Chapter Text
Conner doesn’t believe in love at first sight, but damn, there’s something about that boy.
He must be one of the employees in the tattoo shop. It’s only across the street, and Ma’s always complaining about it. Ruins the business for their flower shop, she says, all their motorbike fumes making the flowers wilt. Personally, Conner thinks it’s cool. He wouldn’t mind working there himself, but the fact is that his artistic calling is definitely flower arranging and nothing more.
The boy’s sat on the wall outside the tattoo shop, dark bangs in his eyes, looking at his phone. He’s small, probably a head shorter than Conner, but his skinny jeans show off lean, defined muscle. There’s something in the way he holds himself - straight back, shoulders relaxed and squared - that Conner finds very attractive. Despite wearing the usual all black, he’s a world away from the usual tattoo shop employees.
‘See something you like?’ says Ma, bumbling towards Conner with an armful of flowers. Conner spins round, flushed. He must’ve been staring.
‘There’s a new guy at the tattoo place, that’s all,’ he says, rubbing the back of his neck.
‘And that display isn’t going to do itself. You can go propose to him once we’ve sent off the subscriptions for today.’
Conner turns back to the window, face burning. The boy is gone.
*
Conner doesn’t see him again for easily a week, long enough to make him wonder if he was even there to start with. Maybe he’s not an employee after all, maybe a friend or a customer. Conner hugely regrets not going to talk to him straight away. It’s easier to just concentrate on his work, though, so he keeps arranging bouquet after bouquet and passing them to Ma to fix and wrap. It’s so easy to lose himself in his work that he almost forgets about the boy.
*
‘I’m going to head off,’ says Ma, hugging Conner tightly and grabbing her coat.
‘What? It’s only six, isn’t it?’ Conner checks his watch. It’s probably stopped again.
‘Something’s happened in Gotham, again , and all the trains are down. The Metropolis trains are still going, for now, but I’m sure they’ll be stopped within the hour, and I’m going to try and drive back to Smallville before the traffic is too bad.’
‘Oh. Fair enough. Safe journey, Ma. And tell Clark and Jon I’m okay.’
‘And Lois?’
‘If you want, sure.’
Ma sighs, grabbing her keys. She turns on her way out, calling, ‘Don’t feel you have to stay open till eight, okay? Our later customers will manage. You’re fine shutting up shop by yourself, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, Ma. I’m fine.’
The door jingles shut and he relaxes back into a chair, grabbing his phone. A city-wide hostage situation in Gotham, he discovers. The GCPD will have it under control in an hour or so, but until then it’ll be carnage. It’s a good job his apartment is in walking distance of the flower shop. Rent’s expensive, being in Metropolis, but it’s better than trying to battle the public transport system every day.
It’s raining, he realises. Proper torrential rain, pounding almost horizontally against the shop front.
He sprints out into the rain, hoping none of the outdoor display stuff is in too much of a state. He scoops up the chalkboard and as many pot plants as he can carry, and then he hears a voice behind him.
‘Fucking -’
It’s the boy from the tattoo shop, sat on the same wall, eyes wide.
‘Shit,’ he says. ‘Sorry. You scared me.’
Conner feels a pot plant sliding out of his hands, and puts it down before he drops it.
‘How long have you been out here?’ Conner asks. It must’ve only been raining for a few minutes but the boy is soaked, rain running through his hair and down his jacket in rivulets.
‘Don’t know. I’m waiting for trains to be available again.’
‘You could go now, if you’re quick. There’s a couple of Metropolis lines still running.’
‘Thanks, but I live in Gotham.’ The boy smiles.
‘Why do you work in Metropolis, then? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking -’
The boy shrugs. ‘It’s my brother’s place. I just help out here part-time. Anyway, do you work in the flower shop? I didn’t think people younger than seventy were allowed to do that.’
‘My grandma mostly runs it. But I - I’m pretty good at arranging flowers, so it’s a pretty solid way to make some money.’
The boy blinks at him, leaning back on the wall and swinging his legs. ‘Well, nice talking to you, flower boy, but your display’s getting fucked so you might want to attend to that.’
‘Oh. Crap.’ Conner tries to grab another plant pot but it slips out of his hands, but then suddenly the boy is there right beside him. He catches the pot and brings it in, then starts helping Conner dismantle the display. It’s much quicker with two people, and soon they’re both standing in the doorway, dripping water on the floor.
‘Wow,’ says the boy, grinning. ‘That was an adventure. See you around then, flower boy.’
He heads back out of the shop, but before Conner knows what he’s doing he’s grabbed the boy’s wrist.
‘Wait,’ he says. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To get a drink, probably.’
‘You’re soaked,’ says Conner. ‘Seriously, I’m not shutting up shop yet. You can come in, it’s fine. You’ll catch your death in this weather.’
‘Thanks, Mom.’
‘Jesus christ, I am not the mom friend -’
But Conner’s grinning and the boy is too.
‘Thanks, flower boy,’ the boy says after a moment passes, ‘but I’m fine, really. The trains will be going soon anyway, I’m sure.’
Conner realises he’s still holding the boy’s wrist. He lets go, gently. ‘Just for a while,’ he says. ‘I mean, you don’t have to, but just until the rain eases off a bit. Aren’t you cold?’
‘A bit, yeah,’ says the boy. ‘The rain’s getting into your shop, by the way.’
He pulls the door shut, and then it’s just the two of them stood in the shop, dripping wet and grinning.
‘So you’re staying?’ says Conner.
‘For a little while, if that’s okay,’ says the boy. ‘I’m Tim, since you didn’t ask.’
‘You don’t look like a Tim,’ says Conner.
‘I don’t see many six-foot-two guys working in flower shops much either, but go off.’
There is a pause. ‘I’m Conner,’ says Conner, finally.
‘Hey, Conner.’ Tim smiles, and Conner actually feels his heart flutter. Holy shit.
*
‘Trains are going back up soon,’ says Tim, glancing over at Conner. Conner’s making a start at prepping the subscriptions and delivery orders for the next day, which is unnecessary work but makes him look busy so Tim won’t think he just does nothing all day.
‘That’s good,’ says Conner, lying. Tim’s only just got here, and he’s been tucked up in a chair the whole time staying out of Conner’s way. They’ve barely even spoken. Which is pretty disappointing, since Conner’s gone to all this trouble to meet him.
‘Yeah. I can get one at seven forty-five.’
‘That’s ages, though,’ says Conner, silently cheering. ‘It’s barely half six. Do you want something to eat? Can I get you anything?’
‘I’ll eat when I get back. But thanks, though.’
Conner stands up, brushing pollen off his jeans. ‘A coffee, then?’
‘I wouldn’t mind a coffee.’ Tim smiles.
(Conner would honestly do anything for that smile.)
*
Tim follows Conner into the tiny kitchen at the back of the shop, crammed with cleaning supplies and spare equipment. He leans against a fraction of bare counter and still manages to look attractive somehow.
Conner puts the kettle on and hopes he won’t have to make small talk.
‘You don’t have a coffee machine?’ says Tim.
‘I don’t drink coffee.’
‘I’m just going to pretend you didn’t say that and go from there.’
‘Coffee’s bad for you, anyway,’ says Conner, rummaging for instant coffee grounds.
Tim raises an eyebrow. ‘What, being productive is bad for you?’
‘It ruins your teeth.’
‘I’m not an all-American blue-eyed hunk, so I don’t exactly need dazzling teeth.’
Conner is not sure if that’s a compliment. He’s also not sure if Tim is stereotyping him or if he has actually noticed his eye colour. (Tim has very blue eyes himself, too. The kind of blue that doesn’t quite look real, the sort that only rich Gotham socialite types have.)
‘I bet your sleep schedule is whacked,’ he offers.
Tim sighs. ‘My sleep schedule was whacked before I started drinking coffee.’
‘Which was when, a month ago? Two? I thought you weren’t allowed caffeine until you’re sixteen.’ Conner’s surprised at how well conversation flows between them. Turns out Tim isn’t the sulky and silent type at all.
‘Funny. I’m twenty-one, so maybe I should move onto whiskey.’
‘You’d have to measure units with medicine spoons so you don’t get drunk. More than three tablespoons of alcohol, I reckon, and you’d have headaches for weeks.’
‘You’re giving me headaches for weeks,’ Tim says, grinning. ‘And I bet you’re a total lightweight yourself. The really big guys always are.’
‘I don’t even drink.’ (This is mostly because Tim is absolutely right. Conner’s had enough brutal hangovers to put him off alcohol for life.)
‘Wow, bet you’re fun at parties.’
‘I am fun at parties.’
‘See, it’s always the guys who say they’re fun at parties -’
‘Are you fun at parties, then?’
Tim raises one eyebrow, one corner of his mouth hitched up in a half-smile. ‘If you like.’
Conner turns back to the kettle, face burning. Fuck . He pours Tim’s coffee and his own tea, trying not to let his hands shake.
‘You take milk?’ he says, hoping the drastic subject change isn’t too obvious.
‘Yeah. No sugar.’
Conner hands Tim the drink, waiting for him to take a sip.
‘Is it alright?’ he says.
‘Tastes like shit, but I appreciate the sentiment.’ Tim smiles and takes another sip. ‘And I think I’ve burned the top of my tongue off, but at least I can’t taste this anymore. Seriously, get you a coffee machine.’
‘Why would I spend a couple hundred on a coffee machine when nobody who works in this shop even drinks coffee?’
‘I’d come round for coffee, then. It’s closer than Starbucks. Help you get your money’s worth.’
Tim really shouldn’t have encouraged him, because now Conner is genuinely considering getting a coffee machine.
‘Anyway, can we go back into the shop?’ says Tim, looking over his shoulder. ‘It’s freezing back here.’
‘It’s really not,’ says Conner. He’s only in a flannel shirt and jeans, whereas Tim’s wearing a denim jacket. ‘Your circulation must be fucked.’
‘No, it’s just cold out here,’ says Tim. Conner sees him shiver, then he realises.
‘You idiot,’ he says. ‘Why were you sitting out in the rain for so long? Take your jacket off.’
‘Wow, moving a little fast,’ Tim smirks, but he slips his arms out of the jacket. Conner takes it, feeling the shoulders. It’s soaked through, and he can see Tim’s t-shirt is damp too. He must not have noticed because of the black fabric.
‘There must be some clothes in the store cupboard you can borrow,’ he says.
‘Yeah, I’m sure your grandma will lend me some. Isn’t this the store cupboard?’ Tim glances round the kitchen at the random equipment spilling everywhere.
‘My grandma wants us to be prepared for literally any disaster that could potentially hit this place, so there's even more storage out back.’
‘Oh no, the flowers have wilted. Call 911.’
‘Shut up,’ says Conner, ‘and follow me.’
*
The store cupboard is even more cramped than the kitchen, stuff in various cardboard boxes spilling everywhere and covering the floor. There’s barely enough space for the two of them in there. Conner has to climb the most unstable-looking shelf unit he’s ever seen in order to grab the couple of t-shirts he has hanging on a hook along with his own jacket.
He holds them up, handing the smallest one to Tim. ‘Try this.’
‘Thanks.’
Conner had expected Tim to ask him to leave, but Tim’s peeled his shirt off before Conner can even turn away. And then Conner can’t help looking.
He doesn’t have the standard washboard-abs idea of strength, but there’s barely a scrap of fat on him - he’s all lean muscle, cut and defined. He must work out a lot, probably more than Conner. He looks incredibly strong for a guy of his size.
‘Like what you see?’ says Tim, pulling the shirt on.
‘It’s too big for you, but it suits the all-black aesthetic.’ The shirt is almost down to Tim’s knees. Conner hadn’t noticed him being that much smaller than him.
‘Oh yeah, sure, that’s what you were looking at -’
‘Fuck off,’ says Conner. Tim pulls a face.
*
‘Holy shit, it’s already half seven!’ Tim stands up quickly, brushing a few stray petals off his shirt. He’s been helping Conner trim flowers for what has seemed like minutes, but must’ve been far longer. Conner’s barely noticed time slip by, filled with work and occasional light conversation. Tim’s surprisingly good at flower work, but then it’s probably not an entirely different skill set to tattooing.
‘When’s your train?’ says Conner, putting down a handful of flowers.
‘Soon. Fuck. This has been really nice and I’m sorry I ended up staying so long and thanks for the shirt and the coffee, but I really have to go now.’ He grabs Conner in a hug so quickly that Conner’s barely aware it’s happening, then grins and runs for the door.
The jingle of the doorbell on his way out seems to last longer than usual. Conner realises he doesn’t even have Tim’s number.
‘That was an adventure,’ he says to nobody, blinking in wonder. Maybe he’s dreamed the whole thing. He wouldn’t be surprised.
But Tim’s jacket is still draped across the back of a chair, and Conner can still smell whatever expensive cologne he uses.
He picks the jacket up. That’s an excuse to see Tim again, he supposes.
He can't help but smile.