Book of Hours
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be. Money made from this: zero dollars.
Author's note: this is in the same universe as "Broken" and "A River in Egypt" but the continuity is loose. Ergo, you do not need to read those two to understand what the heck's going on in this.
***
morning.
If elected supreme dictator of the known world, my first act will be outlawing 7 am. Babs is sleeping. Curled into my side. Warm where our skin touches. Her hands tangled together over my arm. I make sure to stretch carefully so I won't wake her. Except that I do anyway. Her eyes slide open and she peeks at me.
"Time?"
"Seven."
"Ugh. There's a 7 in the morning now?"
"Sad to say." I kiss her forehead absently. She arches her back and I don't waste the opportunity to trace slow circles around her bellybutton.
She laughs before asking, "Shower?" in that way that's almost innocent, but makes my stomach start up with energetic jumping jacks.
"Don't you want to sleep?" Never let it be said that Dick Grayson isn't a gentleman on occasion.
"Nah." She waves her hand. "I'll never get back to sleep anyway."
"You sure know how to make a guy feel special, Babs." I roll my eyes for comic effect.
She falls asleep in the shower. Propped against my back. Wet and smelling like Ivory soap. We aren't as good as Bruce is. It's harder for us to get by with nothing but deep meditation and two hours of sleep to stand between Carnival and the waking, walking around daylight world.
Her wet hair clings stubbornly across my shoulders.
***
midday.
He's worried, but he won't say it. Doesn't help that his worries have a name: Jason Bard. Jason and Babs have criminology together. They study together. Babs is impressed with his intelligence and quick wit. Dick remains unconvinced of the presence of either, but Jason is Apollo: tall and blonde with a face that looks suspiciously as if it's been cut from stone. Dick darkly suspects him of throwing javelins in his spare time.
She's annoyed, but she won't say it. As her father's daughter, she's used to being regarded as a person first and a woman second. Naked male insecurity isn't anything she's adept at dealing with. What she'd really love to do is pick a fight. Scream and stamp her feet until he realizes that the reason she's so fouled up is him. There are things now, considerations. She finds herself addressing empty air when he's not around. Beginning conversations as if he were ("Hey, Dick, did you...", "Look at...", "How about...") because she's so used to having him there. They've become tangled.
The gentle prickling right at the nape of her neck is the only warning before his fingers thread through her hair. Massaging gently. She goes hot and cold in places.
"Study group?"
"They decided to take a break. Lunch. Went for sandwiches or something. Oh!" He presses his hands flat against the back of her neck and kneads all those little kinks that've been developing there all afternoon.
"Why didn't you go with them?"
"Mmm? Not hungry." She tilts her head backwards so she can look at him.
He tsks his tongue before kissing her. The kiss is slightly awkward upside down, but she doesn't care at all. "Lunch is the most important meal of the day," he finally points out.
"That's breakfast."
"Yeah, well, lunch gets the shaft then. Highly underrated."
"Is that right? Well, you feel like correcting that oversight?"
He straightens, spreads his hand out across his chest. "Why Barbara Gordon, are you asking me on a date?"
She faces him, cocks her head, then looks at her watch. "For the next 25 minutes you have my absolute and mostly-undivided attention."
One eyebrow goes up with an ease she's always envied. "Mostly undivided?" She hands him a heavy textbook and he looks at it with mild surprise as if he's forgotten exactly how it got there.
"Time and tests wait for no woman," she points out. "I'm really sorry."
He touches her cheek. "It's nothing." Tweaks her nose. "But make sure to remember this the next time I've got a paper due."
"Noted," she says seriously. Kisses his fingertip and grabs her purse.
***
interlude.
While she works she sings "Bluebells" under her breath, just like in grade school.
"Bluebells. Cockleshells. Evie, ivy, over. I like coffee."
(punch-kick)
"I like tea."
His costume is ridiculous. All goggled eyes and fake wings. When she gets in close enough to deliver a hard chop to his windpipe, she finds out that his breath is stale and a little boozy. He falls to the ground, gasping. But manages to rally.
"I like the boys and the boys like me."
(dodge-kick)
"Yes-no-maybe so."
She catches one in the face. A glancing blow off her cheekbone that'll be sure to leave a ghost of a bruise on her skin. Nothing she can't hide with foundation. Her eyebrows crinkle together.
***
evening.
"So," he leans into the couch, pressing the arch of his neck against the hard back and propping his feet against the table, "how was the rest of your day?" The way he asks it -- so droll, so very Leave it to Beaverish of him, so very hilarious. I'm way too tired to laugh.
Instead, I aim for the nearest, cushioniest chair available. I mostly make it and, "No shirt, no shoes, no service." be damned, I toe off my shoes and massage the pads of my feet for a good long while. Not ignoring him exactly, just letting the bustle and clink of the coffeeshop around us close over my head like water.
"That good, huh?" he asks rhetorically. I manage to roll one malevolent eye in his direction and he smiles. Have I mentioned that his smile is a kind of a small, everyday miracle? Like sunrise. I'm planning on keeping that tired little chestnut to myself though. He flags the waiter down, no small feat in the crowded restaurant, and orders me something called a chaipuccino. Because, apparently, I've just "got to try it."
Dick is in love with the novelty of things. Sometimes I feel like I'm dating an extremely intelligent and precocious child. I chew on the inside of my lip. In a way, that makes him a better crimefighter than I am. That's one of the things I've been working on -- jumping in with both feet, which, I've learned, is fine as long as you keep your head out of the clouds.
My drink comes and I manage to slide the swimming pool-sized mug out of his reach before he can steal the animal crackers that come along with it. "Get your own!" I caution.
He winks at me and asks the waiter for more animal crackers (please). Which the guy does bring, with a great exasperated lift of eyebrows behind black-rimmed glasses. I manage a smile at the proceedings before tucking into my drink. It is very good. It makes my stomach warm.
After a minute, I set the mug down. "Y'know, I never figured anyone calling himself 'Killer Moth' would be anything but a complete pushover."
He grins and chuckles low. "Killer Moth?" If he can even see the bruise on my cheek, he's ignoring it.
"Uh huh."
"Want to talk?"
"Nah." A beat. "Later."
He catches my hand lightly in his, runs his thumb along my knuckles, which are, for the record, still kind of sore. "Anything I can do?"
"Let's just sit here, okay?"
That's more of a request than it seems. His natural state is kinetic. Tumbling and twisting. My cheeks flush with the memory of all the ways he can twist. I should document it for posterity, except that I want it all to myself.
But he is still. For me. Mostly still. His fingertips play out a miniature sonata on the inside of my elbow. He steals a bit of my cooling chaipuccino and I let him, stretching my toes as far as they'll go, just so I can touch the side of his knee.
fin.