Commissioner Gordon

« @blackyellowandread »

     “Okay … round TWO.”

He disconnects the call, quietly content with how that had gone. After having MISSED their last reservation at one of the SWANKIEST restaurants in town due to … as of yet UNEXPRESSED DIFFERENCES, a SECOND reservation seemed UNWISE. But a dash of desperation and a bit of begging has seen him secure another for that very night. 

Tossing his phone onto the couch cushion beside him, he rises to go in search of his partner. 

      “So, scored another table at         Chef’s Gallery for tonight.”

He calls out, moving through the apartment - figuring that she will let him know where she is by way of a response. 

        “Y’know … as an apology for            making us miss our last one?            I SWEAR, no nervous break            downs this time. I’m all up on           those for the next … FIFTY           YEARS. ”

        She plays idly with a piece of paper--a valiant attempt at finishing up a case while she listens to Dick in the other room. He argues with the hostess for the second time tonight. Quietly, patiently, but arguing nonetheless. Barbara tries not to hold it as a sign of how their evening is going to go. 

        “They better still have ribs as the special!” She teases back. Loudly, so that he knows to find her all the way back in her office. 

        Barbara turns in her well-oiled swivel chair when she hears him approach. He’s got that look about him, the one that’s sheepish and endearing. Yet, she can’t help but press her lips in thin line against the smile that threatens. Self-deprecation in the face of issues isn’t the healthiest way to cope. She would know. 

He can’t help but to wince at the faux pas of his own wording, HATING the undertone of DEFEAT in Barbara’s voice at it filters down the line. It’s just not … HER. Not his SPITFIRE of a partner that he is used to, the girl with the FLAME RED hair and a smile FIRE BRIGHT. 

Tamping down on the edge of a sigh, he tries for a peppy little smile to prop up his own tone and keep the conversation from spiraling into ANOTHER argument. 

      “Ah, well - anywhere, really. Still        getting used to this whole …         COM net deal.” 

He glances down the street before crossing, darting across the road to start off down the street to where he’d parked his bike. Maybe he can make up time by SKIPPING the whole GOING HOME thing. 

     “Me? M’coming to Gotham, remember?        We had - have dinner reservations?” 

         She studies reactions as if she’s never seen them before. Maybe--maybe she hasn’t, not like this. Barbara never used to watch Dick for signs of irritation or resignation. Yes, they had always fought. That’s a constant, but now she’s afraid of his leaving and mad at herself for her fear. It’s this endless loop of frustration and she knows--she knows that he receives the brunt of it. 

         “It’ll get better,” she replies with her eyes still glued to the monitor. Surely he’s tired after a long day of work. Of course he would want to go home and change before coming to Gotham. Why does he keep pretending that he has time for this relationship? Does he pity her that much?

         Barbara’s thoughts are jumping, erratic. She tries to calm herself with a deep breath that crackles over the comm. Great. Just perfect. Now he knows. 

        “Dick--They’ve already given up the table.” 

♖ | @blackyellowandread ♖ | s t a r t e r 

He knows he’s late, now. There’s no mistaking the arrangement of the hands on the clock face that denounce him as ardently as any voice could have. He’s dragged his heels today and now he’s paying the price, shoving hastily filled out reports into what he thinks may be the wrong pigeon hole, and grabs his jacket off the back of a his chair as he heads out at a trot. 

He’s late. He’s late. He’s late. 

He’s meant to be somewhere else, but he’s late and some small part of him thinks that he may be TOO late. The ride back up to Gotham takes forty minutes, and there’s an HOUR til their reservation which leaves him twenty minutes to go home, shower and dress appropriately. 

This was MEANT to be a GOOD NIGHT, a TURN AROUND NIGHT after all the bad that had happened. 

Once clear of the doors of the Blüdhaven Police Precinct, he touches a hand to his ear, nudging an ear bud into place. 

        “Oracle, you online?” 

        Her back is atrophying. Barbara actively feels each nerve losing its sensitivity and every muscle going slack. So many hours in the chair and everything hurts from lack of exercise. She can do nothing but sit. There was the physical therapist earlier in the day, but all he did was flail her useless legs around. 

        She doesn’t understand the point. There’s no probability in her regaining control of her body. All Barbara has to look forward to now is endless days in this chair, in front of this computer. 

        Dick’s comm unit crackles to life. He startles her out of her reverie, but Barbara doesn’t jump. She glumly taps into the cameras in front of the BPP and watches him and his stupid face. He won’t make it in time (as if that wasn’t a metaphor). 

        “Where else would I be?”

        Barbara glances idly at the kitchen. Tea might soothe her irritation. Though if she was honest with herself, nothing is sweet enough to rid her of this bitterness. 

        She hates this. All the depressive, dark thoughts--they aren’t her. Barbara doesn’t recognize herself anymore and she feels ridiculous playing the part of woman-who-would-be-hero. 

Fair, given my ridiculously long absence. Well, I’m BACK.

Ish. 

Unfortunately, Barbara Gordon has not returned to me. But I would LOVE some opinions on which muse people would actually like to write with. 

Please vote for your favorite!

1. Cat Grant 

2. Peter Parker

3. Stephanie Brown

4. Selina Kyle

5. Leslie Thompkins

                     she isn’t working for HAPPINESS;  no.  that had been in the ignorance of the temple, before she’d peeled the books that’d belonged to the wars.  she’s not here for the satisfaction of a life lived ––––– that had been in the music, of azarath.  in the praise, of every corner of knowledge she had acquired.  heroism suits not the man who wants to be happy.

the fight suits the man who wants to feel ALIVE.  to ease the restlessness that justice brings, in some blind hope that they can force the good upward. 

that, however, is kept in her silence. she isn’t even sure it’s true, though there’s no lack of opportunity to hear it.

❝   … yeah.  sure.  guess it’s just … opening the gates.   ❞

          Barbara feels the thoughts turning in Raven’s head. There are years there--years that Barbara will never know or understand. She and Raven don’t have a close friendship. Can their relationship even be categorized close to the line of friendship? 

           Even still, Barbara finds Raven fascinating. Not as a study, but as another woman in their line of work--another woman her age--with a high level of maturity and a conscious choice of heroism. 

            Doubt, skepticism, all these emotions she’s familiar with. 

            Barbara smiles.

            “Easier said than done, huh?”

Let no one say Barbara Gordon is anything less than a FIRECRACKER. She sparks and arcs, brilliant flares of light that sit square behind those beautiful eyes of hers. As CRAPPY as he may seem to her, in missing study sessions, he really does appreciate her. She is one of his ONLY honest friends. And for as SHARP as she may seem, he can’t help but to like her. 

        “Beeeeecause I’m your friend? And friends tell each other what they mean          when they half say things?”

What HAD she been saying? What was he meant to know? It’s hard to keep track of everything between being Robin, solving crimes, regular schooling and attempting to keep up the veneer of a normal teenage boy. 

        “Who ever said you were bothering me? Babs, I … I like spending time with           you - I just … get … busy, sometimes. I don’t mean to do the things I do.”

          He’s doing it again. Dick pushes her buttons and Barbara can no longer keep a lid on her temper. She shoves down her worries, concerns, secrets--all of into this neat little box packed away inside her, always. Now that box spills out into her frustration and bleeds like a gaping wound. 

          Dick lies to her all the time. She lies to him too. Maybe that’s all they are, a bunch of lies wrapped into human packages. A depressing, melodramatic thought for a usually positive, logical girl. 

          “You want to know what I was going to say? I was going to say that I have a crush on you! God knows why, considering you’re never here and you’re always LYING to me.”

          Barbara thumps her fist against her backpack strap. 

“Well… that sounds like a fun way to spend a Thursday evening. I’m gonna’ have to set the DVR. Can you give me a couple of minutes?”

         “You know me. Party city.”

                                      She said, "I want something that I want                                               Something that I tell myself I need                                                     Something that I want                                                And I need everything I see." 

                                      A lost girl in plain sight.