Who: Tim, Clary, and Oliver. (posting order? ) What: Being let out of "time out". When: The 18th Where: the complex, whichever little corner closet Buffy and Clary put him in. Warnings: Angst.
Tim wasn't sure how long he'd been in that dark windowless small room, or how many bones were broken after the fight with Buffy. Even without his hands free he could feel a right nasty bruise on his cheek, the taste of blood still very much in his mouth. Deservedly so. The first few hours when his eyes opened and consciousness came back had been spent violently angry. Struggling to be free of his binds in vein. Then sleeping again. Weather voluntarily or because of concussion he didn't know or care. The next though by then he'd lost track of time all together, was calmer. And finally on almost the third time he woke he was sedated. Exhausted and drained despite all his sleep, and slowly regaining pieces of his sanity. He remembered it all. Everything he said and did to his friends and complex neighbors and felt a pang of guilt, turning on his side (which was about all he could do in his bound glory) and closing his eyes. His back to the door. A deep part of him almost hoped that they'd forgotten and weren't coming to free him.
How was he going to talk to them again? He'd said some nasty things to Clark and Bart, Lois, and Buffy. Just about to everyone. And then there was Oliver. He'd shot to kill him. And he didn't even know if he was alive. Oliver hadn't been one of the groups hunting him down, he hadn't been amongst them. Tim felt a rush of cold gut wrenching guilt that nearly made him feel ill. He would never forgive himself if he killed Oliver. And he shot him point blank with his own kryptonite arrows. After everything he'd done for him. He'd crossed that line and there would be no going back. It was a permanent thing. Killing. He couldn't just take it back and hope everyone would forgive him. He had no right.
Tim opened his eyes to move his head and look around, the space was small. It smelled like feet. There were no windows, and as far as he could tell only one door. He was toolless and alone. Lowering his head back down he stared at the carpet expressionlessly.