thete1 (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} thete1) wrote,@ 2006-09-24 04:14:00 |
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Writing update
Story: Three red words #8. Or... maybe! Something. Yes.
Words added: ... several (I started this one last night after bailing on the *other* too-far-ahead Three red words story. The one that's #10. Or something. Maybe.)
Words total: 4344
It's completely irrational to believe he can taste anything but the Zesti-Ade and energy bar he'd consumed on his last break. If there was anything else, it would be the coffee he'd had *before* patrol. It's --
It wasn't even that *hard* a kiss, for all that it felt more like the man -- like Bruce was trying to *brand* him with... whatever the hell had been on his mind. No.
No, he knows. He's known --
When he was *sixteen*, Tim had been able to tell himself that it would all boil down to adrenaline. He'd needed -- they'd *both* needed that particular spar. It had seemed so at the time, and it still does now. Despite the fact that, in retrospect --
In retrospect, the *act* is not very much clearer to him than it had been at the time. There had been anger, there had been a need to *prove* something, there had been a sense that that need should've seemed both old and familiar, even though it had seemed like nothing of the kind.
They had been nowhere near the Case when Bruce had pinned him that last time, and -- he remembers this distinctly -- he had not thought Jason's name until Bruce had moaned into his mouth.
There had been -- other things -- before that, and, by that time, thinking of Jason had simply been another part of what had let him not push Bruce away, not deny him with any more than the vestiges of control he'd managed to maintain.
And then those vestiges had gone, and Tim had been left with only the fact that he had not actually screamed anyone's name at all once Bruce began fucking him for -- somewhat dubious -- comfort.
As first times go, it really might have been worse.
Where retrospect becomes more useful -- or at least less distasteful -- is in the *after*. There had been no ambiguities in his words or his tone. It wasn't what he wanted from his relationship with Bruce. They wouldn't do it again.
After *that*... it doesn't matter.
Of all the things Bruce had done on his little *visit*, the kiss had probably been the most useful -- as far as the man's own agenda.
The others had been picking at it like a scab, and while both of them claimed to be willing to leave it at 'it didn't work the first time,' the truth is...
The truth is that none of them would be who they are if it wasn't for Bruce. Most of the time, this boils down to the fact that none of them would be *here*, which is different enough in meaning --
Connotations, yes. It will -- settle down. It *will* get back to what's become normal for them, because they neither have the choice for otherwise nor the option of *believing* they have that choice.
Until then, it's enough that their two-and-one tonight had let *him* be the one alone, and that there's less than no reason for him to go straight home, now that his patrol is done --
Bruce's mouth had tasted far too little of anything more tangible than lingering hints of *Alfred's* coffee. Tim frowns, stops, stands, and shudders at the way the wind seems to *yank* on his cape. It's heavier than the one he'd worn as Robin, more demanding of strength and a kind of muscular sureness if he's to keep it moving *correctly*.
The longer he stands here, alone and obvious, the more of a target he is.
«Kal-El. I would...» There are any number of ways to finish the sentence, of course, even within his own -- still -- limited vocabulary, and even within the limits of what would both be honest and something he wants to say *right* now.
It's easier to avoid worrying about exactitude when Kal-El is already here -- or he is already *there*.
«I would take rest in your presence, my companion.»
«And where would my presence suit you best?»
The voice is in his ear, but not the comm -- yet. A quick glance reveals that they're no more than half a mile above Bludhaven, and -- in truth, there's no way to be sure that Kal had heard his first words, come closer, and then *stopped*, waiting for Tim to speak again -- but...
The smile on Kal's face is all the proof he truly needs, however ambiguous.
«Far. I -- plead.»
The smile becomes something rather more solemn (Superman) in the moments before a cape is wrapped around the entirety of his head.
He won't be smothered. The cape smells like -- what it always does. Unbreathable sweetness, polluted by the *breathable* air he's pulling through -- he's accustomed enough to this to resist the urge to hyperventilate, and --
«You must -- there is no space between companions for *beseech*», (not quite) Kal says, through the comm, and flies.
Tim waits -- it's never very long -- until they've landed, until the breath he takes is at that marvelously alien -- and perfect -- level of oxygenation.
It's never especially obvious just *how* polluted the air is within and around the Bludhaven-Gotham-New York corridor until he is here. Even --
Even Kansas had nothing on Kryptonian air filtering -- and adjustment.
*
No actual writer whining here. You imagined it.
LOOK! A ZEPPELIN!
Story: Three red words #8. Or... maybe! Something. Yes.
Words added: ... several (I started this one last night after bailing on the *other* too-far-ahead Three red words story. The one that's #10. Or something. Maybe.)
Words total: 4344
It's completely irrational to believe he can taste anything but the Zesti-Ade and energy bar he'd consumed on his last break. If there was anything else, it would be the coffee he'd had *before* patrol. It's --
It wasn't even that *hard* a kiss, for all that it felt more like the man -- like Bruce was trying to *brand* him with... whatever the hell had been on his mind. No.
No, he knows. He's known --
When he was *sixteen*, Tim had been able to tell himself that it would all boil down to adrenaline. He'd needed -- they'd *both* needed that particular spar. It had seemed so at the time, and it still does now. Despite the fact that, in retrospect --
In retrospect, the *act* is not very much clearer to him than it had been at the time. There had been anger, there had been a need to *prove* something, there had been a sense that that need should've seemed both old and familiar, even though it had seemed like nothing of the kind.
They had been nowhere near the Case when Bruce had pinned him that last time, and -- he remembers this distinctly -- he had not thought Jason's name until Bruce had moaned into his mouth.
There had been -- other things -- before that, and, by that time, thinking of Jason had simply been another part of what had let him not push Bruce away, not deny him with any more than the vestiges of control he'd managed to maintain.
And then those vestiges had gone, and Tim had been left with only the fact that he had not actually screamed anyone's name at all once Bruce began fucking him for -- somewhat dubious -- comfort.
As first times go, it really might have been worse.
Where retrospect becomes more useful -- or at least less distasteful -- is in the *after*. There had been no ambiguities in his words or his tone. It wasn't what he wanted from his relationship with Bruce. They wouldn't do it again.
After *that*... it doesn't matter.
Of all the things Bruce had done on his little *visit*, the kiss had probably been the most useful -- as far as the man's own agenda.
The others had been picking at it like a scab, and while both of them claimed to be willing to leave it at 'it didn't work the first time,' the truth is...
The truth is that none of them would be who they are if it wasn't for Bruce. Most of the time, this boils down to the fact that none of them would be *here*, which is different enough in meaning --
Connotations, yes. It will -- settle down. It *will* get back to what's become normal for them, because they neither have the choice for otherwise nor the option of *believing* they have that choice.
Until then, it's enough that their two-and-one tonight had let *him* be the one alone, and that there's less than no reason for him to go straight home, now that his patrol is done --
Bruce's mouth had tasted far too little of anything more tangible than lingering hints of *Alfred's* coffee. Tim frowns, stops, stands, and shudders at the way the wind seems to *yank* on his cape. It's heavier than the one he'd worn as Robin, more demanding of strength and a kind of muscular sureness if he's to keep it moving *correctly*.
The longer he stands here, alone and obvious, the more of a target he is.
«Kal-El. I would...» There are any number of ways to finish the sentence, of course, even within his own -- still -- limited vocabulary, and even within the limits of what would both be honest and something he wants to say *right* now.
It's easier to avoid worrying about exactitude when Kal-El is already here -- or he is already *there*.
«I would take rest in your presence, my companion.»
«And where would my presence suit you best?»
The voice is in his ear, but not the comm -- yet. A quick glance reveals that they're no more than half a mile above Bludhaven, and -- in truth, there's no way to be sure that Kal had heard his first words, come closer, and then *stopped*, waiting for Tim to speak again -- but...
The smile on Kal's face is all the proof he truly needs, however ambiguous.
«Far. I -- plead.»
The smile becomes something rather more solemn (Superman) in the moments before a cape is wrapped around the entirety of his head.
He won't be smothered. The cape smells like -- what it always does. Unbreathable sweetness, polluted by the *breathable* air he's pulling through -- he's accustomed enough to this to resist the urge to hyperventilate, and --
«You must -- there is no space between companions for *beseech*», (not quite) Kal says, through the comm, and flies.
Tim waits -- it's never very long -- until they've landed, until the breath he takes is at that marvelously alien -- and perfect -- level of oxygenation.
It's never especially obvious just *how* polluted the air is within and around the Bludhaven-Gotham-New York corridor until he is here. Even --
Even Kansas had nothing on Kryptonian air filtering -- and adjustment.
*
No actual writer whining here. You imagined it.
LOOK! A ZEPPELIN!