trans_9 | The worms crawl out...

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The worms crawl out...

Give it up. You lost. Get out of my head.

"No."

Really. Be reasonable. You have to climb out every three days and hang out in your swimming pool, or you're going to die. It's been two and a half already. Climb out like a good little slug-thing, and maybe I'll talk Brainy into building you a nice Habitrail.

"Maybe. I'm not taking that chance."

So--what? You're going to use my greymatter as your deathbed? Gross. Do you things rot in there, or do you ooze out when you die. Because rotting slugthing in my brain is just not something I want to deal with.

"I'm about to starve to death, and this is what you're worrying about?"

Don't expect me to be sympathetic. You took me over with no intention of ever giving me control of my own body again, and tried to kill my friends. I'll probably do a jig on your sluggly little grave.

"And here I thought you weren't going to turn into that psycho in your future."

I'm not--I won't.

"Delighting in the slow and painful death of another sentient creature? I don't know--sounds a lot like him to me."

...Why yes. Tim is strapped down to his bed, and it really does look like he's talking to himself.

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It's not a matter of sneaking. You can't out-sneak a Bat.

It's a matter of timing. Waiting for him to get down there, to get in the bathroom in the city, and then following then, knowing what's probably going to happen...

Tim eyes the "Out of Order" sign warily, and then locks himself in one of the other stalls. For a few moments, he just stares at the wall.

Then he's suddenly--violently--sick. Oh God. The things he's done. The way his thoughts and memories and ideas have been used. He throws up again. And again. And eventually he's just heaving, because he can't stop being sick with himself.

Finally, his stomach stops heaving enough for him to be able to stand again. He closes his eyes and bangs his head back against the wall. Again. And then he's lashing out with fists and feet, destroying the stall around him.

He's just so... angry. And sick. And angry.

When he's done, when his rage has subsided just a little, when the stall is trashed, and he looks up at the door to the bathrooms, he'll see his best friend standing there, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.

"You're fine, huh?"

Tim grits his teeth briefly, and takes a few breaths, trying to calm down. It doesn't work any better than it had before.

"Yes, Kon," he says finally. "I'm fine."

And he does know how ridiculous that sounds when he's standing in the wreckage of his own temper tantrum.

"Because everybody trashes a public bathroom when they're fine."

"I think it will catch on."

"I think you must think I'm an idiot if you think I'm gonna buy that you're fine after you went through that."

"I don't think you're an idiot. I'm all right. I'm managing, okay?"

And if managing usually involves destruction of property, then that's even the truth.

Except that it doesn't.

"You're not managing. You're lying. Maybe it's just to me, maybe it's to me and to yourself, but you're lying."

No one is okay after that. No one.

Tim glares at him. He's trying to be okay. He is. And Kon is not. helping.

"I'm coping. Just leave me alone and let me, okay?"

Pfff.

"Pfff. You're not coping. You're venting a bit and then you're going to stuff it down with everything else you pretend didn't happen."

"...Yes."

Kon rolls his eyes.

"Because that completely works for you. That works just as well as me running off to hide and lick my wounds, avoiding all my friends and giving up the most important part of my life."

"It's not--" And then Tim has to shut his mouth, because it absolutely is the same. Or--close enough to it.

"That's not what I'm doing," he says finally, glaring at the floor.

"Then what are you doing?"

"I'm trying to take a moment to myself to deal with everything I did Kon," Tim snaps, looking up again and scowling. "I think it's allowed."

"Until you just stuff it away again, in one of your little Bat-boxes, where you stuff away everything. Just like you would've done with your dad, if you hadn't cracked around Raven," he says, uncrossing his arms and stepping towards him.

And the--true--words hit Tim like a physical blow. He clenches his fists to stop his hands from shaking. "That's not what we're talking about right now."

"No, we're not talking about anything, because you've forgotten the whole thing where you don't want to be Batman."

He's saying things to incite his anger on purpose. Whatever keeps him from just stuffing it all down, as he's done since his dad died, since his stepmom wound up in the nuthut...

Tim's eyes flash with anger, and he glares at Kon. "I'm not going to be Batman," he spits furiously. "Not ever." It's one of the memories he's relived the most during his time with the Yeerk. It had been fascinated by that possible future.

"Then stop acting like him!" Kon bursts out. "Stop trying to deal with stuff alone! All that happens is you're miserable and alone, instead of just miserable, and I know I wish Raven had come sooner, and I was so glad you guys came for me, and I was stupid to ever push my friends away!"

He holds out his hands.

"I get why you're trying to, but that's the same reason I know it doesn't work! It doesn't make you feel better! And I get it. I get what happened to you and how it feels."

"I almost killed you!" Tim exploded. "If it hadn't been for Danny and Brainy, I would have!" He grits his teeth and folds his arms tightly across his chest. "And it's not the same, Kon. Luthor wasn't in your head, sorting through your thoughts and your memories and everything that was you. He didn't go through every memory and every thought you ever had, looking for the most efficient way to kill us."

"No, he wasn't. He didn't have to, because he's the one that put everything in my head in there, and because killing you was what he made me to do. I was the most efficient way to kill you."

And--again, Tim can't say anything, because Kon's right. "That's not what you are now though."

He crosses his arms again. "Don't change the subject," he says. "My point is I know what it's like to look out from the inside of your own head and not have any control over what you're doing. I know what it's like to be used."

His expression softens. "I also know what it's like to try to push everyone away and try to deal with it all alone."

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