When Alfred heard the doorbell boom through Wayne Manor and went to see who was intruding on his rare peace, he did not expect to see a small child waiting for him.
The child, a little boy with black curls and violently blue eyes, looked up at him. Tiny and adorable, he wore an adult’s leather jacket over his shoulders like a blanket, and carried a Batman-themed backpack. His head was tilted to the side. He didn’t look at all intimidated or fearful, something Alfred took note of immediately. “Are you Alfred? Dad says I need Alfred.”
At once, Alfred remembered himself. “Good afternoon, young Sir. And who is your father?”
“I can’t tell you that if you’re not Alfred.” The child squinted furiously, frustrated with this conundrum. He swung his backup down and opened up a pocket, tearing through it until he found what he was looking for. Triumphant, he pulled out a photo and stared down at it. “You look like Alfred. But are you?”
Stranger and stranger. Alfred folded his hands behind his back and nodded. “I am.”
The boy’s face brightened. He dug around in his backpack again, this time emerging with an envelope, holding it out proudly. “Here you go!” It was plain, office quality, its nondescript appearance incongruent with the significance the boy gave it. On the back it said Alfred Pennyworth in familiar, scratchy handwriting. Alfred’s heart leapt in his chest.
Alfred took the envelope, hands determinedly not shaking. He did not look at it as he said, “Please come in.”
Alfred settled the boy in one of the sitting rooms on the first floor. He plopped down on a plush ottoman much too large for himself, kicking his legs. Alfred brought him a plate of cookies and a cup of milk, receiving a beatific smile in response. “Thank you!”
The child had good manners. He should, if his father was one of Alfred’s boys — but that was getting ahead of himself. Alfred made sure the child was comfortable before excusing himself to Bruce’s— to the nearest office. He sliced the envelope open and delicately extracted the letter from within. Spread out across several sheets of ripped-out notebook paper, that cramped, familiar handwriting didn’t bother announcing the author. No matter. Alfred already knew.
His name is Caden Thomas Wayne. He responds to “duckling” and “sweetheart” and “sunshine”. He is my son.
He does not sleep alone. He is sensitive to textures. Scratchy fabrics are not allowed. Neither are mushy foods. He won’t eat orange things.
Never leave him alone. Never yell at him.
His bedtime is 8PM sharp, once he adjusts to the new time zone. His favorite book is Le Petit Prince in the original French. His favorite show is Wendy the Werewolf Stalker. If he can’t calm down or sleep, turn on the musical episode (season 6, episode 7).
If he begins to shift in place and avoid all speech and eye contact, he is approaching a meltdown; remove him to a private area and comfort him (he will want his stuffed whale for this). In case of an extreme tantrum, play the DVD labeled “Emergency Anti-Frustration Measures”.
Record updates on his health and mood daily. He is around four to five years old physically. His speech is advanced for his age. He needs consistent sunlight (at least an hour a day). He has yet to develop powers beyond hovering slightly. I haven’t tested his vulnerability.
Clark can’t know. Luthor can’t know. Ra’s al Ghul can’t know.
He is everything I have left. If I don’t return within six months, make sure he knows that I love him more than anything. Tell him about Conner.
I’m sorry. Thank you.
There was more. Predictions of when and if the child — Caden — would develop powers. A list of his favorite foods. Topics to avoid and where he was in his education (Tim seemed to believe he was old enough to start learning chemistry). Instructions on how to decipher the coded notes on Caden’s health and assurances that he already had a basic understanding of secrecy and codewords. Tim explained everything.
Tim explained nothing.
Alfred folded up the letter, carefully tucking it into a hidden drawer. It would do until he decided on a better hiding place. Richard had to be told, of course. Master Damian too, though he wasn’t looking forward to it. The former was sleeping off a difficult patrol while the latter was in school. The timing seemed deeply uncoincidental. Alfred looked up to one of the curtained windows, wondering. Was Timothy still out there? He wouldn’t have been far when he dropped the child off. Judging by the extensive notes alone, Tim’s paranoid edge had sharpened if anything. No, he would have wanted to make sure the child was safely in Alfred’s care before he disappeared. But he also wouldn’t risk sticking around afterwards. Alfred would check the security systems — all of them — but he already knew that Tim was long gone.
Does he?
Caden was still in the sitting room when he returned. Kneeling on the floor with his backpack open next to him, he was stacking plastic blocks in a tower. Then, once it was taller than him, he knocked it over with relish, giggling at his own mischief. It was only as he started stacking them again that he noticed Alfred’s return. Utterly unconcerned with his circ*mstances, he smiled. “Are you gonna play blocks with me? Dad said you would play blocks with me.” Caden pouted. It was highly effective. “Dad promised.”
Alfred sat down to play blocks. This mostly consisted of stacking the blocks very high so that Caden could knock them down. Occasionally he was drafted to pick up a stray block. While Caden giggled at another successful game (more knocked over blocks), Alfred asked, “Young Master Caden, do you know who I am?”
“Yep! You’re Alfred! You’re Batman’s butler.” Those Kryptonian blue eyes were full of wonder. “Dad says you’re the best.”
“That’s very kind of him. And do you know your father’s name?”
Caden looked at him like he was dumb. “Duh. Tim Drake, silly.” Caden made grabby hands in the direction of a red block (the best kind). Alfred obliged him. “You’re supposed to watch me while Dad brings Grandpa home. Hand me the blue one.”
Oh, Tim. Alfred knew he was taking the loss of Bruce hard — how could he not, when he’d already lost so much so soon? — but he never thought . . . “What about your other parent?”
“Oh, my Pa’s dead,” Caden said matter-of-factly. “Dad made me so he wouldn’t be alone anymore. He said so before I woke up.” Distracted by his own thoughts, Caden moved to rummage around inside his backpack, pulling out an action figure of a woman wielding a crossbow. “This is Wendy! She fights werewolves.” Caden briefly paused to play attack Alfred with the toy, then moved on like nothing happened. “Wendy was my Pa’s favorite show, so now it’s my favorite too. Dad played it all the time before I woke up. You have to watch it with me. That way you can skip any parts I’m not allowed to watch.”
“I would be happy to,” Alfred said, because it couldn’t possibly be worse than the moody horror dramas that Bruce watched as a child. “Did your father say where exactly he was going to look for—”
“No,” Caden said, blunt in the way that only children could be. “I asked him, but he said ‘No Caden’, and I said ‘Why not?’, and he said ‘Because I said so’, then I said ‘That’s not a reason!’ Then Dad got all sad and said he was sorry, but he didn’t want me to tell someone where he was even on accident, and I said OK and gave him a hug. Then he was still sad so we watched Wendy until I fell asleep.” Caden said all of this with a great flourish, looking so much like young Conner Kent that Alfred thought it must have broken Tim’s heart all over again. “Can I have lunch and then we’ll watch Wendy after?”
Alfred was about to tell him that they should probably spend some time outside before lunch so he could get some sun, but that was when Dick found them.
“Hey Al, thanks for not waking me— that. That is a child.”
“A most astute observation, Sir,” Alfred said and carefully did not notice how Dick flinched at the address. He caught Dick’s gaze and held it, silently communicating the gravity of the situation. Dick stood straight. “This is Timothy’s son, Caden. Tim dropped him off this morning for a visit.”
Dick’s eyes widened a fraction. From one of the Bat’s well-trained children, this was the equivalent of a nuclear bomb going off. “Oh. I. Didn’t know he was coming over.”
Dick and Caden eyed each other. For such a small and innocent child, Caden’s gaze was awfully suspicious. That, Alfred knew he got from Tim. Caden stood, carefully setting his action figure on the table. Then he ran over to Dick and threw his arms around his leg, capturing him in a hug. Dick jolted, shooting Alfred several looks that amounted to The f*ck am I supposed to do?!
“You’re Uncle Dick,” Caden murmured into his leg before looking up. “Dad said you’re gonna protect me. You gotta. Okay?” Despite his appearance, Caden was not four or five years old. He was weeks old and he didn’t know everything yet. But he knew his father best of all. And Tim had been very clear that while he could only trust Alfred, he needed his uncle’s protection. A world without Batman was not a safe world. Dad was bringing Batman back. He would be back soon. But until then, Caden had to rely on the mercy of his family. It was a lesson that Tim had impressed upon him with manic ears and fear in his voice. Dick needs to love you. He needs to love you more than Damian, and much more than he ever did me. That’s the only way you’ll be safe.
Caden didn’t shiver; Dad taught him better than that. He just hugged his uncle tighter and pouted until he was at his most adorable. Even Dad wouldn’t be able to resist letting him stay up for ten more minutes or have another scoop of ice cream at his most adorable. And Dad was very strict about bedtime and ice cream. He wanted Caden to have good habits since he didn’t have any himself.
“Of course,” Dick said, too late and too fast. “Of course I will.” He grinned wide and bent down to pick Caden up, launching him into the air. He caught him easily, naturally, eliciting a shriek of joy from the kid. Dick settled him on his hip and spun on his heel, marching out of the room. “Let’s get some food. Do you want some food? C’mon.”
Caden, being very small and tired and due for a nap soon, let out a sigh bigger than his body and rested his head on Dick’s shoulder.
As soon as he finished lunch, Caden fell into a nap while resting in Alfred’s arms. One plucked hair and a trip to the batcave for genetic analysis confirmed his parentage. Caden Wayne, the one-quarter Kryptonian child of Kon-El and Tim Drake.
It occurred to Dick that he really f*cked up.
He knew Tim was having a hard time. He knew that. They all were when Bruce . . . but Tim most of all. In the span of a year, Tim had lost his remaining parents, his best friends, Steph who wasn’t even his girlfriend by then but was still important to him — and Robin. Tim lost Robin.
Plus all the attempts on his life. That couldn’t have helped.
Dick read all of Tim’s notes, his coded journal, the letters he’d left for him and Alfred. It hurt his heart to see that while Tim had given Alfred instructions for his son’s care, his letter to Dick had been a curt plea to watch over his child. A list of potential enemies, their strengths and weaknesses. Jason was on that list. Damian, too.
Keep him in the mansion. He does not go to school, he does not go to the store, he does not go to the park. Not until Bruce and I are back. This is NOT a request. If a single one of our enemies learns about him, I will never forgive you. If he is hurt, I will never forgive myself. Against every instinct Bruce and my parents ingrained in me, I am trusting you. I am trusting you with the most important thing in the universe. Do not leave him alone with Damian. Defer to Alfred. Keep him safe.
Tell Caden I love him and make sure he goes to sleep at 8PM. He can’t fall asleep on his own. Please lay down with him when Alfred is unavailable. Thank you.
The entire letter was half-demand, half-beg. Desperation leaked through like a perfume. Which told him several things — first, that Tim was not joking about not forgiving Dick if anything happened. That Tim was more desperate then he’d ever been before, because he still didn’t trust Dick, not really. He was just the only option left. Bruce was gone, Bart and Kon were gone, and he wasn’t speaking with Cassie, couldn’t. It hurt too much. So the manor. Stocked and armed to the gills to protect against an attack, the batcave digused to everyone from Kryptonians to magic users. And Dick — a poor substitute for Bruce. Which brought him to the last thing he knew for sure.
Tim was completely certain in his mission. He truly believed that Bruce was out there, alive, and that he could bring him back. He wouldn’t have left his son if he didn’t.
I really messed up.
Because the universe hated Dick Grayson, Damian and Jason arrived at the Manor at the same time.
Barging into the batcave, Jason was dangling Damian at arm’s length as Damian hissed at him, looking for all the world like a pissed-off kitten. Dick was sitting at the batcomputer with Caden asleep in his lap, not wanting to move and wake him. He sat in a silence that screamed how do I get it out of this when Damian cried, “GRAYSON! GRAYSON, MAKE TODD UNHAND ME!”
“I want it on the record that I didn’t want to be here,” Jason said casually, ducking every time Damian swiped at him with a knife. “But the demon brat snuck out of school to follow me around the city. Says he’s making a list of my weaknesses.”
“Not that you were of any use,” Damian hissed. “You spent the entire day at that disgraceful establishment!”
“Trader Joe’s?”
“Yes!”
“Oh, sorry we don’t all have Alfred to cook and clean for—”
It was then that Caden muttered in his sleep, smacking his lips and tossing in Dick’s hold. He refused to actually wake up, leaving Dick to his predicament.
Jason and Damian stared. For once, Damian was speechless. Jason was not. “Dickwing. Where the f*ck did you get this child.”
You can’t just let things go, huh, Little Wing? “He’s not mine.”
For some reason, this did not reassure Jason. “Yeah, I guessed that. So what, you decided to continue B’s proud tradition of kidnapping any dark-haired, blue-eyed child you see?”
“First of all, you’re the only one of us who could have ever been considered kidnapped in any legal sense.”
“The f*ck kind of response is that—”
“Secondly, it’s Tim’s.” Dick used his free hand to gesture to Caden. Ta-da. “He’s Tim’s kid.”
Dick was aware that this explained nothing. But it was about as much information as he had, so he saw no reason for Jason to complain. Jason didn’t see it that way.
“What the f*ck,” Jason hissed, dropping Damian to the floor. (Damian simply fell into a roll and jumped back to his feet, scowling adorably.) “Isn’t the replacement twelve or something?”
“Or something. He’s seventeen, Jay.”
“Not any better, don’t call me that. Where the f*ck did he get a child? Who’s the mom?”
“All excellent questions for once, Todd,” Damian said, finally seeming to remember himself. “I am also curious who entrusted Drake with their offspring.”
“I swear to God, if you two wake him up,” Dick hissed as Caden tossed and turned. Thankfully, the kid slept like a brick. Good. Dick did not have it together well enough to put up with all three of them. “Look. Tim spiralled a bit—”
“Typical.”
“—and tried to make a clone of Superboy, messed up, and made a kid with Superboy instead.”
Damian opened his mouth. Closed it. Repeat.
“That’s kinda gay,” said Jason.
“Jason.”
“In a nice way,” Jason insisted, which might have been the only time he ever said something nice about Tim. “I’m not a hypocrite.” Debatable. “We’re all kinda gay here. Plus, I don’t see a mini Spoiler running around . . . Right?”
“I’m pretty sure there’s not,” Dick said. “But I also didn’t think this little guy was gonna show up, so who knows.”
“f*ck,” Jason said with feeling. A little too much feeling, because it woke Caden up.
“Don’t curse,” Caden muttered. “Dad will make you put a dollar in the jar.” Snuggling closer to his uncle, the child tiredly lifted his head to look at the newcomers.
Then he started screaming.
Jason and Damian rushed to cover their ears against the sound of screaming quarter-Kryptonian. It was a terrible, high-pitched drone mixed with the nails-on-chalkboard feeling of a baby crying on a plane. His little fists beat on Dick’s chest. The noise changed, taking the form of words. “DON’T! DON’T! GO AWAY! YOU’LL HURT ME!” Caden tugged on one of Dick’s ears as though to direct him.
Dick struggled to keep Caden from squirming right out of his arms, keeping a tight arm around his waist. “Caden, please, calm down!”
“NO!” Caden shouted. “I PROMISED DAD! I PROMISED!”
“I’m not gonna fuc—” Jason stopped himself. His eyes were burning green. His right hand flexed and unflexed at his side. “Fudging hurt anyone. Jesus, kid, you’ve got some lungs.” Damian, notably, said nothing. “I don’t hurt kids!”
Caden didn’t stop fighting. “You hurt Dad!”
And Jason, for once, had nothing to say.
“Sunshine,” Dick tried desperately, “calm down for me, please—”
“Master Caden.”
Immediately Caden shut up, wrenching around in Dick’s arms to see Alfred standing on the edges of their little group. Hands behind his back, not a hair out of place. He looked perfectly calm in the face of the ticking time bomb that was what remained of his family. Alfred took a step in their direction and held his arms out. “Would you like to come with me?”
Caden only hesitated a moment before nodding. Dick gratefully handed him over, not hiding his own relief. Caden threw his arms around Alfred’s neck, snuggling into his shoulder. Alfred rocked him. “Young Master Caden?”
“Yeah?” Caden murmured.
“Your father said you could trust me, correct?”
After a moment, Caden nodded.
“Then can you trust that as long as I am here, then no one will hurt you?” Alfred cast his gaze past Caden’s curls to where Jason and Damian were standing. Jason was stock-still, eyes gone dull and grey rather than green or blue. Damian was shaking furiously in place, and no one could tell whether he was angry or— something else. “Not even Jason or Damian?”
Caden considered it for several seconds. “I trust you.”
“Thank you, Caden.” He brushed a hand through the boy’s curls. “Then know that you are safe here. Shall we go upstairs now?”
“Yeah.” Caden seemed tuckered out from his brief tantrum. “It’s time for Wendy.”
Alfred chuckled. “Yes it is. Boys?” Everyone jerked to attention. “Would any of you care to join us?”
They didn’t.
Jason left, wanting nothing to do with what was going on at the Manor. Dick couldn’t blame him. He also wished he hadn’t gotten wrapped up in this.
But he knew that he’d let Tim down. He wasn’t there, wasn’t good enough to fix him and Damian at the same, and now Tim was paying the price. Dick could do this for him.
Dick was shocked to find that Tim actually had Caden on a sleep schedule. He was out like a light as soon as the sun went down, still curled up in Alfred’s arms. The kid was a limpet, refusing to let go once someone was holding him, so unlike Tim. And he was talkative, he loved to tell stories about his dads. Tim showing Caden his favorite movies, Tim taking him on the train from San Francisco, Tim giving him Conner’s jacket before dropping him on the Manor’s doorstep. Conner fighting with Young Justice, Conner crying when they watched Wendy the Werewolf Stalker, Conner snoring so hard he knocked himself off a cot during a mission in space. Caden loved Tim, but he worshiped Conner. Dick understood. It was easy to love a memory.
Every night, Dick lay Caden down to sleep in Tim’s room. It was exactly as he’d left it. Kind of musty; it needed to be aired out. Clothes and shoes and random gear all over the place. Laptop open on the desk. They’d have to clean it up so the kid didn’t stumble upon a spare birdarang or sensitive case files.
There was a lot to do. There always was. To everyone’s relief, Damian preferred to pretend Caden didn’t exist at all. At the very least he thought it was beneath him to fight a one-ish month old that looked like a five year old. It was a careful balancing act that would have been impossible without Alfred to help, but that wasn’t new. Dick was at his nephew’s side constantly during the day, following Tim’s instructions to the letter. Caden flourished with attention. He liked musicals he shouldn’t be listening to and Lilo and Stitch and just about anything that anyone said Conner once liked (Dick got him to eat broccoli that way; he was pretty proud of it). When he wanted attention, he demanded it, clamoring into Alfred or Dick’s lap like a cat. When he didn’t want it, he up and walked away, often in the middle of a sentence. He made no effort to make people love him, but he didn’t need to. Loving him was just natural. He was a good kid. A sweet kid.
That didn’t make it easy.
They learned how bad Caden’s tantrums were a week in. Dick was dealing with an Arkham breakout the same time that Jason called to let him know that Black Mask was planning something by the docks and the Outlaws could use reinforcements (meaning there were probably more than fifty people with guns, and Jason would rather not die again). It was an all hands on deck situation and they were short on hands.
Dick and Jason were in the Cave trying to strategize (yelling at each other) when Caden came down and announced, “It’s bedtime.”
At almost nine, it was well past time for Caden to be asleep. But the timing was too tight for Dick to step away, and Alfred was just as busy catching up on neglected equipment maintenance, one of several things that they’d fallen behind on with Caden’s arrival. It had to be done before Dick went out that night if he didn’t want to shoot a grappel and wake up in the ICU. Not to mention that laying Caden down was a whole process. The kid refused to go to sleep unless he was sleeping next to someone, and if you tried to leave early or accidentally woke him once he was down, he’d cry. They didn’t have time tonight. “I’m sorry, Caden. Do you think you can get to bed yourself tonight?”
“No,” Caden said furiously. He was tired, little shoulders hanging low and already wearing Conner’s punk jacket as a blanket. “You have to come lay down with me. Now.”
Sometimes, Dick wondered where he got that demanding nature. It definitely didn’t come from Tim. “Can’t tonight. We have to work on this.” He gentled his tone, going for his Nightwing voice, the one he used with lost or hurt children. “You’re a big boy. You can fall asleep on your own—”
“No I can’t!” Capden said, growing more upset as Dick spoke. “Dad always lays down with me!”
“That’s not gonna make him codependent, Timber,” Jason muttered. “Kid, why don’t you just wait upstairs, okay? Dickie here will get you when he has a second.” It was definitely a lie — they weren’t going to have time to go upstairs until the night was over. But maybe if Caden waited long enough, he’d fall asleep on his own.
The kid wasn’t convinced. “It’s really late.” Dick tried to remember if Bruce had ever enforced a bedtime on him. He couldn’t. “Dad will be mad if he knows I’m up past my bedtime.”
“Good news!” said Jason. “We’re not gonna tell him.”
If possible, this made Caden even more upset. “He’ll know! I’m not supposed to be up!”
“Sunshine,” Dick tried, “it’s fine just this once okay—”
“No it’s not!” Caden snapped. His voice had turned to a whine and his face was red, eyes wet with tears. He looked completely miserable. “It’s past my bedtime and I’m tired and I promised Dad I was gonna be good, and you need to lay down with me!”
“Look, kid,” and this time it was Jason speaking, and oh no. “It is not our f*cking job to coddle you just because your dad had better things to do. Okay? We’re busy trying to keep this goddamn city from burning down and you with it. So you are gonna go upstairs, lie down, and go the f*ck to sleep on your own—”
“NO!” Caden yelled, and oh no— “No, no, no, no, NO!”
The cave shook. The whole manor shook, shockwaves racing through the air as Caden screamed and screamed and screamed. Dick and Jason threw their hands over their ears. It didn’t help. Caden’s tiny body howled with pent-up frustration, fear, grief. He was so angry. He was so sad.
He was so scared.
“NOOOOOOO! You’re not doing it right, you’re not doing ANYTHING right! I want my dad! I want my dad I want my dad I WANT MY DAD!”
Caden kicked and screamed, his entire face red. He fell to the ground with the force of his own anguish, and beat the stone floor until he dented it with his tiny fists, tossing dust and chunks of rock into the air, not a scratch on him. Tears streamed down his face. Glass shattered.
It occurred to Dick, lying on the floor of the Batcave with his entire body shuddering, that this probably counted as an emergency.
One of the things Tim had left with his son was a DVD. Labelled “Emergency Anti-Frustration Measures” in thick Sharpie, there was nothing to betray the information it held. They figured it was some kind of anti-Kryptonian measure devised by Bruce or Tim. A noise that only superpowered aliens could hear that would knock them out, some kind of spell, they weren’t sure. It hadn’t been a priority. Alfred had taken it to the Batcave and uploaded whatever it was to the computer system before rushing off to one of the thousand things he had to do.
Dick struggled over to the giant computer, every organ in his body shaking from the force of the shockwaves. Super-powered scream. Might require stress to activate. We’ll have to update Tim’s records. “Computer. Activate Emergency Anti-Frustration Measures for C. Access code 89436.”
For a moment, nothing happened. The computer screen blinked blankly. Then—
“. . . oh, I don’t really have a name. Just call me Superboy.”
Caden stopped screaming. Not slowly, but in an instant, recognizing the voice. Light filled the computer screen, settling into the image of a TV set. Some kind of talk show, with a woman in a pink suit and big hair sitting in one chair. And Superboy — Kon-El — Conner Kent in the other.
With a camera-worthy smile, the woman on the screen asked, “Not Superman?”
Conner shrugged. “It’s a new era. Superman is out, Superboy is in. Plus I don’t have the trademark.” An unseen audience laughed. “But why would I want it, y'know? I’m my own guy.” A winning smile and Kryptonian blue eyes. “No one like me but me.”
Slowly, Caden drew himself up, sitting down before the screen, wide-eyed and silent. The interview went on for a while, something to do with Poison Ivy in Hawai’i. Conner was a natural, all of Superman’s easy charm with a watered-down version of Lex Luthor’s ego. And he was just nice. The kind of person you wanted to know, wanted to be around. Tim certainly had.
Caden sat in front of the computer, Conner’s studded leather jacket drawn over his small shoulders. He had his father’s eyes.
Caden fell asleep there, on the cold floor of the Batcave where his dad became Robin, still listening to Conner’s voice.
The night Caden was born, he was supposed to sleep on his own.
The clone had woken up after several days of accelerated growth until he was at the approximate physical state of a 4.5 year old, big enough to use complex sentences, form his first memories, and know how to react to danger in his environment. He woke up covered in the nutritious green goop he’d been suspended in. His first ever thought was Gross.
Tim Drake, his creator, stood in front of him.
The clone looked him over curiously, already knowing who he was. If he tried, he could remember snippets of Before. Tim Drake’s voice had been a constant presence when he was unconscious. Accelerate the aging program. Might be able to wake him by the end of the week, start running . . . I hope you’re okay. I know I messed up. I didn’t think— I wasn’t thinking, I was . . . I hope you feel . . . here, let me turn on your show. This was his favorite, you know. Maybe it’ll be yours too, but I don’t really know anymore . . . I think. I think maybe I should wake you up early, actually. Since you’re not. Not really. Okay. OKAY. Here’s what we’re gonna do.
Then the clone was awake and he wasn’t scared. Tim had made him, had kept him safe, hadn’t hurt him. He was safe with him.
But his creator hadn’t spoken. So maybe he should? “Hi.”
Tim blinked. “Uh. Hi.”
The clone smiled for the first time. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Yeah.” Tim ran a hand through his hair. It was gross and greasy, but the clone was still covered in goop, so it was okay. “You’re— f*ck, you’re filthy— sh*t, I shouldn’t— sorry. Sorry. I shouldn’t say things like that. Let me just . . . ” Tim grabbed a dry towel from a console and wrapped it over the clone’s shoulders, covering him. “We need to get you clean. Come on.”
Then Tim swept him up in his arms, bouncing him slightly. The clone giggled and leaned into his chest. He was getting Tim all gross from the goo, but Tim didn’t complain, so he stayed where he was. They had to go through a series of complicated hallways and elevators before finally making it to a bathroom. Tim sat him down on the sink while he ran a bath. There was a Batman-shaped bottle of soap on the edge of the bath. The clone could see fancy-looking bottles of shampoo and conditioner. Coconut and hibiscus scented, made for curly hair. He thought that probably smelled really nice.
Tim was checking how hot the water was when the clone asked, “Do I have a name?”
Tim almost fell face-first into the side of the tub. “What?”
Uh oh. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything? “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s—” Tim rubbed his eyes. Dark circles betrayed how tired he was. The clone remembered from Before that Tim had been with him almost all the time for the past week. He was pale and yellow and gross-looking. He needs a hug. “I’m sorry. I forgot to tell you. Of course you have a name.”
The clone’s eyes widened. “I do?”
Tim tried to smile. It didn’t really look right. “Of course you do. Your name is Caden. Caden Thomas Wayne.”
Caden Wayne. He repeated the name to himself several times. He recognized Wayne from his programming — Bruce Wayne was Tim’s adopted father. Did that mean . . .
“I’m sorry if you don’t like it,” Tim said suddenly. “I can change it if you want. Or if you want to change your last name, you could be a Drake or— or even Kent—”
“Are you my dad?” Is that what Tim meant when he made him — Caden, he had a name! — a Wayne? If he was kind of Bruce’s son, then was Caden kind of Tim’s? But Tim didn’t look happy. He looked shocked and sad, and Caden messed up—
“Yes,” Tim said, voice breaking. He cleared his throat and brushed his eyes with the back of his hand. They were all shiny. “Yes, you’re— you’re my son. I’m your dad. If you want me to be.” Tim paused, waiting for something, but Caden didn’t know what. Tim cleared his throat. “And your— your other dad was Kon-El.”
Conner Kent, Caden knew instinctively. Superboy. “He’s dead.”
Tim winced like Caden hit him. He immediately felt bad. His Dad had been very kind to him. He didn’t mean to hurt him. “Sorry!”
“It’s okay,” Tim said quickly. “It’s. It’s not your fault.” Dad had turned away then, no longer facing him. “Let’s get you in the bath, okay sunshine?”
They didn’t talk much for the rest of the night. Tim bathed him and dressed him in a soft pair of pajamas with Superboy’s signature red S on the front. Dad was stiff tucking him into bed, like it was an action he'd heard of, but never done himself, nor had done for him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Your best,” Caden said like it was nothing at all. His Dad didn’t cry, but something about his nose and eyes made it look like he might. Caden didn’t know why, but then he was only a few hours old and very tired from being born, so he didn’t think his Dad would blame him for it.
Tim sat awkwardly at the foot of the bed, looking from his son to his hands and back again. “Good night, I guess.”
Caden had waved at him. “Good night, Dad!”
Tim waved back and left.
Caden’d had a very tiring day. It had only been a few hours, but being born was tiring, so he fell asleep swiftly and happily, with not a thought in his mind that could birth a nightmare.
Tim couldn’t say the same.
Caden woke in the middle of the night, luminescent eyes taking in the dark room. He realized suddenly that he didn’t like sleeping with the lights off. It was scary. Where’s Dad? He couldn’t be far. Tim hadn’t left him at all once it became clear that Experiment 113 would be a success. He wouldn’t abandon him now.
Caden wriggled out of bed, dragging his blanket behind him like a cape. The hallway was dark but not quiet. Noise was coming from one of the closed doors — that was what woke him. The muffled cries of pain and fear from the only other voice he knew. Caden shoved open the bedroom door and peeked inside. Tim was still as a corpse except for his fingers twitching atop the sheets. He didn’t look right. Too stiff. It made Caden worry. For a moment, Tim was entirely quiet—
“Kon. Kon, don’t . . . don’t . . . Conner . . . ”
Oh, Caden thought, he’s dreaming about dead dad. That made sense, he decided. Caden would probably have bad dreams about his dead dad too if he had any memories of him.
By that point, Caden was only around six hours old. He had very little life experience. But he knew that he’d felt better when Tim held him. He was safer with Dad. So maybe Dad would feel safe with him?
Caden nodded decisively and crawled into bed next to Tim. Tim was naturally slight, but firm and strong, and Caden was small next to him. Drawing his blanket over them both, Caden snuggled into his Dad’s chest and felt it when Tim woke up. The sudden intake of breath, followed by a deliberate stillness. Tim didn’t say anything. Caden filled the silence. “You had a bad dream, so I gave you a hug.”
Something about that — what he said, or maybe just Caden’s simple, complicatedly uncomplicated presence — made Tim relax. He drew a hand down his tired face and left it there for a long moment. Then he let out a shaky breath that might have been a laugh and said, “Didn’t mean to scare you, sunshine.”
“You didn’t,” Caden said, because it was true and he didn’t want to lie to his favorite person. “I just didn’t want you to be sad.”
“Oh, aren’t you sweet.”
“Yeah.”
Tim snorted. Caden wasn’t sure why. He was just being honest. But then Tim wrapped an arm around him and held Caden closer, pressing a soft kiss to his hair — the first time anyone ever kissed him — and it didn’t matter anymore.
From then on, Caden did not sleep alone. Every night at eight, Tim would drag them both to bed, often with a laptop or a file to peruse as Caden slept. Sometimes Caden woke and Tim had never fallen asleep, still hunched over his laptop with bloodshot eyes and a mug of cold coffee on the nightstand. That was okay. It was enough for him to be there. His Dad would always be there when he needed him.
Damian was suspicious of the Drake-Kent spawn.
This was to be expected, naturally. Drake never did entirely get over Damian’s assassination attempts. He was petty that way. And if Caden — Damian refused to acknowledge the failed clone as a Wayne — was Drake’s way of getting rid of him, then it was a true stroke of genius. Grayson and Pennyworth were immediately taken with the juvenile despite his utter lack of decorum. Any attempt on his life would have been met with immediate retribution.
Not that Damian was even interested in fighting him. The child was utterly lacking in training or finesse. Unless that was what Drake wanted him to think . . .
Though considering the clone child’s favorite thing in the world was knocking down stacks of colorful plastic, Damian could admit that deception was unlikely.
But while Caden was not yet a manipulative mastermind, his father certainly was. Everything about the child, from his name to his cloying innocence reeked of Drake’s pathetic attempts as clawing his way back into the family. The fact that Caden himself was oblivious only strengthened the ruse. Grayson was clearly weak to him. Alfred was devoted to the infant. Todd could not be relied upon as an ally. The day after the tantrum incident, Todd returned to the manor with a stack of children’s books that he dumped on Pennyworth before leaving in a huff. Even he was caught in Drake’s trap. Damian alone was left clear-headed. Avoiding the child helped no one. He had to get close to his target.
Damian considered getting the child alone, but decided against it as a first step. Grayson and Pennyworth would already be suspicious, and Drake apparently left instructions that they weren’t to leave Caden alone with him. Very well. Better for him to get the two adults to lower their guard. Let them see him on his best behavior. It would make his mission easier.
Damian first approached Caden in the kitchen. Pennyworth was preparing the child's lunch, a sandwich with the crusts cut off and sliced purple carrots. The boy’s aversion to orange foods was such that he threw a bowl at Grayson when the latter made him macaroni and cheese. Personally, Damian blamed Drake. His utter failure to instill discipline in his child was yet another sign of his incompetence.
Caden was sitting at the breakfast table in the kitchen while Alfred worked, drawing in a coloring book themed after the children’s movie with the small blue alien. Apparently he’d learned that his secondary father, the other disgraceful clone, had lived in Hawai’i and was now obsessed with the state. Damian had suggested he be sent to live there. Grayson said that wasn’t funny. Damian wasn’t joking.
Pennyworth looked up when Damian approached the table, watching him with muted suspicion. Damian ignored him, looking over Caden’s shoulder. The child was at least capable of coloring within the lines. Not well, though. “Your color work is . . . adequate.”
Caden eyed him, frowning. “Dad says I’m not supposed to talk to you on my own.”
“Alfred is here; you’re safe,” Damian said and sat down. He’d brought his own notebook with him, a gift from Father before . . . Well, before. He opened to a fresh page and began a new sketch. He was working on drawing from memory. His Father would be a sufficient subject.
They worked in silence. It only took a minute for Caden to disregard his presence entirely. Drake would want to work on that — a child who let his guard down so easily would have died in the League. Pennyworth placed their lunch in the center of the table. He had seen fit to make a plate for Damian. The orange carrots had to go somewhere.
Caden happily chomped on his lunch with one hand, drawing with the other. Damian eyed him. “Has your Father instructed you in the arts, Caden?”
“No,” Caden said as Pennyworth’s gaze focused on them. “He said it’s more important I don’t die.”
“Unfortunate, but true. You’ve been here two weeks already. Do you know when your Father intends to return?”
“Master Damian,” Pennyworth warned. “Manners at the table, please.”
Damian ignored him. He had no intention of breaking the rules, precisely.
Caden shrugged. “He’ll come back when Grandpa comes back.”
Never, then. “Fortunately, you will be safe in our company. Drake always did think three steps ahead.”
That made Caden laugh. “Papa used to say it was twelve steps. Dad told me.”
“It would have seemed that way to the clone. He was always two behind.”
Caden giggled. “Dad said that too.”
Tt. Damian hated agreeing with Drake.
They finished lunch in relative silence, Caden putting all of his concentration into coloring his alien pink. Then he looked up at Damian and said, “Come on, we’re gonna watch a movie.”
This was going even better than planned. “Of course.”
Caden carefully packed up his box of crayons (a ninety-six pack, with the built-in sharpener; Damian had come to understand that this was a powerful status symbol within Caden’s approximate age group) and his coloring book and led Damian by the hand into the movie room.
“Would you like some help setting up the movie, young master?” Pennyworth asked, following them.
“No thanks Alfred,” Caden said, then suddenly stopped, turned, and wrapped himself around the butler’s leg in a hug. He let go just as swiftly. “I know how to do it.”
Caden carefully padded around the room as he set up the movie player. He walked with the same swift but measured steps that Drake did. Like he knew every step he was going to make long before he made it, even if he couldn’t. He was very sure of himself for such a small child, such a new life. He knew exactly who he was, and he was the son of Tim Drake.
Caden beamed when the movie turned on, delighted at his own success. So young, so innocent, so loved. A child who let his guard down so easily would have died in the League. For some reason, the thought returned to him. Physically, Caden was almost five. When Damian was that old, he already knew what it meant to kill. Caden seemed to believe he had no greater duties in life than to go to bed on time and await his father’s return. Damian hated him. Damian envied him.
Caden pulled Damian down to a plush couch, covering himself with a fluffy blanket. Damian joined him under the blanket. Partially to further his plans. Partially because it was drafty. They were watching the movie with the blue alien. Again. Damian was certain that Caden had watched it nearly every day since he came to the manor.
They made it to the scene where the violent, but fluffy alien was lost and sad when Damian asked, without will of his own, “Why are you so insistent on watching this again and again? The story doesn’t change.”
Caden either didn’t notice Damian’s biting tone or didn’t care. “I watch this when I miss Dad, ‘cuz it reminds me he’s coming home. Do you miss your dad?”
Damian was so stunned that for a moment, he couldn’t have answered if he tried. Then he said, “Yes.” Mostly because it seemed the thing to do.
Caden nodded, his shining blue eyes full of a child’s empathy. He patted Damian’s cheek and nuzzled his shoulder like a cat. “Don’t worry. They’re coming home soon. They love us.”
To Caden, this was all the reason he needed. Tim loved him. Therefore, Tim would return to him. It was so simple. He didn’t know how Caden could be so sure. Like Damian, the Drake spawn had lost one parent and the other was gone from him, chasing false leads on the other side of the planet. It was still different, obviously. Caden had never met the clone. And Damian found it difficult to even imagine missing someone so deeply irritating. But it was clear that Caden admired his genetic donor. He watched that insepid monster show because it was Kon-El’s favorite. He wore oversized Superboy t-shirts to sleep even after Alfred got him pajamas. One of his fondest possessions was a leather jacket with studded spikes at the shoulders that he cuddled when it was nap time. And the only surefire way to calm him down from a superpowered tantrum was watching videos of Kon-El before his death. Kon-El giving interviews in Hawai’i, Kon-El fighting giant robots in Metropolis, Kon-El singing karaoke in San Francisco. It was apparent to all of them that Caden keenly felt the loss of that which he’d never known.
And he still did not doubt for a second that Tim was coming home to him.
For some reason, Damian didn’t tell him that wasn’t how the world worked, wasn’t how anything worked. He didn’t really know why. Maybe he just wanted to watch the movie. It wasn’t bad.
The month passed. Caden remained wistful, but determined that his father would return soon. And he was right. Not in the way he expected.
Really, not in the way anyone expected.
Caden was sneaking a cookie from Alfred’s secret stash when he felt rather than heard someone appear in the kitchen with him. A brush of wind, a whisper of movement. It didn’t feel like anyone in his family. Caden opened his mouth, about to start calmly screaming for assistance, when he saw just who had invaded the Bats’ sanctuary. “Uncle Bart?”
Bart blinked rapidly. “Have we met?”
“No. I was just born and you’re dead. Aren’t you dead?”
“I didn’t like being dead, so I stopped.”
Caden nodded wisely. “That makes sense. Dad said you were . . . en-er-get-ic. Dead people don’t have any energy.”
“See, you get it. Say, do you know Tim Drake?”
“That’s a dumb question. He’s my Dad.”
“. . . how long was I gone?”
“Not that long,” Caden said, though he wasn’t sure. He was only a couple of months old. Dad said that this “messed with his perception of time”. “I don’t know. Do you want a cookie?”
“Duh.”
Caden started to hand him a cookie before he thought of something else. “Wait. If you’re alive, then can other people who died be alive?” He wasn’t thinking of Granddad because Dad said he wasn’t dead, just lost, and Caden believed him completely. But he didn’t know dead people could stop being dead. “Is Superboy alive?”
“Yeah, we came back together. He’s checking out the tower while I look for Tim here. Can I have that cookie now?”
Caden didn’t give him the cookie. He was too busy thinking. Papa's alive? Caden didn’t know what he was feeling. He was young; he hadn’t felt very much yet. He knew he was happy — he was so, so happy — but his stomach felt gross and twisted. Like when he was watching Wendy and he could tell a nasty fight scene was about to come on. It felt like something bad was gonna happen. What if Bart was wrong? What if he was lying? Or worse — what if it was all true, but it went wrong?
What if Papa didn’t like him?
The thought was so overwhelming that for a moment, Caden thought he wasn’t breathing. Dad made him, not Papa. Dad had to love him and he did. But Papa was perfect. Dad always said he was cool and strong and kind and good. He was everything Caden wanted to be when he grew up, and everything he was supposed to be when Dad started his cloning project. He wasn’t supposed to have to be enough for Papa. It was never something he had to worry about.
Caden was breathing wrong when Bart frowned suddenly, mouth dropping open. “. . . Your eyes are familiar.”
Caden choked out a sob. “Duh! I have Papa’s eyes!” Then he threw the cookie on the floor and ran out, desperately wanting his Dad and not finding him. For the first time in his life, he was mad at Tim. He should have been there. He should have known Caden needed him. It didn’t matter if Granddad needed him. Caden needed him!
Caden didn’t know what to do, so he did the only thing he could. He ran to Tim’s room, threw himself on the bed, and cried into a pillow.
Kon was laying face-down on Tim’s bed at Titan Tower when he heard Bart shout his name.
He had to block out most of the things he heard to stay sane, but a part of him, a part he almost wasn’t aware of, always knew to be aware of his friends. It started with Tim. It always did. But now he was alive and he couldn’t feel Tim. What was even the point of being alive without Tim?
Then he thought, Woah, calm down edgelord. He thought Tim would appreciate that.
So yeah, he was alive again. He was probably gonna have to deal with a lot of emotions related to that later. But that was later Kon’s problem, and f*ck that guy. Kon could f*ck up his life if he felt like it.
Kon ducked outside through Tim’s window — Tim was a bat and thus preferred windows to doors, so it opened easily despite being at least two hundred feet up. He sped through the air, filtering out his senses until he was focused entirely on Bart’s voice, his rapidfire heartbeat to—
Gotham.
Of course Bart got Tim on his first try. Lucky imp.
Kon touched down at Wayne Manor and didn’t bother to ring the bell. Yeah, he might die, but Tim would fix him up. Tim always did.
“Conner!” Kon wasn’t even past the massive entryway when Bart appeared in front of him, almost vibrating in place from nerves. His already-insane pulse was racing. Conner felt his own jump in response. “Dude, you are not gonna guess what happened!”
“You found Tim and he’s totally fine and excited to see me?”
“Pfff. Like our lives are that easy.”
Kon groaned. “No.” But he had to have hope, right? Right.
“Right? Anyway, Tim’s not here.”
“What? Then why the hell did you—”
“HEY!”
Oh sh*t. The first bat had spotted them. At least it was Dick. Tim told him once that Jason carried kryptonite bullets.
“What are you—” Thank God Dick realized it was them and remembered how dead they’d been. It stopped him right in his tracks, eyes going comically wide, especially for a bat. And Kon never trusted his odds against any of Tim’s family. “Oh my God.”
Kon waved awkwardly. “Uh, hey.”
“Jesus Christ!” Then Dick pulled them both into a hug, squeezing them tight. They weren’t even close. He was just emotional these days. “You’re alive!”
“We are!” Bart shouted back, enchanted with not being dead.
“Tim’s going to be so happy!”
Kon let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Tim was alive. Tim was okay. He could handle the rest. Also, Nightwing’s hugs were famous, and it was hard to be upset right now. “Where is Tim?”
Dick stopped smiling so fast it gave Kon whiplash.
“He’s . . . On assignment.”
Well, that was a lie. Weren’t bats supposed to be better at lying? Tim would be embarrassed.
Bart’s eyes widened. “Oh yeah, that’s what I was gonna tell you! Tim made a clone baby!”
Bart said this all at once, so it came out Timmadeclonebaby. Luckily, Kon was well-versed in Bart speak. Unluckily, this didn’t make it make sense. “What?”
“Why the f*ck would you say that?” Dick hissed.
“It’s true?!” What the f*ck. What the f*ck.
“Dude, I saw him,” Bart said. “Those are your eyes in baby Tim’s face. Plus, we both know how Tim gets when he’s alone too long.”
“He’s closer to five physically,” Dick said.
“FIVE?!”
“Why does the five get you?” Bart asked.
“I don’t know man, I’m getting a lot of information in thirty seconds!” Kon sat down on the floor so he didn’t fall. Tim, what the f*ck did you do? “Where’s Tim? Where the f*ck is he?” He should have been hearing this from Tim, not Bart, and certainly not Dick. Tim should have been there for him to shake and yell at and hug until he cried. “How could he do this?”
Because Tim knew. He knew Kon, he knew how much he’d suffered and questioned his identity, questioned Clark and Lex, questioned himself. Tim was the first one Kon told when Clark named him. Tim was the one who held him and told him he was so much more than the sum of his genetics. How could he turn around and do the exact same thing Lex did?
“Don’t blame Tim,” Dick said defensively, even though Kon was immediately sure that Dick had spent plenty of time blaming Tim. “Everything went wrong for him, you know? His dad died, you both died, and now Bruce—” Dick cut himself off. “He didn’t want to hurt you. He wanted you back. He needed you back. He just . . . got it wrong.”
Kon choked on a laugh. Wrong. Yeah, Lex got it wrong too. Couldn’t stabilize the Kryptonian DNA. Had to stitch it together with his own. Those are your eyes in baby Tim’s face. Tim was smart — he was too smart for his own good, and way too smart for everyone else’s — but he wasn’t a geneticist. He barely got a B in high school biology. Found it boring, didn’t care enough to do any better. He couldn’t have succeeded where even Lex’s army of researchers failed. Maybe he didn’t even mean to. Maybe he just wanted to see if it would work this way, if he could make it work at all, before trying to make a pure Kon clone. But Tim could never stop himself from getting attached. Kon was proof of that. He only ever wanted someone who wouldn’t leave him. A kid would be entirely reliant on him for everything. They’d be everything he wanted. Perfect.
A kid. Kon’s kid. Tim’s kid. Their kid.
Holy sh*t. I’m a five year old teen dad. Jesus CHRIST, Tim. “I want to meet him.”
The urge was heady and immediate, punching him in the chest as few could. Tim wasn’t here, but their son was. Somewhere in this building, cloaked by Bat tech, his son’s heart was beating. He wondered if it sounded like his or Tim’s or something else entirely.
“Yes!” Bart shouted in delight.
“Is that a good idea?” Dick asked.
“Uh, duh,” said the speedster, who was vibrating with excitement. “Hurry up Kon, I wanna be an uncle.”
Kon ignored him, looking up at his best friend’s brother. “Do you think it’s a good idea to keep me away?”
Dick didn’t really have an answer.
Dick showed him to a parlor where he could sit, excusing himself to help Alfred prepare tea for them. It was an obvious excuse, especially when he dragged Bart off by the ear when he didn’t get the hint. Kon sat down, then stood, rinse, repeat. He paced the length of the room, wiped his hands off on his jeans. He usually never sweat, heat and sun couldn’t make him sweat. It was pure anxiety. Tim would say that his inability to control his reactions was a liability. Kon would have told him to suck it. When they were younger, Tim probably would have blushed to high heaven and called Kon immature and disgusting and a thousand other things. But towards the end, now that they were older and closer and something else, something good . . . maybe Tim wouldn’t. Maybe he would smirk and laugh at him and say something stupid and cool, like, “That’s one way to practice control,” and God, what he wouldn’t give for Tim to be here—
The door opened.
Kon whipped around, tucking his hands behind his back. Oh my God, he’s TINY.
He was. He was so f*cking small, it was hard to believe he could have been made from the same DNA as Kon and Clark. He could see what Bart meant, though. Tim was in those soft cheeks, the shape of his nose, the shape of his face.
But those baby blues were killers, and they were all Kon.
“Hi. I’m Caden.”
Caden. What a perfect name for a perfect child. Kon smiled. “Hey. I’m . . . ” Did Caden know who he was? “I’m Kon—”
“I know. You’re Papa.”
Well, that answered that. “Yeah. I am.”
Caden wasn’t quite looking at him, hunched in on himself and staring at a spot on the fancy Persian rug. Whenever he did speak, he was quiet. “Dad said you died.”
“I did.” Kon nodded, reaffirming it to himself as much as Caden. “I did. But then I heard about you and had to come back.”
Caden still didn’t look at him, but his presence filled the room, gave it life, overwhelming Kon’s senses. Tim always smelled like coffee and cortisol. But under that, he smelled like Tim. Everyone had a scent that was unique to them, though the differences were so slight that even Kryptonians didn’t notice half the time. But it was always there, paradoxically static and ever-changing. Genetics, environment, health, diet, hygiene, everything left its fingerprints. There wasn’t a good way to describe it. Tim smelled like Tim.
Caden smelled like Tim and Kon, but also not. He smelled like a new baby and nutrient-rich goo and grief. He smelled like yellow sunlight and the dust of a dead planet. He smelled like tears and laughter and hiccups. He smelled like himself, and he was everything good in the world bundled up into one cherub-cheeked package.
Holy sh*t. That’s my kid.
In that moment, Kon could forgive Tim everything. The cloning, the violation, the hypocrisy, all of it. Maybe he already did. Because Tim gave him this, and this was everything.
Stupidly, what he said was, “You’re wearing my jacket.” Because he was, and it completely dwarfed the kid, and it was the cutest thing Kon had ever seen.
For some reason, Caden sniffled. He started to take the jacket off. “I’m sorry—”
“No, keep it! It looks cool on you.”
Caden’s eyes flickered upwards, looking at Kon directly for the first time. “It’s okay?”
“Yeah, of course it is.”
Caden rocked back and forth on his feet, already way better at hiding whatever he was thinking than Kon ever was. “Am I okay?”
“What? Are you hurt—”
Caden shook his head.
“Oh.” Oh. He meant— Oh. Poor baby. It was the same question he read on Tim’s face a thousand times. Do you want me? Will you stay? Kon’s answer was always the same. “You’re perfect.” Kon knelt down, going to his knees in front of the kid — his son. “Can I hug you?”
Caden stared at him as if he didn’t know what he was hearing, couldn’t believe his own ears. Then he threw himself on Kon and giggled into his ear. “Duh!”
He was a pretty great kid.
Kon took to fatherhood immediately. Hey, it wasn’t like he was doing anything else. He wasn’t in school anymore on account of dying, and he’d never figured out whether he even wanted to go to college, or what he would do if he did. It was nice. To have a purpose, to wake up every day knowing exactly what he had to do, and what he meant to someone. He followed Tim’s instructions religiously, recording Caden’s height and weight every day even though it hadn’t budged since he was “born”. They slept in Tim’s room, Kon tucking him into bed at eight and laying next to him long after Caden had fallen asleep. Sometimes he stayed up on his phone, searching for any sign of where Tim was. Other times he read Tim’s decoded notes (thanks Dick) (heh, dick), putting them to memory.
Resting heart rate: 68BPM. Low, but steady and consistent, and within healthy range. Mine is naturally low. Kon’s, too. Possibly a facet of Kryptonian biology.
Resting respiratory rate: 24BPM. Similarly low, but not dangerous. Considering the photosynthetic qualities of Kryptonian skin, it’s possible he requires little to no oxygen in the first place. His respiratory rate rises when he talks. He talks a LOT.
Hair: Black with cool undertones. Curly. He looks just like him.
Eyes: Blue. Deep, but bright. Can be traced back to Kal-El. Mild luminescent quality is likely Kryptonian in origin. Note that while in humans blue eyes result from a lack of pigmentation, Kryptonians appear to have a particular blue pigment found in their eyes that lends to their intensity. Kon was the same.
I hope Kon would’ve been proud.
The more he read, the more his lingering anger and betrayal faded. Tim’s notes were as loving as Tim got. His devotion shone through on the page, convincing him with every word that Tim was nothing like Luthor. Caden wasn’t a weapon, wasn’t a pawn or a tool, wasn’t anything other than a painfully genuine act of grief and love and pain. Kon could accept that. It was nice, even, to be loved like that. No one else loved him this much. He hadn’t thought anyone could. Just like Tim. Proving me wrong again.
After a week, he broke and decided it was time to teach his boy to fly.
They practiced in Tim’s room so Kon wouldn’t be eviscerated when he got back (because he would come back, he would, and Kon had become a devotee to Caden’s surety). Kon lifted Caden into his hands without effort, he was so small, and floated up to the top of the room. Caden squinted intently as he touched his palms to the ceiling. He looked over his shoulder. “Will you catch me if I fall?”
“Of course I will,” Kon said and meant it. “But you’re not going to.”
“But what if I do?”
“Then I’ll catch you.” Kon placed a kiss to his forehead. “Prommy.”
“Dad said you liked to say that,” Caden muttered and refocused on the task at hand.
“Yeah, that sounds like something he’d complain about,” Kon said fondly. “Okay, I’m gonna let you go. Ready?”
“Ready!”
“Okay.” And Kon let go.
Caden stayed hovering at the ceiling, not dropping an inch even as Kon pulled his hands away and took himself down a foot. Caden squished his eyes shut in fear before opening them in a burst. A grin overtook him. “I’m flying!”
Kon only distantly felt himself smile, affection overwhelming him. This love was so huge it eclipsed him. It was more than he knew he could feel. The only thing that had ever come close was the love he felt for his team — Bart and Cassie and Tim Tim Tim, the first people to love him with no strings attached. Just like Tim to add strings. Just this once, Kon didn’t mind.
“Papa?” Caden asked, voice small.
“Yeah, superbaby?”
“Can you catch me anyway?”
This kid had Kon wrapped around his little finger. “Come on down.”
Caden closed his eyes and fell into Kon’s arms, never once doubting that he would catch him.
Experiment 113 Log: Natal Day 1
113 needs a name. He’s the most successful attempt thus far. It occurred to me as I prepared our safehouse that though 113 is a huge step forward, he will not be a perfect clone as originally intended. A significant portion of his DNA is my own, used to stabilize the experiment. He’s as much me as he is Kon. I guess that makes me Lex Luthor.
I can’t name him Conner. If further experiments are successful in their original goal, a true form of Kon may soon be born. And I actually hate naming children after dead people. He deserves an identity of his own. I think a “c” name to continue tradition. Maybe something for Bruce since he won’t be happy when he finds out. He might like that.
Experiment 113 Log: Natal Day 2
113 is stable and growing well. He is now the equivalent of a 7-week old fetus. By tomorrow he’ll be in the second trimester. I have new father jitters. Did my parents ever feel like this? I’ve narrowed his first name down to a few favorites:
Charles “Charlie”
Collin
Colt (too horsey?)
Caden
Cameron
I’m leaning towards Caden. It’s modern, but not weird. It means “battle” or “strength” — perfect for a Kryptonian. It works for any age, which is something my own parents never considered. His middle name is giving me more trouble. “Bruce” is too on the nose. And I don’t want to give him a Kryptonian name without Kon here
I don’t know. I feel like I’m close to something. I just don’t know what anymore.
Experiment 113 Log: Natal Day 5
Caden is now as big as a two month old baby. When he’s at 12 months, he’ll be ready for Luthor’s programming to upload information into his brain. I hate to copy Luthor in everything, but it’s better than trying to teach an infant 18 year old the alphabet.
I’ve definitively chosen Caden for his first name. This might be stupid, but he just LOOKS like a Caden. I think Kon would will agree.
I think Wayne makes the most sense for his last name. Kon isn’t here to make him a Kent, if he’d even want to. I’m not emotionally attached to the Drake name. And he’s undeniably my son. His place as a Wayne heir is uncertain now that Bruce is missing. Legally, the name might help.
Kon can give him his Kryptonian name once he’s back.
Experiment 113 Log: Post-Natal Day 0
It’s a boy!
Kon didn’t exactly ask to stay in the Manor while they waited for word from Tim, he just kind of did it. Hey, no one told him to leave. Plus he was basically an in-law now, right? If Caden was a Wayne then he was Wayne-adjacent. He stayed in Tim’s room and Tim’s bed and did not doubt for one second that his friend was coming home. He was right.
Caden was practicing his flight in Tim’s room, Kon guiding his son through placing glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, when they got the message. Alfred knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for an answer. He was impeccably put-together as always, expression restrained in the way that Bats usually were — but his hand shook. “Young master Caden? There is a message for you.”
The message had come through Oracle’s line with no way to trace it. They expected nothing less from Tim. It was short. To the point.
C,
I’m coming home to you and then I am never leaving again.
R
Damian said that Tim signing off as “R” was a direct insult to him. Kon threatened to punt him. Dick told them both to calm down.
The fact that it was addressed solely to Caden reminded the rest of them that Tim was still pissed at his entire family. But it also reminded Kon that Tim didn’t know he was back. Which meant it was up to Kon to make sure they had the world’s sickest reunion. Sucks ‘cuz Tim was and always would be the planner between the two of them, but Kon was a father now. A provider. Mainly a provider of snuggles, but still. He could step up to the plate.
Two days later, they got another message that simply said, On my way. Kon woke up early of his own free will and got Caden bathed, dressed, and appropriately stoked. He helped Alfred bake fresh cinnamon buns, Tim’s favorite. His hair was primped to perfection. He was GLOWING. Everything was in place for the Robin/Superboy Reunion.
Tim came home with Bruce collapsed against his shoulder. He never was one to do things halfway.
“Dick, Alfred, get Bruce to his room.”
Dick, Alfred, and Damian stood in the foyer, staring open-mouthed. Tim rolled his eyes. “Hurry up. And where’s my son!”
As he spoke, Kon was in the kitchen pulling out a tray of cinnamon buns from the oven; Damian and Dick ate the first batch (assholes). Caden sat on the counter, kicking his legs back and forth. “Dad says we should use the oven mitts.”
“I don’t need oven mitts, I’m invulnerable.”
“But what if you stop?”
“Stop being invulnerable?”
“Yeah.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“It could.”
“You sound just like Dad.” Kon opened a cabinet, flying up to grab a platter. “When do you think he’s gonna—”
He knew that heartbeat.
Conner fell to the floor, rocking back on his heels. That heartbeat — steady and even. Deep. Beautiful. Conner shivered, let his eyes fall shut. He turned around.
Tim stood in the doorway, watching them.
“Tim,” Conner breathed. “You’re home.”
Tim stared at him, unblinking. Conner heard his heart beat faster. Too fast. Tim opened his mouth—
Then Tim shuddered and looked away from him.
“Uhhh, Tim?” Oh, COME ON. Conner literally did not come back from the dead to be ignored! This was bullsh*t! “Robbie, are you—”
“I'm back, duckling.” Tim smiled, looking at Caden and carefully avoiding Conner’s gaze. “Did you get bigger?”
“No. Uncle Dick kept track.”
“Well, at least he listened.” Tim walked over and picked Caden up, settling him on his hip and turning his back to Conner. It would have hurt less if he punched him with a ring of kryptonite. Again. “Were you baking on your own? You shouldn’t be using the stove.”
“No,” Caden said. Even he looked confused, frowning up at Tim with an adorable little furrow between his brows. “I was just helping.”
“That’s good,” Tim said with a small smile. “Do you want to have a snack then come lay down with me? I think Daddy’s been awake for too long again.”
Caden frowned harder. “But Dad, don’t you wanna talk to Papa first?”
Tim froze. His heart skipped unevenly. For a moment, he looked like he was in worse pain than Conner ever saw. This time, he didn’t quite manage to shut it off. “Caden. Papa isn’t here.”
“What?!” Why did Tim think he wasn’t there? Conner was literally standing five feet away. And why wouldn’t Tim look at him?
“But Dad,” Caden said, “he’s right here!”
“No,” Tim bit out, almost snapping, colder than ice. “No he’s not. He’s not here, Caden. He never will be again. I know you want him here— I want him here! But he's not coming back and I have to move on—”
Tim looked awful. His hair was limp and greasy and in desperate need of a trim. His skin was like wax. More than ever, Conner could smell cortisol and coffee on his skin, strong enough to taste in the air. Conner had no idea when the last time he slept was. That’s when it hit him. “Tim,” Conner whispered around the lump in his throat. “You’re not hallucinating.”
Tim hunched in on himself. One arm curled tighter around Caden, pressing the kid to his chest. He buried his face in Caden’s hair, breathing in heavily. “Come on. I need to sleep.”
“Have you seen me before?” Conner asked. His own voice sounded to him through a haze. He knew he was crying, but couldn’t stop. “Oh God. I’m so sorry, Tim—”
“Shut up!” Tim shouted, still turned from him. He moved one hand to cover Caden’s ear, rocking him. “You’re not here. You’re never going to be again. Okay? You’re not here, you’re not here, you’re not here—”
Conner grabbed Tim’s shoulder and turned him around, wrapping Tim and Caden up in a hug.
“I’m here,” Conner whispered. Tim struggled against his hold. Conner didn’t let go. “I’m right here, Rob. I came back. Of course I did. You didn’t think I could stay away, right?” He tried to smile. “Not when it’s you. Robin and Superboy. I couldn’t leave you.”
Conner wondered how deep the hallucinations ran. If Tim only ever got them when he pushed himself past the point of exhaustion, or if they were there when he woke up in bed. If he only ever showed in the dark, or if he followed Tim into the sun. Tim breathed harshly into his shoulder, fighting.
Then he gave in.
“Conner.” Tim’s voice broke. “Conner. You’re . . . ”
“Yeah. I am.”
And Tim . . . Tim f*cking broke.
“Kon,” Tim whimpered, tears running down his face. “You’re here. You’re with me.”
“As long as you want.”
Tim choked out a laugh. “I hate your lines.”
“You love them.” Conner wrapped one hand around the back of Tim’s head, brushing his fingers through that greasy hair. He desperately needed a shower. Conner didn’t care.
Caden poked his head up between them. “I’m hungry. I want a cinnamon bun.”
Tim and Conner froze. Glanced at each other. Slowly, almost shy, Tim smiled. “Want to have breakfast?”
Immediately, everything in Conner relaxed. They were good. Tim was here. He was here. And they had a son. The rest would fall into place. “Lemme get the good juice out.”
Tim ate heavily, head drooping, eyes half-shut. Conner used his super speed to clean up when they were done, then picked Tim up bridal-style without warning. Tim scowled, but didn’t even try to be angry. He buried his face in Conner’s chest and let his eyes drift shut, trusting that he would still be there when they opened. Conner knelt so Caden could hop up on his back, his son giggling the whole time. He took them upstairs and tucked both his boys into bed, Tim on one side, Conner on the other, and Caden between them. Tim, half-asleep already, passed Conner the pillow he preferred. Conner cried again.
They fell asleep like that, curled around each other, door shut, curtains closed, the world gone for them. Conner reached one arm across Caden, finding Tim’s hand. Tim held him there.
When Conner woke, Tim was staring at him with red eyes.
Tim said, throat dry, “You’re still here.”
It wasn’t an accusation. Tim was awed, like he was witnessing some beautiful miracle not meant for human eyes. Conner cracked a smile. “I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you want me to.”
“Never,” Tim whispered. “Never again. I don’t want you to leave. I don’t . . . ” He trailed off. His gaze went to Caden, still napping heavily between them. His eyes softened. Then he looked back to Conner and guilt crashed into him. “Kon . . . I . . . I am so, so sorry.”
Conner blinked rapidly, confused. “Why?”
“Because I f*cked up!” Tim hissed before lowering his voice. “I messed up, okay? I know that. I knew how you felt about — about Lex, and what he did, to Clark, to you. I knew and it didn’t stop me. Nothing could have stopped me. I—” His voice broke. “I betrayed you. And I’m sorry, Kon, I’m so f*cking sorry. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done—”
Conner’s heart stuttered.
“—but I wouldn’t change it.” Tim’s face was beautifully devastated. Cheeks splotchy, eyes wet. He was shaking. “Making him is the worst thing I ever did, ever did to you, but he’s the best thing I ever did. He’s the most wonderful, amazing thing in my life and I wouldn’t trade him for the universe. I wouldn’t even trade him for you. I can’t. He’s my son.”
Distantly, Conner realized he wasn’t breathing. It didn’t matter. He had to make sure Tim understood. Tim had to know. “I always wanted a family.”
Tim winced. “I know.”
Slowly, Conner smiled. “Tim, you made us a baby?”
A beat passed. Tim nodded.
“. . . That's so gender of you.”
Tim rolled his eyes so hard, Conner thought he was gonna hurt himself. “Oh my f*cking God.”
Conner laughed at his own joke, throwing a hand over his mouth so he didn’t wake Caden. “I love it when gay people wanna baby trap their partners ‘cuz they have to get weird with it.”
“Please stop.”
“Should I call you daddy or mommy?”
“I will kick you out.”
“Nah, you won’t.” Conner snuggled back into bed. “You love me too much.”
Tim sucked in a breath. For a moment, he looked like Conner punched him in the stomach. Conner wondered if he f*cked up.
Then Tim said, “Yeah. I do.”
Conner watched him for a long time. It was all he really wanted to do. To just be there, with Tim, with Caden, forever. He pressed a kiss to two fingers, then reached out to touch Tim’s lips. Tim’s eyes fluttered shut. He grabbed Conner’s wrist and held him there. And he didn’t let go.
So Bruce was back. Tim had to deal with that.
Bruce eyed him with equal parts suspicion and affection when Tim walked into his room, Caden in his arms. The big bad Bat was on bedrest until he made a full recovery. Alfred’s orders. “Tim. Who’s this little guy?”
Feeling like he was in the Lion King, Tim held Caden up for Bruce to see. “Bruce, this is my son, Caden.”
Caden greeted his granddad eagerly, grinning ear to ear and waving at him. “Hi Grandpa! Dad told me all about you!”
Bruce smiled, but Tim could see the unease in his eyes. “It’s nice to meet you—”
Caden wriggled out of Tim’s arms and landed on the bed with a huff, rushing to curl into Bruce’s side. Bruce almost jumped out of his skin. Tim fought a smile. “He’s very affectionate.”
“Uh—” Caden sat down in Bruce’s lap and threw his arms around Bruce’s neck, hugging him. “I can see that.”
Tim snigg*red, but quickly dropped his smirk when Caden said, “Dad said you’d teach me how to drive the Batmobile!”
“When you’re old enough, Caden,” Tim corrected.
“Am I old enough yet?”
“No,” Bruce and Tim said at the same time.
Caden pouted pitifully. “Papa lets me fly. That’s way worse than driving, probably.”
“I know,” Tim said. “I’m gonna get him for that.”
Bruce chuckled, slowly moving to return Caden’s embrace. He was used to comforting kids on patrol, but such easy affection was rare for him. “Glad to know you have that under control.”
Caden pouted, but quickly brightened. “I told Dad I wanna be called Superbat when I’m a hero — because I’m a Super and a Bat! — but he told me I can’t. He said you’d tell me why. Why?”
Bruce looked like he wanted to be back in the timestream. “It’s . . . already taken.”
“By who?”
“By Superbat.”
“Who’s that?”
“Yeah Bruce,” Tim said, biting his cheek so he didn’t burst out laughing. “Who’s that?”
“It’s . . . a big bat. A very big bat. With powers. It flies.”
Tim covered his mouth, choking his laugh down. Somehow, Caden bought it. “Okay! You have to help me come up with a new name now.”
“Maybe not right this second, duckling,” Tim said and picked him up, Caden only reluctantly letting his Granddad go. “Why don’t you go watch the second Lilo and Stitch movie with Papa, huh?”
“There’s a second one?!”
Caden took off running.
Tim smiled fondly and closed the door behind him, wishing he could stay in that moment a little longer. But he couldn’t. He turned around and didn’t wait for Bruce to speak. “I’m not leaving him.”
Bruce blinked, surprised. “I don’t—”
“I know I messed up,” Tim said and strangled the part of him that wanted to tremble. “I know that. I talked to Kon about it. But he’s not a mistake, and he’s not a threat, and he’s not a problem. My son isn’t a problem. He’s mine, and if you don’t want him here and you don’t want him to be a Wayne, then fine, but I’m going too.”
“Do—” Bruce’s eyes looked him up and down, searching. Detective mode. Tim hated when he did that. “Do you want to leave?”
Tim’s throat tightened. There was no way out. No choice but to be honest. “No. But I love him more than I want to stay.”
“You should,” Bruce said. “He’s your son. But you’re still my son.”
Tim cried. He cried like he didn’t when he brought Bruce back. He cried like he didn’t when he saw Conner standing in the kitchen. He cried like he didn’t the first night he held his son in his arms. He cried like he didn’t every time his parents left him alone in an empty house. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Bruce sat up as far as he could and carefully grabbed Tim’s arm, pulling him into his embrace. He tucked Tim under his chin and shut his eyes, guilt ringing through him. “You’re my son. You’re my son. I’m sorry I didn’t say it right.”
They stayed like that for a while. Slowly, Tim stopped crying. Bruce breathed a little easier. “What’s his full name?”
Tim cracked a smile. “Oh. Uh . . . Caden Thomas Wayne.”
“Thomas?”
Tim shrugged. “I wanted you to like him.” In hindsight, it was too blatantly manipulative. He must have been incredibly sleep-deprived by that point. He could have done better.
Bruce’s mouth quirked up in a half-smile. “Smart.” Tim scoffed, rolling his eyes. Subtle or not, he knew Bruce would approve. It was the kind of thing Bruce taught him to do. “But unnecessary. He’s my grandson. Of course I love him.”
Of course. It really was that simple. Of course. Tim let his eyes drift shut and knew they’d be safe.
Conner was using his tactile telekinesis to stack blocks for Caden when Tim asked if they could talk.
Caden looked up at Conner, utterly serene in the face of his Papa’s sudden panic. “Don’t worry, I can keep stacking without you.”
That was not even a little bit what Conner was worried about. “Cool. Wait ‘til I get back before you knock it down, okay?”
Caden nodded and continued stacking, floating into the air to reach the top of his rainbow tower. Standing in the doorway, Tim smiled softly. He was so proud of Caden’s progress. Especially once Conner swore that they only practiced in the house. Alfred vouched for him. “We’ll be back in a bit, sweetheart,” Tim promised and grabbed Conner by the hand, pulling him out of the room. He closed the door. Looked up. “Want to go to the roof?”
So they sat on the roof. Tim tucked into Conner’s side like it was where he belonged, because it was. It wasn’t late yet, but it was still Gotham, so the sky was dark and moody. Tim wore Conner’s leather jacket like a blanket over his shoulders. “Am I ever getting that thing back?”
Tim immediately knew what he was talking about, and didn’t hesitate to say, “Nope.”
Conner stuck his tongue out. Tim patted his cheek, faux-condescending. It felt natural. Like when they were fifteen and Cassie would call them an old married couple. They could spend hours debating which of them should get full custody of Bart if they separated (or, as Conner called it, Bartsody, which Tim said was enough to deem him unfit in itself). With Caden . . .
Conner didn’t want to think of losing Caden.
Obviously, that’s what Tim wanted to talk about.
“I understand if you want to leave,” Tim said without warning. “Caden was my choice, not yours. I wouldn’t hold you to anything. But if you’re gonna leave, do it soon. I don’t want him to get too attached.”
“First of all, too late. Second, where the f*ck is this coming from?”
Tim hunched in on himself, scowling. “Look. I get that you like him. And he adores you.” The corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile reminiscent of Bruce. “He must get it from me. But you’re a teenager, Conner. God, not even — you’re like, five years old.”
“Biologically, I’m eighteen.”
“Exactly! You’re—” Tim cut himself off, thinking his words through. “I’ve never been a kid. Not really. Responsibility is my whole thing. Even Bruce couldn’t drag me from my son. But you . . . Kon, you haven’t even finished high school.”
“Only because I died,” Conner insisted. “And you dropped out too.”
“I was busy.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m serious!” Tim cut himself off before he could descend into a rant, pinching the bridge of his nose in a gesture Conner knew he’d picked up from Bruce. When he looked up again, he didn’t look angry. Just tired. So, so tired. “Just . . . don’t stay because you think you have to. And don’t stay now just to leave later. He deserves the whole world. He deserves a dad who loves him, and wants him around, and never thinks of him as a burden.”
Conner heard what he didn’t say. He deserves everything we never had. Conner remembered how bad things were before he had his team. How much he longed for acknowledgement, to feel like he meant something to someone. How sometimes he would sit on the beaches in Hawai’i and watch the kids that splashed in the waves, shrieking with laughter. Their parents, holding them up, laughing with them, keeping them safe from the pull of the water. He remembered wanting that. Wanting someone to care like that. And Conner . . . Conner wanted to take Caden to the beach and teach him to surf. He wanted to wake up in the middle of the night to Caden sneaking into their bed. He wanted to answer difficult questions and have awkward conversations. He wanted Caden to yell at him and lose his temper and cry on his shoulder. He wanted to see his son grow up. He wanted to be there every step of the way.
“Then he’s lucky,” Conner said. “He has two.”
For a moment, Tim just stared at him, uncomprehending. Then he launched himself forward and threw his arms around him, burying his face in Conner’s chest. His whole body heaved like he was crying, but there were no tears. He shook. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
And Conner . . . Conner was so happy he could die.
(Again.)
Conner stayed in Gotham and in Tim’s room. Most nights, Caden lay between them to sleep, Tim tapping away on his laptop as Conner reluctantly did his homework. Going back to school was one of Bruce’s conditions for him being there. Boo.
But it was worth it. Everything was worth it now that all three of them were together.
Conner introduced them to the rest of the Lilo and Stitch franchise, which took up a week. Then the terrible Wendy the Werewolf Stalker comics that took place after season 7 ended. And every day before breakfast, Kon would take Caden in his arms and go outside to fly above Gotham’s gloomy clouds so they could both get some sunlight. When they came down, Tim would already be nursing his second cup of coffee as Alfred set out plates for everyone. He’d greet them with a tired smile when Conner pressed a kiss to his cheek. Sometimes, he took Caden and bounced him in his arms, running through their daily health check (Paranoid bastard, Conner always thought fondly). Other days, he’d pull Conner in by the front of his shirt and kiss him properly, only stopping when Caden started to smack him and demand his attention.
One morning, when Caden was dutifully eating his apple slices and Tim was prepping his third cup of coffee, Conner asked, “Should we get married?”
Tim froze. Stared at him. Frowned. “Is this a bit?”
“Why would it be a bit?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“We have a kid!” Conner gestured wildly at Caden, who was watching them with eyes the size of dinner plates. “I mean, it’s the right thing to do, y’know?”
“Please tell me you don’t actually think people should get married just because they get knocked up. Especially teenagers. Please tell me you know why that’s bad.”
“It worked out in Reba.”
“When the—” Tim glanced at their son. “—fudge did you watch Reba?”
“I do things when you’re not around. Don’t distract me! Answer the question.”
Tim rolled his eyes, even as his cheeks grew red. “We don’t need to be married to raise our son.”
Conner’s chest grew warm and happy hearing that. Our son. It just sounded so right when Tim said it. It made him want to do things properly.
Conner went to one knee and took Tim’s hand in his, grinning like a fool. “Robbie. Tim. Babe. Bro. Marry me?”
“This is actually the worst proposal I’ve ever had. You’re so lucky I love you.”
“Oh, I know I am. So that’s a yes?”
Tim rolled his eyes harder than he’d ever rolled before. Then he said, “Yeah, sure.”
Conner whooped and jumped to his feet, sweeping Tim up in his arms and giving a little spin. Caden clapped wildly, grinning. “Papa, I wanna go up next!”
Tim barked out a laugh and wrapped his arms around Conner’s neck, pulling him into a kiss. “Wait your turn.”
