Part 10:
"Take him away!"
Coa's men seized his arms once more and hoisted Kon up. They yanked and pulled till Kon relented and allowed them to cart him away. He braved a fleeting glance over his shoulder. Tim's deadened eyes stared back, a glossed over, hollow stare reserved only for those who had forfeited all that they love. Something in Kon's gut twisted painfully.
Forcing the sickness down, he viciously spat, "You're not the Tim I remember."
Silence rang in his ears, deafening in its intensity.
The men threw him back into his prison of mud and filth, no doubt leaving him to rot. Weariness ate away at his resolve till he drifted off into another restless sleep, only to roused by a constant shaking along his side. Groggy and still caught up in the morbid thrill of his dreams, Kon's hands struck out of their own accord, battering into the annoyance with blind, gentle strikes.
The shaking persisted till Kon was forced out of his half slumber. In the bleary dark, he could make out the body stooped over his own, bent nearly in half and head twisting back and forth. A hand found its way to his arm. The chill of cool fingers against his feverish flesh jolted awareness into his consciousness.
The shadowed figure raised a finger to his lips and Kon complied. Jerkily, he moved to sit up only to be aided by his rescuer. Accepting the help, he leaned against the wall and watched with keen eyes as the welcome intruder slunk to the far corner of the room and pushed the chunk of kryptonite deep into the soil of the wall. A weight lifted from Kon's chest, allowing him to draw in a gust of air so purifying his hands shook with quiet joy.
Standing beside the ramshackle door, the stranger bid Kon to follow with a crooked finger. Clumsily, Kon climbed to his feet and staggered to the door, careful to keep his breathing low and steps light. He pulled the door open and lay the wooden plank against the wall. A film of far off light illuminated the tunnel, allowing Kon to identify his savior.
He expected an old friend, a comrade, one from the caped community who'd gotten wind of his capture, not Tim, standing tall with shoulders squared. Clothes dirtied by his own blood and the evidence of his imprisonment, hands curled so tightly rivulets of fresh blood wove through his fingers, and brows drawn together in pure, righteous indignation and rage, Tim stood as any proud man would, as any Bat would.
Kon swallowed past the lump in his throat and averted his gaze.
Tim did the same, turning his attention instead to moving from Kon's shabby cell into the poorly lit underground corridors of Coa's guerrilla compound. With deft signals, they maneuvered through the halls. Each time Kon stumbled, Tim continued on, leaving him to collect himself and carry on without assistance. The passive pay back felt more comforting than anything Tim had done yet.
A grin wormed its way onto Kon's face, stretching the skin and pulling at long unused muscles. He could have laughed had his chest not felt tight.
Once more, Tim put a finger to his lips and flattened against the wall. Kon followed suit, hiding his bulk as best he could. Tim had always been the sneaky one, built for stealth and agility, so unlike Kon's brutish style.
Several soldiers patrolled the hall just ahead, rifles at ready in the crook of their shoulders. Back and forth, again and again, they circled with scowls carved into the hard flesh of their faces. Instinctively, Kon flexed. Tim only cocked a brow and directed his patent Tim look on Kon. A fluttering began in Kon's chest, more a blossoming warmth, which he could place no name to.
With more pressing matters at hand, he put his tirade of emotions aside in favor of concentrating on the task at hand. He could only guess that behind the door lay Jon, locked in his own cell and guarded heavily.
Tim's hand waved through the air and, for once, Kon could piece together the message. In his own haphazard manner, Kon signed an affirmative and received a true, though small, grin from Tim.
Intelligent thought fled once more, leaving Kon feeling like a buffoon with a high school crush.
He couldn't deny enjoying the feeling, if only to grasp onto something more than hopeless cynicism.
Again, Tim signed to Kon, making sure to move his hands in sharp, precise movements to fully convey his message. Kon nodded in answer, grinning like a goof and enjoying it, despite the bleak circumstances. He readied himself to face off with two of the guards, strength returned but not replenished. Fear burned a nagging hole in his belly, more for Tim than himself.
Before they rounded the corner, hands up and ready for a fight, the door to Jon's cell splintered, spraying the guards and lodging a shard of wood into one of the guard's eye. He clutched at the wound and pulled at it but a froth of blood poured from his mouth before he fell over dead. Tim moved swiftly, popping out from behind the wall and snatching up the rifle.
With nothing less than murderous rage, Tim emptied the cartridge and swung at the men with the heavy, metal butt of the rifle. In a flare of ironic justice, Tim beat both guards upside the back of their heads and watched with less than apathy as they fell limply into the dirt.
A weak mewl sounded from deep within the cell and, with Kon lagging behind in bewildered awe, Tim sprang up and into the cell. He swept Jon into his arms, crushing the boy to his chest, and wept silently. In return, Jon clung back, knuckles white and face pinched as he cried as well. Feeling like an outsider once more, Kon hung back in the entry way, watching for reinforcements and ready for a fight.
So high strung, when Tim laid a hand on Kon's arm, he twisted and raised his arm to strike. He blinked dumbly, staring down at Tim and Jon, at their easy physical comfort and silent reassurances. Tim's hand wove through Jon's dark locks, freeing the strands from clumps of mud and smoothing back the wayward fly aways.
Tim hoisted Jon higher on his hip, securing his hold and shushing Jon's keening whimpers. Freeing an arm, Tim yanked the torn sleeve of Kon's shirt, putting enough force behind the gesture that Kon stumbled into Jon, arms reflexively moving around Tim's lower back to secure himself.
The pervading chill all around them could no longer touch Kon, touch Tim or Jon, because he felt at home, arms encircling Tim and Jon securely tucked between them.
Like home, one he could solely call his own.
A/N: As a side note, since a couple people have asked me, no, Tim can't really talk. Yes, he said Jon's name, but that was an isolated, emotionally charged moment. Notice how he's been signing since then. Just to clear that up. It makes sense in my head, damn it. Oh yeah, I really need to stop forgetting my account here even exists. There's, oh, about a bazillion things I still need to upload.