Drabble: Solitaire
Title: Solitaire
Characters/Pairings: Bruce, Dick, Clark referenced
Rating: G
Summary: Bruce is trying to relax and not think about certain things. What those things are remain unclear.
Word count: 260
Notes: Written for the World's Finest Summer Games.
Black on red.
Red on black.
Black. Red.
The sea growls outside the cottage window. The boys insisted he have a vacation, so here he is.
Black on red.
Red on black.
King of Spades. King of Hearts.
Suicide King.
The cards pile up inexorably. Patterns. Kings never touch kings. It's not within the parameters of the game he's playing.
There are few choices. Fate decides the outcome rather than skill. Black on red. Red on black. It's soothing, a pleasant change. Three cards. Three cards more. And again.
The sun outside the window beats down mercilessly, reflecting off the sand like glass, blazing.
Things pile up. The cards are cool in his hands. Things pile up.
At some point he realizes that all the cards are at the end of their journey, in four neat stacks at last. He's beaten the game.
The kings stare up at him sternly.
He picks up the cards to shuffle them and the slick plastic shifts in his hands. The cards spray across the wooden floor, a chaos of red and black. He gets on his knees to pick them up.
He gets back up. He lays out the cards again.
He's here to relax. He's here to play. He promised the boys he'd play.
The sun slides down across the sky.
A voice from the door. Dick. "Bruce, what are you doing?"
It's not like Dick to ask such an obvious question. A laugh threatens to choke him, but he focuses on the cards instead. King of Hearts. King of Spades.
"Playing solitaire."
Characters/Pairings: Bruce, Dick, Clark referenced
Rating: G
Summary: Bruce is trying to relax and not think about certain things. What those things are remain unclear.
Word count: 260
Notes: Written for the World's Finest Summer Games.
Black on red.
Red on black.
Black. Red.
The sea growls outside the cottage window. The boys insisted he have a vacation, so here he is.
Black on red.
Red on black.
King of Spades. King of Hearts.
Suicide King.
The cards pile up inexorably. Patterns. Kings never touch kings. It's not within the parameters of the game he's playing.
There are few choices. Fate decides the outcome rather than skill. Black on red. Red on black. It's soothing, a pleasant change. Three cards. Three cards more. And again.
The sun outside the window beats down mercilessly, reflecting off the sand like glass, blazing.
Things pile up. The cards are cool in his hands. Things pile up.
At some point he realizes that all the cards are at the end of their journey, in four neat stacks at last. He's beaten the game.
The kings stare up at him sternly.
He picks up the cards to shuffle them and the slick plastic shifts in his hands. The cards spray across the wooden floor, a chaos of red and black. He gets on his knees to pick them up.
He gets back up. He lays out the cards again.
He's here to relax. He's here to play. He promised the boys he'd play.
The sun slides down across the sky.
A voice from the door. Dick. "Bruce, what are you doing?"
It's not like Dick to ask such an obvious question. A laugh threatens to choke him, but he focuses on the cards instead. King of Hearts. King of Spades.
"Playing solitaire."