Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He dares not answer, for he dares not dream what Diana says is true.

But Diana does not, perhaps cannot lie. So he must believe her when she says-- when she says--

When she says that Kal loves him.

Bruce closes his eyes and hears her footsteps fade as she goes, leaving him alone with his thoughts. It wasn't like he hadn't *known* it, of course. But hearing it out loud has made it a truth he can no longer deny.

He has become very good at denial, for Kal's sake as well as his own. Cliché, perhaps, but he and Kal are shadows and light: they dilute each other. Batman cannot afford to lose his purity of focus.

And Kal.... He's so trusting...so naïve. Batman would hurt him, badly, by the simple fact of his obsessions and the parts of himself he cannot share.

His silence protects them both.

Chapter Text

From the diary of Paula Brooks:

She's going back to him.

God, I can't even-- she's going *back.* To HIM. Even knowing who he really is!

He'll touch her and she won't flinch, because she's that strong. He'll watch her and sleep in her bed and *force* her--

I couldn't do it, Joan. I don't know how you can.

No, I do. Because you're a hero. And I'm just-- a reformed thief. I'm not like you or Lance. When they offered me the deal I took it, because I'd have been caught eventually and it was a convenient way to avoid prison. And I've tried, I really have. But sometimes those old impulses come back, like when you handed me the locked diary. The *thrill* of breaking into someone's secrets, that nasty little itch to get into places where I'm not supposed to be. Do things I'm not supposed to do.

But you're not like that. You're a good girl, America's sweetheart, a fairy-tale princess married to a fairy-tale prince. Except that it's rotten underneath, it's all rotten and no one knows what kind of hell you're trapped in. No one but you and me. You said you'd go back, and the men praised you for being a good soldier, and they just don't have any *idea.* They're sending you back to be hurt and raped and you can't tell, you can't even scream--

They can't *understand.* But I do.

You're just too innocent for this. I'd rescue you if I could. Protect you from things you never should have seen, never should have suffered. Get you the hell out of there and far, far away, somewhere that we could forget about costumes and villains and monsters who wear stolen human faces.

But you'd never go. You never even *considered* doing anything but going back and playing your role as the dutiful wife. And now you're spy, bait, distraction, and sacrifice, all in one. Hero to the--

Not that. God, not that. Be careful, Joan, be quiet. Do what I do and hide yourself in plain sight. Don't take *risks.* And maybe, maybe we'll both survive this.

Because if you don't, there really is nothing left to believe in.

Chapter Text

"Don't ever."

Hot breath curling into his face.

"Scare me."

Hard chest pushing against him.

"Like that again."

Hands clenching in the fabric of his suit.

"Do you understand me, Bruce?"

Blue eyes meeting his, filled with rage, frustration, barely relieved terror.

Love.

Unmasked, Bruce stares down at his former partner, his former ward, seeing both the laughing daredevil boy and the intense breathtaking man he's become. Nightwing. Dick. Who is standing far too close, physically and emotionally, to Bruce's very last reserves of control and denial.

He assumes the imperturbable façade. He's made a career of pretending. "Dick, I--"

Dick cuts him off, nearly snarling. "*No.* No justifications. No rationalizations. I'm tired of hearing them. I'm tired of watching you hurt yourself because you think it's the only way to get things done. And I'm way beyond caring that I'm not supposed to do this, because I don't know any other way to make you *hear* me."

The kiss burns, searing in its passion. He lets it happen because it's inevitable, doesn't resist because some things are predestined.

He's wanted this kiss. He's feared it. It shatters his control, makes a mockery of his denial.

And he's lost.

Chapter Text

"Sand?"

"Mmm?"

"Take me to bed?"

Sand blinked a little and turned his head to look at his lover. Jack lay sprawled out on the couch, staring up at the ceiling with no indication that he'd just asked...what he'd asked.

"Uh..." Sand improvised. "Isn't that my line?"

Now Jack was looking at him, nearly expressionless, waiting. If this were a test....

Jack had been subtly trying to get him to take the initiative. Sand had learned a lot, the last few months, but that particular lesson...wasn't easy for him. Most of the time, Jack was only too happy to make the first move.

He supposed that in a way Jack had, simply by asking. So the rest was still a reaction, right?

He could *do* reactions.

Sand got up from where he'd been lazing on the floor and swung a leg over to straddle Jack's body. Jack blinked up at him, surprised. Sand grinned. "Does it have to be the bed?"

"Anywhere you wanna *take* me." Jack stretched his arms over his head in obvious invitation.

Sand leaned down and brushed his lips over Jack's. "I'll try," he murmured. "I want to be good for you."

"You always are, Sand."

{andthentheyhadsextheend}

Chapter Text

"Take me to bed."

The look of shock on Dick's face helps to dissolve the knot of tension that's coiled in Bruce's belly. It had been hard enough forcing the words out past a throat that wanted to constrict around them, keeping them inside where they belonged. Now they were out, and Dick--

"WHAT?!"

He clears his throat and tries again. "Take me--"

"I heard you the first time." Dick's voice is quick, clipped. "What the *hell,* Bruce? Why now?"

Interestingly, Dick doesn't ask about the whys and wherefores, only the timing. Which means this was neither unexpected nor-- he hopes-- unwanted. But he already knows it isn't by the phrasing of the question. The shock is in the fact that Bruce asked, not in what he asked.

He doesn't want to explain himself. But he owes Dick that much.

"I'm tired of pretending I don't need you."

Dick's words come in a fast, almost panicky rush. "You'll never lose me, you know that. No matter what. You don't have to do this to prove--"

"--that I love you," Bruce finishes softly. "That doesn't need proof, Dick."

"Then why?"

Dick's eyes plead for a reason that can banish all his doubts. Bruce doesn't have an answer that good. What he has needs to suffice. "I want to show you. What I can't say. What I can't..." he stops, closing his eyes. It's not enough.

Dick's hand touches his cheek like a blessing, and it's enough after all.

Chapter Text

*****

"Holy shit! You're a virgin?"

Connor glanced at his friend, dryly amused. "Sorry to disappoint you."

Kyle shook his head. "*Why?* Never mind the monastery, you've been out of there awhile."

"I wanted..." Connor blushed. "Someone I couldn't have."

Kyle held his gaze. "Maybe you haven't asked the right person."

{50 words for my second-favorite slash pairing}

*****

Roy froze. "Holy shit! You're a virgin?"

"Not any more," Jesse murmured, reaching up to touch his face. "It's okay, Roy."

"I didn't... hurt you, did I? Why didn't you tell me?"

She smiled. "You didn't. And I didn't want you to freak."

"Too late," he muttered. "Jesse, I..."

"Shhhh."

{50 words and a wink to Carmen, who convinced me they really fit together ^_^ [and I don't think Jesse is, but I like the image. :D]}

*****

"Holy shit! You're a virgin?"

"Say it a little louder, why don'cha," Gar snarled, "I don't think the whole Tower heard you."

Wally looked abashed. "Sorry, man."

"Not too many..." Gar hesitated, then finished, "...guys interested in dating a green-skinned freak."

Wally considered, carefully not reacting. "How about Connor Hawke?"

{50 words. Setting guys up with Connor is becoming a running in-joke in slash fic. ^_^}

*****

Jack Knight lowered his voice to a whisper. "Holy shit! You're a virgin?"

Sand glared. "I was a teenager. Then the sand monster thing. Now...."

"Not into the bar scene, huh? Listen, you're young, you're cute, you'll find someone."

Sand blinked at him. "You think I'm cute?"

Jack grinned. "Definitely."

{50 words for my third-favorite slash pairing}

Chapter Text

All I want is a tall glass of milk and eight hours of shut-eye. Instead I'm slogging through the ruins of ancient Atlantis, trying to figure out what happened to the city and its missing protector.

It's cold. And wet. And it *stinks* of rotting fish and seaweed and I keep tripping over the cracks in what passes for the pavement. I wish I could ditch these damned heels but it's the style, you know, I wouldn't be *me* without the heels and fishnets and top hat. Dinah managed to revamp her whole image, but me? I tried a different look for a while but it didn't work. I'm a performer, like my daddy before me, and any good magician will tell you the staging is at least half the magic.

The other half *is* the magic, at least in my case, and I'm getting the sense of *seriously* powerful stuff here. It's giving me the major creeps. Still, I manage not to sound like an idiot when I explain the situation to the JLA. And hey presto, some brief discussion later and there's a plan and everything.

It's mainly up to Tempest; me and the other mages are mostly acting as support for his time-portal. The poor kid looks both nervous and determined, and I know exactly what he's feeling, because it's the same way I always got when I was with the League. Butterflies in the stomach and that sour taste called fear-of-failure in the back of your throat. Performing on stage is one thing; performing when the world's at stake is entirely another.

We set up, the magic flares to life, and almost instantly it goes out of control. Suddenly I remember, way too vividly, watching my father burn up from the inside out when *he* was caught in a magic overload. Memory gives me the stench of the seared skin of my own hand, holding his and unable to let go as he went up in a column of flame. The ashy char of his burned hand, his *dead* hand, holding mine while I kept chanting, binding the magic with John and Occult and the others, trying to keep the universe together.

But that was then and right now it's not up to me at all. We're caught in the spell and when it finally spits us out, the JLA's gone somewhere...else. Garth blames himself, but we all know whatever we touched was too much for anyone--no matter how strong--to control. Sometimes it's like that, and there's nothing you can do about it except ride the magic and hope you come out physically intact and relatively sane.

Because in this business, it's all relative.

I'm going to do my best to convince Tempest nothing here was his fault. I'll round up the other mages and set them to divining where the JLA's gone. I might not get that sleep for awhile, but I can manage this:

"Llat ssalg fo klim raeppa!"

And it's enough.

{500 words}

Chapter Text

The voice, a deep baritone, resonated through JSA brownstone. "Oh, the weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful, and since we've no place to go..."

Mr. Terrific broke off as he reentered the computer room and handed Batman a steaming cup. "Here. Thought you could use this."

Hot chocolate, rather than the expected coffee. Batman sniffed at the rising vapor with guarded pleasure, then raised the cup to his lips and drank. The real stuff, not powdered, and he should have expected as much. Terrific didn't skimp on the important details. Despite what Batman had said to him while under the effects of the Anger spirit, the man did good work.

Belatedly, he realized he should say so. "With the new modifications, your security system's as secure as it can be."

Terrific's dark face shone with honest pride--not the dangerous hubris that had possessed him on their last joint case, but sincere satisfaction in the acknowledgment of his work. "Thank you. I appreciate your taking the time to go over it."

Batman nodded, automatically getting to his feet and setting the cup carefully to one side of the monitors. "I should be getting back to Gotham."

The other man reached out, his hand gripping Batman's shoulder, not afraid to touch him as so many others were. "You don't have to rush off. You offered to listen to me, before, when I needed to talk about Paula. Least I can do is offer the same. About anything."

"Terrific..."

"Michael. My name's Michael."

"...Michael. I told you before, I prefer to keep work and...socializing...separate."

"But you don't 'socialize' at all." Michael's hand hadn't relaxed its hold. "At least not that I've seen. Now, granted, I know precisely nothing about your personal life...but as *I* told you before, I think there's a lot we have in common."

Ironically, it would have been easier to brush him aside if Batman had known him longer. It was simple to be rude to people who expected it from him. But Terrific had proven he wasn't so easily dissuaded.

And Batman really *didn't* have any pressing need to leave. "I suppose we could...work on the synchronization with the JLA database."

Michael squeezed his shoulder once, then dropped his hand. "That's a start."

{This is an exorcism. I wash my hands of it hereafter. *tosses the bunny to DarkLady*}

Chapter Text

Dick had, apparently, run out of things to do in Bludhaven. It was the only explanation for why he was back in Gotham, swinging alongside Bruce on patrol, mouth running a million miles a second. Just like old times.

But what he was saying--

"Not a once last month. Nothin'. It was just me-- Blockbuster-- and a half gallon of ice cream."

*I could help you with that,* Bruce reflected vaguely, before he ruthlessly quashed the thought. It wasn't *acceptable* to dream about his former ward that way. But watching Dick on the jumpline, muscles rippling with perfect grace, threatened to push him past all limits of repression.

It wasn't any better later, back in the 'Cave, both of them sweaty and wound up and still high on adrenaline not released by an exceptionally quiet patrol. One look at Dick peeling the Nightwing suit from his body had driven Bruce to the weights and punching bags to seek some kind of release.

*I am going to beat this flaw from my body,* he thought with grim determination, taking out his frustration on the equipment.

"I'm heading back to 'Haven," Dick chirped, oblivious. "You need anything, call and I'll be there before you can blink those ruby reds. --You really ought to get some sleep," he said to Bruce's raised eyebrow, "your eyes are as bloodshot as J'onn's." He paused, watching Bruce assault the leather bag. "Or maybe...sleep isn't what you need."

Bruce dropped his hands. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Dick hesitated, then shook his head. "...Nothing. My mistake. I'll see you around." He headed for the 'Cave entrance and his motorcycle, moving quickly.

"You're not wrong," Bruce said, too low to hear as Dick's bike roared to life.

Denial was only possible as long as Dick didn't hear.

{washes hands}

Chapter Text

In a solitary brownstone in New York City, a man sits reading, his composed demeanor encompassing more than simple relaxation; his aura suggests a kind of serenity in the man himself, an unusual sense of balance.

For no apparent reason he glances up from his book, frowning, as if listening to an inner voice. He stands, moving to the window to draw back the curtain, and glances down at the city below.

"Wild magic? Something has been set loose in the air."

As if summoned by his words, a multicolored aurora flashes into being, bypassing all his defenses and twining itself around him, through him.

Where there was one, there now stand two. The man stares at the other, dumbfounded. "What--"

"My dearest Richard." The woman's voice, unheard other than in his mind for years, sounds husky to his ears. "When you have been the beneficiary of a miracle, you do not *waste* the opportunity. Particularly when it may be ephemeral."

Richard Occult reaches to catch her hand in his. "My darling Rose," he says, bringing it to his lips, "as ever, you are the wiser half of myself."

In a shared brownstone in New York City, two-who-are-one again become one, this time by choice.

*performs exorcism*

Chapter Text

He hadn't *intended* to think of her right then. But she'd kept reappearing in his mind's eye, her smile so full of knowing encouragement, that Garth stopped trying to banish the image and let the mental picture wash over him.

Donna approached him, her gaze steady, her expression full of both the calm compassion he knew so well and a newly exciting sensuality. She leaned into him, her body molding against his, and he felt the steel of her muscles, of her will, under the lush softness of her skin.

He was enveloped in the blue of her eyes, the black fall of her hair.

In his vision she lifted her mouth to his, and he felt the featherlight touch of her tongue. In the fantasy her hands slid down his body, touching, teasing. His own hands followed, mirroring.

She *stroked* and he arched, tensing, into his own grasp as her eyes danced with feline delight. He trembled as she bent to taste him, the wetness in his imagination reflected where he had, unknowing, licked his own palm. The heat of her mouth echoed in the magic in his hands.

He came with a shout, her name on his lips.

Chapter Text

"Go away, she muttered, but her petitioner was neither impressed nor convinced by her request.

Which, she supposed, was something of a refreshing change. She was who she was, and her position held certain amount of ceremony and deference that she had become accustomed to by necessity. *He* wanted something from her, like so many others, but his was a basic and uncomplicated need.

She felt the soft touch on her leg again. Diana, princess of Themyscira, sighed and opened her eyes. The small gray cat--kitten, really--butted his head against her thigh one more time and then, seeing her awake, added a mournful mew to his plea.

Two dozen souls working at the embassy in one capacity or another, and their newest, still-nameless resident had adopted *her.* And despite all the assumptions about her various abilities, she couldn't actually speak to him and ask him why. Then again, it didn't require even a measure of Bruce's detective skills to discern what her supplicant wanted.

Diana sighed again, swinging out of bed and floating rather than walking once the carpet turned to bathroom tile. Even Amazon feet weren't immune to morning chill. The rest was a simple ritual, in which he had trained her well: refill the water dish, open a can and scoop the contents in the dish on the floor, and stand back. In return, she received no more acknowledgment for her service than his gluttonous attention to his breakfast.

"You're welcome," she told his oblivious ears, obliquely gratified by the touch of uncomplicated normalcy in her Wonder Woman's schedule.

Chapter Text

She swore she'd never be a prisoner, or a slave, again.

Yet here she is, following along at her *beloved* husband's side, murmuring endearments so sickly sweet she'd gag on them if she were allowed, clad again in the yellow-and-red she'd forsworn after...after Daniel. After everything ended and she was granted, finally, the chance at a life free of furies and fates and the costumes that brought with them nothing but misery and ruin.

It's his doing. Sweet, noble, *darling* Hector, so very pleased to have her again at his side after so many years apart. So genuinely thrilled to have found and saved her from peril of his own making. Gullible, weak, *stupid* Hector, so blind to his lack of self-control that his own powers took his unspoken wishes and transformed her into his thrall.

She's nothing of what she used to be. He's exactly the same, all childish naïveté under the helmet of Fate. The channel for one of the world's most dangerous mystical powers now rests on the head of a man proven, time and again, to entirely lack any ability to govern his own desires.

Lyta Hall screams inside her head, and her Fury screams back.

Chapter Text

Only later, back on American soil, did either of them dare speak of it.

"Do you think," Alan said, more hesitantly than Jay had ever seen him, "that it was...that the Spear of Destiny made us--"

"No." If Jay was certain of nothing else, he knew *this.* "The Reich is using the Spear to turn heroes evil. Call it stress, call it circumstance, explain it however you want...but what happened, what we did back there, that was *us.*" He held Alan's eyes, needing this to be understood. "I'm not saying it should happen again...but I refuse to regret it."

Chapter Text

Dick was wearing the shirt again.

THAT shirt.

The one with *his* symbol on it.

It wasn't that Bruce wasn't on some level amused by Dick's Superman idolization. It had been natural enough for an impressionable boy to be, well, *impressed* by his first sight of the Man of Steel. Particularly a young man just starting out in the same business, looking toward a hero who had already become an iconic symbol for all that was bright and good in their mutual occupation...as opposed to the Batman's necessary darkness.

But the *continued* adoration, once Dick had grown up and found that even (particularly) idols had feet of clay...that bothered Bruce more than he wanted to admit. Clark was admirable, yes, Clark was heroic. He was also naive, and too apt to think with his muscles, and--

And Dick had gone to *him* while searching for a new identity. Both of them, no doubt, thought he was unaware of the origin of Nightwing's name. But when had Batman ever failed to keep informed of the slightest detail, especially in regard to happenings in *his* sphere of influence?

He didn't begrudge Dick the name--it suited him. Nor did he resent Dick's association with Clark, occasional as it was.

It was just...that *shirt,* and its blaze of color so out of place in the gloom of the Batcave. Like a deliberate taunt. It *rankled.*

"There is more suitable workout gear on hand," he commented, aiming for neutrality, but Dick's smirk proved that he'd failed.

"This old thing? It's comfortable," Dick threw back, challenge in his eyes.

It would be...pointless to rise to the bait, not to mention petty. But in the monitors Dick's reflection danced through its routine, defying gravity with every fluid motion, the shirt no longer inappropriate in the least.

Chapter Text

So, Beloved.

...is it always to be too late for us?

Just when I have at last made my break, betrayed my father for your sake to save you from his plans once again...this other woman, this impious *Cat*woman, has usurped my rightful place by your side.

I should have known. I should have anticipated. And perhaps, after my last act for my father--disabling your Justice League comrades with plans of your own devising--I should have realized you would never trust me.

But then, you never did. No matter how many times I said, truthfully, that I would leave my father for you, abandon his empire, betray one loyalty for another...you never believed in me. Your rejection forced me to remain true to him, do you see? I was sworn to you both...and always caught in between. If you would not have me, Beloved, I had no choice but to remain with my father. Who needed me as you did not.

But I have finally had enough of being a pawn. I have lost my taste for the wholesale murder my father intends. I agree with his ideals...but his actions have become monstrous. Or perhaps they always were, and this latest scheme merely allowed me to see him for what he truly is. That he would use me against *you*...that was the final straw.

And now having left him, I have neither the comfort of filial duty nor the solace of your touch. I am on my own for the first time, free to choose my own destiny....

I hate it.

Not an *enlightened* view. Not a *Western* view. But you never understood these things that shaped me: duty, loyalty. Love of my father, and of you. I was born for these things. Now both are lost to me.

One thing remains. My one last remaining obligation, my only joy.

My son.

And yours, Beloved. I named him as I believed you would have, for your father. Thomas Ibn Xu'ffasch has your name and your legacy--and I hope, one day, your approval and love. I never intended to hide him from you forever. Even if you never accept my love, even if you never allow me into your life. Our son will know of you, I will teach him to love you--and when he is old enough, he will go to you. To learn from you, and simply for your sake. Because a man should know his true first-born son.

Looking at him, I hope you will see that I always loved you as well.

...Still. Perhaps we need not remain forever apart. I learned patience at my father's side. I learned patience waiting for you. I can be patient.

Until we meet again, my love.

Chapter Text

Dick watches the statue crumble and thinks: that's really it for us, this time.

It'd been over before, when Donna died, but in the blur of time between then and now she'd been resurrected with a new purpose, immediately heading off into space to combat some nebulous cosmic threat. Roy was with his Outsiders, trying to keep the chaos erupting on Earth in check. Wally had, by all accounts, disappeared into the Speed Force--not for the first time, though, and Dick holds faith that he'll be back. Garth, on the other hand, was in Atlantis when the Spectre went berserk and no one's seen him since. Again, not an unusual circumstance to lose track of him, but....

But this time he's not sure any of them are going to find their way home, and even if they do, he feels they'll never be the same. He's not usually one for signs and portents, but their statue has fallen to dust and he can't help but think it's a harbinger. Worlds are colliding over his head and he can only worry about his oldest friends.

And then, because he can't do anything else, he goes out to save the universe.

Chapter Text

When Jack Knight hears about the Monster Society's attack on Opal, he almost reaches for the staff before he remembers that it's not his, anymore.

Not long ago he would have been there, flying against the red skies and trying his damnedest to keep his city safe. But he can't fly now, and it's not his city any longer. He doesn't regret his decision; no matter what anyone else might think, Jack is content with his choices. Even under red skies.

He finds that it's enough, after everything, to hold his son a little tighter and watch his daughter sleep.

Chapter Text

In another lifetime (Talia thinks, watching Adam from under lowered eyelashes), they could have ruled the world.

She's not entirely unaware that she's attracted to the same qualities in him that once (still) drew her to Bruce. It's apparent in their dedication to their sworn kingdoms, both men full of darkness and determination and, despite obvious differences in modes, utter ruthlessness.

They aren't otherwise alike in the least, and the comparison doesn't hold. But with either man by her side, she could have--

It doesn't matter now. Her father's dream is dead, and Talia is ready to build her own.

Chapter Text

Letifos is a predator.

Garth sees her in a woman's form, but he should know better. The razor sharpness of her tail and the angles of her teeth tell her heritage.

Like her shark cousins, Letifos can smell death in the water. That *thing,* Garth's former lover supposedly returned from the dead, stinks of it.

Her people tried to kill him. For reasons she cannot define, she still owes him recompense for that. She will repay the debt in vigilance, guarding him--whether he wants it or not--against this "Tula."

Life and death taste the same between her teeth.

Chapter Text

"Been awhile," the throaty voice said behind him, and in keeping with the new status quo Batman allowed himself to smile.

He turned to see Vixen--Mari--smirking at him in open invitation. She'd changed out of costume into her civilian best, and her supermodel's wardrobe made her best very, very impressive. "We never finished our dinner. And we're long overdue for 'next time.'"

"I hadn't forgotten," Bruce countered, allowing the cowl to fall back. "But I seem to remember you promising to cook."

"You're on," Mari grinned, and he didn't miss the flash of predatory triumph in her eyes.