(FIC) Closed Doors (Kon/Tim, PG-13), Side Effects (Bruce/Selina, PG)
For the music meme! beta by the wonderful mithen :D
For kirax2:
Title: Closed doors
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Kon/Tim
Word Count: 270+
Summary: Kon needs privacy.
Kon walked into his room at the Kent farm and closed the door behind him. Ma didn't particularly approve of closed doors, but a guy had to have some privacy, right? Like, what if he was naked?
Not that he hung out naked in his room, but still. Maybe when he changed clothes, or, like, if he was going to meditate or something like that. People meditated shirtless, or at least... well, at least Tim did, and that was reason enough to encourage semi-naked meditation sessions.
What if Tim came to visit and they decided to meditate together? His Ma didn't really mind seeing him naked or semi-naked or whatever, but if he wasn't 100% okay with it, he couldn't imagine how Mr. I Don't Like Showing My Eyes, It Makes Me Vulnerable would take it. If taking off the domino mask -well, it was the cowl these days, that awful leather dungeon thing he was wearing now- had been such a big deal, being caught semi-naked by Superman's mom would probably makeTim burst into flames.
Or maybe not. Maybe Tim would be fine hanging out naked as long as he could hide his eyes. The kid was weird like that.
Kon swallowed at the mental image. Tim, his skin pale and crisscrossed with scars, floppy hair falling around his face, incense burning around him while he "meditated", wearing nothing but a domino mask... in the Kent farm. No, not just in the Kent farm, but in Kon's room.
A beautiful, nameless stranger, his eyes hidden, his secrets guarded, elusive and sexy as hell. A mystery man.
Oh yeah, that was what closed doors were made for.
For pervyficgirl:
Title: Side effects
Rating: PG
Characters: Bruce/Selina
Word Count: +860
Summary: Set in No Man's Land, an AU where instead of Talia coming to get Bruce out of his funk, Selina comes and does the same, except, you know, Kitty Style.
Four men surround the wandering tourist, and though she can't hear their words, she can easily distinguish their taunting tone, the menacing movements, the violence barely contained. Were it anyone else, Selina would hurry her step to help the tourist against the thugs and then she would chastise him for being in this area this late in the day, and alone.
But she knows the wanderer, and she can see the tightly coiled fury inside him, the barely repressed pain and anger. For a moment, she thinks maybe she should hurry her step anyway, distract him long enough for the thugs to get away without any life-long injuries.
Instead, she freezes.
He's just standing there, getting beat up, taking each kick, each punch. He doesn't roll with the blows, he doesn't dodge, he doesn't retaliate. He just stands there, letting violence wash over him, blood and bruises mirroring his batteredwill, his broken heart.
Her heart breaks as she sees the brutality being received without without struggle or defense. Then the shock wears off and the sadness washes away. She's angry, and she can't watch this anymore.
Stupid, senseless, brooding jackass! What good is accomplished out of making himself a martyr for his broken city, to wear the destruction of Gotham in his broken ribs and a split lip and a black eye? What kind of over-dramatic, self-absorbed idiot looks for punishment when what they need -what their city needs- is for someone to put up a fight? Someone to fend off the madness and chaos, someone to rebuild? What does he think he's doing?
Her shoes click angrily against the paved streets as she wanders back to the hotel. There is no city in the world that compares to Gotham, and she will not lose her home to an earthquake and a bunch of scared politicians. So he better get himself together, or she's going to kick his ass.
---
"Did you walk into a door?"
The voice comes from the shadows, and the sound is like velvet. He groans, because he knows the voice, and for all its softness, he knows that the voice is a weapon, and it can hurt, breaking flesh more viciously than the whip that she prefers. "Tripped."
She turns on the light by his bedside, but he's not going to play along. He's just not going to play along with anything anymore. It's over. Gotham's lost now. He couldn't protect the city, he couldn't make Washington see why it was worth saving it, he couldn't get the people to understand that there was no place beyond salvation, especially not his city. His love. Everyone gave up on her, on hope.
Without hope, none of the games are worth playing anymore.
"You're a selfish jackass."
Sure. Why not.
"How, exactly, does this help? How is you bleeding and giving up going to save Gotham? Or have you given up on her, too?"
Anger. He can understand the anger. It tastes hot and bitter, and it's all he can taste of late. "There's nothing left. I can't save Gotham alone."
"Bullshit," she says, sitting on the bed next to him. "That's bullshit. Get up, get a shower, pack. We're getting out of here and we're getting our city back."
Hope. He turns to lie on his back, opening one eye to look at her. She's beautiful. She's always so beautiful, so dangerous. He's trying to remember if resisting her ever did any good, if he ever got away with it, if it was ever worth it.
She has hope.
He doesn't have anything right now. He's empty. Gotham is lost. Gotham crumbled to the ground and he can feel a huge void in his chest where his city used to stand. Rubble and ashes.
"Come on, Chevalier Noir. Get your ass in gear. We don't have time, and I want to make a stop in Paris on our way there."
He closes his eyes again. His head hurts, his chest burns. "Paris?"
"Yes, I have some of my favorite gear there. You have a nice private jet. See how that works?"
He thinks about saying no, he doesn't see how that works, but instead he nods. You just can't argue with cats. If anything, he's learned that much. Monaco to Paris to Gotham. It makes perfect sense, Kitten. Why, I would love to go through the Charles De Gaulle experience so you can pick up your gear.
She stands up and she's pulling his luggage on the bed, picking up clothes for him to change into and throwing everything else inside without folding. His clothes will wrinkle. Alfred will have a fit.
They're going back to Gotham.
Bruce takes a deep breath, his chest is on fire, he sits up, he picks the clothes Selina has put aside, he limps into the bathroom, he takes a shower.
Gotham needs them.
Selina turns the lights off as they head out of the room and she takes his arm as they walk away.
He has hope.
For kirax2:
Title: Closed doors
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Kon/Tim
Word Count: 270+
Summary: Kon needs privacy.
Kon walked into his room at the Kent farm and closed the door behind him. Ma didn't particularly approve of closed doors, but a guy had to have some privacy, right? Like, what if he was naked?
Not that he hung out naked in his room, but still. Maybe when he changed clothes, or, like, if he was going to meditate or something like that. People meditated shirtless, or at least... well, at least Tim did, and that was reason enough to encourage semi-naked meditation sessions.
What if Tim came to visit and they decided to meditate together? His Ma didn't really mind seeing him naked or semi-naked or whatever, but if he wasn't 100% okay with it, he couldn't imagine how Mr. I Don't Like Showing My Eyes, It Makes Me Vulnerable would take it. If taking off the domino mask -well, it was the cowl these days, that awful leather dungeon thing he was wearing now- had been such a big deal, being caught semi-naked by Superman's mom would probably makeTim burst into flames.
Or maybe not. Maybe Tim would be fine hanging out naked as long as he could hide his eyes. The kid was weird like that.
Kon swallowed at the mental image. Tim, his skin pale and crisscrossed with scars, floppy hair falling around his face, incense burning around him while he "meditated", wearing nothing but a domino mask... in the Kent farm. No, not just in the Kent farm, but in Kon's room.
A beautiful, nameless stranger, his eyes hidden, his secrets guarded, elusive and sexy as hell. A mystery man.
Oh yeah, that was what closed doors were made for.
For pervyficgirl:
Title: Side effects
Rating: PG
Characters: Bruce/Selina
Word Count: +860
Summary: Set in No Man's Land, an AU where instead of Talia coming to get Bruce out of his funk, Selina comes and does the same, except, you know, Kitty Style.
Four men surround the wandering tourist, and though she can't hear their words, she can easily distinguish their taunting tone, the menacing movements, the violence barely contained. Were it anyone else, Selina would hurry her step to help the tourist against the thugs and then she would chastise him for being in this area this late in the day, and alone.
But she knows the wanderer, and she can see the tightly coiled fury inside him, the barely repressed pain and anger. For a moment, she thinks maybe she should hurry her step anyway, distract him long enough for the thugs to get away without any life-long injuries.
Instead, she freezes.
He's just standing there, getting beat up, taking each kick, each punch. He doesn't roll with the blows, he doesn't dodge, he doesn't retaliate. He just stands there, letting violence wash over him, blood and bruises mirroring his batteredwill, his broken heart.
Her heart breaks as she sees the brutality being received without without struggle or defense. Then the shock wears off and the sadness washes away. She's angry, and she can't watch this anymore.
Stupid, senseless, brooding jackass! What good is accomplished out of making himself a martyr for his broken city, to wear the destruction of Gotham in his broken ribs and a split lip and a black eye? What kind of over-dramatic, self-absorbed idiot looks for punishment when what they need -what their city needs- is for someone to put up a fight? Someone to fend off the madness and chaos, someone to rebuild? What does he think he's doing?
Her shoes click angrily against the paved streets as she wanders back to the hotel. There is no city in the world that compares to Gotham, and she will not lose her home to an earthquake and a bunch of scared politicians. So he better get himself together, or she's going to kick his ass.
---
"Did you walk into a door?"
The voice comes from the shadows, and the sound is like velvet. He groans, because he knows the voice, and for all its softness, he knows that the voice is a weapon, and it can hurt, breaking flesh more viciously than the whip that she prefers. "Tripped."
She turns on the light by his bedside, but he's not going to play along. He's just not going to play along with anything anymore. It's over. Gotham's lost now. He couldn't protect the city, he couldn't make Washington see why it was worth saving it, he couldn't get the people to understand that there was no place beyond salvation, especially not his city. His love. Everyone gave up on her, on hope.
Without hope, none of the games are worth playing anymore.
"You're a selfish jackass."
Sure. Why not.
"How, exactly, does this help? How is you bleeding and giving up going to save Gotham? Or have you given up on her, too?"
Anger. He can understand the anger. It tastes hot and bitter, and it's all he can taste of late. "There's nothing left. I can't save Gotham alone."
"Bullshit," she says, sitting on the bed next to him. "That's bullshit. Get up, get a shower, pack. We're getting out of here and we're getting our city back."
Hope. He turns to lie on his back, opening one eye to look at her. She's beautiful. She's always so beautiful, so dangerous. He's trying to remember if resisting her ever did any good, if he ever got away with it, if it was ever worth it.
She has hope.
He doesn't have anything right now. He's empty. Gotham is lost. Gotham crumbled to the ground and he can feel a huge void in his chest where his city used to stand. Rubble and ashes.
"Come on, Chevalier Noir. Get your ass in gear. We don't have time, and I want to make a stop in Paris on our way there."
He closes his eyes again. His head hurts, his chest burns. "Paris?"
"Yes, I have some of my favorite gear there. You have a nice private jet. See how that works?"
He thinks about saying no, he doesn't see how that works, but instead he nods. You just can't argue with cats. If anything, he's learned that much. Monaco to Paris to Gotham. It makes perfect sense, Kitten. Why, I would love to go through the Charles De Gaulle experience so you can pick up your gear.
She stands up and she's pulling his luggage on the bed, picking up clothes for him to change into and throwing everything else inside without folding. His clothes will wrinkle. Alfred will have a fit.
They're going back to Gotham.
Bruce takes a deep breath, his chest is on fire, he sits up, he picks the clothes Selina has put aside, he limps into the bathroom, he takes a shower.
Gotham needs them.
Selina turns the lights off as they head out of the room and she takes his arm as they walk away.
He has hope.