Batman Fic: Guilt
Sep. 28th, 2010 01:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
imasupermuteantTitle: Guilt
Fandom: DCU
Characters/Pairing: Tim/Kon
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mentions of non-con, even more sex(ish?)pollen, cliched as hell
Wordcount: 1006
Summary: Squel to This Fic
Tim Drake has a lot of things to feel guilty about, and not all of it has to do with what happened three weeks ago. He's guilty about lying to his parents and his teammates, guilty about the way he's treated Stephanie, guilty about breaking that mugger's jaw a few days back, guilty about...
It's all overshadowed by the sick twisted feeling he gets in his stomach every time he remembers the look on Kon's face that night. What Tim had said, the things he did.
He'd spent the first week and a half after (what he did) the contamination at home or in the cave, filing reports and cleaning up the mainframe and feeling like a monster.
The second and third weeks followed in a similar manner, except that he was on the streets and taking his (guilt) frustrations out on the entire criminal population of Gotham.
Dick had stopped by last Thursday (and Tuesday, and the Wednesday before that) in order to give Tim heartfelt hugs and really disgusting homemade cookies that Tim eats anyway because they make him feel better.
He hasn't been to the tower since that night and he's received fifty-two emails from Bart on the subject. He hasn't replied to a single one but he also hasn't deleted them and he periodically goes through and reads them in a sort of masochistic self-harm ritual that takes up a good thirty minutes of his evening.
The most recent one reads as follows:
From: thefastestkidalive@teentitans.net
To: al.draper@secureserver.com
Douchebag,
I don't know what the fuck is going on but Wally says that Batman says that you're alive and conscious so you must be avoiding us. Kon has moped FOR WEEKS. We are all v. pissed off.
Come home.
Another email appears in Tim's folder as he finishes reading, but it is short and to the point, saying "FUCKER" in bold, shiny text with a gif of little flash lighting bolts surrounding it.
Tim saves every email to an encrypted hard drive. He's read most of them more than twice at this point. It's nearly five, late even for a bat, and Tim hasn't slept since his patrol two nights ago.
He's starting to feel more than a little bleary and the words are blurring on the screen but Tim isn't ready for sleep yet.
He sometimes wonders if he'll ever be ready for sleep again.
Somewhere in between blinks Tim realizes that he's opened a blank email and addressed it to Kon without any conscious decision to do so. It stares at him, mocking, resentful.
Dear Kon,
He deletes it.
Kon-El,
He deletes it again.
Conner--
With a frustrated growl Tim jabs down on the backspace key and slams his head down on the keyboard. He's tired. He's so tired he feels drunk and his vision is swimming and he feels as though he's about to cry.
He won't cry, he knows it, because he hasn't cried since the contaminant worked it's way out of his skin and even then...
...Well, suffice to say that Tim doesn't cry much even when he's in the later (psychotropic) stages of pollen-poisoning after having (oh god) practically raped his best friend. He slams his head down on the keyboard again because it makes his thoughts quieter and because he can.
He's suddenly pretty sure that he's lost some time because just a minute ago he was taking his frustrations out on his forehead and now he's resting on the arm of the chair and the screen of the computer looks different.
Tim blinks. The screen looks different. He blinks again and realized.
He's sent an email.
"Fuck." He curses to himself, opening up his sent mail to see how bad the damage is. He did send something to Kon while he was sleep-typing and...
...The content of the email no longer matters because Kon is standing in the middle of his bedroom wearing Flash boxer shorts and an old T-shirt. It's clear that he's flown the whole way from Kansas in his pajamas and now he's in Tim's room and Tim doesn't know what to do.
"Kon..."
"Were you telling the truth?" Kon asks him in a cold and steely super-voice that is so unlike his own it makes Tim shudder.
"What?"
"What you said when... When you were drugged. Did you mean it?"
"I don't remember what I said. I just... I remember I had kryptonite and..."
"Think about it." Tim feels himself wishing Kon's heat-vision would kick in so he wouldn't have to suffer that look anymore.
"I..." He thinks, pressing his sleep-deprived mind to remember exactly what he's been trying to forget for the past few weeks.
He's thankful for all the memory exercises he's done with Batman over the years because he does remember those three words among the mass of heat and violence and lust.
"Oh, Kon" He whispers.
"Did you mean it, Tim?" Kon asks again.
"Of course I meant it! I didn't lie." Tim sighs, "After everything I did do it doesn't mean much but... I didn't lie to you."
Something in Kon's eyes softens and Tim feels, for the first time in a long while, like he can breathe again.
"I don't forgive you yet." Kon tells him.
Tim nods. It's understandable.
"...You're coming to the tower tomorrow right?"
"Sure." It's awkward but the awkwardness is infinitely preferable to the crushing weight of Kon's anger and his own guilt.
"Ok then."
Kon has been gone for nearly a minute before Tim registers that the tingling of his lips is the result of a super-fast kiss. He brushes his fingers over them as he heads for the bed and collapses, on top of the covers and fully clothes, into the first restful sleep he's had since this whole mess began.
A half an hour later his computer cycles into sleep mode, obscuring the email he had never consciously read.
from: al.draper@secureserver.com
to: connerkent@dailyplanet.net
I'm sorry. I love you.
--Tim
Fandom: DCU
Characters/Pairing: Tim/Kon
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mentions of non-con, even more sex(ish?)pollen, cliched as hell
Wordcount: 1006
Summary: Squel to This Fic
Tim Drake has a lot of things to feel guilty about, and not all of it has to do with what happened three weeks ago. He's guilty about lying to his parents and his teammates, guilty about the way he's treated Stephanie, guilty about breaking that mugger's jaw a few days back, guilty about...
It's all overshadowed by the sick twisted feeling he gets in his stomach every time he remembers the look on Kon's face that night. What Tim had said, the things he did.
He'd spent the first week and a half after (what he did) the contamination at home or in the cave, filing reports and cleaning up the mainframe and feeling like a monster.
The second and third weeks followed in a similar manner, except that he was on the streets and taking his (guilt) frustrations out on the entire criminal population of Gotham.
Dick had stopped by last Thursday (and Tuesday, and the Wednesday before that) in order to give Tim heartfelt hugs and really disgusting homemade cookies that Tim eats anyway because they make him feel better.
He hasn't been to the tower since that night and he's received fifty-two emails from Bart on the subject. He hasn't replied to a single one but he also hasn't deleted them and he periodically goes through and reads them in a sort of masochistic self-harm ritual that takes up a good thirty minutes of his evening.
The most recent one reads as follows:
From: thefastestkidalive@teentitans.net
To: al.draper@secureserver.com
Douchebag,
I don't know what the fuck is going on but Wally says that Batman says that you're alive and conscious so you must be avoiding us. Kon has moped FOR WEEKS. We are all v. pissed off.
Come home.
Another email appears in Tim's folder as he finishes reading, but it is short and to the point, saying "FUCKER" in bold, shiny text with a gif of little flash lighting bolts surrounding it.
Tim saves every email to an encrypted hard drive. He's read most of them more than twice at this point. It's nearly five, late even for a bat, and Tim hasn't slept since his patrol two nights ago.
He's starting to feel more than a little bleary and the words are blurring on the screen but Tim isn't ready for sleep yet.
He sometimes wonders if he'll ever be ready for sleep again.
Somewhere in between blinks Tim realizes that he's opened a blank email and addressed it to Kon without any conscious decision to do so. It stares at him, mocking, resentful.
Dear Kon,
He deletes it.
Kon-El,
He deletes it again.
Conner--
With a frustrated growl Tim jabs down on the backspace key and slams his head down on the keyboard. He's tired. He's so tired he feels drunk and his vision is swimming and he feels as though he's about to cry.
He won't cry, he knows it, because he hasn't cried since the contaminant worked it's way out of his skin and even then...
...Well, suffice to say that Tim doesn't cry much even when he's in the later (psychotropic) stages of pollen-poisoning after having (oh god) practically raped his best friend. He slams his head down on the keyboard again because it makes his thoughts quieter and because he can.
He's suddenly pretty sure that he's lost some time because just a minute ago he was taking his frustrations out on his forehead and now he's resting on the arm of the chair and the screen of the computer looks different.
Tim blinks. The screen looks different. He blinks again and realized.
He's sent an email.
"Fuck." He curses to himself, opening up his sent mail to see how bad the damage is. He did send something to Kon while he was sleep-typing and...
...The content of the email no longer matters because Kon is standing in the middle of his bedroom wearing Flash boxer shorts and an old T-shirt. It's clear that he's flown the whole way from Kansas in his pajamas and now he's in Tim's room and Tim doesn't know what to do.
"Kon..."
"Were you telling the truth?" Kon asks him in a cold and steely super-voice that is so unlike his own it makes Tim shudder.
"What?"
"What you said when... When you were drugged. Did you mean it?"
"I don't remember what I said. I just... I remember I had kryptonite and..."
"Think about it." Tim feels himself wishing Kon's heat-vision would kick in so he wouldn't have to suffer that look anymore.
"I..." He thinks, pressing his sleep-deprived mind to remember exactly what he's been trying to forget for the past few weeks.
He's thankful for all the memory exercises he's done with Batman over the years because he does remember those three words among the mass of heat and violence and lust.
"Oh, Kon" He whispers.
"Did you mean it, Tim?" Kon asks again.
"Of course I meant it! I didn't lie." Tim sighs, "After everything I did do it doesn't mean much but... I didn't lie to you."
Something in Kon's eyes softens and Tim feels, for the first time in a long while, like he can breathe again.
"I don't forgive you yet." Kon tells him.
Tim nods. It's understandable.
"...You're coming to the tower tomorrow right?"
"Sure." It's awkward but the awkwardness is infinitely preferable to the crushing weight of Kon's anger and his own guilt.
"Ok then."
Kon has been gone for nearly a minute before Tim registers that the tingling of his lips is the result of a super-fast kiss. He brushes his fingers over them as he heads for the bed and collapses, on top of the covers and fully clothes, into the first restful sleep he's had since this whole mess began.
A half an hour later his computer cycles into sleep mode, obscuring the email he had never consciously read.
from: al.draper@secureserver.com
to: connerkent@dailyplanet.net
I'm sorry. I love you.
--Tim