Pairing: Dick/Zatanna
Rating: low T
Word Count: ~800
Inspiration: media. tumblr. moc/ tumblr _ m7wvoq0etM1qhxhiz . jpg
-Just reverse "moc" to "com" and delete the spaces (:

Sometimes he thinks Zatanna enjoys this undercover stuff a little too much.

It's awesome.

It's probably because she loves dressing up and playing the part. She was in the drama department during middle school and high school because her dad wanted her to have constructive after-school activities to keep her off of the streets, and she pretty much fell in love with the theatre.

He knows she won't turn him down if he asks her to take on a role, which is a good thing, because he doesn't believe in sending a man to do a woman's job.

Sometimes you just need a woman's touch. Like when a man is suspected of supplying scopolamine to political tyrants in third world countries, sometimes it'll be easier for a woman to gain said man's trust and be invited to his place than it would be for a guy.

(Because "gaining his trust" obviously translates to "seducing.")

Dick's been parked across the street from the apartment complex for about fifteen minutes when Zatanna texts him saying that it's all clear.

The door is already unlocked when he gets there, so he just walks in, locks it behind him and finds the guy on the floor, unconscious and cuffed at his wrists. Zatanna's not in the living room or the adjoining kitchen, but he can hear her searching the rest of the apartment—and not because she's being obvious and loud, but because his highly trained ears can still pick up on the sounds even though she's being really careful to not make too many of them.

So he pokes the guy in the arm with his foot to confirm that he's actually out cold, then goes to look for her. He does a quick scan of the bedroom and bathroom and the hallway closet out of habit, even though he knows Zatanna wouldn't have been sloppy and left any inch of the place unchecked, before finding her in the study.

She's leaning over a chair with one hand braced against the desk and the other one swiping over the keys of the guy's laptop.

He smiles.

He doesn't think of himself as objectifying because he was raised to be better than that, and if he ever was, almost every female he knows could and probably would kill him.

But right now he's looking at Zatanna and can't help but find her unnervingly sexy in this little secretary outfit she has on because she had to act like she was coming to the bar after work. She's in this black skirt and a white blouse and stockings, with her hair curled and down from the ponytail she'd had it in earlier, and seeing her take on all of these different roles is kind of the best reminder that she's as sexy as she is beautiful. (Because yes, those have two different meanings to him, even though she's always been both.)

She frowns and grips her shirt in her hands as she straightens up, presses her glossy lips together like she does when she's getting lost in thought. "What's the matter? Couldn't find any evidence on there?" he asks, and when she turns to look at him, he notices that her shirt is unbuttoned.

She's wearing a lacy dark blue bra.

He swallows. Hard.

"No," she says, turning back to the screen. "It's all here: his customers, his shipping lists, his resources. It was encrypted and there was a firewall but that was it. I'm just wondering why he made it so accessible for anyone to get their hands on it."

"I doubt he expected to bring home the girlfriend of a master hacker," he laughs. She rolls her eyes. "And you could never be just anyone."

She looks at him. "Yeah?" she asks, like she's wondering if he's just saying it or if he means it.

Silly girl.

He nods, and she bites down on her lip and smiles at him, and it really should be a crime for her to be so beautiful and sexy and adorable at the same time.

She grasps his tie and pulls him forward, presses their lips together and kisses him a little dirtier than she ever would if they were with the League or the Team. Wally always asks why they both like doing all of this tedious undercover stuff, but when he gets to spend all of this time all over the world with his girlfriend, it's kind of a no-brainer.

Even if it is probably ten different kinds of inappropriate of them to make out in the middle of a criminal's apartment.

And she smirks when he tells her this, pushes him back against the bookcase and guides his hand over the curve of her hip. "You're not at all curious to see if my underwear matches my bra?" she whispers into his ear, and he groans and tugs her zipper down.

… …

(They match.)