Work Text
Tim
“How are you feeling today, Timothy?”
Tim relaxes his shoulders. He will
not
tap his foot. His legs will
not
shake. Tim can keep his composure for a 53-minute session. And the next one.
And the next one.
He breathes in. Softens his brow. Smiles bashfully.
“I'm okay, Dr. Meridian. I've been eating three square meals a day and limiting my caffeine intake. I’ve attended my restorative yoga classes consistently, twice a week. I’m setting time aside specifically to spend with Conner, and I believe it’s strengthening our relationship.” There. Perfect.
Dr. Meridian hasn’t written anything down. She spies Tim steadily, her eyes tracking him over her glasses.
“It seems you’re doing everything right,” she says. It doesn’t sound like a compliment.
“I would hope so,” Tim laughs nervously. He can hear the clock ticking, knows she can see it on the wall behind him hanging above his head. He wishes
he
could see a clock. “I’ve been doing so much better thanks to your help, Dr. Meridian.”
She lets out a tired sigh. “Oh, I’m sure you’ve gotten something out of our time together, but I’m not sure it’s ‘better.’ Better at hiding, masking for sure, but ‘
better’
? No, Tim, not better. Can I be honest with you?”
Fuck.
“That wasn’t you being honest?”
She chuckles. “It was, in a sense. But raw honesty serves you, I think. So does directness, so I’ll be direct: this isn’t working. We’ve been together for eight sessions, and you haven’t moved an inch—”
“I’ve done everything you suggested!” Tim cuts in. He can’t screw this up. He can’t!
Dr. Meridian just nods. “I’m sure you have. You’re a very good do-er, Tim. And that served you well until it didn’t. You’ll do anything I ask you, but you won’t
feel
it. Maybe you don’t want to. Maybe you don’t know how. Either way, I don’t think I’m the right person to help you.”
No.
No.
No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no—
Bruce is going to be so disappointed. Kon, too—
“I can do better. I
want
to do better. Maybe we can do something more personal—”
“You’re not stable enough for that, Tim,” she cuts across him. “Believe me, I’ve thought about it and if I thought it would help, we’d be doing it. But for now, I think you need something different. I’ve written you a referral.” She plucks a piece of paper from her notepad. “Shelly Samson is a friend of mine. She’s in the know, so she’s a viable alternative. Her modality may be more accessible for you than mine. She’s an art therapist.”
“So, you want me to fingerpaint?!” Tim explodes before he can stop himself. He’s shaking. He can feel it, his body out of his control. The rage is right under the surface, churning out into the air. It’s choking him. “You think
basket weaving
will fix me?!”
Dr. Meridian arches a perfectly manicured brow.
“Well, I must admit, it’s very nice to meet
you
finally, Tim. The
real
you.”
Tim slumps back into his chair. When did he get to his feet?
“I’ll call Bruce for you, okay? And I have access to Samson’s schedule. We’ll get you on there. Keep your chin up, kid.”
For what?
It’s all already lost anyway.
Bruce
Dr. Meridian doesn’t look impressed. Or maybe she never does. She takes off her glasses and uses the bottom of her shirt to wipe them. “He's a brick wall, Bruce. Titanium. But you knew that before you sent him my way.”
“And you're a therapist,” Bruce scoffs. “Get through to him.” That’s the point of all this isn’t it?
“Even I have limitations. Did I ever get through to you?” He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t meet her knowing gaze. “I'm giving him a referral for a therapist with a more non-traditional modality. In my experience, she’s good at scaling walls.”
“We need to keep things–”
“Covert. I'm not an intern. I know what I'm doing. She’s your best bet, Bruce.” She hands him a business card. The office is clear across town.
Bruce sighs. “Okay. And his records?”
“Already destroyed. Nothing to trace besides a nice new pair of earrings, and I make a decent living on the up and up. I’ll read her in verbally.”
Bruce nods. “Thank you. For trying, I mean.”
“Sure. You know the account number.”
--
Tim doesn’t say anything until they’re already in the car and halfway home.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work. I was trying. I was doing everything she said,” he says. He’s looking out the window, watching the Gotham skyline as they cross the bridge.
“Maybe it just wasn’t a good fit. I hear that happens sometimes. Maybe you and the new one will gel better,” Bruce offers. He’s driving for once. It had been a trial to get Alfred to relinquish the reigns.
“Sure, I’m sure I’ll gel with an art therapist.”
Bruce is scoffing before he knows it. “Art therapist? She wants you to fingerpaint?”
Tim snorts a laugh. “I guess. Maybe she’ll see something in the doodles.”
“Maybe.”
The car falls quiet.
Tim is frowning again.
Bruce never knows what to do in times like this. It’s easier to stay quiet, but maybe that’s not what Tim needs. Maybe he needs more than quiet.
“Other than therapy, how else have you been?”
Tim’s face remains impassive even though Bruce knows he’s surprised. “Uh…fine? Thanks for…asking?”
It’s already not going well.
Damn.
“And Kon?”
Tim’s frown deepens.
Shit.
“He’s..fine too. He’s fine. We’re fine, Bruce. I told you, I overreacted,” Tim says slowly.
“Okay. I’m glad things are…
fine
.” Bruce squeezes the steering wheel. “That’s good. Yeah, that's…that’s good. And you’ve been resting?”
“Averaging eight hours every night. Practicing meditation in the mornings.”
“Good. That’s good, too. Sleep is important.”
Tim laughs again and mutters something under his breath. Bruce resists the urge to pounce. Now isn’t the time.
“I’m just glad it sounds like things are improving,” he tries. Tim shrugs, eyes still on the window. “Yeah…uh, good talk.”
They make it back to the manor in record time. Tim is out of the car and opening up his own car’s door.
“You’re not going to come inside? I’m sure Alfred would love to see you.”
Tim grants him an obviously forced smile. “It’s date night, sorry. I want to be on time.”
“Oh, sure. Yeah, that makes sense.”
“Mhm. Well…”
“Yep. See you next week, kid–Tim. See you next week, Tim.”
“See you next week, Bruce.”
And Tim’s gone again.
Fuck.
Tim
Shelly Samson’s office is obviously more suited for children. There are stuffed animals everywhere. There are drawings all over the walls, bright and vibrant. On one of the walls, there’s a strip of fabric hanging from two pins. It’s dyed delicate blues and pinks and embroidered, likely by hand, with pastel green leaves.
“I made it in grad school,” she says. She looks at him over her glasses, a small smile on her face. She’s not as old as he thought she’d be. Certainly not as old as Dr. Meridian. She’s darker skinned with a heart-shaped face and long dark hair streaked with the tiniest bit of grey. She’s wearing a lavender apron with white polka dots. “The scarf,” she continues, “
it was part of our graduation ritual. We stood in a circle and connected them as way to end the school year. Felt like I was joining a cult, to be honest.”
“Sounds like it,” Tim says. “Do you see many children?”
“Oh no, I don’t do the littles at all. 15 and up for me, and even that's pushing it,” she laughs to herself and sets her yellow notepad to the side. “You don’t strike me as a therapy guy, Tim. What brought you here?”
“I was referred by my last therapist. She felt that I could be more ‘productive’ here.” Tim squeezes his hands together in his lap. He can do this. He can
do
this.
The therapist arches an eyebrow. “Productive? That’s an interesting word choice. What does productivity mean to you in this context?”
Oh no.
It’s a trap.
“I know I need to get better. I want to see progress?”
“Define
progress
.”
Geez. “Like change. A change in myself.”
“Define change. Tangible. Measurable. How will you know when change has occurred?” She fires off.
“Well, I won’t have to see you anymore, probably.” He knows he’s being a brat, but he’s so
tired
.
“Sure,” Shelly shrugs. “Needing to see me less will probably be an indicator. What else. What’s going on in your life
right now
that you want to change? What brought you here?”
Tim resists the urge to pick at his nails.
“My, um, my boyfriend,” he says. “He’s been upset with me. I want to make him happy.”
“Well, we can’t change how other people feel, but maybe we can focus on bettering your skills in your interpersonal relationships. Do you know why he’s upset?” She offers.
“Do you know what you did wrong?”
Kon had asked, and he’d been so
angry
.
“No. I don’t know.”
She taps her pen against her notepad. “Okay. What else do you want to work on? What else has you in my chair today?”
“I—I don’t know. I don’t know why. Bruce–my father wanted me to come. So, I’m here.”
“And why did your father want you to come?”
“He thinks I’m unstable.”
“He said that?”
“Basically.”
“Well, that’s a hefty statement. Did he say that, or did you think that?”
“Does it matter?”
“Sure it does. You have almost 10,000 thoughts a day. They’re not all useful or accurate. Statistically, they can’t be. Your father wanted you to come to therapy. What did he
say
?” She presses.
“I–” and Tim can’t think. He thought the memory of Bruce reaming him out would be seared into his memory, but it's all gone hazy, like he’s looking through frosted glass. “I don’t know what he said.”
“But you assume it was bad,” Shelly presses. She’s leaning forward now, elbows on her knees.
“I’m not assuming. It’s usually bad with Bruce. That’s an inference.”
“A guess,” she smiles. “An educated one, but a guess all the same. That’s enough of that. You’ve given me enough for a treatment plan.”
“I have?”
“Sure.” She waves her hand. “Now, let’s get to the fun part. Do you like art, Tim?”
Does he? “Sure. My parents used to collect art and artifacts. I have some pieces in my home.”
“Do you like making art?”
“I used to do photography. I liked it. I’ve drawn before. Mostly in a technical sense.”
She claps her hands. “Wonderful. I love that. Gimmie just a minute.” She gets up to move around the office, opening drawers and pulling things off shelves. In front of him, she lowers a table connected by a hinge to the wall next to his seat. She gives him an 11”x14’’ sheet of paper, a single drawing pencil, and an eraser.
“If you need a sharpener, just ask. I don’t just hand them out anymore since some kids
really
shouldn’t have sharps.” She settles back into her seat, ignoring her notepad in favor of a skein of yarn and a crochet hook. “Tim, I want you to draw me a house.”
Tim can’t stop his brow from furrowing. What does a house have to do with anything?
“Okay….How long should I take?”
“As long as you need.”
Of course. “Sure. And you want me to use the whole sheet of paper?”
“As much as you need.”
What the fuck does that even
mean
?
It’s stupid, but Tim does it anyway. He sets about completing the task in front of him and begins sketching out an outline. It’s more of a struggle than he thought it would be, drawing alone in a room except for someone meant to shrink him. He picks up the eraser more than he thought he would. Perspective is
hard.
He’s not sure how long he’s worked when he leans back in his chair. He studies his drawing. It takes him a moment to realize he hasn’t drawn the Manor. He’s drawn the Drake estate. The pencil shakes in his hand.
“Um. I think I’m done,” he says.
“Thank you,” Shelly says, looking up from her crochet project. “Put a title on the back and set it to the side. On the next sheet, I want you to draw a tree.”
“Just a tree?”
“A tree, yes.”
“Sure, why not?” What does a tree look like when you’re drawing it? He tries to think of the last tree he saw. Probably the trees outside the manor. He saw them on his way to the office. They’re big hulking things that sometimes hide the manor from view. He struggles to depict the scale with nothing else in the picture, so he adds a figure next to the tree for comparison.
“Done.”
“Great. Last one,” she waves the square she’s made around, “maybe. Who knows? Anyway, I would like you to draw a person.”
“Naturally.” Tim draws. He has no idea what he’s doing. He draws a person. It kind of looks like Kon if he tilts it. He adds curls to his hair. Dimples to his cheeks. A smile.
He’s starting to feel sick. He lays the pencil down.
“All done?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Thank you, Tim. You did excellent today. And right on time, too.”
He did?
“What did I do exactly?”
She smiles. “You gave me information. I'm told you can respect research.”
“Me drawing a random house gives you information?”
“Is it a random house?”
Everything in him is screaming it's a trap.
“It’s my parents’ house," he admits.
“Mr. Wayne’s house?”
“No, um, my parents’. The Drakes.”
“I see.”
“Does that matter?”
“Does it?” She's smiling again like she knows something he doesn't.
Oh, Tim
hates
that.
"You're free to go, my friend. Great first session. See you in a week."
"O...kay?" Tim gets to his feet like he's waiting for a saw trap to activate.
Bruce is waiting for him in the waiting room.
They're in the car again.
What the fuck just happened?
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Kon
“Do you like it?”“Sure, I can eat pizza any day,” Kon says. They’ve visited almost every pizza place in the city in the last few months. It’s always Tim’s suggestion. Kon would call him on it but it doesn’t feel like the right thing to do. Not anymore.Besides, this is Kon’s fault.“Good. I’m glad.” Tim has already boxed up his own leftovers before he slides his wallet onto the tabletop. He barely touched his food.“Did you not like your pizza?” Kon asks, even though he kicks himself.“No, I’m just not all that hungry. I’m really okay, Kon,” Tim says with a bright smile. He’s doing that a lot more. Smiling. Reassuring.
Kon doesn’t feel reassured.It’s been like this ever since their last fight. Tim bought him a subscription to Crunchyroll without Kon even asking and Kon knows Tim doesn’t care for anime. He hasn’t complained about anything Kon has wanted to do for months. He does whatever Kon wants. He eats whatever Kon eats.
Tim won’t touch him. Not first, anyway. Kon has to be the one to reach out, to squeeze Tim’s hand. They haven’t had sex since before that night. Sometimes, Kon wakes up to Tim’s heartbeat thumping out on the couch, slowed with sleep.In the mornings, Kon pretends Tim has been beside him the whole night.“How was therapy? This was the new person, right?” He asks, ignoring his swirling thoughts.Tim’s smile freezes, and for a moment, Kon can see the cogs turning.“It was interesting,” Tim says, looking down. He uses his fingers to press the corners of the paper napkin he spread over his lap when they first arrived. “She was different than Dr. Meridian.”“Different good?”“I hope so. It was just weird.”“Weird, how? Was everything okay?”Tim’s mouth opens, and Kon holds his breath. A beat passes, the silence heavy. Tim blinks, his gaze clearing.“Just weird. It’s probably me.” Tim shakes his head.Kon tries not to let his disappointment show. He did this. He has to sit with it.“Okay, well, I hope you start to feel more comfortable. And if it doesn’t work, we can always find someone else.” It’s meant to be a comfort; however, the look on Tim’s face says it’s anything but.
“I’m sure I’ll make it work, Kon. You don’t have to worry,” he says blandly.“I’m not–I’m not worried , Tim. I mean, I am, but not about this. I’m worried about you. I’m always worried about you,” Kon says quietly.The moment has passed. Tim is smiling that bland smile. “I know I’ve done a lot to make you worry. I’m working on it. I promise.”
Kon honestly just wants to scream.
Tim
“It’s good to see you again, Tim. How have things been since I saw you last?” Shelly has a different apron this time. It's navy blue with little orange suns all over it. The dollhouse has been moved. He thought she said she only saw teenagers. Who’s playing with the dollhouse if she doesn’t see kids?“Good. I’ve been feeling energized since our last session. I’ve had time to reflect, and I’m excited to continue,” he says like he rehearsed.
“I like that word. Energized . Makes me picture that old commercial with the bunny or a wind-up toy. What else makes you feel energized , Tim?”“A lot of things. Work. My family. My life.”“Sure, sure. All things that energize a lot of people. This actually takes me to where I wanted to start this week. I want to get to know you a little bit better.” She stands and rummages around the room again. She pulls another piece of paper and places it on the art table before pulling a series of tabletop bins from the corner of the room. She places them at Tim’s feet. When he looks down, he can see each bin is labeled. ‘People.’ ‘Objects.’ ‘Animals.’ ‘Words.’“This,” she gestures to the collection of bins, “is the collage pile. It’s time-consuming to flip through magazines, so I pre-cut all of my collage materials. You’ll find a selection of images, textures, and words all throughout my collection. Feel free to take whatever you need; I have too much. What I would like you to do is build an ‘about me’ collage. Some notes because I just get the feeling you’d like specifics, Tim.” She chuckles.
“You can overlap. You can go off the page. You actually don’t even have to use that blank piece of paper if you don’t want to. You can collage straight onto another magazine or book piece. There is no wrong answer. Also, you’re in art therapy , not art class . I’m not grading you. You’re not being evaluated on composition or craftsmanship. That’s harder for my artist clients to grasp, which, spoiler, is why artists aren't often referred to art therapy. I typically refer them out to music or dance therapy instead but you're a bit rusty in your craft, right?”*“My what?”“Your photography. You haven't engaged with it in a while.” Shelly says like it’s obvious.**How the—“I didn’t tell you that,” Tim says.“Call it a guess.”“You do a lot of guessing as a therapist?” Tim says. He feels unnerved again. It’s like there’s nowhere to hide in this place.“A lot more than clients would probably be comfortable with me admitting,” she laughs. She gestures back to the collage pile. “You have your remaining session time to work.”“The entire time? Aren’t we going to talk?”“Do you want to talk to me?”No. “Of course. That’s why I’m here.”Shelly quirks a brow. “Okay. I’ll stop you ten minutes before we break, and we can discuss your progress. You really don’t have to finish today, Tim.”He can finish. Her other clients probably finish all their art in one session. He can do that, too. He nods and opens the first bin. Faces stare back at him.
Tim closes the box.He opens the second. It’s filled with words clearly cut from magazines and newspapers. The words ‘ would you know how to protect yourself? ’ sit right on top. Tim closes that box, too.He reads the label on the following box:
‘Gradient Sheets’. He opens that one. It’s exactly what it says on the tin, various sheets of different sizes with different color gradients. Some of the pages are actually pretty big, folded over in the bin. He finds one that reminds him of the Rothko in his home, yellow and orange melting into a deep blue. He rubs the corner of the page. The paper is heavier than he expected. Nicer. He hates to waste it.
But she did say he could use this stuff.
He sets it down on the tabletop. What was the prompt? He’s supposed to make a collage about himself? He glances back at the gradient sheet. Is this ‘about him’? Does it matter? Nothing in here makes sense.He closes the gradient bin and moves to the next. ‘Animals.’ Tim opens the box to see all kinds of images. Photographs, textbook illustrations, and pictures that look to be from children’s books. He flips through the image until his fingers find a photo of a bird. It looks like a–Tim closes the box.He moves to the next. ‘Objects.’ He finds a camera. A briefcase. A computer. Sets them with the gradient sheet. The next box has maps. He finds one of Gotham’s train lines and adds it to his pile. The next box is labeled ‘weather.’ His fingers graze over storm clouds but he leaves them put. He picks an image of a rainy lake instead.By the end he’s added a picture of a butterfly, a textured piece of paper he just likes the feel of, a train, and a moon to his image. He takes his time arranging them. What is this supposed to look like? What is she expecting?
He doesn’t layer the images. Glues them on top of the gradient background before braving the ‘words’ box again. He gives it a shake before he opens it. This time, the word ‘intuition’ is on top. Tim grabs it. Underneath it is the word ‘shame’. Tim closes the box again. He adds the word intuition under the camera in the top left corner of his collage before capping his glue stick. He places his palms on the table and looks up.
Shelly’s writing on a legal pad in her lap.
Good god. She’s scribbling near the end of the page. How long has she been writing?
“All done?” She asks, looking up from her notes.“Yes, I think so.” Tim gestures to the collage in front of him.“Well, you finished with 15 minutes to spare. Plenty of time to talk .” Shelly gets up. She doesn’t get much closer; she just stands to get a better look at Tim’s collage. He watches her eyes as they flicker along the page. What is she thinking?“Tell me about it? Your piece.” She says.“Tell you what?”“Anything. The images you chose. The order you put them in. Anything.”“Oh. I-uh-I picked things I like. Things that are about me.”“I see. Tell me how the images you chose represent you.”
“Sure. Well.” Tim licks his lips. He doesn’t know where to start. He should’ve thought this far ahead, but he didn't. “I chose the computer because I work with them a lot. And the camera because I, you know, take pictures.”“And you’ve got a word there.”“Yeah. I, um, chose it because I feel like I use my intuition when I set up a shot.”
Shelly nods. “That makes sense. And this part?” She gestures to the lake.“It’s a lake.”“Interesting.”Fuck.“Is it?”“Why’d you choose it?” She asks. That is not a fucking answer.“I like water. Sometimes. When it’s peaceful.”“Lakes can be peaceful. But that peace can be deceptive.”
What does that even mean? “Well, I meant it to be peaceful.”“Sure, sure. And the next part?”“It’s a briefcase. I used to work a lot.”“So I’ve heard. Interesting that it’s next to the lake.” Shelly taps her pen against her hip.“Everything is next to the lake,” Tim protests. It’s not a thing . “It’s not that big a piece of paper.”“Not as close as the briefcase.”“It doesn’t mean anything.”“Of course.”He can’t stop himself from glaring.“And this?” She’s gesturing to the moon.“It’s the moon,” he says frustratedly, “obviously.”“Hey, I never assume I’m reading anything the same way you are. Always best to ask. Why’d you place it there.”“The moon’s in the sky. So I placed it at the top of the page.” But maybe he understands her confusion. If he’s comparing his collage to the sky, why is all the blue at the bottom? He’s placed the gradient with the yellow side up, moon in the top center like it’s floating in the night sky, but it’s yellow—***Wait.
Tim feels his eyes widen.“Tim. Hey. Tim. What just happened? I see you having a reaction.” Shelly is saying, but Tim can barely hear her. There’s a roaring in his ears like water rushing—And then an awful smell. Tim gags, as something is waved under his nose. It smells like Vick’s vapor rub but worse .
“Tiger balm. It lights up a room,” Shelly is saying. She caps the tiny red jar and places it back on her desk before reaching into her pocket. “Here. Eat this.”There’s a tiny wrapped candy on the table. Tim rips it open and sticks it in his mouth.
And then immediately spits it out.“Oh my god, what is that?!”“Warhead. Sour candy. Really good for when you’re disassociating. Guess we’re doing a crash course on grounding. I usually do it after this first activity, but you know, first time for everything. You know what dissociation is?”Tim nods, swishing his tongue around in his mouth to get the sour taste out.“You like computers? Think of it as blue screening. Your brain gets triggered, nervous system goes haywire, and your brain shuts off all the non-essential functions, even perception. Sometimes, you may notice. Sometime,s you may not. It can look like zoning out. Losing time. We all do it to varying degrees. Some’s normal. Some’s…not. Anyway, sensation is the enemy of dissociation. Dissociation takes you out of your body. Sensation puts you back in it. Engaging with a sense—or more than one—can be helpful when you’re starting to notice yourself feeling separate from your body.” Shelly says. She’s flipping her way through her file cabinet, pulling out pieces of paper from each drawer. “Do you notice when you’re dissociating, or is this the first time it’s been brought to your attention?”Has he noticed?“I think so. I don’t think I thought it was a problem.”“Sure. If you’ve lived with it for a long time, it probably feels normal enough not to feel like a problem.” She staples the sheets she pulled together and hands them to Tim. “Information sheets on disassociation, grounding, and practice exercises. There’s also a tracking log. I want to know how often this happens and how severely. If you can track a trigger, too, that’d be helpful, but that’s hard when you’re starting out. Do you know what triggered you today?”What? What did trigger him? He’d been thinking about his collage. He glances at it again. What was so upsetting? He can’t remember.
“I…I don’t know. I don’t know why I was upset,” he says softly.
“That’s okay. We’ll figure it out, Tim. Why don’t I keep this.” She gestures to his collage. “It can stay here, and I’ll trade you these.” She sets a handful of warheads on the table. “For if you disassociate again. You have your homework.”“Okay.” He pushes the collage away and grabs the candies, shoving them in his pocket. He grabs the worksheets she gave him and tries not to bolt.
He’s not sure if he’s successful.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Tim
“I know we literally run around at night for a living, but what is it about walking around with a toddler for a few hours that’s even more exhausting?” Jason says. He’d just put Lian down for a much-needed nap in Tim’s guest room.
Roy's rattling around in the kitchen, looking for something to drink, while Tim fiddles with the thermostat. They’d gone to a winter fair in town, looking around at local art and handmade decorations, and he’s having trouble shaking the chill. Against his better judgment, Roy let Lian’s “favorite uncle” buy her a small cup of
artisanal
hot chocolate from one of the stands. The crash after the sugar high resulted in Jason carrying her the rest of the way.
It’s what he deserves,
Roy had said. Tim can see the pap photos now.
“Where's the SuperDork?” Jason asks, before falling back and slumping onto the couch. At least his shoes are off this time when he puts his feet on Tim’s coffee table.
“Titans needed backup, so he’s staying at the tower for a bit,” Tim says
casually.
He ignores Jason’s knowing stare.
“Sure,” Jason says, just as
casually
, “that’s why you look like that.”
“Like what?!” Tim squawks indignantly. He looks
fine
!
“Like a dog without a home. Your ears are all flopped over and pathetic,” Jason folds his hands next to his ears, mimicking a dog's ears. “God, I love being in a healthy and sustainable intimate relationship. I love that he and I don’t fight ever.”
“Who said that?” Roy says, returning from the kitchen. He’s got three cups of apple cider, two of which he hands off. “We literally fought last night.”
“No,
you
were fighting the air. I was just there,” Jason sniffs haughtily.
“You literally started it!”
“That could be debated.” Jason looks like he’s trying not to laugh, and Tim…
Tim suddenly realizes he’s jealous. Envious really. Do he and Kon joke this easily? Are they this relaxed around one another? Are they this happy? Have they ever been?*
“Tim?”
Jason’s hands are on his own, fingers gripping Tim’s slim wrists. “Chill, babybird. Take a breath.” Jason is saying. He sounds far away, like Tim’s hearing his voice through cotton. Through still water. He’s masking his concern well, but Tim can still see it in the furrow in his brow, the downturned corners of his mouth.
He hasn’t let go of Tim’s wrists.
“You were picking your fingers,” Roy is saying. He’s standing, a damp washcloth in his hand. When did he get up? When did he leave?
“I’m supposed to write this down. It’s my homework,” Tim hears himself saying.
“Good god, Tim. You can be bad at something for once, I promise. No one will die,” Jason says. Jason wraps the wet washcloth around one of Tim’s hands, squeezing the fabric into his torn nailbeds. “Good to see the therapy’s working,” he snorts tightly.
“I’ve only seen her twice,” Tim chuckles wetly. “And it’s weird. Really weird. Can I write this down? I really don’t want to forget. I’ve been…forgetting things.” Jason nods slowly, a look of understanding on his face.
“Need a pen?” Roy is calling from the kitchen.
“No!” Tim calls. “I’ll put it in my phone.” He uses his hand, not covered in a washcloth, to type what he remembers about the episode. It takes him longer than if he had two hands, but he’s able to jot down enough details. The details he can remember, anyway.
“You feeling better? Or are you going to start picking at something else next?” Jason asks playfully. As playfully as he can.
“Thank you, Jason. I’m really feeling supported right now. You know, with everything going on in my life, I’m so happy that you’re here–”
“Oh yeah, the therapy’s definitely working,” Jason laughs. “You’re so much more pleasant.”
“Fuck
you
. Maybe you should be the one in therapy. My therapist can bully you like she bullies me.”
“Been there. Done that,
dingbat.
Premarital. Then individual. Very quietly in the Narrows with a nice woman who didn't ask questions about who I was even though I’m
sure
she knew. Don’t worry, they don’t talk to the cops
or
the press down there.”
Now,
that
catches Tim completely off guard. Jason says it so casually, like Tim should’ve already known. Like he didn’t just say something absolutely
insane
.
“
You’ve
been in therapy? You? Like on purpose?” Tim says, unable to hide his shock. He can’t picture it, Jason sitting on someone’s couch talking about his problems.
“Yeah. So's Dick. You’re not the only one trying to get their shit together. I’m just faster than you both, you know, like usual.” Jason stretches his arms before reaching his hand in one of his pockets and producing a small yellow tube.
Is that—
“Do you have a
vape?
” What the hell is going
on?
Jason just rolls his eyes. “It's smokeless. Don't want second-hand around the kid and this way you can’t complain if I smoke inside.”
“You’re not smoking, you’re vaping.”
“And you’re having a nervous breakdown. We’re all learning things about each other tonight. Congrats,” Jason shrugs and brings the tube to his lips.
“Jason Todd hitting a vape. I've seen it all.” Tim can’t help but shake his head in disbelief. It should be so simple, but it’s not. They’re changing. They’re
all
changing.
“Now is
not
the time for me to drop nicotine. Gotta do what works. So, what happened between you and Kon to make you like Eeyore?” Jason’s on the hunt now. Tim knows that look, the one where Jason’s determining if he needs to crack a kneecap.
“I don’t really know. After the attack, I was focused on getting everything back on track at WE, and Kon was focused on the semester. I was trying to fix everything, and I was also trying to give him space, but I came home one day—” Tim sucks in a breath. He squeezes the washcloth, droplets of water trickling down his wrist. “He was angry. We fought. I wanted to leave, and I think he got angry at me for leaving. I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me.”
“He wouldn’t tell you?”
“No. He wanted me to apologize for what I did wrong, but I still don’t know what I did.” Tim lets out a gust of air.
“Huh, I didn't know the clone could get mad,” Jason says and he looks contemplative. “When he was angry, what did he say he was angry about? Kon’s usually pretty expressive and, you know,
simple
.”
“Stop calling my boyfriend stupid.”
“I would never say that.”
Tim rolls his eyes. “It felt like he wanted me to spend more time with him, but I needed to be at WE. I didn’t have time to
coddle
him but I should’ve—I should have figured out a way to balance.”
“Oh, I’ve got it. It’s actually so clear.” Jason shakes his head and sighs. “God, we gotta hold an intervention for the babybat before he makes the same mistake. It’s too late for us, and honestly, this is Dick’s
thing
.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You pulled the bat/bird special. Something bad happened, something out of your control, so you hid in your hole trying to “fix it” when you were really just being emotionally unavailable until your partner snapped. Been there.”
“Been there!” Roy echoes from the kitchen.
Jason gives him the finger.
“Look, Kon doesn't get a pass, for sure. It sounds like he tweaked on you but, and I mean this with all love, I know you. And I know what you’re like when you’re trying to fix things. Considering where we ended up, I’d bet you weren’t doing too hot, and it was obvious.”
That raises Tim’s hackles. “Excuse you! I had everything under control. Kon just—Kon just didn’t understand!”
“You’ve looked like you’re one bad day from cutting your own bangs, kid, and Kon sees you a lot more often than I do,” Jason sighs. “It can be frustrating to watch someone you love drown and refuse to reach for a life raft. Especially when you’re drowning, too.”
“First, you're, like, three years older than me. Second, you’re saying this is my fault?” Tim chokes out. He knew that already but
fuck
.
“I need you to run the tape back and tell me where I said that. I
said
you fucked up. And Kon fucked up too. Sounds like he fucked up bad actually. I'm playing fair, is all. Trust me, Roy and I have gone back and forth, triggering one another over and over and
over
. Literally, he said I was acting like Bruce once and I
crashed
. Literally could not function without throwing something for like two days straight like that was the sleeper phrase. He was wrong, you were triggered. My guess was so was he. It’s his job to tell you that, though, not for you to guess,” Jason concluded.
“I wasn’t—I wasn’t triggered.”
“Sure. You disassociate and blow up your relationships for fun. All the kids are doing it.” Jason shrugs and brings his vape back to his lips.
“Maybe that’s something for you and your therapist to discuss, Tim,” Roy says. He’s back in the living room. “Your dishes are washed, and your trash has been taken out. Counters are wiped down, too.”
“God, you’re a busybody.”
“Roy—Roy, you didn’t have to do that. I have cleaning staff. I can handle my own house,” Tim protests, immediately embarrassed. It was only a few dishes. Maybe some leftover Chinese food. Shame curls in his stomach.
“It’s really not a problem. I was trying to give you two space to talk without hovering. Helped to have something to do,” Roy says gently. “Trust me, you should see our place when Lian goes on a tear. We’re still trying to figure out how she got paint on the ceiling.” He leans over and swipes Jason’s pen from his grip.
The shame hasn’t left. Tim brings his hands together, rubs his thumbs against his fingers, and squeezes his eyes shut.
“What if I can’t fix it? What if Kon hates me?” He whispers.
“I think you’d know if he hated you, Tim. It’s not like he
left
. He’s just at the tower. I can smell his shitty sneakers from here. He’s gotta come back for those, like, legally,” Jason says.
“You can’t know that.”
“Sure, I can. It’s actually, like, really easy to know that when your brain’s not actively trying to sabotage you,” Jason says. “I wonder if Kon’s thinking the same thing about you. That you hate him.”
“I could never. I would never. Kon knows that.”
“His dad literally blew up 12 people and used his birthday as a decoy to do it. I don’t think I’d know anything after that.”
It’s a sobering thought, one Tim hasn’t given much credence to.
The moment is cut short by the sound of little footsteps drawing closer.
“Oh, someone’s
awake
,” Roy says, hustling to meet Lian at the hallway entrance. She’s already there, arms in the air and lower lip wobbling. “I’m sorry, baby girl,” he’s saying. “I wasn’t there when you woke up.”
Lian’s sniffling, but there are no sobs yet as Roy rocks her, moving from foot to foot with practiced bounce.
“We should get going. If we stay longer, it’ll be even harder to get her down tonight,” Jason says. “You’ll let me know if I need to kill the clone, right?” He’s on his feet now, heading towards the door. Roy’s already there helping Lian into her shoes. He toes his sneakers on and grabs their coats.
“No killing my boyfriend. No killing, period.” Tim lets out a wet laugh.
Jason rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sure. Try not to throw yourself off the balcony while I’m gone, ‘kay?”
Tim gives him the finger.
But only where Lian can’t see.
–
Tim’s hands are in his lap. He’s trying to keep his legs from bouncing. Shelly’s already written something in her notepad.
“How’ve you been since I saw you last, Tim?” She asks. Her apron has little snowmen on it this time. He wonders if she makes them herself.
“I’ve been—”
Okay
. The word gets caught in his throat.
Shelly’s eyebrows furrow. “Let’s try something different.”
She clears the table and lays a single piece of paper in front of him. Next, supplies a fresh out of the plastic box of Crayola crayons and a yellow #2 pencils. On the paper is an outline of a gingerbread-style body, rounded limbs, and all.**
“I’m not a child,” Tim snaps shoving the crayons away.
“Good, I don’t see children,” Shelly replies airily. She’s back in her seat, notepad in her lap. “This is my body scan directive, but it also works as a check-in. You can add feelings, thoughts, sensations, or anything to the figure. For a more traditional body scan, start with the soles of your feet. You may have to lift onto your toes or roll back onto your heels. Check in with each part of your body and see what speaks to you.”
Tim sighs. He opens the box of crayons. He grabs the green one and taps it against the corner of the page. He hasn’t used crayons in years. He scribbles in the corner and then, on impulse, on the head of the drawing. Then the neck.
Soon, the whole body is covered in scribbles.
“That’s how I feel,” he says. There. Take that.
“Thank you. Can you initial and date it for me? It’s the 19th.”
He uses the pencil to date the drawing before pushing it away.
“Tell me about it,” she says.
“It’s just how I feel.”
“Okay.” She stands, still away from the table but where she can see. “Tell me about the color.”
“It’s green.”
“Any reason?”
He groans. “I don’t know, Shelly.”
“Mhm. Why the crayons instead of the pencil?”
“What?” Tim says, eyes snapping to her face. “
You
gave me the crayons.”
“I also gave you a pencil. And crayons are ‘for kids.’” She holds up the air quotes. She didn’t need to.
Tim blinks at her. “You…gave me the crayons?”
“You know what? I did. And you managed to surprise me again.” She picks up his drawing and holds it where he can see it from a distance. “What do you notice?”
Notice? “I scribbled on a piece of paper.”
“Sure. I asked you how you were feeling, and you scribbled on a piece of paper—scribbled hard, too. Fast. See how these areas are darker than the others?” He does see that. The head and arms are darker than the rest of the drawing. “But that’s not the interesting part. The interesting part is that not a single scribble besides your swatch in the corner made it outside the lines.”
Huh.
He hadn’t noticed that. The boundaries of the little gingerbread figure haven’t been breached at all.
“This,” she gestures loosely to the scribbles, “is chaos. But that chaos never makes it out. Unless I guess it does, and you end up in front of me.”
Tim…Tim does not like this.
He does not like this at all.
“It’s just a drawing,” he says.
“All drawings are just drawings. Unless they’re not. Not this one, though. It’s just a drawing.” She sits back in her seat and sets the drawing on her desk.
Tim wants it back, wants to hide the little piece of him that escaped.
“Now, Tim. What are we going to talk about today?”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Kon
He’s not avoiding going back to the apartment. He’s not.
He’s
not
.
Maybe this is how Tim feels? So overwhelmed that you can’t face someone you’re supposed to love? So afraid you’d rather seal yourself away than be exposed? Is Kon exposed?
The truth is—
Kon’s drowning.
He’s been drowning.
Slowly, water lapping at his cheeks for months on end.
Drowning.
He’s unsure how long the water’s been building up in his lungs. Maybe since that story ran in the press about him being Lex’s son? Maybe it started when Tim was outed? Before that? Maybe it was the day he looked at his hero, his reflection, and was found wanting.
Kon’s life has never been his own. He knows this. Knew this. He was a weapon. A stand-in. A curse. Then a teammate. A friend.
A partner.
Kon has never belonged anywhere. Not truly. He has never been a son. Never family. There was a time he thought—
Maybe, he hoped.
His room at the tower has changed. Half of his posters are still at the Kent farm. Most of his clothes are at Tim’s. He tossed his bedding when he moved. Luckily the tower has a
linen
closet.
There are new people now, new heroes walking around. Cassie left not too long ago, off on her own adventures. Bart’s away with the Allen’s, getting ready for the holiday.
And Kon—
Kon’s here again. Maybe not in the same place he started.
Maybe in the same place he
started
.
He moved into this room right after he left Cadmus, two sets of hand-me-down clothes and a quilt in his hands. The League hadn’t known what to do with him. He would stay with the other teens while they figured it out. There’d been talk of putting him back in cryo. Some days, Kon wishes they would have.
Some days, he wishes he was still dead.
Tim
“I hear you're mentally ill, Drake,” Damian sniffs. He’s taller than the last time Tim saw him. The nasty look on his face looks out of place next to the antler headband on his head and ‘cuddly cactus’ Christmas sweater he’s wearing.
“Funny, I hear the same thing about you, brat,” Tim says as he glances around. Where the hell is Jason?
“If you’re so distraught, you know there’s a simple way to end your anguish. Surely even you couldn’t fail at such a pedestrian solution,” Damian snaps, cheeks reddening with embarrassment. Tim should have pity.
He doesn’t.
“You know, Damian? Every day I wonder, when will Dick finally see you for what you are? Maybe he does, and that’s why he babies you. Maybe he feels sorry for you. Maybe,” he looks Damian up and down and kisses his teeth. “Hm. Nevermind.”
Damian looks absolutely thunderous but closes his mind when Bruce enters the room, Jason, Roy, and Lian trailing behind him.
“I just don’t understand why we’re doing a
Christmas
card. Aren’t you Jewish, or did I misremember that?” Jason is saying. His sweater has
actual
Christmas lights on it.
Good God.
“I wanted to match the rest of you,” Bruce says simply. He’s leaning to the side so he can reach down and hold Lian’s hand.
The one not in her mouth, that is.
“I just assumed it was a
Holiday Card
,” Dick says. His blue sweater
also
lights up, little bulbs on the candles of the menorah.
“It’s supposed to be,” Tim says. “Do you want another sweater, Bruce? I can call Alicia.”
“I’m not bothering another WE employee for a
sweater
, Tim. It’s fine. We all match. Well—not all of us, but I’m sure that’s fine, right Craig?” Bruce waves him off. Tim will
not
take that personally. He does not need to give Shelly more to work with.
“PR did not approve a
Mothman
Christmas—Holiday—sweater, Mr. Wayne,” Craig says, face pinched, setting down his camera.
Roy shrugs. “It’s what I had in the closet.”
“Perhaps we can find you another?
“Perhaps you can shove—”
“
And
the gang’s all here!” Dick says loudly. “Line up so we can get this done. This shit itches!”
“Master Richard! There is a young
lady
present!” Alfred chastises. He’s standing next to the photographer, ensuring they don’t scuff the floors surely.
“Yeah,
Dick.
Stop corrupting my kid,” Roy says dramaticly.
“Honestly, who raised you?” Jason is shaking his head. “You shouldn’t be allowed around children.”
“You’re all very funny. So funny. Ha ha. Look, I’m laughing. Get in line, please!”
There’s some more griping but it’s easy enough for everyone to settle in front of the backdrop WE’s PR team provided. It’s a grayish blue, with snowflakes scattered around. There’s a wooden bench for Damian and Jason and Roy to sit with Lian between them. Tim, Bruce, and Dick stand behind them.
“Alright everyone! Eyes up! Big smiles!” Craig directs and Tim can hear the camera shutter clicking. He smiles, bright and sunny. He practiced in the mirror this morning.
“Mr. Drake-Wayne, can you lean in more? We want everyone to feel
connected
,” Craig says. He gestures for Tim to move closer into Bruce’s space. “A little closer. A little more. More. I promise physical contact is okay on a Holiday card,” he chuckles.
Tim scooches incrementally until he’s leaning against Bruce’s shoulder. It feels awkward. Wrong. No one else is leaning against him.
“That’s better! Smile!” The camera shutter goes off again, clicking rapidly. “Now, do we feel comfortable doing a silly one?”
“Do we seem like silly people to you, Craig?” Jason says, face serious. It’s undercut by the blinking lights on his sweater.
“...No?” Craig says nervously.
“Jason, cut it out,” Bruce sighs.
“Make me, old man.”
“Jason, cut it out,” Roy sing songs.
“...fine.”
“See, if I make a joke—” Dick starts.
“I still have a gun.”
“What?” Craig says, genuine concern etched on his face.
“It’s a glue gun,” Bruce says jovially. “For all his
projects
. Smile, boys.”
The camera flashes again.
“Mr. Drake-Wayne, you’ve stepped away again. Can we get you to lean in
just
a bit.”
“Sure. I can definitely do that,” Tim says with a stiff smile. He tries to remember what he did in the mirror.
He can’t remember.
This can’t last much longer, can it?
It absolutely can. The shoot altogether took another two hours. Looking at the photos on Instagram, Tim thinks they could’ve gotten better shots from a JCPenney. He’ll have to tell Alicia to go back on the search for a good photog when he’s allowed back in the office. His smile isn’t as bad as he thought it would be. It could be better.
Janet would’ve made sure his smile was
perfect
.
Huh.
What an odd thought to have.
He looks at the post again.
Happy Holidays from our family to yours!
#HappyHolidays #WayneEnterprises #WE
It’ll say the same thing on the printed cards that go out to allies and friends only there’ll be two extra photos and
gold leaf
.
Tim didn’t pick the gold leaf. He has no idea who did. He has no idea who picks anything anymore.
“Tim? Are you ready to go back?” It’s Shelly, standing in the doorway to the waiting room.
“Um, yes. Sorry. Spaced out.” Tim pockets his phone and gets up to follow.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Tim
Tim doesn’t know what to do. He keeps his hands in his lap, eyes on the gingerbread-man shaped outline in front of him. He can get through this. He’s a literal genius. He won’t be beaten by a child’s drawing . He feels like he’s rapidly outgrowing his skin, like his bones don’t quite fit, flesh stretching uncomfortably over his overgrown bones. He rolls and flexes his shoulders, trying to settle.
Does he use the crayons? Can he ask for something else? He doesn’t want to use the pencils either. He doesn’t want to use anything . Maybe he can leave it blank? No, that probably means something else.
He can hear Shelly writing on her notepad. His hands are shaking in his lap.“Tim,” Shelly calls. Tim tries to focus on her voice. “Roll your feet against the floor. Toe to heel, then back again.”Shit. He can barely feel his body. Is this disassociation? It has to be. He tries to focus, but it's like swimming through molasses. Time is slowing, his limbs moving independently of him.Suddenly, a flash of yellow appears in his field of vision. It looks like—“Is that…is that a lemon?” He hiccups.“As a matter of fact, it is,” Shelly says. It sounds closer. Clearer.“Shelly—what the fuck?” And he can’t help but laugh wetly. Why the fuck does she have a lemon?
“Take it and hold it in your hand. When it starts to hurt, switch hands,” Shelly says, pressing the lemon into his palm, and Tim doesn’t understand until he realizes it’s cold .“It’s frozen,” he says, trying to squeeze. It’s solid. She must have taken it out of the mini-fridge she has next to her desk. He can feel his body settling as he focuses on the sensation, on the cold seeping into his skin. It starts to prick his palms, little shards of cold. Tim switches hands and squeezes again.There are tears on his face. Shelly is close again, hand outstretched. He hands over the lemon so she can put it back in the little freezer at the top of the mini-fridge.“So, Tim. How long are we going to do this, bud?” She asks. Her arms are crossed, a look of concern on her face. It sends every alarm in Tim's head into overdrive.“You can't send me away,” he gasps in panic. “You can't !”“I wasn't planning to. I enjoy the challenge, really. Also, despite your best efforts, we are making progress.” She sits back in her chair. “But you're suffering, Tim. You're suffering, and I’m starting to wonder if you prefer it that way.”“Who would prefer suffering? Honestly,” Tim grouses. His shoulders have started to relax again now that he knows he hasn’t failed. Shelly’s not throwing him out.She leans back in her hair and winds her fingers together, a contemplative look on her face.
“Many of my clients confuse the ideas of comfort and safety . Unfortunately—or fortunately— they’re not always the same thing. For example, for an addict, substance use, dysfunction, and instability can feel safe. They’re not. They’re comfortable. Familiar. Abstinence from substances, a new job, or a rehab program? Stability? That’s foreign. Unfamiliar. It feels unsafe. But it is. Safe, I mean.” She leans forward.
“When you’ve grown up in chaos, in dysfunction, dysfunction feels safe. It’s not. It’s just comfortable, and safety and comfort are not always the same thing. Sometimes, to step towards safety, we must first be uncomfortable. It can confuse our brains to do so. ‘Why am I stepping towards something that’s unsafe?’ our silly little lizard brains ask. We have to remind ourselves that our thoughts and feelings are sometimes just that. Just because you think it doesn’t mean it's true. Just because you think your dad or your brothers or your partner hate you doesn’t mean they actually do.”“So, what I’m feeling is wrong?”“No, if you feel it, it’s real. What may be wrong is your perception . We’re all seeing life through our own set of lenses. There are many things that could cause your personal lens to flex or retract or invert. Trauma is one of those things. It adds a tint to your lens. Did you know that teenagers with trauma are more likely to interpret neutral and fearful facial expressions as anger? The person they’re talking to isn’t angry. They’re at rest or maybe they’re anxious but a traumatized brain sees their expression and says, ‘they must be angry and it must be something I did,’” Shelly sighs.
“That’s why I ask you sometimes, what did someone really say? What did they really do? When we strip back your interpretations, your feelings, any perceived threats—what really happened? Was it as bad as your brain is telling you it was?” Shelly shrugs. “Trauma is isolating . I can lock you in a cage, keeping you from meaningful connection. Wait–a visual aid.”
She goes back to her desk and rifles through a set of folders.
“This is my C-PTSD wheel.” Shelly hands him a printout.* It features a color-coded octagon with sections like a pie chart. “Do me a favor, Tim. I want you to be honest. As honest as you can be.” She hands him a marker. “Circle the things on that chart that feel familiar.”Oh.Oh no.Tim looks down at the wheel.Oh no. His eyes flit from wedge to wedge, lingering over Memory & Attention Problems and Emotion Regulation Struggles.
Shame & Guilt
Dissociation
Fragmented Memories
Forgetful
Overwhelming Emotions
Problems W/ Intimacy
Tim tries to catch his breath. He rolls the marker in between his fingers. Silence hangs in the air.Tim circles one of the wedges.
And then another.It feels heavier each time, each acknowledgment.He sets the marker down.“How do you feel? I know, therapist question, but really. How do you feel, Tim?”
Tim breathes.In.Out.In.
Out.
In.
Out.
“I feel like shit,” he finally admits. “I feel like shit all the time. And I don’t know how to stop feeling this way.” He lets out a wet-sounding breath. When had he started crying?“Okay. Let’s try this again.” Shelly moves around the office, gathering a familiar collection of bins. “I got some new art books. Don’t worry. I got them for 40 cents each from the Goodwill outlet. Cut away.”**
She lays a glue stick and a pair of scissors in front of him.The first thing he grabs is an image of waves slamming up against rocks on a shoreline. The image is big, an entire magazine page. Maybe from a National Geographic? It’s got the right shape. He grabs another image, a smaller one. It’s of snow-covered mountains. Tim grabs the glue stick.He layers it, centered on top of the photo of the waves.
“I don’t want it to be ugly,” he says. It shouldn’t matter, but it does.***“Then don’t make it ugly. Or do. Whatever feels right. I know you’ll hate to hear thi,s but there’s no wrong answer,” Shelly says.Great. Tim flips through the art book. He recognizes some of the paintings, reflects on rare museum visits with his parents—He starts cutting. There’s a Kandinsky. Bright. Brash. Chaotic. Tim layers it on the page. He keeps flipping.
Picasso.
David.He cuts and glues.He sets the book aside and opens the word box.
8 Ways Parents’ Words Can Trigger Adult Children
Tim grabs it.
Dating Sins
He grabs that one, too.
He cuts. He glues.Until he has a completed image.
He sits back and looks it over.
He bites at his thumb nail.“Well, this is depressing,” he says. The words I Ruined My Family stand out stark from everything else.“Well, you’re depressed, so…I’m not sure I’d expect anything different,” Shelly says. She’s looking at his collage. “This one’s interesting, Tim. Do you want to discuss it?”He shakes his head. He feels exhausted. Wrung out.Shelly nods.
“I want you to go get something to eat. Preferably nutrient-dense, but I’ll settle for just food. Drink water. Maybe a hydration drink like a Gatorade. And then I want you to get a fun snack. What’s a fun snack you like?”
“I don’t know. I like coffee?”“I’ll allow a small. But make it fun. Get something interesting, like with peppermint or something.”Tim’s nose wrinkles before he can stop it. “I don’t think that would be therapeutic.”“Which of us has the Master’s?”He rolls his eyes. “Fine.”Something fun, then.
Not peppermint, though. Never peppermint.
Kon
“Conner?”Kon looks up from his textbook to see his worst fucking nightmare standing in his doorway.
It’s Clark.
He’s holding a box.Fuck.Kon came to the Tower to take a break from—not avoid—his problems. Apparently there's nowhere to hide from Superman .“Hey, I heard you’d been staying here for a few days and thought I’d bring some of your things from the farm. I know you said you wanted distance—I thought this would help,” he sets the box inside Kon’s doorway. “You didn't have a ton of stuff there. Not many clothes. I brought all of your decorations though.”“Thanks,” Kon says dully. He doesn’t get up from the bed.A moment passes.Clark clears his throat. “How…how are you doing, Conner? You look…have you been going outside? Seeing the sun?” His brows are furrowed, his mouth tight . He looks angry.****It makes heat rise in Kon’s cheeks. “ Yes, obviously. God. Is that it? You can go now,” he snaps without thinking.Clark steps closer, hands held up in front of him in an ‘ I’m harmless ’ gesture. “Whoa, Conner. I just wanted—gosh—you don’t look good, kid. I’m worried about you. I’ve been worried about you. Your friends are worried about you—”Kon’s temper flares, red hot and volcanic —“Who the fuck has been talking to you?! I don’t want to talk to you. Everyone knows I don’t want to talk to you. You know I don’t want to talk to you and yet here you are again,” her groans, putting his head and his hands.He does not need this. This was supposed to be a safe place but it's not . Nowhere is safe—“Conner,” Clark says softly. “I know I’m not the best person to comfort you.”Kon snorts a laugh.“But I also don’t want to go back to the way things were. I don’t want to pretend that you don’t exist again. I can’t. You’re such,” Clark heaves a tired sigh, “you’re such a good kid. And I’m sorry I missed that. I’m sorry I didn’t give you the care you deserved when you needed it. I’m sorry I refused to be the mentor you deserved.”A few years ago, that apology might’ve changed Kon’s life.
But that was then.
This is now.“Well, thanks for that, Clark. I’m glad we had this conversation. Did you want anything else?” He asks stiffly.Clark’s face tightens again.
“Conner, did something happen with Lex? Or with Tim?”
Jesus Christ.“God, I don't understand!” Kon groans. “What is your damage , Clark? Why do you care— oh my god— why do you care!!” He demands. He’s sick of this. Sick of the meddling and the doubt . He’s had enough .
And he just doesn’t get it. Sure, things got worse after Bruce went missing, but Clark was always weird about Tim. He’s always had an issue.“Conner,” Clark sighs, “I’ve told you I don’t have a problem with Tim—”“But you do! You do have a problem. You wouldn’t be acting like this if there wasn’t a problem. Did Bruce piss you off, or are you pissed that Tim was the one to find him? Was it something from before me?”If Clark wasn’t angry before, he sure is angry now. He backs away from Kon, back towards the doorway. “Conner, I think we need to leave this alone,” he says. “It was a mistake for me to bring it up.”Blood in the water—Kon wants to charge. He gets to his feet, fist clenched and shaking. “So, there is something. I knew it. I knew you were being weird. But it doesn’t make sense. All this shit about Tim and Bruce and the mission . Tim hasn’t even been on the Bat roster in almost a year, but you’re still acting like this.” He starts to pace trying to understand. None of it makes sense. Clark’s fixation. His irrationality. His inability to see past his own bias about Tim. About Bruce .Bruce.
It always comes back to Bruce.“Wait,” Kon says and the pieces are clicking into place, one answer that should have been obvious finally making itself known.“Conner—”“Oh my god! Oh my fucking god, are you serious? Bruce? Bruce. Holy shit!” It’s so obvious in hindsight. How in the world did he miss it? How did anyone?“You're wrong,” Clark says quietly, but his shoulders slump forward. There’s defeat there.
“No, I'm not. I'm not wrong. This has never been about me and Tim. It's always been about you and Bruce—”“There is no me and Bruce!” Clark hisses, anger shaking past his lips. “That never happened!”“But you must have wanted it to! Oh my god. You're jealous . You're so jealous you're acting insane. It makes so much sense. Too much sense. All of this has been so fucking irrational because it is! You're not rational! Let me guess. He rejected you.”Clark just looks at him like he’d been slapped.“No.” Kon shakes his head. “You two wouldn't have been friends if that happened. Bruce is too awkward. They all are. No. He doesn't know. He probably doesn't even suspect. Why would he? All that shit about the mission and being emotionally unavailable and he'll never pick you . You were talking about you! You didn't even try.“Man of steel. Strongest man alive got folded by a crush and decided to make it everybody else's problem. Jesus, Clark. Seek help. You've been tweaking for a year because what? You had an emotional situationship —rest in fucking pieces by the way—with Bruce Wayne? Bruce Wayne? Bruce Wayne. I'd ask you to be serious if I thought you were capable but Good god.” “It was not a situationship —”“That's worse.”“You don't know what you're talking about—it wasnt—I'm not —I'm not like you.” Clark is shaking and for the first time, to Kon anyway, he looks vulnerable. Like Kon found his real kryptonite.“God, I hope not. Everyday I pray that I’m nothing like you. Nothing like Lex either. And maybe that means I don’t know who or what I am but I’m not you, Clark. Clone or not. Son or not. I am not you. Maybe I should go back to Gotham. God knows you’re too chickenshit to step foot in that city right now so maybe you’ll finally leave me alone.”
Clark is shaking his head, eyes squeezed shut. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know anything . I have to—I have to go.”“Please—” Clark’s gone with a breeze, the box toppled over in his haste to get away, “do.” Kon wants to scream.
Tim
“Are you—did you have therapy today?” Tim nearly chokes on his pad Thai. Kon has been gone for, like, two weeks. Tim hadn't heard him come in, hadn't even thought to listen for him.“Kon?” Tim says with a cough. He puts his chopsticks down and turns around to face him. Kon’s wearing his MU hoodie, duffle bag in his hand. He looks a little rumpled. The hoodie could use a cycle in the dryer and Kon’s face could use a shave (or not, Tim does not think). He’s looking somewhere over Tim’s shoulder.“Sorry. That was a wild thing to ask, especially since I haven’t been here. I was just looking at the board, and I realized you're probably not in the best headspace if you just had therapy. I can go. Or I can stay out of your way.” Kon gestures to the door.What the hell is he talking about? “You don't have to leave, Kon. You live here.”“Right. Right. Uh.” Kon disappears and reappears, wearing pajama pants and a faded WE tee. “How was therapy?”Uh. Tim doesn’t know how to answer that. Or maybe he does.“Hard. It was really hard,” he says awkwardly.
Kon nods, hands on his hips. “Okay. What do you need right now?”“I need-” A hug. You to want to be here. You to want me. The words stay caught in Tim's throat, heavy like a stone. “I don't know.”“Okay.” Kon is still nodding.
“How was the tower?” Tim tries instead.
“Ugh.” Kon drags a hand over his face. “Clark showed up.” That sets off alarm bells in Tim’s head.“Oh. Is that why you came home?”“Yeah. That and I knew I needed to. I’d been trying to figure out how to for, like, a week, but Clark definitely gave me that final push,” Kon sighs.
“Right….” Tim nods dumbly.Kon exhales roughly. “I think I understand him better but I’m not sure I wanted to. I’m still feeling it out in my head. I don’t know though.”“Yeah…Kon,” Tim sucks in a breath and thinks of what Shelly said. “Why are you mad at me? Really. Why are you mad at me really ?”“I'm not—I was . I was mad at you,” Kon sighs, his head falling back. “I'm an asshole. And I shouldn’t have freaked out on you.” He settles on the bar stool furthest from Tim at the other end of the kitchen’s island.“I didn't mean to call you an asshole—”“No. I don't mean that you're calling me that. I’m calling me that. You’re not responsible for how I'm feeling, Tim.” Kon smiles sadly. Tim loves his smile, even if it’s sad. He wants to cup his cheek, tap the corners of that smile. “I wasn’t being fair. I can’t make you responsible for my feelings especially when you’re struggling and you’re trying to take care of yourself.“I didn’t need you. Not the way everyone else did. After the attack, you were so busy and I was being selfish. You had actual problems and I was just sad that my dad—that Lex did, well, what he did. And I know he kills people! No one will let me forget that he kills people, but I don’t have anyone—I don’t know. It’s not important. I’m not explaining right.” Kon cracks his knuckles and taps them against the countertop, looking contemplative.
“I wanted your attention and comfort and support and you didn’t have the capacity for that right then. I get it. Even explaining that to you at the time felt like work and I was like, how does he not see that I’ve been miserable for weeks? How can he not see?”
“I can’t know something if you don’t tell me,” Tim says quietly.
“Okay. That’s fair. I also can’t tell you something if you’re avoiding me. I still could’ve handled it better.”Tim chews his lip.
“I was. Avoiding you, I mean.”“I know.”Tim nods. Does it feel better to know? Maybe. It feels like he has better footing. Maybe he’s so used to Kon being the stalwart one that he didn’t notice—He didn’t notice.“I’m sorry, Kon. I’m sorry for avoiding you and not being supportive,” Tim says. That feels better. Lighter.“I don’t want you to think I sat down just wanting or expecting an apology. I wanted to apologize. I apologize. I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m sorry for making you feel worse than you already did. I’m sorry that I put my feelings before yours. I’m sorry that I didn’t communicate effectively, especially when I’m asking you to. That’s not fair. I’m sorry for leaving and staying away for so long. I can’t imagine that felt good.”“It didn’t,” Tim acknowledges. Warmth is blooming in his chest, uncurling like petals in spring.
There is no ice.“Shelly, my therapist, says avoidance can come from trauma.”“Really? I guess that makes sense. Do you like her? Your therapist?” Kon asks. He looks interested. For once, the attention doesn’t feel frightening.
“No. Yes. I don’t know. It’s different than talking to Dr. Meridian. A lot different. I think…I think it’s working, and that scares me.”Kon’s lips twitch, a genuine smile growing.“Maybe it’s the good kind of scared. Like when you fly for the first time. Especially because it’s something you’ve never done.” He shrugs. “Maybe you're not the only one who needs it.”That catches Tim's attention.“You'd go to therapy?”“I'm thinking about it,” Kon admits. “Been thinking about it for a while.” He drums his fingers again. “I think I got to see a peek at my future if I don't get my shit together. It wasn't pretty.”Tim wants to ask but this isn't an interrogation. Kon’s on his own journey, too. He'll tell Tim when he's ready.“Can I have a hug?” Tim asks softly. It's easier to get out this time.Kon’s smile grows bigger. He holds out his hands.
“Always.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Clark
His hand grips the edges of the metal sink almost hard enough to warp. He’s in the washroom connected to his room on the Watchtower. Honestly, he’s felt more prepared to face kryptonite than what’s waiting for him today. He turns on the faucet and sticks his hand under the cool stream before splashing water against his cheeks. It’s not nearly cold enough. He should’ve prepared at the Fortress.
But if he’d done that, maybe he wouldn’t have come at all.
He can’t think like that.
He has to project confidence. People are counting on him. Depending on him.
He rolls his shoulders back and inhales sharply through his nose. Then he grabs a towel and dabs at his wet face. He can hear the hum of the teleportation pads powering up and then off. Up and then off.
Up and then off .
The number of heartbeats on the Watchtower steadily grows. Most, he recognizes. They’re all beating so fast, anxiety drumming through the Watchtower in droves, reaching a fever pitch—Either this will put that anxiety to rest or—It’ll make it a hell of a lot worse.
--
Diana’s waiting for him at the end of the hall. Her arms are crossed over her chest, a troubled look on her face.“Have you seen Nightwing?” She asks, intentionally pitching her voice low. If she’s nervous, she’s hiding it well. Better than him at least.“No,” he says with a heavy sigh. He’d already noticed that, through the hum of fluttering heartbeats, Dick’s is suspiciously absent.“We should call it off, then, while we still can,” Barry says, appearing next to him in the hall. “Him not being here is going to send the wrong message.”“Or the right one,” Diana sighs with the barest shake of her head. “It was going to happen one way or another. No turning back now.”Barry bites his cheek, sighs, and pulls up his cowl. “Alright.” Honestly, Clark thinks, what’s one more bridge burned?
--
“Good morning,” he says as cheerfully as he can manage. The room is full to bursting, new and old members of the Justice League all staring back at him. Some are in costume, many not. Those who couldn’t make it in person are projected on screens or holograms throughout the room.
They haven’t had an all-hands meeting like this in years and never outside of a crisis.
Does this count as a crisis?Clark resists the urge to clench his fists. He reminds himself he’s not standing alone. Diana, Barry, Hal, Oliver, J’onn, Arthur, and Dinah are all standing with him. There are more senior members of the League strewn throughout the crowd, expressions ranging from curiosity to open concern, but they don’t quite doubt them yet. They don’t doubt Clark yet.“As we’re sure you have all become aware,” he begins, “there have been changes to various team rosters as we move to address new challenges.”
“We’re aware that some of these changes have appeared sudden and perhaps jarring, but we assure you, the Justice League remains strong and united,” Diana finishes for him like they agreed.Murmurs ripple through the room.
A hand goes up.The Question. Of course.“Where’s Batman?” He asks in a way that tells Clark he already knows the answer.They prepared for this.“Things have become complicated in Gotham, leading to Batman taking an extended leave of absence to re-focus his attention on his home turf,” Hal offers. “As announced previously, his duties are being fulfilled by—”“Nightwing. Who’s also not here,” Question supplies. There’s judgment in his tone.The murmurs grow.Clark scans the room for familiar faces. Many of the Titans—former and current—are in attendance.
Many aren’t .Roy’s absent because, of course, he is.
But so are Kori, Garth, and Victor.
Donna’s present, but she doesn’t look happy about it.The acrid smell of nervous sweat reaches his nose.“Nightwing is working to support Batman in his ongoing goals for Gotham. He’ll return when things are more stable,” Clark hears himself say. He wouldn’t believe it if he were on the other end.The Question’s hand goes back up, but Diana moves on.
No more questions are answered.
The nervousness in the room grows, and all Clark can think is…all this? All this for Bruce? For Batman?
–
“Well, that was a shitshow,” Oliver groans, collapsing into his chair.
“I tried to call Dick again. Voicemail,” Barry sighs. “We should’ve called it off.”“It was too late,” Dinah counters. “Withdrawing would’ve made us look weak.”“Nightwing throwing a temper tantrum made us look weak. You can’t let him get away with this. He can’t flake on League business because his feelings got hurt,” Oliver snaps.
“Oh, of course. I’m sure that’s what Bruce says when Dick ignores him, too. If he can’t control Nightwing, what makes you think we can?” Hal laughs, but it just sounds defeated. Exhausted.“This isn’t funny, Lantern—”“People have questions! Concerns!” Diana cuts across them. “They have immense respect for Batman, and his continued absence has made people feel…unsafe. We’ve dealt with this before. We can do it again.”“I don’t know if anyone noticed but Batman also got caught with his pants down in his own city. I don’t know why we’re the ones getting hell when we didn’t make the mess.” Oliver kicks his feet up onto the table.“That scares them worse. If Bruce can get caught unawares, any of us can. People look up to Bruce. And his kids,” Barry says quietly.
Of course, they do. That was always the issue.Clark rubs his temples. He feels a headache coming on.
Bruce has always appeared so aloof. Almost entirely unengaged when it came to League business.
He’s existed as something larger than life. As both a man and an idea that’s permeated the length of every Watchtower hallway. Intimidation in human(?) form.
An allure and curse he surely passed down to his children. Charming yet severe like rare birds, more hawks than sparrows. Beautiful but unapproachable.
Clark can’t compete with that. He never could.