Enough
A JLU Vignette
by: June - Copyright 2005
PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine, not remotely.
A/N: Written very quickly and not very good. All Merlin Missy's fault.
This is the conversation that they're not supposed to have.
"No," Barbara says.
"Why not?" Kara asks, sprawled out on Babs' bed like a rag doll. She feels very young. Kara always feels young while she's around Barbara, because Barbara is so serious sometimes, serious and tired. She's been so tired lately; she's acted weary, like there's a weight pulling her down around the shoulders.
"Because," Barbara says, kicking off her stylish-but-practical black pumps against the wall. "No."
"That's not a reason, Babs." Her cushions taste like fabric cleaner. Kara sits up and rubs her arms absently. "Are you afraid?" It's okay to be afraid. Kara's afraid all of the time.
"No," Barbara says, and pulls her thick black gloves off her hands with her teeth. Kara flew in the window. It's cold in Gotham. Kara likes the cold sometimes, and other times she doesn't. This is one of the times that she does. She likes snow and ice today. Today is not a homesick day.
"Is no the only thing you can say?"
"No."
Kara thinks about swearing, but decides against it. "Why not?" She asks again, and plays with the folds in her skirt. She feels young and small against the backdrop of Barbara's dim apartment. "We need someone like you."
"No." Barbara flicks on the lights in the kitchen, hanging her coat on the hanger near the couch in the hall. "You really don't." Kara scootches to the end of the bed to watch her through the doorway. Barbara is graceful and smooth, even without the costume, which is more than Kara can say. Kara is never graceful; she is all angles and legs. Barbara's body is even, steady hips leveled over small, pretty thighs. Barbara's skin is creamy and smooth and pulled evenly over the outlines of muscles and bones. Kara is jealous, even if she has that grace all to herself. Sometimes.
"Yes, we do," Kara says, leaning off the bed backwards, resting her hands on the carpet, blonde hair falling against the pale blue surface. "You could –"
"No," Barbara says.
"But –"
"No," Barbara says.
"—Why?"
"Kara," Barbara says, and she turns at looks at Kara, who sits up and looks back. "They don't want me there. I don't want to be there. He wouldn't want me there."
"You can't do everything his way," Kara says, and there's a note of her own vulnerability in there somewhere. "You've done things your way before."
"Not in a long time." Barbara reaches for a can in a nearby cabinet, across the counter. "Do you want any soup? I've got chicken noodle."
"Please," Kara says, and stares at the ceiling. "Why not?"
"I just told you."
"No, you didn't. You said –"
There's a loud clanking noise and Barbara is leaning against the counter with one hand in her hair, covering her face, and the other clenched in a fist at her side. "Barbara?"
"I can't," Barbara says finally, firmly. She begins pulling down bowls and cups from the cupboard above them, fingers moving methodically and precisely. "Not now. Not then, but not now." Her hands aren't shaking. "Don't ask again."
Kara's mind immediately flashes to five months ago, to a sobbed phone call from a pay phone in the middle of the night. Tim, blood, smile. And that's all it takes.
"Okay," she says quietly.
They eat quietly, with the news running in the background. Kara does the dishes and kisses Barbara softly, like a willowwisp. Barbara tastes different everytime: today she tastes like a shadow, fleeting and pale and drawn. Kara likes Barbara's bed because it's big and smells like her (rose water and old, worn books and leather). Barbara is rough today, teeth and fingernails.
Barbara is only a little broken, Kara thinks, before she falls asleep in the place between Barbara's fingers and her hip. Only a little.
She spends the night and goes home in the morning, snow from Gotham's towers melting in her hair, the taste of Barbara's thin, serious skin lingering on her tongue.
And it will have to be enough.