#maybe ill neaten this up tomorrow and do something more with it. for now................ sleeby

[mamawasatesttube]

49. “Who hurt you?”. Please.

Lightning flashes. The wind drives rain into the windows by the bucketful. The world outside is a blur, all the city lights in the night blending into a watery mess. To anyone else, it might even be beautiful, even if it is Gotham.

Tim scowls and draws the throw blanket around his shoulders tighter. It’s not beautiful; it’s stupid and annoying and loud. It’s the middle of the night, and the thunder keeps rattling him down to the bones, and Cass is out there somewhere wrangling the Penguin, and Tim is stuck on his ass on the sofa in a haze of painkillers and frustration.

The TV blares on, news coverage that doesn’t actually tell him anything about what he wants to know. He’s supposed to be resting, but resting just makes him antsy. Even with the meds, his ankle hurts, a dull throb radiating up his whole leg, and all the bruises on his back and ribs ache.

Another flash of lightning lights up the room, bright as day. Tim glares at the TV as if it can quell the storm. A low rumble of thumber rolls through the sky, distant and ominous. Then, closer—

CRACKABOOM!

The lamp on the table flickers; the TV blacks out for a second. Tim sucks in a breath. If the power goes out, he swears…

He glances at his phone again. Nothing—Cassie stopped texting back and went to bed hours ago. Even Bart is asleep. Just great.

Lightning flashes—

There’s a shape on the balcony, a tall, dark silhouette reaching for the door. Light glints from its eyes, focused directly on Tim.

Adrenaline surges through Tim’s body. He scrambles away from the back of the couch, grabbing for the collapsible staff on the side table. His right ankle can’t take any weight, but he—

Oh. Wait.

Kon lets himself in silently, hovering an inch or so off the floor. He’s completely dry. The door slides shut with a hiss behind him, and the locks click back into place on their own.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re worse than Bruce,” Tim groans. The adrenaline fades as fast as it came, and his busted ankle sends a wave of nauseating pain up his leg as he sinks back down, wincing. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack one of these days.”

Still, his heart lifts. Kon’s been in space for two weeks; he said he’d probably be back in three, so this is a pleasant surprise. Tim’s missed him.

Kon drifts around the sofa, oddly quiet. Tim looks up at him and sees that Kon’s studying his ankle, then examining his ribs; the distant look in his eyes is a dead giveaway that he’s looking through Tim, X-ray vision and all. There’s an unnerving stillness to him, and Tim frowns.

Kon settles next to him. Leans in, cups his chin. Turns his face to the light. Tim almost winces again; the bruise on his jaw is still swollen, even though he’s been icing it. Kon’s hand, by contrast, is delightfully warm. He leans into his touch with a sigh, letting his tired eyes close.

“…Who hurt you?” Kon finally asks, his voice dangerously calm. Something in the set of his shoulders makes him look unnervingly like Superman.

Tim’s mood sours. He doesn’t want to think about his mistakes right now. “Some of Penguin’s goons,” he mutters, tugging his blanket around himself again. “It was my own fault. I got cocky. And before you try to go be all scary at them, Cass is already kicking their asses, so don’t bother.”

Kon’s quiet for a moment. Then he sighs, scrubbing his free hand over his face, and all the tension in his body drains away. He doesn’t look like a terrifying alien juggernaut contemplating holy vengeance anymore; he just looks tired.

“I leave for two weeks—not even two weeks! Twelve days!—and come back to you in pieces,” he complains. His TTK wraps around Tim’s waist and hips, then down to his thighs, like a harness. He lifts Tim into his lap, keeping his leg stable, and gently wraps his arms around him. He presses his face into Tim’s neck, and Tim tucks his nose into his hair. He smells like the rain.

“I’m not in pieces,” Tim says belatedly, winding his arms around Kon’s neck. He’s missed this. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Your ankle is, to use the technical term, fuckenated, and you have two cracked ribs,” Kon says. His lips brush Tim’s collarbone.

“My ankle will be fine after a few weeks. And cracked doesn’t mean broken.” Tim slips his arms under Kon’s jacket, curls them into the fabric of his suit, warm from his body. It’s a lot easier to relax now, in Kon’s arms. “I’ll be fine.”

Kon blows out a breath. He presses a warm, tender kiss to the pulse point just below Tim’s ear, lingering. His lips are soft, Tim’s pulse fluttering under his skin, and a pleasant little shiver runs down Tim’s spine.

“I missed you,” Kon says quietly. I was worried about you, and it looks like I was right to be, he doesn’t say. I always worry when I leave you. Like you always worry when you leave me.

Tim tightens his fingers in the back of his suit. “I missed you, too.” He doesn’t need to say that he can handle himself, that he’s made of tough stuff, that he’s had worse and bounced back just fine. Kon knows. That’s why Kon didn’t say he was worried, even though they both know he was.

Besides, between the two of them, Tim’s not the one who’s gone off and died before, so there. That always puts an end to the conversation they aren’t having, in Tim’s mind. Lightning flashes outside; the thunderclap is loud enough that Tim winces, and poor Kon flinches in his arms.

“Must’ve been a long flight. You look exhausted,” Tim says, pressing a kiss into Kon’s hair.

“Yeah, and you should be asleep,” Kon murmurs, brushing his lips against Tim’s jaw. “It’s late.”

Tim shrugs halfheartedly. He should have gone to bed forever ago, yeah, but why do that when he could sit here, stare at the news, and seethe at the storm?

Bed doesn’t sound nearly as bad now that Kon’s back, though. He sighs, takes one hand from Kon’s back to twine his fingers into his curls. The shaved fuzz on the back of Kon’s head is soft under his palm.

“I was waiting for you to come home and carry me to bed,” he says. A tiny, wry half-smile tugs at his mouth. “Since, y’know, my ankle is fuckenated.”

Kon’s lips twitch against his neck. “Well, when you put it that way,” he says, and shifts Tim in his arms as he floats them both into the air. “Your carriage awaits.”

“Mm,” Tim agrees. It’s his turn to tuck his face into Kon’s neck. “…I’m glad you’re back.”

Kon lets out a soft sigh. “Yeah,” he agrees, leaning his cheek against Tim’s hair. “Me too.”