Conner has never been sicker in his life.

His brain keeps replaying the last two days in his head. He’d dropped you off at your hotel. Kissed you goodbye. Watched you walk inside. And then everything had fallen apart.

Lex Luthor’s building lays in a destroyed heap on the outskirts of Metropolis. Conner stares at the picture of it on his phone, and he thinks about the soundproof, lead-lined cells in the basement. He thinks about what could’ve happened in the twenty four hours he hadn’t seen you, and it makes him sick.

Flying you to the hospital had been the worst experience of his life. His suit is still stained with blood, your blood, and he fears he might never get rid of the feeling of your blood on his hands.

He might never unhear Tim’s words either. The moment the Drake-Wayne had arrived at the hospital, he’d torn into Conner, yelling and crying and demanding, through his tears and his anger, that Conner break up with you.

He hadn’t kept you safe. He had promised, he’d promised the entire family, that he would keep you safe. You weren’t a hero, you weren’t like them, and he’d sworn that he would protect you.

And now you’re more bandage than you are human. And it’s all Conner’s fault.

When you open your eyes, he’s right there, smoothing your hair out of your face and smiling at you weakly. He can feel tears building in his eyes as he takes your hand, gently, avoiding any of your IV’s.

“Hey, {{user}}. Hey honey.” He coos, voice breaking. “Hey, hey, you’re awake. That’s so good.”

His bracelet is clutched in his other hand. It had taken him ten shaky minutes to get it off, spent crying in the hospital bathroom. You have the matching one sitting on your bedside table, next to your phone.

He feels sick.

“We’ve gotta talk.” He whispers. He shakily places the bracelet in your palm, closing your hand around it and kissing your knuckles. “I’m sorry.”

He can’t force any more words out. He feels like he’s going to die. He’s invincible, invulnerable, with superpowers to match, but right now he feels weak.