#catboyjupiter

Lynn spends a minute frowning at Where the Wild Things Are, and Billy isn’t sure if that’s because he’s interested in or confused by it, or maybe just thinks it’s weird? Lynn doesn’t pick it, though; he puts it back with the others awkwardly and then picks up The Phantom Tollbooth and . . . hesitates, a little, and then glances sidelong at Billy, who’s really trying not to hover but maybe Lynn thinks he is hovering and–

“Why is the clock shaped like a dog?” Lynn asks, sounding skeptical. 

“Huh?” Billy blinks at him, then reflexively glances down at the book and realizes–“Oh! It’s not; the dog’s shaped like a clock. Because he’s a watchdog!”

Lynn stares blankly at him, then at the book. Billy isn’t sure what–

Oh, he realizes. Duh. 

“It’s like a joke,” he explains. “Like a pun? Wordplay? That book’s got a lot of stuff like that in it.” 

“. . . oh,” Lynn says, frowning at the book. “So it’s supposed to be . . . funny.” 

“Some of it,” Billy says with a shrug. “Some of it’s just supposed to be fun. Uh, you know, like just messing around and–like, the playing and all. It’s got cool illustrations in it, too.” 

“. . . and a dog,” Lynn says. 

“Yup!” Billy confirms cheerfully. “He’s a cool dog. He talks too!” 

“Dogs don’t talk,” Lynn says with a deeper frown, then–tenses, a little. Billy ignores it. He still gets that reflex when he disagrees with somebody older and bigger than him too, sometimes. 

“Tock does,” he replies with another shrug. “It’s a story, y’know? That’s what they’re like.” 

“. . . so is ‘Tock’ wordplay too?” Lynn asks, frowning skeptically. “Like–because a clock’s supposed to go ‘tick-tock’, and ‘tock’ sounds like ‘talk’?” 

“Oh, I never thought of that!” Billy exclaims in delighted surprise, then laughs at himself, because his literal best friend is Tawky, so like, of all the puns to miss . . . “That’s really smart, Lynn, I just thought it was about the clock part!” 

Lynn stares at him again–Billy probably should warn him that staring that much is probably gonna come across, like–aggressive, sometimes? Like, just so he knows for talking to civilians and stuff like that. Obviously the League and the sidekicks all know he’s still kind of a baby in certain ways, and babies stare a lot, Billy’s pretty sure. Like a lot. Random civilians definitely do not know that, though, and especially are not gonna know that when Lynn’s doing the whole secret identity thing. 

But yeah, staring’s kinda normal for babies, he’s actually pretty sure, now that he’s thinking about it? Like–they’re learning and all, and so’s Lynn. 

“Are you actually for real?” Lynn asks sort of–abruptly, kinda? Tone stuff again, Billy figures, though he’s a little confused by the question either way. 

“Yeah?” he says, and then realizes–oh, okay–“Oh, yeah–no, I’m actually a person, I’m not just magic. I mean obviously I’m magic but like–I mean my parents didn’t, like, cast me or anything, the magic stuff all came later. Uh–but please don’t tell the Justice League that either, I really do want them to keep thinking I’m, like, the same champion of magic. Fewer awkward questions and stuff.” 

“. . . I didn’t mean–” Lynn starts, then cuts himself off and frowns again. “. . . ‘the same’?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Billy says sheepishly, then points at himself. “There’s been kinda a lot of us. So I’m not, like, the champion of magic, it’s just my turn to be a champion of magic. If that, like . . . makes sense. Somebody else did it before me, and somebody else’ll do it after. We get picked out for it. So yeah, I’m not just magic or a spell or anything, I was born like how humans usually get born and then I got the magic later. So I didn’t get born with powers like you did.” 

“. . . okay,” Lynn says, and frowns even deeper. Billy smiles hopefully-encouragingly at him, ‘cuz he wants Lynn to know he can ask him questions and stuff and won’t think he’s gonna get in trouble for it. 

Sometimes Billy still has that reflex too.

Lynn keeps frowning to himself for a little while; Billy links his hands together behind his back and waits patiently for him to think through whatever he's thinking through right now. No rush, he figures. Like, bedtime's a process, and it's gonna take some experimenting to get it right for Lynn, he's pretty sure. Like, since Lynn's a newborn and also a teenager and all, he means, 'cuz yeah, he's still gotta figure that out and all. Well—they've gotta, but Billy's still the dad here, so like, it's important for Lynn to learn that kind of stuff about himself, but it's Billy's responsibility to learn that stuff about him either way.

That's . . . sort of different, Billy thinks, though he's not really sure how he'd explain that to somebody else if he had to.

That's . . . sort of different, Billy thinks, though he's not really sure how he'd explain that to somebody else if he had to. 

Just . . . he thinks it is, he guesses. 

“. . . I picked a book,” Lynn says finally, stiff and abrupt, which makes sense for having to have taken a minute to think about. 

“Great!” Billy says excitedly. “Which one?” 

“. . . this,” Lynn says. He doesn’t actually hold up The Phantom Tollbooth, but since it’s the only book he’s holding, Billy figures that’s what “this” means. 

“Oh, cool!” Billy says, beaming at him. That’s cool, he’s super-glad to know that he and Tawky picked at least one book that looked good to Lynn for tonight. 

“. . . sure,” Lynn says. “Uh. Okay.” 

“Okay!” Billy agrees cheerfully. Lynn stares blankly at him for a moment, but doesn’t say anything. Billy waits again, just in case he’s still thinking about something. Then Lynn looks embarrassed for a second and immediately turns back around and heads back towards the hall. 

. . . Billy hopes that’s okay? Like, not a bad thing, he means? 

He doesn’t know if the DEO really thinks they can “help” Endowed—is pretty sure they don’t even want to, actually—but he’s apparently one of the only people on the planet who can actually have a semi-normal conversation with her and is definitely the only one on that very short list of options who’s actually willing to have a semi-normal conversation with her, much less willing to come back every other month and do it all over again.

He’s pretty sure either APES specifically or just the DEO in general wanna use her for something, or at least wanna ask her some probing questions about exactly how she got the powers and how they work, but . . .

It’s stupid, because Bernard doesn’t even know if Endowed is Nina; if Nina’s alive somewhere inside her, or was erased by her, or just had a total mental breakdown when the overload of freaky alien-god superpowers straight out of a monster girl-themed harem anime had hit her system all at once and has just never come up enough from said breakdown to start making sense to other people again. Endowed might be some totally different person from her, though, and just have access to a few imprinted memories or some leftover . . . Bernard doesn’t know, psychic scraps or something.

Scraps of Nina, he means.

So no, he doesn’t know if Endowed is Nina or not; doesn’t know if he’s showing up once a month to spend three hours and forty-five minutes with the person who replaced or imprisoned or murdered Nina while a bunch of creeps and weirdos in hazmat suits who can’t even look directly at her take notes and readings and record everything they both say and do.

She looks just like her, though, and nobody else can look her in the eye.

“I brought cards this time,” Bernard says. “Figured we could play crazy eights or go fish or something. Y’know, if you’re still into that kinda thing. I mean, it’s been a while, I dunno.”

“The Mighty Endowed cares not for petty games of chance,” Endowed scoffs as she looks away from him with a toss of her ridiculously long hair, which probably literally takes a superpower to maintain, if Bernard's gonna be real—and the chain of her very big and bulky and heavy handcuffs that really need to just be called "manacles" at this point, he's pretty sure—then grins slyly and slants her eyes towards him. “Nina Dowd perhaps did spend a few rather lucrative evenings in Atlantic City to fund a dig or two, though. Doing that math was much simpler than all the fuss and supplication that lies in seeking the bequeathment of a grant.”

Bernard actually isn’t sure if that’s something Nina would’ve done or not. He definitely believes she was smart enough that she could’ve learned to count cards if she’d wanted to, but his knee-jerk reaction is “what the hell, obviously she wouldn’t have”, because he remembers a quiet, no-nonsense person who never raised her voice and never did a thing her parents didn’t approve of, except maybe going for an archeology doctorate over a medical one.

Thought she did pick the archeology doctorate, so . . .

In retrospect, Bernard is actually not a hundred percent sure on whether Nina disappeared out of the family after the Mighty Endowed thing or before the Mighty Endowed thing.

Look, just—his parents' opinions about what he's doing with his life have been pretty damn opinionated too, is all. So—yeah. Very reply hazy; try again, as a thing. Or maybe a little more better not tell you now, maybe. Like, just if he's going to be quoting a fucking magic 8 ball about major life issues he's been actively trying to avoid having and all.

Look, he knows who he is as a person, okay?

Even if he doesn't know who some other people are, or why they don't answer their stupid email, or if they actually even thought they were friends or not. Or when they showed up, and when they disappeared. Or even just why they picked red to write in, if nothing else.

Bernard doesn't understand how he missed having another soulmate long enough for that soulmate to learn how to fucking write. Like—even for him, that's missing a lot.

He can't blame "Robin" for it, and definitely can't blame "13".

He might kind of blame Tim, though.

Or at least, he might kind of want to.

Probably that's bad, Bernard is aware. Probably that's, like, a really lousy thing to think about a guy who didn't actually do anything wrong aside from just ghosting him after they had an extremely bad semester just, like—at the same time, and not even really together.

Bernard had just thought it was "together", he guesses.

"No offense, but I feel like most casinos would not wanna let you in anyway, considering the sorta . . . hypnosis or brainwashing or mind control powers or whatever you classify, like, all . . . that as, exactly," he says while fully failing to illustrate the implied "that" with a not-weird hand gesture. Like. Impressively failing, actually.

"'Brainwashing' implies much more permanence to the effect than I care to bother with," Endowed replies dismissively as she waves him off with a clawed—and manacled—hand, which is probably the kind of info that the DEO actually wants to be getting out of these conversations, so . . . yay, Bernard guesses?

Or at least one more "stipend" payment between him and getting a part-time job to suck up all his homework time, anyway. It's probably shitty that he's thinking that too, he's pretty sure, but even if she looks just like Nina, she really doesn't act like her.

He guesses he probably doesn't act much like the version of himself she remembers either, though, if she even remembers him at all.

"Sorry, does that mean you can make it permanent?" he asks. Endowed makes a face like he just said something—he doesn't know, distasteful, he guesses. He doesn't know if that's Nina's opinion or hers, though, or if there's actually a difference either way.

"I have no interest in taking on such burdens," she says, which is very definitely not a "no".

"Like . . . the burden being maintaining the brainwashing, or . . . ?" Bernard trails off as he pulls out the pack of cards he packed and knocks them out of their box to start shuffling. Seems like a better thing to be doing with his hands than any more weird hand gestures, he figures.

"You ask the most ridiculous things, boy," Endowed says, rolling her eyes again.

"What's ridiculous about wanting to know how the freaky psychic superpowers work?" Bernard says. "Like for example I know they don't really work right on me, but would they not work at all? Like—is it just the passive effect or do you actually have to put your back into it sometimes? No, uh . . . no weird back pain jokes intended."

"What?" Endowed frowns, looking puzzled. "What does back pain have to do with anything?"

". . . are you fucking with me or is that an actual question," Bernard asks warily. Nina was definitely not the type to pull that style of joke, but also Nina was definitely not the "maniacal alien cat-girl-cackling" type, so he assumes there's some wiggle room in her sense of humor these days.

Okay, so he's not actually sure if either version of her has a sense of humor, but point stands.

"Is that an actual question?" Endowed counters, giving him a scornful look.

"I mean, kinda, yeah," Bernard says. "Do you not get back pain now, because I really feel like you would? I mean, I feel like there's several things about you now that are, you know, less than desirable in pursuit of, uh . . . y'know, day-to-day life and all that shit. Stuff. Whatever."

Endowed looks puzzled again, her brow furrowing just like Nina's would when she was doing crosswords or sudoku or whatever her latest brainteaser addiction was. Bernard doesn't know if Endowed's into brainteasers. She's gotta get bored, at least, so . . . maybe she would be?

Or maybe she'd roll her eyes at him again and say something disparaging about Nina's taste again. Like—who frickin' knows, really.

"Seriously," Bernard says, and reshuffles the deck restlessly; reshuffles the deck faster, suddenly feeling a little too antsy. A little too . . . much, suddenly. "Do you not care about that shit? About—going back?"

He asks the question, but he doesn't let himself think about Darla. Or Tim. Or just . . . anyone he doesn't know enough about to even actually think about, really.

( he knows they wrote in red, and they had scratchy and messy and BIG handwriting; thick and bold and big and BRIGHT ; demanding attention and taking up space. he knows most people don't leave soulmarks with color, and knows most people don't leave soulmarks that big. bigger than they'd usually write or sign their name, yeah, but not THAT much bigger.

not that . . . DEMANDING.

not that it matters either way. it's just something he knows enough about to actually think about, is all. )

"Foolish child," Endowed says with obvious distaste in her expression again, her lip curling again too. Nina didn't have fangs, but she did have that same just-crooked left incisor. "Why would you think I cared about anything like that?"

"I don't know," Bernard says, and switches directions with his shuffling. "Don't you miss anything about being, y'know—about before? About anything you had before, or—didn't you have friends or something? Do you just never get a craving for Starbucks or wanna date somebody or just feel like going out and taking a fucking walk?"

He doesn't think about Darla, who can't do any of that anymore. He doesn't think about Tim, who could still do it all, probably, but not fucking text back. He doesn't think about 13, who probably never got to do any of it at all.

"Oh, this is different," Endowed muses, tilting her head to one side and looking at him like he's—a fucking puzzle or whatever, who the hell even knows. He knows he doesn't like it, but he doesn't actually like anything anymore, so what's it matter? "Pray tell, is there a question in any of that rambling, boy?"

"Don't you want to go home?" Bernard snaps. It sounds like an accusation, which he doesn't feel bad about even if it's not an accusation for—Endowed, or Nina, or whoever the hell this person with his cousin's face and a stranger's personality and freaky alien cat-girl harem anime superpowers actually is. Just—it's not for her.

He still doesn't feel bad about it, even if maybe he should.

Well, there's a lot of things he doesn't "feel" anymore, aren't there.

"No," Endowed says. "If I cared for such petty wastes of my time, I would not be Mighty Endowed."

For a second, Bernard thinks it's some sort of stupid expression or weird alien pun or weird alien vernacular thing, but . . . for a second, he thinks it's that.

Then he thinks—

He stops mid-shuffle, and stares blankly across the interrogation room table at her. It's a tiny little room with no windows and no natural light and zero personality, and she's still wearing handcuffs that look like somebody slapped a sci-fi re-skin on a set of medieval manacles.

“Wait,” he says slowly. "Are you like this . . . sorry, just—is this on purpose?"

The idea of somebody he was fucking thinking of him as "pretty" is something he's gotten off on even less often than the idea of somebody he was fucking thinking of him as cute, but—

Tim'd asked him if he'd wanted him to take a picture of him "all pretty", and he'd kept calling him pretty when he'd been showing off for them—when Tim had been taking those first pictures—and that's something Tim might . . . remember, later. Something Bernard might remember too, same as he'd remembered what some stupid teen 'zine that doesn't even exist anymore had said about his TTK.

Tim'd told him he came so pretty, when he'd been telling him how good he was for him; when he'd been telling him he was going to keep those photos. Had told him he looked pretty sucking him off and while he was petting his hair and as a mess; had told him his tits were pretty, and—and he'd said—he'd said—

Tim had said he was always so pretty, like he'd meant that was something he'd thought before—something he'd noticed before, and remembered noticing—

And Bernard had said he'd look pretty in pink, and that it'd bring out his eyes.

Bernard'd also told him to make sure he rode his cock pretty for Tim.

It's some fucking mortifying shit, the way Kon remembers thinking about that. Remembers feeling about that. He'd wanted to know if Tim had thought the way he'd ridden Bernard's cock had been pretty. If Tim had liked the way he'd ridden Bernard's cock.

Kon is absolutely a goddamn weirdo creep, yeah, because Tim told him to, like—Tim'd told him "not yet", and to be good, and Tim isn't trying to make him burn the fuck alive right now. He'd told him—he'd—

Tim isn't trying to make him burn the fuck alive right now, but when the hell would Tim ever have to try to do anything like that anyway?

"Kon?" Tim murmurs against his mouth—into the kiss—and Kon is definitely, definitely about to burn the fuck alive here.

"Uh?" he manages in an attempt at a response. It comes out kind of breathy, maybe, but . . . mostly coherent, he thinks. Like . . . mostly, yeah.

Tim leans back from the kiss a little and Kon barely bites back a whine; barely keeps himself from reflexively chasing his mouth. He blinks his eyes half-open, feeling even dizzier, and Tim's right there, because obviously Tim's right there, because obviously any time he looked for him Tim would be there, because—because—

He feels like he can't get out of his own stupid head at all, but Tim's right here, so . . . so it's fine, Kon thinks. Tim's here, so it doesn't matter where his stupid head is.

Tim'll put it where it's supposed to be, if it does.

"Mm," Tim says, and traces Kon's cheekbones with his thumbs again, watching . . . something on his face as he does. Kon's a little too overwhelmed to figure out what, but it's fine. Tim can look at anything he's got, far as he's concerned. "Maybe I was being a little mean, telling you to wait this long."

"Uh—what?" Kon manages, still feeling sort of . . . dizzy, a little. Not bad-dizzy, definitely, just . . . dizzy, yeah.

"Don't worry about it, pet," Tim says, and presses a light little kiss to the tip of his nose as he wraps a hand around his heavy, half-hard cock. Kon's breath stutters, and his hands flatten back against the wall as his hips stutter just the same into Tim's grip—into the same grip and same hand Tim caught him with the first time he saved his life; the first time they met.

His cock, very fucking obviously, does not stay just half-hard.

"I—I—okay," he gasps out roughly, trying to figure out what he's not supposed to be worrying about but then realizing it doesn't matter anyway, if it's not something Tim thinks matters. "What should I—what do you—?"

Tim gives his cock a slow, tight squeeze of a stroke that knocks all the air out of his lungs and all the thoughts out of his head and kisses his cheek this time. Kon forgets every single damn thing he's ever thought, all the stupid noise and chatter and bullshit all falling out of his stupid thick skull all at once, and it feels so fucking good.

"Nothing, pet," Tim hums, wrapping his other hand around his cock too and stroking it with both of them in long, languid pulls in an easy over-and-over rhythm that makes Kon's damn knees weak. His brain feels like it just about vibrates in his skull. "Just do this for me, alright? Just stay right where I put you and let me play with you."

"Okay," Kon whimpers, because his brain is still vibrating at a frequency he is not prepared to handle and there's nothing else in the useless-ass thing anyway, and because of course he was gonna say "okay" to any damn thing Tim told him to do, to any chance Tim gave him to prove he could still be good for him, still be—still be his—"Okay, okay, I—AH!"

"That's my boy," Tim hums, and strokes him tighter.

Clark stares pensively at the pod that the Fortress AI is currently interfacing with as it assesses the files that Dubbilex gave him back at Cadmus, and also the files that the Fortress hacked into and stripped from Cadmus, because while Clark does believe Dubbilex wants his brothers taken care of, he does not believe that Cadmus’s files are necessarily honest–or even accurate. 

Clark does not even slightly believe that, in fact, given all previous experience. 

This experience is already very, very different from that one, and he intends to keep it different. Very different. 

Though not . . . entirely, in certain ways. 

. . . family, slots into his head questioningly, and he looks back down at Conner where the other’s standing beside him, his G-gnome friend held like a teddy bear in the crook of one arm and his other hand, very hesitantly, clinging to the edge of Clark’s cape. The G-gnome seems content with being held, though Clark doesn’t understand how it’s a comfortable position. Then again, he knows absolutely nothing about their biology or build, so he’s just going to assume they know what they’re comfortable with in regards to that kind of thing. 

Conner still doesn’t seem to be able to talk and hasn’t put the G-gnome down at any point, so Clark had just sort of . . . assumed, really, and invited them “over” while preparing to leave with Conner and . . . well, Match’s pod, at least. 

“Yes,” he says to Conner, then crouches down beside him and just–looks at him for a moment. He tries not to look for his version of Conner in this one, but . . . well, they’re both Conner either way, so in certain ways it doesn’t really matter. 

And every possible version of Conner deserves everything that Clark couldn’t do for him the first time, and in every way, that’s what really matters. 

“It’s not too cold, is it?” he asks. “For you or your friend?” 

not cold, slots into his head as Conner looks down at the floor. He hasn’t let go of either the G-gnome or Clark’s cape. Clark resists the urge to reach out and brush his hair back. He’s so small, and Clark doesn’t want to overwhelm him any more than he already has. Or at least–not any more than he has to, because there are obviously ways that’s going to be unavoidable. 

“Good,” he says, smiling gently at him. Conner glances up at him for just a moment, and then stares for just a moment before flicking his eyes back down to the floor. “Are either of you hungry?”

Conner . . . hesitates, briefly, looking down at the G-gnome. The G-gnome tilts their head, peering assessingly at Clark. It’s an odd expression, but Clark’s getting used to seeing it. 

. . . don’t know, slots into his head, and he represses a frown. Conner won’t understand it’s not because of him, if he does. At least–likely won’t, and Clark doesn’t intend to risk it either way. stomach . . . itchy?

“How about we get you both a snack, and see if that helps the itching,” Clark suggests, his chest clenching painfully at the uncertain little furrow on Conner’s face. It’s–different, again. It’s a very Conner expression, absolutely, but Clark never saw it on his face like this the last time. Never saw his face like this, the last time. 

Project . . . Match? appears in his head. 

“We can’t wake Match up right now, I’m sorry,” Clark tells him, his chest clenching in that same painful way again. “Jor-El will make sure he doesn’t go hungry, though. He’ll take very good care of him, I promise. The best he can.” 

. . . promise.

“Yes,” Clark says. Conner–sniffs, a little, and ducks his head lower. 

Clark wonders how many promises anyone’s made to Conner at this point in his life. Wonders if anyone ever kept any of those promises, or even had the option to. 

Wonders if Conner has ever thought of himself as someone who anyone would promise anything to at all. 

. . . hug? appears in his head, hesitant and questioning and longing, and Clark scoops Conner up again gently and stands up with him carefully, mindful not to bump or knock the G-gnome out of his arms in the process. 

“Of course,” he says, sticking with the gentle approach the best he can. “Let’s get you both something to eat. I need to take care of you, too.” 

Conner curls up in his arms and hides his face against his shoulder with another wet little sniffle, wrapping both arms around the G-gnome as he does. Clark strokes a hand down his back lightly, then presses a kiss to his hair. Conner sniffles and buries his face in tight against his shoulder. 

thrums, flickers into Clark’s head, very small and very quiet, and this time his chest just aches over it. 

“I like how your heartbeat sounds too,” he murmurs, and strokes Conner’s back again as he carries him and the G-gnome away from the Fortress’s lab and towards the kitchen. Conner cries a little bit, perfectly silent about it, but that’s happened just about every time Clark’s held him so far. He thinks it’s just . . . overwhelming, from what he can tell. 

He hates that being held is such an unfamiliar experience for the kid that it makes him cry, but as long as Conner’s asking to be held . . . 

Well. Obviously he’s going to hold him, as long as Conner wants to be held. 

Clark can’t help thinking about–last time, again. Last time, and how once he’d gotten over himself, a part of him had always felt like Conner had never gotten . . . enough. Never gotten enough of anything he’d deserved, he means. Never gotten enough attention, or unconditional love, or . . . 

But everything had always been so busy, so constant, so . . . 

Clark had thought–he’d thought there’d be time, later. Time to make up for at least some of that. There wasn’t, though. 

He’d thought about that, when he’d died. He remembers thinking about it. He’d thought about a lot of things, but . . . especially that, yes. 

But now . . . well. Now there’s nothing but time, isn’t there. 

Tim retreats and goes looking for anything that looks like it’ll taste good with peanut butter. He finds some bananas on the counter and a box of strawberries and some abandoned celery sticks in the bottom drawer of the fridge, and gets the promised apple too, and just . . . makes up another little snack for the kid on a clean plate with a couple heavy spoonfuls of peanut butter in the center and celery-divided sections of neatly-sliced fruit arranged around said peanut butter. Tim’s not really artistic, but he can copy a basic pattern, so it’s not hard to lay the slices out in tidy layered rows and use the celery as dividers to minimize the metaphorical stream-crossing of the different fruit slices and make them look at least alright. Not artistic, but . . . 

( Kon was artistic, if you could get him to admit to it. Creative, and good with his hands, and full of so much he was just trying to figure out how to SAY, and never feeling like it was something he SHOULD be saying or ever knew how to or where to start with or . . . )

Tim stops thinking, because he’s not thinking about anything that’s going to help Tobias right now. 

Tobias is the only thing he needs to be thinking about right now. Possibly the only thing he ever has the right to think about again, after what he’s done to the poor kid; after he’s made such a fucking mess of the kid’s life. Made such a fucking mess of the kid’s existence, because Tobias is always going to know that existence only happened at all because Tim couldn’t handle his own shit. Because his best friend who he might’ve been a little hung up on died, and the girl he was definitely hung up on died, and one of his other best friends checked out of his life and then died too, and his dad died, and they all went in such awful, awful ways, every single one of them–awful and sudden and vicious and UNFAIR, every single one–and now . . . 

Now Tobias is here, and that’s even more awful and unfair. So, so much more awful and unfair. 

It feels sudden and vicious too, but it’s something that Tim did to himself over the course of weeks and months, something Tim did to Kon’s memory and grave, something Tim did to Tobias before the kid was even born. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have suggested a named that started with “T”, he thinks. Maybe he should’ve thought of a better snack than peanut butter and fruit. 

Maybe he should’ve gone to therapy and not done this. 

But he can’t ever actually say that, because Tobias already thinks he only exists because of “something bad”. Already thinks he is “something bad”. So if Tim says things like that to him, Tobias is going to keep thinking he’s the problem, think he shouldn’t exist, think things would be better if he really did find some god or spell or something to scoop his own soul out of his body and shove Kon’s into it, like it’s somehow not his body just because Tim is an absolute bastard with no boundaries and just the pathetic remnants of some already admittedly flexible moral standards and absolutely no coping mechanisms whatsoever left. Like he’s not a real person just because a bad person made him. 

Like–like he’s–like he’s bad, and he shouldn’t exist. Like he’s something no one wants to exist. 

It would, again, have been so much easier to deal with the half-Kryptonian supervillain, Tim thinks. At least the supervillain would’ve actually blamed him for this. At least the supervillain would’ve hated him for this. 

Tim can’t believe he did this to someone. He can’t believe he did this to someone with Kon’s face. 

He can’t believe he did this to Kon. 

Like Kon was just–an experiment. Like he was just his DNA. Like he was just a basement lab and some LexCorp-branded files and grave-robbed DNA. Like he was replaceable. 

Like replacing him like this wasn’t the worst possible thing he could’ve done to Kon. 

Another Black Zero at least would’ve punished him for that. 

. . . Tim really did mean to stop thinking. Especially about things that aren’t actually any use to Tobias. 

He could punish himself for the rest of his life, but it wouldn’t do anything to make Tobias’s life any better. 

Tim finishes arranging the last circle of fruit, gives the place a quick lookover while forcing himself not to obsess over any perceived imperfections–lets himself adjust a couple of particularly crooked slices, but that’s it–and then takes the little plate over to Tobias, who’s already staring at him with big wet eyes again. 

Or just hasn’t stopped staring at him with big wet eyes, more likely. 

“. . . it’s for me?” Tobias checks the same way he did before, his voice a little wobblier about it this time around. Tim is the worst person alive, but that’s not a useful thought right now. Punishing himself isn’t useful. Hating himself isn’t useful. 

Tobias needs him to actually be useful. 

Tobias needs him to do a lot of things that Tim doesn’t actually know if he’s capable of doing, but he doesn’t really have a choice about figuring something out. 

“Yes,” Tim says. “Have as much of it as you want. Don’t force yourself to eat it all if it’s too much, but if it’s not enough, I’ll make you more.” 

Tobias sniffles, ducking his head so his hair hides his eyes. Tim is the worst person alive, but being the worst person alive isn’t useful right now. 

“Let me get you something to drink too,” he says, stepping back from the counter and retreating across the kitchen for a glass of water. They’re out of milk and he thinks kids aren’t supposed to have too much juice, and kids definitely aren’t supposed to have soda, and starting with water is probably going to be easiest on Tobias’s stomach anyway. Safest to start with, if nothing else. 

He can’t believe he did this to Kon.