Standalone: Dreaming of Oscar Wilde
Title: Dreaming of Oscar Wilde
Pairing: Steph/Tim
Length: drabble
Summary: Weapons, literature, and orgies.
-
“I thought you liked hurting people,” Tim mused as they walked through the medieval weaponry exhibit.
“Yeah,” Steph agreed, “but this isn't hurting people. This is staring at very old things that other people used to hurt people.”
“But doesn't it give you ideas?”
Steph rolled her eyes and and zipped up her coat in the heavy museum air-conditioning, “Yeah. That one.” She pointed to a mean looking flail. “it's like the world's ugliest dog walker.”
Tim snorted and slipped an arm around her shoulders, “Always thinking of the common man.”
“Somebody has to, otherwise we'd all be stuck in stodgy education pieces humming and making posh comments about textiles,” Steph hrumphed. “Oh wait, no. That's just us.”
“Martin Fledwell is an esteemed philanthropist and friend of Bruce Wayne. It was only polite to chat for a moment,” Tim objected, cocking his head at a tri-bladed knife. “That looks Klingon.”
“Swordbreaker,” Steph corrected snootily, “Also, you're so god damned English. I'm waiting for you to spontaneously develop Alfred's accent and take tea at half-past four.”
“I've always dreamed of being Oscar Wilde, myself.”
Steph paused, blinking in surprise, “You've always wanted to be an Irish convict with mad gay habits?”
“Bisexual, actually. He proposed to his sweetheart in his younger days. She said no, of course, or he wouldn't've been half the scandel.”
“Ok, ok. Stop.” Steph stepped back and made a T with her hands, “Time out.”
Tim blinked.
“First off - You're bi and didn't tell me. Do you have any idea how much hot orgy sex we could've been having?” She cut him off, “No, seriously, you don't get talkie privileges right now. Secondly - Oh my God. You're like, absorbing the stuffiest social habits you can find. What happened to irony? Slighted humor? I mean, ok, you're not dead, thank God, if you're making Oscar Wilde comments, but those should absolutely be follow up with a grope for my ass. It's Oscar Wilde, for fuck's sake!”
A security guard cleared his throat disapprovingly and Steph made a face at him. She crossed her arms, “So, we are going to leave this den of iniquity and head to to the disco strip to get in some good ol'fashion shits and giggles before you start balding and wearing tweed before my very eyes.” She huffed, “are we clear?”
Tim paused for a moment and hummed, quirking a smile. “Orgies? Really? I was just going to ask Roy over for dinner.”
“God, tattoos,” Steph sighed dreamily, “have him bring his hot brother, too.”
“I couldn't possibly,” Tim twittered, excessively blinked and fawning, “Whatever would they think of my reputation.”