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lackadaisicalnereidstay awhile (and maybe then you'll see) | ~590 words | PG-13
+ written for the prompt we find out what makes up their history by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
empressearwig (though I'm not sure this fills the prompt at all) at this awesome fix it ficathon @ magisterequitum which you should all go and check out and prompt and write for.
He comes and goes, like the sun on cloudy days in October when it barely seems to find the strength to break through the grey clouds to come out for mere moments, seconds, as if screaming I'm still here. It's alright, you know. I'm trying, I am.
You in here? she can hear him say as he steps through her apartment door after barely a couple of seconds of fiddling with the lock, quite loudly if she might add.
Really, Zee? No protection whatsoever? How very reckless of you.
There's something in his tone, one half-worried and one half-mocking that keeps her from telling him her wards were created to only allow him and her to come in. Instead she only smiles and looks up from her book. Dick doesn’t need to know every little thing, this is healthy for him, maybe lessens his feeling that he is a god, when he’s just a boy playing pretend. Some of the time.
He's leaning on the wall, apparently changed out of his costume for once, into a pair of tight dark jeans and a black shirt, but the familiar grin's still glued to his face, like a tattoo that will never come off.
My, my, you do clean up nicely after all, she teases, and his grin widens.
(This is what they are, after all. An hour or two every few weeks, when he finds time and she finds time and when he's not busy with planning maneuvers and briefing squads and catching up on his 2 and a half hours of sleep per day.)
She gets off the couch (there is no version of this conversation in which she doesn't react to him, to his presence) but then she turns her back to him and goes into the kitchen instead, because she can, because why not.
I ordered pizza, you want some? she asks him.
She knows he's looking at her, even with her back turned while she's getting plates from the cupboard. She knows his eyes start on her toes and travel across her naked thighs to her knees where her black dress starts, and she knows the exact moment his eyes are set on her neck because it only takes him three seconds afterwards to get across the kitchen and take the plates from her hands; allow me he says and then puts the plates away. In one smooth motion he lifts her up so she's seated on the kitchen table and he kisses her. He’s so very needy, hands all over her, his grip a bit too firm on her hips, but it’s alright, there might be some bruises on her hips next morning, but that’s sort of the point.
All of this, it might not be the perfect thing for her, of course, hoping he'll never stop showing up at her doorstep, week after week, year after year. But, you see, there's this moment. (When she can’t let go.) The moment after hours of practice and strategy meetings and vague insults and anger, the moment when he looks at her and says you're beautiful and in that moment she feels beautiful. (This is not something she’s learned to let go. She knows many things, but not this.)
Later, when they're lying in bed, he puts his arm around her and holds her, absentmindedly tracing lines on her skin until he falls asleep or until she does, she can never remember which comes first.
He’s usually gone in the morning --
but he always comes back.
+ written for the prompt we find out what makes up their history by
empressearwig (though I'm not sure this fills the prompt at all) at this awesome fix it ficathon @ magisterequitum which you should all go and check out and prompt and write for. He comes and goes, like the sun on cloudy days in October when it barely seems to find the strength to break through the grey clouds to come out for mere moments, seconds, as if screaming I'm still here. It's alright, you know. I'm trying, I am.
You in here? she can hear him say as he steps through her apartment door after barely a couple of seconds of fiddling with the lock, quite loudly if she might add.
Really, Zee? No protection whatsoever? How very reckless of you.
There's something in his tone, one half-worried and one half-mocking that keeps her from telling him her wards were created to only allow him and her to come in. Instead she only smiles and looks up from her book. Dick doesn’t need to know every little thing, this is healthy for him, maybe lessens his feeling that he is a god, when he’s just a boy playing pretend. Some of the time.
He's leaning on the wall, apparently changed out of his costume for once, into a pair of tight dark jeans and a black shirt, but the familiar grin's still glued to his face, like a tattoo that will never come off.
My, my, you do clean up nicely after all, she teases, and his grin widens.
(This is what they are, after all. An hour or two every few weeks, when he finds time and she finds time and when he's not busy with planning maneuvers and briefing squads and catching up on his 2 and a half hours of sleep per day.)
She gets off the couch (there is no version of this conversation in which she doesn't react to him, to his presence) but then she turns her back to him and goes into the kitchen instead, because she can, because why not.
I ordered pizza, you want some? she asks him.
She knows he's looking at her, even with her back turned while she's getting plates from the cupboard. She knows his eyes start on her toes and travel across her naked thighs to her knees where her black dress starts, and she knows the exact moment his eyes are set on her neck because it only takes him three seconds afterwards to get across the kitchen and take the plates from her hands; allow me he says and then puts the plates away. In one smooth motion he lifts her up so she's seated on the kitchen table and he kisses her. He’s so very needy, hands all over her, his grip a bit too firm on her hips, but it’s alright, there might be some bruises on her hips next morning, but that’s sort of the point.
All of this, it might not be the perfect thing for her, of course, hoping he'll never stop showing up at her doorstep, week after week, year after year. But, you see, there's this moment. (When she can’t let go.) The moment after hours of practice and strategy meetings and vague insults and anger, the moment when he looks at her and says you're beautiful and in that moment she feels beautiful. (This is not something she’s learned to let go. She knows many things, but not this.)
Later, when they're lying in bed, he puts his arm around her and holds her, absentmindedly tracing lines on her skin until he falls asleep or until she does, she can never remember which comes first.
He’s usually gone in the morning --
but he always comes back.
