[DC] Watching, moving, loving.
Title: Watching, moving, loving.
Pairing: Babs/Dick/Bruce
Rating: R
Summary: cameras are love, in Batland.
Notes: for the Never Have I Ever Written meme.
Years after Barbara quit Batgirl, she tells him that what she loved best about the job was leaping above the streets, from building to building. She calls it flying. Bruce watches her describe the sensation, notes the words she uses - “wind”, “free”, words with no mention of the city under or around her at all. He remembers her dancing on high heels, the obvious relish she took in wearing the costume, cooler clothing for a party. He remembers her kicking small crooks and outwitting the Riddler, her excitement and her satisfaction. He wouldn't have thought she'd miss leaping the most.
When she speaks of it, her smile is Dick's.
Dick is movement, and touch. Physical contact is important to him. It's a realization that takes Bruce no time at all, but which he fails to take fully into account time after time. Years after they first met, he thinks he will never truly understand the extent to which Dick lives through kinetics. To Dick, touching, moving, breathing, are the exact same thing.
That Bruce watches is no kind of secret at all, not to them; that he can only permit touch through Batman's untainted violence is a principle since long self-evident. Dick's tactile warmth is as much a stranger to him as Barbara's casualness touching Dick. Hugs are things of another life, handshakes accessories to Bruce Wayne's attire. Kisses, forbidden.
Today Barbara is Oracle, the one who watches. Bruce isn't a fool, he can guess how it is between Dick and her.
Oracle wields cameras like they were caresses; if there's a language between Barbara and Dick, Dick's body is the alphabet, and Barbara coaxes it into specifics, orders him into words, paragraphs of close-ups, the punctuation of Dick's moans, epics kept in Oracle's files, the saga of how beautiful Dick is when he loves her.
Or more lyrical: Dick's body the concerto - the instrument - and Oracle she who orchestrates. There are symphonies to be heard in Dick's sighs, how sweet a sound, and in the softness of their love-making.
“Call for him,” she says, and Bruce's breath catches as Dick does.
In the morning, footage and recording are forwarded to him, showing different angles from his own. Dick grins at him over the breakfast table.
This entry was originally posted at http://runespoor.dreamwidth.org/117543.html. There are
comments there.
Pairing: Babs/Dick/Bruce
Rating: R
Summary: cameras are love, in Batland.
Notes: for the Never Have I Ever Written meme.
Years after Barbara quit Batgirl, she tells him that what she loved best about the job was leaping above the streets, from building to building. She calls it flying. Bruce watches her describe the sensation, notes the words she uses - “wind”, “free”, words with no mention of the city under or around her at all. He remembers her dancing on high heels, the obvious relish she took in wearing the costume, cooler clothing for a party. He remembers her kicking small crooks and outwitting the Riddler, her excitement and her satisfaction. He wouldn't have thought she'd miss leaping the most.
When she speaks of it, her smile is Dick's.
Dick is movement, and touch. Physical contact is important to him. It's a realization that takes Bruce no time at all, but which he fails to take fully into account time after time. Years after they first met, he thinks he will never truly understand the extent to which Dick lives through kinetics. To Dick, touching, moving, breathing, are the exact same thing.
That Bruce watches is no kind of secret at all, not to them; that he can only permit touch through Batman's untainted violence is a principle since long self-evident. Dick's tactile warmth is as much a stranger to him as Barbara's casualness touching Dick. Hugs are things of another life, handshakes accessories to Bruce Wayne's attire. Kisses, forbidden.
Today Barbara is Oracle, the one who watches. Bruce isn't a fool, he can guess how it is between Dick and her.
Oracle wields cameras like they were caresses; if there's a language between Barbara and Dick, Dick's body is the alphabet, and Barbara coaxes it into specifics, orders him into words, paragraphs of close-ups, the punctuation of Dick's moans, epics kept in Oracle's files, the saga of how beautiful Dick is when he loves her.
Or more lyrical: Dick's body the concerto - the instrument - and Oracle she who orchestrates. There are symphonies to be heard in Dick's sighs, how sweet a sound, and in the softness of their love-making.
“Call for him,” she says, and Bruce's breath catches as Dick does.
In the morning, footage and recording are forwarded to him, showing different angles from his own. Dick grins at him over the breakfast table.
This entry was originally posted at http://runespoor.dreamwidth.org/117543.html. There are
comments there.