It's their seventh team-up since her return. Lucky, maybe, 'cause they tag-teamed Livewire and Madame Zodiac in the weirdest accidental convergence ever (He was on the Madam, obviously, being catnip for every super sexy villainess out there — god knows why his nerdy bat-butt gets prime coverage when Dick and Jason, y'know, exist — and she was running Live; go figure how those two crazy gals ended up under the same banner). These days, Tim isn't as surprised by her kung-fu, and she isn't as judgy of his choices. They've got it out of their systems, as much as their years of unfinished business and unstoppered feelings can ever be flushed out.
She thinks, perhaps naively, that she's building up an immunity — a Timmunity. The occasional touch to her shoulder (or her hand or, god forbid, her face) stops threatening to explode butterflies from her stomach like the chestburster in Alien. When he takes off the stupid helmet, she even manages to stop staring at his neck like it's some of the sweet sweet ankle-action in Jane Austen times. She doesn't let their squabbles escalate into sparring 'cause she knows he's into that, and, spoiler alert, she's so into him being into that.
But nope, she's done being the girlfriend. The ex-girlfriend, whatever. Gender-neutral "friend" is better and on trend. Instead of cruising for trouble or collapsing in her bed, she spends her Saturday night slash morning (it's 4AM, aight) on a rooftop ledge, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with her friend, barely aware of their closeness beyond the pleasant warmth and reassurance it offers. Friends means she and Tim get to cheers milkshakes from her favourite twenty-four-hour diner (even though he mutters something about her insisting they do so). It means Tim didn't scowl when she suggested they pick up takeout. It means that he takes off his ugly ass condom-hat and keeps running his fingers through the disheveled helmet-hair left-behind.
And he laughs, when she suggests that they didn't actually bust a grand con today but ruined a supervillainess date night which, whoa, that actually might have been what happened. There was a lot of subtext in the inter-villain banter today, okay! She cracks up then, too, borderline milkshake through-the-nose level stuff. It's breathless, too-stupid-to-stop laughter, during which she catches glimpses of Tim in the same state through her fingers and hair.
It hits her harder than a brick to the face (not that she knows the feeling as well as Tim): The urge to plant one right on his mouth, to just dart forward and harness their momentum, pushing it into something else. She spent so long rewiring this part of brain through cold showers and internal lectures. God, fucking, damn it. And yet the butterflies are back with a vengeance, baby, a whole Xenomorph's worth, and her eyes have zeroed in on the line of his neck thrown back like she's a goddamn vampire. Crap, when did she stop laughing and start leaning.
Her monologue is already rapid-firing zingers, the final line of defense: You thirsty idiot. You great big, When Harry Met Sally lovin' piece of shit.
Stephanie smooths her hand over his jaw, just skimming the beginnings of stubble (that's new, she thinks) and closes the gap, kissing Tim Drake fast and breathless, the same way she laughs. It's hard, like she might have chickenedd out if she went less than full-throttle, and there's probably a weird mix of her cheap-ass fruity chapstick and chocolate milkshake going on, taste-wise.
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one million years later pls forgive me
It's their seventh team-up since her return. Lucky, maybe, 'cause they tag-teamed Livewire and Madame Zodiac in the weirdest accidental convergence ever (He was on the Madam, obviously, being catnip for every super sexy villainess out there — god knows why his nerdy bat-butt gets prime coverage when Dick and Jason, y'know, exist — and she was running Live; go figure how those two crazy gals ended up under the same banner). These days, Tim isn't as surprised by her kung-fu, and she isn't as judgy of his choices. They've got it out of their systems, as much as their years of unfinished business and unstoppered feelings can ever be flushed out.
She thinks, perhaps naively, that she's building up an immunity — a Timmunity. The occasional touch to her shoulder (or her hand or, god forbid, her face) stops threatening to explode butterflies from her stomach like the chestburster in Alien. When he takes off the stupid helmet, she even manages to stop staring at his neck like it's some of the sweet sweet ankle-action in Jane Austen times. She doesn't let their squabbles escalate into sparring 'cause she knows he's into that, and, spoiler alert, she's so into him being into that.
But nope, she's done being the girlfriend. The ex-girlfriend, whatever. Gender-neutral "friend" is better and on trend. Instead of cruising for trouble or collapsing in her bed, she spends her Saturday night slash morning (it's 4AM, aight) on a rooftop ledge, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with her friend, barely aware of their closeness beyond the pleasant warmth and reassurance it offers. Friends means she and Tim get to cheers milkshakes from her favourite twenty-four-hour diner (even though he mutters something about her insisting they do so). It means Tim didn't scowl when she suggested they pick up takeout. It means that he takes off his ugly ass condom-hat and keeps running his fingers through the disheveled helmet-hair left-behind.
And he laughs, when she suggests that they didn't actually bust a grand con today but ruined a supervillainess date night which, whoa, that actually might have been what happened. There was a lot of subtext in the inter-villain banter today, okay! She cracks up then, too, borderline milkshake through-the-nose level stuff. It's breathless, too-stupid-to-stop laughter, during which she catches glimpses of Tim in the same state through her fingers and hair.
It hits her harder than a brick to the face (not that she knows the feeling as well as Tim): The urge to plant one right on his mouth, to just dart forward and harness their momentum, pushing it into something else. She spent so long rewiring this part of brain through cold showers and internal lectures. God, fucking, damn it. And yet the butterflies are back with a vengeance, baby, a whole Xenomorph's worth, and her eyes have zeroed in on the line of his neck thrown back like she's a goddamn vampire. Crap, when did she stop laughing and start leaning.
Her monologue is already rapid-firing zingers, the final line of defense: You thirsty idiot. You great big, When Harry Met Sally lovin' piece of shit.
Stephanie smooths her hand over his jaw, just skimming the beginnings of stubble (that's new, she thinks) and closes the gap, kissing Tim Drake fast and breathless, the same way she laughs. It's hard, like she might have chickenedd out if she went less than full-throttle, and there's probably a weird mix of her cheap-ass fruity chapstick and chocolate milkshake going on, taste-wise.
You ruined everything, you stupid motherfucker. ]