Fic -- Little Moments In Time
Title: Little Moments In Time
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 555
Characters: Lisa Snart/Roscoe Dillon
Summary: Snippets from Lisa's and Roscoe's relationship.
Warnings: None.
Notes: This was an attempt to break writer's block by writing brief vignettes, and I decided to put them together as one piece.
Her hand brushes against his, and despite a lifetime of avoiding human touch, he'd give anything for her to do it again.
He'd always thought he'd live a solitary life, since it seemed as though few people understood him and he preferred his own company because of it. And yet two months after he'd met her, that all changed.
She cried the first time he'd come home injured after a job, as she knew too well what kind of hits he must have taken to get those wounds. But he smiled and told her it didn't really hurt, and it made her feel good to care for him.
He first told her he loved her when he was drunk, having been too embarrassed to say it earlier. She'd laughed and pulled him close, and cherishes the memory for the rest of her life.
The sweltering heat isn't really so bad, she decides; there's an upside to watching his slick shirt cling to his chest as he works.
Patience with other people isn't one of his strengths, but he gladly waits in line to do things for her.
She awakens with a jump in the night, having punched him in the face during a nightmare about her father. He compliments the power of her left hook with a grin, and holds her close until morning.
He whispers five salacious words into her ear, sparking a warm current of electricty through her body. She grasps him tightly for a hungry kiss.
She's always feared having a child, as she's concerned about repeating her parents' mistakes with another generation, but finds herself oddly disappointed by a false alarm.
Of all the photos she's ever taken of him, the one she loves best is the "that's embarrassing, delete it" picture in which he looks genuinely happy and comfortable.
Tops aren't really her thing, but she loves the joy on his face when they spin them together.
There's a dilapidated house in their neighbourhood which she often dreams about, spending many nights imagining the toil of making it livable. It's a while before she realizes her mind loves the metaphor of them fixing it/themselves until they find happiness.
All the Rogues know his weakness, and enlist her to get him to do things they know he won't like. It always works.
She sees herself reflected in the diamond he gives her, but has eyes only for the awkwardly hopeful expression on his face.
They were both thrilled and delighted when he developed telekinesis, never realizing it was the beginning of the end.
There are no tears left at his funeral. Only hate.
The rage nearly overwhelms him the first time he sees the Flash lay a hand on her. Barry should consider himself lucky his foe was held back by an old man's awkward frame.
Semtex and motor oil. She never thought those scents would bring her comfort or joy, yet they best reminded her of him after he was gone. She kept small vials of both in her room, taken directly from his workshop, and inhaled their sharp odours whenever she forgot what he smelled like.
Later, the scent of ozone is the closest approximation to what she'd detected of his ghost. She grows to love being outdoors during thunderstorms because the air feels saturated with his presence.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 555
Characters: Lisa Snart/Roscoe Dillon
Summary: Snippets from Lisa's and Roscoe's relationship.
Warnings: None.
Notes: This was an attempt to break writer's block by writing brief vignettes, and I decided to put them together as one piece.
Her hand brushes against his, and despite a lifetime of avoiding human touch, he'd give anything for her to do it again.
He'd always thought he'd live a solitary life, since it seemed as though few people understood him and he preferred his own company because of it. And yet two months after he'd met her, that all changed.
She cried the first time he'd come home injured after a job, as she knew too well what kind of hits he must have taken to get those wounds. But he smiled and told her it didn't really hurt, and it made her feel good to care for him.
He first told her he loved her when he was drunk, having been too embarrassed to say it earlier. She'd laughed and pulled him close, and cherishes the memory for the rest of her life.
The sweltering heat isn't really so bad, she decides; there's an upside to watching his slick shirt cling to his chest as he works.
Patience with other people isn't one of his strengths, but he gladly waits in line to do things for her.
She awakens with a jump in the night, having punched him in the face during a nightmare about her father. He compliments the power of her left hook with a grin, and holds her close until morning.
He whispers five salacious words into her ear, sparking a warm current of electricty through her body. She grasps him tightly for a hungry kiss.
She's always feared having a child, as she's concerned about repeating her parents' mistakes with another generation, but finds herself oddly disappointed by a false alarm.
Of all the photos she's ever taken of him, the one she loves best is the "that's embarrassing, delete it" picture in which he looks genuinely happy and comfortable.
Tops aren't really her thing, but she loves the joy on his face when they spin them together.
There's a dilapidated house in their neighbourhood which she often dreams about, spending many nights imagining the toil of making it livable. It's a while before she realizes her mind loves the metaphor of them fixing it/themselves until they find happiness.
All the Rogues know his weakness, and enlist her to get him to do things they know he won't like. It always works.
She sees herself reflected in the diamond he gives her, but has eyes only for the awkwardly hopeful expression on his face.
They were both thrilled and delighted when he developed telekinesis, never realizing it was the beginning of the end.
There are no tears left at his funeral. Only hate.
The rage nearly overwhelms him the first time he sees the Flash lay a hand on her. Barry should consider himself lucky his foe was held back by an old man's awkward frame.
Semtex and motor oil. She never thought those scents would bring her comfort or joy, yet they best reminded her of him after he was gone. She kept small vials of both in her room, taken directly from his workshop, and inhaled their sharp odours whenever she forgot what he smelled like.
Later, the scent of ozone is the closest approximation to what she'd detected of his ghost. She grows to love being outdoors during thunderstorms because the air feels saturated with his presence.