dkalban prompted: Okay, hmm…..Sparring session between Bat Boys? Riddler case? Dick and Babs on a date?
Batman and related characters © DC Comics
story © RenaRoo
Them
It's… nice.
She honestly wasn't expecting nice. She's not even sure why. But it's their first time since the night it was raining and the windows fogged from late summer heat outside, when she was curled into his side and he had his head laying on the top of hers.
When he asked her again if it they were them but, for the first time, her response was yes instead of I don't know.
Really, it shouldn't have changed that much. Not when she stepped back from the pattering in her chest, the way he would tug at the locks of hair over his ear when he got tongue-tied in front of her like a middle schooler, the way her face warmed when she wrote him notes and hid them away in the Nightwing suit.
After doing this song and dance for so long, after just being for so long, being "them" should not have caused a change.
It did. They're at a restaurant. A nice one.
It's not odd. Before even their boldest flirting they were constantly synced when it came to spending time together. They would share milkshakes at diners after patrols when she was a woman with ambition and he was a boy wonder easily lost in a letterman jacket.
But spending time together then and even right before "now" was… different.
They would go to restaurants with devil may care laughs in their throats, hair and clothes only as practical as two friends-on-the-go, and a bit of teasing to keep each other's wit on edge. They didn't do fancy. He took her to the circus. She brought him to a convention.
That was them, too. She thinks.
This. It's nice. The candles. The food on a menu without prices listed (only causing her slight panic).
It's not… them. But it's nice.
She looks over her glass of wine and smiles.
He's looking at the menu, brows tightly knit at the center as he scrutinizes the words for himself. The way he bites just at the corner of his lip as his foot jitters beneath the table. There are a few strains of his hair still rebelling against even the best of Alfred Pennyworth's approved combs.
"Dick," she says, softly putting the glass down on the table.
Blinking rapidly, he looks up to her. His blue eyes are so deep tonight. They're dark but glint with concern.
She gives him a bit of a wicked grin and leans forward, reaching out to grab his hand from across the table. "I don't see a single thing here I like to eat. You?"
Almost immediately, his look of worry dips into a broad grin. She wonders if it's even a conscious effort that he begins stroking her hand with his thumb. "Not really. But you can't fool me. I know how much you love the shrimp."
It's true. There are things she wouldn't mind trying. Not all of them are on the menu, though.
"This is all beautiful, Dick," she continues, squeezing his hand just slightly. "But the way I feel tonight? About… us. Honestly. You can make a pizza look gorgeous to me right now."
He laughs, reaches over with his free hand to grasp her tightly back. "It doesn't take much to make pizza look good," he jokes, still smiling in his eyes as he looks at her. "But, honestly, the way you make me feel right now? I don't know if any food descriptor could do you justice."
"Charming," she laughed, leaning in a bit more on the table. "I'm glad I can keep your attention more than the hors d'oeuvres."
There's no realization of how close together they are until their foreheads meet. She smiles, closing her eyes. He radiates warmth and she can feel it best now, where their skin is pressed.
"I love you, Barbara Gordon," he breathes against her skin. It's a whispered secret.
"I know," she says back softly, the heat spreading to flush her cheeks. "Right back at you."
They hold this moment, hold onto it and she's so glad that every brush of eyelashes, every hint of cologne and the soft clink of glasses around them will forever be safely locked away in her memory. Forever.
Because this, and anywhere else they go, is them.