#i read six of crows first and fell head over heels in love okay

[eideticmemory]

FINE LINE II | SPENCER REID

Two kids and two decades of history later, you and your ex-husband learn to navigate the world of co-parenting. PART 2! Read Part One.

Word Count: 3,643.

Warning: Daddy Issues, mommy issues, angst, drama, romance. Love to see it.

Spencer’s a deep sleeper; both E and Em get it from him. But the one thing that all three of them are trained to wake up to, is your voice.

“Hey!” You snapped at Spencer, landing a harsh blow beside his sleeping frame.

He jolted awake in familiar frenzy, reaching out to grab you, make sure you were safe.

“Hey, hey, it’s me,” you spoke. “Look, I need a favor.”

“A favor?” he muttered.

“Yes,” you nodded. “You wanna be here for a few days? I need some help. Take the kids to school today.”

“Wha—“

“Or let E drive your car, it doesn’t matter, she’s a good driver,” you shrugged. “They need to be there at 8:15 sharp or else the administration has a stick up their ass. They’ll wake themselves up, dress themselves — stylishly — and feed themselves. And, uh, if you make them late, they’ll lose their minds so try to be out of here by 8, okay? Okay. Thank you.”

“Wait, wait, wait, [y/n],” Spencer called, holding your hand in his palm. “Where are you going?” He weakly pat around the mattress, searching for his phone, and when he grabbed the device in his hand, he checked the time. “It’s six in the morning.”

“So?”

“So,” he sighed, sitting up and leaning against the headboard. You subtly averted your eyes to avoid seeing him shirtless, the duvet cover falling to his lap. “You didn’t get home until two in the morning.”

“You spying on me?” You asked.

“No, I just . . . can’t sleep knowing you’re out late at night—“

“Working,” you interjected.

“Working . . . and now you’re up four hours later?” He questioned.

“We could sit here and argue about who has a more messed up work schedule, or you can take the kids to school, just this once, and I’ll pick them up.”

“No, I’ll pick them up, don’t worry about it,” Spencer shrugged. “You go to work, I’ve got it.”

You sighed, “Are you actually staying until Sunday?”

“[y/n]—“

“No, Mr. Unit Chief, how did you get the week off from the BAU? Hm? It — it just doesn’t make sense.”

“So that’s what you wanted to ask me last night . . . why not just say it, [y/n]?”

“Don’t profile me, it’s valid question.”

“Listen,” he squeezed your hand lightly, just enough that the pressure silenced you. “I am off of work until Monday morning. You need me to drop off and pick up the kids? I can do that. Need me to feed them? I can do that, too. I can do it every day this week if you want. If you need to be at work, then go.”

You inhaled deeply, and released it in a sharp breath. “Thanks,” you shrugged. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

The drive to your office was silent. Full of nothing but your thoughts and rambles and quiet scoffs. You missed the kids. Missed being with them in early hours like this, eating breakfast on the go, singing along to the radio. But your mind needed time to rest, to regroup away from Spencer and his sudden appearance.

When you arrived at work, you stumbled in to find an earlier bird than you. “Raven . . .” you mumbled. “I told you to go home, babe.”

“And I told you that this is getting in at 7:30 sharp . . .” she cleared her throat and glanced at you apologetically. “Boss. . .”

You sighed and shrugged, “Do you need help?”

“Nope,” she shook her head. “I’m right on schedule.”

You chuckled, full of pride, “Good.” You wandered over to your private office and secluded yourself behind the glass doors. Taking a seat at your desk, you plopped down with a tired huff. You rested your head on your folded arms, and just as you began to snore, your phone rang in your ear. You jumped up in a daze, groaning out at the device in frustration. When you picked it up, however, and saw who was calling, you gasped, whined, fell back childishly in your chair.

You sighed, answering the facetime, “Hi, Penelope.”

“Don’t ‘hi, Penelope” me,” she replied, her phone showing her dressed and sipping on a cup of tea. “I had to find out from Emily that Spencer is staying the week with you and the kids? How is this possible?”

“Pen—“

“Hold on.”

Suddenly, your screen revealed another person being added to the call. “Pen, why did you add Em— . . . Emily, hi.”

“What the hell is going on? [y/n]? Did you call me?” Emily hollered into her car speaker, focusing on the road ahead of her as she speaks.

“I did not call, Penelope called, I was ambushed,” you explained.

“No, no, you do not have Spencer spending the entire week at your house — for the first time, I might add — and not tell me,” Penelope interjected. “How are you? How are the kids? How did this happen? Are you two talking? Are you—“

“I told Penelope that Spencer requested the week off,” Emily said. “I thought you had already told her.”

“Yeah, Section Chief, how about some warning there? How did Spencer even get so much time off?” You rambled.

“Woah, woah,” Emily crowed. “Don’t shoot the messenger, he had more than enough vacation time saved up. He could’ve taken the entire month off and not lost a dime. There was nothing I could do. Plus, I thought, maybe . . .”

“Maybe. . .what?” You questioned.

“Maybe you and him had talked things out and . . .”

“Oh, my goodness,” Penelope exclaimed. “Are you guys back together?”

“No!” You shout. You sighed, “No . . . Spencer and I are not back together. He just . . . showed up. I called him to talk about E’s birthday party and he . . . well he says he’s staying until Sunday. Which is, perfect. Perfect in theory, if he actually stays. But he’s getting the kids’ hopes up and I hate that.”

“Yeah . . .” Emily snickered. “He’s getting the kids’ hopes up?”

“Emily Prentiss, do not profile me. Not you. I swear . . .”

Emily busted out laughing. “I mean, honey,” Penelope whispered. “I’m profiling you right now.”

“And with that, we must say goodbye,” you hummed happily as you pressed the button to hang up.

It was Wednesday. Wednesday. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. So, five days with the man, at most. Then he goes back to DC, and those beautiful ninety miles are between you two again. Unless you do therapy, which you won’t, because it’s an awful idea and — you don’t want to think about Spencer Reid this much. You can’t. But you check the clock and it’s 7:45 and he needs to get the kids out the door soon. Should you call? You should call. Okay, call. No, text E.

Y: hey girlie!! 🥰 had to leave early this morning, is dad taking you to school?

E: hey mom 🥺 yeah dad’s taking us!! we’re getting breakfast right now from chick-fil-a and he’s letting me drive his car!!

Y: oh wow! don’t hit any cows out there!

E: ha ha ha so funny ur hilarious

Y: love you 💕 💗 ❤️

E: love you ✨✨

Okay. They’re up. They’re happy. That’s good. They’re smiles are going to get you through the week. They always do.

When you get home that afternoon, Spencer and the kids were laughing, playing cards against each other in the kitchen.

“I hope you guys aren’t gambling in here, because that’s more of a living room activity,” you laughed to announce your presence.

“Hey, [y/n],” Spencer greeted you. “Come play!”

“I’m good,” you nodded.

“See? I told you guys she won’t play against me. She never has and never will,” he told the kids. They giggled.

“Oh, please, you say that like I’m scared to play against you,” you snickered.

“Well? Are you?” He asked, a hint of arrogance in his voice.

“Absolutely not,” you set your things down on the counter and joined them at the table. “Continue your game, though, because I would be scared to play against the kids.”

Spencer gave you this look out of the corner of his eye, his iris looking at you under his eyelashes and a light smile on his face.

Maybe these next four days won’t be so bad.

They were more than not so bad. They weren’t bad at all. They were blissful and full of smiles and laughter and fun family dinners every night, and you’d never felt so productive. You cleared two major social work cases at the job, thanks to Spencer’s help with the kids. Friday night, you came home to the backyard fully decorated for tomorrow’s party. Spencer had recieved the chair delivery and set everything up behind the house, surrounded each table with a handful of chairs and the proper decorations sat in the center. You absorbed it all in complete and utter shock. You were prepared to spend all of tonight and tomorrow morning doing this. And Spencer took care of it all.

“What do you think?” Spencer grinned, him and E standing in the center of the backyard proudly. “Took us hours but it’s all set. Now we just need the food and the people.”

E chuckled, “What do ya’ think, mom?”

“I. . .” you whispered. “I think it looks gorgeous. You guys did amazing.”

“Thank you,” she pipped, grinning happily. “I think so, too. Oh, c’mon, dad, let me show you my party dress!”

As they rushed into the house, Spencer pinched onto your shoulder lightly, smirking as he passed you by. Your stomach filled with an unshakable and startling feeling. It had you rocking on your heels trying to process it and breathe through it.

Saturday morning, you woke up at 9 o’clock as planned. E would be up in another hour, so you had plenty of time to sort out the last few details of her party. The guest list was just above 80 people, and you had to make sure you had ordered enough food to feed them all. You had to check in with the caterer, the baker, Spencer.

You knocked on the door heavily, before wandering in, expecting him to be dead asleep. When you walked in and saw the bed empty and well made, you stopped in your tracks.

“What the hell?” You muttered, stomping over to the bed, and snatching up the note on the pillow.

My dearest [y/n]

Gone out to run some birthday errands. Kiss the birthday girl for me.

Spencer

Errands? What errands? Is he serious? You sighed, and pulled your phone from your back pocket. You dialed Spencer’s number and held the phone to your ear, only to be greeted with an immediate voicemail. You furrowed your eyebrows and huffed angrily.

You drafted and sent a text to him, desperately wishing you were more surprised by this:

Be back by 4 please.

No answer.

You carried on the day with one mission: keep things under control and keep E’s mind off of Spencer. You let her stay cornered in her room, bringing her breakfast and an iced coffee, and kissing her on the top of her head.

“I can’t believe 16 years ago today, I was laid up in a hospital bed, screaming my head off, cursing at the nurses, when this tiny, slimy thing just . . . popped out of me.”

“Most people just say happy birthday,” Eden cringed.

“Happy birthday, babe,” you giggled. “You have no idea what you’ve done for me just by existing.”

“That’s more like it,” she nodded happily. “Thank you. Is dad here?”

“Uh, no,” you said quickly, prepared for the question. “He went to take care of some stuff for the party, he’ll be back before the party starts, though. Will Francesca be coming over today?”

“Oh. Okay. Uh, yeah. She’s coming to do my makeup.”

“Awesome,” you smiled, standing up. “Well, birthday girl, you get glitzy and glammy, and get ready for the party of a lifetime.”

“Mom . . . is everything okay?”

“Yeah, of course. Stop that, don’t worry about anything today, okay? Things are fine.”

“Okay,” she nodded. She trusted you. For 16 years, since the minute she was born, she’s trusted you. “Okay.”

Eden’s godmother was the first to show up. Penelope Garcia live and in the flesh. She barged into the house the moment you opened the door to greet her, and she rushed up the stairs.

“Pen, she is getting ready—“

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I understand the importance of a teenage girls appearance, but I haven’t seen either of the kids in so long.”

“It’s been a month, Pen.”

“Way too long . . . Penelope!” She called out for Eden.

E perked her head up in her room, stopping her best friend, Francesca, from doing her eye makeup. “Auntie P?” She murmured and turned to the door.

Penelope opened the bedroom door joyfully, smiling ear to ear when she saw E. “Little Penelope!” She shouted, excitedly clapping her hands.

E hopped up from her seat and ran over to Penelope, practically jumping into her arms.

“Oh, happy birthday, babygirl!” Penelope cooed. “I can’t believe how big you are!”

“Thank you,” E smiled, her face tucked into Penelope’s shoulder.

You watched them, close to tears yourself to see them together. There were 5 people in the room when Eden Penelope Reid was born 16 years old ago. The doctor, 2 nurses, you — of course — and Penelope Garcia. It was the scariest thing you’d ever been through. And at your side, for 10 hours of labor, was Penelope. She held your hand, spoke softly to distract you from the pain, and encouraged you as you went through delivery. When Eden came into the world, it was no question what her middle name would be.

Penelope helped E prepare as you kept the business rolling in. Food, lights, cutlery, plates. You were rushing and running for hours. You barely just had time to shower and get yourself ready, let alone make sure Em put on the outfit you picked out for him. Luckily, Penelope got him dressed and sat with a good book so you could get yourself together.

The clock struck 4 in the afternoon, signaled by an alarm on your phone, and you had just stepped out of the bathroom. You slipped on a floral dress, befitting of a mother on a special day. Hair in place, dress without wrinkles, shoes to match, guests rolling in, and . . . oh yeah, still no Spencer. Countless calls and texts to him went unanswered, and you were running out of excuses to tell the kids.

When your last and final call to him went straight to voicemail, you left a message.

“Spencer, I don’t know where you are, and I want you to know that, right now, I don’t care. It’s a quarter after 4, and people are showing up, and the show must go on, so . . . show up, don’t show up. Keep us on our toes, it doesn’t matter. I hope you’re okay. Bye.”

Dropping you phone on your bed, you gave it one more glance as you left the room.

Music rang throughout the backyard, packed with people by the time it was 5:30. Eden brought the whole BAU together — visited by Penelope, Emily, Matt, Tara, Derek, Hotch, and Luke who brought his and Penny’s baby boy along.

E was in heaven, reunited with some of her closest cousins. It was turning into a good day, without Spencer. But there was a hole caused by his absence that no one could fill. And you know this because you’ve been trying to fill it all of Eden’s life.

While your little girl is quite the social butterfly, sometimes that social battery of hers can wear low. Particularly when she’s overwhelmed by attention, or stress, or her own genius thoughts.

Luckily, she gets that from you, and you two have a tendency to find similar places to hide. She found you sitting on the back patio, hidden in the corner. “Hey, pretty girl!” you smiled. “Having fun?”

“Yeah,” she giggled. “You?”

“Eh, it’s an alright party,” you joked.

“So . . . do you know where dad is?”

You released a long exhale and hesitated for a good, long few seconds. “No.”

She nodded, “Cool. That’s cool.”

“E—“

“Penelope, come here!” Penelope suddenly screamed from the front door.

“Coming!” E called back. “I have to attend to my guests, excuse me.” She giggled, and you smiled at her as she walked away.

You relaxed back against the wall of the house, watching your friends and family rejoice in the backyard. Over the music, you heard the curling sound of a scream. Eden’s scream. And you ran like you’ve never ran in your life.

“Oh, my God,” she cried. “Oh, my God!”

You were confused and a bit scared and very eager to see what had her so overwhelmed. And when you rounded the corner, coming face to face with the front door, you gasped, stopping on your tippy toes like you were knocked in the face by an invisible force.

“Ah! Piccolo genio! Happy birthday!” Rossi said to your daughter as he held her in a tight hug. He pulled away to hold her face in his hands lovingly. “It is incredible to see the person you have become. Goodness! You know who you look just like?” He questioned.

Rossi spun on his heels, facing himself in your direction with open arms. “Her,” he said. “You look just like her.” He stepped towards you slowly, “My goodness, someone would think it was your sweet sixteen we’re celebrating.”

You laughed and shook your head, blinking away the tears of joy in your eyes. “Flattery is not gonna make me forget that a certain someone doesn’t know how to visit more often.”

“Italy to Virginia is a long flight, my dear,” he pulled you into a tight hug. A secure hug. Full of safety and love and memories. “But I will have to make it more.”

You burrowed yourself into his chest, smiling to yourself at the sound of his voice.

“[y/n],” he whispered. “How are you?”

You did nothing but let out a long, long, long sigh.

“We’ll talk,” he nodded.

“Now,” he pulled away from the hug to hold you against his side. “Since I am here, the party may now . . . begin.”

As everyone followed Eden and Rossi through the house, you were left in the entrance with Spencer, who was eyeing you shyly with his hands in his pockets.

“Got caught up at the airport,” he explained.

You gave him the teeniest, tiniest half smile, and let out a faint laugh, “C’mon, Spencer.”

Later that night, when it was just you, Spencer, and the rest of the BAU veterans, he offered to help you clean up. You stood in front of the sink, scrubbing at a dirty pan as music played softly in the background.

“[y/n]?” Spencer whispered to you as he placed leftovers in the fridge. “What’s on your mind?”

You shook your head, and turned briefly to give him a solemn smile, “I never had a sixteenth birthday party,” you told him, returning your attention to the dishes. “Did you?”

He chuckled to himself, “No,” he said. “I had a psychology exam the day of my sixteenth birthday. I took it and then read for the rest of the night.”

“I had a trigonometry exam on my sixteenth birthday,” you shrugged.

“Oh, yeah? How’d you do?” he chuckled.

You rolled your eyes at him, “I did alright . . . then I went back to my charity dorm on MIT’s campus, and had some microwaved pasta.”

Spencer let out a soft sigh, and stepped over to you, “Life of a child prodigy, right?”

“But not for E. Not for Em. All I ever wanted was for them to be extraordinary, and live an ordinary life. High IQ, be damned, it’s what they deserve.” You rambled. After a few minutes of silence, you glanced at Spencer, who was eyeing you sympathetically. “Don’t profile me, Spencer Reid, we’ve talked about this.”

“I’m not profiling you!” He laughed.

“You are,” you said.

“I am not. If anything, you’re profiling me right now.”

“Profiling you profiling me?”

“Exactly—what? No!” he said through constant laughter.

You smirked at him, hiding a smile behind the expression. “I don’t need to profile you, Spencer. I know you.”

“I—“

“I know you.” You enunciated. “I know you.”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “You do.”

You knew you had to tear yourself away from those big brown eyes as soon as possible, or risk major emotional turmoil. So, you focused on the dishes as you spoke, “I’ve been thinking . . . maybe therapy . . . wouldn’t be so bad.”

Spencer’s eyes went wide, “Really?”

“Really, it’s about twenty years too late, but . . .” You nodded. “I guess a part of that whole ordinary lives thing for the kids is having parents that actually get along, so . . . I’ll try it.”

“Thank you, [y/n], thank you so much,” he said. “I already made us an appointment here in Charlottesville for next Friday.”

You scoffed. You should’ve been mad, annoyed. But all you could think was: yeah, I definitely married a scorpio.

“Fi—“ you mumbled, in the midst of rolling your eyes when a gust of movement caught your attention. Outside of the kitchen window, to the side of the house, was E. E and some boy. A handsome boy. You couldn’t tell if he looked familiar. Well. Yeah, he kinda did.

“[y/n]?” Spencer called to you, when he suddenly noticed Eden. “Do . . . do you know him? [y/n]?”

You watched as the kid handed E a birthday gift and placed a kiss to her cheek. She blushed softly and looked down. No. No, you didn’t know him. She hadn’t told you about him.

Another part of the whole ordinary life thing. A part that you had completely forgotten about.

Boys.

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#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #spencer reid angst #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #mine #fl

[ohshit-itsyagorl]

Four Dipshits and a Michelle

Part 7

Part 1, Writing Masterlist

Read on AO3 HERE

Summary: Michelle never believed in soulmates. But what happens when she turns seventeen and gets her mark? What happens when she inevitably finds the person with the matching tattoo? And what is she supposed to do with Peter Parker. Her best friend in the whole world. Her crush. Someone she feels drawn to for some inexplicable reason.

The next day was the first day of senior year, which meant Michelle had to get up at the ass-crack of dawn. She practically fell out of bed and trudged to the bathroom, dragging her feet with every step, and when she looked in the mirror, she cursed quietly under her breath. She looked like death. To be fair, she hadn’t gotten much sleep last night. A few hours after Spider-man left, Peter had decided to take a shower, and his mark had flared again. She couldn’t really blame him—he did a pretty good job controlling it for the most part, and to be fair, it still happened to her, too.

She brushed her teeth and ran her fingers through her hair, deciding she would just leave it loose today. Throwing her clothes on, she went out into the kitchen and made herself a bowl of cereal.

She greeted Betty and Cindy when she got to home room. Home rooms were split by gender: girls in some rooms, boys in others, so there was never a chance that Peter or Ned would be in her home room. Thankfully, that also meant that there was no chance that Flash would be in her home room either.

Ms. Winninski handed out schedules to all the students, and MJ looked down at hers.

“What classes are you guys taking?” Cindy asked. She was already opening her messages to the group chat, furiously typing away under her desk as phones were not permitted in home room.

“Creative writing—I think Ned is in that class,” Betty said, blushing furiously. “AP Calculus is second period, which will be rough, but then I have theatre, so at least there’s a break. I opted to take dance/health instead of gym/health, and then I have lunch—god, I really don’t want to eat cafeteria food for the next nine months. After lunch I have French, then AP environmental science—oof, those are on opposite sides of the building—and I finish off with AP Econ.” She looked up from her schedule.

Cindy rattled off her schedule next. Then, they were both looking at MJ expectantly.

“Peter and I have AP Chemistry first period.” MJ looked up to find Betty waggling her eyebrows. “Shut up,” she said. “Then I have AP Calc with you and Cindy. AP great books, gym/health—I usually just read in that class anyway—then lunch, Spanish, art, and AP Psych.”

Cindy looked up from her phone and gave the report: “We actually have a few classes with Ned and Peter this year, not just PCB like in years past.”

MJ wanted to look and see but it was too risky with Ms. Winninski prowling around the classroom answering questions and confiscating phones. She sighed and pulled out her sketchbook.

Home room ended a few minutes later and soon Michelle was off to AP chemistry. She smiled at Peter when she saw him, then she remembered what he had done last night and her face reddened.

They sat down at the same lab table and sat in awkward silence, each not really sure what to say to the other.

On days like this, when they were just a bit out of sync, MJ just wanted everything to go back to normal.

Normal—what was normal these days? Michelle wasn’t really sure she knew anymore.

That entire day was exactly like every other first day of school, with teachers taking attendance, going over the syllabus, playing name games (seriously, they weren’t in kindergarten anymore),  and every teacher assigning the same getting-to-know-you packet for homework, which meant that MJ had to talk about herself seven times.

She guessed that part was normal, but everything else? She was part of the 0.02% of the population that had a true mate, she knew who he was, he didn’t know who she was, she loved him, he didn’t love her, they both had this annoying habit of getting aroused at the worst times, and neither of them could shower in peace ever again.

When she got home, she quietly opened the door in case her mom was sleeping in the sitting room. The light filtered in through the windows in a way that basked the room in a golden glow, she thought maybe she would paint it sometime.

Her mom was, in fact, asleep on the couch. MJ tiptoed past and flopped onto her bed. She groaned thinking about all the homework she had—none of it even remotely knowledge-related. She knew she should get started, but she really didn’t want to.

She pulled her bag toward herself anyway.

——————————————————————

Two hours later, Michelle was done with all the getting-to-know-you questionnaires and was perusing her bookshelf. She had quite a few new books checked out from the library, she just didn’t know which one she wanted to read next.

Tap tap tap.

Her head whipped toward the window. There was a masked face hanging upside down outside, red hand tapping on the glass.

MJ rolled her eyes, walking over to the window and opening the latch. She heaved the frame up enough for Spider-man to crawl in and drop onto the floor in a crouch. He stood up. “Fancy seeing you here, Michelle.”

“Hmm, I wonder why that would be,” she quipped. “What do you want this time?” She went back to looking at her bookshelf, running her fingers along the spines until she grabbed one randomly.

“I read The Assistant,” he blurted, reaching a hand up to run his fingers through hair that wasn’t there.

Michelle raised her eyebrows. “What did you think?” She hadn’t much liked the book, to be perfectly honest, only reading it because it was a critically acclaimed story about a jewish deli.

Spider-man shrugged. “I don’t know. It was okay, I guess. I had a really hard time getting behind Frank. There isn’t a sequel, but if there was I don’t think I would read it.”

She looked at him. “You’re a superhero.”

There was a long pause. “…Uh, yeah?”

“And a high schooler.”

“That is also true,” he said tilting his head to the side. “Are we making observations now? Because if we are, that shirt looks good on you.”

MJ rolled her eyes. He was either a shameless flirt in general or the mask made him cocky. Either way, she wasn’t interested. She thought of the way Peter’s cheeks dimpled when he smiled—no, she was definitely not interested. “How do you have time to get through these books when you’re always off saving people—helping the little guy, or whatever the fuck you call it.”

He shrugged. “I read them between ‘helping the little guy’” he said, waving his arms dramatically. “On rooftops and billboards and stuff. Or at school when I’m bored.”

She hummed. “Well, I need to choose another book. Want to help?”

He nodded vigorously, and practically tripped over himself trying to get to where she stood by the bookshelf. For a superhero, he wasn’t very graceful. She smiled to herself, shaking her head, and turned to look at the pile of new books again.  

He pointed at a thick, grey one and said, “This one looks cool.” MJ pulled it from the shelf and read the title Six of Crows followed by the description on the back. His white eyes narrowed at her. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a fantasy reader.”

“Yeah, I’m trying to branch out a bit,” she muttered, cheeks glowing red. She didn’t know why she was embarrassed—she had no reason to be embarrassed—but something about him threw her off. For some reason, she wanted to impress him, and somehow reading a young adult fantasy novel, highly rated or not, seemed like a weak choice after A Secret History or The Assistant.

His eyes followed the blush down to the top of her chest, then flicked back up to her face, which only made her flush more deeply. “Sounds like a great read,” was all he said. “I’ll check it out from the library.”

She looked down at her bare feet, flexing her toes against the soft carpet. When she looked back up, Spider-man was looking around her room. “Nice room. Lots of books.”

She felt herself flush again. God, what was going on with her today? “Yeah, it’s my safe space. You know, I don’t actually let anyone in here—you’re the first person besides my mom or me to set foot in here in years." There was a long pause, then, "What does your room look like?”

“Oh, you know,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “just another normal room. Bed, desk, closet, bathroom—the works.”

“What side of the bed do you sleep on?” Michelle asked. She didn’t know what made her say it, but for some reason she wanted to know—maybe it was a way to make him seem more human, less… other.

“The left, why?” He glanced over to her bed which she realized, somewhat belatedly, wasn’t made and had a lacy bra strewn across it.

“No reason,” she muttered. Then, “I sleep on the left too. So does my best friend, but when I sleep over I kick him to the right side.” She chuckled. “His side of the bed smells like him.”

Spider-man coughed, and rocked onto the heels of his feet. He tilted his head to the side. “I have to go,” he said, moving to raise the window again. He slipped out and crawled out of sight.

MJ looked at her bed again, at that black lace bra, and cursed under her breath.

#spideychelle #spiderman #peter parker #peter x michelle #Peter Parker fanfiction #Peter Parker soulmate #soulmate #soulmarks #fluff #angst #best friends #Smut #eventual smut #michelle jones #Four dipshits and a Michelle

[traya-sutton]

Gotta Give it Up for Shakesy-P

Happy holidays @awhitehead17!  I’m your secret santa lol, here’s your gift!

ao3

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“Quiet down now,” Ms. Prince ordered and the class fell into silence. The end of the period was near, and they were restless. “Your final project for Romeo and Juliet will be a performance piece. We’ll be doing an abridged version of the play in front of parents and friends two weeks from now.” This resulted in loud ‘Aww!’s from the class. Cassie wrapped her hand around Conner’s and squeezed, neck craning around the room. She was already picking who she wanted to do the project with. Conner wanted her or Roxy on in his group, but he could see Ray making eyes at him from across the room. It wasn’t that Conner didn’t like Ray, he just preferred to work with his friends.

“I’ve picked the scenes you will be performing,” Ms. Prince waved to the numbers written on the white board. There were three sets: an act number, a scene number, and a third number—almost of all which were between two and four, except for one which was six. “I have also written by the side of the scene how many people will be in each group. Groups will be picked randomly.” She said and pulled out a hat. This was met with another lament from the class. “After I pick your groups, huddle up and you can begin prepping for your piece for the last five minutes of class.”

Cassie sighed and dropped Conner’s hand. “Well, we tried.”  He said with a shrug.

“I just hope I get a death scene.” Cassie said. Ms. Prince started calling out scenes and names but the attention span of the class was gone. Conner only half paid attention.

“Who would be your Juliet?” Conner teased.

“Huh? Oh!” Cassie’s eyes flickered to Cissie at the front of the room, leaning over Anita’s desk to mutter something to her. Then back to Conner, the tips of her ears pink. “I-I mean-any death scene will do. I’d love to be Mercutio.” Then Cassie grinned at Conner and waggled her eyebrows. “What about you, Romeo? Which would you like?”

“-ake. Conner Kent.” Conner’s jerked his head to look as Ms. Prince wrote names down next to scenes. She picked another out of the hat. “Jaime Reyes. Bart Allen.” He’d gotten the six-person scene: act one, scene five. “And Stephanie Brown. Since we’re doing an abridged version, you’ll be starting the scene at the entrance of Capulet, alright?”

Conner flipped to the scene in his copy of Romeo and Juliet, and scanned it. It was the scene where Romeo and Juliet met. He counted the characters and the number of people written on the board. There were too many characters in the scene, they’d probably have to double up. Ms. Prince moved on to the next group.

“Act one, scene five over here!” He heard someone call.

“You got a romance scene,” Cassie said, glancing at his book. She laughed. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Conner said sarcastically and she shot him a thumbs up as he headed over to where his group sat. Bart was with him, that was good. Conner liked Bart, even if he was a little much to be around sometimes. Plus, Bart was on the track team so Conner would see him in the locker room sometimes.

He knew Jaime vaguely. He was on the football team with Conner, but other than the fact that he liked science Conner knew nothing about him. La’gaan he knew was on the swim team.  So they were a group of jocks, that would be fun. Conner would totally be able to get Romeo. There was a blonde he’d never met, but knew was a friend of the Waynes, and—Conner’s eyes fell on the last member of their group—a Wayne themselves. Well, fuck.

Tim Drake-Wayne. Tim was chewing on the end of a black pen as he read over the scene, completely ignoring everyone around him. Typical.

Conner was good at a lot of things. He was the best at most of them, in fact. Sure, he needed some help in math and science, but frankly, who didn’t. Plus, he was passing, which was good enough for him to not put in any extra effort. Almost anything Conner tried, really tried at, he was great at. Amazing, if one was being kind.

However, whatever Conner wasn’t good at Tim Drake-Wayne always seemed to be the one to excel. One step ahead whenever he was falling behind.

He knew that Wayne was on the debate team, Model UN, and the theater club. Oh, Conner realized, a theater nerd. This was going to be fun.

“Hi! I’m Steph! This is Tim. When are you guys free after school to work on this?” The blonde asked. She glanced at the clock. “We only have a few minutes before the end of the period.”

“Conner and I have football practice on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays after school, and Bart has track.” Jaime said, packing up his bag.

“I’ve got swim on Tuesdays.” La’gaan said.

“Well, that’s all the days of the week.” Steph said.

“What about after practice?”

“It ends around seven,” Jaime said chewing on his lower lip. “If someone drives me then I might be able to make it.”

Tim waved a hand. “Not a problem. How about tonight, Thursday, and then same time next week? It’ll only be for an hour or two at most.” He stood up, and pulled out of his phone. “Put your numbers in, I’ll make a group chat.” Bart took the phone first, fingers flying across the screen. Tim hadn’t even said  ‘please.’

Kon bit his lower lip. Entitled brat. He took the phone without complaint though and put his number in.  He passed the phone back to Tim just as the bell rang. “Awesome! See you guys later!” Steph hummed before grabbing Tim by the arm and pulling him out of the class.

Conner honestly had no idea what he expected when he checked his phone after football practice, but a message that simply said: Alfred is in a black car in front of the school wasn’t it.

“Who’s Alfred?” Jaime asked.

Conner shrugged. “Come on.”

They met Bart outside the school. Bart’s bag was gone, probably already in the car. He bounced up and down on his heels. “Dudes.” He said, waving his hands for emphasis. “You have to see this!” Then he sped off and Jaime and Conner exchanged a look before jogging after him.

Bart skidded to a stop in front of a Bentley. An honest to god Bentley.

“Ta-da!” He said, using Jazz Hands to add extra flourish.

A man who must have been in his seventies got out of the car and opened the door in the back for them. He had a British accent and wore a suit. Conner’s jaw dropped open. “You must be Master Tim’s classmates, Mister Allen was telling me you would be along soon.” Conner had known that the Waynes were like, stupid rich, but this was ridiculous.

Yeah, sure, the ‘black car’ in front of the school.

“Woah.” Jaime breathed. Conner agreed, but his exclamation would have been a little more on the inappropriate side.

“You’re Alfred?” Conner asked stupidly. Because… duh.

“That I am, sir.”

Conner, Jaime, and Bart slipped into the back seat. Alfred closed the door behind them and sat in the driver’s seat. “I believe we have one more friend of yours to pick up, yes? A Mister… La’gaan?”

“Yes, sir,” Conner said and shut his gaping mouth, because really Ma had raised his with better manners than that.

“What about Steph?” Bart asked, vibrating in the squishy seat beside Conner and Jaime. The kid seemed to be unable to sit still.

“Miss Brown is already at the Manor.” Alfred said and pulled out of the school parking lot. Conner’s phone dinged and he glanced at it.

Jaime

Alfred picked us up

Tim responded so quickly that Conner was shocked.

Tim

awesome

Steph

see you guys soon :peace sign:

They drop by La’gaan’s place to pick him up and because he’s last he gets the front seat next to Alfred. After that they head to the Waynes’ house. When Conner asked what the address of the house was he received an odd look in the rear-view mirror from Alfred.

“Dude,” Bart said, “it’s Stately Wayne Manor, that’s the address.” Well, then, Conner thought.

He wished Alfred had picked a larger car, he was crushed up against Jaime.

“We have arrived. Master Tim is waiting for you in the library,” he said, opening the door for them. He led them through the doors of the Manor and into the hallway.

Stately Wayne Manor was huge. Absolutely enormous. Conner’s mouth dropped open again against Ma’s better breeding, and he stared as Alfred directed them to the library. Bart was reading Wayne Manor’s Waynipedia page like stats for a weapon in a video game. “-and as for the library, that’s really a misnomer since Wayne Manor has four libraries, and three studies-”

La’gaan opened door to the library. Steph sat on the ground, her back resting against the coffee table. Tim sat across from her, his legs crossed on him. He was scribbling something in his copy of the play. Behind the coffee table was a mobile whiteboard.

“I leave you here, good sirs. Tell me when you are all finished.” Alfred said, and strode back the way they’d came.

Tim looked up when they came in. Steph grinned.

“Welcome!” She crowed. She waved them over.

Conner dropped his bags with the others by the door, digging out his book before heading over to the couch.

“Hi!” Bart sang. He sat on the floor next to her.

As soon as Conner sat on the couch, the cushions bowing under his weight, Tim jumped to his feet and around the table. He took a magnetic marker from the side of the whiteboard.

“Oh great, are we back at school?” La’gaan asked.

Tim gave La’gaan a condescending look and La’gaan flushed. Tim twirled the marker between his fingers. “Okay, I’m sure we’re all busy so let’s get started with parts.” Tim said.

Bossy.

Tim quickly scribbled out all the parts on the whiteboard—Capulet, Romeo, Juliet, Tybalt, Nurse, and Others.

“Others?” Jaime asked, flipping through his own book.

“There are three one line characters in the scene. Remember? Ms. Prince said that we’ll be skipping the first few lines to get to the plot of the scene.” Tim explained.

“Can I take those then?” Jaime asked. Everyone turned to look at him. “I’ve got stage-fright,” he said quietly.

“Sure,” Tim said. He wrote Jaime’s name down on the whiteboard.

“Can I be Tybalt?” Bart asked. “I can carry a sword.” He grinned.

“Sure, Bart is Tybalt. I’ll be Romeo-”

“Why do you get to be Romeo?” Conner asked.

Steph laughed and Tim gave Conner an odd look, like he thought that Conner was an idiot and was amused by him. “Conner, please.” Tim said.

“No, seriously! I’m big and strong, why can’t I be Romeo?”

“’Cuz Tim’s a theater nerd.” Bart argued.

Steph laughed again. “He is!”

Tim rolled his eyes. “I am not.”

“You are!” Steph grinned. “You’re totally a theater nerd!”

“I’m not.” Tim insisted, but his ears were pink. “But yeah, I should be Romeo because I act.”

Steph snickered to Bart, waving a hand daintily. She mimicked Tim’s voice and gave it a large drawl, “he acts.” Bart burst into giggles. Tim ignored them both.

“So? I look the part.” Conner said, bringing them back onto topic.

Tim turned to face him. He crossed his arms over his chest. He wore a black shirt and jeans that, each on their own, probably were worth more than Conner’s car. He was giving Conner that amused and condescending look again. “Come here,” he said.

“What?”

Steph whistled, looking like Christmas had come early. Her eyes flickered between them.

“Come here.” Tim insisted.

Conner stood. “Put down your book,” Tim said. He looked around the library for a second before he motioned to one of those ladders that roll around bookcases so people can reach high shelves. “Sit on the ladder.”

“On the ladder?”

“Just do it.” So Conner sat on the ladder.

Then Tim got down on one knee. Conner ignored the snickering of the others. Tim looked up at him and Conner raised an eyebrow. Was something… supposed to happen?

Then Tim looked up at him. The warm lights of the library illuminated his eyes, making their blue sparkle. Tim’s condescending expression melted, and he looked up at Conner. His eyes fluttered and he looked… awed.

Conner’s heart stuttered in his chest.

“But… soft… what light through yonder window breaks? It is the East, and Juliet is the sun,” Tim whispered. Conner swallowed thickly. Tim’s eyes flickered back and forth, staring at Conner. Through Conner. Taking him in, absorbing him.

“Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon/Who is already sick and pale with grief/That thou her maid art far more fair than she/” his voice had a quiet shock to it, chills went up Conner’s arms, “be not her maid, since she is envious/her vestal livery is but sick and green/and none but fools do wear it. Cast it off./It is my lad; O, it is my love! O that she knew she were!/She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that?/Her eye discourses; I will answer it.” Tim clutched a hand to his heart, tearing his eyes away from Conner’s, as if it hurt to look away.

He looked embarrassed. “I am too bold; ‘tis not to me she speaks.” He turned to look up at the ceiling. “Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven/having some business, do entreat her eyes/to twinkle in their spheres ‘til they return/what if her eyes were there, they in her head?/The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,” he sighed, leaning against the ladder, dramatically. He looked back up at Conner wistfully, “as daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven/would through the airy region stream so bright/that birds would sing and think it were not night. See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!” Tim leaned closer to Conner and took his hand in his own. He pressed it close to his lips, as if he were going to kiss it. Tim’s breath tickled Conner’s fingers. He glanced up at Conner again, the words whispered. “O that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek.” He raised a hand, as if to brush it against Conner’s cheek. Tim’s lip quivered.

“That’s-” Conner couldn’t form any other word. There was nothing after ‘that.’

Then Tim stood and shrugged that sensitive facade off, and the asshole was back. “I’m Romeo.” He said simply. Bart began a loud, obnoxious slow clap, and Conner was rudely sucked back into the present, choking on his breath. He stumbled off the ladder.

Steph whooped. “Bravo! Bravo!” The other boys clapped also, though Conner wasn’t even sure if Jaime (who stared at Tim like he’d never seen him before, jaw slightly ajar) was conscious that he was.

“That’s-That’s not our scene.” Conner argued, but his argument fell on deaf ears. The boys stared at Tim with a new sense of awe.

I could do that, Conner thought angrily. Tim preened self-satisfied under the shocked reaction of the others in the group. I could do better than that!

Steph moved on, clearly no longer caring about Tim’s performance. Perhaps she saw it often. She swung her feet up onto the coffee table. “I call the nurse.”

“Why not Juliet?” La’gaan asked.

“Why should I be Juliet? Because I’m a girl?” Steph scoffed. “Capulet is obsessed with a blood feud, Tybalt is an idiot, Romeo and Juliet kill themselves rather than just move to a new city. The nurse is the only rational person in the play.”

“Well, I’m not going to be Juliet.” La’gaan grumbled. “I’m Capulet.”

Tim scribbled the parts down on the board. He turned to Conner. “That makes you Juliet, big guy. You okay with that?”

“My masculinity isn’t threatened.”

“Good thing, Juliet.” Tim said and wrote Conner’s name down.

“Wait! I want a shot.” Conner said stubbornly, arms crossed.

“Huh?” Tim asked mildly, picking up his play.

“You… auditioned for us, right now, to be Romeo. I want a callback.”

“To callback you have to audition first,” Tim corrected and Steph snorted.

“Nerd.”

Tim leveled a glare at her. “I hate you.”

“Give me a shot. I’m not a diva like you-”

Tim huffed, “I’m not a diva.”

“-But give me a week. We meet twice a week for two weeks until the performance, right? Give me a week, and I’ll prove to you that I can be a good Romeo.”

“Being Romeo is more than just being able to say a few poems. Our scene is iconic,” Tim snapped, he gesticulated widely as he spoke, “it’s where Romeo and Juliet meet! If our scene doesn’t land, the whole play means nothing.”

“Dude, it’s just a grade.” Jaime muttered.

“It’s our final project,” Tim said, crossing his arms. “You guys know that Ms. Prince used to do Greek plays and tragedies professionally, you get that right? She’ll have high expectations.”

“And I’ll get us that A,” Conner insisted. “Let me try.”

“I thought you didn’t mind playing Juliet.”

“I don’t.” Conner tried to copy the condescending look that seemed to be a favorite of Tim’s. “Do you?”

Tim’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t take the bait.

It wasn’t a lie, either, Conner didn’t mind. Conner just hated that Tim was better at this than he was. He was Conner Kent. He could out act Tim Drake-Wayne. He knew he could, if he tried. It wasn’t like acting was that hard, right? So you lie, big deal. Anyone could do that. I could do better than that.

Tim’s lips twisted into something that had to be classified as a smirk, but it definitely looked more sinister. “I’m Romeo,” He said simply. He turned back to the whiteboard, Expo in hand.

“I’ll make it worth your while!” Conner said. Last ditch attempt.

“Please, you two,” Steph said, “get a room first.”

Conner made a rude gesture at her that she returned without a glance. Tim just rolled his eyes at her, but he turned back to Conner.

Conner had a foot in the door. He could feel victory in his hands. Conner Kent always got what he wanted.

“Oh?”

“If my Romeo makes you literally go ‘wow’ or ‘woah’ or something of the sort, or I get a majority of at least three,” Conner waved a hand at their other group members.

While La’gaan and Bart looked excited by the idea, Jaime groaned: “Leave me out of it, Ese.”

“-that agree that it was a ‘woah’ moment, I get to be Romeo.” Conner said.

“And when you fail miserably?” Tim asked, arms crossed.

Conner shrugged. He wasn’t going to lose, so whatever he bet was inconsequential. “I buy you a pizza.”

“I’m rich, Kent. I can buy myself a pizza store if I really wanted.”

Bart’s eyes lit up. “Really? Do it! Do it now!”

“I’m not buying a pizza store.” Tim said. Bart deflated, grumbling something to himself.

“Nice try. I give it a five out of ten, would have worked if Tim wasn’t like stupid rich,” Steph said.

“I don’t know, I could get you date with the head cheerleader.”

“Not interested.” Tim said, turning slowly back to the board. “So for theme-”

“Ooh, strike two. So close.”

“Wait!” What on Earth could be something Tim wanted? If it wasn’t money or food based, then all he had left were possibly embarrassing things. Conner watched as Tim tapped his foot, yes literally tapped his foot, against the floor gently, eyes fixed on Conner’s soul. Something embarrassing that would prove that Tim was better than Conner… he’d appreciate that. He was on debate, and members of the debate team always had to be right. “Uh, I’ll let you pick a scene, segment, or play for me to preform blind in front of the entire English class, and you can critique me.” Conner said.

“Ooh, playing on his ego. I like it.” Steph said, grinning. She turned back to Tim, who was still tapping his foot. “Rebuttal?”

Tim was quiet. His face blank.

“Well?” Conner prompted.

Tim brought an index finger up to his lip, tapping against it as he thought. “I’m processing...” Tim mused. “Hmm… Processing… Assessing risk… Weighing pros and cons...”

“Oooh, pros and cons list.” Steph nodded sagely. “He’s really thinking about it.”

“Alright, worth the risk. Proposition accepted.” Tim stuck out his hand, as if they were going to do a business deal.

Conner strode over and slapped his hand into Tim’s. He squeezed slightly, just to see how Tim would react. Conner carefully didn’t cry out when Tim squeezed back, damn was he stronger than Conner too? Now, Conner had the urge to arm wrestle him.

He… may have had some issues. But if it got him the part, who cared.

Tim turned back around to the whiteboard and Conner sat on the arm of the couch, and pulled out his book. La’gaan was giving him an amused look.

“What?”

La’gaan shook his head and laughed. “Just take ‘em out and measure, dude.” He snorted.

Tim said loudly: “anyway.”

“He’s right.” Steph hummed, winking at La’gaan. Bart gave her two thumbs up.

“Anyway,” Tim said, pulling their attention back to him, “theme. I was thinking something that isn’t classic, since almost everyone will be doing classic. I mean with-” and he continued to prattle on animatedly, but Conner was no longer listening. He was too busy studying Romeo’s lines, and daydreaming about how he was possibly going to up what Tim had just done to him. He had a lot of planning to do.

As Thursday drew nearer, Conner practiced and practiced and practiced. He knew his scene backwards and forwards, and was almost ready to be off book. In the showers after football practice, he’d practically sung his lines (much to Gar’s annoyance). For hours on Wednesday he’d sat in front of his mirror and worked on reciting the lines, making different faces while he did to see how they looked on him.

When Alfred swung by the school to pick Conner and Jaime up, Conner felt he had gotten much better. Maybe even Tim level by now, even if he still wasn’t settled on blocking for the scene. They’d decided on a modern view of Romeo and Juliet (but Tim had compromised on Bart’s/Tybalt’s sword). Tim had gone on a tirade about how having two boys be Romeo and Juliet could be a commentary on society or some shit… Conner honestly had been thinking more different reactions Tim would make after Conner blew him out of the water as Romeo. One where his smirking blue eyes would be wide with shock, or as pupil-blown as Conner knew his own were (despite how he really felt about Tim’s obnoxiousness) whenever Tim played Romeo. Or how maybe Tim would whisper ‘wow,’ and his hands would linger on Conner’s.

Maybe Conner would kiss him, the script called for it. Every time the kiss came up in the script during rehersal, Tim inconspicuously would find a way to skip that part. Conner would have been offended if he hadn’t been thinking in those moments about how much better Conner would be as a Romeo.  

Who knew someone with such cutting expressions could be so soft?

Everything that Tim did as Romeo (and apparent director, it seemed, fuck he was bossy) Conner took mental notes on. It would have bothered him less though if Tim wasn’t doing the same—only Tim’s notes weren’t mental. He said them, aloud and self-importantly.

“It’s a poem, Kent,” Tim said. “Our lines are a sonnet. If you don’t say them in time, you miss half of the beauty of it.”

Then Tim proceeded to preform the entire conversation on his own, but all Conner could focus on was how good Tim was as Juliet. (And yeah, the poem thing when done right was really cool. Conner spent the rest of that meeting practicing his timing, because if they could pull that off for the play, they’d get an A straight off, even if everything else went wrong.)

“Wow,” Bart said as the boys sat in the car on the way back to their houses. “Tim is really bossy. Who would have thought?”

“Right?” La’gaan said. “I thought you would totally blow your lid,” he said to Conner. “I would.”

“He’s a theater kid, guys. Of course, he’s bossy when it comes to this project.”

“And it’s not like you help with that,” Jaime teased, nudging Conner’s shoulder, “you keep egging him on.”

“Whatever I do or say is an appropriate reaction to his pretentiousness.” Conner argued. Alfred pulled the car up to Ma and Pa’s and Conner opened the door.

“Oh? Is that what we’re calling it now?” Bart asked. Jaime and La’gaan shared a grin.

Conner didn’t get it. “What do you mean?”

The others shook their heads, exasperatedly. “Never mind, Juliet.” Jaime sighed. “See you tomorrow.” He closed the door behind Conner and the Bentley sped off.

Conner was invited four different times to the party at Wayne Manor on Friday night, and not once was by Tim (although one invitation was from a Wayne). Tim’s older sister invited Conner and the rest of Tim’s English class, as well as half the school. Cassie insisted that Conner went with her so she wouldn’t be going alone. Steph demanded that their English group come to make fun of Tim. And, as a football player, Conner was also invited by the Senor members of the team—whether or not any of them had a formal invitation, Conner wasn’t sure, but either way he counted it.

Friday night came, and Conner, as well as half the school, showed up at Stately Wayne Manor to trash it.

The party was much like any other party that Conner had gone to. There were those who went because their friends did, those who went to get wasted and out of their house, and those who weren’t invited but it was a party, so of course they were coming. Conner himself had no idea why there was a party, but when he finally arrived it was clearly well underway.  

Cassie was called over as soon as the two of them passed the threshold by Cissie King-Jones. She shot Conner an apologetic look (with the volume of the music there was no way they could hear each other), and he waved her off and pointed to his teammates. He’d just hang out with them. She blew him a kiss and pushed through the crowd of teenagers.

After a game of beer pong that Conner, of course, slayed, he grabbed his second beer from the kitchen and headed upstairs. With all the extra practicing for the group project, plus other school work and sports training, Conner was lacking some sleep. Today, he hadn’t drunk anything other than Red Bull and the beers from the party. His head pounded, and the music was definitely going to give him a migraine. He couldn’t leave yet, it was still too early and Cassie was his ride anyway. Thank god she’d volunteered to be designated driver.

Conner realized, as he climbed the stairs and the thrumming of the music quieted, that he’d never been anywhere but the first floor of the manor. Wayne Manor loomed around him. The hallways were lined with paintings and sculptures. None of the rooms were labeled, and most were locked when he tried them.

Conner took a swig of his beer. It buzzed through him gently, easing the pounding in his head. Conner came to a fork in the halls and picked one at random. He continued walking.

The painting shouldn’t have surprised him or made him stop, because he knew, theoretically, that this house was probably full of old oil paintings like this. But, this one was different than the expensive landscapes and modernist art that had lined the halls before them. This painting was a family portrait.

Conner took another sip.

In it, Tim looked exactly like he did now, though perhaps a little younger—he was maybe fourteen. His younger siblings, or… the people Conner thought were Tim’s younger siblings with that weird amalgam of children in the Wayne family, clearly hadn’t been adopted yet. But his sister was. She slung her arm over Tim’s shoulder, positioned to his left. She was giving the painter a light closed-mouth smile. Between her and Tim stood an older man that had to be the Bruce Wayne himself.

Hmm… Conner mused, his unoccupied hand drifted up to run his fingers across the bottom of the frame. Bruce Wayne looked… different than Conner usually saw him online and in the pictures used in Lois’ articles. Softer. Less aloof. More like a father. Next to him, framing the other half of the picture was a young man who was definitely Dick Grayson. He rested one hand on Tim’s shoulder. One of Bruce’s arms slung across Dick’s shoulders. Both of them were giving smiles—Bruce’s looked like it was straight out of a stock photo. Dick’s was stupidly large, all encompassing and completely awe-inspiring. Looking at him, Conner felt a stupid grin spread across his own face.

But Tim wasn’t smiling at all.

Something about it made Conner clench his beer harder and take another sip.

Conner turned away, and continued along the hallway. He turned a corner and ran right into Stephanie Brown.

“Sorry.” Conner mumbled. “You alright?”

“Huh?” Steph asked, looking up at Conner. “Oh, hi Conner. Yeah,” she pulled her hair up into a purple scrunchie, “I’m fine. What’re you doing here?”

“It’s a party.”

“Uh, the party is downstairs.” Steph said, pointing down to the ground. Conner looked at his feet, as if he could see through the floor. Steph laughed. “But maybe you can help me with something else.”

“Oh?”

Steph hooked a finger behind her. “I’m going to have fun, but Tim’s being a party pooper and won’t come down. Convince him to loosen up a little, chill?” Steph asked. She patted Conner on the shoulder as if he’d already agreed, which Conner was pretty sure he hadn’t (and he wasn’t drunk yet, so saying things he wasn’t aware he was saying wasn’t a probability), then she skipped passed him.

Conner drank some more liquid courage, and turned the corner.

Tim’s door was open, and his room was empty, well, of people at least.

Conner surveyed the room. It was as large as Lois and Clark’s apartment in Metropolis. It was also a complete mess, clothes and books and video games scattered across the room. Huh. Who would have thought. Conner had a strange urge to check under Tim’s bed for porn, see if he was a real boy.

On Conner’s left he could see a half open bathroom door, and another door that was closed. Conner wasn’t sure if it was another room or a walk-in closet of some type. Other than that, what could it be?

A cold breeze drifted through the room. Conner’s cheeks burned from the booze in his veins.

Steph had said that Tim was in here, but it didn’t look like he was… unless… Conner walked over to the open window and poked his head out.

Tim Drake-Wayne sat on his roof, arms wrapped around his knees. He stared down at the ground below, which, Conner stood on his tiptoes, overlooked the parking lot. People danced and sang and hooted below.

“Hi there,” Conner said.

Tim turned his head. “What’re you doing here?”

“I was invited. You?”

Tim narrowed his eyes.

Now, there was the pretentious-robot Conner knew and hated.

Conner shakily climbed out onto the roof. He sat next to Tim and leaned forward a little to watch the buzzed teens below. “Learning normal teenage habits to imitate and then scoff at?” Conner asked. He took another sip and wobbled (less from the booze and more from the precarious position he sat in). Tim’s arm whipped out and grabbed Conner’s forearm to steady him. Conner flashed him a smile in thanks.

Tim dropped Conner’s arm and curled back up over his knees. “Did Steph send you? I’m not going down there.”

“How dare you! Of course not!” Conner paused, and Tim gave him that infuriating expression that clearly said he didn’t believe him. “I was enlisted after I had already left the party.”

Tim didn’t reply. Another breeze fluttered passed them and Conner watched Tim not move, not even shiver a little.

Perhaps robot wasn’t the right word. It needed something more pretentious, like a statue. One of those great, large pale Roman ones that were missing arms and you could see every sinew and muscle in, but were frozen in time.

Except, of course, that Tim was dressed.

“Aren’t you cold?” Conner asked, nodding to him.

Tim looked down at his clothes. He wore a black button up over slacks, like a true grown-up pretending to be a child. Tim shrugged.

“Are you?”

Conner shook his head. He drank some more beer. Tim’s eyes followed his hand, then went sharply back to people-watching. Conner shrugged off his leather jacket and held it out to Tim. Tim’s eyes flickered back to Conner, surprise cracking his cynical facade. Then his gaze fell to Conner’s chest.

“My eyes are up here.” Conner told him, waving the jacket in Tim’s direction.

In the dim light of the room and what drifted up from the parking lot below, he watched as Tim flushed. Or, Conner thought he was flushed. He wasn’t sure.

“Sorry.” Tim mumbled. “It’s just… your shirt.”

“What about it?”

Tim was definitely blushing now. “It’s… y’know. Cool.”

Conner wasn’t even sure what shirt he was wearing. He glanced down. It was a Wendy the Werewolf Stalker shirt with a picture of Seraph on it and a quote of his.

“You like Wendy? You?”

Tim frowned. “Why shouldn’t I? It’s fun.”

“It’s just… not… y’know.”

“What?” Tim quirked an eyebrow, and Conner got that feeling he got so often, like Tim was laughing at him.

“Stuck-up.”

Then Tim really did laugh. Or, chuckle, but that was close.

“No big soliloquies, and… I mean the deepest shit in there is the metaphor for growing up, which really is undercut by the episode where Wendy worked at a doggy day care that actually was for werewolves.”

Tim chuckled again. “Dog Days.” He said.

Conner was pleasantly surprised that Tim even knew the episode name. “Yeah.”

“Well,” Tim shrugged sheepishly, “you know all those speeches and analyses on Romeo and Juliet? They’re not mine.”

“They’re not?”

“No, they’re my brother’s, Jason. He gave me a rundown on the scene before you guys showed up, and that thing about a gay modern Romeo and Juliet, that’s all shit he lectured us on at dinner Wednesday night.”

Conner frowned, lip of the beer bottle halfway in his mouth. “Wait, is that why Steph couldn’t stop giggling?”

Tim laughed. Really, big, belly laugh. “Yeah.” He sighed, and leaned back against the roof, staring up at the sky. Conner lay back next to him. In Gotham there were no stars, barely even the two or three Conner got in Metropolis when he stayed with Clark and Lois. An airplane flew passed, blinking through the dusty clouds.

“I like… I like Wendy, and Enya, and video games. You know?” Tim said. “All this… Shakespeare and, I don’t know, honors English class and sweater-vests,”

“God, do you have sweater-vests?”

Tim ignored him, “and slacks and blazers and whatever. It’s not really me. It’s Tim Drake-Wayne. Not… Tim Drake.”

And for the first time, Conner realized that Tim didn’t used to be a Wayne. He was a… Drake, also. Whatever that was.

“Then why do you… do that?”

“Do what?”

“Treat everyone else like they’re below you. Lie. Be a pretentious asshole.” Conner’s tongue felt a little numb. He pulled his leather jacket into his lap.

Tim’s hand found his—his fingers were freezing and Conner winced, but didn’t pull away. Tim took Conner’s beer from him and brought it to his own lips, upending the bottle in his own mouth. Tim wiped the remnants from his lips with the back of his hand.

“Because it’s easy,” Tim said. He burped and Conner snickered even though it wasn’t very funny. His head was pounding again. “Because I’m good at it.”

“You’re not that good-” Conner tried to argue, but he knew that it was just macho posturing. That was what Conner was good at, what propelled him through his days, being better than everyone else.

“Conner, please.”

“Yeah,” Conner agreed. “So… that’s why you act? Because it’s easy?”

Tim shrugged. “Yeah. Pretty much. Why? Why do you do it?”

Conner shrugged also. “I don’t know. Because I want to beat you.”

“Really?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, nothing against you, it’s just that, you know, I’m Conner Kent.”

“Oh, I’m aware.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, just-you know.” Tim’s voice got quieter. He waved a hand vaguely. “You’re Conner Kent. Quarterback of the football team, popular kid, Ultimate Jock, part of Model U.N. and…” Tim’s voice trailed off. “just the Best at Everything.” Neither of them said anything and then Tim added, almost whispered: “I didn’t get mad at you calling me pretentious, you can’t get mad at me for this.”

Conner snorted, but didn’t say anything else. He turned. Tim stared up at the sky, watching the dusky clouds drift slowly across the night. His eyes were dark in the dim light, but his skin was ghostly pale. Conner sat up and reached to pull off his shirt. Tim watched curiously, giving him that so hated Look.

Conner wondered if Tim even knew he was doing it.

“Ask me to dinner first, why don’t you?”

Conner handed it over to Tim, immediately realizing what a stupid idea it was. It was freezing outside, and Conner’s nipples seemed to be trying to make sure that Tim knew that. Conner pulled his leather jacket back over his shoulders. “It’s for you.”

“Gross.” Tim said.

Conner rolled his eyes. He was already this far in. “You know, so you don’t have to lie, you know, if you don’t want.”

Tim snorted. “Are you drunk?”

“No, I’m just being dramatic.” And stupid. This was really dumb.

Tim laughed. He took the shirt from Conner, curling his hands in it, running his thumb over the faded image on the front. “Gross.” He repeated, but he didn’t hand it back. Instead, he looked at Conner, in that same assessing way he had when he’d agreed to the stupid Romeo bet. “You should probably head home. Do you have a designated driver?”

“Yeah, no need to call the butler.”

Tim wrinkled his nose, but he didn’t reply to that, “who?”

“Cassie Sandsmark. You know her?”

“Kick-boxer? Blonde,” Tim sat up and tapped a finger against his lower lip. “Yeah, she has a mean right hook.”

“Mean right hook?”

“We do Krav Maga together.”

Of course, Tim did. “Do you have a black belt in that?”

Tim gave him the Look. “You don’t get black belts in Krav Maga, but… yeah, essentially, something like that.” Conner laughed sardonically. Of course.

“Steph totally has a thing for her.” Tim added.

“Steph? I thought, you two were… you know.” Conner wasn’t quite sure how to say it so he crossed his fingers.

Tim snickered. Conner felt himself flush and Tim laughed harder. So that wasn’t so bad. “Nah, she’s more of a Juliet girl, if you know what I mean.”

“Ah… If it matters, Cassie is too.”

Tim didn’t look surprised but he smiled back. “I’ll let her know. In a slightly less tragic metaphor.”

Conner shook his head. A breeze blew by, but he wasn’t very cold anymore. He zipped up the leather jacket, his cheeks burning.

“What about you?” Tim asked.

“Huh?”

“Romeo or Juliet?”

Conner wasn’t sure if he was blushing, but he felt like he was. He shrugged it off, like it was just the booze and cold. “Romeo. You?”

“A little bit of both.” Tim murmured. His eyes, lit by the little light of the his bedroom. Blue, a vibrant, violent, piercing blue.

“Uh. Yeah.” Something came back to him. “Uh, speaking of which, I um, I mean I came in here in the first place because Steph told me to convince you to come down to the party. I-I should probably be heading back down, anyway.”

“Right. Yeah.” Tim shook his head, and coughed. “Yeah, definitely. And,” Tim waved the empty beer bottle at Conner, “to get a refill.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Conner said, but, he thought as he headed back out of the room, he had probably had enough.

Conner was halfway down the hall when he realized Tim hadn’t come out with him. He went back and poked his head into Tim’s bedroom. “You coming?” He asked.

Tim grinned. “Yeah, let’s go.” He walked passed Conner and out of his room, and Conner stared at him. Or, more accurately, stared at his shirt as it hung from Tim’s shoulders, a little bit too big, but not hugely. Almost, just almost, an okay fit.

Monday came too fast, or maybe not really fast enough. Ma and Pa didn’t ask about the shirt which disappeared before the weekend. Conner wasn’t sure if they noticed. But he didn’t bring it up, just in case.

The ride over to Tim’s house was a lot quieter than Conner remembered the other two being. He knew that Bart was pointedly not mentioning the… upcoming audition. Jaime and La’gaan kept up the conversation expertly. Conner was sure they were in on it, too. It was nice of them. He felt weird. Conner usually wasn’t worried about these types of things, but right now he couldn’t stop his hands from sweating. There was a rush in his ears. Every sound and touch grated on his nerves. Conner was anxious. He really wanted this to be good. He really wanted to impress Tim. Or beat him. Whatever.

Alfred finally pulled up to the Manor and Conner and the others went to the library to meet Steph and Tim. Conner was the last through the door, and subsequently the last to see that their group weren’t the only ones in the room. Tim’s sister sat on the couch, munching merrily on popcorn which resided in an enormous bowl on her lap. Steph sat next to her, shoes kicked off and purple socked feet intertwined with the sister’s (why couldn’t Conner remember her name…?). She dug her hand into the bowl of popcorn and shoved it into her mouth.

“Connermph!” She called around her food. She swallowed noisily and Bart sat down on the other side of the sister, popping some popcorn in his mouth. “Ready?”  

“You clearly are.” Conner nodded to them, pointedly.

The sister grinned. “I wanted to see,” She said gleefully. Tim stuck his tongue out at her, and she just grinned back.

“Do it, do it, do it.” Bart chanted. La’gaan, Steph, and the sister picked it up too. Conner shrugged off his bag and placed it by the table.

“Guys, cut it out,” Tim said to no avail. “Sorry, Conner.”

Conner shrugged. “Fine, just chill a sec, okay?” He called to them, which was met with cheers from La’gaan. Bart pulled out a glittery handmade sign that said GO CONNER! on it and was filled with tons of Valentine’s day stickers.

Conner must have given him a strange look because Bart shrugged and said by way of explantion, “there wasn’t really anything Romeo and Juliet themed for some reason. This was as close as I could get.”

“Perhaps because they die at the end of the play,” Tim said wryly. Bart took this idea under consideration.  

The sister’s eyes widened and she gasped. “They do?”

“Oh, sorry Cass. Yeah, they die.” Tim said.

“Did you really not know that?” Conner asked, surprised.

Cass—right! That was the sister’s name! How could Conner have forgotten that?—shook her head. “I’ve never seen it before.” She said. Steph bet over and whispered something to her. Cass nodded solemnly.

Tim took Conner by the arm. “Do you really want to do this?”

“What? Nervous?” Conner gave Tim what Conner knew was a shit-eating grin.

“Please,” Tim gave him that Look.

That was all the boost Conner needed, all his anxiety was gone now, only the overwhelming urge to wipe that look off Tim’s face remained.

“Alright. I’m going to need you to follow my lead.” Conner said. “Think you can do that? Just ‘yes, and.’”

“Yes, and,” Tim repeated dutifully in a totally infuriating tone.

Conner whispered the blocking into Tim’s ear, ignoring the looks they were getting from the others. Tim thought for a minute, processed, and then nodded. “Let’s go.” Tim said, and got into his place.

Conner cleared his throat, and looked up at Tim. Tim Drake-Wayne. Juliet.

Juliet, who stood there in all her beauty. Juliet, who Romeo desperately wanted to get into the pants of.

Tim stood with his back to Conner and Conner placed his hand gently on Tim’s shoulder before turning him around. “If I profane with my unworthiest hand/this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this/” he leaned closer to Tim, brushing his other hand over Tim’s cheekbone. Tim’s brilliant blue eyes went wide, and an innocent look spread across his features. “my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand/to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.” Conner leaned in and watched Tim’s patented Look crawl onto his face.

Tim pulled back, smirking. He shrugged Conner away, and Conner made it hurt himself. Made his features twist into those of pain. Made that sharp tug in his belly.

It was for the act.

“Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much/” Tim shrugged, looking back at Conner with a wicked grin that ruined his Look, but also made it so much better, “which mannerly devotion shows in this:/for saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch/” Tim took Conner’s hand that had touched his cheek, running his own fingers through Conner’s. Conner caught his breath. “And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.” Then Tim dropped it and crossed his arms.

“Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?” Conner asked with a shrug, reaching out for Tim yet again, but Tim pulled away. ‘Yes, and.’

“Ay, pilgrim,” Tim teased, tapping against Conner’s mouth gently, “lips that they must use in pray’r.” Then he turned, as if that was the end of the conversation.  

Conner grinned and caught Tim’s own hand, which flew out as he turned flamboyantly. He brought it to his face, in a mockery of what Tim had done during his own audition, just millimeters away from his lips. Tim’s fingers twitched in his own. Conner looked up at him through his lashes.

“O then, dear saint,” he fell to one knee before Tim, keeping Tim’s hand in his own, “let lips do what hands do/” Tim took his hand away with a snort, blue eyes electric. “They pray—grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”

Tim took Conner’s offered hand, up to his Juliet as if in worship, and pulled Conner to his feet. “Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.”

But when he turned away yet again, Conner seized his chance and pulled him in close, almost in a twirl. Until they were chest to chest, faces just inches away from one another. Tim was breathing heavily.

“Then move not while my prayer’s effect I take/Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purg’d.” And with that, Conner closed the distance between them and kissed Tim. It was a chaste kiss, an easy one. Gently pressing lips together, more a tease than anything else. Then he let Tim fall away.

Hungry, electric blue eyes stared into his soul as Tim took a step back. His hand drifted to his mouth. “Then…” he paused for a moment, “have my lips the sin that they have took.”

Conner grinned at him, and Tim’s pupils blew a little wider. ‘Yes, and,’ huh? Tim said that acting—lying—was easy, that was why he did it. Conner didn’t know about easy, but it was certainly fun. “Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg’d!/” He reeled Tim back in until they were once against close enough to feel each other breathe. “Give me my sin again.”

Conner kissed Tim again. A real, hard, hungry kiss. One Romeo would have given Juliet. Then he stopped and leaned back, over-exaggerating the heaving of his chest. Tim did the same, those eyes never leaving Conner’s.

Conner waited. Tim’s hand clenched Conner’s shirt, and Tim swallowed thickly.

“Line?” Conner prompted him.

Tim blinked. “Huh?”

“Tim. It’s your line.”

Those blue eyes confused and… Tim shook his head and backed away. “Uh...” Tim bit his lower lip, usually pale skin pink. “You…uh… You…” Tim shook his head again, “Bart?”

“What?” Bart’s voice rasped, uncharacteristically.

“Line, Bart.”

Bart scrambled for his play but Conner knew the line, since usually it was his.

“You kiss by th’ book.” Conner told Tim.

“You kiss by th’ book.” Tim repeated dully. There was a crushing silence and Tim ran his fingers through his hair. Conner knew everyone was staring at Tim. Cass, Steph, and Bart’s munching had stopped. Had probably been stopped for a while, Conner realized. He hadn’t even noticed, he’d been too absorbed in the scene. Conner shot a glance at them. The others, all of them, sat with their mouths open. Gaping at Conner and Tim.

What the fuck was wrong with Tim?

Tim whirled on Conner. The electricity came back to those piercing blue eyes and he pointed accusingly at Conner. “You cannot do that in front of our parents.” He said, voice shaky.

Conner wasn’t sure what he’d done.

La’gaan was the next to speak. “Well, I’m gonna say that you won, Conner. That’s… totally a wow scene.”

Jaime swore in Spanish.

Conner glanced back at them (mainly because the longer he stared at Tim the hotter he felt his cheeks becoming) and saw that Bart held a notebook over his head which was decorating in glitter gel ink: WOW.  

Wait, did that mean-? Had Conner won?

“So… do I get to be Romeo?”

Tim began laughing a little bit hysterically, and then everyone was. Even Conner, though he wasn’t really sure why. “Yeah, sure, why not,” Tim said, but his voice and face slipped back to normal (infuriating). He gave Conner a pink-cheeked grin. “But we’re definitely working on the blocking for that scene.”

“What? You don’t want Conner to jump you in the middle of the play?” Steph giggled. Tim rolled his eyes at her, but Steph hopped to her feet and slid across the room in her socks.

“I wasn’t-”

“Dude, it was like, I know you’re Romeo and Juliet but get a room.” Bart agreed.

A blush rose in Conner’s cheeks. “I wasn’t-!”

But Tim ended the conversation with a snort and a shake of his head as he shifted into director mode. “Alright everyone, places. Let’s take it from the top.”

Ma was way more excited for the play than Conner was. He picked up his phone after football practice and was greeted with seven different messages that seemed to be a bunch of cancellations and ramblings. Ma wanted to know if she should bring a pie for a treat. Would he be hungry between practice and the play, after all they had about a thirty minute wait between. What foods were best for actors? Should she bring him a present for after he was done? Never mind, Conner, Pa had figured it all out. Ignore everything she’d sent. She would see him soon, and she loved him.

Tim was waiting in the locker room when Conner and Jaime made it out of the showers. He was curled up on the metal locker room bench, texting on his phone. He held their costumes in his hands and tossed the clothes to them. “Ms. Prince wants to do one more rehearsal before the parents get here.” He told them. “Also, film club is filming it for some school… spirit… yearbook… something, I don’t know. But, you’ll both need make-up for camera.”

Jaime groaned and pulled his costume on. His was the least inconspicuous of everyone else’s since he would be playing a handful of characters.

To separate between Capulets and Montagues they’d decided that they would have them wear different colored clothes. All Capulets wore red and black, and Montagues wore red, yellow, and blue. (Tim had said something about how the two reds would be symbolism of how similar the two families were despite their perceived differences, which Steph had giggled the entire way through. Conner couldn’t stifle his own laughter now that he knew that the clothes were probably Jason’s idea.)

Tim did Jaime and Conner’s make-up—simple blush so they would show up on camera and eyeliner and mascara. Then they were off.

Conner was shocked by how smooth the play went considering how anxious Ms. Prince was. Conner and his group were the second scene up, since they were doing an abridged version. It went flawlessly. Jaime didn’t forget any of his lines, Bart didn’t hurt anyone when he swung around his sword flamboyantly. La’gaan was regal and serious for once. Conner was pretty seductive if he said so himself. He didn’t kiss Tim on the lips, they’d decided to trade the kisses for a kiss on the hand (which really didn’t make sense with the script but, Conner supposed, they were being censored by the school and strictly ironic PG rating for the kids in the audience), and another on the cheek. Then came Steph’s act as the nurse, and her foreboding warning which she delivered perfectly.

The rest of the play went pretty well. Cassie’s death scene as Mercutio was touching, and Courtney and Maxine as the final Romeo and Juliet were stunning. The balcony could have been done better, Conner thought though when that group went up. Tim had been a much more convincing love-struck Romeo for sure.

After the play was over, Ma and Pa came running up to Conner to congratulate him. He was shocked to see Clark and Lois behind them, their son wasn’t with them though. Clark beamed, but let Ma do the gushing.

“That was fabulous, Conner! Very realistic!” She insisted. She had six de-thorned roses in her arms (that Conner knew were from her own garden) wrapped in a red ribbon. She undid the ribbon and handed one to Conner.

Conner felt himself turn red. “Aw, Ma...”

“You deserve it, young man!” Pa said curtly. Ma stood on her tiptoes to see over the crowds of other parents.

“Where are your castmates? I picked one for everyone!” Ma said.

Conner frowned. After the play had ended, the class had been rushed by parents and friends. He wasn’t sure. He spotted Bart and his Uncle Max over by the stage. “Over there.” Conner said pointing.

Ma handed a couple of roses to Conner. “Here, honey. Would you mind helping me hand them out?”

Conner smiled. “Sure thing, Ma.” He stuck his own behind his ear. “I’ll meet up with you guys in a little?” He asked Clark and Lois. Maybe he was being too hopeful.

“Of course, Stud.” Lois grinned, bumping his shoulder with hers. They were level in height now. “We’re taking you to dinner. Jon’s sorry he couldn’t make it, but bedtime is bedtime.”

“I get it, it’s fine.” Conner shrugged it off. He was just happy that he got to see Clark and Lois. Metropolis was far enough that they’d probably had to take off both today and tomorrow to get back. “Text me if I’m not back soon.”

“Sure thing,” Lois smiled at him. Conner really liked Lois. Totally out of Clark’s league.

Conner jogged off to find his group mates. He climbed up on the stage and scanned it but couldn’t find Tim or Steph. He did see Ma hit La’gaan and then start looking for Jaime. Conner decided he’d head for the missing two.

Now that he looked, he couldn’t find any of the Waynes. He took out his phone.

Conner

hey did yall leave yet?

Steph

sorry cowboy

Conner tried Tim.

Tim

I’m by the lockers. Forgot my history homework.

Conner

stay there

Tim

…

Why?

Conner

just trust me dude

Conner headed out to the lockers. He found Tim leaning against his, bag slung over one shoulder.

“Took you long enough,” Tim said.

Conner was used to Tim’s wicked smirk, or, he’d thought he was, but something weird happened to his belly as he saw Tim pull himself upright.

Tim’s eyes took in the flower behind Conner’s ear, and then the one in his hand. His eyes widened. He looked speechless.

Second time Conner had done that to him. Conner’s heart sped up and he felt himself smile giddily. He liked making Tim speechless.

Conner bowed and presented the rose to Tim. “For you, fair maiden.” He said.

When Conner looked up again, Tim’s face was pink. He brushed some of his long hair behind his ear and took the rose gently. As if he were afraid he’d break it. His hand shook.

“It’s from my grandmother,” Conner explained, “she wanted to give one to everyone in the group. Steph already left though, I’ll have to give her hers tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Tim said. “Tell her I say thank you.”

“Sure thing, dude.”

Tim stared at the rose, running some of his fingers over the petals. He raised it to his lips—no, that was stupid. His nose.

Why had Conner thought that?

His heart thumped loudly in chest.

“You know, it’s too bad.”

Tim looked up to meet Conner’s eyes again. “What is?”

“This… that it’s over. This was fun.”

Tim smiled. “Yeah, it was. You know, we always have room in the theater club-”

Conner laughed and pushed Tim gently. “Yeah, no thanks. You know what they say about theater kids.”

“Oh?” Tim asked amusedly. His attention, however, was back on the rose. He pressed it back to his nose, inhaling deeply. “What do they say?”

“They teach all y’all how to project, but they never teach y’all how to shut the fuck up.” Maybe that was why Conner liked seeing Tim speechless so often.

Tim laughed. “Well, don’t get me started on what they say about football players.”

Conner snorted. “Yeah, I guess you would win on that one.”

Tim’s eyes slid over to Conner’s slyly. “Is everything a game to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, banter, this play… you’re a good actor,” Tim mused, “you should have bargained higher.”

“Huh?”

“Well, the bet, that you won.”

“The one that made me Romeo?” Conner wasn’t sure where Tim was going with this. Tim twirled the rose between his fingers. “I’m aware of it. What? You think I should have haggled?”

Tim shrugged. “You were Romeo for a week and a half. Was it really worth it?”

“Are you kidding? I just wanted to get Romeo,” Conner shrugged, “and I got what I wanted. I always do.”

“Do you now?”

“Mmhm.” Conner grinned at Tim. Tim’s eyes were narrowed, his lips upturned into what was definitely a smirk. One black eyebrow quirked. Amused and condescending. Conner was beginning to like this Tim just as much as the blushing and speechless one. “I am Conner Kent,” he said as pompously as he could manage.

“Hmm. You know,” Tim said mildly. He put his own rose behind his ear. “I’m pretty used to getting whatever I want too. Pretentious and rich and all.”

“Really?” Conner asked, trying to make the excitement in his tone not show through. Tim was a better actor than Conner was. Conner would just have to learn from him, he supposed. He tried to match Tim’s indifference. “You got something in mind?”

“What are you doing tonight?”

This… was not where Conner had thought this conversation was going, but when he saw the sparkle in Tim’s playful blue eyes… Conner couldn’t help but be intrigued. But-

Lois. Clark. Ma and Pa.

“Shit.” Conner hissed. Tim looked shocked at this sudden change of tone. “I would. I totally would, but I’ve got this huge like, family dinner thing.”

Tim shrugged. “Friday night, then.” This time Tim was a little shyer about it, as if worried that Conner might say ‘no’ now.

Conner smiled. “Sure. Text me the details.”

Tim smiled back. “Yeah, okay.”

Conner turned to talk away, but as he did Tim caught his hand and pulled him back against him. Then Tim kissed him, fingers curling around his neck to bring Conner in closer and stroking the hair beside the rose in Conner’s hair. Conner tightened his grip around Tim’s waist, pulling him closer than they ever were as Romeo and Juliet. And tongue. Oh god, there was finally tongue. Tim tasted like peppermint and he was a really good kisser and-

When Tim finally broke the kiss (because it was Tim who broke it, not Conner who was too busy forgetting about the outside world) with a laugh, Conner heaved in air. Tim leaned on the lockers to support himself as he giggled.  

“What?”

“The Conner Kent, and The Tim Drake-Wayne,” Tim said. “It’s just, I think we might be what Steph would call a ‘power couple.’”

Now Conner was laughing too, but that was probably more because Tim was infectious than any hilarity. “Like Romeo and Juliet.”

Tim rolled his eyes and, still snickering, pushed himself upright. “A little less tragic though, I hope.”

“It’s funny,” Conner said, “how many teenagers do you think got together because of this play? Ironic, really. I feel Shakesy-P would be proud.”

Tim snorted. “Please never call Shakespeare that again.”

“Shakesy-P, Shakes-P, Shakesy-P-”

“And now I know why Romeo really died, it was because Juliet killed him.” Tim pushed Conner, teasingly.

“Well, if you want to get technical about it-” But Tim was pulling Conner in for another kiss.

“Shut up.” Tim told him.

After another kiss that made Conner go ‘wow,’ Conner pulled away, his phone buzzed in his pocket. “You’re so bossy.”

“And I always get what I want.” Tim added condescendingly.

“I haven’t forgotten. You’re also pretentious, and condescending, and-”

“Do you really want to go down this path, Kent?”

Conner pressed his lips to Tim’s for one last kiss, but broke it off far too early because of his fucking phone-

Conner took it out and checked it, even though he knew what the texts would say. “I have to go.”

“Your family. Yeah,” Tim said, a wry twist to his lips, “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Friday. Text me.”

“Will do, Juliet.” Tim called, saluting Conner with the gifted rose and Conner jogged away, laughing and red-faced.

Clark and Lois were staying over with Ma and Pa for the night so they all headed to the house after dinner. Conner was tired and full and happy, but he kept his eyes open the whole ride, waiting for Tim’s text. But it got later and later and there was little Conner could do, so he changed into pajamas and headed to bed.

The text finally came a little after midnight. Conner jerked up when he heard the chime of the text, half asleep.

Tim

You kiss by th’ book.

Sleep tight

Conner snorted and rolled over in his bed. Had to give it to Shakesy-P, he certainly knew how to write a pick-up line.

#timkon #diana writes timkon #timkon secret santa 2019 #awhitehead17 #diana writes dc