.
Alan would never have thought that things could come to this.
Solely... he had never known how to say no to Tron.
Thinking about the youthful creature sleeping on his stomach in terms of programming made him feel ill, it still echoed things like narcissism and abuse; but he was Tron's creator, programs had natural and sacred needs, and the societies of their world held expectations.
He had built Tron alone and was his sole user... Which apparently put Alan in a special standing for devout programs; one paved up with very precise expectations, and lidded with potential offenses if not potential hearbreak. (He had never been someone to run from his responsibilities. However overwhelming they seemed. He would have hated to begin with a creature so candid and obedient.)
To answer both an innocent need and protect Tron's reputation, Alan had learnt to consider his ward as the child of his mind, a concept of creation who was tied to his creator through rules both logical and fair, if foreign yet. That brought him somewhere, a last. He worked with that.
He had indulged his creation.
And that had been it: no ambiguity, no false promises; he had only come here to give.
The means for doing so had turned out different; unlike what humans did together as either lovers or family. Yet, tracing was an activity steaming from passion, and spirituality both.
Alan wouldn't pretended that he had not enjoyed it.
In the end, in a metaphysical way, he acknowledged that Tron was his Spark, and he loved his ward; as much as he did love his wife, and so in the few hours he had been able to visit him, Tron's glances and laughter had made a number on his heart, and the way his creation moaned his name as the structure of his being colored for him had been quite flattering and touching.
Feeling the virtual weight of Tron as he sagged in his arms, a smile on his features, and a content hum running through their channel was a unique and fragile balm for his tired empathic soul. Once again, Alan had found finite purpose for himself.
...Except that the light figure resting trustingly on his lap wasn't sleeping, it was defragmenting and all of this was past crazy.
With a feeling of surrealness, he traced the dim glow of the last pathway that he had created in the left flank of his program. Even hours after he was done, that part of the pattern kept the memory of a purple hue.
Crazy and priceless, he though, a growing warm smile tugging on his lips.
.
