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heaven-sent

Summary:

Tim wakes up with an angel at his bedside.

As far as post-stabbing awakenings go, it could be a lot worse. Like, sure, being dead is a bummer (he's pretty sure he's dead, because, like, there's an angel right there), but hey. That is one sexy seraph.

Although it'd be a lot easier to hit on said angel if his big brother wasn't also here, laughing at him about it.

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Tim floats.

Someone is talking. Two someones—there’s a low murmur of voices, but they’re blurry. That’s… not the right word, but he’s way too floaty-fuzzy to think of other words. He can’t make out any words, is the point; not the ones in his own thoughts, not the ones out loud.

Talk talk talk. One of them chuckles. The other keeps going. Talk, talk, talk.

“…his wife Varda, also known as Elentári, or Elbereth—that’s the Sindarin form of her name, see, which is the version of Elvish spoken in Middle-earth instead of Valinor. Um, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Anywhoozies, she’s the queen of the Valar, and yeah Manwë might be the head honcho, but Varda’s all the Elves’ favorite, ‘cuz she made the stars…”

The voice is familiar, but none of the words make sense. It’d rankle at him if he had a little more brain processing power, but as is, it’s just a vague disconnect.

Tim’s tired. He drifts away.

Time floats, too, weird and hazy. It flows too fast for him to keep up, and yet somehow slows down like a river of molasses, weighing down all his limbs. It’s a little frustrating, or would be, if he wasn’t too exhausted to care.

Still, it might be nice if he could just…

Wake up.

When his eyes open, everything is a blur. Bright, white light above him, and… and two dark-haired blobs that are probably people, leaning over him from the side. Tim squints, blinks a few times, and wills his vision to clear up a little bit.

Where is he…?

“There you are,” the person on his right croons. It’s the same voice that was talking and talking earlier. That voice… Tim knows who it is, he knows he does, but his brain is sluggish and his body is even worse, and he can’t put a name on it. It’s a voice that makes him feel safe, he knows that much in his bones, but… but who…?

A vague association floats to the forefront of his mind, and he woozily watches the pieces slot into place. That’s… that’s his angel.  

His angel.

Oh.

Tim—

Tim is dead?

…Oh. That’s a bummer.

He strains against the fuzz in his brain, trying to remember. Where is he? How did he get here? What happened? He’s so tired, he wants to close his eyes and go right back to sleep, but… but he…

“Wakey wakey, baby bird!” chirps the figure on the left, and Tim blinks, drags his weary gaze over. Why does that take so much effort?

But then he actually sees the person sitting there, and—

It’s like a punch to the gut.

“…Robin?” he whispers. His throat is dry, his tongue thick in his mouth, and he coughs. Is Dick—is Dick dead, too? That can’t be right. That can’t happen.

Dick looks startled. Then he laughs, leaning forward to smooth the hair back from Tim’s forehead so tenderly that tears prick at Tim’s eyes. “Oh, man. They’ve got you on the good stuff, huh?”

On Tim’s other side, the angel—his angel—laughs too. Something about the rich, warm timbre of his voice makes Tim’s heart flutter in his chest. Why is he so convinced this is his angel? It must be true, because it feels right, but he can’t… he can’t remember. His guardian angel, maybe? Huh, are those real?

Well, aliens and magic are, so guardian angels may as well be, he guesses. And that’s definitely an angel; no human could ever be so divinely gorgeous.

…Is hitting on your guardian angel, like, allowed? If you’re dead, they can’t be guarding you anymore, right? So there’s no conflict of interest?

 But that brings him back to the more immediately pressing question: why is Dick dead, too?

With effort, he tips his head back over to the left, stares at Dick, and licks his dry lips. “I… why are you here?”

Dick cocks his head to the side. “You got stabbed, remember?” He pats Tim’s head like Tim is a little dog. “Of course I’m here.”

“Oh.” Tim frowns. Squints back over at his angel. He’s so beautiful it’s hard to look directly at him, with his broad shoulders and square jaw and inhumanly azure eyes. He has such long eyelashes, too, and such kissable-looking lips, and… wow.

Um.

Wait.

Tim had a train of thought a minute ago. What was it?

Um… something about… uh…

Uh…

…Aw, man. Whatever it was, it’s left the station. Chugga-chugga choo-choo. Long gone. So long, sucker.

“You’re staring. Hi,” his angel coos. He leans down and presses a kiss to Tim’s forehead; his lips are even softer than they look. A spark shoots down Tim’s entire body, from his forehead all the way down his spine and legs to the tips of his toes. Wow.

Tim clears his throat as best he can. His angel has drawn back, but he’s still smiling at him. “Am I…” He clears his throat again and coughs. “Am I allowed t’say you’re, um, really pretty?”

A luminous smile lights up his angel’s face. He grins ear-to-ear and ruffles Tim’s hair very gently. “Why wouldn’t you be allowed to say that, sunshine?” But he doesn’t wait for an answer, so it must be a rheuma… no. Rhe… rhe… rhetorical! Rhetorical question. Shit, wait, Tim thought so hard about what the right word is that he missed the first half of what his angel was saying. “—you a glass of water?”

Tim blinks up at him. “…Whuh?”

Another distractingly gorgeous laugh. “I said, are you feeling too nauseous right now, or can I get you some water?”

Honestly, Tim isn’t fully convinced he has a body past the shoulders. Everything from there down is just blankets. He’s very floaty right now. “Water,” he decides. His throat does feel sore and dry.

“You got it.” His angel fires a two-fingered salute down at him, then retreats from his bedside. Tim watches him go.

Wow.

He looks back over to Dick once the door swings shut. Dick. Robin. He shouldn’t be dead. He… wait, he’s Nightwing, not Robin. That’s weird. Tim forgot about that. Man, his head is floaty. Being dead is weird.

If he’s dead, does that mean his guardian angel fucked up? Man, Tim did not make things easy on the poor guy. It’s a wonder he’s still so sweet with him, going to get him water and everything.

…Going. Which reminds him.

“Dick,” he says. “I have a question.”

“Yeah, bud?” Dick smiles at him, warm and encouraging. His eyes sparkle. “Shoot.”

Tim takes a breath. Glances at the door to make sure his angel isn’t back yet. Lowers his voice. “…Do all angels have such great butts, or is mine just special?”

Dick bursts out laughing. “Timothy!”

“What?” Tim asks defensively. “Did you see? He has a really good butt!”

“Oh my god.” Dick laughs harder, shaking his head. “I wasn’t looking at his butt, Tim. Sorry to disappoint.” He grins, glancing over at the phone propped up on the little tray by Tim’s IV rack. Whoa, Tim’s on an IV drip? That’s wild. Who knew they had those in the afterlie? “Babs, since you’re probably listening, I really hope you’re getting this on… some camera.”

They have cameras in the afterlife, too? Wait, but why would Dick be talking to Babs? She can’t be dead, too. That’s too many dead people.

How did Dick even die? Tim frowns. Are they all ghosts, or something else? There’s a lot going on here. Can he haunt people? What if he could go haunt Kon—

It hits him like the runaway freight train from his lost train of thought earlier. Kon.

Tim sucks in a breath like he’s been sucker-punched. Tears spring to his eyes. Did he die and leave Kon all alone? He… he promised he wouldn’t leave him alone. And now he’s here, making eyes at an angel when he’s gone and broken that promise to Kon. He can’t…

The door opens before the tears can fall, and Tim blinks them back hastily. Hopefully, Dick didn’t notice. He has a bad feeling about that, though. Dick always notices.

“Here you are!” his angel sings, holding up a paper cup. He settles down on the bed at Tim’s side—more proof he’s not human: the mattress doesn’t sink under his weight at all—and very gently eases a hand under Tim’s back to help him sit up and drink. Guilt festers in the pit of his stomach.

Tim drinks. The water is cold and soothing against his sore throat, and before he knows it, he’s drained the entire cup. It helps him swallow down the tears, too.

Kon. He broke his promise to Kon.

“Oh, Tim,” his angel murmurs, setting the cup down and cradling Tim’s cheek. His hand is warm. He glances over at Dick. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Dick says, sounding worried. “He was talking about your butt, and then suddenly he…”

Guilt assails Tim all over again. Not only did he forget that he broke his promise by going off and getting stabbed to death, but also he… he was… he was ogling his guardian angel when he’s engaged. To Kon, the love of his life. What kind of monster would do that? How could he do this to…  

“What’s wrong, Tim?” his angel asks, stroking his thumb over Tim’s cheekbone.

The tears spring back in full force. It’s not fair that his angel is so, so sweet to him! Tim swallows hard. “Kon,” he rasps, voice thick.

“Yeah, honey,” his angel croons. “I’m here. I’m here.”

What?

That doesn’t—

Tim stares up at him. At his incredibly familiar, comforting smile, the warmth in his eyes, the way his touch feels like home…

Oh.

Wait a minute.

Is… is it that easy?

The entire world seems to shift a little to the left as the truth of it all slots neatly into place. His angel isn’t human, that’s true. But the conflict isn’t there, because his angel and Kon… Everything makes sense now. It takes Tim’s breath away.

Oh.

“You’re Kon,” Tim whispers, awed.

Kon and Dick exchange glances again, and then Kon leans down and kisses the tip of Tim’s nose. “Yeah, baby. That’s me.”

Holy shit. His angel is Kon. Kon’s his angel. Is this what enlightenment feels like?

And then a second realization hits, and all the light and joy get snuffed out by another runaway train. Tim sucks in a breath, horrified, and tries not to burst into tears. “Are you—are you dead?”

“What?!” Kon goes on a rather impressive face journey, from shock to incredulity to bewilderment and then, finally, mild horror. “No, of course not!”

“But…” Tim trails off, bewildered. “But I…”

“Oh, I get it now,” Dick murmurs. He reaches over and takes Tim’s hand—oh, shit, Tim has hands? He’s got two of them, under the covers, whoa!—in both of his own, squeezing. Tim can feel the rough calluses on his palms. His amusement has faded into something tender instead. “Timmy, you’re not dead, either.”

What?

What? That can’t—

“Huh?” Tim manages, eloquent as ever. “But you said… you said I got stabbed.”

“You did,” Dick agrees. His smile turns a little grim. “Twice, in fact. One to the gut and another that nicked your femoral artery. It wasn’t pretty, and you were in surgery for a while. But you didn’t die.”

Okay, first his angel turns into Kon, and now he’s supposedly not dead anymore? This is a lot to process. And he has hands. Tim’s head is spinning.

“But… but I thought…”

“Christ on a bike,” Kon mutters. “Tim. No one here is dead.”

His arm slips further around Tim’s shoulders, and Tim leans into his touch instinctively. He’s cold, and Kon is warm. Between Kon and Dick, he knows without a doubt that he’s safe while he tries to figure out everything going on here. Which is a lot. There is a lot to figure out here.

He tips his head up, looks up at Kon. “…Kon?”

Kon pecks his forehead again. Warmth shoots through Tim’s whole body. “Yeah, sunshine?”

Tim might regret adding even more information to the mix, but he has to know. If he has hands, then it stands to reason that, well… “I have feet, too, don’t I?”

Dick snorts.

Kon lets out a breath of poorly-disguised laughter. “Yes, baby,” he says. “You have feet.”

Tim considers this for a moment. If he thinks really hard about wiggling his toes, he’s… pretty sure… oh! Yeah. That feels like he has toes that are wiggling. And he can see the lump under the sheets moving.

God, this is so much to process. He’s not dead, Kon’s not dead, Dick’s not dead, and he has both hands and feet. If he was a computer, he’d be on fire.

He looks at Dick, then up at Kon again, still processing. If he has feet, then he’s got a sneaking suspicion about what else is going on here. “And they’re… attached to legs? I have those, too?”

Dick snorts again. “Yes, baby bird. You have legs.”

Whoa. That’s pretty cool. Tim has legs.

“Very nice ones, too, I might add,” Kon says.

Tim’s face heats. Kon—his angel, Kon, the prettiest person in the entire world, who’s so beautiful it’s almost hard to look at him, and even harder to look away—likes to look at his legs? Oh, wow. That… that’s… Wow.

Dick leans over him and swats Kon on the shoulder lightly. “Keep it clean, buster,” he teases. “I’m pretty sure you guys are, like, fourteen.”

“You’re off by about a decade, but whatever floats your boat, man,” Kon cheerfully answers.

“Oh, god, you’re telling me you’re both only four?!”

“Actually, I’m about eight,” Kon says, stroking his chin in thought. “Give or take, of course, depending on how we count the time I couldn’t age, plus the year that—”

Tim interrupts him with a vague noise. “You’re a ten,” he insists, and turns to look beseechingly at Dick. “Tell him. He’s a ten, not just an eight.”

“Tim, buddy, as cute as this is, I’m still not going to hit on your fiancé for you,” Dick says, stroking his thumb over Tim’s knuckles.

Tim frowns. “Don’t hit on him. He’s mine. Go find your own.”

Kon’s chest rumbles when he laughs. Tim likes the way that feels against his arm and shoulder.

Sighing, Dick shakes his head, a fond smile playing about his lips. “There’s no winning with you, is there?”

“No,” Tim decides.

His head is still kind of spinning, though, and he sighs, tilting his head against Kon’s collarbone. Kon is warm, and Tim can feel his heart beating. It’s nice. Kon’s alive. And he’s holding Tim, which means Tim’s alive, too. It’s pretty conclusive proof.

He heaves a sigh. His limbs all feel heavy, and his throat is kinda sore. That’s probably more proof he’s alive, he guesses, though it’s much less pleasant than the Kon-snuggling-him-related revelations. He sighs again. “…I’m tired.”

“Yeah, anesthesia’ll do that to you.” Dick squeezes his hand. “You can go back to sleep if you want. I’ll go talk to the nurse about getting you discharged.”

Discharged. Right. Tim looks around the room for the first time, a little bleary. There’s an IV drip, and a heart monitor, and some other medical, uh, thingies. Which is totally the technical term for those, by the way. All the walls are white, and so are the linens on his bed, save for the two blankets tucked around him, which are a light blue.

Huh. “…Hospital?”

“S.T.A.R. Medical, San Francisco,” Kon says. “You needed a kinda complex surgery for the abdominal wound.” He kisses Tim’s temple. “I can give you the full rundown later, when your brain’s working again.”

That sounds like a good idea. Tim’s still feeling pretty floaty. “Mmkay.”

Belatedly, Kon’s words register a little more. San Francisco, huh. Titans’ Tower. Tim hums. It’s nice that Dick came all the way out here to see him. It must have been scary for him, thinking Tim almost died, huh?

Tim squeezes Dick’s hand back, the way Dick’s been squeezing his hand. Even fuzzy and floaty as he is, it’s hard to actually say the words in his head—thank you for being here, I love you—but he hopes really, really hard that Dick hears them anyway.

Dick reaches over and gently tucks a lock of hair behind Tim’s ear. Tim lets out a soft breath, relieved: message received, loud and clear. And he’s saying it back without words, too.

“Okay.” Dick grazes his knuckles along Tim’s cheek, then claps his hand against Kon’s shoulder. “I’ll go talk to the nurse and be back. And you”—he points at Kon—“better not be thinking I forgot about the second half of your ‘Lord of the Rings’ history lecture. I’ll be back for more of, uh… Shoot, what was his name? Fire elf. Divorce guy who does arson.”

Kon laughs, bright and bold and beautiful. Tim scoots in a little closer to him as best as he can without really moving. He loves hearing Kon laugh.

“Fëanor,” Kon supplies. A phantom touch slips under Tim’s body and gathers him closer to Kon’s chest; Tim belately recognizes it as the familiar net of his TTK. “His dad is the divorce guy, technically, but yeah, he’s like, the first ever child of divorce in Valinor. But, uh, we didn’t make it even close to the halfway mark, dude. The Silm is loooong.”

“Oh?” Dick raises an eyebrow. “Okay, then. I’ll be waiting for the next installment in your Tolkien lecture series, Professor El.”

“Ha!” Kon rolls his eyes, grinning. Tim smushes his face into his neck adoringly. Kon is so pretty when he’s happy. Like, he’s always pretty, but he’s extra pretty when he’s happy. “Yeah, yeah, we’ll see how ready to be rid of me you are by the time we get to the fall of Doriath or whatever.”

“Is that a challenge?” Dick asks, a glint in his eye. It’s kind of how Nightwing lets mob goons know they’re in serious danger, except that it’s letting Kon know that Dick won’t get bored of him talking about stuff he likes, so Tim approves. He also likes when Kon babbles about scifi and fantasy stuff.

“Uhhh…” Kon seems to realize it, too, because he stops and rubs the back of his neck. “Well, I mean, if you’re interested for real, I’d be happy to keep telling you about it. I have a copy I could lend you, even, if you wanna read it…”

“I might! I don’t really sit down to read much these days, but who knows? Maybe I should start.” Dick’s smile turns sunny again as he fishes a domino mask out of his jacket pocket. “But for now, let me go see about those discharge requirements.”

“Yeah,” Kon agrees. “I’ll keep an eye on this goober.”

“Hey,” Tim complains weakly. He can’t really complain, not when he’s not dead, and neither is Dick, and neither is Kon. And Tim has hands. But he’s still gotta complain a little bit, for complaining’s sake, right?

Kon kisses his temple. Tim drops all complaints immediately.

The room feels a little emptier once Dick’s gone. Tim looks up at Kon plaintively, yearning. He got stabbed, so he probably shouldn’t roll over and try to snuggle in further, but he really wants to.

Kon cups his cheek, stroking his thumb over his cheekbone. “Hi, honeybunny,” he coos. “What’s up? Need more water?”

Tim presses into his touch. “You’re warm.” And Tim is cold. He kinda wants another blanket. Or maybe for Kon to just get under this one with him, to be a proper Tim-warmer and lie there against Tim’s whole body.

“Want me to get you another blanket?” Kon asks, reading his mind. He caresses Tim’s cheek again.

There’s something hard on Kon’s finger, though, and that distracts Tim before he can answer. With great effort, he pulls his arms up from under the covers and takes Kon’s hand in both of his, drawing it away from his face so he can look at it without going cross-eyed.

The thing on Kon’s finger is a ring.

It’s a golden band, warm from Kon’s body. Tim stares at it in awe, then carefully turns Kon’s hand in his grasp so he can see the other side. There’s a ruby set into the band, inlaid with two small gemstones on either side—they’re pale and very sparkly—and holy shit. Dick called Kon Tim’s fiancé.

This is Kon’s engagement ring. Tim himself put this here. Because he proposed to Kon. And they’re gonna get married.

Holy shitballs!

When he finally tears his gaze from the ring and looks back up at Kon’s face, wide-eyed, his heart stutters in his chest. Kon’s looking down at him with so much tenderness he can’t handle it; his face feels hot even though he’s still cold, and whatever he was about to say gets zapped clean out of his head.

Um.

Whoa.

Kon loves him.

That brings it back; he points at the ring, and then up at Kon’s face. “You—you’re gonna marry me.”

“I am,” Kon agrees, heartwrenchingly fond. Tim’s chest feels tight. “You wanna see something really cool?”

“Okay,” Tim says.

Kon takes his right hand. He strokes his thumb over Tim’s knuckles, then gently turns Tim’s hand between them both so that Tim can see his own fingers—

A silvery band with a strange, almost bluish tint sits on Tim’s ring finger. It glimmers like no metal Tim knows, and where a stone might sit, instead, there’s a tiny, simple engraving of the silhouette of a bird in flight. One of its wings is a little too long.

Is this…

Is this… Tim’s engagement ring?

Awestruck, Tim looks up at Kon again. He’s… he’s a little speechless. How did he not even notice he was wearing this? It’s so… Wow. Wowie. Wowza.

“Like it?” Kon asks, grinning. He leans down and nuzzles their noses together; Tim lets out a little squeak, delighted, and nuzzles back.

“It’s beautiful,” he answers, breathless. “Where did you…” He should know this, shouldn’t he? His head is just so fuzzy. He frowns a little. “My brain is scrambled. Why don’t I remember?”

“It’s okay,” Kon soothes. “Confusion is normal after anesthesia, sweet pea. You’ll be right as rain in a few hours.” He kisses the bridge of Tim’s nose. “Were you asking where I proposed to you?”

Tim shakes his head. “Where did you get it?” he asks. “It looks… unique?”

Kon laughs. “You were about to say weird, weren’t you?”

Tim flushes. “Yeah, but it’s a good weird! Not a bad weird!”

“I know.” Kon pets his cheek. “Same question as where I proposed, actually. I dunno if you remember right now, but does it ring a bell if I say last year, when Brainiac showed up and tried to take Metropolis to spite Kal again, and Luthor betrayed us about him again, yadda yadda?”

Tim squints. He has a very vague recollection of… robots. And spaceships. And… robot spaceships. Also, lots of things on fire and exploding. “Kinda?”

“Right, well. There was a point where it looked, uh, pretty fuckin’ dicey,” Kon says, and kisses the delicate skin just below Tim’s eye. “And I was kinda like, aw, screw it, if we’re gonna die here, I wanna die with no regrets. So I just ripped part of one of the drone spaceships off, reshaped it with a bit of TTK and heat vision, then cooled it off and flew over to you and went down on one knee, and you—”

Here he breaks off to laugh, soft and fond. Tim gazes up at him, breathless. Hearing Kon narrate it, he’s so close to actually getting through the fog in his brain that he can almost taste the memory, hovering on the tip of his brain’s tongue. Wait, that’s a horrible metaphor. Idiom? Whatever. Eugh.

“I… thought you were hurt?” Tim asks tentatively. He thinks that’s right.

Kon lights up, laughing again. “Yeah, baby. See? Told you you’d remember. Though I thought it’d take you longer.” He chuckles, kisses Tim’s brow, and leans their foreheads together. “You thought I was hurt and rushed over like ‘what happened, where’s the wound,’ and I was like, ‘no, Tim, I’m trying to ask you to marry me.’ And I will never, ever forget the look on your face right then. And then you tackled me.”

Tim could melt. Kon is warm, and he’s holding him, and kissing him, and they’re engaged, and the sleepiness is seeping back into his bones. He keeps his eyes fixed on Kon’s face, riveted. “…You made me a robo-spaceship ring.”

“I did.” Kon’s grin turns a little rueful. “I’m still not that good at detailwork with heat vision. I’m just glad it looks recognizable as a bird at all.”

Tim softens. Like butter. Kon can spread him any which way he likes. Like butter!

“It’s perfect,” he promises, and reaches up to pat Kon’s cheek. “You’re perfect.”

“Aww, sugarplum.”

Kon closes the slight distance remaining between them and kisses him. His mouth is even softer than Tim thought it’d be, and the taste of his fruity lip balm is both familiar and exhilarating. It feels like coming home, even though Tim is still floaty and his head is full of fuzz. Kon’s holding him, kissing him, keeping vigil over him. He’s safe, and he’s loved.

And sleepy. He’s also sleepy.

As if reading his mind, Kon gently breaks that kiss and leans their foreheads together again instead, stroking his thumb over Tim’s lower lip. “Now rest, sunshine. I’ll be here, and so will Dick.” Another soft kiss, this one to the corner of his mouth. “We’ll get you moved up to the medbay in the Tower soon so you can relax properly, okay?”

“Mm.” Tim sighs. His head is still fuzzy. A more familiar setting sounds nice. “…I’m gonna be in such a bad mood when these drugs wear off a little more.”

Kon chuckles wryly. “Yeah, babe, I know. You’re a terrible patient.”

“I don’t like drugs.” Tim turns his head a little, bumps his nose into Kon’s cheek. It’s not even that he’s afraid of the pain he’s sure he’ll feel later. He’s just not a fan of the floaty feeling. He’d probably be freaking out about how fuzzy his head is, if Kon wasn’t here. But it’s fine, because Kon’s here, and Dick’s somewhere down the hall, so Tim’s gucci even though his brain is currently a chunk of Jello. “Don’t like when I can’t think good.”

“I know,” Kon says, gentler. The mattress shifts, and the blankets tug a little, and then he’s slipping under the covers, his body a line of solid warmth against Tim’s side. “I’ll be there with you the whole time, though. Promise.”

“Mmkay.” Tim closes his eyes. His body is so heavy, and Kon is so warm. Sleep sounds good. “Promise that you promise?”

“Cross my heart,” Kon vows. “I prommy, baby.”

A smile tugs at Tim’s lips. “Still think that’s a dumb abbreviation.”

“Yeah,” Kon says fondly. “I know you do.”

The last thing Tim notices before he drifts off is the touch of Kon’s lips against his temple, smiling.