Screams. Ear-shattering screams of fury and anguish, like that of a desperate, demonic creature, echoed throughout the Batcave. A flock of screeching bats flew from their shadowed roosts, panicking, shrieking. The result was a chaotic battle of noises, each of these horrible sounds fighting each other for dominance. It was unearthly. It was confusing. It was frightening. And it was beautiful.
The sound of heavy, metal bars ringing low and hard soon joined the disorder, like the ungodly sound of bells summoning a dark gathering. Robin sat in the corner, concealed in darkness, watching her struggle and throw the most feral tantrum he had ever seen, amused almost as she fought fiercely to be let out of the Batcave's holding cell. Her cries, her deep, angry growls within her throat, all of it overwhelmed his senses. Never before had he experienced anything like he did now: He could hear his steady heart beat, his heavy breathing, even the pumping of blood through his veins. But despite all of these noises, these distractions, his eyes were set relentlessly on her. Batgirl. He tuned all of it out, choosing, wanting to hear only her demonic shrieks of rebelliousness and desperation.
"Let me out! Do you hear me?! I said let me out!" Another furious scream was unleashed from her lungs. So untamed, so intoxicating. He could listen to those screams for eternity. He could watch her like this for eternity. His every sense was pounding: He could see every detail of her strong, wild, beautiful frame, bathed in the blood red light of the lamp above her; he could hear the intense breaths coming from her fierce breast as she panted in between cries; he could smell the unmistakable scent of perfume mixed with sweat; and he could feel her very mood, her raw emotions. Anxiousness. Bewilderment. Fury. It was written all over her face, that face that was growing redder by the second, with eyes that gleamed like glass, fighting to restrain the tears that wanted to flow out.
More pants, and Barbara slipped an arm through the bars, reaching out to her former comrade with a gloved hand. "Dick." Her voice changed. She now sounded distressed and pitiful, pleading to him. "Dick, please. You've got to let me out. You've got to unlock this door. I'm your friend. I'm Batgirl. Barbara, remember? …Dick?"
Silence came from the boy, who continued to stare at her. He was unmoving, and eerily quiet, like a wicked statue observing the scene with nothing but indifference.
"Dick!" she yelled, each syllable growing more anxious than the last. "Dick, please! Help me. Let me out. You've kept me in here for the past…I don't even know anymore…days. Please. I'm cold. I'm starving. We need to find Batman. Do something! Help me!" Her eyes squinted, tears shining in them, turning her chocolate brown eyes into dots of turquoise.
He pondered. Should he let her out? Should he release this wild, screaming, begging demon from the only place she was, and those around her would be, safe? Dick, she cried. Dick. Batman. Friend. Barbara. Help me. His statue-like gaze, detached yet entranced, softened for a moment. The faintest trace of emotion, of pity and of real connection, crept over his features. His masked eyes began to narrow sadly, and his lips puffed ever so slightly, as if they would tremble or turn downward in a sympathetic frown. 'Let her out,' the voice of sense spoke. 'You're not well. You need her help. You must help Batman and Gotham. You must help Batgirl so she can help you.'
Very soon though, the circulating flow of drugs conquered his mind again, and the mild crinkles in his brow disappeared. "No, Batgirl. I can't let you out. You have to trust me. I would never do anything to hurt you."
Barbara clung to the bars of her damp prison tightly and hopelessly. She whimpered, primrose-pink lips turning downward. "Dick, don't do this to me. You have to get a hold of yourself. It's Scarecrow's doing, remember? You were exposed to those chemicals and – oh gods, we should never have tried taking on a villain we knew nothing about. Not so recklessly. Not so soon. We should never…Never, never…" She hung her head, and a single teardrop fell from her tightly shut eyes, dropping onto the cold, hard floor of the cave.
Robin heard teardrop hitting stone. It had a light, delicate sound, so angelic and so innocent. Ironic, coming from one so wicked as she. He stood from his spot, slowly and smoothly, like a snake writhing up out of its den. Step by silent step, he drew closer to where the frightened Batgirl was held, looking at her with sad eyes.
So sad. Yet so empty. They were devoid of any true emotion; he could not really connect with her. That, perhaps, was what frightened Barbara the most about him. Not his mercilessness, not his unknowing insanity from the chemicals that had poisoned – were still poisoning – him, and not his dreadful appearance. It was the horrible barrenness within his words, his actions, and his very nature.
'It's Scarecrow's fault,' she sobbed mentally. 'His fault. All his fault.' Who was Scarecrow? She didn't really know. To her, Scarecrow was a name, a symbol, nothing but a messenger of horror and madness. All she remembered of their confrontation with him was a looming shadow, and the most horrifying voice ever to be heard. That voice…It was like a thousand dead, dry leaves scraping across miles of gravestones, rattling in an icy and unforgiving wind; it was like the moaning of rotting corpses, the raking of nails over slate, and the hissing of snakes. "Hello, pretty Bat," she remembered him saying, obviously directed at her. It petrified her, caused her blood to run cold and her limbs to grow heavy with immobility. "Let's hear a scream from that lovely little throat," he breathed. And then came the mist, the fog, the blinding spray of toxins, and Batgirl knew she was in danger. Danger from what? She couldn't say what, but she knew that it was there.
A dreadful feeling overtook her; her stomach lurched, nausea bubbled up inside, and she wanted to cough and gag. But before she could even inhale for one of those coughs, a hand had suddenly shoved her out of the way, forcing her to the ground, low, where the chemicals wouldn't reach or affect her. Robin, brave, stupid Robin, had taken her place, sacrificing his own sanity so that she would be spared the horrors laced within the mist.
Poor, poor Robin. Mere minutes after he had been exposed to Scarecrow's chemicals, he had gone crazy, mad, ferocious. It had been agonising just to watch; after they had retreated, Batman was forced to strap the writhing, screaming boy down to the medical table in the Batcave and sedate him, so insane was he. Gruesome hallucinations and unbearable pain that was not really there haunted Dick mercilessly, grabbing onto each nerve and torturing him beyond anything he had ever so haplessly experienced. Batman had even had to blindfold the boy to keep him calm enough just to draw a blood sample, in order to test the toxins that coursed through his veins.
And Batgirl…She had been there the entire time, holding Dick's hand tightly and comfortingly, insistent upon never leaving his side, not once during this terrible process. She whispered to him, wrapped her arms gently around his head to hug him, stroked his hair, all the while reassuring him that he would be alright. Then, an hour after his blood test, he had seemed to awaken from his terrified state. Dick had insisted that he was better – completely fine, in fact – needed no assistance, and that the chemicals must have worn off.
But the moment he returned upstairs into the manor, things went from bad to worse. Batman had left to retrieve the necessary ingredients for an antidote, leaving only Dick, Barbara, and Alfred alone in the manor. It was a mistake they would all come to regret. Something mysterious, perhaps nonexistent even, had snapped the last twig of sanity left inside his head; behind the locked door through which Barbara listened carefully, she had heard him ranting to the walls. He panted, whispered, yelled, scratched, and cried, all like some poor, abused, desperate creature. She had never witnessed such behaviour in her friend. Never.
Suddenly, faster than Barbara could comprehend what was happening, he emerged, swinging the door open violently, taking her by surprise and knocking her to the floor. She moaned in pain and dizziness; the world around her swam and swayed to and fro, and she felt an immense pressure behind her eyes, as if there were an imp in her skull that was trying to push her eyeballs out of their sockets. Yet despite her dazed state, she had taken Robin's alarming appearance in fully, which had stood out to her more than anything at that point in time: Her aching eyes travelled over his form, recognising the costume itself. The cut and the pattern were more than familiar; it was still Robin's costume. But the colours were not his colours. Replacing them were the surprisingly frightening hues of blood red, harvest-moon yellow, and dark purple. And his face. His face was cold, lifeless, almost ghostlike even. And, although she could not see his eyes from behind his mask, she could feel them settled on her, paralysing her with fear.
Fear. Terrible, unnatural fear. She could not remember ever having been as fearful in her life as she had been then; she was petrified, rooted to her spot on the floor, watching helplessly as Alfred was attacked by the ruthless and insane Robin. She could not even bring herself to scream as she watched Alfred collapse, now an unmoving, bleeding heap upon the carpet that blanketed the corridor floor.
And then, it was her turn. Within moments, Robin had wrapped his hands around Batgirl's throat, holding on relentlessly, squeezing the breath out of her like a snake. It was horrible. Each finger around her neck felt like a gloved brick, constricting, crushing, squeezing each tiny bit of oxygen out of her. Then, finally, the sweet release of unconsciousness swept over her, and she drifted off into dark, listless slumber.
Now, here she was: Imprisoned within the Batcave's miserable holding cell, weakened by days of starvation, and exhausted by nights of sleeplessness. Batman had still not returned, and Barbara had neither seen nor heard from Alfred since Robin had attacked them. Now, it was just him and her. Alone together, isolated from all outsiders, sheltered within darkness and cold. And she was more horrified by her mad captor than anyone she could recall, even Scarecrow himself. As he approached her, coming slowly, tauntingly closer, she found herself paralysed all over again, transfixed with terror, unable to move her stone-like limbs in an attempt to retreat.
Robin stopped at the edge of the cage. Her eyes grew wide, and her mouth fell open slightly in a silent gasp as his face came unnervingly close to hers, their noses almost touching through the bars. "Please, Batgirl. Calm down," he said in a raspy whisper, causing her to shiver as an awkward chill crawled down her spine. "Don't look at me in that hateful way. You know I would never hurt you, despite how much you might deserve it. I would never hurt you as you've hurt me."
What? Hurt him? How dare he suggest that she was guilty of hurting him! After days, long, painful, countless days of being held within this wretched cage, hungry and freezing, he actually had the gall to say that she had hurt HIM? She wanted to bear her teeth at him like a feral dog, to snap at him, to dig her nails into his skin; she wanted to scream in his face until his ears bled with the sheer volume pumping out of her lungs, and the foam from her dry mouth splattered all over his face.
But she couldn't. She couldn't retaliate, no matter how much her muscles itched, burned to lash out and strike him. That barren expression on his face still haunted and fascinated her. It froze her in place so that she was unable to move away from him. She could feel the cool air from his nostrils blowing over the tip of her nose, so close were they to each other, in spite of the fact that they were still separated by the bars of the cell. Her cheeks turned a scarlet hue, and Robin, noticing this, reached a hand up, placing one fingertip on her cheek. She grew rigid, each muscle tightening in nervousness, and her eyes closed as if to brace herself for a blow.
"Don't be afraid of me," he whispered again, now softly trailing his finger down along her face. "I know I'm afraid of you, but…you shouldn't be afraid of me."
"Afraid of me?" Her eyes snapped open, and the Boy Wonder swiftly stepped back, startled out of his trance.
"Y-Yes," he nodded grimly. "But you don't have to be scared of –"
"You're afraid of me?!" she yelled, grabbing a hold of the bars and shaking them. "Why, Dick, why can't you make any sense?!"
"I…I don't know," he replied, and his features drooped, as though he was filled with shame. "Why can't you make any sense?" he asked quietly, a little afraid to actually, finally pose the question that had bothered him for years.
Barbara fell silent again, and she pursed her lips, surprised, embarrassed, even a little guilty as his words hit her like a brick to the face.
"I don't understand you, Batgirl. You don't make sense. You never have. I…" His breathing picked up, growing faster, and in the icy depths of the cave, she could see the eerie mist from each breath rising into the air; it glowed, shimmered a bloody hue within the light of the scarlet lamp overhead. "I've put you in there for your own good, you know. I know you don't understand that, but trust me. You have to trust me, since I can't trust you. I mean, one of us has to have some trust in the other. Don't we?" He scooted backward, shuffling his feet along the stony floor nervously. "Please don't look at me like that, Batgirl. Don't…Don't look at me like you hate me. I don't want you to hate me."
"Dick," she whispered softly, "why would I hate you? You're scaring me. But I don't hate you for it. I just want you to let me out. Please."
As if her pleas drove him even madder, he suddenly snapped at her, eyes widening furiously and teeth bared like a rabid dog's. "Don't you try to trick me, you demon!" he yelled, disturbing the bats in the cave from their roosts again, causing a flood of flapping wings and shrieks to drown out the echoes of his vicious words. Scared by his sudden outburst, Batgirl released her hold of the cell and stepped back toward the hard, uncomfortable chair behind her. Trembling, she moved behind it, holding onto the back, using the chair as an obstacle to place in between them, feeling somehow that the bars of the cage were not sufficient.
"Don't," Robin continued loudly, "don't even think about asking me to let you out!" He snarled dangerously. "What do you think I am? Do you think I'm stupid?! Do you think I'm crazy?!"
Her lips began to shiver and tremble, and she breathed inward, shakily, through her nose. Sinking slowly to the floor, she held onto the seat of the chair, nails digging into the rotting wood so that they would surely leave an impression behind. Her whole frame was shaking, and she sniffled, hiding like a scared little girl.
"And don't tell me I'm crazy," he panted. "I'm not. I'm not crazy." He started to shake his head slowly. "I'm not crazy," he repeated. "I'm not. Don't say…" He trailed off.
Swallowing, Batgirl shook her head as well. "No, you're not," she said, if only to try and satisfy him enough so that he might calm down. "You're not crazy, Dick. I never meant you were. I…I was wrong," she whispered. "I didn't know what I was saying."
He nodded. "That's right. I'm not crazy. I'm fine. I'm fine," he kept saying, trying to convince himself of his own words. "I'm fine…Fine…"
"Of course you are. We're fine. Aren't we?"
Batgirl's sniffles, the trembling in her voice, the way she whimpered, all of it affected Robin, bringing him round so that he returned to the cage. He knelt down on one knee, grasping the bars, and spoke with a chillingly tender tone. "Poor you," he said, causing her to shudder. "Poor little Batgirl. Don't be scared of me. Come here," he beckoned her gently, holding his hand out to her, but she shook her head and clung to the chair even tighter.
He sighed, feeling, knowing that he was responsible for her distrust. He tilted his head downward to stare forlornly at the floor, black bangs falling in front of his face. "I'm sorry, Batgirl. I know I haven't been all that honest with you. I…" He paused, taking a few minutes to think. How could he explain to her just how he felt? How could he expect her to understand? She was so wild and beyond his reach, so feral, so impossible to try and convince of anything. It was like trying to reason with an animal that was driven solely by rage and instinct. She was so detached from him, living in a completely different world than the one in which he dwelt.
But the urge, the powerful desire to confess all of the thoughts and feelings he harboured toward his spiteful, beloved Batgirl was too great to resist. "I want to be honest with you," he told her. "I want to tell you everything. I don't understand you. You scare me, don't you know that?"
She sniffled again, avoiding his gaze, ignoring the tears that began to stream down along her cheeks.
"You're so angry towards me all the time," he said. "And you treat me like I'm inferior to you. You push me around, call me names, make fun of everything I say, of me. Doesn't matter how hard I try to get close to you. You just smack me away. You hit me. Why? Why do you always hit me?" His voice cracked with emotion. "Look," he hissed, pulling his mask off, revealing his cold eyes. But Batgirl thought he meant for her to look at something besides his eyes. It took some willpower on her part to pull her gaze away from them; but she did, looked over the rest of him, now observing his ill-coloured face. Somehow, she had the feeling that she was supposed to have noticed something particularly unusual. But she saw nothing.
To Robin, though, something was there, riddled all over, plaguing him incessantly, persistently. "Do you see? Do you see all the bruises? Look. Look at…those cuts…" He traced his fingertips lightly over his cheekbone, rubbing it tenderly, massaging it, feeling a cut that was not really there. "Look what you did to me," he croaked, and swallowed the hard lump forming in his throat.
Barbara stared, lips pursed, at a loss as to how to reply, how to react to what Robin was saying. Her initial thoughts were, 'He is crazy. What is he even talking about? What bruises? I would never hit him like that.' She shook her head, eyes turning upwards toward the ceiling, mentally beseeching some entity above to explain what was happening to the pitiful remains of Robin's sanity. 'Why is he acting like this? Why is he accusing me of hitting him? I'd never hurt him. Not like that.'
Yet in spite of this denial, the nagging, troublesome notion that there was actually some truth behind his madness bothered her. What if, to an extent, there was truth within his words? What if the toxins that polluted his body and mind had simply magnified a fear – multiple fears – that had always disturbed him? Had she been unkind? Did he really feel that he had so many wounds and injuries from the way she treated him? When she playfully smacked him upside the head, or gave him a half-hearted little slap across the face for his antics, did it hurt his feelings more than she realised?
Making fun of each other was not an uncommon pastime for the Dynamite Duo; it was a natural inclination. It was practically instinct for Robin and Batgirl to bring fun and merriment into their missions where Batman never did. They would call each other names, make satirical remarks about the other's habits, have friendly competitions to see who could take out the most henchmen in one night, gloat over their triumphs – hell, Barbara could have probably written an entire essay about their mischievous adventures. And, since such behaviour was never one-sided, it had never occurred to her that she might have hurt him; she rarely had any problems taking his insults toward her with a good-natured grin. Naturally, she had always assumed that it was the same for Robin.
"I…" Her words came out as light, timid whimpers. "I always thought…we were kidding. Joking around."
"Well, it isn't funny anymore," he croaked again, and struggled to keep from crying. Tears burned in his eyes, doing their best to try to overflow and trickle downward. Embarrassment, confusion, and worthlessness plagued him for the way in which he was acting. He was a male; he was supposed to be self-confident, supposed to be tough. It wasn't supposed to upset him if a girl made fun of him or smacked him around every now and then. And the idea that it was his fault would not leave. He allowed her to bother him. It was he who made such a big deal out of it.
Why, why was he so distressed about it now, though? Was it because of the heavy fog that swirled in his head? Was it his pounding headache? Was it the way everything around him seemed to breathe and creep through the cave, as if each tiny object had a life of its own?
Quickly, roughly, he snapped his mask back over his eyes to hide his tears. "Whatever. I'm sure you could care less. Right? You probably don't give even the slightest damn about it."
Batgirl shook her head. "That's not true."
"Isn't it? You've made it very clear that you don't care about me. All you ever do is keep trying to prove that you're better than me. At everything. Or have you forgotten all the times you shoved me down because you think I'm just an obstacle in your way? So, what if I admitted that you're better? Fine. I'll admit it, if it'll finally make you happy. You are better. You're stronger, faster, smarter…And I can't keep up with you. Every day, I try to impress you. Every day…"
Batgirl gasped inaudibly, breath catching in her throat. Her cheeks burned brightly, and again, her mouth opened ever so slightly. Never once had she considered that he tried so hard every day to impress her, to get her to turn her head in his direction, to bestow upon him some sort of praise or compliment. Her stomach squirmed uncomfortably, and her shoulders grew heavy with guilt.
"I just want you to finally notice me," he confided. "Not as 'the pixie,' and not as the 'Boy Blunder.' I want you to see me as someone worthwhile. Maybe, if I can do something right for once…
"I know you probably won't believe me, but I'm a lot stronger than you think. I could help you. Protect you, keep you safe." Robin groaned wearily, exhaling with a raspy sigh. "I just want to finally prove to you that I'm not as useless as you think I am. I'm not a little boy anymore. I'm growing up. And I…I want to grow up alongside you. I want us to grow together, and to…"
He stopped, losing his train of thought, another pounding rush of drugs snapping him back into the miserable spell, the hellish nightmare that still surrounded him. His fingers curled tightly around the bars, squeezing, trying to suffocate them of the air he knew they were not supposed to be breathing, and yet they were.
Suddenly, he jerked backward, kicking the bars, and a deafening scream erupted from his lungs. He grabbed a tight, enraged hold of his hair with each hand, pulling fiercely, nearly ripping it right out of his scalp. "No!" he shouted. "No, no, no!"
Barbara shut her eyes tightly, wincing, completely wretched now with guilt and shame. Her eyes burned with tears of remorse, and her throat ached with quiet sobs of sympathy; a heavy pain crushed her chest as she held her breath, forcing herself to listen to Robin's mad screams. She was responsible. She was to blame. It was all her fault, never Scarecrow's. She was the one who was really hurting him from the inside out, too callous toward him to have ever even noticed all of the little things that should have been obvious. All of the subtle signs that should have given his feelings away had simply never caught her attention. Now, she felt stupid and selfish, too wrapped up in her own glory of the fact that she was the Batgirl. To her, their relationship had always been one that was shared between Robin and Batgirl, not Dick and Barbara.
At last, his heavy breathing became calmer and quieter, and she opened her eyes. "I'm sorry, Batgirl. I…I'm sorry, Babs…"
Babs, he called her. Babs. She swallowed. Usually, it was a term by which he addressed her with the purpose of annoying her; the nickname itself and the taunting tone he adopted each time he said it drove her up the wall. 'Call me Babs one more time, and I so swear,' was her usual response to the semi-affectionate nickname. It would generally make her cringe irritably, or reflexively brace herself for some sort of teasing contact that often accompanied it: a pinch, a shove, a tickle, a tug on her copper hair…
But the way he addressed her now grabbed a firm hold inside of her, and it yanked roughly, bringing forth more tears and an emotional, vocal sigh. Only a few days ago, she would never have imagined that hearing him call her Babs would, of all things, cause her to smile; which she did, albeit wanly. Why should she not? It heartened her, made her hopeful that he still possessed some shred of sanity, and that they still shared good, fond memories.
Carefully, little by little, Barbara crawled toward the bars of the cell again, drawing nearer toward him until she was at the very edge. For once, she did not notice the bars trapping her inside her deplorable prison. She looked past them to the dark figure of the boy crouched in front of her. "Dick," she began softly, "I'm sorry I hurt you."
Robin raised his eyes, staring at her from behind the corners of his mask, sniffling slightly.
"I never meant to hurt you. I never wanted to. It was never – it still isn't my intention to treat you badly, or make you feel inferior. I don't think I'm better than you. I never have. I always thought you were better than me. I spent months, almost a year trying to earn Batman's trust, trying to prove my usefulness to him. But he would never take me in. He wouldn't share his secrets, or train me like I wanted him to. Then you suddenly came along and accidentally found out who he was, and before I knew it, he took you under his wing where I had always wanted to be. I had years of gymnastics and martial arts training. I learned from the best professional teachers money could afford. You were just some kid from a circus act, and in a matter of weeks you made me look like a joke. Like…a failure. You learned faster than I ever could, and in some ways, I felt like you had stolen my place. The place I had always dreamt of being since I first put on the cape and cowl.
"Plus, you're a boy. That didn't help, especially when you constantly made fun of me because of my gender, even if it was a couple years ago. I never forgot how being teased for my sex made me feel. In fact, I…I sometimes thought that was why Batman did take you in instead of me. I had this stupid, jealous notion that he was subconsciously sexist or something…" She bit down on her lower lip, voice cracking more and more with each word, each syllable she confessed to him.
"Maybe…Maybe I did try, in some ways, to prove that I was more skilled than you. Maybe I did put you down and make fun of you for that reason, but…Dick…I didn't do it because I hated you. I did it because I was jealous of you. And I'm sorry. I never tried to prove my 'superiority' to you, I tried to prove it…to myself. Because I always knew you were more skilled than I'll ever be in my entire life."
Slowly, he turned his head in her direction, daring to look right at her, to actually keep his gaze fixed upon her as she spoke. He had never expected to hear such words as these from her, ever. Not since they had first met long ago. So very long ago…
"I'm so sorry, Dick," she said, whimpering, reaching her hand out to him. "I didn't want to hurt you. I never want to. You're my best friend. And you…" She faltered for a moment, and her lips trembled nervously. What she was about to say to him she felt she would come to regret. It was delicate, personal information. And she never shared personal information with anyone. On the other hand, what possible consequences could it have that would be worse than through what she was already suffering?
Inhaling deeply, Barbara held onto what courage she had left, and continued. "I like you. I think I've always liked you. You're sweet, nice, funny…and you're…cute…" She rolled her eyes awkwardly, blushing, embarrassed at her odd choice of words. She did not even know from where these words were coming, or what was so suddenly inspiring her to say such things. Still though, she pushed herself to keep going, knowing that there was no going back now. "You don't deserve to be treated badly by anyone. I just…I always thought we were friends, and that we could kid around like that. But if it really hurts you…"
She sighed again. "Look, I…I always want you to tell me how you feel. I want you to confide in me, and to be able to trust me. Because I trust you, Dick. And you can always trust me."
He blinked. Everything she had just admitted to him – her words of remorse over what she had done to him, her tone that begged him to forgive her, and the desperate expression that showed how much she wanted to save their friendship – hardly sounded real to him. It seemed too much for him to hope that what she said was true. But the look on her face was there; her outstretched hand was there; and the overwhelming desire that it was true was there. Inside of him.
Slowly, very slowly, he scooted closer to her, and then gently set his fingertips down on hers. He breathed just a bit faster, and, to Barbara's hope and a tiny feeling of gladness, a healthy colour rushed into his cheeks. He was blushing. No, he was glowing. More and more, life-filled colour was returning; and, more and more, his breathing was growing faster.
Suddenly, a startled gasp escaped Barbara's throat when Dick's hands and arms lunged through the cell, wrapping around her, pulling her toward him and slamming her against the bars. Soon, his legs followed, slipping through until they were on each side of her, knees squeezing against her hips. Giving small, uncomfortable moans of being so painfully pressed against the cage, Babs squirmed, endeavouring to shift out of her awkward position and into a less painful one.
Then, when her face came close enough to his between those confounded bars that still separated them, Dick leaned in, kissing her passionately and roughly. A surprised squeak came from her throat, and her eyes widened. "Mmph!"
This, she had not expected. At all. The kiss Dick forced upon her was, to say the least, surprising. And painful; his lips were pressed against hers so fervently and violently that she felt her own lips ache against her teeth – and yet, it was also the most pleasurable kiss she had ever experienced. Quickly, her face grew warm and flustered with the deepest blush; squirms of enjoyment inside her stomach became more and more noticeable with each passing second; and chills of arousal crept down her spine, bringing a shudder of delight from her. Giving a sweet, gentle moan from within her throat, Barbara reached her arms out and wrapped them around Dick to return the embrace. Both of them pressed up against the bars of the prison, and pressed against each other, never breaking from their aggressive kiss.
As minutes, long, sweet minutes went by, both of them refusing to pull away from each other's embrace…they forgot. They forgot about everything. Dick forgot about the horrible scars on his face which he had hallucinated, and that Barbara had ever hurt him to begin with; she forgot about her hunger, her cold, her misery, and about all the accusations Robin had made toward her. They forgot about Scarecrow, about Batman, about Alfred; they even forgot the terrible, maddening fear that had smothered them to near death but a few minutes ago. The only thing of which they were aware was the here and now. They thought only of each other, of the bliss, the violence, and the lust of their mad, mad affections. And, to them, it was the most pleasurable and bittersweet madness they would ever suffer.