browngirl | At the Other Side of the Month: Finished Ficlets

browngirl

So, I finally finished all the ficlets, and here they are. First, the ones posted as comments:

For

derryderrydown: " Kory and Power Girl. SEX POLLEN!" Rated PG-15.

For

libitina (and

maelithil): "Tim being shiningly geeky." Rated PG at most.

For

papervolcano (plotbunny provided by

merfilly): " What if Dick had died in IC like he was supposed to?" Rated PG at most. [ETA: Now with FANART by the amazing

batfan_sarah!

For

sister_wolf: "Kon, Bart, & Tim. Post-apocalyptic AU." Rated PG.

For

katarik: Two from the "Bulls and Birds"-verse Minoan AU. "Master of the Birds and Jason", rated PG-13, and Steph and Cass, with added Tim and Titans , also rated PG-13.

For

jamjar: "Miles, Bel and Lady Alys... [at] some kind of cross-world show." Rated PG.
For

b_briarwood: "Frodo after Sauron gets his Ring back?" Rated PG-aught. Disturbing.
For

danachan: "Estella meets Diamond. Pirates are somehow involved." Rated G as G can be.

And now, the ones that didn't fit. All DC Comics AUs.

Dick flips down from the ceiling, dropping to the floor. No thud, which is good, and the clothes he left are still here, which is great. Even so, he skims the cloth through his hands to check it for bugs and tracers, keeping his ears open meanwhile for anyone approaching, but the house is night-quiet, the sky outside dawn pink. Dick dresses quickly, pulling the sweatshirt hood well over his face and lacing his boots tightly enough to support his ankles. He'd rather have his suit-- even the 'Renegade' suit, at this point -- for roofrunning, but half his plan involves blending into the morning crowd of commuters.

Possibly, Dick should have laced the boots first. He's going over the route in his head when a heavy soft footfall makes him look up. "And where are you off to?" Just as Slade walks right up to him.

Dick looks up, at Slade like a tower of muscle over him, and clamps down right away with a control pattern for his breathing. Slade's thrown on his dark blue robe, left unbelted, and his hair is still in the tufts Dick pulled it into back in bed, and he smirks down at Dick with that terrifying fond edge. Dick forcibly holds himself still, the shudders reverberating inside him, and stands up slowly enough for nonchalance and fast enough that Slade won't keep him on his knees. "I was a little restless." Giving himself a couple points for his steady voice, Dick tilts his head back a little with a smirk of his own.

"Restless, eh?" Slade closes those big hands around Dick's upper arms and lifts him effortlessly. Dick wishes Slade were stupid enough to toss him out the window, and tries not to look like a knickknack being shifted. "Not to flatter myself, kid..." Slade pushes Dick up against the wall. "But I'd've thought you'd be worn out."

Dick is tired, and sore, and every single bite Slade's left on him for the last week is throbbing in time with his bullet scar pressed under Slade's palm and his pounding pulse. He braces the soles of his boots against the wall and tries to look unconcerned. "I just feel like a little fresh air."

"Mmm-hmm." Slade's expression is hard, narrow-eyed and unsmiling, his gaze almost pressure on Dick's skin. This is not good. "And the real reason you're up at dawn like a good little boy?" Dick flashes through potential lies and discards them, too slowly; Slade drops him onto his feet, but shoves his hood back and grabs his hair. Dick has to bite his lip against the reaction he's learned to have to that, and lock his knees against falling to them. "Tell me what you know, Grayson." Slade brushes the knuckles of his other hand across Dick's cheekbone in a slow, menacing caress.

Dick swallows, clutching Slade's wrists ineffectually. The right balance of unfazed and obedient isn't easy to strike. Eyebrows held steady, expression carefully mild, he says, "I know a lot of things." Such as that the Society aims to kill a quarter million people, in his city. "Were you thinking of any in particular?"

Slade's grin blurs as he shakes Dick's head till his scalp burns. "Don't get cute, pretty bird." He slides his thumb over Dick's mouth, slowly enough for Dick to remember sucking it a couple hours ago, down his chin to his pulse. "We don't want to wake up Rose, do we?"

"A young girl needs her rest," Dick agrees, with Slade's hand on his throat, the heel pressed delicately against a particularly sore hickey. He can't think of any bluffs or dodges, anything but the heat of Slade's hands on his skin and in his hair. "So let's be quiet." Which is beyond stupid, beyond irrelevant, when Bludhaven's survival hangs in the balance. "You wanna know what I know?"

"Intimately." Slade strokes Dick's pulse with his thumb, and Dick knows by that broadening smile Slade just felt him shake. .

Dick breathes. "I know the next target's a city." Cool air in his lungs, against the heat in his scalp, on his skin, in his gut. "I know if the attack succeeds, as a Society member you'll be a mass murderer." Slade's jaw sets in a frown. "I know you have a sense of art in your... work." Still, he doesn't yank Dick's hair again, and he listens. "And a sense of reason. There's no art in killing an entire city, nor any reason."

Slade grits his teeth, growling, his grip tightening on Dick's hair till Dick has to rise on the balls of his feet. "You've been snooping around, Grayson." Another shake nearly pulls Dick off his feet, makes him fight for that calm breathing pattern. "I don't think I like that." But then Slade lets go, so abruptly Dick almost staggers. "Still, you've got a point. Go save your city."

Dick moves, turning to the window before he can let himself think, but when he steps up onto the sill Slade stops him. At least he's not looking back. "And fly right back, or you'll never see the next hit coming till the town's in ashes around you."

Dick looks back. Slade folds his arms. "Bludhaven's safe?" Dick asks, and winces a little at his own brainlessness.

"As long as you're with me, kid." Something important melts inside Dick when Slade smiles. "Now go before I change my mind." And something else freezes.

Dick nods, and swallows hard, and dives out the window.

*

There are only two times now when he feels real.

Most of the time, he wanders the empty mansion, brushing dusty shelves with his fingertips, moving priceless pieces of art a quarter-inch to the left like a ghost asking for attention. Thick carpets and rugs would keep his steps silent even if his training didn't, and there are no parties anymore, no dinners, no visitors over cocktails, just a biweekly team of housekeepers who aren't even a challenge to avoid, and the sunlight moving through the empty manor.

Sometimes his arms ache; the left forearm where the crash broke it, the right upper arm that Bitterton's goons smashed. It's not like the pains he's had before, while hurt or while healing; these aches are diffuse, hollow, as if they're a prelude to his being able to see through his hands or floating off the floor. He does katas and handstands and seems to be in midair, and not even the pain in his arms anchors him.

But when the sun sinks into another night, the bats squeak and chitter overhead, and he puts on the only clothes he has anymore, the only outfit that matters. His suit. He seals on the mask and he's Robin, with the freedom of Gotham's skies and made real by every kick, every punch, every thug who recoils fearfully. The only walls are below him, and he can smile at anyone he saves, and he has people to talk to, because Robin is real.

Then the stars fade, and they go home, and the suit comes off and Dick sleeps.

The other time when Dick feels real is at the other end of the day, often at sunset. Bruce Wayne has taken to going to work later and staying later too, since the loss of his valet and young ward in a tragic car accident. The housekeepers and the deliveries all come in the mornings, so Dick has all afternoon to get ready. Not that an outfit like this takes very long to put on.

However long it took, it would be worth it, to see the look on Bruce's face when he finds Dick naked except for the collar and the cuffs, at neck, wrist, and ankle. To see himself reflected in Bruce's eyes when he turns, and smiles. That's the other time Dick feels real, flesh and blood in three dimensions under Bruce's hands and mouth, and it's the most real he's ever felt.

*
"Hey, Boss?" Steph opens her eyes a little wider, like Cass showed her. It makes her look sweet and innocent, Cass said, which was really fucking funny.

Dick seems to think so, too. He glances over at her and smiles like he wants to laugh. But he doesn't, and that more than the pay (well that, and how bad he lets her hurt people, and how good he is at going down on a girl, and his fabulous ass) is why she works for him. "Yeah, Steph?"

"Can I ask you some advice?" Steph pulls the last rope tight -- the mook barely groans, and she lets herself feel a little proud at how thoroughly knocked out they all are -- and ties it off, nice and square. If Cooper really sent backup they'll be found before they lose any hands or feet. "It's..." She hunts around for the right words as she steps over the trussed-up thugs, and doesn't let her boss' pretty blue eyes distract her. "Well, Cass met this boy."

He looks concerned, for real even. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Oh, oh no, no, nothing like that." Steph hops down off the back of the now-empty truck, and bounces into the back of theirs because she can. Because she's showing off, and it's fun. "Me and Cass... I got jealous of her once." She climbs over the crates marked 'Florida Citrus' and up to truck's roof, and swings down into the cab. "She broke my fingers-- my left hand, these three--- and splinted them up better than a doctor, and kissed me afterwards. Because I'm her girl." Steph grins at the memory, and Dick grins at her, and behind them someone moans in pain. Some days are just great days. "But anyway, yeah. She met this boy, and introduced us. Shaved head, little bit of stubble, nice blue eyes but not as nice as yours." He laughs and starts the engine. "Skinny but really strong, strong enough to make me curious, y'know? Where'd he get so strong? And he's a computer type, I know you're looking for some."

Dick nods, and drives. Out of the alley, the sun's pretty bright, but there's a breeze. "So far so good."

"Yeah, so why do I need advice, right? I'm getting there." Steph rests her elbow on the window-frame. "Well, he's -- nice, but not too nice, y'know? I like him, and Cass likes him, but she says that sometimes he thinks 'someone else's thoughts'. We thought that was kinda weird, and might be trouble. So I thought I'd ask you about it."

"Hmm." Dick pulls into traffic smoothly. Some drivers, she'd be nervous to be in a truck full of explosives, but not the Bossman. "This boy have a name?"

"Alvin. Alvin Draper." Steph had more to say, but Dick looks at her, with that gonna-laugh expression. "You know him?"

"Yeah, I know him. You would've met him at the company picnic," Dick says, and Steph doesn't try to hit him for such a corny joke. Besides, she can't land a punch on him unless he lets her, just another reason she likes him. "He works for me, part time. I wouldn't mind if it were full, and actually... I think you girls might be able to help with that."

"I'll try, Boss." Dick grins, and Steph grins back. She really loves her job.

Current Mood: accomplished

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

brownbetty

Oh Ny. I'm just. I wibble. STEPH IS SO SEXY WHEN SHE'S EVIL OH CASS I LOVE YOU SO MUCH. I think I may have to dig up that WIP now.

You're too good to me.

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At the Other Side of the Month: Finished Ficlets

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