Title: Tuesday Author: ME! Rating: PG Pairing: Babs/Dick Challenge: "I can't wait forever." And I only fudged the line a little! Sorry. No angst. Just fluff. :) *** Dick Grayson is tired. Bone-deep, soul-shearing, brain-numb exhausted. He's done this before, so he's perfectly aware how insane it was for him to drive the last thirty miles in a torrential downpour that, unsurprisingly, completely disappeared as soon as he crossed the Bludhaven/Gotham interchange. But it's Tuesday. And even with the exhaustion and rain and all-out hassle the extra forty-minute drive caused, it's |Tuesday|. Not driving it would have been infinitely worse. Dick loves Tuesdays. He's leaning heavily against the control panel of the freight elevator, disproportionately thrilled that Babs had handrails installed. He's shoved his ring of keys back into the pocket of his bomber jacket, and rechecked it twice. It's the fifth set of keys he's had. While the puppy-eyed look had made the first three times cute, the subsequent hassle of her having to reinstall all the locks was wearing even that thin. Still, it wasn't |his| fault things kept blowing up. For the most part. He leaves his musings in the elevator as he moves out to the second set of locks. Were he anyone else, and if she had been anyone else, he knows he'd find her obsession with security a little trying. As it stands, the fumbling with keys, retinal scans, and hand prints is done automatically, and soon he's stumbling his way through her living room and into the bedroom. He's only a week and four hours late. It has to be a record. And it's a sad state of affairs when he means that in a positive way. Her computer alcove is dark and running semi-obscene screen savers. Dinah must have been downloading porn again, his semi-dormant brain points out. But that quickly shuts itself down as a tiny little pixilated Batman does something unmentionable to a tiny little pixilated Aquaman. Yeah, definitely Dinah. It's strange to see all her equipment out in the open like this, but ever since her father retired, she's stopped bothering with the pretense. At least, in her own home. He can see lamplight through the partially open door of Babs' bedroom. Dick's chest expands in a warm way, and nothing else is as important as being in there right now. Barbara is sprawled comfortably out on 'her' side of the bed. Glasses on the edge of her nose, she is flipping through a rather impressive stack of loose computer print-outs. Her hair is up in a messy ponytail on the top of her head with a pencil stabbed through the base and her face is clean of make up. She's wearing one of his old Gotham Knights sweatshirts that hangs off a shoulder and looks all of fourteen years old. It's a testament to his state of mind that he actually has to remind himself to breathe. "Hi." Startled, her face comes up, but the wariness is replaced quickly by a bright smile. "I was wondering if you were going to make it. How was traffic?" "Horrendous. And hey. It's Tuesday. Of course I was gonna make it." Grinning, she drops the printouts over the side of the bed, and pulls her glasses off, folding them and setting them on the nightstand. "You weren't here last week..." He is smiling now too. The aches and pains of the last week or so are easing in the sheer happiness of being here. Doing *this*. "Last week was a special circumstance and entirely your fault." "Just because a girl sends a boy to Zambia to stop a drug cartel, a boy thinks it's okay to skip a standing date." "He must be beaten and quartered." His jacket and belt make a very satisfying thump on the carpet next to her hamper. His shoes already set neatly by the front door. "My thoughts exactly. Now get over here and get with the bedwarming." Her smile is slow and happy in the dim light of the table lamp. "I can't wait |forever|, you know." "I'd never ask you to." And she is warm and soft and comfortably in his arms before he's consciously aware of even moving. He loves her for this. For her mind and her heart and her beautiful body. But also because she is comfortable. She is safe and reassuring and everything society tells him he shouldn't want in a grand passion. But if she weren't who she was, if she |wasn't| what she is, he wouldn't feel this way. He loves Barbara Gordon. Neuroses, insecurities, mood swings, strange sleeping habits, and the way she looks at him, as though she's surprised he actually managed to get his head out of his ass. "You feel good," he says, his lips in her hair. "You too," she smiles into his collarbone. "Now get some sleep." He loves Tuesdays. -fin-