Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

     It is very rare that Alfred Pennyworth makes friends. He has friendly acquaintances, such as the clerks at the grocer or the workers at the postal service. He could claim he has a deep connection with Dr. Leslie Thompkins, who had been Master Bruce's doctor since Lady Martha and Master Thomas had passed. She was certainly dear to him. He had, in his youth, many comrades when he fought in Her Majesty's service. But Alfred's social circle was relegated mainly to his dearest family, his charges and their stubborn ways. He could often catch Commisioner Gordon's eye- the only man with the clearance to be in the know that the Bats existed and to interact with them- and they would share a weary glance. His friendships closest to him in a manner that reflected that of both a granparent and a parent, however, happened to live out of state, far beyond the gloom of Gotham. Right under the brilliant skies of smalltown Smallville, Kansas.

Alfred had been aware of Martha and Jonathan Kent's existence since Master Bruce deigned to stop being quite so brooding and awkward and allowed himself a tentative friendship with Superman. Alfred knew whoever raised this man, who very well could have been an overlord of the Earth with near invulnerability and impossible powers, who ensured that he would be a humble, empathetic, moralistic person, they had to be good. Simply good, just down to their cores. Hard working, most likely, humble themselves,  nurturing individuals. He became somewhat more aware of them when Master Dick came along and was introduced to Mr. Kent, immediately taking to this new person with an ease that must have come from years of meeting and greeting at Haley's, from being under the burn of the spotlight as the center of attention. But ultimately, it was his dearest Timothy who brought the presence of Martha and Jonathan Kent to the forefront of his perception.

Many forget, but Alfred had been present in Hawai'i as an adult companion when dear Tim had gone after Superboy, who'd been enthralled by Poison Ivy. He had been the one to see the immediate after effect of Robin meeting Superboy. His third grandson was a fairly lonely boy and Alfred suspects, that for all the media attention and people crowding Superboy, the young partial-Kryptonian had been just as alone in the world. Alfred had been a witness to something more than just an alliance or a collaboration. He knew when that horrible 15th birthday happened, something that still had Alfred shamefaced to this day, and their dearest Timothy had sprinted off in the dead of night. Only to return late the next day, wearing different clothes and clutching a large, heavily stuffed white rabbit to his chest, bearing plastic and rubber costume jewelry, smelling of funnel cake, and when asked where he had been, he responded with something warm and bright gleaming in his eyes, "With someone who loves me."

The strand of hay and the streak of maraschino cherry on the boy's cheek had led Alfred to conclude that dear Tim had been retrieved by Kon-El and had probably met up with Bart Allen. His friends must have done something to cheer him up, most likely taking dear Tim to a fair. A quick search led to Alfred dialing on the landline and Martha Kent greeted him from Kansas. "Tim is a fine boy, so sweet," she said, "It was a pleasure to have him over. He can come over any time he needs, any time he wants, Mr. Pennyworth. He's so good to Conner, so good for him. I just hope my boy's just the same kinda good for your's."

     So Alfred let it stay a secret when he would hear the soft squeak of a window sliding open and the ringing, hushed laughter of his third grandson escaping through the window when those nights where the city was just quiet enough to go to sleep at midnight instead of 4 a.m. With Ms. Barbara's Birds of Prey and Miss Kate as Batwoman flying through the cities, Alfred could sleep to the tune of muffled laughter and the pale shadow of two children happily flying through the clouds. He increasingly called Martha and Jonathan as time wore on, asking after their health, their sons' health, the pricing for a wheel of fresh cheese from Smallville. Sometimes he would hear dear Timothy laughing or singing in the background of the Kent home. And when Superboy died, Martha and Jonathan called him to weep privately, having to lie that Conner Kent went overseas for a foreign exchange program, where he would tragically die within the coming year. Superboy dying at the same time as Conner Kent was too suspicious. Master Bruce even helped arrange the cover. So the Kents called one of the few in the know to mourn another loss to their family, yet another son gone and one they would likely not be blessed to have returned again by a miracle. And even while they felt the loss of their son, they called him when it appeared that Alfred's son, the one who came to him from Lady Martha and Master Thomas, had died as well. Alfred suspects he was the first person Jonathan had called when Conner Kent came back to life, sobbing, "A miracle. We keep being blessed. I pray a miracle for you too."

And just like he had done so at age 13 after the loss of Master Jason, dear Timothy had proven that Alfred had not lost Master Bruce, and his son, Alfred's and Martha's and Thomas's son, would return home. And so he did return, and all the better, wanted to be more than the Batman, wanted more than to chase justice for an unfair city. "I don't understand how to get closer to them, Alfred," Master Bruce would confess one cool, early October night while Master Damian slept with Alfred's feline counterpart in his bed, Master Jason raised a ruckus on the East End, Master Dick flew across Bludhaven with the vigilante Bluebird lurking somewhere, Lady Cassandra had a late night team up with Spoiler, and dear Tim sent over a report about some type of odd underground illegal animal breeding collusion he was investigating. 

"Dick and I, we understand each other more these days. I think him dealing with Damian while I was gone seemed to bring his viewpoint to mine from his time as Robin. I suppose having to be Batman put him in my shoes. But he doesn't need to parent anymore and he can't just turn it off, it's going to make him stressed ," Master Bruce continued, and ah yes, that'll be Master Thomas's 94 year old scotch by the Bat Computer loosening his tongue, "Jason and I...I miss him. I wish I could go back and stop him from ever feeling like I never loved him. I don't know how to get him to understand the way I feel. I wish I could be his father again. For Cass and I, well, I suppose her seeing what I mean is the reason why we aren't in such turmoil but I don't know what her desires are. What she wants to do besides Black Bat, what she loves and likes and dislikes. I don't know how to ask her without depending on her to read me. Tim is even more close-lipped and independent than ever. He's gotten sneakier somehow. And I can't figure out what would make him happy. I don't even know if I should give him more space and independence or not. Damian. How do I connect with him? He is so violent. So harsh at times, so cruel, and yet...he is still a child. My child, and I know he can be gentle and I want him to know he is allowed to be gentle."

If it weren't so thoroughly inappropriate to allow the children to see their father innebriated, he would allow them to see Master Bruce in this state where he was honest and communicative. As it was, the footage of this would be saved to the Cave servers. Maybe one of the children would happen across it while snooping. He sternly guided Master Bruce to bed after ensuring his teeth got brushed and some water was drunk. Tylenol would be set on the bedside table and Alfred would go to sleep.

"Bring 'em down here to Smallville," Jonathan suggested the next morning when Alfred relayed Master Bruce's laments about his struggle to connect to his children, "It'll be a bit of a trip but you have a few helpers who can look after Gotham for a couple days. Martha, what do you think?"

The phone was passed over and Martha spoke, "I think it'd be a good idea. I miss seing Tim over here and I think a bit of sunlight would do everyone good. As long as y'all don't mind rooming together. Clark won't be over this weekend, Jonny's been having trouble with his heat vision and Lois has a big story she needs to finish so we could probably swing the room if we ask him if he minds."

"I do believe it'd be healthy," Alfred contemplated, "Doing some order of hard work is good for the soul and the body, after all. Are you certain it wouldn't be too much trouble?"

"Oh Alfred," Martha laughed, "It'll be our pleasure."

     The struggle is attempting to get the entirety of the family to agree to Martha and Jonathan's invitation. Jason bounces around his Gotham safehouses every night, never staying in one in a particularly sensible pattern. It could be guessed that he writes the addresses on slips of paper and mixes them around in his helmet before drawing one at random. Jason doesn't do it from his helmet- he does it in a ceramic pot he used to keep a small cactus in before Roy killed the poor plant. Jason was gone for one hour and he came back to his dead cactus. Roy never did tell him what he did to end the plant's life but Jason kept the momento of his cactus. Lian even gave the pot a makeover by painting pink penguins all around it. Very few people could actually find Jason. One of them was Tim, and if Jason didn't consider the runt a stalker-y, creepy little Spook already then that sure would have done the trick. Cass could always find him too, and there had been more than one occassion that Jason will wake up to find the other Spook passed out on the couch with an empty box of Rice Krispies laid over her chest. Another was..."Master Jason," Alfred greeted as Jason pried open the door.

Jason had taken over considerable amounts of property from the Penguin and Black Mask, not to mention other, more minor crime lords that tried their luck a little too much with Jason's rules and ended up, well, in a better place. So to speak. Jason took businesses and hideouts. Currently he was in a sleazy penthouse sort of deal that Jason bleached down entirely after snagging it. It had a good kitchen, not too many bullet holes, and there was only one body stuffed behind the drywall. Still, it wasn't a super swanky place and Jason shuffled in embarrassment. "You've done a fine job on the upkeep of your establishment, Master Jason," Alfred praised, "Now, I did come for more than a social call."

Jason closed the door to direct Alfred to the armchair Roy gave to him. He's mostly certain his best friend hadn't stolen it, but he wasn't totally sure. Eh, whatever. "Did B sic you on me," Jason groaned, "He's been leaving me chili dogs! It's so fucking creepy, he knows my order for every single chili dog stand in the city!"

The creepy bastard had somehow fucking stalked Jason across the city just to drop off greasy brown bags of chili dogs. Then he'd fuck off into the shadows like the world's stupidest ass cryptid that had ever lived. Grown ass man dressed as a bat, dropping off chili dogs to the formerly deceased. God, somebody should do, like, a pyschological profile study on that Bat-stard. Jason might pay actual money for someone try and take a crack at that mental-emotional dumptser fire. Alfred's lip twitches. Aw man, he thinks it's funny! What the fuck, betrayal really fucking does come from those you trust the most. It couldn't have been worse if Bizzaro betrayed him. "No, no, I'm not here on Master Bruce's behalf," Alfred assures, "You have been extended an invitation to visit the Kent Farm in Smallville, Kansas by a Mrs. Martha and Mr. Jonathan Kent."

"How do they know I'm alive," Jason muttered, "Oh wait, no, Kid Kent probably bitched about me to his parents."

Jason has had to sit in Superboy's proximity a few times too many, always resulting in them glaring viciously at each other's head. Jason technically didn't have personal beef with the kid but Superboy sure as fuck had personal beef with Jason. He apparently wasn't too pleased to learn that Tim had a scar on his chest from where Jason stabbed the runt with a batarang when they were squabbling over B's sweaty ass cowl which only added to the general 'I wanna heat vision you to atoms and let my dog piss on your ashes' aura. And Jason wasn't gonna let some half-Kryptonian brat who chronologically was younger than Lian try and death glare him. Besides, Jason wasn't scared of him out of all of Tim's pet whackos. The Mini Speedster, on the other hand, was a seven layer deep dish of what the fuck that Jason wasn't even gonna try to figure out. "Waitwaitwait, what exactly do you mean 'invitation," Jason asked.

"Mr. and Mrs. Kent have invited you and the others to stay for 3 days at the Kent Farm," Alfred explains, "No ulterior motives. Just to relax and exist away from eveeything. I personally believe that it would benefit everyone to take a short break, even if it is only but 3 days."

      Go to the middle of asscrack, Kansas and stay on a farm? Well, actually, that didn't sound terrible. And the runt did mention something about fresh milk, no hormone treatments and no additives. There had to be some kinda farmer's market in a small farming town, right? And he could actually go out in public, if he really wanted to. There's no goddamn way anyone in Smallville who wasn't a Kent knew what the Waynes even looked like, much less the one that's supposed to be fucking dead. Holy crap, the idea actually sounds pretty appealing when he thinks about it. "Who'll take care of my Alley," Jason grumbles.

"Miss Kane has volunteered her services, not to mention Miss Barbara's Birds of Prey. Bluebird and her Batgirls shall also be providing service for Bludhaven for the short sojourn to Kansas," Alfred replies. 

Well, that's actually a fair amount of people, damn. "What if I'd prefer to stay here," Jason huffs.

Alfred reaches over to run his thumb across Jason's knuckles. His hands are old, strong but old, soft with slight wrinkles but tough with callouses. So gentle. So loving. Jason leans his hand into his grandfather's touch without hesitation. Jason can smell the Earl Grey on him. "I will not force you to go anywhere you do not wish to go," Alfred told him softly, "But I would like you to enjoy yourself beyond the fog of this city. You are so young, and you have been so very hurt, my darling boy. I just wish you to exist, even for a brief time, in a way where you can feel nothing but peace."

Jason knows Alfred means it wholeheartedly. Jason normally feels like he's made out of steel. Right now, he just feels like hot candle wax, melting softly under a flickering flame. "I'll go," Jason finally says, "You're staying here while we're gone, aren't you?"

Alfred smiles at him. It's not a brilliant Dick Grayson grin or the faint, fond uptick that Bruce used to give Jason when Bruce was still his dad when Jason was younger. It's gently satisfied, the way snow is when it first settles on sidewalk in a soft powder. "I have long missed when I could take up landscaping projects peacefully without my topiaries being cut to shreds," Alfred sniffed primly. 

A wet laugh bubbled from Jason's throat, "I was your good kid, wasn't I?"

Alfred stands and cups Jason's face. "Of course, lad," he says, "I will see you Friday with you bags packed for travel. Or perhaps come visit me sooner. You are always welcome with me."

Jason couldn't deny the burning lump in his throat and stinging pressure behind his eyes as Alfred left. The door closes and Jason lets go.

     Dick agrees readily to visiting the Kent Farm. Of course he would! He wants to see chickens and feel the sun on his face. For all that he had become used to the shadows and grim darkness of Gotham, he relished in the days of his youth with the Teen Titans. When he could be a boy under the sunlight, warming his bones and flesh, bringing back memories of being sat on baby Zitka's back as a toddler while she trotted around outside. Of his mamă and tata swinging him high above their heads to get him used to the sensation of flying. Even when they knew he was born used to it, he was born to be a bird, flying towards the sun. Gotham had taken so many years to get used to. Bruce would take him out of Gotham as often as he could manage because Dick craved the light like a sunflower. 'I will go,' Cass decided eagerly, 'Conner says they have no rabbits on the farm.'

"Nope, no rabbits," Tim confirms, "They do have Lady Henrietta though, so watch out for her."

"Lady Henrietta," Dick laughs, although he doesn't know why Cass seems to dislike rabbits.

Tim nods solemnly, explaining absentmindedly while he drafts four different emails on his phone, "Lady Henrietta is a hen. She's like the queen of the henhouse because she bullies all the other hens and she's pecked out four different foxes' eyes before and I think she'd fight a god for a worm even if she didn't want the worm. She's horribly contrary and ornery and Kon's the only one who can collect eggs from her without having his blood shed literally only because her claws just bounce off his skin. Lady Henrietta deeply hates Ron the Rooster, she doesn't like any other chicken in the coop, and she's my favourite hen on the farm."

Dick thinks that all of what he just said says a lot about Tim as a person. 'Tasty,' Cass teases and Tim starts chasing her around, the two of them flickering in and out of the shadows of the couch and the pooling shapes of darkness the walls and chandeliers in the Manor afford.

"Tt," Damian scoffed, "Why should I waste my time on a farm? We have obligations to the city, need I remind you all."

"The city is covered by our allies, Master Damian," Alfred assured, "And a farm is a most important and valueable establishment."

"One that I should not have to force myself to attend on a paltry invitation," Damian seethes.

"Don't talk about the farm like that," Tim hisses as he skids to a stop beside Cass, "Ma and Pa are inviting you. They don't even know you. They're being kind."

The familiarity of the way Tim addresses Martha and Jonathan Kent is somewhat striking. That's right; Tim used to visit Kent Farm, probably- no, definitely after sneaking off. "Tt, they can retract their kindness," Damian sneered, "If they are too cowardly to not directly demand whatever they want from the Wayne family, they do not deserve it."

Dick intervened immediately before Damian and Tim somehow came to blows. "Dami, they don't want anything," Dick said, "Look at it this way: Superman is B's best friend. Kon-El is Tim's best friend. The Kents are Alfred's close friends. They just want to do something a friend would do. No hidden agendas. Besides, if you go and behave the best you can..."

Dick leans down to whisper to Damian, "I'll talk to Alf and B about you getting that Great Dane puppy you wanted."

Bingo. There's a few things Damian undeniably loves without shame: Alfred the Cat, Cheese Vikings, swords, and very large dogs. Dick thinks that the kid could be a vetrinarian someday, once he comes to understand he doesn't have to be the heir to everything Bat and can choose what he wants to do with his life. But that's something for later. Damian's eyes widen fractionally and he clears his throat. "Very well then, Richard," Damian mutters, "I will attempt to be on my best behaviour. I expect recompense for this."

Damian bats Dick's hand away lightly as Dick reaches to ruffle his spiky hair. Tim eyes Dick consideringly before Cass distracts him again. "What about you Tim," Dick calls after him, "Are you going?"

     Tim technically doesn't need to be asked if he's going; Dick already knows. "Of course," Tim hollers as he leaps over the bannister after Cass, "No way I'd miss it!"

Dick, briefly, wonders if Conner and Tim are too attached. They've always bordered on that edge of too-close-too-much, teetering on a precipice of what Dick had heard other heroes in the community whisper 'obsessed'. It always made Dick mad, especially when they didn't know those kids. The Young Justice team needed each other, and more than that, they wanted each other. Dick knew very few people actually wanted the YJ kids. He thought very bitterly of poor Cissie's mother and the scientists of CADMUS. Bart was a boy out of time and Cassie was a demigoddess who was trying to live up to Donna and Tim was the third Robin, the Robin after a tragedy. The whole group of them were tied up together like nerve endings in a body. It was great that they had each other. But everyone seemed to agree that maybe, even if Wondergirl ever got together with Superboy, the third Robin and Superboy were always going to be attached. Dick had reprimanded a few of the less professional, much younger heroes for gossiping about literal children, saying disappointedly, "Those are a bunch of 14 to 16 year olds. I think you're a little too focused on those kids' lives instead of helping civilians out."

But that was before everything. And Dick was left holding the shaking shards of his little brother who wept endlessly for dead Superboys and missing speedsters and then long gone fathers, who was getting sick off grief. Now, Dick sees Tim smile but he has the frightening thought that if Superboy had gone before, he could go again. And if that time ever comes again, Dick thinks, Superboy would take his Red Robin with him.

     Bruce is both surprised and unsurprised that Alfred managed to wrangle all the kids into agreeing on the trip. Even Jason, although Jason takes some serious bribing into getting on the private jet to Wichita. Bruce can still taste the glitter from the Easy Bake Oven brownies that little Miss Lian Harper had gifted Jason for the trip that even Jason couldn't bring himself to eat. Damian is sat closest to Bruce and Dick while Jason huddles in the back, surprisingly close to Tim and Cass. "If I have to breathe the same goddamn air as you, I might as well sit near the fucking Critters," Jason snapped, jerking his thumb to where Cass and Tim are sharing a tablet, "At least they're semi-tolerable."

"-of course the Salem Witch Trials were a historically infamous event that clearly betrays the world at large but also specifically America's long history of dehumanizing women, but some of the Salem Witch Trials' journals are so funny," Tim explains, "There's accounts that are all like 'I saw her at the Devil's Sacrement!' But ma'am, what were you doing at the Devil's Sacrement?"

Bruce doesn't know what the Hell they're watching on that tablet. Cass nods seriously, sticking her hand in a baggie to hand Jason what looks like chocolate pieces? Jason actually eats them too? He's not sure when that happened. "Poison," Cass rasps.

"Oh, you wanna watch the one about Giulia Tofana," Tim sounded delighted and a quick Google search reveals that they're now watching a documentary about the creator of the acqua toffana poison used to murder hundreds of unwanted husbands in Sicily circa 1650.

Bruce pointedly does not think about what his kids in the back are doing. Normal parents have to yell at their 16 year old and 18 year olds for watching adult videos. He has to pry a small drop point knife from his 10 year old's fist while he naps on his oldest who won't stay sitting in his seat properly. Dick still doesn't like sitting rightside up on planes. He still puts his feet on the head rest and his head on the seat while he makes Bruce's back hurt just looking at him. Bruce falls asleep to the narrator describing the gastrointestinal effects of acqua toffana on the unsuspecting victim.

The plane ride is better than Bruce could have suspected, although it's probably because he put Damian in the front like teachers do for the troublesome kids in class. He also put Dick with Damian, like how Mrs. Hendricks at the academy put Oliver next to him because 15 year old Oliver Queen refused to shut the fuck up in class and anxious, unchatty 15 year old Bruce Wayne wouldn't possibly engage. Oh, Bruce engaged alright. He still had Oliver's tooth in a small box in the attic. Bastard. He turns to look at his other three children. Cass and Tim, the thinnest, narrowest of his children, have squished again into the same chair. Bruce suspected that Cassandra's early childhood left her with both the need for a consistent reminder that physical contact could be safe and underdeveloped concepts of personal space. Tim had lower concepts of boundaries once he came to know a person than an average person, and he accepted all forms of positive physical contact. Jason, however, was awake. It was dark in the plane cabin, and Bruce had many years of experience in remaining unseen in the dark while spying. Jason brushed a finger across Cassandra's forehead, flicking a cowlick. He looked almost fond. Bruce struggled to hide the hitch in his breath when Jason's hand travelled to Tim's face. A thumb softly brushed the sharp ridge of Tim's cheekbone, circling against pale skin. It'd be so easy to dig a knuckle into Tim's eye socket...but Jason didn't. He hovered a palm across Tim's hair and retracted back, then hesitantly smoothed his hand against Tim's hair. Jason slouches away from the two and Bruce lets himself drift back to sleep.

      The drive from Wichita to Smallville is five hours in the rental van. A van. The sort you see soccer moms on t.v. owning, or kidnappers in Gotham. Bruce is behind the wheel because Alfred flew the plane back to Gotham so he could start immediately on his gardening projects. Damian had claimed the passenger's seat and everyone let him. Dick and Tim are in the second row, Cass and Jason in the back. "Bruce, for the love of God, use the GPS," Tim pleads for the eleventh time after the first three hours.

"I know where I'm going," Bruce insists because he absolutely did.

After three more left turns, Bruce hears the click of a seat belt and the car door opening as he cruises down a dirt road at 45 mph. "TIM," Dick shrieks.

It finally registers that his third son just launched himself out of a moving car and Bruce brakes hard. Tim is definitely okay, they've all had extensive training on how to get out of a moving car going far faster than 45. There's a dark streak across the sky and where Bruce assumes Tim landed is where the streak goes. His phone rings as the streak takes off again. It's Tim calling. "Use the fucking GPS, Bruce," Tim deadpans over the wind rush on his end of the phone, since clearly he came to get his own pick up.

The call ends and Bruce sighs, leaning over to the GPS. Jason, who had been holding back his laughter, cackles especially mockingly when the GPS reveals Bruce had been going the wrong way the whole time.

      The trip is way fucking better than Jason expected. B is so used to knowing exactly where in Gotham everything is because he's the city's biggest stalker (with Tim being the smallest, obviously) that he's refusing to use the GPS on principle. The only shocking thing is that Jason wasn't the first person to jump ship- jump car, if you wanna get technical. He even had his own personal pick up at the ready. 'He did say to use the GPS,' Cass shrugs it off when Tim and his backpack go hurtling out the door, then gives Jason a handful of sweet n sour gummy worms.

It's so goddamn bright, the sunlight and the sky. A sky without fog is jarring. It's so fucking blue. Jason squints as the van trundles down the dirt road towards a worn looking barn and a cozy, ageworn little two story that might have been hand built. Rows of corn and wheat framed the wide road. He could spot a small orchard if he squinted. Bruce slowed his speed as they approached and a woman stepped out from under the awning on the porch. She looked...soft, with white hair streaked with pale brown and smile lines framing her cheeks and crows feet pulling at her eyes. A man joins her, balding and stout, he must have been sturdy in his youth, and he's got sunbeaten skin and a broad, easy grin that pulls at the wrinkles etching his skin. "Bruce," she greets warmly, "Clark talks 'bout you. So does Alfred. These your kids?"

Cass waves happily and Mrs. Kent laughs, "Hello, Cassandra. It's so nice to see you in somethin' other than Tim's pictures."

Bruce shifts awkwardly under the attention. Mr. Kent strides up, holding out his hand. "We promise Alfred's only talked good 'bout all of y'all," he says, "Anybody wanna help with some horses?"

The Demon Spawn perks right up, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. "A noble creature," Damian mutters, "I shall accompany you, Mr. Kent."

"None of that now, call me Jonathan," Mr. Kent insists.

"Alfred said you like baking, ain't that right, Jason," Mrs. Kent addresses him and Jason jolts. 

Her eyes are brown. Normal. Warm. Jason shrugs, kicking the toe of his steel toe into the dirt. "Is Tim here," Dick interrupts.

"Oh, he is. But Kon is hoggin' him just like always. I didn't even get to see him properly 'fore they went chasin' each other through the fields," Mrs. Kent scoffs good naturedly, "I'm just lucky Bart ain't here or I wouldn't see 'em till dinner."

"The only thing that'll stop Bart or Kon," Jonathan Kent chimes in as he guides Damian off to the barn, Dick trailing behind, "Dinner."

It's just Mrs. Kent, Jason, Cass, and Bruce. It'd be fine, if not for Bruce. "Now, Alfred said you cook, honey," Mrs. Kent directs her attention to Jason again. 

Cass nods. "Does," she croaks, "Good. Spicy."

"Oh, I love a good kick to my food," Mrs. Kent tells her, "You want to help me with dinner tonight, Jason?"

Jason swallows, nodding his head. He feels disarmed, discombobulated. Like someone just beaned him over the head and now he's lost his sense of direction. "Thank you," Mrs. Kent says softly.

"Ma," a far off voice hollers before Jason can start to do something stupid like cry in front of Bruce.

         Thank God for Tim and timing. A dog bursts from the towering fields of corn, panting and, uh, flying. Superdog. Cool. "Tim, is that you, sweetie," Mrs. Kent calls.

Tim looks, well, like a human. He's got flushed pink skin and sweaty, long hair knotted messily off his neck and he doesn't look like the little mannequinn Jason's become used to seeing him as  "Ma, help," Tim shrieks with a bright grin, "He's gonna-"

A much larger body barrels into Tim from behind and tosses him up in the air like a doll. "Caught ya," Superboy crows, "I win this time, Wonder!"

Tim flops back down on Superboy's shoulder in a fireman's carry. "Kon, now what did i say about throwin' him around like that," Mrs. Kent scolds, except she's smiling.

"Just catch him 'fore he hits the ground," Superboy answers cheekily.

He sets Tim down, who curls a thumb through Superboy's belt loop absentmindedly. "Oh, Tim, your hair," Mrs. Kent cooes, "It's so beautiful like this. Here, let me help with it."

Jason observes quietly as Tim allows his head to be bent forward and a pale blue kercheif with bees on it is used to tie his hair back. He's seen the Half Pint Wonder freeze awkwardly when Dickiebird cuddled up to him just as he's seen the runt curl up against Cass under the same comforter in one chair. The kid's on guard around the Demon Spawn and B just as he's watched the mini speedster curl up on the shrimp's lap while Wondergirl braids his hair. His body language is neutral towards Jason. Not untrusting but not confident in him either. Tim bares his vulnerable neck to Mrs. Kent and Jason doesn't even blame him.

     Bruce hadn't thought that this would be a good idea when Alfred approached him with the invitation from the Kents. He even called Clark about it. "Go," Clark insisted, "I won't mind if you use my room to sleep. I think it might do you some good. You and your kids. Ma and Pa thinks so, Alfred thinks so, and I think so. Just bring your sunscreen, Count Dracula, it's still sunny in Kansas."

But he sees Damian reach up towards a mare's face and place a palm on its nose with all the gentleness of a feather in the wind, with Jonathan Kent quietly directing Damian without being snapped at. Dick hoists Damian up on a saddle before leaving Damian to go bother the chickens. Jason is in the kitchen with Martha Kent, dicing chicken and listening to the radio without any tension pulling his shoulders taught. Cass is laying on the ground while Krypto the superdog rests his head on Cass's stomach. Tim has disappeared again, into the corn fields and under the sun, where he'll occasionally emerge, then disappear again only for Kon-El to skid back out and get drop kicked onto his face by Tim exploding from the crops. And Bruce? He feels a soft October warmth wash over him, peaceful and hesitant. Alfred was right. They need this. And Bruce would make the best of it.

Chapter Text

     Cassandra loves the dog. She loves the warm chicken barley soup and the soft bread rolls. Cassandra really loves the way the tension that has bled from her brothers' bodies, most notably in Jason and Tim. Dick is less frantic, more energetic. He's been loosening since Dad's return home. Less weary, more coiled and ready to fly. In a good way. Moving hands, bright eyes, wide, wide grin that sits easy against his cheeks and skin. Damian is...she cocks her head to the side and observes. One raised shoulder, the one facing Jonathan, while the one at Dick's side is lowered, slack. It'd be easier to raise his arm in defense if it was already tensed. Damian ticks his eyes towards the windows and doors in 1-3-1-2 second patterns. His hand, the same one is the tensed shoulder, is curled slightly. Offensive. But his face is trying to lie. Damian is very little. He's also very honest. His whole body screams what he feels, all the time. Screams rage when he's enraged, screams fear when he's afraid, his limbs are so very loud. He's just like their Dad. Bruce has a very loud body when he's not Batman. When Bruce is just Bruce, Dad, he's yelling all the time what he feels. Cassandra sees Jason quietly eating dinner. When he eats with them in the Nest, when it's just Cassandra, Tim, and Jason, he's also a quiet eater. Cassandra thinks he feels guilty about Timmy, but he doesn't know it in his head even if he knows it in his hands. Sometimes Jason is sad-quiet but right now he is peace-quiet. Cassandra likes when Jason is peace-quiet. Martha hands Jason more bread rolls, thanking him softly for helping her make the chicken soup. Jason likes helping. He likes knowing he helped. Cassandra thinks that's why she can turn away when he kills someone. It's hard. But she does it. Because Jason knows he helped, helped kids, helped someone who would live in fear otherwise. The victims weren't like the people Cassandra has killed, like the people Jason has killed. They might deserve the deaths if those that died. Cassandra still will not kill. She can protect and cause pain and offer mercy. But Cassandra will not kill. And Tim. She looks to Tim.

Tim is always very tired. He spends long, long hours solving cases, running around the city, staying up through the day for his Neon Knights program. He takes those lomg, strange phone calls to his employees where he leaves the room. There are some nights when he will stay inside, out of the Nest and in his apartment. But those nights are often troublesome. Cassandra knows her brother has nightmares. She can see his body plead and shriek and beg to leave him alone (or to sometimes stay, please stay, don't leave me, please), and she knows it's not just because of the Naked Woman. Cassandra does not like the Naked Woman. Cassandra wants to hurt the Naked Woman, and whoever else made her brother, her first little brother, so afraid. Timmy is safe here. Tim's shoulders are loose as if she has never seen him wound so tight she thought his bones would snap. His breathing is soft and slow, like he is almost near sleep despite the fact that he looks so awake. There is no darting his eyes in paranoid patterns, no positioning where he would be able to cover his throat or face or heart if someone were to leap at him. Cassandra knows why. Conner is on his other side, boxing Timmy between herself and him. Tim knows he is safe. Conner and Tim are playing tic-tac-toe on Conner's knee, and Tim is winning. They are comfortable, here in this home, here on this farm, here with each other. "I made apple muffins," Martha offered, "We got some caramel to put on it too if ya'll are gonna want to try one."

"I'll get them for ya, Ma," Conner told her before he turned to Tim, "Want some caramel?"

"Yeah," Tim replied, then grinned, "You know, I really hate the way you say caramel. Care-mel."

"And you say car-uh-mel, ya priss," Conner teased, "Richboy."

"Hillbilly," Tim retorted lightly, "With maybe a hint of Sodapop Curtis."

"That's the worst thing you have ever told me," Conner responded as he dug into the refridgerator while a hot muffin tin rested flat on his palm.

Conner got a mischievous grin on his face as he feigned tipping the muffin tin over. "Kon," Martha started, then stopped when the tin spun around mid-air, "Oh, you know I forget you can do that. My heart almost stopped there and fell out my chest."

"Statistics prove that you're a horrible person," Tim chimed in, "You could have given Ma a heart attack."

"You're arguably a worse person than me," Conner argued, "Remember the thing with the-"

Tim interrupted him, "If you're talking about the Thing, then we are not talking about it in the presence of other people. We legally can't disclose that information and you know it. If you're talking about That, the corpse was already like that when I got there and you know it. If you're talking about The Incident, we all took a vote and the property damages were not my fault alone and we don't even need Mount Rushmore, it's ugly. And if you wanna bring up the werewolves, we can bring up the werewolves."

'Werewolves,' Cassandra saw Dick mouth to himself. "That's fair," Conner conceded and planted the hot tin on the table.

"It must be nice to be heat-proof," Dick mentioned, "Thank you, Mrs. Kent."

"Ain't no trouble," Martha assured, "Call me Martha."

"Yeah, it's pretty cool. I was real happy to find out I had it when I set myself on fire," Conner replied casually.

"I remember that," Tim laughed, "That was pretty great."

Cass watched the curiosity tick upwards in Damian's eyes and the concern layer over Dad and Dick. Jason seemed very contemplative and Cass reached for a muffin and the jar of caramel. These were fond memories. Cassandra could see it in the way their frames leaned together. Martha sighed, "You and your friends...I'll never understand the messes you kids were able to get into."

     It's Bruce who brings up the sleeping arrangements. It's not close to any of the odd hours they keep. Cassandra doesn't remember ever sleeping earlier than 1 a.m., especially not during her days with David Cain. Cassandra gets more sleep as a Bat, as a Wayne, than she did as a Cain. It's easier to sleep without the dull throb of a bullet singing in her flesh or the dim sting of a stab pulsing across her skin. But the Kents sleep at 8 and rise with the sun. Cassandra thinks it's funny, how different that is from what her family is. "I do not mind sharing a bed with my children," their dad says, and his shoulders screech 'be with me, stay with me'.

"Cass can take my room so she doesn't have to sleep with three other people," Conner volunteers casually, "I don't mind."

Cassandra rolls her eyes as Bruce's spine lines with suspicion, tenseness, how-dare-you audaciousness. They kissed once. and he snuck into the city to take her on a mission date all of one time. It was fun. But Cass prefers their friendship, where he texts her pictures of the chickens and Tim, where they exchange tricks and tips for figuring out regular people and hope they didn't just make a grievious error in an interaction with a normal person. Conner spends far more time with Tim, has a much deeper connection with Tim than a kiss and a tentative date and their dad doesn't even give it a glance. Bruce can be so very dramatic. "Would you be sharing the space with her then," Bruce asks tensely.

Conner snorts, "Nah, 'course not. We got the loft."

Tim lights up, his eyes going wide and she doesn't have to read bodies to see how clear his excitement is. But she can, and she can see the specific way his mouth tilts up all the way, how his chin tilts up so he can look upwards at Conner, leaning forward happily. His eyes look very reminiscent. "The loft," Tim repeats.

"Just swapped the hay and scrubbed it. Cleaner than a hospital," Conner promised, "No germs for you, Rob."

"You want to sleep in a loft," Damian scoffs, and Cass traces the intense curiosity along his eyes and the disdain clear along his mouth and torso.

"Yes," Tim insisted, "The hay smells nice and it's warm, and sometimes I can see the stars through the slats."

"They'll be fine," Jonathan laughed, "Lord knows I found them snoozin' the day away up there enough times to say these two'll sleep right through the night."

"Jason," Cass pipes up, "Share. With me."

Conner does not like Jason. His fingers drum 'thhhrum-thrum-thrrrruumm' against the table slowly, and his jaw ticks as it tightens. Tim taps his knee 'tp-tp-tp' quickly. "Sure. Would rather share with you since Dick's a fu-ricken kicker," Jason commented, scathingly glancing at Dick.

"We're gonna grab the blankets for the loft. Ma, thank you," Conner announced, scrubbing caramel off the side of his mouth.

"You two come inside if it's too chilly out there," Martha called after them.

"Of course, Ma," Tim replied, "Thank you, I'll be right back to help you!"

Cassandra washes the dishes instead of Ma or Tim and grins at his look of betrayal when he spots her. Silly little brother, she thinks fondly, silly, silly.

      Dawn creeps slowly on the Kent Farm and Jason spent more of the night awake than asleep. He got a few hours but Cass's cold toes on his leg where she sleeps balled up at the foot of the bed and his ramping paranoia aren't conducive to jackshit. It took Jason so long to get used to only moving loud when he wants to be loud. For how big he is now, Jason's footsteps are quiet. There's no Bat-shaped shadow stalking the halls so he assumes the Bat-stard's been pinned under Dick's clingy limbs. Not only is Dickhead a sleep kicker, he's a sleep cuddler. He's also an expert at bed sharing so everyone gets fucking squished in sleep hugs and kicked in the shin at the same time. There's a clock in the kitchen and of course it's 2:33 a.m., when the Bats have actually gone to sleep some nights. The Kents probably won't wake for another two hours. Jason slips out of the house, barefoot. His mouth tastes like apple muffins, toothpaste, and sleep. It's so fucking quiet out here, with only the wind and the open air, and Jason wonders if the creak of something in the night out here where there's a yawning silence or in noisy, howling Gotham would be more terrifying. He drifts to the barn. It's pretty fucking warm in there, all things considered, and smells like animals and hay. Superboy and Fun Size must he snoozing away. "You know," he hears, achingly loud and jarringly quiet at the same time, "You can tell me who touched you."

The words make Jason want to vomit suddenly. "Kon, it's- nothing," the reply is cracked from crying, "Nothing happened. Not like it did to you with Tana or Knockout."

"Rob. Birdie. Wonder. I woke up because your heart sounded like it was gonna explode. You were clawing at your own neck, and your chest too. I can see the nail marks through your shirt. You, especially you of all people, don't just get like that. Not even from the nastiest shit I ever seen done to a dead body. Seriously, what the Hell were them things? The pustules?"

The laugh that comes is wet and breathless. "Yeah, that was- but it didn't actually happen," Tim, it was fucking Tim, "Just...it didn't. Just memories of what- I'll be fine. In the morning. And I know you were already awake, Kon. You had dreams again...of Prime."

The next laugh that comies is from the Super kid, disbelieving and breathless, "Yeah. Pft, I can really tell you were trained by the World's Greatest Detective. Second greatest now, ain't he?"

"You don't get to distract me with nostalgic bad jokes, " Tim chastises, "Tell me about them? The dreams?"

"Well, I guess...it starts with feeling like all my bones are being crushed-" and that's where Jason leaves.

He doesn't get why the fucking Bat likes to eavesdrop so much. He feels bone tired and sick. Jason wanders back into the house and dreams silently of his broken body being scorched.

Jason wakes later, at the sound of footsteps below the attic room he's hunched in on the bed. It must be Martha or Jonathan. Cass is still sleeping, draped across the foot of the bed. She doesn't stir even when Jason reaches for her, lightly touching his fingers to cool skin, twirling a cowlick around a finger before flicking it. He could grab her by the hair and slam her face into the ground. Maybe even the great Black Bat might not be able to react fast enough in this state. He's relieved when the thought of hurting the Spook makes his stomach churn, revolted. It's pretty early in the morning still, with the sun still hiding a little behind the horizon. Jason goes again silently, to the kitchen. "Konnie, I'm sure I can manage to braid my hair on my own today," he heard Martha laugh, "You go help your Pa."

"Aw Ma, you know Pa ain't lettin' me do nothin' till I get your hair all back. 'Sides, I know pulling your shoulder back so far's gonna have you crampin' all day," Superboy insisted.

"I'm not decrepit now," Martha sniffed, "Now git. Tim 'n I are startin' breakfast. Lord knows those Bats'll be up any minute now."

"Yeah, git, Kon," Tim teased, "Go be sweaty and gross in the field."

"I'm gonna get all my gross sweat all over you for that," Superboy promised before leaving.

Jason stayed in the stairwell, listening to the soft hum of the radio and the sound of knives and spoons and dishes. "I'll handle the tomatoes. As much as I joke about being young forever, my fingers and eyes ain't what they used to be and checkin' the smaller plants is tougher nowadays," Martha said.

"Gotcha," Tim replied, "Jason can handle the collard greens if he wants to help us and I'll get the radishes. Want tea this morning, Ma?"

"Your blackberry tea? Always, honey," Martha chuckled, "Speakin' of, after we handle the mornin' chores, why don't we see about goin' to the farmer's market? Your family ever been to one of them?"

"I don't know," Tim hummed, "Is Polly Hank still there?"

"Oh, Polly," Martha scowled, "That twit. Unfortunately, yes. You hear about what Ol' Macmiller caught her grandsons doin' up at the Rippleys'?"

"Yes," Tim exclaimed, "Seriously, what were they doing to those piglets? Kon told me that he got grounded from driving because he chased Dylan and Brett ten miles down the lane in the truck after they snuck over here and put a lighter under Annie's tail."

Jason peered into the kitchen. Tim had his hair in a kercheif again, a yellow one with red birds on it. He envied the kid, for a minute, the way he seemed to fit like a universal puzzle piece. Dick was the charmer, the bright light you followed like a moth to the flame because he was so damn warm and maybe you could have a bit of light if you soaked in enough, spent enough time around the sun that made up Dick Grayson. But Tim was like water, coolly fitting himself into whatever container he was dripped into, naturally filling the space and leaving no ripples to disturb. Jason hated him a little, for all the slimey jealousy that Tim brought to the surface of Jason's skin when Tim's cool surface only seemed to reflect Jason's mistakes and sins and imperfections, the ones in the past, the present ones, and all the ones in the future. Maybe that's why the Demon Brat hates the shrimp so much; both him and Jason have a screaming volatility that looks so messy in comparison to the third Boy Wonder, the detective so great he found Batman when everyone thought the Bat had died. "Hi Jason," Tim greeted, quiet in the pale morning, "Wanna help?"

Jason observes the runt. He looks well rested for the apparent nightmares that he had supposedly been having. Where he tried to claw his own skin off. His nails are short, at least. He's open, relaxed. No tenseness. "Sure," Jason grunts, "Gimme the knife."

      Martha gifts him a hair kerchief too, and he slides it right over the chunk of white curls drooping across his forehead. It's dark red, with little white and pink flowers. His mama had a blouse like it from the thrift store bins Willis dived into for her birthday. Jason had went out and found her a matching skirt and only got nearly-mugged once for his troubles. "Woah, is this a breakfast skillet," Dickhead asks as he glides down the stairs in that disgusting way only morning people can manage.

"Yeah," Jason grumbles.

The plus 5 hours of sleep really must have thrown the Bats off if they're up at 7 instead of 12. "Have any of ya'll been to a farmers' market," Martha asks when everyone has slumped to the table.

'Farmers' market,' Cassandra asks in confusion.

"It's usually an open-air market for vendors who make or grow their own things to sell stuff," Tim explains, "Like, there's this one couple in town who sell fresh honey from their apiary."

"Go," Cass decides.

They end up going. It's so goddamn sunny that Jason can't believe it's October. He ends up in the back of the cab of the Kents' truck because Cass, Tim, the dog, Krypto, and Conner (that was Superboy's name, right? Conner? He should probably know it, considering he's spent about a collective ten hours having a glaring match with the asshole over Tim's head the times they've had to be in each others' proximity in the Nest) are in the pick up bed. Jason didn't argue when Tim tilted his head, assessed the whole group, and shoved Jason into the cab of the truck and loudly declared he'd be in the pick up bed because he 'doesn't drive with people who don't use the GPS'. "You know anythin' about machines," Jonathan asks, "Later, I think I needa take a look under the hood. Mind helpin'?"

He speaks as easily to Jason as he does Tim. There's no fear in Jonathan Kent's eyes. "Sure," Jason accepts, "I can help."

Making breakfast, gardening plans, fixing trucks and farmers' markets. Jason feels like he's in a sitcom. Hopefully nobody starts screaming about an affair. He kinda likes this.

"It's Polly," Tim hisses and Kon's Ma starts hissing with him.

       He honestly doesn't remember what their problem is with Polly Hank. Kon thinks the real issue is with her grandsons. He went to school with Dylan and Brett, and Kon is pretty sure they're the ones driving over to Topoeka to buy drugs and sell them to the middle school kids. Kon grabs his Ma gently by the elbow and hooks his finger through the back of the jean jacket Tim dug out from his closet, which he is mostly certain once belonged to Cissie. "Look, Harriet brought the good yarn," he indicates, "I needa get some for my project."

Tim eyes him curiously. Bingo. He's gonna be too busy trying to wheedle the details out of Kon while Ma helps him buy the nicest yarn. Kon likes knitting, unfortunately. At first it was the most frustrating, dumbest thing he had ever done, and Kon had done a lotta dumb shit. See: the better part of his early life and then some. But it was the first thing Ma wanted to teach him when he started coming to the farm more, and he kept breaking the knitting needles or ripping the yarn. His hands were clumsy and he had no clue how to handle them without shattering them. But Ma was patient, holding his hands while he tried to knit, softly encouraging him, kissing his forehead and cheek when he did good. It wasn't- the kisses were nothing like Tana or Knockout had ever given him, or Roxy, even. Kon would have to admit he practiced so much just to get a kiss from Ma. "Sooo, what's the project," Tim asked innocently, "I can help."

Tim's Bristol (the upper class of Gotham, Kon hasn't gone a day - except for when he had been dead- without making fun of Tim for that. Upper class. Young Justice's bird was like a goddamn prince or something) accent made him sound more like he was cunningly planning something, all devious-like. "Top secret," Kon said, and oooh boy, there were those ruffled little feathers, Tim getting all invested when he had to know something.

It was that blanket cover for Tim's weighted blanket that Kon said he would make. Kon knew his best friend, he was a sucker for homemade gifts. Bart once gave Tim a small pebble he had painted himself and Kon has seen that pebble in Tim's apartment, right by the stuffed rabbit Kon won him at the piere fair. A home made sweater with a blanket to make his weighted blanket extra soft and warm, and if he was feeling really extra, he'd get Tim a kittycat too. He's pretty sure he might end up in some weird gift giving competition with one of the Bats but Tim was always giving. It wasn't Kon's fault he knew his and the team's Robin as well as he did. Maybe he'd make Cass a pair of socks too. "White yarn, light blue yarn, red yarn and black yarn," Tim noted as Kon grabbed the skeins.

"I ain't tellin' you shit," Kon insisted, checking his money really quick.

"Okaaayy," Tim song-songed, which meant he was totally gonna be snooping later.

Lord, Rao, whoever, whatever, Tim was so predictable. He had that special little voice just for lying 'Starfire Voice' from when she visited and Tim lied to her and Kon doesn't even remember why he lied. He sneaked and snooped and ran around the shadows as he pleased. Sure, Kon couldn't tell if Tim was sneaking up on him or not, but he knew Tim would eventually sneak up to surprise him. Keep Kon on his toes a little. "How much for the fresh milk," Jason, fucking Red Hood, grunted to Kon.

Kon hates Jason. He hates the man, hates that Tim will let him in the Nest where Tim should be safe, hates that this man hurt Tim, made Tim bleed, painted his name in Titan's Tower and was one of the people who made Tim doubt he was ever a good Robin. Tim was the only Robin. Dick Grayson wasn't the one who called on Kon to help fight Metallo and Poison Ivy. Jason wasn't the one who pulled together their team, that little one, Damian, wasn't the one Kon had spent hours with. Tim was. Dick (no actually, Dick had a lot to do with Robin, nevermind), Jason and Damian, as far as he was concerned, had nothing really to do with what he had seen Robin be. "Kon," Tim mumbled, tugging at Kon's belt loop, "Not here. Not right now."

Kon wet his lips and grit out, " 'Bout 6 and a half bucks. We sell it for that much."

He wanted to tell this guy jack fucken shit about prices for dairy per gallon. "Look, Kon," Tim said, "Chickies."

Mr. Benson always brought his chicks to the farmer's market, just to let them run around his corn stand. They were yellow and fluffy and Kon had named all of them 'Nugget', but never called them that out loud too often because the one time he did, it was around lil' Jon and Jonny burst into tears and begged Kon not to eat 'em (the kid doesn't eat chicken nuggets still and Lois is still a little mad at Kon for ruining the world's easiest lunch for kids. Kon's been making it up by introducing Jon to hot pockets. It might be working). He's just surprised one of the local cats hasn't made a Happy Meal outta 'em yet. Or squished 'em. "Hey, Mr. B, can we pick these suckers up," Kon hollers to the slightly hard of hearing man.

"Huh," Mr. Benson grunts, "Have at 'em. Just don't let them Hank boys near my chicks or Ol' Polly Hank is gonna need herself some new grandkids."

That's fair. "Hello, chickies," Tim greets politely.

Tim's always done that, callin' all dogs 'puppies' or cats 'kitties' no matter how old and/or raggedy the poor animals are. He even calls Lady Henrietta a chickie. Tim cups Nugget No. 3 in his palms and kisses the fluffy yellow down on the bird's head. Huh. A bird holdin' a bird. Ain't that a thought?

     Kon seriously considers kidnapping one of Mr. Benson's chicks. Tim is so distracted by the things that he actually, legitmately forgets about Kon's yarn skeins and is fully oblivious to the almost laser eyes he's been giving Jason everytime the dude gets near. "Good bye, chickies," Tim says softly as he sets down the four chicks he had been cradling and pulls the three out of his jean jacket pockets. 

"Aw, damn, Tim," Kon sighs, "You look sad. I can kidnap one. You want Nugget 4 or Nugget 7?

He was fully serious. But Tim snorts, "No, no, I'm good. Gotham would be horrible for a chickie. Besides, I think I would, like, actually lose my mind if I got one and then got a kitty and I woke up one morning with no chickie and a very full kitty."

Ooooh. Yeah. Not- just a horrible idea. "Wait, did you name them all Nugget-"

The truck hits a speedbump on the dirt road and Kon just laughs.

      Dick wipes his forehead as sweat trickles down, taking a swig of water as he slams the hammer down on top of the roof. "You doin' good," Kon-El asks Dick as he pushes a board into place and nails down all the nails at once with his telekinesis.

"Yep," Dick pants, "You?"

Kon-El beams, not even sweating under the sun. "Feelin' great," He replies.

Kryptonians soak up a metric ton of sunlight, even partial-Kryptonians. Lucky bastards, not getting sunburn. Dick doesn't even burn easy, not like poor Bruce and Tim who both brought big containers of Bat-level sunscreen. Batscreen. "So, the stars," Dick asks.

"Huh," Kon-El looks up, questioning, "Oh! Through the loft slats? Yeah, Tim's taken a buncha photos with his fancy...Nike? Nickle. Uh, no, dammit, uh, Nikon! His big ol' camera."

'I know the brand of his camera', Dick thinks bitterly, then pauses. Conner is, developmentally and biologically (CADMUS really made sure that Conner's bones could be carbon dated as his developmental age) speaking, like, 17 or 18, at the most. Chronologically, he's, what, 3? Dick is 24, he's 24 years old and feeling like this for no reason. Dick doesn't even understand why Conner brings out this bitterness. "Hey, I brought some more water," Tim announces as his head pops up over the roof.

Kon-El drags him over the ledge immediately, and they're right back in that little world they get into, like last night. Referencing their misadventures as Young Justice. He's seen Bart and Cassie delve in deep in that little world, that easy space where only they exist and nobody else. Dick feels that bitterness well up again. Sometimes it's like Tim's own family can't make him happy the way Cassie can, the way Bart can, the way Conner can. Not the way stars seen through the slats of a hay loft can. He gets it, he really does, leaning on people your own age more than your family at times. Like, holy shit, when he was 17 he was out of the house and running around San Francisco like nobody's business. Tim...Tim is completely different from Dick. "Dick, I think you should head inside for a bit," Tim suggests, "C'mon, the solar panel here can finish off the roof. I think you need to go inside."

Cold hands wrap around Dick's wrists, the chilling metallic feel of a ring burning into Dick's simmering skin. "L've ya, Timmy," Dick slurs, "Y're my...lil' brother. My Itty Bitty."

"Wow, you are absolutely out," Tim chuckles, and Dick is draped over Tim' bony little shoulder.

Tim never did end up that tall. All the bone trauma and being genetically predisposed to shortness by his mother plus having the Clench twice kinda ruined that. Poor Timmy. At least Dick would always be able to tuck Tim under his chin. That was great. Damian would probably be taller than Dick too. At least Tim would always be shorter than Dick. He wasn't ever allowed to be bigger. "St'y sm'll," Dick pleads, "Please."

He pecks little kisses smeck-smeck-smeck right into Tim's long hair. He smells like that honey hair wash he uses. Dick remembers asking about that. His father accidentally bought Tim honey hair soap when their maid or nanny or whatever was gone and his Mom was busy and Tim needed hair soap so Jack Drake stumbled into a store and didn't know where anything was. He picked out honey scented hair soap after seeing the dark yellow bottle and figured that it was 'boy's soap'. Tim had been so happy his father picked out hair soap just for him and it smelled so nice that Tim only ever used hair wash that smelled like honey, no matter how Jack Drake complained to his wife and son that he meant to grab a boy's soap. Tim had also told Dick that his mom had smelled like honeysuckle and blackberries, from a perfume she loved but he could never find again after she died. Smeck-smeck-smeck. "You just want to feel tall," Tim jibed and flopped Dick on the couch, "Jeez, you're heavy. I only weigh half as much you, y'know. Have some sympathy for my back."

A cool, wet rag brushed his head and ice cold water trickled down Dick's teeth. "Take a nap," Tim commanded.

Dick slept. 

     There was a chicken on his chest. She looked like she wanted to eat his eyebrows. Dick likes his eyebrows. They kinda gave him a certain je nais se quois that he liked to keep. "Lady Henrietta," Damian hissed, "You foul fowl. You shall be enlisted in my menagerie."

Lady Henrietta clucked condescendingly, fluffing out her brown feathers. Damian slowly crept forward, arms reaching for the hen. She took flight. Dick doesn't think hens can fly but good old Henrietta shrieked, bounced on Dick' chest, and flapped her little wings till she cleared Damian's head. "Whaaa," Dick yawned, confused.

"She will not accept my overtures of alliance," Damian scowled.

Wow. Okay, what a way to wake up. "Were you having fun with the cows," Dick asked groggily.

"Yes, the bovines were quite the interesting subject. I shall have to increase my research on their species," Damian said.

Oh, he's gonna want a cow soon, huh? Good luck, Bruce. As far as Dick's concerned, Damian should have an animal if it'll help him open up and increase his understanding of gentleness and empathy. Even a cow. Good for responsibility. "Henri, you fat beastie, come 'ere," Conner demanded tiredly, "You ain't supposed to be in the house and you know it."

"They let you in the house," Damian sneered.

"I live here, champ. Henri does not," Kon-El replied cheerfully, "Now, c'mere Henri, you fat lil' monster truck."

Conner was polite enough to let Lady Henrietta scrabble her claws against her face and peck at his closed eyelids sharply. "You disrespect the hen," Damian snapped.

"I respect her as much as I can respect an animal I've seen eat fox eyeballs and her own shit, champ," Kon-El told him, clamping his hands gently around the violent chicken.

Tim leans over the railing, laughing as his best friend tries to gently hurtle the hen through the door. He catches Tim's eye for a moment and Tim's smile softens. It's nice, Dick decides, being here. It'll all be good. 

Chapter Text

      Clark was right about the sun. Bruce has patched sunburns across his hands of all places. He put sunscreen everywhere, except, somehow, the back of his hands. Sunburn. On a Saturday afternoon, in October. Bruce honestly can't remember the last time he had been out in the sun long enough to get sunburns. "Those ain't too bad," Jonathan tells him after inspecting his red, stimging knuckles, "C'mere, we got aloe gel for that. Marty keeps some for the back of her neck after bein' in the garden."

The raging midday passed and cooled, and the fence Bruce had been attempting to fix was finally nailed into place. He sits at the kitchen table while Jonathan rifles through the fridge for a jar of slimey goo."It'll start coolin' down soon but sometimes it'll keep on burnin' out here till Halloween comes 'round," Jonathan sighed as he dabbed the soothing aloe across Bruce's knuckles, "But November sure will be cool, I bet. Then by the time December hits us, we'll all be wantin' that heat back."

Gotham wasn't much for spontaneous climate alterations. Gotham had already had about 16 days this year where it was sunny outside and the fall meant that the cloud coverage would increase. "Is it...hmng, a struggle for Clark and Conner...when the sun is gone," Bruce asks, trying not to sound too curious.

There had been numerous times when Bruce's need to know had nearly driven him to trying to find a way to get a sample of Clark's DNA, test it, study it, dissect it. He'd go to Clark about it, and the man would rightfully knock his proverbial block off. He would answer whatever questions he could, but wouldn unabashedly assert that Bruce could not be that level of invasive. That's probably why, Bruce thinks, Clark is his best friend. It didn't bug him, actually. It used to, but it's more of a relief these days. "Oh, they get cranky like nothin' else," Jonathan chuckles, "Clark used to fly himself off to the sunniest country at the time. Kon used to do that, but Tim went and gave him a solar lamp. It's like havin' a lizard sometimes."

"Pa, are you callin' me a lizard again," Kon-El hollered from somewhere in the house.

"I mean it with love, son," Jonathan shouts back then turns to Bruce and says much more quietly, "But, yeah, when Clark was young, it was tough in the winters for 'im."

As much as Bruce preferred to keep non-Gotham metas out of Gotham because Gotham metas knew what specific precautions they had to take to protect themselves and others from Joker or Scarecrow gas, he knew Clark liked to stay out of Gotham's cloud coverage anyways. The lack of sun truely bothered him, the way a piece of food stuck between the teeth might. It didn't seem to bother his...younger brother. He could distinctly remember the handful of occasions where Kon-El had snuck onto the city (once with Lagoon Boy and Impulse, the Impulse who ate all the roast and caused more trouble in a flat minute than his own kids had in an hour), including for an impromptu date with Cassandra that ended up not going anywhere. True, Kon-El was far more mature than he had been at the time of that particular date, but it was for the best that Cassandra and Kon-El did not date. He didn't know why Tim wouldn't just ask if he could invite Kon-El over like Dick used to do with Wally. As long as the partial Kryptonian didn't use his non-latent abilities, Tim could have just brought him over to the Manor. Now Tim just brings his friends over as he pleases since Bruce can't keep him at home like he wishes he could, emancipated, employed, and capable of supporting himself. "Was it...hrnm, hard to let your son leave," Bruce inquires much more quietly as the pattering of a pair of feet and two sets of quiet giggles ring out in the staircase, the twi- Cass and Tim must be going down them with Kon-El. 

" 'Course," Jonathan replies, "And it'll be hard when Kon eventually leaves the farm for somethin' more. But we can hire some farm hands, give a couple middle or high schoolers some honest work to keep their heads on right and their bodies too tired for mischief. Reckon that's why Brett and Dylan Hank don't know how to act right; Ol' Polly and her son ain't got 'em workin' on nothin'. Trust me, if your body's too tired, your brain'll be too tired to be messin' 'round with all them nasty things out there. Some good workin' is how ya keep a good soul, my Pop used to say. Ol' coot was right."

Jonathan Kent was a very sensible man. It's not a wonder he and Alfred get along. There's clapping noise from the living room. Martha pushes open the kitchen door, smiling wonderously. "What's goin' on in there?" Jonathan asks, "They havin' a party, Marty?"

"They're dancin' together," she answers, "Watchin' Thumbelina again. It's sweet."

"The way we used to dance when we were younger, Marty," Jonathan reminisced fondly, "Nothin' like it."

Bruce squints and stands up, thanking Jonathan for the aloe smeared across his hands. He can hear the t.v. playing loudly, and clapping hands. Bruce peers around the corner.

     Bruce is somewhat surprised to see Cassandra is not dancing, but lying on the couch with Krypto flattening her against the love seat, which has been pushed to the far edge of the room with the recliner and couch. 'Krypto is a very good boy,' Cass announces, scritching the dog's ears and earning a very loud thump-thump-thump from the dog's tail wagging.

Cassandra claps again as Bruce finally notices that Tim is laughing his head off, hovering a few inches off the floor to whirl around while Conner holds his hand. Tim had always been happy to dance with his sister, but not much for dancing otherwise. At least, Bruce is pretty sure of that. Tim had always insisted on Cassandra being the star if they danced together, and had a talent for fading into the background to let his sister catch everyone's eyes. But Tim was very much enjoying dancing a few inches off the ground in the air. He was glad that Tim was benefitting from the trip. He looked healthier than he had since Bruce returned in September. Bruce politely claps with Cassandra. "What is that, contemporary waltz," Bruce asks, curious as to why his son had been so giddy. 

Tim shrugs, answering, "I actually don't know. I was just having fun."

"You remember how to dance for the All Hallows Eve ball, correct," Bruce presses, "You'll have to be more active now that you're not only the majority shareholder, but the head of the charity division and running the Neon Knights program. Your Project Rebirth initiative will be the main focus besides your physical presence."

If Tim didn't remember, then Bruce could re-teach Tim, have him in the Manor more instead of the Nest, less isolated with himself. Bring him back where Bruce could keep his son and other children safe for at least a short while. "No, no, I remember," Tim replied, his feet sinking back down to the ground as his face flushed, "My mother taught me, I can't forget her lessons for long, or at all. I was just...having fun."

Conner Kent shot Bruce a look he didn't quite understand. It seemed...hmn...contemptuous, to phrase it concisely. "Hey Cass, let's go to the barn," Conner suggested, "I can grab the radio real quick. We can get more space there."

Cass hopped off the couch, cradling Krypto in one arm and looping the other through Tim's. She gave him a sorry smile for some reason. The t.v. was still playing when the door shuttered shut behind them, opening again for Conner to pass through with the radio in hand. "You'll get it," Jonathan encouraged, "It ain't easy. Lord knows the times we've bungled up with Clark and Kon both. Sometimes we keep makin' the same mistakes. But you'll get there. Chin up, son."

It's more encouraging than Bruce thought it should have been. It was nice anyways. 

     Tim wakes up slow and easy, his stomach still a little full from dinner- roasted corn salad with chicken and fudgy brownies. It's early, like it had been yesterday when he woke up far too early, feeling the burn of too-hot, big hands dragging along the curve of his calves and inching from the heel of his feet to the flesh of his thighs. The hands hadn't travelled up past his knees, but the phantom feeling of abject terror and the memory of the sound of the zipper being tugged down was enough to slam him to waking. But this early morning felt soft. Comfortable. Kon had rolled them over last night, and instead of being squished under his best friend, Kon had tucked him against his chest so Tim's head was laid against bare skin and uninterrupted warmth. A steady, strong heartbeat beat languidly under Tim's ear, a calm bum-bum-thump-bum-bum-thump.This was a good warmth, less like a sizzling poker branding his body and more like lazing under a favourite blanket. "Y're 'wake," Kon mumbled, "Shleep m're, W'nd'r."

Tim huffed out a quiet laugh, trying to wiggle away. He managed to sit up. "Nooooo," Kon whined, "Y're cold. My ice pack."

"Oh, is that all I am to you, huh? An ice pack," Tim teased quietly, tugging on one of Kon's earrings. 

"Mmm," was all Tim got before Kon rolled over again so he was face down in Tim's lap. "Brush my hair, I can't get the tangles out like you can," Kon demanded.

"Needy, needy," Tim muttered, obliging.

"Thank you, Wonder. I'll take you on a hay ride this mornin'. Y'know, when decent folk are actually up," Kon promised as Tim slowly untangled pieces of hay and snarls in the black curls on the top of his head.

It was a good way to wake his brain up. Slowly untangling every small knot with his fingers, trying to find out how to unsnarl all the loose coils. "How 'bout we all go to the lake after lunch," Kon hummed, "It ain't too far. I can haul you, Krypto, 'n Cass there in the back of the cart."

"What about Ma and Pa," Tim pointed out.

"They were dancin' after dinner last night. They're gonna be in a dancey mood till ya leave," Kon refutes.

"Well, what about Bruce, Dick, Jason, and Damian," Tim asks.

Kon snorts, "They got legs, don't they?"

"I have legs," Tim reminds him, "So does Cass, for that matter. She could kill you with them, if she weren't so nice."

"She'll just beat me up if she wants to," Kon agrees, "But you brought your camera. An' don't ya wanna take pictures while taking a hay ride?"

"Well, yeah," Tim said, "But you're gonna make the 10 year old walk?"

"The 10 year old that'd push you outta the cart and has also called me a science experiment twice while bein' in my own damn home when nobody was listenin'," Kon scowled.

Tim snapped, "Nevermind. Let him walk."

Kon laughed into Tim's stomach, his breath tickling against Tim's hipbone through Tim's sleep shorts and the t-shirt he brought that was once Kon's but had been surrendered to Tim's closet. "I'm sorry Damian called you that," Tim apologized, "I can always tell Dick. He doesn't get to- to dehumanize you, especially in your own home. I don't even know where he gets off thinking he can do that."

"I'mma call him 'champ' all day," Kon laughed, "If he's gonna call me a science experiment, he gets the same treatment lil' Mack and Tommy in town get when I drive into town with Ma or Pa. Or Jonny. Jon loves me callin' him scout, I'd die for that kid. Hell, I'd kill for 'im."

"He's a good kid," Tim told Kon, "He thinks you're the coolest thing since the invention of the wheel circa 3500 BCE. Just stop punching t.v.s around him."

"He was watchin' Lilo and Stitch," Kon defends, "What if he gets it in his head to go run away to Hawai'i! Tim, he's a baby! He can't go run away to Hawai'i! He's gonna get snatched up by some- some- ill-intentioned vacationer or somethin' and get pierced and do publicity stunts 'n everythin' for shit managers! Jon-El is too good for that!"

Tim flinches. It's not about all the teenager things Kon-El did in Hawai'i. It was all the adults who did adult things to Kon. He wished he knew about Knockout. About Tana Moon. About how badly Kon-El was being manipulated and used. He'd have reported Tana Moon in a heartbeat and gotten her arrested before she died, and when she got out, if she got out, she'd never be able to get near another 16 year old again. He would have found a way to subdue the Apokolips Fury Knockout and put her away in a deep, dark hole. Right where she belonged, far from Kon. He'd have razed Rex Leech and CADMUS and the agency who decides to even suggest the stupid publicity stunts and suggesting copyrighting the 'S', dragged Kon to Kent Farms and yelled 'Love him! Love him, please, dammit!' "You were too good for that too, you know," Tim mumbles.

"I know," Kon says, "I'd never want Jonny, or, Hell, even Damian go go through what we went through. What Young Justice went through, all because we were young and thought we were immortal. Cuz nobody really gave a shit when we needed 'em to and started giving a damn about our mistakes when we didn't need it. I just want him to always know someone's always gonna care about 'im and what he's doin'. Even if it's only me."

"I love you," Tim tells him, "I really do. Your heart's good, and I'm not just saying it because you're my best friend."

"Hey," Kon rolls off of Tim and looks up at him in the fading darkness of the too-early morning, "Your heart's good too. The best of 'em, and I'm not just sayin' that 'cause you're my best friend. I love you."

Tim thinks about the texts, the calls, all the secret messages and words and directions and commands he's given to his operatives, telling them where to spy, who to spy on, when to strike and hit, and how hard to hit. It's- it's for a good reason. A good cause. Tim just wants to help, protect and preserve and save. There are the ones who weed out corruption that tries to rot in his centers and houses, the ones who carefully manage the numbers for the expenses and make sure nobody is dipping into their funds. There are the ones who have restarted their lives. Rawiya just had a baby, a little newborn girl who she never dreamed of having because the League would either never allow her to carry the baby or her child would've been snatched away to raise as an assassin, far from her mother. Samaya would have her wedding in two months. Balveer had started learning to bake and went to cooking classes on Wednesdays. Ishaan was taking college classes. They had done that all on their own, but was Tim a bad person if he had taken them from the League, forgiving of their crimes and acts, and given them the option to live? Or was this all simply the positive byproduct of his manipulations and games, maybe masking a darker desire? Was he no better than the other megalomainiacs who just wanted to help? Tim was fucking scared of what the answer could be. "You're thinking too much," Kon interrupted him, "And you're stressing yourself out. Just lay here."

The familiar pressure of TTK settled against Tim's shoulders and nudged him down against the tartan blanket under them. The hay flattened under the blanket crinkled softly as Tim laid back, staring upwards at the ceiling. Kon laid next to him, reaching up a hand to paw across Tim's face till his palm covered Tim's eyes. "Just lay here and breathe," Kon said, "Breathe. No thinkin'."

"You're almost as good a Zen Guru as Max Mercury," Tim snorts, "You're...calmer."

"I got perspective while I was gone, Wonder," Kon mentions, "Bein' stuck in the future for a bit. I just wanna 'preciate all the time I got."

Tim breathes deep, and he stops thinking.

       Tim checks under the raddish leaves one last time for a bug that shouldn't be there and claps his gardening gloves together. "All good here, Ma," he calls.

"Thank you, honey," she replies, "Pull a couple up, I wanna make ya'll some salad to take to Alfred when ya leave tomorrow. I know he loves radishes."

Tim kneeled and pulled steadily at the base of the stalk till the raddish came free from the dirt. He set it in a wicker basket and started on another. Jason set his own basket of greens down by Tim's, wiping at his forehead with the back of his arm. The kerchief Ma lended him was pale pink, with little butterflies patterning the fabric. "Hi, Jason," Tim grunted as he fought with a particularly stubborn raddish, "You need water? You can have a sip of mine."

"You got sunscreen," Jason asked.

Tim blinked. Jason didn't really burn under the sun, but he'd probably want some for the UV rays. "Um, yeah," Tim answered, "I burn easy so I put it on every 30 minutes. Here, hold on."

Tim dug out the smaller sunscreen he carried from his pocket of his pants that might have been Cissie's at some point. He's surprised Kon still had them, considering how fussy he'd get about returning clothes he picked up from the base. Large chunks of those clothes usually ended up with Bart or Tim, a few sneaking away to Anita or Cissie or Cassie, Greta stealing a few things for herself. Tim lobbed the bottle at Jason, who caught it and muttered, "Thanks, Half Pint."

Tim grimaced at the nickname but went back to tugging at the radishes. "That's good, hon," Ma decided, "Go wash up real quick. Hay ain't fun to sit in when you're all sweaty."

Tim nodded and dropped the radishes off in the kitchen to quickly rinse off. "Go," Cass said when he finished drying off and re-dressing, tugging his arm.

Ma winked as she passed them a plate of left over brownies, and Tim hooked his camera around his neck. "You two ready," Kon hollered as he picked up the two ends of the hay wagon.

Tim and Cass climbed on to the back, Tim yelling, "Ready!"

Kon had scanned the area to make sure nobody was on their way when he started his jog along the paths. Tim portioned off some brownies for his best friend and popped the cap off his lense. He hadn't done fun photography in forever. Cass popped a brownie into his mouth while he geared his angles. A picture of Cass staring curiously at a bird flying over head. A snap of Dick carrying Damian on his back, smiling tenderly. Jason proudly looking at the fixed truck while Pa clapped his shoulder. Bruce holding a chicken- Clara Cluck, Tim thinks- away from his face and staring in perplexion at the bird. Kon, grinning proudly as he heaves the wagon down the dirt paths. The sun, shining down on the fields of Kent Farm. The slightly clouded Kansas sky, hinting at rain somewhere in the future of October. The starkly faded red of the barn and the gleam of the silo. Krypto, bounding happily after a ball Damian had launched. Ma and Pa on the porch, slow dancing in the morning to Johnny Cash's 'I Walk the Line'. Dick setting a carefully braided wreathe of flowers on Bruce's head. Jason catching the ball Damian threw and getting tackled for his troubles. Kon tilting his head back briefly to let Cass trick shot a brownie into his mouth. The cows out and in the pasture, mooing softly and twitching their ears. Bucket and Horseshoe curled up on the hay, having unearthed themselves from their secret napping spot because of all the jostling. Bucket in Tim's lap. Horseshoe yowling at a bee. 'You look so happy,' Cass notes, chocolate smeared on the end of her nose.

"I am," Tim tells her, then snaps a picture of her again, "I'm really happy."

     Damian will admit that, perhaps, the Kent Farm is not quite so horrible as he believed it could be. It is, at least, not dirty and rife with foul stench like he had believed it would be. Mrs. Kent is soft, like unguarded flesh. She'd have been torn asunder in both his Grandfather's League of Assassins and Mother's League of Shadows. Mr. Kent is steady but undoubtably aged. He would be no more than cannon fodder. The Clone rankles him, calling him pathetic nicknames meant for children such as 'champ'. The treatment is horrendous, belittling. Damian could cut the Clone's tongue out if the Great Dane puppy were not on the line with Richard. He'd have to find a way around his lack of Kryptonite and the Clone's tactile telekinetic abilities, but Damian is sure he'd manage. "Hey, Dami, wanna go down to the lake," Richard asked, "There might be some fish or frogs there for you to study."

Hmm. Unmutated fish and frogs without split tongues and toxic green skin might be of some interest. Perhaps these ones would not burble poisonous mucous from their skin. "Very well then, Richard," Damian agreed, "Shall we be taking the car?"

"Nope," Richard grinned, "Get ready for a hay ride, Dami. It's gonna be great. You bring your sketchbook?"

As if Damian would allow his sketchbook to be near Drake or Todd. Todd was vindictive and would attempt to divest Damian of confidence in Damian's artistic skill or simply destroy the contents outright. Drake was slippery, more likely to use his quick fingers to pinch the sketchbook and leaf through it because he simply lacked any integrity and originality. "No," Damian grouched, "I did not wish to dirty it. I shall simply draw from memory upon return."

Damian marched outside beside Richard, making their way to a wooden cart hitched to a small tractor, the cart filled with hay. There were two cats in the cart, which was mildly pleasing, except Drake was holding both felines on his lap. "-Bucket's a good kitty, Kon, he's old," Drake pathetically whined, "You're too mean to him. And Horseshoe is good too. You're a very good kitty, Horseshoe."

The brown tabby purred monstrously while the graying orange tabby languidly chirped and bumped his head against Drake's pale chin. The poor cats must have spent too much time near the Clone for them to have affections for Drake. The Clone gave Todd a hateful glance as Todd slinked into view and on to the cart. Cain leapt into the cart, near the front where the cats and Drake were. They were signing together in Cantonese sign langauge, occasionally substituting in a word in standard French sign language. Damian was not well practiced in much sign besides Egyptian standard sign and American Sign Language. "Cass thinks you should go with Helios," Drake piped up, "I like Solace. And you preferred...Supernova?"

"Right," the Clone confirmed, "I like Solace though, that one is good. But, like, Supernova. I just like that one a ton. I think that one is good 'n I get to pass down Superboy to Jon-El. Though Clark ain't lettin' him do nothin' for a few years. I don't blame him, Jonny is 8. I'd wring Clark's neck if he, for some damned impossible reason, thought it'd be dandy to stick an 8 year old in the field."

"Jon is, chronologically speaking, older than you," Drake argued incessantly.

"I'd still murder Clark," the Clone dismisses. "But I know he'd never put Jon-bon out in the field till he's 18 'cept in an emergency."

The lake was very clear, the edges ridden with plants and a handful of ducks remaining before they fly off somewhere warmer for the fall and winter, with a dock leading away from the edges of the lake. Drake is snapping away on his bulky camera. The Blue Beetle strap is fraying, as tacky as Drake. Typical, that he'd be too lazy to replace it. "You got enough film, Rob," the Clone asked.

"Mhm," Drake hummed.

Rob. Robin. It was impossible to understand how the pack of beasts Drake managed to keep as 'friends' kept going back to that. The speedster would chant it a million miles a minute, in quite the most literal sense of the phrase, going off on a littany and irking Damian endlessly. Wonder Wench would coo it softly, as if Drake were a small child she cared for. The true Robin had come, and he had come to stay, so it really shouldn't be too hard to find some other paltry nickname. "Dami, come here," Richard beckoned.

"My name is Damian, Richard," Damian hissed.

"I know, I know," Richard laughed, carding fingers through his hair, "But look at this fish. Know what kind it is?"

Damian spent the next few minutes lecturing Richard on perch, bass, and sunfish. Richard listened seriously, praising Damian on his knowledge. "Oh, look at Cass," Richard pointed out.

Cain was at the edge of the dock, on the toes of one foot, balancing as sturdily as an old, well-rooted tree. Admittedly, Cain was an exemplary fighter, knowing how to guard her weak points and boast her strengths without losing awareness of the strength of her opponent. The number of times Damiam had sparred against her and he'd ended up flat on his back in seconds was astonishing in that he never felt too embarrassed. It was a tragedy she spent so much time with Drake, adored the time she wasted on her 'brother'. The only real commendable thing Drake had ever done would be retrieving Father from where he had been lost, although Damian is certain he could have done it without losing a minor internal organ. Dr. Thompkins had said some words about Drake's spleen but Damian couldn't see how they'd matter. If the fool lost it, he didn't deserve to have it in the first place. Much like Todd and his own Robin title. Or his life. His mother used to give Todd seemingly endless hours of attention while attempting to cure him of his mindless, slobbering state. "Hey, lemme float you, Cass," the Clone said.

Cain considered him, then nodded. One touch and Cain went up a few inches mid-air, still holding the same position she had been previously. "Hey, Kid Kent, don't fucken drop her," Todd barked.

"I ain't gonna drop anyone," the Clone snarled, eager for the chance to trade blows like a brute.

"He wouldn't drop her, Jason," Drake shrilly called, "Watch!"

Cain's feet went back down as Drake set his camera into a bag safely in the cart, raced towards the end of the docks, whipping around on his heel and leaning backwards towards the rocking surface of the water. Only one hand was outstretched, one foot on the end of his toes was touching the wood of the docks, and Drake's eyes were closed. Vulnerable, stupidly so, bearing his exposed throat and torso to the Clone. He was practically begging to be killed. Richard took in a sharp inhale of breath as Drake's body fell closer to the water before stoping completely. Only the toes of one foot remained against the very edge of the wooden framing of the docks with his eyes still closed, and the Clone held Drake up solely with the interlocking of their two pinkie fingers and the Clone's tactile telekinetic abilities. It'd have made a good subject to draw, had the two individuals in it not been who they were. "You know," the Clone started conversationally, "You gotta gimme more of a warnin', Wonder. What if I ended up droppin' your ass in the lake an' you got all sick."

"I wouldn't get that sick," Drake replied, eyes flashing open.

"See, I don't believe that exactly," the Clone rebuked, "I think you'd get sicker than an influenza patient durin' 1918."

"Was that one Tube Knowledge or did you just remember me talking about 1900s medical practices," Drake asked.

"Tube, actually," the Clone replied, "I think CADMUS just shoved whatever they wanted in my noggin, screw all that bs about 'a high schooler's education equivalent'. Someone put a recipe for coconut cupcakes in my brain. I don't even like coconut!"

The Clone hauled Drake up, unfortunately not dropping the interloper. Damian turned to Richard, noticing he looked ill. "What is your issue," Damian demanded, "You look as though you have spontaneously spawned a cold."

Richard startled, then laughed, "Nothing, nothing. Just thinking. Hey, would you trust me that much, Lil D?"

Damian scowled. Naturally, he would trust Richard as any Robin would trust their Batman. "Did you not say a Robin should trust the final decisions of their Batman the majority of the time," Damian retorted.

Richard's eyes went soft and warm, and he reached out his arms to wrap Damian up in a hug. Damian allowed it for a few seconds. Richard had mildly acceptable hugs, by far better than Father's awkward claps on the shoulder. "Hey champ," the Clone hollered, "Wanna see some ducks?"

Damian grit his teeth, reminding himself that he almost had the chance at a Great Dane puppy in his reach. Damian strode over to the docks, gritting his teeth. There were ducks honking at the bottom of the docks, floating around and wriggling their tail feathers. Hm, this was somewhat acceptable. Drake had dared to doze against the end of the docks, back leaned against the support pole. The Clone had turned away, speaking to Cain about knitting socks or some such nonsense. If the fool wanted to leave himself vulnerable, he could learn the consequences. Better the moron died due to an intentional wound by an enemy than a sneak attack by a traitor. Or by his own accidental carelessness. The idiot could roll off the end of the dock by himself. See? Damian could help. Damian crept closer, quietly, slowly, and gave a heavy shove towards Drake. He was far lighter than Damian had been expecting, considering that Drake was meant to be regaining weight. Pale, arctic blue locked into his eyes before Drake disappeared below the surface with a short, shrill cry of surprise. Damian darted away before anyone could fully turn to see the commotion. To Damian's disappointment, Drake resurfaced, coughing and spluttering out water. "Damian," he hissed.

"Oh shoot, Timmy, did you roll off," Richard worried as Drake hacked up more water while dragging himself towards the ladder of the docks. 

"No," Drake muttered, "I got pushed. I was literally just minding my own business."

He eyed Damian venomously. "Who would dirty their hands touching you," Damian sneered, "Besides, perhaps, the other abomination here?"

"Don't talk about Kon like that, you little eugenics experiment," Drake snapped.

"Tim, Damian," Richard warned, "Both of you, back off."

At least Drake was reprimanded as well. "Hey, c'mere," the Clone said, "Lemme check your lungs."

Drake spat up water one last time and shuffled over to the Clone, allowing the invasive x-ray scanning stare to commence. "Nope, whatever you swallowed got all spit up. Wonder Boy luck strikes again," the Clone revealed, "But we should leave now if you wanna get a shower and change before you catch a cold."

Damian grumbled. Now Drake was cutting the lake time short, taking Damian away from the ducks. 

     The only commendable thing Drake did was not tattle to Father, digging through his bags for his antibiotics. "I didn't think I'd need them," he complained, "I should have them."

Damian had seen him put the pills in his camera bag but wasn't about to tell Drake that. Drake eventually gave up with a frustrated, self-contained screech and went to track down warmer clothing and a shower towel. "Damian," Richard stopped him in the empty hallway, "Did you push Tim?"

"He was exposing himself to threats carelessly," Damian defended, "I was being a helpful member of the family."

Richard sighed, disappointed. Damian shifted uncomfortably; Richard was hard to disappoint, which made it all the more magnanimous. "You're trying to justify it to yourself," he responded calmly, "You want your actions to not be held accountable because you want your feelings to be validated. Dami, I can't do that with something like this. And you don't feel guilty?"

He really didn't. Damian didn't feel guilty in the slighest. "I...I don't think I'll be talking to Alf or B about that puppy, Dami," Richard whispered, "I can't reward you for this."

Damian locked himself in the room he shared with Father and Richard, refusing to show his face till dinner time rolled around. Cain gave him a disappointed, almost scornful head shake and signed in Egyptian Sign Language, 'I will no longer spar with you once a week for a while. A long while. You need more time to think than you need time to fight. You do not regret. And the only people I fight who do not feel remorse or regret are the ones we all fight against.'

Oh. Damian almost enjoyed sparring with Cain. She was not condescending nor did she hold back too much, and her pointers were always helpful. That was...disappointing. Stupid Drake. He wonders what Drake even did to procure Cain's favor. He couldn't imagine Drake had many talents to offer, and she was a far more skilled fighter than Drake could imagine, like every other person associated with the Waynes. He was the weakest fighter, barely decent with a bo staff, pasty and sickly-thin, and had a squeaky, pathetically high voice and his face was both plain-looking and looked younger than his actual age. Of all Damian's adopted brothers and siblings in general, Drake was the least tolerable and couldn't imagine why Cain or even Richard, kind as he was, would want to associate with him. "Tim, honey, you doin' good," Mrs. Kent asked over her chicken and mushrooms, "You're lookin' pale as one of Alfred's sheets."

To Damian, Drake looked just as awful as ever. "I'm fine, Ma," Drake replied, pushing away his untouched food, "Just tired. I should probably go to sleep soon since we're leaving tomorrow afternoon."

"I got some Tylenol in the bathroom. Just take what you need, kid," Mr. Kent offered.

Drake left quickly with a shakey nod. Damian ignored it. He was in a foul mood as it was and wanted only to eat then prepare for bed. He was only an hour in to sleeping when a large ruckus awoke him. Richard stirred beside him, mumbling, "Wha-huh?"

Damian exited the room, angry beyond belief at being disturbed after a terrible afternoon. "What is this racket," he demanded, then spotted the Clone racing up the stairs with a limp Drake tucked under one arm, "Clone. Perhaps you should move permanently to the barn if this is how you-"

"Don't," the Clone stated coldly before ripping open the bathroom door. 

"Konnie, Kon, what's happenin'" Mrs. Kent asked as she poked her head out of the door.

"Tim is sick."

      Jason heard the slamming around and woke up with a knife in his hand. Any damn intruder who woke him up the one fucking night he was sleeping like a log was gonna get carved like a Thanksgiving roast. The hatch of the attic room burst open and Conner climbed through. "Cass, Cass, please wake up," he begged, "Please help me with Tim."

Cass, who slept deeply and heavily, bolted up as though she had been awake the whole time and jumped straight through the exit. Jason shoved the knife back under the pillow and stumbled out of the room. The yellow light of the bathroom gleamed bright against the opposite wall. "Leslie," he heard Bruce, "He's showing signs of an increasing fever. Temp was 102 last time we took it. He's not fully cognitive, slightly delusional, sweating, crying, shaking, he just vomited. No blood, only bile and food. What's the temp?"

"He's at 103.4," Conner replied, sounding pissed, frazzled, and a little bit insane.

"She wants to know what happened," Bruce said.

"Got shoved in the lake. No water in his lungs, I checked earlier and just now. He spat it all out, but he ain't got a spleen. He couldn't find his antibiotics earlier," Conner spat, "He's fuckin' burnin'."

"Leslie said ice bath, now," Bruce barked, "Cold as you can get it."

Jason watched as Cass scrambled for the cold knob and the faucet gushed water. Tim was leaned against the toilet, eyes bright with fever, and he turned and hurled again. Loudly. Like Jason's mama used to do after a bad high or when she was extra sick from whatever she had that was killing her body. Jason never learned what it was. "Do we have ice here," Jason found his voice.

"I got it," Conner said, then blew on the water.

Frost crept along the basin of the tub, the water so cold that pieces of ice formed in chunks. "Timmy," Cass rasped, helping wiggle off his shirt.

"No," Tim shrieked, deliriously swinging his arms and slashing desperately with his nails, "NO, NO! STOP! NO. CASS! CASS!"

Holy fucking God. Cass stopped, staring morosely. "Shirt," she croaked, "On. Okay."

"Hey, Wonder," Conner mumbled, "It's Kon. Best friend Kon, right?"

Tim stared blankly up at the ceiling, then nodded. "I needa take your pants off. You don't like pants, remember, Birdie? You hate sleepin' in them, you got a vendetta against wearin' your damn pants. That's why I was so damn surprised to find you in your pants. Let's get 'em off now."

Conner worked the leggings off of Tim and chucked them over his head. The only useful Jason's done this whole time was catch the pants. Tim slapped Cass's arm and dragged himself from her hold so he could vomit again, some of it draining from his nose. Cass grabbed a tissue paper and wiped his nose before sticking the thermometer in his outh again. "It's 104.2, damn. Okay, you, Bastard, come help put him in," Conner grumbled at Jason.

Jason couldn't even start a fucking fight. He just held down one leg while Cass held another and Conner held Tim's torso and arms while they lowered him into the ice bath. Conner blew on the water again, making the hair on Jason's arms stand on end from the chilliness that the water radiated. As his skin made contact with the water, Tim let out an ear splitting wail. Cass flinched, staring at Tim's curling limbs and wide blown, fever bright eyes, and Jason watched as the tears dripped down her face. "Pain," she muttered, "Pain."

Conner looked like he wanted to stab himself with a Kryptonite blade between the ribs. Jason grit his teeth and bared it. He'd heard Tim scream like this before. The screams ratcheted down after the longest fucking minute of Jason's life. Tim's limbs stopped jerking around and Jason got the Hell outta dodge. Goldie was sitting at the kitchen table with his face buried in his arms. "I couldn't do it," Dickie confessed tearfully, "I couldn't stay with him without wanting to rip everyone's heads off except his. Ma and Pa are sitting with Damian in the living room, talking to him about cows."

"You know where the damn runt's pills are," Jason asked.

"I don't," Dickhead admitted, "He says he brought them, but they weren't in his bag."

"Where's his camera bag," Jason grunted.

It was in the hayloft. The hayloft looked pretty cozy, with a red tartan blanket splayed out on the hay and a small collection of pillows arranged with another two blankets so it looked like a bird's nest. There was a big orange bottle in the camera bag and Jason grabbed it. He didn't look at it. It looked too much like the ones his mama would keep. 

A couple fever reducers, a portion of pills, and a freezing fucking ice bath was enough to get Tim to a less severe 100 degrees. His lips looked a little blue, pale as the kid was already, shivering like a fucking chihuahua, but no longer screaming at least. Conner managed to pull the shirt off at some point, leaving it in the sink. Jason pulled out the hair dryer and plugged it in so when they all hauled Tim's limp body out, Jason dried off his hair quickly. "I got him clothes," Martha said, holding up a bundle, "Bruce is still talkin' to Leslie. Dick is with Damian now. They're waitin' for Bruce to be done so they can talk. Tim should probably stay inside tonight."

"Barn," Cass decided, "Me."

"I'm not kicking the Spleenless Spook out of a room, I'll go with the Spleened Spook here," Jason grumbled, flicking on the hair dryer and hovering it over Tim's head.

A pair of fluffy socks from one 'Greta', a donated pair of thick, fuzzy cat pajama pants from a 'Cissie', and an authentic Superboy hoodie later, Conner was hauling a sleeping Tim up to his room and mumbling a quiet thanks. 

     Leslie was already there when Jason woke up, having left her clinic in the care of her most trusted volunteers and the protective bloom of a flesh-eating rose from Poison Ivy. Alfred had flown her out last night and arrived early in the morning, dutifully carrying her medical bag while the Mini Speedster had showed up with IV poles for her. "I could make you into high speed sushi," he told Jason quietly.

Nobody would ever believe him if Jason tried to tell someone about this shit. The little menace was banking on that too, probably. "He can't travel," Leslie announced, "Not for a week, maybe two. He's on some very heavy antibiotics right now and we cooled him down pretty quickly. He's not showing signs of E. Coli or any other water-based disease, thank God. Tim had his booster shots done as soon as possible and he's been adhering to his diet and medications. Just a very bad fever that got pretty bad very quick."

"We can keep 'im here," Conner told her, "Right, Ma? Pa?"

"Tim can recover here, even when he's better enough to travel," Martha agreed.

"He sure ain't goin' anywhere like this," Jonathan tacked on, " 'Course Tim can stay."

Leslie smiled kindly. "I- we can't stay," Bruce grumbled, "The people we made arrangements with also have civilian lives to lead, and there are parts in our lives we can't leave unattended for too long. I think...hm, Tim might also need some space to get better. It'll be faster for him...with the cleaner air, more sunlight."

"It's alright, Bruce," Martha reassured, "We got Tim."

"We can take care of him," Conner grit out.

"Don't need me," Cass rasped, "Stay?"

She signed, 'Bluebird and the Batgirls are active in Bludhaven. With Nightwing there, Spoiler could take my spot for a week or two. I can stay, if you want me. You don't have to.'

Dick looked a little upset he was being sent off but he had a civvie life. Work at the gymnastics center, day shifts as a 911 operator, voluntarily checking in on foster kids. And he was Nightwing. Jason...Jason could stay. He didn't have a civvie life, he was just Red Hood. But Park Row, the Narrows,  and the Bowery needed him. Jason also didn't have the damn right to volunteer to stay like he was a good person. Act like he always gave a fuck about the Spook passed out up there. "You're a good sister," Jonathan commended, "We wouldn't mind havin' you stay till Tim wants to leave. You wanna learn how to use a field plow?"

Cass nods determinedly. "I'll be calling Tim everyday," Leslie informed, "But I wouldn't mind hearing a secondary report from you, Cassandra, or you, Conner. Thank you so much."

Things were packed away, gathered and put into rental cars and recipes were exchanged. Jason slipped up the stairs and into the attic. Tim was staring at the ceiling, hair slightly damp with sweat. "You're all leaving," he mumbled.

"Sure are, shrimp. You, on the other hand, are fucking staying so your spleenless ass can recover," Jason tells him, "Your other Spooky half is staying with ya. You can watch all the history docs about acqua toffana you want to."

"Oh," Tim said, "I kicked you last night? Sorry."

The memory of feeling of Tim's boiling hot skin makes Jason's palms itch. "Honestly, I'm surprised you haven't full out tried to beat the shit out of me yet," Jason laughs humourlessly, "Wouldn't blame you."

"When I get back...we can fight in the Nest. Spar. Cass can ref," Tim suggests quietly.

Jason nods and hesitantly pats Tim's head. "Sure, Spook. We'll do that," Jason agrees.

"Bye Jason," Tim yawns.

Dickie had slipped in as Jason left, but Jason ignores that. Jason feels marginally less like shit when he sits alone in the back of the plane cabin back to Gotham. He does have something to look forward to, after all. 

Chapter Text

     Tim felt bad. Not just because he was sick, which sucked, but he felt...like he was kinda bothering the Kents? He hadn't before, but his sleepovers were typically only one night long and he could repay them by helping with chores or things like that. But he was kinda simmering at 100.1 degrees and if he tried to get out of bed, Cass came and sat on his stomach very gently. Besides, he couldn't exactly go places when he was stuffed full of IV tubes and connected to IV poles and fluid bags and being juiced up with antibiotics and vitamins. "Are you sure I can't help with anything," Tim asked as Ma pressed his head softly against the pillows.

"No, no, please stay here, honey," she assured, "You don't needa do anythin' but sleep or eat some crackers."

Her thumb rubbed against his forehead, which felt so cool and soft against his sweat-damp skin. Tim wasn't used to being so sticky-hot, his average body temp was typically a comfy, lower end 97. "You sure," he mumbled.

"Please rest," she insisted, "I don't want you needin' another ice bath. That was so horrible. I hope you break your fever on your own."

Tim didn't really remember the ice bath. He moreso remembered the hands on him, trying to get his clothes off, and for a brief terrifying second, he thought he was back in the Paris Catacombs, or worse, in the League of Assassins' base, The Cradle. He remembered screaming for Cass, and then Kon's face floating above him. Kon wasn't there for all that, so if Kon was there, Tim was fine. Then he remembered the searing chill like liquid fire on his skin, so cold that felt like he had been burned. His throat still hurt a little, maybe from screaming, maybe from sickness. Krypto whined softly as he nudged his big old head under Tim's hand. "Good puppy," Tim yawned.

"You know damn well he ain't a puppy," Kon snorted as he ploped down by Tim's feet, Cass already sliding her hands through Tim's hair to pull it back in a bun, "He just acts like it."

"He'll always be a puppy," Tim insisted, "A very good puppy."

'Puppy,' Cass agreed, 'Flying puppy with heat vision. Still a puppy.'

Kon shook Tim's bottle of Ibuprofen and handed him one. "Can I do my office work," Tim asked.

"No," the both of them answered.

"But I can't help around the house," Tim argued, "I should still, like, do my job if I'm gonna be laying around."

"You can help," Kon stressed, "By layin' down and goin' the fuck to sleep. Or eat a Saltine. Those're your jobs."

Cass shook a sleeve of Saltines she had kept...well actually, Tim doesn't know where she stores her snacks. Usually she just brings them out of her cape but Cass only has her bat printed yoga pants and Tim's old Smithsonian t shirt. "Well, can I use my tablet to play a game," Tim wheedled.

He could sneak in some work, as a treat. Not a lot, just a little bit. He just needed a little....Tim sounded like a drug addict, didn't he? "Fine," Kon relented, "What game?"

"Monument Valley, the puzzle game," Tim decided.

The soft, ethereal music chimed out softly while Tim restarted the game from the first level. He didn't mind working all the way through it again. Neither Kon or Cass had played it so Kon sat beside Tim on the floor while Cass leaned her head against his. He liked the little wind chime-esque noises that happened when he altered the planes of the puzzle for his tiny character to get through the puzzle. Tim also liked the little crow people that walked around and screamed if you got in their faces. He'd like to be able to do that someday. Just scream really loud and incoherently. It sounded cathartic

     At some point in playing, Tim was too hyperfocused on the game to notice Cass kiss his slightly too-warm cheek and slip out. He vaguely remembered Ma and Pa asking her to go to the market with them for something. He was working his way through the post main storyline mini story puzzles. He jolted when Kon's phone blared. "Oops, sorry," Kon yawned, having fallen asleep, "Yeah, Ma? You need me to huh? Oooh, okay. Gotcha. Love ya, Ma, and Pa."

Tim watched the game play the end sequence while Kon rocked to his feet and stretched. "Sorry, Ma needs me to run to the Oxfords' place real quick because Nelly Oxford just had an accident and needs to go to the hospital and she left her daughter Sophie alone because it was just supposed to be a short trip. She just needs me to stay there till Nelly's husband gets home, 'kay? You'll be good here," Kon said as he started looking around for his socks.

"I'll be fine, I'm not dying," Tim promised, "Go. Isn't Nelly's daughter, like, seven? She can read so she won't, like, accidentally drink bleach but don't leave a 7 year old alone for too long."

"I'll be back soon," Kon called as he escaped out the door.

Tim settled back and looked down at Krypto. "You won't tell on me, right," he asked.

Krypto gave Tim a happy puppy grin and thumped his tail. "You won't tell because you're a good boy, Krypto," Tim grinned, "Good puppy."

Tim began working on the final schematics for the water filtration plant. He just wanted to make sure it'd be completely functional if another quake like the one a few years ago rocked Gotham, and could also double as a temporary shelter if need be. It was one of Tim's current favourite projects. To think, in three weeks, Tim would be detonating the old ACE Chemicals plant. Ivy was positively giddy about rehabilitating the land to rebuild the water filtration plant. " 'Hey Boss, ya got a rose on your desk'," he read outloud as the message came in from Pru, although he technically paraphrased it because Pru was foul.

Tim frowned, then shrugged. Maybe it was for Tam. He should get her flowers. Sunflowers, or maybe yellow roses? Maybe he should get all his employees a flower, for Valentine's Day next year. Was anyone allergic to pollen? Tim must be getting tired if he's thinking about Valentine's Day. "Should I take a nap, Krypto," he mumbled to the dog.

Krypto made a whining noise and pulled his paw over his face. "Fine, okay," Tim muttered, "Watch the tubes and you can sleep on my legs."

Krypto barked happily and carefully leapt on to Tim's legs, tail thumping hard enough to create a small breeze. With Krypto's head on Tim's stomach, he drifted off to sleep.

     Clark hadn't seen his Ma or his Pa in a couple weeks, which just wasn't right. But Jon needed him. Considering Clark's lingering guilt over not being there for Kon when his younger brother needed him, Clark stayed with Jon. It worked out anyways, when Ma and Pa called asking if he'd mind lending out his room for Bruce's family to borrow. His parents were trying to help them bond. Of course he agreed! Not only was Bruce's family going to be helped, it meant that Bruce would be on a farm. That alone was funny enough for him to agree. God, he hoped Bruce met Lady Henrietta. Evil chicken. Of course, all that was sliced real sour when Bruce called him, looking exhausted and upset. "There were...complications," Bruce grumbled, "Have you ever had to punish Jon-El for anything on a more major scale?"

Jon was pretty sweet-tempered for an 8 year old. He made friends with natural ease, shared his toys or snacks without hesitation, gave his parents kisses, and usually fessed up when he did something he knew he shouldn't do. Clark wondered if Jon's naturally sweet temper was meant to make up for all the complications of growing up half-Kryptonian. Puberty sounded far off for an 8 year old but Lord, was Clark not looking forward to that at all. So much heat vision. So. Much. "I think the worst he's ever done was laser into the ceiling but that was pretty much entirely an accident and he did it to avoid Lois's new shoes so...," Clark trailed off with a shrug, "What happened?"

"I'm attempting to figure out a proper punishment for Damian," Bruce sighed, "I'm not- I won't hit him. I'm not teaching him any more violence. I wouldn't- hrmn. I never even thought about it. I've fucked up a lot with all of them, but I...no. I just don't know how to respond to the situation at hand."

"How about you lay it all out for me, all the facts, no emotion, and I'll see how I can help," Clark suggested.

It was the right suggestion. Bruce put on his Mission Report Voice like a cloak, "Damian had a decidedly one-sided altercation with Tim in which he caused Tim to fall into the lake all the kids went to via force. Tim's compromised immune system was put under duress when Tim could not find his medications and ended up with a fever that reached a high of 104.2. Jason, Kon-El, and Cassandra had to force him into an ice bath to cool him down while we found his antibiotics. Damian admitted to Dick that he felt no guilt over his actions, and presented the logic that he was helping Tim maintain constant vigilance, even though he was around members of his family and a trusted friend. Cassandra remained behind with Tim while he recovers enough to travel."

Well, damn. Kon may have been Clark's decided younger brother, but Jon certainly looked up to Kon in a way that mimicked a cool older brother with an admiring younger brother. Jon even had an obscure poster from Kon's time with the Ravers, three Superboy collectible figures, and numerous photos with Kon at the park, candy store, and the movies. He had been worried that both boys would hate each other but Jon had already had an apparent hero worship for Kon and Kon took to Jon like a duck to water. Hell, Clark even had Kon as Jon's emergency contact. That was not the case for Damian and Tim. From what Clark had heard, Tim had not returned to living at the Manor even after Bruce's return, and Dick had guessed that it was because Tim felt unsafe in his own home and took it in hand to put himself in a safer situation, even if that meant he was living on his own as an emancipated minor. That doesn't paint a pretty picture in the slightest, and Clark's fairly surprised that the tabloids haven't been screaming accusations yet. The thought of Jon living on his own at 16 makes Clark positively ill, like he's got Kryptonite shoved under his nose. "Tim's doing okay," Clark asked.

Bruce grimaced, "Kon-El managed to catch the fever before it got too bad, but he was overheating rapidly. Leslie flew out with Alfred and has him hooked on some very strong medications. She also gave what might have been the lecture of her lifetime after returning to Gotham. I wasn't even the direct subject and I've never felt so chastised in my life. While Damian is benched and had his weapons taken away and relegated to the cave, Leslie asked if she was willing to let me have Damian work at the clinic for the rest of October to help him understand why it's important to teach him to listen to medical directions. I just don't know if it's enough or if adding more is too much?"

Clark considered it. Damian didn't have ready access to his weapons and had no patrol access for the time being. "Is he still allowed to train," Clark asked.

"I'm afraid if I didn't allow him to train, he'd take it upon himself to sneak out to exert himself to keep in shape. He also might become more aggressive without an outlet. It's safer if I allow him to do it but only in the Cave and not with real weaponry, only the wooden kind," Bruce explained.

Considering all of Bruce's children, that seemed to make sense. "Alfred is also having Damian organize the medical room in the Cave," Bruce added on, "And Dick had been considering talking to me about allowing Damian a puppy, but is no longer doing so. Somehow, that's the only thing that has really gotten a regretful reaction from him so far."

Bruce rubbed his forehead with one hand. It sounded like a deeply complex issue any parent would struggle to deal with. Was he ever like this? Should he apologize to his Ma and Pa for any trouble he caused them? "It sounds like he doesn't need any more large punishments. I think if you tried to do anything too intense, Damian might lash out because he feels like it's unfair to him. Maybe you should try a lesson of some sort," Clark offered hesitantly.

Clark wasn't equipped for this sort of situation. He wasn't sure any parents were. Bruce, though, looked considering. "What were you thinking of," Bruce inquired.

Clark fiddled with the button on his sleeve. "From what you've told me, Damian was raised to expect to be vigilant at all times in case of an attack, right? When he was with his mother, she had taught him that he could not relax in his surroundings," he recalled.

Bruce nodded. "Talia had raised Damian around her League of Shadow assassins," he confirmed, "And though she may have raised him to believe he was superior as the blood son and as a prince and heir to Batman and the League, he was certainly raised to be an assassin. To him, allies, much less siblings, are just other enemies. Dick was his Batman, and I think that's one of the few reasons Damian subconciously defers to him."

"Maybe have him observe his siblings and their friendships," Clark said, "Objectively watch them and have him watch how they don't have to keep their vigilance. Give him examples of safety and trusting interactions."

Bruce made his thinking 'hmnn' noise (very different from his angry 'hrrg' noise and exhausted 'huuuur' noise). "...You're good at this," Bruce grumbled, "It's obnoxious."

Clark shook his head and let Bruce end the call. He should go check on everyone to make sure they were alright.

The flight to Smallville was familiar and short. He dropped down in the fields and started on his way up to the house. It looked like nobody was home at the moment. "Hello," he called.

He heard Krypto bark from the living room and peered in. Pale eyes stared back.

     Clark will admit it; he jumped a little. There were a couple IV poles clustered behind Tim and tubes leading into his veins. Krypto was splayed out happily on Tim's lap, panting and doing that dog-smile. "Hello," Tim greeted politely, fiddling with the tablet on his lap, "Ma, Pa, and Cass went to the market. Got held up because of an accident. Kon had to run over to Nelly Oxford's place because Nelly had an accident and needed to go to the hospital. Kon's just there till Mr. Oxford can get home to Sophie."

Clark nodded awkwardly. He didn't dislike Tim, not in the slightest. He was a good kid, Kon's best friend, a smart kid, and a very good vigilante. Tim did not like Clark, and Clark knew it was completely on Kon's behalf. Just because things were okay with Kon-El now doesn't mean they akways were, and Clark remembered the closeness of the Young Justice team. They were each others' first, second, and last lines of defense against the world. That closeness hadn't faded, even when Kon-El died, even when Bart died, and the two remaining members if their team went to pieces. And with Tim absolutely grief stricken, desperately pleading for someone to believe him...nobody did. And he struck out on his own, disappearing. Half the hero community thought he had died, either getting killed or ending his own life. Some thought he was biding his time, mind broken and lost in delusions, to emerge as a new villain. Others thought he was just a sulking teenager who needed to cool off. Clark had thought that Tim needed to be found and helped. Well, he certainly needed help, just not the kind he and Dick were going to be offering if they had found him. Instead, Tim returned with evidence, a new hero name, and suspicions towards pretty much every other hero. A lot of the heroes, specifically the older ones, were embarrassed by Tim or embarrassed with themselves, but Clark was just ashamed, of himself specifically. "Have you been doing okay," Clark asked and immediately wanted to throw himself into the sun.

Tim shrugged, scratching at Krypto's chin. "I've been better," he replied wryly, "But I could be worse. I hope I'm not taking up too much space."

Clark, quite frankly, doesn't think Tim is taking up any space. His wrists are boney and thin, his face a little too gaunt and a bit too washed out. Clark remembers Tim when he was younger, pale and small, but even he had a little bit of childish roundness to remind others that he wasn't just a small adult. It's gone now, and it really shouldn't be. "No, you're fine," Clark tell him.

Tim dances his fingers across the surface of the tablet, not looking at Clark. Clark takes a deep breath, steeles himself, and says, "I'd like to apologize to you."

    Tim flickers his eyes up in surprise. "What," he coughs.

Clark moves forward slowly, telegraphing his movements as he slowly sank into the armchair by the couch. "I'd like to apologize to you, Tim," Clark repeats.

Tim's fully aware of how rude he has been to Superman since he was 13. Does he regret it? Not in the slightest. Tim saw the loneliness in Kon, being used by CADMUS, not being acknowledged by the other half of his genetic material, Luthor being an unknown factor at the time. And Tim, silly little 13/14 year old Tim, had been angry. Incandescently enraged and didn't know what to do besides be angry at Superman. Clark hadn't allowed anyone to take his genetic material, hadn't wanted to have a partial clone made out of him. Except...Kon wasn't a clone. He was the combination of two peoples' genetic materials, and yes the Kryptonian DNA overwhelmed the human DNA due to it being an alien-human combination nobody was fully sure was even possible, but Kon was a person. He was a whole person. Match was a clone, 100% copied from Kon, but Kon was just a person, genetically engineered and grown in a lab. But a person, a human, all left alone. Tim won't lie, he took that personally. It was embarrassing to remember, the way you get embarrassed of your 13/14 year old self when you get a little older. But it's not a regret of Tim's. Kind of how like Cissie talked about how she yelled at the JL that one time; embarrassed afterwards but unrepentant. "What are you apologzing for," Tim asked, squinting.

"For...well, not listening to you," Clark clarified, "For not listening to you when you needed it, when Bruce was gone. For not attempting to understand what you were trying to explain. And...leaving you, all on your own, without support."

Tim's hand drifts to his surgery scar. Oh, Tim had support. It was just the kind that...no, it wasn't support. It was coercion and desperation. And Tim played the hand he'd been given. "Are you," Tim paused, chewing his lip, then continued, "Are you apologizing for me or for you?:

Clark didn't seem offended. He just asked, "What do you mean,"

Tim kept his eyes steady on his tablet, tapping his fingers against the screen as he elaborated, "I- are you apologizing because you don't want to feel guilty or because you're sorry?"

Clark hummed quietly, then replied, "Because I'm sorry. Sorry that you felt alone. That you were alone. And that you got hurt because you were left alone. I don't know if anyone else has apologized but allow me to right now."

Tim swallows and blinks back the hot pressure behind his eyes. "I've been terribly rude to you," Tim mumbles, "You were also grieving. Bruce was your best friend."

"And I had support. From friends. From my family. From other heroes," Clark told him, not unkindly, "You had lost almost everyone, one after the other. You had no one."

"Not no one," Tim blurts, "Just the...the wrong people. I should- should also apologize to you. For being so rude."

Clark laughed quietly, "I think sometimes everyone needs a humble reminder. You were a good one. And it was for Kon, wasn't it?"

Tim nodded. "It was," he agreed, "I think you're a good hero. A good person. It's just- I was mad. Very mad."

Tim was mad. And young. And now what is he?

     Clark patiently waited for Tim to collect his breath and press on, "I was mad because even though I knew you weren't okay that your DNA had been used without you being okay with it, I knew Kon. And he didn't have anyone. There wasn't anyone who loved him, not really. He was getting used and nobody cared what happened to him and- and he was good. Is good. And didn't deserve Tana Moon, or Knockout, or the CADMUS scientists or Leech. And he was lonely. He was very, very lonely. Because nobody wanted him."

Tim gripped the blanket tossed over his legs, scrunching his fingers in the yellow and pink fabric. "You care a lot about him," Clark notes.

Kon was Tim's best friend. Kon hadn't even known Tim a full day, hadn't even known his name, and he wanted to be friends with Tim. He had wanted Tim. And he never stopped, even when Tim got pissy or paranoid, even when Tim took off the mask and showed who Tim was beneath the brightly gilded surface of Robin, even when he asked Kon to keep that to himself. Even when Tim had tries to ressurect his body through cloning and Tim told him what a fucked up mess he really was, Kon never stopped. "I do," Tim admitted, "I love him. He's my best friend in the whole world and I'll probably never not be upset that he was alone, even though I know you guys have talked and Kon was given a home here."

"Because there was a time when he had none and nobody to care that he didn't," Clark said, "Because there was a time where Kon-El wasn't regarded as more than a clone and a Superman knock off and a billboard advertisement. He was, forgive the pun, a cash cow."

Cash cow. Farm. Tim snorted, "Did Dick get his sense of humor from you or was it the other way around?"

"I honestly can't say," Clark chuckled, "But did you know that Kon-El hates Jason?"

Tim blinked. "Um, I was aware that he was uncomfortable in Jason's presence. Jason's a little off putting," Tim stated.

"He hates Jason," Clark said, "Do you know why?"

Tim shrugs. "Because Jason's hurt you before. He doesn't like Damian, either, and I think, given the chance, he'd set Bruce on fire. Just a little bit," Clark explained, "Because he cares about you just as much as you care about him. So, I think I can forgive you disliking me a little because I hurt someone you love. Even if it was unintentional and I was mad solely at the scientists who created Kon and not Kon, that doesn't mean Kon didn't suffer for it. You have a good heart and you were even younger than you are now, and it didn't even really hinder us professionally. I think I can forgive you if you really want to apologize."

God, emotionally healthy people are so strange. Tim takes a deep breath again. He's feeling tired from feeling emotions. And from being sick. He might need another nap. "Well, I'm sorry that I was rude to you," Tim replies, "And I, um, thank you for apologizing to me. You didn't need to. It was nice of you."

"I think you deserved it," Clark told him, "Kon should be back soon. I'll leave you here to sleep. I hope you get better, Tim."

Tim blinked, slow and sleepy. He was very tired. But it was sleepy-tired, not exhaustion-tired. Krypto nosed his snout under Tim's hand, and Tim blinked his eyes closed to the feeling of soft fur under his hand.

     Kon slipped back inside as quietly as he could. Mr. Oxford took a bit longer than he guessed, but Sophie was a good kid. She showed him her compost bins and the huge bunch of worms that were inside, and she showed off her slingshot she used to chase off Brett and Dylan Hank so they wouldn't eat her worms. She had good aim, especially with rotten eggs. Ma and Pa should be back soon with Cass and the shopping. He peaked into the living room, grinning when Krypto lifted his head and gave a big dog smile with his tongue hanging out all funny. Tim was passed out, hand on Krypto's back. Kon closed his eyes, listening to those familiar biometrics. The steady, slow heartbeat, the soft, deep push of breath in and out of his lungs, the gentle rush of blood trecking through a bloodstream. Like listening to music. Then he realized there was another heartbeat besides Krypto's and Tim's. This one was different, but also familiar. Different because it was like Kara's and Jon's and Kon's. The pulse of a heart slightly larger than an average human's, with six more heart valves than there should be and enlargened lungs with six lobes and blood that hummed at an odd frequency because it was charged with sunlight. "Clark," Kon greeted quietly.

Clark stuck his head out if the kitchen and waved him over. Kon hovered over, ducking inside the kitchen. "Jon doin' okay," Kon asked.

"Yeah, he wants to see you soon," Clark chuckled, "Thinks you're the coolest person on the planet."

"It's the leather jacket," Kon joked, "Everyone loves the leather jacket."

"I thought it was the piercings," Clark told him, "And the eyebrow slit."

"Aw, not the hair," Kon fake-pouted, "I think the hair's a big parta my image."

Clark shook his head and handed Kon a sandwich. Kon took it gratefully, the two of them standing quietly in the kitchen and soaking in the sunlight pouring from the window. "You're about as tall as I was at your age," Clark comments, "But your cheekbones are different, a little."

"Different parents," Kon dismisses, "We still look like brothers."

Clark nods, smiling quietly and says,"You have a good best friend."

Kon grins, something wide and honest and loud. "The best."