[flashfic] BoP
Fandom: Birds of Prey
Words: 553
Notes: Spoilers for BoP #99. I kind of thought I would include this idea in a larger story, but I guess not. I think merfilly has already written about this topic, too. Some weird meta-y things going on in this little piece; I blame reading Latin American short stories.
It mocked her at first, sitting on her dresser drawer, innocuous and unassuming. She couldn’t even open it those first few days, but would turn the book in her hands, tracing the lettering on the cover, studying the binding, running her fingers along the edges (carefully, so as not to get a paper cut).
She dared the front inside cover first, the barest and briefest of smiles touching her lips as she read the book’s description, then flipped to the back inside cover. They put her picture there, smiling brightly for the camera, posed with hands on her hips.
She didn’t pick up the book for a few days after that.
When she finally opened to the first page, she read every word on it and then stopped, though the last sentence was cut off in the middle. In her mind, she heard the voice fall silence its narration, the familiar cadences and tones trailing off. She could almost picture the scene: the blonde on the bed or at a desk, headphones on, writing diligently by hand, lips sometimes shaping the words scrawling out from the tip of her pen.
After that, she progressed a page a night for a time, lying in bed with the book propped on her lap, not because she didn’t have time but because she wanted to savor the sound of the voice in her mind, the nearness of her presence that reading invoked. It was her partner’s story in her own words. It was her story in her partner’s words.
It was their story, just as she had said.
Time passed. She began to read a few pages one night, a chapter another, and then another chapter the next. Sometimes in the day, when the world was quiet and the phones and comms quiescent, she could close her eyes and picture the pages in her mind and like this, without ever having to retrieve the book, she reread her favorite passages. About her. About them.
She thought maybe she was the only one who could read her book like this, who could read not only between the lines, but through the lines and behind the lines, seeing Dinah at once through the blonde’s eyes and her own-and the larger picture that maybe her partner didn’t grasp but that Barbara had watched unfold and Oracle had unwoven.
Maybe, too, she was the only one who anticipated and felt the love on nearly every page, who rejoiced in every triumph and felt her heart ache at every trial, her own memories stirring crystal clear and sharp.
Dinah had written her story and made it theirs. Barbara was reading their story and making it hers, making Dinah hers for as long as she could, for just a little while more.
She put off reading the last chapter for weeks.
It was a silly thing to do, she knew. Very silly, she realized, when she finally read it.
Dinah had given her story to the world, but she had given Babs their story. Closing the book wasn’t the end of what they shared. A chapter, maybe, of their ongoing saga… and there were so many more chapters to live, to create…
Together.
(And maybe one day, Barbara would tell Dinah the other half of their story… in her own words.)
Words: 553
Notes: Spoilers for BoP #99. I kind of thought I would include this idea in a larger story, but I guess not. I think merfilly has already written about this topic, too. Some weird meta-y things going on in this little piece; I blame reading Latin American short stories.
It mocked her at first, sitting on her dresser drawer, innocuous and unassuming. She couldn’t even open it those first few days, but would turn the book in her hands, tracing the lettering on the cover, studying the binding, running her fingers along the edges (carefully, so as not to get a paper cut).
She dared the front inside cover first, the barest and briefest of smiles touching her lips as she read the book’s description, then flipped to the back inside cover. They put her picture there, smiling brightly for the camera, posed with hands on her hips.
She didn’t pick up the book for a few days after that.
When she finally opened to the first page, she read every word on it and then stopped, though the last sentence was cut off in the middle. In her mind, she heard the voice fall silence its narration, the familiar cadences and tones trailing off. She could almost picture the scene: the blonde on the bed or at a desk, headphones on, writing diligently by hand, lips sometimes shaping the words scrawling out from the tip of her pen.
After that, she progressed a page a night for a time, lying in bed with the book propped on her lap, not because she didn’t have time but because she wanted to savor the sound of the voice in her mind, the nearness of her presence that reading invoked. It was her partner’s story in her own words. It was her story in her partner’s words.
It was their story, just as she had said.
Time passed. She began to read a few pages one night, a chapter another, and then another chapter the next. Sometimes in the day, when the world was quiet and the phones and comms quiescent, she could close her eyes and picture the pages in her mind and like this, without ever having to retrieve the book, she reread her favorite passages. About her. About them.
She thought maybe she was the only one who could read her book like this, who could read not only between the lines, but through the lines and behind the lines, seeing Dinah at once through the blonde’s eyes and her own-and the larger picture that maybe her partner didn’t grasp but that Barbara had watched unfold and Oracle had unwoven.
Maybe, too, she was the only one who anticipated and felt the love on nearly every page, who rejoiced in every triumph and felt her heart ache at every trial, her own memories stirring crystal clear and sharp.
Dinah had written her story and made it theirs. Barbara was reading their story and making it hers, making Dinah hers for as long as she could, for just a little while more.
She put off reading the last chapter for weeks.
It was a silly thing to do, she knew. Very silly, she realized, when she finally read it.
Dinah had given her story to the world, but she had given Babs their story. Closing the book wasn’t the end of what they shared. A chapter, maybe, of their ongoing saga… and there were so many more chapters to live, to create…
Together.
(And maybe one day, Barbara would tell Dinah the other half of their story… in her own words.)