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cardinalnuggets · 3 years

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Not Letting Go

Pairing: Ayna x f!mc Word Count: 1951 Rating: T Summary: Adrenaline is really great at numbing the pain. Set just after the end of FA. Prompts: "bandaging the other’s hand and not quite letting go" Tagging: @robintora @brycesgirl @heygmicheelle @saratustra4 (if anyone else wants to be added let me know!)

Of all the kisses they had shared, Kennedy was sure this one was the best. It was far more chaste than those they had shared earlier in the night, but the meaning behind this one was everything. This kiss was freedom from secrets, and from hiding. This was them being open and basking in the truth of how they felt for one another. They no longer cared what anyone else thought; only each other.

A giant weight was lifting from Kennedy’s mind with each brush of Ayna’s lips against hers, but there was an anxiety in the pit of her stomach growing and growing. There was no doubt in her mind that this was the right decision for them, but the level of scrutiny they would now face would be staggering. The invasion of her privacy since the “scandal” was bad enough, but now that they had a face and a name, Kennedy doubted they would know peace for quite a long time.

And of course, the second their lips parted, there was an explosion of noise from the press before them.

“Kennedy! Who’re you kissing?”

“Is this the woman from the scandal? It wasn’t Evelyn was it?”

“Are you two together?”

The noise was overwhelming, most of the questions nearly indecipherable. Ayna’s hand clasped tightly in hers was the only thing grounding her, the only thing stopping her from running.

“You can do this,” Ayna mouthed to her, squeezing her hand quickly in hers.

With a deep breath, Kennedy nodded and turned to the press. She raised her free hand in the air, asking for quiet. Several long moments passed before the uproar faded into background noise, each and every reporter champing at the bit to hear what ever scraps she was going to give them.

“I have a short statement to make,” Kennedy began, in a voice more confident than she felt, but she was used to running on adrenaline and faking until she made it at this point, “and time for a couple of questions.”

Every single reporter leant forward, eager to not miss a single word. It would have been an amusing sight if they weren’t all waiting to splash her private life all over their newspapers. The silence now was almost deafening, broken only by the occasional sound of a camera shutter.

“This is Ayna,” Kennedy gestured towards her with the hand not wrapped around hers and watched as Ayna gave a cautious wave, “she’s my girlfriend.” God, Kennedy thought, that feels so good to say out loud.

Momentarily, they were blinded by the flashes of cameras as each paparazzo clamoured to get the perfect shot of this “historic” moment.

“We’ve been seeing each other for some time and have decided it’s now time to let the people of Rutherland know. Although we are excited to share this happy news with you all, we would ask for privacy and understanding. We are, after all, only human. Thank you.”

The silence broke then, replaced with chaos and uproar as everyone screamed their questions at the couple standing before them. Kennedy tugged Ayna closer so they could each draw strength from the other.

Raising her hand again for silence had little effect, so instead Kennedy shouted, “If I can’t hear the questions, I can’t answer them.” That soon calmed them, and she couldn’t help the little grin of triumph that slid onto her face in place of her usual polite mask.

“You in the red skirt, you may ask your question.”

“Is she the same woman you were photographed with in the lake a few weeks ago?” She didn’t miss a beat.

“Yes.” It was Ayna that answered, in a voice so calm that Kennedy would have thought she’d done this a hundred times before.

Shooting her a soft smile, Kennedy raised her arm again before the pandemonium could restart.

“And you with the blue suit, you can have the final question.”

“Thank you. Can I just start by saying congratulations?” His voice was smarmy and Kennedy instantly regretted letting him speak. Not wanting to seem impolite, though, she threw him her signature fake-grateful smile. “Why now?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Why wait until now to go public? Why not when the scandal hit? Or when it was clear that it couldn’t be easily brushed under the carpet?”

There were a hundred answers to this question, all starting and ending with Kennedy not wanting Ayna’s name to be dragged through the mud. She knew that as soon as the press figured out that Ayna was her TA, she could kiss her career goodbye. Nobody deserved that, especially not someone as kind and caring as her girlfriend.

“That was down to me, I’m afraid.” Once again Ayna spoke up before Kennedy had the chance. She turned to Ayna with wide eyes, questioning with her gaze if she was sure about this. She nodded subtly, squeezing Kennedy’s hand gently. “I wasn’t prepared for a life in the public eye yet. I asked Kennedy to give me time to adjust, which she has done. I’m in awe of her for the way she has handled this alone and respect her so much for all she has done to keep me sheltered.”

Kennedy melted hearing Ayna talk about her with such tenderness. Wrapping an arm around her waist, she couldn’t help but stare at her in wonder. As much as she was glad to be out in the open now, she was done sharing Ayna with the world for tonight.

“That’s all we have time for I’m afraid,” she announced, barely sparing them a glance as she led her girlfriend towards the embassy. The chaos as they turned their backs was unparalleled, but neither of them seemed to notice, focussed as they were on getting back inside.

“You were amazing out there,” Kennedy whispered, grinning stupidly at Ayna.

Letting out a long breath, she turned to Kennedy with a strained smile. “I think that was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done.”

“Do you regret it?”

“No. Absolutely not.” As if to reinforce her claim, she reached behind her back to squeeze the hand resting on her back. A wince scrunched her face up as she did so and she immediately pulled back, holding her hand in front of her face. “Whoops,” was all she murmured, wincing again.

“What?” Kennedy asked, gently taking her hand between her own. She didn’t even need to bring it any closer to see how raised and raw Ayna’s knuckles looked. How had she not noticed this before? It looked so painful.

“I must have hurt it fighting Winston off you. The adrenaline must have numbed the pain.”

“Ayna!” Kennedy all but scolded. She stared at her girlfriend wide-eyed before letting go of her hand. “Go and wait in the room we were in earlier and I’ll go and find some ice or something. The swelling is only gonna get worse the longer you leave it.”

Ten minutes later Kennedy pushed her way into the room, her arms laden with an ice bucket, cloth napkins and a first aid kit. Ayna was sitting on the ottoman in front of the bed, her expression a mixture between pain and sheepishness. Kennedy hated seeing it, hated knowing that it was because of her that she was in pain. If she’d just learned self-defence from Tatum or been smart enough to see Winston for what he truly was before he could best her, then Ayna would be fine.

Shaking it off because she needed to focus on helping Ayna get better, she sank to the floor by her girlfriend’s feet, depositing her things next to her.

“Hey,” she said softly, “how’s the hand?”

“Sore,” she replied with a rueful smile, “I’m sorry.”

Kennedy looked up at her in alarm, her hands absently stuffing ice into a napkin. “What do you have to be sorry for?”

Ayna shrugged, then lifted her injured hand a little. “This.”

“You got injured protecting me. You don’t have to be sorry. You probably saved my life tonight!”

The soft smile on Ayna’s face only faltered as Kennedy gently cradled her hurt hand with one of hers and pressed the ice to the raw flesh. She hissed, gritting her teeth through the sting.

“Sorry.” It was Kennedy’s turn to apologise this time. She hatedseeing her in pain. “It’ll get better I promise.”

“I’d do it again, you know.”

“Do what again?”

“Fight someone to save your life.” Her voice was serious, and Kennedy knew she was being serious, but still there was mischief dancing in those dark eyes. Kennedy revelled in both. It was thrilling knowing that someone cared about her so much that they wouldn’t even think twice about getting hurt so she wouldn’t. But she also loved that Ayna would turn it into a joke to clear the tension from the air. She truly was spectacular.

Leaning up, Kennedy met Ayna’s lips in a lingering kiss, feeling the strain dissipate from them both. “As long as you know I’d do the same for you,” Kennedy murmured as she leant her forehead against Ayna’s

“Deal.” She smiled warmly as Kennedy readjusted herself to check on the swelling under the ice. “It might be better to make sure your bodyguard is always with you, though.”

Kennedy laughed as she reached for the bandages and began wrapping them tightly around Ayna’s knuckles. “I think you’re just as capable as Tatum is when it comes down to it,” she joked, sending her a cheeky grin, “but you’re right, I just didn’t think I would need protection around Winston. He pulled me so far away from everyone before I’d even realised he’d done it.”

“Why would you think you needed protection? You’ve known him your whole life.” Ayna’s free hand raised to cup her cheek, thumb stroking against the skin. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Kennedy. He was the only one in the wrong.”

Kennedy nodded slowly as she finished wrapping Ayna’s bandage and tied the ends together to stop it unravelling. She knew Ayna was right, really she did, but she couldn’t help but feel stupid that she’d let someone get the best of her like that. In hindsight, she could see all the signs pointing to Winston’s odd behaviour which she hadn’t thought twice about at the time. She really should have known.

“Thank you,” Ayna whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of Kennedy’s hair.

“It was the least I could do,” Kennedy murmured back, cradling the newly wrapped hand in between both of hers.

She lost herself in thought then, of everything that had happened tonight, of everything that had happened since she had arrived at Vancross. So much had happened – lots good, and more bad. But sitting here quietly with her girlfriend, she knew she would do it all again in a heartbeat if it meant she could feel the hope and the happiness she felt while in Ayna’s presence. That was worth everything.

“Shall we?” Ayna asked after they’d sat in silence for several minutes, Kennedy steadfastly refusing to let go of her injured hand.

“It’s been an emotional night, I wish I could just stay up here with you. Alone.” She let out a deep sigh before heaving herself to her feet. “But we should go back. People will notice if we don’t come back.”

“At least we don’t have to be apart even once now that everyone knows,” Ayna reminded her with a smile, offering her good hand.

“Hmm that’s definitely the highlight of the night.”

Hand in hand, they walked back down to the ballroom to re-join the party, not once straying from the other the whole night.

#ayna x mc #ayna seth #playchoices #i saw the prompt and i couldn't not #hope you enjoy my lovely ayna stans!#myaynafic

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francoiserenaldt · 3 years

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good things come to those who wait...

summary: there’s a boy and she doesn’t quite know what to do… (alternatively: melisande devereaux has really done it this time)

word count: 1.8k

warnings: none

note: would it be a fic written by me if the moon didn’t make some kind of appearance? probably not. takes place after a few weeks at vancross.

Vancross is silent when she sneaks out of her dorm.

Melisande took extra precautions to make sure that Tatum would be firmly in REM sleep—measuring his sleep patterns without looking like a stalker was easily the hardest thing Melisande had ever done and she once climbed a tree in heels for a photo op—and Murphy was a nonissue as long as Dionne was none the wiser.

The one thing she hadn’t accounted for was guilt. The possibility of Tatum being punished for her actions had only occurred to her in this and it made her stomach ache, but she swallowed it and continued to walk. She had already made it this far.

This whole situation was his fault, anyway.

She eventually finds herself in the gardens. The sole light hanging from the top of the gazebo blinks to life at her arrival—she couldn’t even avoid the limelight in the wee hours of the morning, apparently—and she sits under the light and takes a breath.

The speech she wrote sits in her back pocket. It’s awful even by her standards, but it’s the product of rushed scribbles in between classes and right before she went to sleep. She’s loath to imagine what would happen if any one of the numerous people surrounding her found out about this, but her mind wanders anyway.

Blaine would, no doubt, tear it apart with a smirk, giddy with the realization that she knew Melisande was nothing but a sheltered puppet for her mother all along—Blaine wouldn’t say it that way, of course; despite a rivalry that spans over centuries and defies common sense, she’s oddly insistent on getting into Melisande’s pants.

Ayna would be concerned but supportive; the historian in her probably reckons that it would make killer supporting evidence in a collegiate thesis. Dionne probably would find it odd; parents controlling every aspect of their children’s lives was normal and resentment only hurt you in the end.

(Maybe she’d have a point.)

And Tatum...if Tatum got a hold of this, she would probably cease to exist on the spot.

Regardless, it doesn’t matter what everyone else would say if they saw it because they never will. Her reputation, her life even, depends on it.

She chuckles at that; it’s the most authentic speech she’ll ever write, but there can be no audience to receive it. She can only laugh to stop from crying.

The moon at Vancross is stunning this time of year, cool and quiet and drawing an odd feeling—too warm to be sadness, but far too cold to be wistful—from her. The scene was perfect, but it didn’t change the inevitable: Tatum would kill her if he knew she was out here.

She almost wants him to; anything is better than this torturous dance they’ve been doing since he appeared in her dorm room. Everything about him was “job description this, job description that” until she could get him alone; even then, he would only drop the act for a few minutes before it was back to wishing he had never been assigned to her.

(Her heart only broke a little bit when he said things like that, of course. She’s an adult.)

(If only she actually felt like one.)

She stands and quietly clears her throat. If her calculations are good, she only has 20 minutes until someone notices that she’s gone.

“I’m alone for the first time in a long time, so maybe I can finally put this weird feeling into words.” Melisande begins, just barely resisting the urge to fall into public speech mode. “I’m completely and utterly unsure of what I’m supposed to do with my life. Everyone has their own ideas about what I should be doing here. Mom wants me to come here and make the country proud by earning all of my marks, Dionne wants me to date, and Blaine...ugh, I shouldn’t even be speaking to her right now. I’m a grown woman and yet I’m letting everyone else tell me what’s good for me. The only person who’s fully respecting my decisions right now is...Tatum.”

She cuts herself off with a groan, crumpling the paper in her hands. “Fucking Tatum. I’m midway through articulating my quarter-life crisis and all I can think about is him.” She slumps down onto the bench, burying her face in her hands. “And I’m not even thinking about him, not really. The Tatum that wanted anything to do with me died overseas. The real Tatum is sleeping in his bed, probably dreaming about being literally anywhere else.”

A street light flickers on several meters away. A group of her peers chortles on their way to their dorms, no doubt drunk from some house party. She sighs, lifting her head.

“What did I expect, anyway? ‘Lisa and Tate against the world, like when we were kids?’ I barely want to be here and I’m actually getting something out of this.” She scoffs, sniffling. “God, I’m an idiot.”

The wind picks up then, pulling her waist-length braids to the side. The night is still quiet and there’s no sign of life anywhere near, but she’s never felt more exposed. “I don’t even know him anymore. And he doesn’t want to know me. He’s just doing his job. It shouldn’t hurt this much to see him again.” She purses her lips as the heat behind her eyes swells once again, but she blinks it back. There’s still too much to say before she has to go back to bed.

“But I have a job to do here, too. My mother is counting on me. Winston is counting on me. All of Rutherland is counting on me, so I won’t give up on them. I can’t. It’s out of the question.” She shakes her head violently. “But I won’t give up on him either. Not when I’m getting a little bit closer to seeing the real Tatum, my Tatum, in my life again. I can’t afford to screw this up. I can’t lose him again.”

Melisande tilts her head back and stares directly at the moon, letting the light reflect the pool of unshed tears in her deep brown eyes before she shuts them completely and lets the tears fall. “What the hell am I going to do?”

Off in the distance, a bell tower rings and the long hand of the clock beneath it settles on 4. She’d been out for far too long. It was only a matter of time before-

“Melisande.”

(Shit.)

“Lecture me in the morning, please. I’m exhausted,” she sobbed.

She hears him clear his throat, probably out of awkwardness, before he speaks. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to be out by yourself right now?”

“I think I could have handled myself against the flora and fauna, Tatum.” Melisande snaps, wiping furiously at the tears running down her cheeks. “Besides, late-night escorts aren’t in your job description.”

“It’s literally a part of my job description that I need to be near you or aware of your location at all times, especially for ‘late-night escorts.’” Tatum pinches the bridge of his nose. “What were you doing up this late anyway?”

“Writing a sonnet.”

“This is not the time for you to joke around.”

“So it’s only okay to switch up when you do it. Got it.” She huffs, brushing past him and speed walking in the other direction. “I’m tired. Let’s go back.”

He’s quicker, grabbing her arm and turning her around to face him. He takes her face into his hands, the fury (concern?) in his already intense eyes setting her ablaze. “You can never do anything like this again. Am I clear?”

“Tatum, you made yourself perfectly clear when you told me that you never wanted to be back around me the first time.” Melisande scoffs, meeting his glower with one of her own. “I’m the last person that's going to endanger your cushy government job, alright? Can we be done here?”

“We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

“Good. Now let go.”

The morning after is rough, to say the least. There isn’t enough caffeine in the world to make Melisande a functioning human being on 3 hours of sleep or enough outfit changes in her closet to wait Tatum out.

He’s not good at waiting—never has been—and he paces outside her door, as if he’s ticking down the seconds until she has to stop hiding. She can’t help but scoff; his method is questionable but the message is clear: I’m not letting you off the hook this time.

She eventually settles on a light blue blazer set and rushes out of her bedroom, making a beeline for the kitchen. Naturally, a toned arm blocks her way. “I need to get to class.”

“You’re not getting out of this.”

“I wasn’t planning on it, but fine. We can talk now.” She drawled, ducking under his arm and turning on the coffee maker. “You wanted to know why I left last night.”

“As your bodyguard, I think you owe me that.”

“I needed time to think.”

“Don’t you have a room for that?”

“I wanted to be alone,” Melisande replied nonchalantly, only managing to resist the urge to shrug when she sees his nostrils flare. “It’s hard to do that when you have a shadow.”

“What are you doing?”

“Talking to you,” she allows the shrug this time, turning her head to meet his eyes as she pours her coffee. “Should I be doing something else?”

“Let me rephrase that: why are you acting out?”

Acting out?

If Melisande was acting out, she’d have made herself a staple of the numerous house parties happening at Vancross. If she was acting out, she’d find Blaine Hayes and give her mother a scandal worth calling about. If she was acting out, she would have never agreed to come to the Vancross Institute to begin with.

She didn’t deserve this.

“You can’t be serious. I leave the dorm once to clear my head and you’re treating me like a child.”

“Melisande—”

“This conversation is over.”

“Like hell it is.” Tatum snaps. “In case you haven’t gotten the memo yet, you’re the daughter of a world leader, which means that you can’t leave in the middle of the night to clear your head on a whim without telling me. If there was even a one percent chance that someone who wanted to hurt you came here and I didn’t know where you were, I…” He pauses, then takes a breath. “I can’t do my job. It’s—”

“—your job to protect me. I know that.”

“Then don’t make this harder for me than it already is.”

The earnest look in his eyes—definitely concern now—is enough to make her drop the act. “Alright. I’m sorry.”

He grunts, blinking the moment away, and she curses herself for the disappointment that courses through her veins. “Don’t be sorry, be careful.”

“It’s too late for that.” Melisande shakes her head, too frustrated to cry and too tired to argue. “Far too late.”

It’s clear that he doesn’t understand what she means and she decides, then and there, that he would never know. The fates had aligned and made his position clear: she was an assignment to him. He could never know that she wanted more.

(It was far too late. For both of them.)

#foreign affairs #tatum mendoza #ship: tatum x melisande #mc: melisande devereaux

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drawingsanddrabbles · 5 years

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Scandals Stick Together

ao3

Prompt: No Capes AU - First Kiss

Woo! I did it! All seven days, hell yeah!

~~~

Tim thinks that if the room was any more glittery he'd probably be having a seizure. He can't help but wonder if the many chandeliers in the room are real diamond. Bruce only uses crystal in his.

Bruce's hand closes on Tim's shoulder and Tim's eyes flutter closed for a moment. He wishes Bruce's hand was his dad's. But his dad is in a coma, he reminds himself. It's not his fault that he can't be here to work Tim through his first professional gala.

"Hey there, Timmy." Bruce says with a smile just as glittery as the rest of the room. "It's good to see you at one of these!"

"Bruce, good to see you too."

"Have you thought any further about my offer?"

"To buy Drake Industries?" Or the other offer? Tim wonders. The one where he offered Tim to move in with him and Alfred. To work at Wayne Enterprises. To become Tim's legal guardian while his father is still in a coma.

Social workers are terrified to touch Tim's case, and as long as Tim keeps paying them to push it to the bottom of the pile they never will. But it's getting expensive. He can't push it off forever, and having Bruce Wayne as his legal guardian wouldn't be so bad. His other strays seemed to have done well--well, Dick anyway.

Tim is losing hold on Drake Industries. Every since the plane crash stock has been going down. It's going to crash soon. News of the buyout could, frankly, make it go either way at this point. If Tim agrees he'll have nothing to lose.

But it's the last thing he has of his parents. Dad.... Dad's probably never going to wake up.

"I told you, I have no interest in selling. I am going to bring Drake Industries out of the ground, you know I can." It's not totally a lie. Bruce does know how competent Tim is. He knows that Tim, if he dropped out of high school, got emancipated, and managed to convince his company that a fifteen year old CEO is a good idea, could do it. If he really tried.

But Tim's tired. He's so tired.

Bruce knows that Lois Lane is watching the two of them too closely for Tim's comfort. One word from her and his stock price plummets, and Tim can lose everything.

Bruce's eyes slide to Clark Kent who sits next to her. He's only focused on Luthor--as always--so even if he did catch something they're saying he wouldn't care, or he'd be nice enough about it that he might actually tick DI up a few points in the stock market.

Bruce lets out a big belly laugh (one that Tim can tell is fake) and slaps Tim on the shoulder. Not hard enough to hurt.

"Well, you know, if you ever need anything, Kid. Come straight to me." He says with an easy smile and he ruffles Tim's (meticulously gelled) hair. But Tim takes that for exactly what he knows Bruce means. They'll talk about this later. Bruce walks backwards away from him with a wave. "Let's do lunch!"

"Yeah," Tim mumbles, a little pink from the way people are now staring at him, "let's."

Bruce goes off to flirt with Lois and (probably, from the way Mr. Kansas City has turned bright red) Clark, which leaves Tim some reprieve from endless questions about his future for the company. Tim's hair is now sticking up in a non-artful way so he narrowly dodges old white rich folks and their perfectly made up children as he weaves his way to the bathroom.

He's not the only one fixing his hair it seems, as two other men are as well. One is a boy a little older than him and (presumably) his father. Both of whom are trying to hide that they are watching Tim out of the corners of their eyes.

As Tim turns his back on them to leave (although he can clearly see them in the reflection on the shiny eco-friendly heat dryer) the father leans over to his son and whispers: "That's Tim Drake. He's acting chair of his company and he's going to lose it to that Wayne idiot in a few weeks. Read it in Forbes."

Tim ignores the way his cheeks turn red and rushes out of there as fast as he can.

Tim hates the way people look at him now. Ives feels sorry for him, but that's because Ives actually cares about him. The fake way these people do, makes him want to snatch a champagne flute from one of the servers and down it. But really the last thing he needs is to get drunk or tipsy, to say the wrong word in a room filled with piranhas who have diamond teeth and lose everything before he ever gets a chance to earn it back.

Mrs. Powers corners him (old Gotham money, he tells himself) and starts with condolences (as they always do) before moving onto the obligatory "How's your father doing?" ("Well! Doctors just want him to stay a little more for observation but he'll be up and about in no time!" He says,) then to "do you need anything, darling?" ("Fuck you too Mrs. Powers," he doesn't say).

Tim doesn't know when exactly he gets surrounded by old rich women, but suddenly they're engulfing him. None of them squeeze his cheeks like they used to, or pat his head, or try to straighten his tie (he hopes that one's because it's still straight but he knows that's probably not the case). Instead they keep distance from him. He's no longer a child of a rival but the rival himself (the floundering rival, perhaps). They're not treating him as an equal so much as something diseased to excise.

He misses the days when he could just blend in next to his father's side or, at least, hang out with the other rich kids. Wow them with his knowledge (and the thrill) of living in Gotham.

Tim passes the drink counter (under which he's positive Winston Price the Third and Jennifer Wallaby are making out, because last gala, when he was one of them, Winston had told him he planned to do just that next time he saw her) and orders a soder despite what he really wants. The waiter laughs at him but cuts it out with a glare from Tim and gets him what he ordered.

He wishes that Luthor would just get on with the dinner part of the night. He was too nervous to eat all day and now he's starving. Also, prearranged seating means people will stop coming up to him to show him they care.

"Tim Drake, I am shocked to see you here," speak of the devil... "shouldn't you be caring for your father?"

Luthor knows. Luthor has always known, just as Tim has. His father isn't waking up, no matter what Tim manages to fool the rest of the world into thinking.

Lex Luthor smirks and Tim turns around. He plasters what he hopes is a Bruce Wayne brand smile on his face. "Mr. Luthor!" He covers his eyes and squints, as if the sun is blinding him. "Good to see you!"

Luthor frowns slightly. "Are... you feeling alright, Mr. Drake?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, it's just," Tim lowers his voice and leans closer to Luthor as if he is telling a secret, "with all these lights, your head is just blinding me." Luthor's lips turn into a pale line. "Really, I think you might want to see a doctor about your perspiration, it's so.... shiny. I'm sure my father's doctor would love to offer some... discreet suggestions."

The snicker behind Luthor almost makes Tim drop his hand. Luthor whips around. Ah yes, and there is the boy that made Tim's takeover of DI old news.

Conner Luthor. Appeared, as if from nowhere, just after everything from Haiti was settled. The de facto heir to Lex Luthor. Being trained to succeed him, but who's training wasn't even close to succeeding.

Partier, playboy, and very hot. Luthor's polar opposite. Also, the same age as Tim.

"Conner, maybe you should carry this conversation with Tim, after all you two have more in common than I do with him." A dig at his youth, lovely.

But before Tim can bite anything back, Conner says in a flippant way: "Well, beauty before age. Isn't that the saying?"

So the rumors are true, they don't seem to be able to stand each other.

Careful, Tim, he warns himself, cute boys with sparkling smiles might be more than they appear.

"Lex! How wonderful to see you!" A familiar voice hums behind Luthor, snapping the tension building. The singsong voice can only be Bruce.

Tim wonders if Bruce has been watching him. Tim doesn't need his help. He doesn't want his help. He just wants to go home.

Luthor grimaces at Bruce. "Wayne."

"Say, is this your son?" Bruce asks, turning his attention on Conner. He sticks out a hand. "Good to meet you, chum!" Bruce flashes a grin at Lex, "And they call me a playboy. Wow, she must have been a looker, huh, Lex?"

Luthor looks as though he might combust. Conner doesn't take the bait or the hand (he's been famously tight-lipped about his other parent and life before he took on the Luthor name). Conner glares at Bruce. Tim notices that Luthor hasn't convinced him to get rid of the earring for tonight (one more scandal to add to the Conner Luthor package) and wishes he hadn't. He doesn't have time to notice these things. He has to network. To try and dig himself back into a good light for the sake of his company.

But Bruce, in his blundering and self-focused way, has managed to give Tim a way to slip out of this interaction. All eyes are on Bruce.

Tim used to have a theory that Bruce was smarter than he appeared. His father had told him that was stupid. Sometimes, Tim thought he was right, but ever since he'd gotten to know Bruce he'd understood his mistake. So he gratefully takes the exit Bruce offers.

He can't hide, but he wants to. He really wants to.

Thankfully, though it seems that it's time for the dinner part of the gala to begin and everyone and their drinks are ushered into the next room.

Tim is seated at table nineteen with eight other people who only represent five different companies. Tim sits next to the daughter of a mogul on his left and the son of a different one on his right and it's clear to everyone that the artful Mr. Timothy Drake (Drake Industries) on his place card is just a courtesy. Everyone knows where he really belongs.

Luthor stands and begins his speech which Tim tries really hard to listen to but gets bored. He knows the gist of it, new tech, bringing Metropolis into the future, thank you for coming, etc etc etc.

Tim's eyes travel to Conner's seat at table number one, and finds that he's not there. Of course not, probably ditching.

Tim wishes he could ditch. He knows that the teens on either side of him will find one of their go-to excuses after a respectable amount of dinner and go up to one of the balconies or the roof to drink and smoke and play spin the bottle and other things their parents wouldn't approve of, before making their way back down by dessert and leaving completely respectably, none of the parents the wiser. Tim knows this because Tim used to do just that.

Despite that Tim hasn't eaten all day his salad just doesn't look that appetizing anymore.

"So, Timothy, I'm so sorry to hear about your parents. Who are you staying with?" The old lady across from him asks. The speech has ended and everyone has begun their first course. He can feel heat rising to his cheeks. None of his family members wanted him.

"Myself. I have an attorney for general legal issues but I can live on my own until my father can come home."

"What a smart young lad you are!" The father of the girl on his right says.

"And so well organized too! I can't imagine my Peter running my company at his age." The father of the boy on his left says. The kid himself looks like he would give anything not to be there right then, Tim agrees.

"Well, I just worry. It's so difficult to be a deciding factor in a company's decisions and for one so young-why, it must bore you to death!"

Don't tell them anything they can use, Tim reminds himself, lie.

"Really, it's a piece of cake."

"Well then!" The other adults (read: vultures) around the table seem delighted.

"Well he may not be bored," one of the younger people at the table says, he's the head of some start-up or another, "but I'm sure we don't want to bore the other kids with this table talk. How is your dog, Miranda? I heard she was sick?" And from there the conversation, thankfully, is led away from the topic of Tim and Drake Industries. The girl next to Tim begins going on about how her teacup poodle has cancer or something and Tim fazes out again.

Just after the soup course is served Miranda explains to her father that she's having some "lady problems" and might be a while. At the end of it Peter tells his father that he thinks he sees Conner Luthor over by that way, would it be alright if he says hi? (Tim glances over, and Conner isn't there). He's excused as well with a chortling: "Already networking! What an entrepreneurial spirit, that one!"

By the meat course Tim is losing his mind. The Start-Up Guy tries valiantly to steer the conversation away from Tim's parents but eventually even he is overwhelmed by rich old people and Tim has to repeat the same lies he's been saying for days now.

It's only once Miranda's father says that Tim might have been a good match for her, if only he were a little older that Tim decides to excuse himself with a 'phone call' from work. Something these people will understand.

Tim makes it all the way out of the ballroom, and then he decides to push his luck and go looking for some people his own age.

Since breaking down in a bathroom isn't an option (old rich people use bathrooms too), Tim decides that he might be able to find himself a secluded area where the kids are.

It's not hard to find them. They're in a much smaller ballroom on the second floor of the Luthor Concert Hall. There's a balcony, Tim knows, he's been here before.

Rock music blares and can be felt outside the room. Tim used to think that them playing music that loudly was a challenge to their parents: catch us. But now Tim understands it for what it is, just loud music.

Tim opens the door and a son of an African CEO hands him a joint. Tim wants to, but like so many things lately, he can't. He can't risk it.

The kid just shrugs, and lights it himself.

The room smells like smoke: all sorts. Tim spies some beers some of them smuggled in, and some wines from the receiving hall downstairs. His eyes snag on the champagne, but it's the cognac that he really wants.

"Traitor." Someone says to his left. He turns. It's Joseph. His dad is COO for Maxie Zeus. It's good natured, Tim knows, because Joseph is smiling. "I thought we weren't going to turn into our parents."

"Didn't have much of a choice."

"Bullshit." Lucy says from Joseph's side. "Let them go belly up and cash out."

"My Dad's going to pick the company back up in a bit." This is the last thing Tim wants, he came up here to stop talking about DI. People are starting to watch him. He can see Conner eating Miranda's face in the corner of the room.

"How'd you even swing it anyway?" Ha Joon asks.

"Yeah, aren't social services up your ass?"

"Guys, leave him alone." He hears Tam Fox say. She's always had his back.

"What happens in Gotham stays in Gotham." Preston snipes.

"Be nice!" Lucy says.

"What about school?" Peter asks.

There's enough of a lull in the interrogation that Tim answers with a shrug and scuffs his shoe against the tile floor. "I'm dropping out." This causes more of an uproar than anything else.

"No way!"

"God, my Mom would kill me if I dropped out."

"Kill you? My Dad would disown me!"

"Only disown? Wow, your parents are uncreative. There's more than one way to skin a kid that's for fucking sure."

It doesn't occur to any of them that Tim wouldn't have to drop out if his father really was doing okay.

"Seriously?" Tam asks. Clearly Lucius hadn't told her. Because Tim had told Bruce and there was no way that Bruce hadn't told Lucius.

"Yeah, seriously." Tim says.

"What's the big deal? I dropped out." Conner Luthor says with a shrug and all eyes turn towards him.

"Did you really?" Lucy asks.

"I mean, I basically did. I never go anyway."

"Ah, young grasshopper. We all don't go to school. But it takes some special cajones to drop out." Vido says.

"What's the difference?" Conner asks.

"See, don't go to school and your Dad just pays the administration office to keep it quiet. Drop out and he pays the reporters to keep it out of the newspapers." Preston tells him.

Conner cocks a wicked eyebrow. "And if he pays both?"

Everyone listening shakes with laughter. "Then you must have done something really bad," Lucy says, eyes traveling up and down Conner as if only now sizing him up. Conner languishes in the attention from her and Miranda who is staring at him like he's a god. Conner winks at Lucy and Tim feels a little sick. The smoke swirls around Tim's head, making it swim.

“What about that girl of yours? What was her name… Ariana?” Peter asks. “Did you ever get that first kiss?”

“My parents were held hostage and my mom died.” Tim says more harshly than he means to. He needs some fresh air.

Tim heads to the balcony but before he gets there Tam grabs his arm. "Hey, how are you really doing? Really?"

Tim grimaces. "What happens in Gotham stays in Gotham, right?"

Tam looks disappointed but she doesn't push and Tim opens the balcony doors.

The night is cool which is good against his burning cheeks. He wants to rip off the monkey suit. The tie itches and the gel is making his hair feel greasy and his feet hurt and he's still a little hungry. All these little things are coming up and bashing him in the face now.

"You really from Gotham?" Conner Luthor asks from behind him, making Tim jump.

"Yeah." He says.

"Rad." He says which makes Tim laugh even though it shouldn't. Conner grins at him. "So, a kid CEO, huh? Didn't know that was possible."

"It's not. Not really. But I'm trying." (And failing, he doesn't say. Again, it doesn't seem to occur to Conner that it wouldn't matter whether he fails or not, if his father is coming back.)

"No one's given you shit about being bisexual?" Conner asks.

"What? I'm not-"

"Oh. Sorry, I just assumed since they said about that Ariana chick and the way you look at me so-"

"I don't-Not you-!"

Conner snorts. "Please, I'm scandalous, not blind."

Tim shuts his mouth abruptly. "What do you want?" Tim asks in a low voice. Conner must be spying on him, there's no way Lex would give up this information.

"Nothing!" Conner frowns. "Why should I want anything?"

So that was how he wanted to play it. Tim frowns. "I should probably head back down-" He says but when he turns around to go back into the room he finds the balcony door is locked.

Tim tries not to cry. This can't be happening. It can't- He has to be able to get back down to the party, he-!

"Locked out?" Conner asks.

Tim leans his forehead on the door. He wants to die.

Conner leans over him and bangs on the door but the music is loud enough that no one hears him.

Conner scowls. "Well I guess now you're stuck out here with me."

"I'm screwed." Tim says in disbelief. They'll be locked out here forever, and even if they aren't it doesn't matter. Coming up here in the first place was a stupid thing to do. Ten more minutes is enough to ruin whatever reputation he has left downstairs.

Maybe he should just accept Bruce's offer. Whatever he'll get for Drake Industries will be more than whatever it's worth.

Tim feels tears leak from his eyes. He rubs at them angrily. He's going to lose everything. Every part of his parents, of his Dad.... Mom...

"Hey, it's not so bad! I promise! I'm less annoying than I seem at first impression!" Conner says hastily. Tim wipes at his face but he's sobbing now.

"I-It's not you. It's not-It's not- I'm not-" but he can't say anything without the words coming out as a garbled mess.

Conner, confused and worried, tries to comfort him by putting a hand on his back. Tim pushes him away. "Hey, it's okay." Conner says. He pulls Tim into a hug anyway.

"I'm going to lose everything." Tim tells him, words spilling out of his mouth. He'll accept Bruce's offer tonight. The paperwork will be done before they get home to Gotham and it won't matter what Conner tells Luthor because it'll already be done. "My company... everything my parents worked so hard for... it's going to be gone. I'm going to lose the last of them."

"But... I thought your father was getting better..." Conner says. Then he realizes what Tim's been hiding. "He's not getting better, is he?"

Tim shakes his head. His shoulders tremble. Conner holds him tight and he cries into Conner's shirt--soaking it.

Tim tells him everything. From Bruce's offer for the company to his offer of fatherhood. Conner listens silently, rubbing Tim's back and nodding. When Tim finally calms down, Conner presses his lips to the top of Tim's head. The kiss so fleeting Tim wonders if he imagined it. "You're going to be okay. You at least have Bruce Wayne, don't you? And don't lose hope, stranger things have happened. Your father could wake up."

"And if he does, I'll have sold his company away, don't think that he'll be happy about that."

"He'll be happy enough that he's alive and so are you."

You don't know my father, Tim wants to tell him. But he doesn't.

Conner wipes his thumb across Tim's tear-streaked face. "I don't even know why I told you all of that."

"I've got a listener's face." He says.

Tim snorts. "Yes, exactly. That's what everyone says about you. Lex's infamously obedient child."

Conner winks. "Only for cute boys. Lex can screw himself."

Tim raises an eyebrow. "Really?" The mysterious boy, who came from nowhere, heir to a fortune and company whose CEO he looked nothing like. Tim likes mysteries. Always did.

And then there was the cute boy comment. Tim tries not to think about that one too hard.

"Isn't that what the tabloids say?" Conner asks. He spreads his hands out in a half-shrug.

"Guess I never really believed they really knew anything about you. Not that they really know anything about you."

"I'm a man of mystery." Conner shrugs uncomfortably.

"Clearly." Tim raises an eyebrow. "Come on, tell me something about yourself. Anything. I told you my entire life story."

"Uh uh. That's my business to keep." Conner says shaking his head, arms crossed over his chest. Tim sighs, but supposes that is his right.

Of course, without DI on his plate he can go back to his amatur conspiracy theorist detective work. Maybe he'll figure it out on his own.

Tim sizes Conner up. Yeah, he can figure it out. Conner's a teenager, and he exists which means he had to come from somewhere. He wasn't just born fifteen. Made in some lab.

"Yeah," Tim agrees though, "that's fair."

Conner nods. There's a knock on the door and both boys jump as Tam pokes her head out.

"Tim? Dad's says you better get back downstairs, Mr. Lord is saying some pretty nasty things about your father and Bruce is doing what he can but-"

"Thanks, Tam. I'll head down now." Tim tells her.

She looks from him to Conner suspiciously. "Gothamites stick together," is her veiled response, her glare at Conner showing what she really wants to say.

She leans back into the room and Tim just barely catches the door before it locks the two of them out again.

"Wow. Tell us how you really feel." Conner grumbles at her back.

Tim turns back to Conner. "Thanks. For... not being weirded out by me sobbing into your silk shirt." (Which is now ruined by the way, he doesn't say.)

"Hey, scandals stick together, right?" Conner offers with a quick grin.

Tim smiles back and turns to leave when Conner grabs him by the hand. "Hey, wait-!"

Tim turns just as Conner bends down to kiss his lips gently. Tim is too stunned to react as Conner pushes past him into the room. His first kiss and it’s with a Luthor. "Text me next time you want to vent. Listening face." He says, pointing to said face to emphasize his point. "Wayne's got my number. I think." Then he disappears into the party.

Tim watches him go, shocked. He's standing there so long, mouth open, that Luke walks past him at some point and he says: "I thought Tam told you what Dad said? You going back downstairs?"

Which restarts Tim and he rushes downstairs, cheeks pink.

~~~

"Well?" Lex asks as he and Conner sit in the limo back to the penthouse. "Learn anything useful from that Drake boy?"

Conner stares out the black tinted windows, watching as the streetlights zoom past and trying not to think about how Tim's lips had felt pressed against his. "Not a thing. Didn't even show up to the kid party like you said he would."

Lex narrows his eyes at his son. "I see."

Conner just shrugs. "Better luck next time."

#diana writes timkon #timkonweek #timkon week #timkon week 2019 #timkon week: day 7 #diana writes dc

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