fic: what hands uncover (Batman:The Animated Series; Babs/Dick; pg)
what hands uncover
Batman: The Animated Series; Babs/Dick; pg; 1290 words
Robin and Batgirl, chasing each other, always competing as much as working together.
For the lovely and talented dotfic on her birthday. Happy Birthday! Thanks to
devildoll and
snacky for looking it over, and to angelgazing for handholding.
~*~
what hands uncover
i. the dark that comes after sunset
whispers its surrender outside
Barbara first put on the costume to save her father. It's never been a game to her, despite what Bruce might think, but she can't deny the thrill of exhilaration that rushes through her some nights, when things have gone well and she's winging her way through the spires and canyons of the city, lights flashing by like stars. She'll never tell him, but it's even better when Robin is there, an echo of laughter in the chilly night air and the bright white flash of his teeth in the darkness, the two of them chasing each other, always competing as much as working together, always with something to prove.
She lands on the roof next to him, and they breathe in counterpoint, the sound of it harsh to her ears, his mouth close enough that she can feel the warmth of his exhale against her skin.
"Hi," he whispers, hot breath smelling of cinnamon gum.
If she turns towards him, they'll be kissing.
She doesn't.
She shoots another line and jumps off the roof, laughter trailing behind her at the look of surprise on his face.
*
ii. this room with its quickened
pulse knows nothing of
blackness, of sleep
It still surprises her, sometimes, how tall he's gotten. Not as tall as Bruce or her father, but taller than he was, and broad enough in the shoulders that the logos on the horrible band t-shirts he likes to wear distort slightly from the pull. Not like the perfectly straight lines of the chevron striping his new uniform, the one that fits him like a second skin and hides nothing at all.
She knows he's there before she turns around, his shadow long and dark and blending with hers under the bright white of the streetlight; he doesn't have the same affinity for shadows that Batman does, but the shadows love him the same way the light does. She gives herself a tiny shake; she's not usually so fanciful.
She shoots him a teasing grin over her shoulder and leads him into an alleyway. He pushes her up against the brick wall and kisses her. He kisses the way he does everything else, with his whole body, one hand moving over the bare skin of her face, the textured fingertips of his gauntlet sending shivers down her spine, the other hand skating over her hip to curl around her ass and haul her tight up against him. She lets herself be moved, lets him think he's in charge for a few seconds, then hooks her leg around his and uses her shoulders to push off the wall, swinging them around.
He laughs, a warm puff of air on her saliva-slick lips. She's tempted to say something about him not taking her seriously, not taking anything seriously, but she knows it's not true. Still, she bites at his mouth, sharp and just this side of hurtful. He makes a harsh, choked-off noise that sends a jolt of heat through her, and his stubble is rough against her skin.
She puts her hands on his shoulders, her mouth up against his ear. "My apartment," she says. "Now." And then she pulls away, takes off without checking to see that he's following. She knows he will.
It scares her, sometimes, how easily he lets her have her way with him, fits himself into whatever image of him he thinks she wants to see. She wonders if Bruce--no, she knows he does and she doesn't want to think about it, doesn't understand why it somehow isn't enough.
They arrive together, and she doesn't have time to wonder what short cuts he knows that she doesn't--she's too busy being kissed to within an inch of her life, his mouth hot and hard over hers.
When they first started sleeping together, he'd tried to be sweet and romantic and she'd laughed, almost ending things before they got started. But he'd caught on quickly, brought her mysteries to solve and criminals to catch instead of candy and flowers. His tenderness still occasionally surprises her, making her heart swell until her chest is tight with something she knows is love, even if she chooses not to name it out loud. He seems to understand, though, giving voice to everything she can't say, always willing to perform, even for an audience of one.
He walks her back into her bedroom, the two of them shedding bits and pieces of their uniforms as they go. She knows exactly how many steps it is, is ready when the bed hits the backs of her knees. She tangles her legs with his as she falls and he twists with her, letting her land on all fours above him.
She leans forward to kiss him, her sweaty hair falling like a curtain around them, shutting out the moonlight streaming through the open window. His skin smells of solvent and soap, and his eyes are wide open, completely focused on her. It makes the heat rising under her skin burn hotter, and makes her throat tight with everything she can't or won't say.
Maybe he takes her too seriously, and that scares her most of all.
*
iii. we no longer need to fear
the loud colours of dreams
She still thinks of him sometimes, after he's gone. She could pick up the phone--she has the number memorized, though he never gave it to her--but that would be letting him win. That would be losing, which is something she's never accepted graciously. Another thing they had in common. Though sometimes, when she thinks of him, she can't remember why they fought, can only remember the rush of anger and the hollow feeling it left behind when it burned itself out, can only remember the feel of her mouth shaping hateful words, her eyes burning with angry tears she refused to give him the satisfaction of shedding. Bruce is the only other person who makes her angry enough to cry, which makes a sick sort of sense.
She comes in through the front door for once, sets her groceries on the counter and pulls her hair up into a ponytail. She freezes. Someone's in the apartment with her. She isn't sure how she knows, but she's learned to trust her instincts, the minute shifts in the air that indicate a presence even when sight and sound tell her no one's there. She lowers her arms slowly--she doesn't think she gave herself away, at least, not to anyone who doesn't know her as well as she knows herself. She feints towards the sink and brings her fist up quickly, aiming at whoever--whatever--is behind her.
Her punch smacks against a large palm and she sucks in a breath, ready to explode into action, when the familiar scent of sweat and cinnamon gum hits her and she goes still, even though the adrenaline in her veins demands that she move. He spins her into his arms and kisses her, his mouth hot and relentless over hers, stealing her breath away.
She bites his lower lip and he laughs and lets her go.
"Hi," he says, like it's been a few hours instead of a good ten months since they last saw each other.
Her mouth wants to curve into a small smile and she lets it. "Hi," she says, and tips her head up so she can look him right in the eye. "Are you staying for dinner?" Her voice is steady, gives no hint that her heart is beating hard enough to escape her chest.
His face lights up with the wide grin that still makes her breath catch. "If you'll have me."
Her brain offers her a dozen clever things to say to that, but she doesn't choose any of them. Instead, she takes a deep breath and says, "Set the table. You know where the dishes are."
end
***
Note: Title, cut-text, and section headers from "nocturnal triptych from room 116" by Michaela A. Gabriel.
~*~
Feedback would be awesome!
***
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/287782.html.
people have commented there.
Batman: The Animated Series; Babs/Dick; pg; 1290 words
Robin and Batgirl, chasing each other, always competing as much as working together.
For the lovely and talented dotfic on her birthday. Happy Birthday! Thanks to
devildoll and
snacky for looking it over, and to angelgazing for handholding.
~*~
what hands uncover
i. the dark that comes after sunset
whispers its surrender outside
Barbara first put on the costume to save her father. It's never been a game to her, despite what Bruce might think, but she can't deny the thrill of exhilaration that rushes through her some nights, when things have gone well and she's winging her way through the spires and canyons of the city, lights flashing by like stars. She'll never tell him, but it's even better when Robin is there, an echo of laughter in the chilly night air and the bright white flash of his teeth in the darkness, the two of them chasing each other, always competing as much as working together, always with something to prove.
She lands on the roof next to him, and they breathe in counterpoint, the sound of it harsh to her ears, his mouth close enough that she can feel the warmth of his exhale against her skin.
"Hi," he whispers, hot breath smelling of cinnamon gum.
If she turns towards him, they'll be kissing.
She doesn't.
She shoots another line and jumps off the roof, laughter trailing behind her at the look of surprise on his face.
*
ii. this room with its quickened
pulse knows nothing of
blackness, of sleep
It still surprises her, sometimes, how tall he's gotten. Not as tall as Bruce or her father, but taller than he was, and broad enough in the shoulders that the logos on the horrible band t-shirts he likes to wear distort slightly from the pull. Not like the perfectly straight lines of the chevron striping his new uniform, the one that fits him like a second skin and hides nothing at all.
She knows he's there before she turns around, his shadow long and dark and blending with hers under the bright white of the streetlight; he doesn't have the same affinity for shadows that Batman does, but the shadows love him the same way the light does. She gives herself a tiny shake; she's not usually so fanciful.
She shoots him a teasing grin over her shoulder and leads him into an alleyway. He pushes her up against the brick wall and kisses her. He kisses the way he does everything else, with his whole body, one hand moving over the bare skin of her face, the textured fingertips of his gauntlet sending shivers down her spine, the other hand skating over her hip to curl around her ass and haul her tight up against him. She lets herself be moved, lets him think he's in charge for a few seconds, then hooks her leg around his and uses her shoulders to push off the wall, swinging them around.
He laughs, a warm puff of air on her saliva-slick lips. She's tempted to say something about him not taking her seriously, not taking anything seriously, but she knows it's not true. Still, she bites at his mouth, sharp and just this side of hurtful. He makes a harsh, choked-off noise that sends a jolt of heat through her, and his stubble is rough against her skin.
She puts her hands on his shoulders, her mouth up against his ear. "My apartment," she says. "Now." And then she pulls away, takes off without checking to see that he's following. She knows he will.
It scares her, sometimes, how easily he lets her have her way with him, fits himself into whatever image of him he thinks she wants to see. She wonders if Bruce--no, she knows he does and she doesn't want to think about it, doesn't understand why it somehow isn't enough.
They arrive together, and she doesn't have time to wonder what short cuts he knows that she doesn't--she's too busy being kissed to within an inch of her life, his mouth hot and hard over hers.
When they first started sleeping together, he'd tried to be sweet and romantic and she'd laughed, almost ending things before they got started. But he'd caught on quickly, brought her mysteries to solve and criminals to catch instead of candy and flowers. His tenderness still occasionally surprises her, making her heart swell until her chest is tight with something she knows is love, even if she chooses not to name it out loud. He seems to understand, though, giving voice to everything she can't say, always willing to perform, even for an audience of one.
He walks her back into her bedroom, the two of them shedding bits and pieces of their uniforms as they go. She knows exactly how many steps it is, is ready when the bed hits the backs of her knees. She tangles her legs with his as she falls and he twists with her, letting her land on all fours above him.
She leans forward to kiss him, her sweaty hair falling like a curtain around them, shutting out the moonlight streaming through the open window. His skin smells of solvent and soap, and his eyes are wide open, completely focused on her. It makes the heat rising under her skin burn hotter, and makes her throat tight with everything she can't or won't say.
Maybe he takes her too seriously, and that scares her most of all.
*
iii. we no longer need to fear
the loud colours of dreams
She still thinks of him sometimes, after he's gone. She could pick up the phone--she has the number memorized, though he never gave it to her--but that would be letting him win. That would be losing, which is something she's never accepted graciously. Another thing they had in common. Though sometimes, when she thinks of him, she can't remember why they fought, can only remember the rush of anger and the hollow feeling it left behind when it burned itself out, can only remember the feel of her mouth shaping hateful words, her eyes burning with angry tears she refused to give him the satisfaction of shedding. Bruce is the only other person who makes her angry enough to cry, which makes a sick sort of sense.
She comes in through the front door for once, sets her groceries on the counter and pulls her hair up into a ponytail. She freezes. Someone's in the apartment with her. She isn't sure how she knows, but she's learned to trust her instincts, the minute shifts in the air that indicate a presence even when sight and sound tell her no one's there. She lowers her arms slowly--she doesn't think she gave herself away, at least, not to anyone who doesn't know her as well as she knows herself. She feints towards the sink and brings her fist up quickly, aiming at whoever--whatever--is behind her.
Her punch smacks against a large palm and she sucks in a breath, ready to explode into action, when the familiar scent of sweat and cinnamon gum hits her and she goes still, even though the adrenaline in her veins demands that she move. He spins her into his arms and kisses her, his mouth hot and relentless over hers, stealing her breath away.
She bites his lower lip and he laughs and lets her go.
"Hi," he says, like it's been a few hours instead of a good ten months since they last saw each other.
Her mouth wants to curve into a small smile and she lets it. "Hi," she says, and tips her head up so she can look him right in the eye. "Are you staying for dinner?" Her voice is steady, gives no hint that her heart is beating hard enough to escape her chest.
His face lights up with the wide grin that still makes her breath catch. "If you'll have me."
Her brain offers her a dozen clever things to say to that, but she doesn't choose any of them. Instead, she takes a deep breath and says, "Set the table. You know where the dishes are."
end
***
Note: Title, cut-text, and section headers from "nocturnal triptych from room 116" by Michaela A. Gabriel.
~*~
Feedback would be awesome!
***
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/287782.html.
people have commented there.