Barbara isn't someone who can just close her eyes. Metaphorically. If she were—well, she'd be someone wholly other than she is, wouldn't she? She wouldn't have ended up in so many of the places she did, as the people she is; she wouldn't have no so strongly, and so long, before she even knew the weight of yes. Still, it's a narrow thing. One that aches on contact with her thoughts, with her chest.
With evaporating ease, that she knows was there when she was asleep, because she can feel it as everything else spills like ink into that restful nebulousness. She should move. Which somehow, is right when Dick buries his face into her hair, in her skin. Soft lips, and warm breath, and a night's slight prickle of stubble. Not quite a kiss. As if some part of him had heard her thoughts. If she thought it ached a second ago, the surprise, the warmth, the tenderness—a million million memories of seconds just like it, and the dizzy swoop of a want, a longing, a sadness she's kept so tightly tied down for months—causes her to shiver before she can even think to tamp it down.
Her skin prickling as the thing inside her chest expanded like a bruise.
Babs' eyes close, partly. Summoning sense, like some sword against the darkness, against the tiny voice saying how easy it would be just to let herself fall back asleep, not know, pretend and let herself have this until morning, until daylight. But she can't. And even if she could? She can't with him. Never with him. (He's too important. The most important person in her life, in her heart.)
Babs' voice is calm when she speaks, at least that's what she tells herself, but that might not entirely be true.
no subject
With evaporating ease, that she knows was there when she was asleep, because she can feel it as everything else spills like ink into that restful nebulousness. She should move. Which somehow, is right when Dick buries his face into her hair, in her skin. Soft lips, and warm breath, and a night's slight prickle of stubble. Not quite a kiss. As if some part of him had heard her thoughts. If she thought it ached a second ago, the surprise, the warmth, the tenderness—a million million memories of seconds just like it, and the dizzy swoop of a want, a longing, a sadness she's kept so tightly tied down for months—causes her to shiver before she can even think to tamp it down.
Her skin prickling as the thing inside her chest expanded like a bruise.
Babs' eyes close, partly. Summoning sense, like some sword against the darkness, against the tiny voice saying how easy it would be just to let herself fall back asleep, not know, pretend and let herself have this until morning, until daylight. But she can't. And even if she could? She can't with him. Never with him. (He's too important. The most important person in her life, in her heart.)
Babs' voice is calm when she speaks,
at least that's what she tells herself,
but that might not entirely be true.
"Dick."