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Barbara is not jealous.
That is what she has to tell everyone who asks her about her soulmate. “Aren’t you jealous everyone around you is finding theirs?” They ask, they whisper, they gawk . But no, Barbara is not jealous. Jealousy would imply that she wants what they have, but she’s long since given up on finding her soulmate.
Instead she’s opted to hate the letters so neatly placed on her collarbone. It’s located in the same place for everyone. Some people walk around, cutting holes out of their shirts so that people might be able to see it and think ‘that might be me’. up. Some people wear tube tops, or off the shoulder shirts, or whatever. And Some people wear sweaters to cover theirs. Barbara falls into the last category.
This is because she hates her soulmark. It’s because she thinks it’s a massive waste of time that keeps people from truly loving others until they find ‘the one’. She didn’t let it stop her and she’s been happy.
Ignore the countless programs she’s run categorizing every single person with the initials M.E.K. She eliminates anyone born before or after a certain year because you’ll typically stay within about 5 years of your soulmate. It’s not often your soulmate is much older or younger than that 5 year margin though it has happened. Still, even with those parameters there’s too many people, not enough data, it would take too long.
So she’s given up. She hates her soulmark. And she’ll never change her mind about it. It’s just the way that things are. Babs sighs, watching some newfound soulmates gawk and galavant around the library. It’s truly something she detests, not because love sickens her — she’s had her fair share of romantic partners before – but because they act so giddy and different. And also they’re in the library, and they’re being loud.
She shakes her head. It’s not their fault that they’re having fun, but they also have the rest of their lives together. Sure, you don’t have to marry your soulmate, and there are plenty of stories of soulmates being platonic, but it is the norm. And even if it’s not romantic, they still have the rest of their lives. They don’t need to start making out behind the bookshelves.
And she knows that they’re making out in the nonfiction section because they assume no one will go back in the far corner of the library. With a disgruntled sigh Barbara resolves herself to go and tell them off. She’s not the only librarian working, and she’s technically not a librarian. She’s the Gotham Public Library Director, she does so much more than this. But most days when it’s slow enough in her own office, and it’s fast enough on the floor, she’ll come down and offer her assistance.
So she pulls out of the checkout station and wheels her way down the aisles until she comes upon the one that she was certain she saw the two run down. Down the aisle are not two teenagers trying to get frisky, no. It’s something far worse.
And you might be thinking, hey! It’s Gotham! That’s gotta mean it’s some sort of Rogue. Barbara spit in Joker's face, she faced down against Blockbuster and won each time. She can kick ass, take names, and still have time to help the JLA with whatever they need for some world ending event. So no, it’s not a villain, a villain is not worse than having to ask a janitor to clean up a mess made by hormonal soulmates.
What she finds is none other than one of her least favorite people. She has on a bright red oversized Sweater Vest that basically doubles as a dress over a flowier white dress with sleeves that cinch at the wrist. The bottom of the white dress peeks out from beneath the red sweater, and she matches it with some bright red heels.
“Bette,” Barbara says with a nod. She cannot explain her dislike for the woman. She’s not bad, in fact, she’s a good person.
She’s a two time Olympic gold medalist, and the granddaughter of one of the wealthiest men in Gotham — the Kanes — making her another Gotham darling. It’s not like she spends all of her wealth on just an extravagant life too. She donates, prolifically. She makes appearances at charities and cuts large checks without having to be asked. She hosts her own fundraisers and raises millions. She changes lives.
Barbara should like her, she has the same kind of Heart that Dick does. But Barbara does not like Bette. Maybe it’s because despite her kindess she still flounders her wealth. Maybe it’s because her opulence isn’t hidden underneath a layer of Grime.
Maybe it has something to do with their alter-egos. Because while Barbara was the first Batgirl, on the West coast a few years before Barbara would make her debut Bette was already operating as Bat-girl. With a hyphen, that part is important. She likes to talk about it all the time, she likes to goad Barbara into arguments and fights, and no one believes Barbara when she says that this woman is the devil.
Her blonde hair falls perfectly curled in neat beach waves over her shoulders and just above her waist. All that hair with her sports career must be real hard. Barbara rolls her eyes, she had not been expecting Bette, and the worst part is that Bette looks like she wasn’t expecting Barbara because she looks up, surprised.
It’s awful because Bette smiles, genuinely with a small laugh. Babs already wants to throw up a little. She can’t figure out this girls anger. Half the time it seems like she wants to be good friends and the other half of the time it seems like she wants to rip out Barbara’s throat. And she doesn’t know why, and she can’t track down a motive, and she doesn’t know what Bette seems to hate her.
She’s done nothing . Or at least, nothing that would warrant whatever this thing between them is.
“Barbie!” Bette says in greeting. Her red paperboy hat seems too perfect with her bangs. It’s sitting on the back of her head, and it shades her face just right. And everything about her is too perfect.
Barbara clears her throat. She’s the Library Director , she does have to play nice with the patrons even if she’d rather stab herself in the eyes in this one patrons case. “There were two teenagers…” She tries to start, but she gets distracted by the way that Bette licks over her drying lips before she talks.
“Yeah, I was back here to look for a book on astronomy and they were already making out. I had to ask them to scram because they were making over literally over the book I was trying to grab.”
“You’re here for a book…. On astronomy?” that’s shocking to Barbara. She just kind of assumed that Bette didn’t read, not because she didn’t seem well read — though she knows that Bette has never gone to college, she’s had all the money for private education and for online courses if so chose too.
Bette slips it out from where it sat on the shelf. “The Secrets of Venus, Emma Carlson Bern.” She fiddles with a silver ring on her thumb, one that matches an ax pendant that dangles from a silver chain. “I know it’s a little silly, but I have another four years till the next Olympics, and I want to do something more than win world championships, y’know?”
And there it is, that stupid humble bragging. Half the time it seems intentional, a way to dig beneath Barbara’s skin, the other half of the time it doesn’t seem like she realizes that she’s doing it. It’s infuriating.
“Good for you,” she whispers under her breath. Compared to Bette, Barbara feels underdressed in her black sweatpants, and dark green tee. She left her black sweatshirt in her office as it had been getting too hot there.
“Thank you!” Bette walks over, one foot in front of the other carrying the book in front of her in both hands. “The Gotham Library is actually a lot smaller than I thought it was. I was hoping from Aristotle or Galileo.”
It’s a dig at the library. And Barbara knows it’s not the best around. It’s old, and it shows. Their laptops look to be falling to pieces, half of them are either vandalized beyond repair, or have been flat out stolen. They don’t have a self checkout system. They’re far from clean, but they try to keep it as tidy as possible. The wooden shelves creak under the weight of their new books, and the carpets haven’t been replaced in decades. But it’s still hers , well, it was the States. But Barbara was determined to find the money in the budget to make it something great.
The little dig is just deep enough that Barbara has to grit her teeth and push up her glasses. She did not study Library Sciences to be spoken down to like this. “Yeah, because they’re old. So we keep them in the archives,” she said as patronizingly as possible.
“Then maybe I’ll have to come back?”
“Maybe.”
Bette is about to walk past Barbara to get checked out when she stops. “Oh, wait, Barbie?”
“Not my name,” Barbara mutters under her breath. But she twists around so that she’s facing Bette and her bright blue eyes. “You minored in Astronomy right?”
She shakes her head. “No. That was the plan, but I just didn't have the heart for all of the classes and dropped the minor.” There hadn’t been a ton of overlap between Astronomy and Library Sciences for it to be worth paying for the extra credits.
While her Dad made good money, it wasn’t Wayne money. It wasn’t enough. And she had scholarships, but college was expensive and despite herself she had taken out loans for the rest of what her parents and her scholarships wouldn't cover. For the minor she would have needed another too many credits to pay for it to be worth it.
“Still, you must know more than me. Are you busy tomorrow?”
“Well. I’ll be here. Working.”
Bette tilts her head, and once again Barbara is left to wonder what exactly she’s planning. Her ditzy blonde act might have most of the world fooled but there’s the mind of a killer in there. It’s sharp, it’s focused. It’s competitive. What Bette Kane wants, Bette Kane gets.
________________
They’re going for coffee. About a week after Bette started coming by the Library near daily, they’re running to get lunch and coffee at a nearby coffee shop. Barbara doesn’t even know how Bette knew that it’s her favorite, but the woman was the one who suggested it. She walks by Barbara on the street, talking non-stop about nothing in particular.
“Why are you here?” Barbara asks, cutting off whatever Bette has to say about some random interaction she had with a fan the other day. Because Tennis players have hardcore fans, which Barbara could understand for some of them — but not Bette.
Bette bites her lower lip, chewing on it as she thinks. She has a lot of little ticks like that, fiddling with her ring, biting her lips, chewing the inside of her cheek. She’s constantly thinking, constantly wondering. And maybe the only reason Barbara hates her is because she can’t figure out what about. What could Bette be constantly churning in her mind, can it really move that fast?
“Grandfather Kane,” Bette starts, and it’s slow, thought out. “He’s not doing well. The doctors don’t know what’s wrong. They’re not sure what we’re working with, but it’s likely that it’s not good. So I’m up here to help Kate with this and that.” She shakes her head as if it’s nothing to worry about.
But it is something to worry about. Barbara notices the way that Bette’s shoulders tense, how her back straightens out, how she seems to freeze at the notion of her Grandfather being ill. And Barbara’s almost surprised that she hasn’t heard about any of this before. Though she supposes it makes sense, until they know what is they’ll want to keep it out of the news. They’ve probably gotten Bette up here visiting family to distract from General Kane’s ill health.
Bruce and the rest of the Waynes are not very close with Jacob Kane. He still blames the Waynes for the death of Martha, and he’s never gotten over that rift with his nephew. So Barbara hasn’t seen much of him due to her familiarity with the Waynes. Even when the retired General had come over to talk to her father, he tended to ignore Barbara. Which was fine.
Since Kate got into being Batwoman, things have been smoothed over with the younger generations. But Barbara knows what it’s like to fear the loss of a loved one. She knows what the unknown is like. She can empathize.
“I’m sorry.”
Bette dabs at her eyes with her knuckles so as to not ruin her makeup. “You’re fine.” She sighs out as laugh, one that Barbara knows from spending too much time with Dick Grayson to not be able to identify. It’s the laugh of someone hiding something.
It’s funny how mannerisms can be passed through families like that.
There’s a cold sharp wind that blows across the rather empty Gotham streets. Sure cars and buses and bikes zip past them. Sure there’s a few people on the sidewalks, but it’s calm. It’s steady. There’s a rhythm to it that Barbara can’t quite place.
“Hey, Coffee’s on me.” She offers.
Bette smiles. “Nonsense. I have more money than I know what to do with.” She opens the door, Barbara rolls through with a scrunch of her nose. There it is again, the humble bragging. She’s earned most of the money she has though, and that’s… that’s noble.
The Kane fortune has not passed hands like the Wayne one has. Jacob Kane is still the sole owner of most of it, and while he makes sure that all of the Kane line is comfortable. He’s been a proponent for making yourself. He provides for the basics, but all extra spending must be earned through hard work and dedication. She almost wonders what that would be like — having billions right there but just out of reach.
“Thanks,” Barbara mutters.
The coffee shop is a cozy thing, lined with plants on plants on plants. Any other place in Gotham would never dare, not with Ivy wandering the streets, but Ivy is only a threat if you don’t take care of your plants. These plants are well taken care of. They’re lush, green, and anyone could tell that they’re happy. The benches are made with recycled wood, and the cushions are upcycled.
Its coffee is also really good, plus they offer other items like smoothies and premade sandwiches in small boxes, but they’re still good. Plus they’re accessible, something that Barbara noticed a lot more once she started using a wheelchair. They’re door isn’t a struggle to lift her wheelchair over, the door is actually wide enough for her wheelchair to fit through.
Bette goes ahead and orders for the both of them. But she gets Barbara’s exact order, down to the particulars of her coffee (two shots espresso Latte, with a pump of vanilla syrup and a pump of raspberry). When did that happen? And why does it make her heart race?
No.
She refuses to even entertain that possibility. She curls her hands around the pushrims of her wheelchair. She takes a deep breath and makes her way over to a table that the shop has set up just for her. She leans back, trying to calm the echoing roar of her heart by taking deep breaths. It’s almost futile. Almost.
Before Bette gets back with their sandwiches, Barbara manages to get her wits about her again. But bette comes back with the sandwiches and leaves again to grab the coffee. Barbara has to take a deep breath as she watches her flannel skirt twirl around her. This is not happening. Bette’s outfit today is just as prim and proper as always. A plaid skirt that’s shades of red and brown, with a matching short tie, a brown waistcoat all over a white collared shirt with puffy short sleeves.
Barbara can make out a small tattoo that peeks out from the end of her left shoulder, it looks like teh start of some sort of flower. But she can’t figure out what. She has an idea, of course she has an idea. But it’s not her business. It doesn’t matter to her. And maybe if she keeps saying that, it’ll happen. Maybe, if she keeps thinking it all the other thoughts will magically vanish.
“So. Barbara,” this puts Barbara on edge. Because Bette hates calling her by her full name. She calls her Barbie, Babs, Barb, Babsy, every possible combination but never Barbara. Bette circles her finger on the rim of the coffee cup her own latte came in. “There is an ulterior motive here.”
Barbara takes a sip of her Latte, letting the flavors drown out the ‘I knew it’ that sits on the tip of her tongue. Because Bette always has an ulterior motive. She has too. Why else would she have been spending so much time with her? What could it be?
Sure, Barbara had her own plethora of theories, but the more she got the more crazed and nonsensical they became. It’s like an obsession. She’s been over all the data, combed over the facts, made about a zillion different spreadsheets. It didn’t take long for Barbara to assume that it had nothing or at the least very little to do with vigilante stuff.
Despite Bette being in Gotham for the better part of a month at this point, she has shown up once as Flamebird when Batwoman failed to show up to her regular routes. Now, it seems that everything’s falling into place. While Kate continues her stint as Batwoman, Bette is making sure things run smoothly during the day for the family. It alleviates the stress so that Kate can continue her duties as one of the pillars of Gotham’s vigilante family.
“Though you knew that,” Bette smiles, bouncing her leg under the table. “Of course you knew that.” Bette sighs. “I haven’t found my soulmate. It’s not a secret. Nor a surprise, but I am supposed to make an appearance at one of my Grandfathers gala’s in his stead. He’s currently bed bound and he is not taking it well.”
Barbara sets down her cup. She can hear that flickering of the electronic flames, the sound that they play to make it more realistic. There’s the whirring of the machines, the chatter of other patrons, but everything seems to quiet in comparison to Bette’s words. Barbara can only look at her lips as she speaks, focused on every word. “So what do you need from me?”
“A date.” Before Barbara can get in a word, Bette cuts her off. “Wait! Not. A real one. I understand you and I have never seen eye to eye. But I need someone at my side who the paparazzi can geek about. They need someone to put on the front page. And I need someone to see through the bullshit of the rest of the Gotham socialites.”
It’s not surprising that Bette points out the paparazzi, it’d be a scandal. The Bette Kane? With a soulmate? And to pick out Barbara, a notable Gotham figure who also hasn’t found her soulmate is a perfect pick. Normally, Bette would just take Dick with her as her plus one, but it seems that this requires a bigger stunt than just taking family. She needs to draw the media’s attention.,
Whatever is going on with General Kane is worse than Bette lets on, especially if he’s bed bound.
“And what’s in it for me.”
“Well, obviously, I’ll pay for everything. Dress, dinner, corsage, transportation. Everything. I’m also willing to give you an IOU. Deal?”
Barbara thinks it over, or she at least pretends too. Despite herself, she knows that she would have always said yes. There’s no doubt in her mind, Bette didn’t even need to beg for it. Barbara isn’t able to do field work anymore, but that doesn’t mean that her bleeding heart has stopped bleeding. No. Dinah and Dick could attest to that.
“You’ve got yourself a deal, Princess.”
“Princess?”
“Well obviously, if we’re pretending to be soulmates we need to be close.” Barbara leans forward over the table, careful to not spill the coffee that still steams, largely forgotten, in its green cup.
Bette leans forward too, their lips almost touching. “If that’s how it’s going to be, Babe. Bring it on.”
____________________
Barbara isn’t even sure that she needed to send Bette her measurements at all. The dress arrives too fast after she fires the text. Either she already knew, or she got express shipping. And in this family? She wouldn’t have been surprised if Bette did have her measurements. She pretends to be a different breed of vigilante because she largely works out of Titans west — but She’s part of the Batfamily even if no one addresses it directly.
She had some requirements for her dress, things that Bette had actually taken into account. Barbara looks at the dresses as they’re laid out on her bed. They’re all a vivid shade of red, a shade of red that looks too familiar to Bette’s Flamebird costume for it to be anything but intentional.
The first requirement is that it had to be a certain length, any longer and the fabric would drag over the floor. It looks like, at least from a glance, they all fit that requirement, they’re all the exact same length. She also required that her soulmark would be covered, if they’re going to pull this ruse then their actual soulmarks couldn’t show. The last requirement was that the dresses couldn’t be that full. The more fluff, the harder pushing her wheelchair becomes, and she’d rather die than sacrifice mobility for an outfit – she rarely did it when she could walk. High heels before her incident was the biggest no-go Barbara had.
But all of the requirements appear satiated. She can’t tell if that’s endearing or not. It’s either endearing, or it’s creepy.
Barbara still remembers the first time she met Bette. It was at a Teen Titans meeting, and while Batgirl had never been part of the Teen Titans, Dick had invited her because they were dating at the time, which made it a bit awkward because Kori had already had feelings for Dick but she didn’t understand Soulmarks and Dick had still only been going by Robin and not Richard. And it was a whole mess.
The point is, Barbara had shown up as Batgirl. Bette had shown up as Bat-girl, matching Dick’s color palette and everything. She had grabbed some punch, as they were too young to drink technically, but there was a spiked bowl for anyone interested. “Oh,” Bette had tilted her head. “You’re the copycat.”
“Copycat?” Barbara had almost laughed out loud.
And still that moment had stuck. Because Bette insisted on dragging Dick and her aside so they could talk without having to deal with the rest of the group eavesdropping. She wanted to introduce herself outside of costume, she wanted to meet Barbara as Barbara.
It’s then that her eyes had lit up, and Barbara can still see it, the moment where everything good that might have existed between them burnt up. It was like a flame, torching down everything good around her. What other choice did the flame have? Because whatever Bette had thought in that moment hadn’t been good.
Now, Barbara doesn’t know what to think. She checks over the tags on each of the dresses with care and they’re all so expensive? She briefly had forgotten that Bette had been a tennis prodigy, and despite having won olympic gold in just tennis, she also compared to olympic gymnasts in skill and was a martial artist. She’s dedicated to being a vigilante on the west coast.
She lets her mind wander as she tries on each dress. Because Flamebird’s costume is skin tight, and Barbara can almost see Bette’s six pack in her mind’s eye. She shakes it though, ignoring the thoughts and pushing them to the back of her thoughts, because that’s not important .
What’s important is that she thought that in that moment, all those years ago she had made an enemy. But now, she’s trying on multiple thousand dollar dresses all given to her by the one person she had thought hated her. It doesn’t make sense. She pushes up her glasses and feels the urge to flop against her bed.
In the end she settles on a single sleeved bodycon dress that flares out slightly at the bottom. It’s got a single sheer sleeve that puffs up and cinches at the wrist. The neckline of the dress is asymmetrical, so it covers her soulmark which sits on her right collarbone. The neckline is lined with gold and bejewled with other precious stones. She takes a picture of it and sends it to Bette, with the caption ‘this one’, Bette replies with a thumbs up.
She’s got the go ahead from Bette to send the others back, so she could return them. She then sent a winking emoji and Barbara had to rub her face. This back and forth is confusing, the constant struggle between understanding and not.
Desperately, Barbara wants to understand Bette’s motives, her ethics, her morals. They all fall away when they’re in the same room. Because all Barbara can see is her , the star Olympian, the supermodel, the kind and loving and charitable girl that has to be a persona for the public. Barbara believes in good, she believes in good people, she has too, she’s a hero.
But she’s known heroes who are awful behind the mask. She has met heroes who are in it for the fame and the bravado and she’s met Heroes who really shouldn’t be heroes at all. Of course the Batfamily, to her, has always been different. Call her biased for it, but the Bat’s have to work over time no matter where they are. They have no powers, but what they do have is a twisted city.
To keep the city from rotting like it wants too they have to work as vigilantes for good and as civil servants, and maybe Barbara hates Bette because she can’t quite understand how you grow up anywhere else and have that same kind of drive and determination behind the mask.
Maybe she’s just ignorant.
Maybe she’s selfish.
Maybe she just really wants Bette to kiss her.
And fuck that thought comes out of nowhere, barrelling into her like a truck. She presses herself against her chair, holding her warm face in her hands. This woman is so good, that she defies all precedents that Barbara has erected for people. She doesn’t have a persona, at least not one as obvious as Bruce and Dick’s, and that’s infuriating. And it’s kind of hot.
She’s kind of hot.
But she is not Barbara’s soulmate, and she seems like she’s trying to find hers to at least get the media off of her back. So there's no point falling for someone with their heart somewhere else.
___________________
The gala takes place in an observatory, one of Barbara’s favorite places in Gotham. She’s glad that they’re holding it there, inspiring better restoration of the older site. It’s one of those learning facilities that would be sad to see go, but that has been on decline for years. Any place extraordinary is set apart in Gotham, there's always rampant fear that it’ll be taken over by some sort of costumed, themed villain.
Not the observatory, not yet.
Bette apologized earlier via text that she was running late and would have to take a second car there, meeting her at the venue.
It’s a little odd, Barbara thinks, to roll herself down the red carpet without her date. She shakes off the feeling, posing for the paparazzi in her dress and taking their rather invasive questions in grace. It’s a long uphill ramp into the main hall of the observatory, but one that Barbara has taken countless times before.
Before she could make it into the event she’s saved by hoots and hollers crying Bette’s name. Barbara turns around, a pounding in her chest when she sees what Bette is wearing. They’re mostly matching. Bette’s dress is green, Oracle green, with a single, sheer, tulle sleeve. The body of her dress is more dressy, not body tight but rather flowing with a lot of tulle. There’s a slit up one of her thighs and Barbara can’t help but stare.
Yes, she’s staring at Bette’s thigh, but then the realization hits her. It’s slow at first, but a realization that takes hold of her nonetheless. Because Bette’s sleeve is mirroring Barbara’s, because Bette’s soulmark is visible. Because Bette’s soulmark are the initials B.G. Barbara Gordon. But it’s not, because Barbara’s mark isn’t B.K. It’s not Bette. Bette iusn’t her soulmark which means that Bette’s fucking using her.
And that was fine when it was almost mutual. When Bette didn’t know who her soulmate was and so she asked Barbara because well, Barbara’s a big local name and even has some beyond local recognition for her activism and charity and that stint she did with competitive gymnastics when she was younger. It had made sense, and now it was too perfect.
Because Bette is pretending to have found her soulmate. She’s pretending that it’s Barbara for the press. And there’s a lot of things Barbara is willing to do, and she didn’t care about finding her soulmate, but someone pretending that she’s their soulmate is fucked on a whole nother level.
She has to put up with it for the night though, that’s what she tells herself. They can’t make a scene in public, if this goes wrong then the charity goes awry, and then everything falls apart, so maybe her trained camera smile is a bit strange when Bette walks up to Barbara, leans down and presses a quick and chaste kiss to her lips. It’s nothing more than skin meeting skin, there’s no emotion.
It’s cold.
“Sorry I’m late, Babe,” Bette says. She licks her lips and waves to the cameras. “Shall we go inside?”
But Barbara is just staring at her initials on Bette’s collarbone. She’s staring at her dreams come true, at all of those fantasies that she’s been chasing off for the past couple of weeks. It’s like a knife, twisting deeper and deeper. With each breath she takes it burns, like poison settling in her stomach as she rolls into the venue next to Bette.
They make small talk with big time investors, Barbara explaining away why she never told the public about her soulmate and Bette doing much the same. There’s a few moments where Bette leverages the inherent misogyny in rich men, kissing Barbara just for them to cut a check as their fetishes are fulfilled.
Used.
It’s a lot of explaining how they had never seen each other’s soulmarks before Bette came back to Gotham — spinning the sob story with her grandfather to somehow be even more tragic so that people will give more. It’s all about social engineering, playing people like pieces on a chess board. But everyone else is playing checkers while Bette con’s them out of millions.
Barbara licks her lips, watching as the body of Bette’s dress flares and twists with Bette's languid movements. She knows social engineering, you’d be hard pressed to grow up in the limelight and not understand how people work. But what Bette does and says and acts, it’s all another level. She’s media trained, that much is obvious, but it’s also obvious that she’s grown up with old money just from how she interacts with everyone.
There’s sophistication in everything, in every touch that trails across Barbara’s shoulder, every look, every lick of her lips. There’s a certain elegance in how she pretends to sip on the same glass of champagne all night, the level in the cup never getting any lower than halfway filled. She’s got this down to a science.
This is why Barbara hates Bette, she thinks. Because Bette gets what she wants, and she’s good at it. She played Barbara for a fool, and that whole night Barbara let her play like the puppetmaster of her puppet. With each breath her heart races, adrenaline rushing in her veins as she wonders what will happen at the end of the night after none of this is important anymore.
They’ll have to drop the charade, which would have been easier if they didn’t play it like they were actually soulmates.
It all comes to a head, the chandelier twinkling over them, when Bette stands behind Barbara. Each detail sticks out to Barbara, the way that Bette bends over to speak almost in her ear, the way the dance floor shines under the warm candle light. She hears the mutter of the rest of the party, a million conversations all going on at the same time, cascading over each other and intertwining into nothing.
But Bette’s words stick out the most even as they’re said barely loud enough for the couple they’re talking with to hear.
“I remember seeing my initials on Barbara’s skin that first time. It was the slip of the oversized sweaters she loves to wear. It felt sinful, to want something as badly as I did right then and there.” Her fingers trail up Barbara’s sleeve, mocking where Bette’s initials should be.
Where they weren’t.
Nausea claws at Barbara’s stomach like a million butterflies made of knives. She offers a terse smile. “I have to go… freshen up. I’ll be right back.”
She gets out of there as fast as possible. She can’t do it anymore. She can’t have her feelings played with like that. She refuses to be pushed around, for her feelings to be turned into weapons. She will not allow it.
She doesn’t go to the ladies room, she doesn’t freshen up. She heads to the elevator, just a desperate need to get away driving her. Bette runs through the hallway, the loud clacking of her heels against the linoleum tile of the hallways signifying her chase.
“Babs,” she almost sighs. It’s exasperated. Good .
Barbara presses the close button as fast as she can but it’s not fast enough and the doors close with Bette in the elevator with her. “Don’t talk to me.”
But all Bette replies with is, “I owe you an explanation.”
___________________
“What the fuck was that?” Barbara asks. She’s seething. Her heart is beating faster than it has in a long time. The last time she had felt like this was when she and Dinah had dated. It was a rush, the beating of adrenaline in her veins.
Her eyes are affixed onto Bette’s soulmark. On her initials. B.G. And Barbara has long accepted that her own Soulmate was lost to her, but all Bette had to do was put hers out and she would have been able to find someone. Instead she’s here. And she’s making fun of Barbara, taunting her, making feel like she’s 14 with her first crush again. And she can’t stop herself.
She can’t stop herself from staring at Bette, at the way her hair is pinned back, with clips of golden stars twinkling. At the slit in the dress, the way the dress seems to flow and twirl and spin around her. She can’t keep her eyes off of her initials on Bette’s collarbone. And she can’t stop herself from the jealousy that claws at her throat knowing that her initials don’t match. Because this has all just been some sick trick, some sort of scheme. She wants something more, because she always wants more. Barbara was just a stepping stone.
But Bette isn’t responding. She’s gone quiet. She stares up around them. Barbara takes a deep breath, matching the gaze. The gala itself was attached to an observatory, they’ve made it to the observatory. There were telescopes of course. But the sky, how high up they are. It takes Barbara’s breath away. Because this is something she’s missed — being high enough that the Gotham light pollution no longer touches the stars.
She does so love the stars, and space. And, her eyes fall back onto Bette, back onto her effortless beauty. There’s just her, and the stars, and everything that happened before in the gala falls into the back of her mind. It’s just them. And all the feeling and tension that had grown over the month. Because Barbara can admit it. She can admit that Bette is gorgeous, that she’s drop dead stunning. That Barbara has never wished to know her soulmate and she wishes that Bette was her soulmate.
Bette smiles, it’s that small smile that’s followed by the slight bite of her lip. “Do you mind?” She asks. And Barbara knows what she’s asking, and she nods, locking her wheels in place. Bette leans against them, staring up at the stars, and against her better judgment Barbara starts to play with Bette’s hair, running her hand through the strands and it’s so much softer than it looks.
“You don’t like your soulmark,” she says. It’s not that hard to figure out. She’s always hiding it, always avoiding questions about it. She’s making excuses about finding her soulmate. She’s running because she doesn’t want to address it.
She’s scared. She’s scared that as she grows older, as she gives up, she’s losing her chances to meet them — that person who completes her. And it’s stupid, because she doesn’t actually believe that you have to find your soulmate to be complete, she feels fine without one now. But she is Jealous. She sees the excitement, the energy and she feels like she’s missing out.
“Am I really that obvious?”
“I got into Astronomy,” Bette says, changing the topic, so I could have an excuse to hang out at the library. So I could hang out with you, since Dick told me you’re so busy with Work and oracle business.”
Bette wearing Oracle colors tonight, and Barbara wearing Flamebird colors is no coincidence she’s sure. But she still swallows back thick saliva as she tries to quell the blush that grows on her cheeks as heat rises. She tries to focus on the stars, but what’s the point of the stars when the brightest shining one is sitting against her wheelchair, letting her play with her hair.
She doesn’t need to ask why, she’s certain that Bette already knows that that’s the question on her mind. So the two of them fall into easy silence, into a silence that stretches, but doesn’t tense. It’s a nice silence, but one that both of them know cannot ask.
So, despite her reservations, Barbara asks, “Why?” A whisper, like a prayer to a goddess she kneels before.
Bette twists around, getting up on her knees. She runs her fingers over Barbara’s arm, ghosting over the skin and making her shiver. Bette licks her lip, tilting her head. “You hate your Soulmark, Barbie.” She leans her head against Barbara’s arm, eyes fixated on where Barbara’s soulmark sits. “So I got you a dress that covers it, and that killed a part of me.”
And still that question repeats like a chant in her mind. Why? Why? Why? Because. Because the simplest answer is usually the right one, and Barbara has been staring the simplest answer in the face since the coffee shop, since the library, since as long as she’s known Bette. Because there's a reason she hates Bette, and there’s a reason Bette doesn’t seem to hate her. And Barbara can’t figure out when she put it together or how it’s even possible.
She tries to press herself into the back of her wheelchair, to disappear, but with Bette’s free arm she pushes back the sleeve, and the fabric of Barbara’s dress shifts enough that her soulmark is visible.
Bette traces over the letters with her nails, and Barbara is stuck there, mouth agape as Bette speaks. “M.E.K. You know I’ve known it since the first time I met you. Not many people report about me with my full name.” Each letter as she spells it out for Barbara, “Mary Elizabeth Kane.” She places a hand on Barbara’s thigh and she wished to all gods that she could feel it. “I like your soulmark, because they’re mine.”
“Bette,” Barbara rasps. And that’s it, Bette initiates it, but Barbara leans into it.
And they’re kissing, it’s a chaste and gentle thing at first. “Barbara,” Bette says in the exact same intonation.
“Fuck.” She hisses. And Barbara is leaning down, grabbing Bette’s head and kissing her. She doesn’t know what happens but Bette ends up on Barbara’s lap, hands behind her neck as they mess out, it’s hot and messy and fuck it if either of them care. “I fucking hate you.”
“I love you too,” Bette whispers against her neck and shit. Fucking shit, this is not going to be good for her.
But she also doesn’t care anymore. She doesn’t care because she has the world sitting on her lap. Their futures are unsure, but Barbara is sure of the now. She is sure of her hands as they settle on Bette’s waist, on the feeling of their hands on each other on the way that their mouths meet with passion and fervor. She’s certain of the now. Of the way that Bette’s dress splays out over her wheelchair.
The stars shine down on them, illuminating this moment in cold light. Imprinting this moment in her mind forever.