FIC-let: Wolves in the Centrifuge
Another Saturday morning ending to a dream I can’t remember. Can you tell I’ve been teaching fairy tales this week? Thanks to cosmicastaway and simon_the_duck for feeding me back and for being two of the most interesting people around. You make me miss LJ more and make it hurt less.
FIC-let: The Wolves in the Centrifuge
by eggblue
Date: September 3, 2005
Rating: G
Pairing: Bruce/Jason (Batman/Robin II)
Summary: The love story never grows old, never has a happy ending
Disclaimer: DC owns, so don’t sue.
425 words
***
They could be anyone they wanted. Even who they were.
Jason wore a mask.
Bruce was without fear, without guilt when he wore a mask.
The city began to fall away under their love. Falling faster than they could follow. Even as they fell, and fell, and fell away.
Alfred had gone away to England for six months. Only six months. And Dick had disappeared into finding his way.
Jason and Bruce were so guilty, their guilt so huge and hungry it ate up all other guilt. Lifetimes worth. The way the depths can make you clean. The way the dirt can feel like ecstasy, salvation. So it can’t be stopped.
Too long moans and earthquakes, just bodies against the cold cave floor, clammy flesh shaking in the rain, torturing sweat in the trap of the Car, dripping and dripping and everything squeals.
Maybe guilt gone now. But doubt again in blank masked eyes and the return of Alfred and the return of Dick and the return of the world appearing like the bottom of a whiskey bottle.
Doubt turning Bruce into a whip, and Jason into some wounded wolf - with teeth, always howling. Some fairy tale. Some cruelty.
Until the world spun round again, spinning them like a centrifuge, like their hands just barely clasping in the air.
An embrace in the desert, where it’s cold only at night:
I hate this world, Bruce. I do. I do. It hates me too.
That’s what he said, hands wrapped around so tight around that huge huge chest and breathing makes it tighter, makes it hurt, so they breathe so loud, so strong.
Shh, shh. I don’t. Oh god oh god, I don’t. Jason… Jason…
His name always sounds like an apology, which makes it easier, always easier. Not a “sorry” like saying Dick’s name. A saying what or why. An explanation for someone. But a “forgive me,” a prayer, a help me please. A helpless thing. A mystery with no end.
They are crying, but they don’t notice. Doesn’t feel different from when they’re not. Just the roaring spinning tearing thing.
That takes them into the next day, slowly, insistently, knowingly, helplessly pulling, moving, stretching, culling.
To the inevitable blood and sand… the lifeless thing that once was… the tears now a scream that doesn’t stop… his breathing a naked apology to the eyes of the righteous.
FIC-let: The Wolves in the Centrifuge
by eggblue
Date: September 3, 2005
Rating: G
Pairing: Bruce/Jason (Batman/Robin II)
Summary: The love story never grows old, never has a happy ending
Disclaimer: DC owns, so don’t sue.
425 words
***
They could be anyone they wanted. Even who they were.
Jason wore a mask.
Bruce was without fear, without guilt when he wore a mask.
The city began to fall away under their love. Falling faster than they could follow. Even as they fell, and fell, and fell away.
Alfred had gone away to England for six months. Only six months. And Dick had disappeared into finding his way.
Jason and Bruce were so guilty, their guilt so huge and hungry it ate up all other guilt. Lifetimes worth. The way the depths can make you clean. The way the dirt can feel like ecstasy, salvation. So it can’t be stopped.
Too long moans and earthquakes, just bodies against the cold cave floor, clammy flesh shaking in the rain, torturing sweat in the trap of the Car, dripping and dripping and everything squeals.
Maybe guilt gone now. But doubt again in blank masked eyes and the return of Alfred and the return of Dick and the return of the world appearing like the bottom of a whiskey bottle.
Doubt turning Bruce into a whip, and Jason into some wounded wolf - with teeth, always howling. Some fairy tale. Some cruelty.
Until the world spun round again, spinning them like a centrifuge, like their hands just barely clasping in the air.
An embrace in the desert, where it’s cold only at night:
I hate this world, Bruce. I do. I do. It hates me too.
That’s what he said, hands wrapped around so tight around that huge huge chest and breathing makes it tighter, makes it hurt, so they breathe so loud, so strong.
Shh, shh. I don’t. Oh god oh god, I don’t. Jason… Jason…
His name always sounds like an apology, which makes it easier, always easier. Not a “sorry” like saying Dick’s name. A saying what or why. An explanation for someone. But a “forgive me,” a prayer, a help me please. A helpless thing. A mystery with no end.
They are crying, but they don’t notice. Doesn’t feel different from when they’re not. Just the roaring spinning tearing thing.
That takes them into the next day, slowly, insistently, knowingly, helplessly pulling, moving, stretching, culling.
To the inevitable blood and sand… the lifeless thing that once was… the tears now a scream that doesn’t stop… his breathing a naked apology to the eyes of the righteous.