Hello everyone,

I was reading some of the wonderful fan-fic pieces on the Roost the
other night and was struck with the 'Blackgate Incident' ones.  Felt
inspired to try my hand at writing about Nightwing and the 'other' woman
- as we Kory-ites would put it.  *grin*  Anyhow, this is what came out.
Never posted here so I don't know what disclaimers I need, but here
goes.

*No characters herein belong to me.  They belong to someone else known
as DC.  They never have belonged to me, they never will, I just borrow
them for fun - though it has been a life-long heartache that Dick
Grayson and I never got together ....if you know what I mean.*

***

The Sound of One Finger Tapping
By Marla F. Fair (MFAIR@ERINET.COM)

***

                           THE SOUND OF ONE FINGER TAPPING

         Sometimes I think the sound of that infernal tapping will drive
me mad.  Why can’t they make keyboards silent? What is it with plastic
that it has to have a flat voice that sort of sings off-key?
          Stupid.
          Really stupid.  That’s it, Barbara, keep your mind off of it.
Pretend the body lying on the bed isn’t there. Pretend the tears that
are rolling down your cheeks aren’t soaking your blouse so the edges of
the white fabric have gonem all pink and funny with the skin underneath.

          Pretend he isn’t almost dead.

          Anyhow, where was I?
          Oh yes, keyboards.  When one of them has become your best
friend, you think about things like that.  What could I do to engineer
it better?  If I added an additional pad underneath, something soft or
filled with gel, would what annoys me
go away?  I mean, I have to have it.  It’s like my life-blood, but
still…  At times it intrudes, making me step outside that place where I
am comfortable.  Maybe if I gave it a little more time.  Dealt with
it….  Maybe then it wouldn’t draw my attention.  Maybe then it would
leave me in peace.
          Have I done enough?
          Oh God, he’s moaning.

          I can still see him standing there, framed by the white light
that crashed and burned like some out of control air jockey.  See the
sweat and the blood pooling on the floor beneath him like it did with
me, after….
          No.  Won’t go there.
          I looked up and it was like a newsreel, all black and white,
only I was out of the frame.  There was only him. Dick.  Nightwing.   He
was the subject this time.  Former sidekick betrayed by boss, sent to
die in stinking, reeking Hell-hole.
          Film at eleven.

          I wish I had caught him.  But I couldn’t.  This damn chair,
these metal legs wouldn’t let me move fast enough.  I heard him hit the
floor.
          Dear God.  How could anyone abide such a noise?
         The infernal tapping.  The tapping of the rain on the window.
The slow drip of blood on the floor.

          I have my problems with monitors too.  Bright and glaring.
Reflecting back my own face when I don’t keep busy enough;  when I
momentarily forget to occupy myself with some new website or the
billionth byte of trivial information no one but Bruce Wayne could ever
possibly need.  And I think I’m obsessive.  Sheesh.
Still, when I don’t push hard enough, she’s there  Staring at me,
accusing.
          Cold.
          Like his hands.
          I prayed it was the flash-bulb lightning that made him look
that way.  White instead of tan like always.  But prayers never availed
me much.  My legs are still round and edged with rubber, and have spokes
instead of taut muscles.  So
I stopped praying and started to do what I do best.

          Tapping.
          The sound filled the apartment I share with my ghosts like
water dripping in a sewer, resounding off the hollow pipes.  It echoed
my fear and pounded like my aching heart.  What could I do?  I had
medical supplies, but not nearly enough.
          I had strength.  Just enough.
          Somehow I got him across the room.  I had more than enough
nerve for the both of us -  stripping him, bathing him like a baby while
thinking he was anything
but -
          But I had no hope.

          No hope as the gruesome grinning white-faced jackal stared me
down, entering my apartment like a well-acquainted guest.  No hope as
the bullet struck my spine and the world went numb.
          No hope that he could ever forget not being there.
          No hope that I could either.
          No hope he could love a cripple when the very air he breathes
is freedom.

          Oh God, is he breathing?

          I had to reboot.  Had to start over.  The screen was black as
the squid-ink sky outside.  What was I doing?   Oh yes, tapping.
Tapping.  Incessantly tapping.  Like I did in grade school – only then I
did it with my feet. Now I dance with my fingers until they are weary to
the bone and sometimes refuse to bend.
          Have I refused to bend?

          You know, search engines are wonderful things.  Tap in a word
and a world opens up at your fingertips.  I put in ‘Greek god’ and it
gave me him.
          A world.  At my fingertips.
          All I have to do is bend.
          All I have to do is let myself hope.
          All I have to do is allow myself to enter the newsreel, to
become a part of it.
          Of him.

          “Dick?”
          It’s not like a computer.  You input and it outputs.  He
remains still.
          “Dick?  It’s me, Barbara.”
          Try it again.  If not reboot, and scoot.
           I hear a slight sound.
          Tapping.
          He can’t reply.  His head is bandaged.  There’s more muslin
than man in my bed, but I see it then.
          His finger.  Tapping.  Moving ever so slightly as it strikes
the firm mattress.
          Victory!

          I think the keyboard is jealous.

                                                                 - END -