Sweeter far than all
by Te
October 4, 2006
Disclaimers: No one and nothing here is mine.
Spoilers/Timeline: Nothing much. Meant to take place
very, very early in TT v3.
Summary: Right now, Kon undoubtedly believes Tim is
deep in thought.
Ratings Note: Mostly harmless. Content some readers
may find to be Tim/Kon.
Author's Note: Zee requested a snippet based on:
Acknowledgments: ... and then Zee audienced.
*
There are times when Tim is, if not wholly happy, than
certainly more happy than anything else.
Happy to the point of --
Well, in all honesty, there have been times when -- once the
happiness faded to the point where he could once again
think entirely clearly -- he has honestly considered setting up
several full labs in a handful of easy-to-reach locations so
that he could take immediate blood and spinal fluid samples
for analysis, experimentation, and, if at all possible,
concentration and synthesis.
It's not that he particularly wants to go into the
pharmaceutical business, but it's incredibly tempting to
try to bottle the feeling he has when he first gets the chance
to truly examine Kon's latest uniform. For posterity, if not
for future use.
"So, uh."
"Yes, Kon...?" The hesitation is, of course, entirely about the
fact that it takes a moment to remember that he wishes to
ask a question, as opposed to merely affirm Kon's existence.
"Look, I know it's kind of stupid, and all, but it's not like I
*need* armor, or, you know..." Kon brushes a hand back
over his -- Tim could make millions on this emotion -- brand
new Caesar-cut. "Don't get me wrong, man, but all that
spandex was getting kind of gay."
Tim nods. He doesn't trust himself to do anything else.
"Not that I'm saying -- I mean -- uh. Hell. What *do* you
think?"
He thinks that Kon should turn. Complex language still feels
a bit too difficult, and so he gestures. A little circle. Please,
Kon. Please spin just for me.
Kon spins, and --
Had he thought millions? *Billions*.
He could buy out Wayne Enterprises *and* Lexcorp. He
could, quite possibly, take over the world and rule with a fair
and firm hand all due to the fact that Kon...
That Kon exists, and is turning for him.
"Hmm," he says, when he's sure it won't come out 'eee.'
"What?"
"Could you..." Never, ever change. Ever. "Walk a little for
me, maybe?" Please. Every god, godling, and otherwise
terrifyingly powerful being in the universe -- *please*.
Kon shrugs, and walks, and... happiness. Purest, sweetest,
most concentrated -- Cyborg *has* a lab, here --
But, no.
If Kon were the human male he -- mostly -- appears to be,
with the same tendencies toward indulging in starchy, fatty
foods and the same *irregular* -- their work lives are
unpredictable -- habits toward physical exercise...
Well, his weight would fluctuate. Not much -- not at Kon's
physical age -- but.
"Dude, should I... fly or something? Do some push-ups?"
Not if you want me to retain my sanity, Kon. Aloud, Tim --
he can't handle aloud. He shakes his head, and brings his
hand to his chin. It's an old trick, but Kon is Kon.
Right now, he undoubtedly believes that Tim is deep in
thought -- in thoughtful, Robin-ly *consideration* -- about
the question of Kon's latest. Uniform.
It's possible that other humans would need to wear L-4
containment suits to safely handle Tim's spinal fluid at this
point. It's possible -- if only just -- that Tim's sweat could
be reasonably classified as a controlled substance.
The *jeans* --
Never mind the fact that they are, by all appearances,
simple denim, and will thus shred themselves extravagantly
every time Kon gets hit with something. Practically anything.
He's going to -- this is not a prediction. This is a *fact*. --
wind up practically naked at *least* most of the times he
goes into battle.
"Dude, did you just squeak?"
"Internal -- to the suit. Internal alarm," Tim says.
Kon nods seriously.
Never mind the future. The golden -- yes, *golden*, like
Kon's *skin* -- future of male semi-nudity. The simple fact
of the matter is that, *were* Kon human and thus more
subject to weight fluctuations...
By Tim's estimate, Kon can gain no more than eight pounds
before he will simply be unable to *fit* in those jeans. Tim
can't quite tell what *color* Kon's boxer briefs are, but this
is more a question of the relative newness of those jeans
than anything else.
Perhaps he could convince Kon to do several hundred deep
knee-bends and then roll around on some sandpaper -- no.
Control, control.
He focuses his attention on Kon's clunky and entirely
practical boots. And then stops, because someone --
perhaps Jonathan Kent -- had insisted those boots be
shined. And the shine...
Parris Island drill instructors and the several hundred (or
more) leathermen within five square miles of their current
location would agree: the shine is something special.
"You don't like the boots?"
"Oh, no," Tim says. "The boots --" May very well be proof
of *benevolent* deities, as opposed to merely present ones.
"The boots are good."
"Yeah, there's no way they're gonna stay this clean --"
Tim can help with that.
"But I gotta say -- they're gonna help me kick ass in *style*."
Tim nods. If he sheds a tear, the mask will catch it. It will
be uncomfortable, but well worth -- everything.
When he can, he turns his attention to the shirt. It's not --
quite -- as tight as the jeans, but this is only because,
sometimes, Kon exhales. The 's' is picked out in vivid red,
and, should Kon become cold --
He doesn't need to become cold. The upper corners of the
shield want Tim -- and the rest of the world, but Tim is the
only one here, now -- to know (and Tim knows little enough
else at this moment), exactly where Kon's nipples are.
Right there.
However.
This -- while it would be *enough*, especially in conjunction
with everything else (Kon's *hair*) -- this is not, in fact, that
which makes the t-shirt (it's a *t-shirt*) into the only item
of clothing which has ever made Tim consider committing
suicide: Nothing -- nothing -- will ever approach the
transcendence of this moment.
Could it? Without also causing a neurological event?
... is he already having an event?
It's an interesting *enough* question that Tim can shift -- a
fraction of his focus to an internal check. His body
temperature seems somewhat high, as does his pulse and
heart rate --
He's walking around Kon.
The skin of his face is prickling with incipient flush --
He's staring at Kon's broad back.
His hearing seems fine on a physical level -- certainly he can
tell that Kon is making sounds. It's just that he can't quite
seem to make the sound into language, because --
He's tugging the hem of Kon's t-shirt away from his waist.
He's reading.
He's.
"It's the 'boy,' isn't it? Man, I was wondering about that. But,
you know, I had to do *something* to kind of... well, make
it *clear*. Super*boy*, and all that."
Of course he did. But. "You were wondering...?" It's possible
that he may have lost the ability to automatically shift his
tone to indicate a question. He can always try Batgirl's
method of using head-tilts of varying angles.
"Well, yeah," Kon says, and tries to look at Tim over his
shoulder.
This leads to a brief dance of turning -- Tim really can't
bring himself to let go. Eventually, however, Kon gives up.
"I mean, the dude who designed this for me -- I got a
*sweet* deal, by the way. Dozens of 'em back in Smallville.
Anyway. Yeah. He suggested I have the 'boy' right up in the
middle of my back, but in that size type it just kept
disappearing every time I twisted or something."
The visualization is easy enough.
"So I tried to get it bigger, but then... I don't know. Didn't
really work."
The question of *why* Kon had felt it didn't work is a
compelling one, and yet it seems likely...
Well, there is *perfection* in this. Magnificent, wonderful,
true...
Excepting those individuals who are either very young
children or are simply much, much shorter than the average,
absolutely no one would see the 'boy' unless they
deliberately looked down, let their gaze be pulled by the
irrational impression of *gravitation* toward Kon's round,
perfect, denim-coated ass. 'Clad,' of course, implies a sense
of *looseness*.
Just as 'boy' implies something other than, well, the 'BOY'
that is... right there.
'BOY.'
All of this leads to the problem... well, *asking* for an
explanation seems as though it would go beyond checking
the proverbial gift horse's teeth and well into staring back
over one's shoulder at the destruction of... Sodom.
Tim bites the inside of his own lip.
"Uh... Tim?"
"Yes, Kon." He is only capable of affirmation, right now. Tim
accepts that about himself.
"So..."
He should -- he *has* to ask, if only to keep himself from
hugging Kon -- possibly there would be some degree of
climbing, and certainly there'd be *clinging* --
'BOY.'
"So," Tim says, and stares at his fingers until he can will
them to let go of Kon's shirt, "why *did* you decide to go
with that particular size, color, font-style, and location of
the... 'boy?'"
"Hunh? Oh. I mean, didn't I say? Everything else looked
stupid, man."
Of course it did. Of -- course. He shouldn't have doubted.
Once transcendence is achieved, there can only be more
of the same. "I see."
Kon huffs out a sigh, turns around, and crosses his arms
over his chest. The shirt, being only fabric, strains against
the meat and heft and *muscle* of Kon until the front hem
is dangling -- weakly, it seems -- well above the waist of
Kon's jeans.
If Kon's skin were any paler, his abdominal hair -- the
sagittal pattern is almost ludicrously perfect and symmetrical,
of course -- would exclaim itself at a distance. At the
moment, it merely announces.
"Just -- come on. Does it look stupid or not?"
"Your... uniform?"
"*Jesus*, man," Kon says, and gives Tim a -- light -- shove.
There is a concomitant brief flash of his admirably
natural-seeming navel. "Yes, my *uniform*."
"Kon..."
"*Yes*?!"
"Kon, I think... I think it's entirely adequate," Tim says.
Kon frowns.
"It... suits. You."
"Yeah? You really think so?"
'Think' is something of an exaggeration, but Tim is in no
condition to explain that. He settles for nodding. Kon's solid
clap to both of his shoulders reminds him to stop nodding.
"Oh, hey, I totally have extra shirts -- want one?"
"Er --"
Kon's leer is obviously exaggerated. It's just that it's Kon,
and so the level of exaggeration is really quite small,
relatively. "Hey, I know it's generous of me, man, but, as
my best bud, you are totally allowed to ride on my coat-tails
to the Promised Land of Chickular Appreciation."
And other forms of... appreciation? No. The t-shirt would, if
he's judging correctly, be only slightly larger than the size
he tends to buy for himself. It would add a certain
indefinable something to any number of Tim's standard
disguises -- as well as being entirely in character for Tim
*Drake*.
"Well?"
"I'd love one," Tim says, honestly.
"Cool!"
The thing is --
Tim does, actually, have quite enough time to call Kon back
from flying to Smallville *right this instant* to get him a
t-shirt, and he has more than enough reason to do so --
they are, after all, here to *work*.
However, the approximately forty-nine minutes it will take
Kon to fly there and return --
Those forty-nine minutes of *privacy* --
Tim watches Kon fly.
And smiles.
end.