Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Kipples, I'm thinking of adding surround sound to the enclave, so you can blast Ring of Fire or any other song you see meet and right.
A/N: I just discovered Dancing with the Stars, and I am LOVING IT (and the dancer named Dmitry)! Does anyone else? BTW, thanks for all the encouraging and lovely reviews. I'm in the middle of mid-term craziness, but I will respond to all of them, though I make no promises as to when that will be. :( I guess I thought these stories would be weird because of the present tense. For some reason, I think present tense writing can sound almost pretentious, but for some reason I couldn't write the last chapter in anything but that. This one I think could go either way, but I'm using this set of color shots to write in present tense, so I'm sticking to that.
A/N 2.0: This takes place after the Thanagarian Invasion while Diana and J'onn are taking up space at the Manor.
Smoke
He rolls his neck as the spray of hot water pounds out the aches and stresses accumulated throughout the day. When the unbearable tension finally slides from his shoulders and disappears down the drain, he turns the nozzle and steps out of the shower.
Condensation thicks the air with cloud, and he blindly reaches until his fingers meet with a towel. The softness acts as a wick, first through his hair and then over his body, and he wraps himself in its warmth before he steps into the cave.
The damp chill acts on the leftover droplets that fleck his skin. There is a shiver he manfully tries to repress, but all attempts cease at the sight before him.
She is descending into his cave, blissfully unaware that he is lurking in the shadows. The thought of turning back enters his mind, but his ever-analytical organ immediately dismisses the notion. Even if she has never seen him in so little, he should not care about his current state of dress. He tells himself he will not care, because he does not care, and she will not change that.
Still, there is safety in hiding, and he finds (almost) nothing more appealing than self-preservation.
His second's hesitation renders the debate moot. She sees him.
"Bru-"
She stops and stares, her foot poised above the second to last step before the floor.
Years of admiring gazes and longing sighs directed at his person have desensitized him. But as she walks towards him, he forgets that he is a jaded, bored, and untouchable man. Heat warms his face and chest, and it grows even more unbearable: he is blushing.
He should laugh at himself. He should laugh at her, but his throat is unable to do anything but swallow.
It goes without saying that she is different from other women. His rapacious mind has already identified, classified, and organized her superiorities, as well as found the appropriate safeguard for each of these temptations. But just when he thinks he has her all figured out, she surprises him. Completely unprepared, he cannot witness her discovery of physical desire with the usual detachment. He is no longer a spectator; he is a participant.
As he understands the danger of his predicament, she works her way closer. Her movements aren't slow and deliberate, nor are they hurried and mindless. She is simply drawn to him, and he blushes even more as he looks at her face. Her eyes are not clouded with lust. It is something that frightens him even more: awe.
Some vestige of reason painfully intrudes, tells him that what is taking place is impossible. He is not an object of adoration. Grasping at this fact, he is finally able to narrow his eyes. His warning goes unheeded; her gaze is fixed on his torso.
She stops, and there is not even a foot separating them. He is just about to clear his throat, but her fingers are on his chest and he is immobilized.
There is only one reference for comparison. In the months since she and J'onn have taken up residence at the Manor, he has engaged in countless sparring sessions with the Amazon.
This is nothing like that.
The warrior's touch is surprisingly tentative, exceedingly gentle, and infinitely more powerful than any punch or kick. Against his will, he remembers that another point of reference does, in fact, exist. And just like that all his back-breaking denials—it was nothing, it was for show, it wasn't even good, she didn't like it, she didn't want him—crumble. There is nothing left but that night in the restaurant, and it scorches in all its vibrant clarity. He can still taste her mouth, can still feel her fingers pull at his hair.
He wets his lips.
Her hands move from his shoulders, down his chest, and over his stomach. They stop at the towel, and he knows she won't go further though her fingers dance along the top of the cotton barrier. He marvels that her restraint is not borne of self-discipline but of satisfaction. She has reached her limit. And the thing that amazes this jaded, bored, and untouchable man is the realization that so has he. This is more than enough for the both of them. For now.
He swallows again, clearing the fog in his throat so the voice he hears is merely gruff, not hungry. "From the way you are staring, Princess, one would think you've never seen a man before."
She does not get his joke, and for a moment she does not even look up from his chest. Her sigh is nearly lost in the cavernous space, but she is so close he can't help but hear it. Finally, she looks at him. There is no twinkle in her eye, no flirtatious smirk, only her trademark earnestness and conviction as she tells him, "No, I suppose I have not."
His comment, intended to lighten the mood, fails. Miserably. The air is heavy and stifling.
"Why are you down here?" he asks, but the inflection is all wrong. He had wanted to convey anger, suspicion.
She answers in a voice as soft as his, "I can't seem to remember."
Her movements are no longer general, but possess a laser-like precision. A barely visible scar that runs from underneath his collarbone to the curve of his pectoral receives special attention. Her finger traces the S-shaped mark, a souvenir from one of his earliest run-ins with Two Face. He is just about to inform her of this but is interrupted.
"You are beautiful."
He almost denies it, but that would be calling her a liar, and she never lies. He does not know how to respond, but soon realizes he is the only one expecting an answer. She has already moved on, her lips now reverently placed on the indentation just below his left collarbone. It is only the beginning. She kisses his body again and again, her perfect lips pressing wherever the scar tissue mars his skin. No place is too ugly or torn, and she humbly pays her respects as he tries not to tremble.
She does not stop, not until there is no place left for her to bless. Not until he believes he is beautiful too.
When she lifts her mouth from the place above his heart, he knows the wait is over. There is freedom to make new memories, ones which he will not bury. Any reason for pretense or subterfuge no longer exists, if it ever really did. He does not try to make excuses or explain this away. He captures her lips with his, and, for the first of what he vows will be many times, he gives her honesty.
It tastes wonderful.
Anonymous Review Reply...
tweedle d- Hola! I'm glad you liked this. You know how I value your opinion. :D I think Diana is having a boy and a girl. As my lovely beta pointed out, the paint color (peas in a pod) lends itself to the idea of twins. However, if I had to choose one, she is having a boy. One day she will have a girl in my stories, but not today! I'm glad you liked Bruce's inner workings! Even though Diana didn't see it, I wanted the reader to see that he was just as messed up inside and feeling weak too. I felt bad for making her all hormonal, as that seems kind of cliche, so I needed him wigging out too. And wig out he did. From now on I am calling you Comma Queen. Please keep pointing stuff out like that, and I will keep correcting it! Thanks for reviewing!