[fic] for Kater (Billy/Teddy, PGish)
Elementary Heroics
Billy/Teddy
For oneangrykate. Because she wrote this. And stuff.
It's scary, sometimes, when Teddy lets himself really think about the extent of their powers.
He can look like *anyone*; Billy can make *anything* happen.
When Captain America learned what they could do, he took them aside and talked to them. "Man to man," he called the talk. It felt like being in the office of the world's most important principal.
"World's handsomest, too," Billy had said later.
Teddy had to make himself laugh at that. He was still getting used to - everything. Billy, and the sort of frankness that radiates from Cap's eyes, that murmurs from Billy's small, tense mouth.
Teddy can look like anyone. But he can't be - or so Billy says, and Billy knew these things - anyone but himself.
He doesn't know what that means. He can't ask Cap (though Cap would help, he knows that).
He asks Billy every chance he gets. He hasn't used *words* yet, but he will. Soon.
For now, he sticks to gestures. Touch and texture, just as he always has; he trusts the angle of a three-point throw, the nubbles of the ball on his palm, as he relies on planes of Billy's body, the low rumble of his voice.
He presses his green paw against Billy's sternum, then slides to the right. Billy's smile flickers into being before he tilts his head back, and Teddy's lips are dry and rough against the soft skin on Billy's throat.
He rises in the air, Billy beside him, and they float over Central Park, the Bronx, up the river, until the water is the same shade as Billy's eyes and their hands are sweaty, clutching together.
The answer is waiting for him. In the sky, spread over the down on the small of Billy's back, tangled in blades of grass on the Great Lawn.
They can do anything, and that has nothing to do with their powers.
Teddy's sure of that.
Billy/Teddy
For oneangrykate. Because she wrote this. And stuff.
It's scary, sometimes, when Teddy lets himself really think about the extent of their powers.
He can look like *anyone*; Billy can make *anything* happen.
When Captain America learned what they could do, he took them aside and talked to them. "Man to man," he called the talk. It felt like being in the office of the world's most important principal.
"World's handsomest, too," Billy had said later.
Teddy had to make himself laugh at that. He was still getting used to - everything. Billy, and the sort of frankness that radiates from Cap's eyes, that murmurs from Billy's small, tense mouth.
Teddy can look like anyone. But he can't be - or so Billy says, and Billy knew these things - anyone but himself.
He doesn't know what that means. He can't ask Cap (though Cap would help, he knows that).
He asks Billy every chance he gets. He hasn't used *words* yet, but he will. Soon.
For now, he sticks to gestures. Touch and texture, just as he always has; he trusts the angle of a three-point throw, the nubbles of the ball on his palm, as he relies on planes of Billy's body, the low rumble of his voice.
He presses his green paw against Billy's sternum, then slides to the right. Billy's smile flickers into being before he tilts his head back, and Teddy's lips are dry and rough against the soft skin on Billy's throat.
He rises in the air, Billy beside him, and they float over Central Park, the Bronx, up the river, until the water is the same shade as Billy's eyes and their hands are sweaty, clutching together.
The answer is waiting for him. In the sky, spread over the down on the small of Billy's back, tangled in blades of grass on the Great Lawn.
They can do anything, and that has nothing to do with their powers.
Teddy's sure of that.