Work Text:
He’s still half-dreaming when he reaches across the pillows, grasping for his lover and finding only cool, empty space.
His first impulse is to worry. Infinite thoughts of Kory being taken in the night ambush him in the millisecond between sleep and waking, and he darts up to scan the semi-dark room.
“Kory?” His voice trembles out.
His eyes dart from one corner to another, seeking the curves of her silhouette. There’s no one else around, the tower is soundless save for the light whoosh of early morning traffic outside. He manipulates his breathing to slow his heart rate, a technique he learned early in his training. If the worst has happened then he’s no use to her at all in his frazzled state. He needs to stay focused, and somehow calm in spite of the gnawing feeling that something is terribly wrong. There’s no logic in it, If he were being logical right now, he’d consider the fact that they would have immediately vaporized him in his sleep had they found him laying naked with their rightful queen.
The bedside clock reads 511. Just four hours ago he’d been practically elated, nothing on his mind aside from how good her skin felt against his, the way her lips tasted, the musical sounds of her pleasure as he moved in and out, skillfully as if he were fighting. He wanted her again this morning, so she could take him back to that place where everything was somehow fine even though nothing was.
He throws the covers off of his nude body and hastily finds his sweatpants. His shirt from last night is missing, but the slinky nightie she’d been wearing is crumpled up on the floor, right where it landed after she’d slipped out of it, inviting him to kiss her body and pull her closer.
She can’t be gone, not now, not ever. Losing another person just isn’t something he’s prepared to handle. He moves through the dark to find her, peeking into her bedroom, knocking lightly on bathroom doors, praying for some source of light or sound to interrupt his worried thoughts, a tv show on mute or the light from the refrigerator as she fishes around for a snack. But there’s nothing but darkness.
Today is Saturday, their one day to sleep in, and everyone is taking full advantage, completely unaware of the chaos going on inside of him.Before declaring an emergency to the rest of the team, he checks the training room last.
A single light is on over the heavy bag, and he lets out a sigh of relief when he sees her there, in nothing but his shirt and her panties, focused and aiming squarely for the bag. She breathes in and out, in and out, her eyes closed tight, whispering some Tamaranean mantra as she tries to conjure the fire that still refuses to come. Not even a crackle of heat illuminates her lovely brown skin, and her posture wilts as if the final lingering traces of hope are leaving her body at once.
It’s been three solid weeks without her powers, without Rachel, without Donna, without any chance of returning home. She’s as wounded as he is, likely even more, and he wants to take her back to bed, pull his shirt off of her and let her use him over and over until she can sleep again.
“Are you seriously trying to light my punching bag on fire right now?” he teases. She jumps slightly at the sound of his voice before letting out a frustrated breath.
“Don’t worry, doesn’t work anyway.” She wrings her hands, empty of flame but still capable of so much. If only he could convince her that she was still as strong and powerful as ever to him, that she didn’t need her super strength to make him feel weak. “I think it might really be gone, Dick.”
Her voice shakes with the words as if she might cry, or maybe she already was. If he was her boyfriend he’d know just what to say, but he isn’t. In fact, they don’t know exactly what they are to each other, only that a week ago she came to his room in the middle of the night, needing him, and the only option he could see was to give himself to her. They repeated that routine every night since and carried on with business as usual in the daytime like nothing was different.
He couldn’t reach out and brush back her soft pink hair, or press his lips to her forehead, or even vaguely acknowledge how drunk and dizzy she could make him feel with just a look.
The most they could manage with the others around were stares over the dinner table that lasted a second too long, or grappling sessions in the training room that could be misconstrued by dirty minds, a misplaced hand, a too gentle hold.
If he was her boyfriend he’d tell her that everything was going to be okay, that Rachel would succeed at reviving Donna somehow, and that together they’d deal with the unholy disaster that was Kory’s sister. And he’d hold her and rock her until she started to believe it. But for now, he’ll settle for just making her smile.
He closes the space between them and slides his hands around her hips, smirking at her choice of wardrobe. “Don’t you have your own shirts?”
It works, she smiles. It’s not as big and wide and Kory as it usually is, but it’s something. When he kisses her he can still feel the small curve of it. If he was her boyfriend, he’d keep on kissing her. But then he remembers that that never stopped him before. He lifts her up so she can wrap her long legs around him and he walks her to the mirrored wall, holding her up and hoping like hell that there are no other early risers in the house.
It gets out of hand fast, with her fingers in his hair and his lips everywhere, pressing firm and hot against her chin, her collarbone, the rapid pulse of her neck, those gorgeous, full lips. Pretty soon he has to suspect that it’s the air alone holding them up against that mirror.
If he doesn’t stop now they’re going to desecrate the training room, but he can’t stop, not until the second he tastes the saltwater on her cheek. At that, he draws back in an instant and puts her down again.
“Hey, Kory hey,” he says frantically, thumbing her tears away, pushing her hair out of her face. “What’s wrong? Baby tell me what’s wrong.”
He knows what’s wrong, what’s been wrong, it’s a stupid question. And he shouldn’t call her baby, he’s not her boyfriend he’s not her boyfriend he’s not her boyfriend.
And yet somehow in the next moment he finds himself sitting on the floor, holding her and rocking her and telling her that everything is going to be okay.
“I’m sorry,” she cries into his bare chest, and he only holds her tighter.
“Don’t be sorry.”
“But I am, I know you’re hurting too.” She’s right, but it doesn’t matter, not when there’s a team counting on him. What she doesn’t know though, is how much he counts on her, he has ever since they met, even if he can never quite admit it. Without her there, sharing the responsibility for no other reason besides the deep, inherent good in her, he knows he’d be slipping into that tortured place again. So making her feel better, in the long run, is the best thing for everyone.
“We can both be hurting,” he whispers softly.
“But you don’t do this, you don’t cry,” her voice comes out in a sob that’s almost a laugh.
“That’s because you’re the normal one,” he says, making her laugh again.
It’s quiet for a long moment after that, until her tears dry and her heartbeat slows back down.
“Are you ready to go back upstairs?” He says, and she nods against his chest.
They stand up together, and he leans forward to kiss her again, just because she needs it and he loves it. He doesn’t do this with anyone else, he doesn’t think he could even if he wanted to. It would feel off and unsatisfying, not cheating, just unnecessary. He’s not her boyfriend, but in some indescribable way, he’s still hers.
When he takes her upstairs he’ll show her again.