Tangled in you
by Te
February 23, 2007

Disclaimers: Not mine.

Spoilers/Timeline: Very vague references to various
toonverse events. Takes place after the flashback sequence
in Return of the Joker.

Summary: It's not her job to safeword.

Ratings Note/Warnings: Sexual content which does and
doesn't dovetail neatly with the content some readers may
find to be -- *points up to timeline*.

Author's Note: Petra asked for Matches and lust. This is still
not her fault.

Acknowledgments: To Betty and Petra for reality checks.


She'd been all set to file the night under 'okay, if dull' --
plenty of pretty people in the club, but the drinks were too
crappy for her to lower her standards to *just* pretty --
and she was waiting for the cab that'll get her close enough
to home to make the sober-up walk home pleasant, as
opposed to a preview of morning-after punishment.

Of course, in this part of town everything's either a crime-
scene-to-be, a dance club in a warehouse, a warehouse, or
an alley, but, well --

She is, among other things, Batgirl. This is not a problem.

Or, rather, it *wasn't* a problem, until the gorilla in the
eye-watering suit jacket put his arm around her shoulder
and dragged her way too deep in the alley for anything but

A very specific kind of trouble, even. Dammit.

Babs settles into something like a game-face, and takes a
moment to brace for whatever crazy-ass thing 'Matches'
will come up with to say that'll somehow feel like a scolding
from Batman, a disappointed scolding from Bruce, and also
some sexual harassment. And then --

"Haven't seen you 'round before," he says, and -- *cups*
her ass.

Jesus. Way too heavy on option three -- though it's been a
while since they did any serious disguise work. Out of
practice. Babs does her best not to twitch -- or jab, for that
matter. "Look, can we just --"

"Easy, easy, tiger -- the night's young."

Which probably translates to 'quiet, the target is nearby' or
something else that *also* translates to 'one demerit for
Batgirl, who used to spend too much time with Robin,' so
she just bites her lip and tries to decide how someone
who's actually interested in Matches would act.

"Yeah, like that -- kitten, you've got a body on you…" The
whistle would be piercing if it wasn't designed to just blow
a little garlic-air on her still-sweaty ear.

The shiver is awful and in-character. "Maybe," she says, and
does a little duck-and-smile. "But I don't think this body's for

She stumbles, drunker than she is, and manages to dislodge
the hand from her ass. A little. It winds up on her thigh in
the same little bit of Bruce-body-magic which leaves her
with her back against the wall.

"Oh, hey now, sailor, maybe *you* should take it easy," she
says, and Bruce has got Matches set up just right for a nice
shove to the chest --

Which doesn't do a damned thing.

Is she supposed to be keeping her eyes on something over
his shoulder? This deep in the alley all she can see is the
flickering stutter of a dying arc-sodium, bricks, and --

"Oh, so maybe you're an alley cat, baby? 'cause that was
just mean."

"And maybe you're looking for a whole different *cat*
tonight, mister, 'cause I --"

She --

The last time -- not quite the first, but close -- Bruce touched
her mouth was to do the super-fine stitch work that meant
she could go home after a "long weekend" with something
that looked more like the remains of a bad pimple than a

His hands were big, and hard, and deft, and *sure*, and --

There's nothing really *deft* about the finger on her
mouth -- nothing perceivable, anyway -- but everything

Everything else has her seriously freaking (*maybe* too
much time with Robin) *confused*, because even when
she chances an off-protocol *look*, there's nothing in
Bruce's eyes that helps.

There's nothing in Bruce's eyes that's really *Bruce*,

"Yeah, that's -- that's a *lot* better, babycat. You know I've
had my eyes on you all *night*…"

There's a camera in the locket of the cheap-*looking*
necklace she's wearing and a recorder in her bra. And it
was all just in *case*, because they've all learned a lesson
about what can really --

They've learned, since Robin, and she's not thinking about
it. That's what tonight was *for*. And anyway --

It's not the kind of 'watching' he's talking about. It's --

It's just *not*, and she doesn't need the (big, hard) hand
sliding (so *sure*) up under her baby-t to tell her *that* --

"Hey," she says, and stops herself, because her father had
taught her years ago a lot more *effective* ways to get a
point across. It's just --

Is she *supposed* to use them?

"Mmm. Not to say you *couldn't* use a little meat on you,
but --"

"What's the matter? Couldn't find a better playmate?"

And it shouldn't feel like -- like *ice* to get that look over
the top of the sunglasses, that --

It should be a *relief* to see Bruce in the half-second
before that hand is cupping her *breast*, finding her
nipple like he knows exactly how she wears *this* kind of
bra, thumbing it up --

"B -- *wait* --"

"You sure 'bout that, honey?"

It's not a relief, even though this is just -- what it is. It
just -- Robin would say Bruce had just killed all kinds of
deniability. Timmy would -- the real Timmy would --

"You sure don't *look* like you wanna wait for

Timmy would just curse, because it's just fucking *like*
Bruce to lay out his issues in a great big *wad* and
expect them (her) to just deal with it, even though
there's no fucking *telling* how it's all gonna play out --

"*You* look like…" And the hand that isn't making her
whole damned breast *tingle* is back on her mouth, two
fingers making her lower lip feel like something broad and
obscene and wrong, and --

No. Just -- *no*. It's not like she hasn't put up all the signals
she could think of for the man, and it's not like he didn't
*want* her to know that he was right here buried under all
the sleazy camp.

It's not real Matches -- by her estimates -- to gasp just
because a pretty young 'lady' sucks two fingers into her
mouth and stares, but Bruce does a little better -- *looks*
a little better -- when she bites.

"Aww, now -- you wanna know what you look like?"

It's a little rough (right) when he yanks his fingers out, and
it feels a little like dancing to scrub spit and lipstick off on
the back of her hand before saying, "why don't you tell

She can't really say *what* it feels like to get spun -- just a
*little* clumsily, not enough for her to catch herself --
around to face the wall --

But the hand that was on her breast has her *hard* by the
hip, and the other one is just as hard on her shoulder.
"Watch it --"

And Bruce --

Matches' body is huge and heavy and her arms are in the
wrong position to do anything about it. At the moment,
with Matches holding her against the wall *with* his body,
there's nothing she *can* do about it.

Other than hate herself a little for the fact that her *first*
clear thought was all about spreading her labs. Freaking --
*fucking* Bruce --

"What am I gonna watch, hunh? Tell me, baby cat --"

"I'm not --"

"No, you look like -- you *are* a bad kitty. Wanna know
what bad kitties get?"

Fucked in an alley? Just a guess -- and also maybe more
than a little too much time with -- with --


With the boy that she won't think the words 'not coming
back' about, that she *can't* -- with Bruce's -- *Matches'*
hand shoved between her thighs, pressing and
*working* --

"Tell me you want it, little girl, or…"

"Or -- or *what*?"

And the slap is blunted by the heavy thickness of her jeans,
but it's -- it's a fucking *slap*. "Fuck --"

"Or I *show* you."

And for a second that can't really be measured by anything
Babs' knows about time, it's just -- quiet. Or --

Quiet enough that she can hear her own ragged breathing
and have it be too loud to *tell* how Matches' breathing is,
and maybe if she took the time to strain, she'd be able to
hear too-distant cars filled with too-distant people living
lives she can't even imagine right now. She doesn't even
know where Timmy --

It's just that it would mean not being able to feel Matches'
breath on the back of her neck, to 'see' the awkward crouch
he has to be using to keep pressing against her, keep her
ass feeling open and exposed despite the jeans, keep --


The voice is Matches', but the question --

The thing about being Batgirl, about being Batgirl to the
Batman, and Robin, and Nightwing -- wherever *he* is
right now -- is that there are too many damned *things*
she's not allowed to not know.

Like the question, and how *Batgirl* would eat her own
cowl if it wasn't all about Bruce begging for something from
her that's *anything* but this.

That's --

("So did you and Selina *talk* yet?" "What?")

("He wants to come *back*, to be --" "He can't.")

It's not her fucking *job* to use *Bruce's* fucking

"Is that all you got, tough guy? 'cause --"

*Because* -- the growl that comes out of Bruce's mouth
doesn't match the persona or the feel of that *hand*
slapping her, *spanking* her. The growl won't even let her
*feel* it, at first. It's just too low, too deep, too *real*,
and the sound behind the growl…

Is a lot closer to a moan.

And maybe it says something about her that *now* she
wants to stop, that she *wants* to want to stop, to feel
something other than tighter in her skin, hotter and
angrier when the slaps get *just* a little lighter as they
work between her legs, shoving her panties and jeans
against her lips, making her dead sure that anyone who
saw her there would just -- just *know*.

It's just that she can't hear that part now, she can't --

All she can do is *feel*, and grab for the wall when
Matches -- no, *Bruce* --

When Bruce pulls away from her, enough to get a better
angle, enough to give *her* better leverage to shove back
*into* it.

Enough to let *her* growl --

And the fact that she *knows* she'll never manage any of
a certain multi-time felon's *huskiness* doesn't have a
damn thing to do with the way Bruce is grabbing her again,
kissing the lipstick that's a little too dark off her face,
hauling her up just like she *would* have the -- the fucking
grace and *presence* not to flail with her legs before
locking them around Bruce's hips.

If she'd tried a 'meow' maybe they'd be fucking right *now*,
face to face in the night and the dark and the *dirty*, but
maybe also she's still enough of the person who's going to
have to look in the mirror tomorrow morning that she's not
all *that* regretful. There are other things she could've tried.
There were --

Or --

Or maybe *this* is the truth behind little girls and horses --
hands buried in and scratching at the faux-greasy wig and
*riding* the rock and grind of Bruce's hips, wrapped tight
tight *tight* around and hitting herself just right on every
other bounce, every other dirty little bump and --

And --

"Barbara, I --"

And it serves Bruce right for making the crap he puts in
the wig that awful -- he should've known he'd have to
taste it one day, and that it would maybe -- just *fucking*
maybe -- be the day he decided to lose his mind and *use*

He looks good with most of her fist in his big, stupid
mouth, and he sounds better -- quiet save for hitching
breaths and broken little *pieces* of moans and oh --

Oh, he feels just -- *perfect*. Everywhere he'd touched,
everywhere he'd begged for the wrong damned *thing*,
nothing either of them can *have* anymore, always so --
so --

"*Stupid*," she yells, too loud, but she can't care because
she's coming, right in her panties, and it's not like she plans
on letting go anytime soon.

She wants it. She --

She *deserves* it now, every inch, every little *bit*. She
keeps her eyes wide open until they start to burn, until
she can see Bruce's face flushing under the foundation that
cost more than the entire god-awful ensemble, until she
can watch the spit dribbling down Bruce's chin and the
*hitch* in those barn-beam shoulders that warns her that
he's going to shake, that --

The shake pulls an aftershock out of her, another and she
can't keep her eyes open anymore, another and Bruce
*bites* her, and she'd slap him with her other hand -- she
*has* the right grip with her thighs -- if it didn't just mean
he was coming.

For *her*.

When it's over --

When it's over, she could wish for enough of -- *Dick's*
grace to be able to do more than release and half-
*clamber* down, but it's enough to *be* down, on her
own feet and just as fully-clothed as 'Matches' over there.

Clothes may not make the man, but they can sure hide a
lot of --

A lot.

No. This -- this is just too much, and she's okay with it being
that way. Just because she knows that it's going to take
Bruce at least another minute to come up with *anything*
to say doesn't mean she has to wait for it.

She walks, and -- of course -- it's just enough past last-call
that the only cabs around are the skeevy, over-charging
gypsies, and she doesn't have a fraction of the control she'd
need not to just kick some greedy bastard's ass. Robin --
any Robin -- would point to the rooftops and grin, half-shit-
eating and half-hopeful -- one more game of tag before

Just one more.

She doesn't have the shoes for it, and --

And Bruce is behind her. Out of range of the jabs, but not
the kicks. She's not *up* to this --

"There's --"

"*Not* now."

"There's a place," Bruce says, dogged and implacable and
more kickable by the second, "I -- something of a stash.
There are… two of your bikes."

Babs closes her eyes and breathes.

"I could --"


He tells her, and --

And it's funny, almost, how long it's been. She can *feel*
him fading back into the shadows, maybe letting *them*
straighten out his look until he can start doing whatever
else *he* has planned before going back to his big, empty
excuse for a home, or maybe just the Cave, and…

And she laughs, because she can't really help it, right now.
"I didn't start wanting you for a long time, you know."


"It was never anything like smart, on my part, and you --
you know that, too, don't you?"

"Yes," Bruce says again, and manages to *broadcast*
something like a miasma of waiting and hoping, and
sometimes Babs wonders why -- *she* can't ever seem to
feel it, and sometimes she thinks it's feeling it that keeps
the woman at arm's length.

Cats have great instincts. She doesn't know about birds,
anymore. Bats…

Babs looks back over her shoulder. "Come back with me."

"You're not… I thought you would --"

"Come *back* with me. I want -- I want," she says, and
she can't say the rest, and she has just enough time to
promise herself that this is the last chance he gets, that
one more fuck-up and she's gone, that -- they've changed
the *rules* at the Police Academy since the last time she'd
tried, and her father --

"All right," Bruce says, and the breath she was going to take
is just --

The bike they'll take -- *Bruce* in the bitch-seat -- is going
to have a stripe the color of her hair -- she knows it -- and
there'll be explosives in the hidden compartments and the
kind of engine that's kept her from buying a vibrator for
*years*, now.

Maybe --

She knows she's just standing there when Bruce puts a hand
on her waist, and she can't make herself do anything about
it until *after* his nose is pressed to her scalp and she can
feel him feeling her, knowing her -- breathing.

And hear herself breathing in time.

"We're not -- we're just not," she says, and shakes as much
of it off as she can.