Fracture
Litt
May 22, 07
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Tim was considerably much more irrational than he'd been the day he'd found out about Stephanie, but no where near the degree he'd been the day he decided to clone Conner. Or before that; whichever came first.
Sometimes he wonders what would happen--what he'd say--if someone found out. Sometimes, when the team watches him retreat to his cave with somewhat relieved gazes, or when he takes too long to answer a call, he wishes they would notice: he could not be the only detective in the building and there were psychics, freakin' psychics in the tower almost every day! Then, of course, he sees that corner or center of the room where he'd re-constructed his memorials, sees the computer doing checks, and smells the chemicals, the perpetually ready pizza, and he hopes they never will.
He'd left out a pair of jeans and a shirt (one he'd stolen long before Kon left) in the room he'd been preparing since he started this, just off the corner of his favorite rock formation. It's always cold down here, so he hopes the extra blankets will do his friend some good when he comes back. Naturally, he'll need sunlight, but hopefully the yellow-sun lamps he'd "commandeered" from S.T.A.R labs would suffice until he could break it to everyone else.
He doesn't even entertain thinking of telling Bruce yet, or Dick. And the inevitable blow out with Superman is one he wishes he didn't have to initiate...but maybe that'd be the best way, telling him before he finds out.
Cassie would...should understand. Any attempts she had or had not made to bring her boyfriend back had been illogical and half-baked at best, possibly not even whole-hearted. A cult. Come on. What Tim had to offer was something that worked, something that HAD worked before.
Cadmus has nothing on him.
The genetic material--DNA he'd easily pilfered from Batman's stock and, as back up, from a tussle and a brush against Luthor and Clark--the facility--he wasn't joking when he'd told Dick he would put their "dad's" wired money to good use.
The one person he can't pin a reaction down on is Gar. He'd changed so much...but then, so had Raven. And Rose. And... So maybe he only has Cassie to count on, but if she wants to know, she'll have to do it on her own; there is no way he'll jeopardize his chance now. Not even on her.
They'd talked about it once, bringing him back, reuniting. Bart was gone, but only a call away or so the message said. It hadn't even sounded like him...and the note, it had looked different, as if the hand that'd written it was awkward and...
He'd waited to see her weaken, to see if she'd bring it up. She had. He figured it was as good a time as any. They'd argued.
It's not fair, she'd said, and he'd half the mind to punch her, just to feel the physical pain of his bones snapping. She'd probably just glare at him and go on another rant about how the world was full of woe and she'd lost too many people in it--oh, sorry Tim. Forgot.
And he'd just look at her, nursing his hand in the gauntlet. This is how he'd imagined it: on the roof, at twilight, when they should have been doing something productive instead of asking each other permission.
Cassie would go on, as if she needed to clarify herself. About your girl and your parents, I mean. I...well, it feels that way with Conner, I think. And I should be there for you, too.
They'd argue--him against reason and her against his deadpan answers. His hand would hurt and she'd forget that before cuffing him in her enthusiasm.
It's--this world is not fair!
Life, he'd correct her.
Life is not fair and you have no right to ask me that! Even if you could bring him back, even if he was normal and ours and loved me, it wouldn't be fair. We'd be cheating.
Who are you trying to convince? He'd sneer, liking her cringe. Does the name Dibny ring a bell?
And she'd punch him. Lightly, just so he'd have a bruise and a fracture.
If anyone found out, if she didn't' get it, she'd stand above him in fury as police cars wailed in the city--obviously, no one else had answered the call and the police were in over their heads--paying too much attention to him. Life's not fair.
He'd get up, his whole left side in pain, nose bleeding, and he'd brush off his cape with his adequately functioning right hand. Finish the sentence.
She'd get it. You can't do this, Tim. Don't ask me to...This is it just the way it is. Don't change it. Life isn't fair.
He'd wish she'd never found out. Then I don't have to be either
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AN: Part of the "Tim-goes-crazy" challenge daybreak25 gave me a long time ago. This one was written in an hour and a half at most and had only one goal: get to the last line. Prequel to "Where You Go".