Fourth World fic: Caught (Barda/Scott)
Jun. 22nd, 2011 06:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seriousficTitle: Caught
Fandom: Fourth World
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,977
Characters/Pairings: Barda/Scott
Summary: Barda has tried to capture Scott for years. But when she's recalled to Apokolips, Scott's ready to let himself be caught.
Scott had invaded Darkseid's earthly outpost (and thus, Barda's home) three times since their little game of cat and mouse had started. The first was because he "really, really needed" a Hellspore. The second was to give her a birthday present. She still didn't know how he'd known that it was her birthday. Or that she wanted an elegant Japanese katana to balance out the Bolovaxian chain-sword in her weapons room.
The third time was a day after she was ordered back to Apokolips. She was exhaustively packing up and categorizing her things for High Command (she had no idea how to explain the katana) when she walked into the rec room to find he'd already boxed up her DVD box sets of ER.
"Hey," he said.
Barda felt the stubbornly insistent urge to reach for her Mega-Rod, since he was an enemy, after all. Technically. Sorta. Still, he wasn't a threat, and she'd hate to be… rude. "What are you doing here, Free?"
"Helping you move. It's a thing friends do."
He struggled to lift a box and she snatched it out of his hands.
"We're not friends. I am hunting you down so that I can return you to Apokolips and your proper punishment. For three years you've eluded me."
"What about the time we were trapped on War World and I got us out? I'm hurt you don't remember that."
"When I hurt you, it won't be emotional."
"Not a 'thank you,' what a surprise." Scott set out pulling down books from the shelf. "Nietzsche, Machiavelli… Stephenie Meyer? Oh, Barda."
"Desaad wanted me to get him a copy. You know how he is." Barda slapped his hand off it. "Are you not worried that I will give you brain damage enough to last until I haul your miserable carcass back to his tender mercies?"
"Well, you don't have orders to. You never do anything without orders."
Barda scowled. Lately, capturing Scott had gone from secondary objective to… well, honestly, he was a thorn in her side. Nothing more. It just didn't seem all that important that he be under Darkseid's thumb, even when the man consistently got in the way of her supplying the Anti-Life Equation to her lord and master.
He kept her sharp. Yes. That was it.
"It doesn't matter now," she said with a huff. "As I've always said, you're irrelevant. A meaningless mote that can neither subtract or add to the perfection of Darkseid's vision for—"
"Yeah, you wanna get drinks? Sorry to interrupt, but it sounded like you were going to go on for a while and I cannot take the hail-Darkseid speech without a scotch in my hand."
Barda blinked, not so much in surprise at the interruption (it was practically Scott's trademark) but because: "You drink scotch?"
"Don't look so surprised."
To her shame, Barda realized she was considering it. She grabbed the box Scott had been filling, heedlessly dropped a few books on military history inside, and added it to the pile. "I do not fraternize with the enemy!"
"What do you call the last five minutes?"
"Negotiating your eventual and inevitable surrender."
"Okay, let's do that. With alcohol."
"Alcohol makes it fraternization!"
Scott did that thing she hated where he got all sincere and puppy dog eyes and spoke in a low voice that made her think about babies. "Barda. You just lost your job. We might not ever see each other again. You need to process this stuff or it'll all pile up and turn neurotic and before you know it, you'll be dressed like a bat and fighting crime or something. So let's go have a few drinks, shoot a little shit (I don't mean that literally), and unwind."
She couldn't say no to that face. She'd tried. "One drink."
***
Nine drinks later, Barda was laughing her ass off. Scott could be pretty funny when she wasn't trying to get some manacles on him.
And he knew some great bars. So far, they'd been in two of them. Someone in the first one had made a lewd offer and after Barda had made her counteroffer (through a window), they'd had to take their business elsewhere.
So now they were in a place called Warrior's where at long last the drinks weren't watered down. The jukebox was playing something called rock and roll, which had a hard enough beat not to give her a headache, and the management didn't let anyone get drunk enough to forget she was 6"7 with more muscles than the middle of Ryan Reynolds.
"Okay," Barda said, gathering herself. A warrior of Darkseid should always comport herself with dignity. "Okay, okay, okay… how did you escape from the liquid-fire trap? I worked hard on that."
"Picked the lock."
"Obviously. But the Rings of Arjin turned your fingerbones to jelly."
"I used my tongue."
Barda laughed and ordered another drink.
"It's not funny. Tumblers do not taste good."
Barda slapped him on the back, inadvertently propelling him off his stool and into the bar, where he spilled his drink. That made her laugh harder.
"Okay, cracked a rib," Scott wheezed, "that's when I call it a night."
"Man up, Scott. Not like it pierced your lung. Barkeep, give him something for the pain."
"Make it a double," Scott said, easing back into his seat. "You play rough, Barda."
"You love it."
Scott looked chagrinned. He nursed his new drink instead of knocking it back along with her. He'd better not be getting sad drunk on me, Barda thought. I'll kiss him.
Kill him.
What was that first one again?
"I just had a crazy thought," Scott announced, peering at her through his glass. "You don't have to go."
"Yes, I do. I have orders."
"Orders schmorders."
"Nice counter."
"I'm serious. I'm taking a drink but I'm serious." Scott sipped. "Yeah, you should tell your boss to go screw himself and stay. We can drink more," he added in what was clearly meant as a tempting tone.
"My boss. Screw himself."
"Yup."
"Great Darkseid, God of Evil, Master of Oppression and the Trodder upon Useless Truths?"
"Yuuuuuuup. We could… doing this. You hunting me. Me running. I like running. It always takes me somewhere…"
"And if I caught you, what would I do? Having told my boss, who wants you, to screw himself?"
"I haven't really thought about it." Scott was a horrible liar.
Barda grabbed his hand and put it on her breast.
He squeezed.
"Let's get out of here," she said.
***
Scott's apartment was depressingly lived-in. Barda had spartan living quarters, no art on the walls, no paper out of place, but while Scott could only possibly have moved in a few weeks ago, already his living room was littered with fliers and scribbled notes and he had a stereo. Barda wanted a stereo. Why didn't she have a stereo?
"So there was something important I was going to say," Scott was saying, while Barda stared at a stereo, wondering why it was denying itself to her. "Something something… it is possible getting boozed up to say this was not one of my better plans. On the whole, I'm a great planner. Alright. Okay…" He closed his eyes and refused to let his mind think about escape routes or mouths without lipstick until it put the words on his tongue. "You're too beautiful and too good and too… Barda to keep doing this. You're going to end up either dead or someone like Desaad or Granny and I want you to stay. I want you to stay just like you are. Maybe that isn't good enough for you, but it is for me and I love you."
"Prove it." It was a simple statement, delivered with surprising huskiness, even for Barda, and it made him open his eyes.
"Are you naked? You seem very nakedish. I'd hate to think that was just me."
Barda ran a hand over her body. She touched everything Scott wanted to. "Do you have a bed somewhere or is this happening on the floor?"
He blinked a few times. It didn't help. "You're drunk."
"I'm counting that as a vote for floor. Glad it's unanimous."
She walked over to him and he stopped her, his hand carefully on her shoulder. "I said you're drunk."
"Are you saying I can't handle my liquor? I, Big Barda, soldier of Apokolips, vassal of Darkseid, commander of the Female Flurries—"
"Female Flurries?"
"What?"
"You said Female Flurries."
Barda paused to take in this new information. "I'm their commander, I can call them what I want!"
"You're drunk," Scott repeated. It was very important information, he had to keep hold of it, especially with Barda right there, wanting him to forget. "You're drunk and you don't want this."
"You want this," Barda countered. Her hand seized his crotch and he felt a certain relief and a certain increased tension, being in her hand. "I can feel your want."
"Barda—"
"You're all about democracy, right? Well, me and this both want it. Two against one. Majority rules." She applied pressure until he was on the floor and then, like she was disassembling a rifle, she had his belt off and his fly down.
Scott kicked away, scooting down the floor as Barda crawled after him on all fours, the chase knocking over endtables and floor lamps. He wondered if this would've struck anyone else as absurd.
"All the times you've had the upper hand and let me live, saved me even… you think I haven't thought about it?" Barda finally backed Scott against the wall, where she kept him cornered, gazing into his eyes for some kind of simpatico feeling. "It grates at me."
"I don't kill anyone," Scott protested.
Barda moved closer, but now she kept abreast of him, insouciantly keeping their bodies from colliding until they were face to face. "Yeah… yeah, I know." Up close, her eyes were glass that Scott had breathed on. Fogging up. "You're a funny guy. Wanna hear something funny? No one's ever treated me as kind or decent… fair as you do. And you don't even like me. It's just what everyone gets from you."
"I like you," Scott said. He had more to say, but Barda kissed him then. Even sloppy and forceful and tasting like a keg, he felt his heard start to pound, his lungs go for all the air they could fit, his blood zip through his veins. He could stay calm while locked in a vault falling out an airplane, but not for this.
She stopped, tried to start again. He turned his head away and her lips, her face were against his cheek. Barda's eyes closed. She stayed immersed in his feel.
"I just don't want to give you an excuse to leave," he told Barda.
"Scott… do you know how many times I let you go?"
Even drunk, he scoffed.
"I justified it a hundred different ways to myself… let's do this. Let's do this and get out of each others' heads."
"I don't want you out of my head." Scott awkwardly moved his arms to cross her back, pulling her down delicately into an embrace. Not erotic, but something else, just as strong. Barda closed her eyes and felt it rush in. "Did you hear what I told you before?"
Barda grinned sleepily. "You said I was beautiful."
"And you're not Desaad and you're not a granny, you're Barda, and… this is where you belong."
"With you." It was so muffled, Scott didn't know if it was a question or an answer.
He didn't know whether to confirm or deny, and by the time he thought of something to say, Barda was snoring in her sleep, facedown on his chest. Her weight pinning him down.
Scott looked around for an escape route. He would never live it down if Barda figured out that all she'd ever needed to do to capture him was be the big spoon.
***
Barda woke up with a splitting headache, but she'd been trained to resist pain. More pressingly, Scott was gone. In his place, a pillow had been given to her to cuddle and, in some cases, drool on. She threw it across the room. A blanket had also been draped over her nude form and just for that, Barda tossed it aside and walked naked back to her clothes.
Which were now laundered and neatly folded, next to a note and a tall glass of something green. Barda took the note. It was written in Scott's unaccountably frilly handwriting.
B—
Had to run. In case you don't remember, nothing happened. And relax, I'm hardly a big enough gossip to repeat this to anyone. The glass has a hangover cure that Hal swears by, and if anyone knows about getting drunk, it's him. There's cereal in the pantry, or Pop Tarts by the toaster. I'll be back soon. Stay if you want to talk.
Barda drank the concoction. Its taste made her glad she'd been trained to resist pain. She washed it down with tap water, cupping her hands under the faucet and drinking from them, then made Pop Tarts. She refused to dirty any dishes. Scott would see them and have a snapshot of her presence and that wouldn't do. She wouldn't be obliged to him. And she wouldn't dirty a plate and then wash it, that was just insane.
She ate, took great pleasure in disposing of the wrapper, drank some more water, and went to take a cold shower. Standing with her mouth open under the showerhead eradicated the last traces of Hal's cure. She got out and looked at Scott's clean towels with disdain.
She only shivered a little as she dripped dry, finally getting dressed when ten minutes had passed without a drop of water leaving her. Scott still wasn't home. He'd probably gone on the run. It was the smart thing. He'd compromised his location. He'd have to be some kind of idiot to come back, especially knowing that she was there.
She walked through his apartment. Cramped and cozy. He hadn't finished unpacking—a small victory. Barda paged through one of the unopened boxes. It'd probably give her information useful to Great Darkseid or something.
Inside were photographs. Scott with people—longshoremen, boxers, firemen. They always smiled when they were with him. Barda thought about how many mementos she would have of smiling people if she were that cloyingly sentimental. It was a small number. Maybe Lashina, if Lashina ever smiled.
***
Scott came home to find Barda sitting on his couch, playing with his Motherbox. He couldn't help it; a grin stretched his face out. "Well, hey, look who's here…"
"You asked me to stay," she said, standing and tossing his Motherbox aside. "Then you left for at least five hours."
"I didn't want things to be awkward. In case you had to leave."
"Is that working out well?"
"I got Chinese food. From China." He held up the bag in his hand. "Plus, I promised to feed and walk this guy's dog while he was out of the country. The dog can't feed himself, Barda."
"You like running," she said dully. The door was right in front of her and she made a beeline for it. "This was a mistake."
Scott dropped the bag in his haste to close the door in front of her.
"You dare—"
"I meant what I said last night," Scott said quickly.
"Really? And what was that?"
And she'd finally found the one thing he wouldn't be flustered by. "I love you. You're a good person and you deserve better than being Darkseid's lapdog."
"I deserve being your lapdog?"
"Do you really think for one minute I would treat you like he does? Like any of them do?"
He was staring at her. Most people she met either looked down at her or tried to avoid making eye contact. He looked into her.
She could give it all up. All the honors she'd accrued, all the respect she'd earned, the titles, the castle, the underlings scurrying to curry her favor. For what? Him? So she could walk down the street and have irritating pockets of humanity smiling at her? So she'd never have to follow a distasteful order again? So he'd never again look at her with shame or pity or hurt, even for a moment?
So they could stop playing this game?
He was still looking at her, on pins and needles for her response. He wouldn't try to sway her, cajole her, bribe her. He'd said all that could be said and they both knew she was smart enough to know the stakes.
"If you're going to kiss me, damn well kiss me," she told him, barely finishing the sentence before he was.
She lost track of time, but at some point he was pulling away from her, trying to catch his breath. "Wait… wait… I should put the food in the refrigerator, that's why I bought a refrigerator…" She picked him up and carried him toward the bedroom. "And I should probably tweet that you're good now, otherwise someone might come by and think you're holding me hostage or something." Wait, did he have a bedroom, or did he sleep on the couch?
The floor was close enough. And it had a rug. Perfect.
"Should I write this down?" Barda asked, dropping him. "Because you're not going to get to it for a while. Might slip your mind."
Scott opened his mouth to say something, but for some reason, her taking her clothes off stopped him from continuing.
With a wide, satisfied, soon-to-be-more-satisfied smile, Barda bent down and pinned Scott's hands to the ground.
"I told you. If I wanted to catch you, I'd catch you."
Fandom: Fourth World
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,977
Characters/Pairings: Barda/Scott
Summary: Barda has tried to capture Scott for years. But when she's recalled to Apokolips, Scott's ready to let himself be caught.
Scott had invaded Darkseid's earthly outpost (and thus, Barda's home) three times since their little game of cat and mouse had started. The first was because he "really, really needed" a Hellspore. The second was to give her a birthday present. She still didn't know how he'd known that it was her birthday. Or that she wanted an elegant Japanese katana to balance out the Bolovaxian chain-sword in her weapons room.
The third time was a day after she was ordered back to Apokolips. She was exhaustively packing up and categorizing her things for High Command (she had no idea how to explain the katana) when she walked into the rec room to find he'd already boxed up her DVD box sets of ER.
"Hey," he said.
Barda felt the stubbornly insistent urge to reach for her Mega-Rod, since he was an enemy, after all. Technically. Sorta. Still, he wasn't a threat, and she'd hate to be… rude. "What are you doing here, Free?"
"Helping you move. It's a thing friends do."
He struggled to lift a box and she snatched it out of his hands.
"We're not friends. I am hunting you down so that I can return you to Apokolips and your proper punishment. For three years you've eluded me."
"What about the time we were trapped on War World and I got us out? I'm hurt you don't remember that."
"When I hurt you, it won't be emotional."
"Not a 'thank you,' what a surprise." Scott set out pulling down books from the shelf. "Nietzsche, Machiavelli… Stephenie Meyer? Oh, Barda."
"Desaad wanted me to get him a copy. You know how he is." Barda slapped his hand off it. "Are you not worried that I will give you brain damage enough to last until I haul your miserable carcass back to his tender mercies?"
"Well, you don't have orders to. You never do anything without orders."
Barda scowled. Lately, capturing Scott had gone from secondary objective to… well, honestly, he was a thorn in her side. Nothing more. It just didn't seem all that important that he be under Darkseid's thumb, even when the man consistently got in the way of her supplying the Anti-Life Equation to her lord and master.
He kept her sharp. Yes. That was it.
"It doesn't matter now," she said with a huff. "As I've always said, you're irrelevant. A meaningless mote that can neither subtract or add to the perfection of Darkseid's vision for—"
"Yeah, you wanna get drinks? Sorry to interrupt, but it sounded like you were going to go on for a while and I cannot take the hail-Darkseid speech without a scotch in my hand."
Barda blinked, not so much in surprise at the interruption (it was practically Scott's trademark) but because: "You drink scotch?"
"Don't look so surprised."
To her shame, Barda realized she was considering it. She grabbed the box Scott had been filling, heedlessly dropped a few books on military history inside, and added it to the pile. "I do not fraternize with the enemy!"
"What do you call the last five minutes?"
"Negotiating your eventual and inevitable surrender."
"Okay, let's do that. With alcohol."
"Alcohol makes it fraternization!"
Scott did that thing she hated where he got all sincere and puppy dog eyes and spoke in a low voice that made her think about babies. "Barda. You just lost your job. We might not ever see each other again. You need to process this stuff or it'll all pile up and turn neurotic and before you know it, you'll be dressed like a bat and fighting crime or something. So let's go have a few drinks, shoot a little shit (I don't mean that literally), and unwind."
She couldn't say no to that face. She'd tried. "One drink."
***
Nine drinks later, Barda was laughing her ass off. Scott could be pretty funny when she wasn't trying to get some manacles on him.
And he knew some great bars. So far, they'd been in two of them. Someone in the first one had made a lewd offer and after Barda had made her counteroffer (through a window), they'd had to take their business elsewhere.
So now they were in a place called Warrior's where at long last the drinks weren't watered down. The jukebox was playing something called rock and roll, which had a hard enough beat not to give her a headache, and the management didn't let anyone get drunk enough to forget she was 6"7 with more muscles than the middle of Ryan Reynolds.
"Okay," Barda said, gathering herself. A warrior of Darkseid should always comport herself with dignity. "Okay, okay, okay… how did you escape from the liquid-fire trap? I worked hard on that."
"Picked the lock."
"Obviously. But the Rings of Arjin turned your fingerbones to jelly."
"I used my tongue."
Barda laughed and ordered another drink.
"It's not funny. Tumblers do not taste good."
Barda slapped him on the back, inadvertently propelling him off his stool and into the bar, where he spilled his drink. That made her laugh harder.
"Okay, cracked a rib," Scott wheezed, "that's when I call it a night."
"Man up, Scott. Not like it pierced your lung. Barkeep, give him something for the pain."
"Make it a double," Scott said, easing back into his seat. "You play rough, Barda."
"You love it."
Scott looked chagrinned. He nursed his new drink instead of knocking it back along with her. He'd better not be getting sad drunk on me, Barda thought. I'll kiss him.
Kill him.
What was that first one again?
"I just had a crazy thought," Scott announced, peering at her through his glass. "You don't have to go."
"Yes, I do. I have orders."
"Orders schmorders."
"Nice counter."
"I'm serious. I'm taking a drink but I'm serious." Scott sipped. "Yeah, you should tell your boss to go screw himself and stay. We can drink more," he added in what was clearly meant as a tempting tone.
"My boss. Screw himself."
"Yup."
"Great Darkseid, God of Evil, Master of Oppression and the Trodder upon Useless Truths?"
"Yuuuuuuup. We could… doing this. You hunting me. Me running. I like running. It always takes me somewhere…"
"And if I caught you, what would I do? Having told my boss, who wants you, to screw himself?"
"I haven't really thought about it." Scott was a horrible liar.
Barda grabbed his hand and put it on her breast.
He squeezed.
"Let's get out of here," she said.
***
Scott's apartment was depressingly lived-in. Barda had spartan living quarters, no art on the walls, no paper out of place, but while Scott could only possibly have moved in a few weeks ago, already his living room was littered with fliers and scribbled notes and he had a stereo. Barda wanted a stereo. Why didn't she have a stereo?
"So there was something important I was going to say," Scott was saying, while Barda stared at a stereo, wondering why it was denying itself to her. "Something something… it is possible getting boozed up to say this was not one of my better plans. On the whole, I'm a great planner. Alright. Okay…" He closed his eyes and refused to let his mind think about escape routes or mouths without lipstick until it put the words on his tongue. "You're too beautiful and too good and too… Barda to keep doing this. You're going to end up either dead or someone like Desaad or Granny and I want you to stay. I want you to stay just like you are. Maybe that isn't good enough for you, but it is for me and I love you."
"Prove it." It was a simple statement, delivered with surprising huskiness, even for Barda, and it made him open his eyes.
"Are you naked? You seem very nakedish. I'd hate to think that was just me."
Barda ran a hand over her body. She touched everything Scott wanted to. "Do you have a bed somewhere or is this happening on the floor?"
He blinked a few times. It didn't help. "You're drunk."
"I'm counting that as a vote for floor. Glad it's unanimous."
She walked over to him and he stopped her, his hand carefully on her shoulder. "I said you're drunk."
"Are you saying I can't handle my liquor? I, Big Barda, soldier of Apokolips, vassal of Darkseid, commander of the Female Flurries—"
"Female Flurries?"
"What?"
"You said Female Flurries."
Barda paused to take in this new information. "I'm their commander, I can call them what I want!"
"You're drunk," Scott repeated. It was very important information, he had to keep hold of it, especially with Barda right there, wanting him to forget. "You're drunk and you don't want this."
"You want this," Barda countered. Her hand seized his crotch and he felt a certain relief and a certain increased tension, being in her hand. "I can feel your want."
"Barda—"
"You're all about democracy, right? Well, me and this both want it. Two against one. Majority rules." She applied pressure until he was on the floor and then, like she was disassembling a rifle, she had his belt off and his fly down.
Scott kicked away, scooting down the floor as Barda crawled after him on all fours, the chase knocking over endtables and floor lamps. He wondered if this would've struck anyone else as absurd.
"All the times you've had the upper hand and let me live, saved me even… you think I haven't thought about it?" Barda finally backed Scott against the wall, where she kept him cornered, gazing into his eyes for some kind of simpatico feeling. "It grates at me."
"I don't kill anyone," Scott protested.
Barda moved closer, but now she kept abreast of him, insouciantly keeping their bodies from colliding until they were face to face. "Yeah… yeah, I know." Up close, her eyes were glass that Scott had breathed on. Fogging up. "You're a funny guy. Wanna hear something funny? No one's ever treated me as kind or decent… fair as you do. And you don't even like me. It's just what everyone gets from you."
"I like you," Scott said. He had more to say, but Barda kissed him then. Even sloppy and forceful and tasting like a keg, he felt his heard start to pound, his lungs go for all the air they could fit, his blood zip through his veins. He could stay calm while locked in a vault falling out an airplane, but not for this.
She stopped, tried to start again. He turned his head away and her lips, her face were against his cheek. Barda's eyes closed. She stayed immersed in his feel.
"I just don't want to give you an excuse to leave," he told Barda.
"Scott… do you know how many times I let you go?"
Even drunk, he scoffed.
"I justified it a hundred different ways to myself… let's do this. Let's do this and get out of each others' heads."
"I don't want you out of my head." Scott awkwardly moved his arms to cross her back, pulling her down delicately into an embrace. Not erotic, but something else, just as strong. Barda closed her eyes and felt it rush in. "Did you hear what I told you before?"
Barda grinned sleepily. "You said I was beautiful."
"And you're not Desaad and you're not a granny, you're Barda, and… this is where you belong."
"With you." It was so muffled, Scott didn't know if it was a question or an answer.
He didn't know whether to confirm or deny, and by the time he thought of something to say, Barda was snoring in her sleep, facedown on his chest. Her weight pinning him down.
Scott looked around for an escape route. He would never live it down if Barda figured out that all she'd ever needed to do to capture him was be the big spoon.
***
Barda woke up with a splitting headache, but she'd been trained to resist pain. More pressingly, Scott was gone. In his place, a pillow had been given to her to cuddle and, in some cases, drool on. She threw it across the room. A blanket had also been draped over her nude form and just for that, Barda tossed it aside and walked naked back to her clothes.
Which were now laundered and neatly folded, next to a note and a tall glass of something green. Barda took the note. It was written in Scott's unaccountably frilly handwriting.
B—
Had to run. In case you don't remember, nothing happened. And relax, I'm hardly a big enough gossip to repeat this to anyone. The glass has a hangover cure that Hal swears by, and if anyone knows about getting drunk, it's him. There's cereal in the pantry, or Pop Tarts by the toaster. I'll be back soon. Stay if you want to talk.
Barda drank the concoction. Its taste made her glad she'd been trained to resist pain. She washed it down with tap water, cupping her hands under the faucet and drinking from them, then made Pop Tarts. She refused to dirty any dishes. Scott would see them and have a snapshot of her presence and that wouldn't do. She wouldn't be obliged to him. And she wouldn't dirty a plate and then wash it, that was just insane.
She ate, took great pleasure in disposing of the wrapper, drank some more water, and went to take a cold shower. Standing with her mouth open under the showerhead eradicated the last traces of Hal's cure. She got out and looked at Scott's clean towels with disdain.
She only shivered a little as she dripped dry, finally getting dressed when ten minutes had passed without a drop of water leaving her. Scott still wasn't home. He'd probably gone on the run. It was the smart thing. He'd compromised his location. He'd have to be some kind of idiot to come back, especially knowing that she was there.
She walked through his apartment. Cramped and cozy. He hadn't finished unpacking—a small victory. Barda paged through one of the unopened boxes. It'd probably give her information useful to Great Darkseid or something.
Inside were photographs. Scott with people—longshoremen, boxers, firemen. They always smiled when they were with him. Barda thought about how many mementos she would have of smiling people if she were that cloyingly sentimental. It was a small number. Maybe Lashina, if Lashina ever smiled.
***
Scott came home to find Barda sitting on his couch, playing with his Motherbox. He couldn't help it; a grin stretched his face out. "Well, hey, look who's here…"
"You asked me to stay," she said, standing and tossing his Motherbox aside. "Then you left for at least five hours."
"I didn't want things to be awkward. In case you had to leave."
"Is that working out well?"
"I got Chinese food. From China." He held up the bag in his hand. "Plus, I promised to feed and walk this guy's dog while he was out of the country. The dog can't feed himself, Barda."
"You like running," she said dully. The door was right in front of her and she made a beeline for it. "This was a mistake."
Scott dropped the bag in his haste to close the door in front of her.
"You dare—"
"I meant what I said last night," Scott said quickly.
"Really? And what was that?"
And she'd finally found the one thing he wouldn't be flustered by. "I love you. You're a good person and you deserve better than being Darkseid's lapdog."
"I deserve being your lapdog?"
"Do you really think for one minute I would treat you like he does? Like any of them do?"
He was staring at her. Most people she met either looked down at her or tried to avoid making eye contact. He looked into her.
She could give it all up. All the honors she'd accrued, all the respect she'd earned, the titles, the castle, the underlings scurrying to curry her favor. For what? Him? So she could walk down the street and have irritating pockets of humanity smiling at her? So she'd never have to follow a distasteful order again? So he'd never again look at her with shame or pity or hurt, even for a moment?
So they could stop playing this game?
He was still looking at her, on pins and needles for her response. He wouldn't try to sway her, cajole her, bribe her. He'd said all that could be said and they both knew she was smart enough to know the stakes.
"If you're going to kiss me, damn well kiss me," she told him, barely finishing the sentence before he was.
She lost track of time, but at some point he was pulling away from her, trying to catch his breath. "Wait… wait… I should put the food in the refrigerator, that's why I bought a refrigerator…" She picked him up and carried him toward the bedroom. "And I should probably tweet that you're good now, otherwise someone might come by and think you're holding me hostage or something." Wait, did he have a bedroom, or did he sleep on the couch?
The floor was close enough. And it had a rug. Perfect.
"Should I write this down?" Barda asked, dropping him. "Because you're not going to get to it for a while. Might slip your mind."
Scott opened his mouth to say something, but for some reason, her taking her clothes off stopped him from continuing.
With a wide, satisfied, soon-to-be-more-satisfied smile, Barda bent down and pinned Scott's hands to the ground.
"I told you. If I wanted to catch you, I'd catch you."
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Date: 2011-06-23 05:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-23 05:49 pm (UTC)Thanks for sharing, I really needed this smile right about now 8D
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Date: 2011-06-23 08:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-09 09:16 pm (UTC)