tim countered, his own voice steady.
“I would hope you don’t just make out with people you are merely acquainted with in a stairwell,” Kon teased, his other hand coming up to gently cup Tim’s face, trying to carefully rub the lip gloss smudge off his cheek.
“Seems like you do,” Tim smirked, putting his arms around Kon’s shoulders again, running his fingers lightly over the short, shaven parts of Kon’s hair, replicating the same intimate touch from the dance floor.
“Only when they’re Tim Drake,” Kon corrected, his voice dropping low.
“Tim Drake in drag? Or, Tim Drake in general?” Tim asked, his eyes gleaming with mischief.
“Can’t it be both?” Kon asked, his hand teasingly slipping under the hem of Tim’s thick, soft sweater. He slid his hand up Tim’s side, enjoying the feel of the soft skin. His hand trailed a little further, then froze when he felt that same smooth, soft, silky fabric from earlier. He let out a sharp, surprised groan, letting his head fall dramatically onto Tim’s shoulder.
“What?” Tim asked, but Kon could feel the wide, silent grin pressing into his hair.
“Why the hell are you still wearing women’s underwear?” Kon asked, the question less a complaint and more an utterly baffled expression of desire and confusion.
“Well, the slit in the dress was too high for boxers,” Tim reasoned, his voice muffled against Kon’s shoulder.
“Oh, I noticed the slit,” Kon murmured back, the memory of that provocative line of red fabric cutting up Tim's thigh still vivid in his mind.
“—and they’re comfortable,” Tim finished, pulling back slightly and offering a quick, utterly unapologetic shrug. He leaned in again, threading the small, soft hairs at the back of Kon’s head through his fingers. “I just changed quickly after the debrief. I needed to come see you.”
Kon backed up just a little, the wide, unrestrained grin that had been lurking beneath the surface finally bursting out. “'Cause you like me?” he asked, confirming the beautiful, impossible truth.
“Yeah,” Tim nodded, the word simple and solid. “I like you, Kon-El.”
“As in, we can be boyfriends and go on dates and kiss more?” Kon pressed, needing the clear, concise definition of their new reality.
“Let’s be boyfriends and kiss right now,” Tim countered, already leaning toward Kon, his eyes focused entirely on his lips.
“You’re such a genius,” Kon breathed, not wasting another second, connecting their lips.
This kiss wasn't the frantic, messy chaos of the stairwell. This was a deliberate act of relief and long-anticipated desire. Kon’s hands came up instantly, one settling heavily on the small of Tim’s back, the other tangling gently in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him in with a possessive tenderness. Tim melted into the embrace, his hands instinctively wrapping around Kon’s neck, his fingers trailing over the smooth skin of his jaw. The kiss was deep, slow, and consuming, a silent conversation confirming everything they hadn't been able to say for months.
Kon tilted his head, deepening the pressure, and Tim responded with a soft, needy sound. Kon nudged his knee between Tim’s legs, not with the aggressive heat of the previous encounter, but simply to pull their bodies flush together, anchoring them against the cold wall. Tim shifted, his hip settling perfectly against Kon's, letting out a satisfied sigh against his mouth. This kiss held the same passion as the first, but tempered with the safety of true acknowledgment. Kon finally, undeniably, had Tim right where he wanted him.
A loud, exaggerated cough broke the moment.
“I knew it was code for makeout,” Cassie mumbled from the sidewalk, her voice loud and carrying in the quiet night. She and Bart were standing barely ten feet away, watching the whole thing with varying degrees of amusement and revulsion.
“Eugh,” Bart said, making another dramatic gagging sound while covering his eyes with one hand, peeking through his fingers with the other.
But Tim and Kon were too enraptured by each other to even notice them standing there, pulling away only long enough to rest their foreheads together, catching their breath.
“Wanna go use Luthor’s card to get more food?” Cassie asked Bart, her voice shifting back to her professional, predatory tone as she flashed the expensive platinum card that Kon had "given" her.
“Heck yeah!” Bart cheered, instantly forgetting the makeout session in favor of deep-fried, corporate-funded treats. He zoomed toward the diner entrance, Cassie trailing behind him with a smug look on her face.
Kon pulled back and looked at Tim, a silly, dopey grin fixed on his face. “So, dinner tomorrow night?”
“Only if I get to wear that dress again,” Tim replied, bumping his nose playfully against Kon’s, earning a low groan.
“You’re gonna kill me.”
The cold air suddenly didn't feel cold at all.