seriousfic

Title: Welcome Home
Fandom: New Gods (DC Comics)
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Scott/Barda, Oberon
Word Count: 1,052
Summary: Scott really thinks having his wife back is reason to celebrate.

The Free household was in a state of cleverly-channeled panic. With Barda gone to deep space for three months on a BOP mission, Scott had coped remarkably well, aside from that time he’d been unable to free himself from a set of Green Lantern Corps shackles for two days and just gone through his daily routine handcuffed. The Superbuddies had also come to dread his “team-up?” phone calls, which usually ended with Scott, Booster, and Beetle in Mexico.

But finally, after three long months of no contact except for cheap interstellar text messaging (“saw a space dolphin. Thinkg of u”), Barda was coming home.

Scott Free had a vacuum-sealed bag of rose petals under his arm. He was trying to open it, though it resisted so stubbornly that opening it himself was a point of pride. Pride precluded the use of knives and sharp pens. It didn’t preclude teeth.

“I have a cousin who died doing that,” Oberon said, lighting up a cigar from his perch on the stairs.

Scott made it to his side in two shakes, somersaulting over a living room set in the process, to snatch the cigar from him and toss it like a live grenade into the trash. “I will not have Barda coming home to find her living room smelling of cigar smoke.”

“She likes cigar smoke! You started a trash can fire.”

“That’s not the point!” Scott back-pedaled to grab one of the several fire extinguishers in the house. “I’m trying to create a romantic atmosphere here. So if you could go to a day spa or something…”

“Me! Go to a…” Oberon was cut off by the blast of dry foam. “I’m not the day spa type,” he concluded afterward, hiding his manicured fingers.

Scott triumphantly got the bag open. With a little self-fanfare, he set it down on the dining room table. “Then find an all-night Clint Eastwood film festival. Barda is not going to come home and say ‘ooh, candles!’” He lit some with his trusty miniature arc welder. “’Ooh, smooth jazz.’” He slipped a George Michael LP onto the record player. “’Ooh, angry dwarf.’ You have to go.”

“Alright, alright, fine… I know when I’m not wanted.” Oberon fetched his cigar, still covered with dry chemical, from the trash bin and headed for the door.

“Goodbye, Oberon.”

Oberon grabbed his coat. “Oberon Fitzpatrick Clark knows when it's time to call it a day.”

“Uh-huh.” Scott lit another candle. “Later.”

“Can I have money for a motel?”

“Put it on the credit card.”

***

Scott paced. Barda hadn’t given him a time for getting back when she’d called, just that she’d get back that evening. Of course, she’d also said she needed to be debriefed, which Scott had thought was his job. So he blew out the candles so they wouldn’t burn down, then relit them so they would be lit when Barda got home, then he blew them out again and watched TV.

Every time a car drove by the house he made a dive for the “master of seduction” routine, but disappointment gradually lessened it into “erotic head waiter” routine. The Boomtube, though, knocked him right back into the game. He quickly did up his bowtie, checked his breath, popped a mint in. Popped two mints in. When Barda came through the door, his mouth was full of mints.

“Hi,” Scott mumbled, some tiny white squares slipping out his lips. He faked a cough, magically cupped the mints and tossed them, and wiped his hand on his trousers. “Hi!”

“Scott,” Barda said in weary acknowledgment. Her armor was severely battle-damaged, with scales coming off in whole patches. Her face, although still beautiful as ever to Scott, was smeared with grease and one hand was compulsively gripping her Mega-Rod. She tossed it aside, accidentally taking out the coat rack.

Scott pulled out a chair for her. His smile was a bit damaged, but still going strong. “I took the liberty of cooking us a steak, rare… might have to nuke it in the microwave for a little while, but it’s still good. In the meantime, how about we get started on some wine?” He plucked a bottle from the bucket. It dripped melted ice. “Devereux 1867. You remember that, good year!”

Barda limped her way over to him, stripping off the seemingly encrusted armor as she went. “It’s been three months. I don’t care about steak, or wine, or candles. I want two things. A hot shower, and you. And not in that order.” She crooked a finger in his bowtie and dragged him toward the bathroom. “Come on, I need someone to wash my back. And stuff.”

Scott quite liked ‘stuff.’

Afterward, Scott was thoroughly worn out, if very clean, and he slumped into bed beside Barda. She dispassionately pulled the sheets over them.

“At least breakfast tomorrow will be nice…” Scott mused. “The wine!” He went up to put it in the fridge.

Barda grabbed his hand reflexively, stopping him. He looked back at her. As good as she looked fresh from the heat of battle, she cleaned up a thousand times nicer. Beneath her hard stare Scott could see the devotion, the slight softening, almost a smile. She still hadn’t transitioned from Female Fury to domestic housewife, so he didn’t expect much, but the way she squeezed his hand was more than enough. He padded off to fridge the leftovers for tomorrow.

Barda waited until he got back to truly get comfortable. She found it hard to sleep in such a soft bed if there wasn’t someone sharing it. Well, not “someone.” He fell asleep almost as soon as he hit the pillow, and even though they weren’t touching, his eyes closed looking at her.

Barda couldn’t sleep. She waited until his breathing slowed into its gentle cadence, then picked up some of the rose petals. She didn’t get out of bed, just plucked them from the trail leading toward the bed and from the new silk sheets he’d bought and a few from the pillows. When she had enough to fill her cupped hands, she buried her face in them and took a deep breath.

Then she threw them up into the air and sunk against Scott’s body, wrapping her arms around him tightly.

It was good to be home.