. (spacecowboys) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-04-22 16:47:00 |
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Entry tags: | batman, catwoman |
Who: Wren and Luke
What: Congratulations and an alter change (1/2)
Where: Home
When: Recently
Warnings/Rating: None
Wren, true to her word, had put off going to TAPS.
She'd called Anne, the woman who ran the local office, and she'd made an appointment for Sunday. Then, once that was done, she'd gone and made good use of her tips from that afternoon. She stopped at the hair salon, and then she stopped at a consignment shop, and then she went home. She was happy. It was kind of happy that she knew couldn't last, certain to be chased away by worry during Luke's first shift, but she was going to hold onto it for as long as she could, if only for Luke's sake. It scared her, all this normalcy, all these things that she could lose in a blink. She had no expectation that life would be safe, or that it would be long, or that it would be good. But it was so good just then, and the fear was so hard to keep at bay. And it wasn't just quitting her job; it was all of it. The ring on her finger, Gus smiling more often than not, and Luke sounding happy on the phone. All of it, and it was so scary to have that much to lose.
Her maman had always told her that love didn't exist, and she had been wrong about that. But she'd told her, too, that nothing good lasted. Wren hoped her maman had been wrong about that too.
Items purchased, she swung by Passages, splurging on cab fare to avoid getting back to the house after Luke did. She wanted to pop into the door for a minute, just to leave a note she'd written to Selina that morning about Bruce's imminent departure; she wanted more details than Luke had given, and she knew Selina would be able to fill in the blanks. But, surprisingly, her key didn't work.
Wren had no sense of Selina's presence, and she had no way of knowing if she was there, or if she wasn't, but she tried the key in the lock multiple times. No luck, and she knew she would have to tell Luke. But it could wait, she decided, tucking the useless key away. No reason to ruin the day, and it wasn't like he could do anything about it. She knew the people behind the door didn't always stay, but a year and a half had lulled her into thinking Selina would always be there. It gave her a chill, really, to think of possible alternatives. She forced herself to shrug it off, and she decided to buy a bottle of good wine on the way home; she didn't want to be melancholy tonight.
She had fifteen minutes to spare, by the time she got home. She'd spoken to Jack, and Gus has been bustled off to the neighbors' to play until Jack came to collect him. Wren poured herself a deep glass of the rich, red wine, and she drank it down, before pouring herself another. She showered and dressed quickly. Her hair, a little darker than the cinnamon of her childhood, was loose, and it made her feel younger than the blonde, more vulnerable somehow. It was as if she was more herself, and less like the platinum thing she'd created to survive. But she equated it with dowdy, too, her natural shade, and she finished her wine glass, gratefully feeling the familiar buzz start to settle in.
Five minutes left, and Wren tucked away the mail to look at later, not noticing the manila envelope with the new hotel key and journal.
She turned off the lights, all save the entry foyer, and she waited by the window. The bolt was on the door, so even Luke wouldn't be able to get in without knocking. And she had no intention of letting him in without his uniform on. The concern about the hotel faded with her anticipation, and she leaned against the window's frame and waited.
In all honesty, Luke wasn’t sure what he was happier about; finally graduating instead of being stuck in an eternal academic stasis, or Wren finally being able to quit her job. Her well-being and happiness had always mattered more than his, but in this case they were interconnected, and he decided he was equal parts thrilled about both. Maybe a little more so for her, since the way she’d sounded over the phone clearly indicated her happiness. After what felt like a decade of struggling to make ends meet, of sleepless nights and almost no free time and the knowledge that Wren was taking on jobs she didn’t want to do just to support them, it felt as though a huge weight had finally been lifted from his shoulders. And, too, it felt like he was at last starting down a new path, leaving his old worn-in roads behind him. While he could never erase his past or what he’d done, he could try to make up for it now, for the rest of his years, and focus on the present instead of dwelling on that which was impossible to change.
His first official day on the job wasn’t until the following Monday, but that was inconsequential. Just the weekend, nothing more, and then he’d have a steady income and benefits, something his job at Caesars had never offered. That was where he went first, to inform his bosses that he was quitting; it went smoothly, considering they’d already known of his career change in advance and thus it came as no surprise. They wished him well, and that was that. Next was the LVPD headquarters, where he managed to wrangle getting his uniform even though he didn’t actually need it yet. It was a good thing, really, that they’d agreed to an hour, because he ended up getting caught in an impromptu ‘what to expect’ lecture that lasted longer than he’d been expecting. He actually changed into his uniform halfway home, in the car, which was an adventure in itself, and by the time he arrived home he knew without a doubt that she’d beaten him there; not that he minded.
The uniform wasn’t blue like the NYPD cops he’d grown up around, or even the Seattle PD he’d tangled with once or twice back in the day. It wasn’t blue at all, in fact; the pants and short-sleeved shirt were khaki colored, but no less impressive, and while he didn’t have a gun yet, he did have a badge. Somewhere deep inside himself, ten-year-old him was spazzing out.
He probably should have expected the door to be locked, but he tried it anyway, first the doorknob and then actually sliding the key in the lock. Neither worked, which he knew was intentional, and he tried not to laugh as he leaned his forehead against the door for a moment before taking a step back and arranging his expression into something more serious, albeit exaggeratedly so. Then, after a pause, he raised his hand and knocked three times in succession and waited.
Wren knew exactly what the LVPD uniform looked like; she'd been arrested often enough in the county that she could probably describe every pocket with her eyes closed. And, despite the fact that there was no love lost between her and the police, this was different. This was Luke. She pulled back from the window when she saw the car, wondering if he'd get a police car soon. But she pulled back, not watching him get out, forcing herself to wait. She stood behind the door instead, waiting until she heard him try the doorknob, then waiting while he tried the key. She was always amazed that she could still get butterflies in her stomach, that waiting for him could still make her nervous in that same way as when she'd been a teenager. She waited longer, rocking on her bare toes and looking out the peephole as he leaned his forehead against the door.
When he knocked, she stepped back.
Playing games was something Wren had been doing forever. It had been a part of her life even before her maman died, when she would pretend to be the maid who brought her maman's clients lemonade while they waited for their appointments. It had carried through all of her adulthood, and it had become a coping mechanism, in its own way. Being someone else made everything easier, and it made everyone easier. A large part of who she showed the world was fake in the very same way, though there was less of that now than there had been once. But this was different. This was for fun, and she'd never done that before. It was silly, she thought, that with all the things she'd done in her life, she could still find things she hadn't done. This was one of them, and the nervousness made her cheeks red.
She pulled open the door a second later, dark hair and a demure outfit, and she looked at him for just one second, nervous honesty in her grey eyes, and then appreciation for the way he looked in the uniform. A second, and then she was easily slipping into the game. "Officer," she said seriously, looking over her shoulder, cinnamon brown hair tumbling over the pure white of her shirt. "I think there's someone in my house," she whispered. She managed not to laugh and, after swallowing down a smile, she managed to force her face into a serious expression. Her fingers bunched her skirt at the hem, and she rocked on her heels, and she bit her lip. In the end, she managed to look sufficiently wide-eyed and scared. "Can you come look?" she asked, glancing back into the darkness again, and wondering if he would play along.
He almost forgot the game entirely when she pulled open the door. Demure outfit or not, dark hair or blonde, her very presence in a room was distracting enough, and he really just wanted to reach out and pull her close. He almost did, almost stepped forward as his too-familiar gaze swept over her, but he caught himself just in time and stayed where he was, on the opposite side of the threshold. A smile threatened to grow when she called him officer, which became rising laughter when she whispered her suspicions about an intruder, and he had to turn it into a well-timed cough to avoid breaking character. He’d never done anything like this before, and he wasn’t sure if he could make it through without laughing, but he would never not play along. For her, of course, but for himself too, because he wanted it as much as she did.
“An intruder?” He adopted his best police officer voice, which was taken straight out of a cheesy cop flick, and once he’d gotten a handle on his smile, the serious expression returned. “Of course I’ll take a look, ma’am. Better safe than sorry.” He stepped over the threshold and into the house, and game or not, he kind of liked playing the hero to her damsel. “Just stay behind me,” he instructed as he moved forward, as though there was a real threat somewhere in the darkness.
His smile and almost laugh made it very, very hard for her to remain serious; she barely managed it, really, and it was only years of playing at things that kept her from laughing right there and then. He was so earnest, and she was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to keep up this game for very long. But she loved him for trying, and she loved that nearly-forward step, and she loved the too familiar gaze. That question, asked in that tone that was so very reminiscent of a movie policeman, almost made her giggle, and it was a good thing she had turned by the time he called her ma'am. She wanted to tease him, to ask him if he was going to call all women ma'am now, but she refrained, a smile on her lips as she followed him into the dark house.
The curtains were pulled, and there was pitch black beyond the foyer. She knew that knowledge of the furniture layout would keep him from tumbling over the couch, but that much darkness played with the senses and, by the time she'd fallen into step behind him, she could almost imagine something scary in the corners of the living room. "Do you think it's dangerous?" she asked in a whisper, from just over his shoulder. She was too close to be polite, but that was intentional. There was a brush of her skirt against the back of his thigh, and the feel of her sleeve against his elbow. Her hair smelled of lemon and citrus, and her lips almost brushed his ear when she next spoke. "My husband won't be home for hours, and I'm scared," she whispered, her body pressing against his back for just a second, before she let him move ahead.
Even in the dark, he knew the layout of the house well enough to navigate without tripping over furniture or becoming disoriented. He could have used a flashlight or even his cell phone to illuminate a path, but once his eyes adjusted to the lack of light it wasn’t all that difficult to maneuver his way around the couch and and tables, and through the living room. Her voice was closer than he’d expected it to be when she spoke, and it was the brushes of fabric against him, combined with that almost-brush of her lips against his ear, that had him stumbling to a stop, rather than the darkness or some other obstacle. He was only still for a second, long enough for her to press against him, and it took a deliberate effort to keep from turning around and ending the game right then and there.
“No, ma’am, I don’t think it’s dangerous,” he said, glancing over his shoulder once before resuming his careful trek forward. “You did the right thing, waiting for help to arrive.” He paused at the edge of the hallway, and then he turned to face her, lips twitching as he fought back a smile. “There’s nothing to be scared of. If there’s someone here, I’ll find them, even if I have to search every room in the house. I won’t let anything happen to you,” he assured her, and maybe he lingered a little too long, looked more than he should have, but then he turned back and indicated with a tilt of his head for her to follow. “Remember, stay behind me.” The hallway was even darker than the living room, but he knew where all the rooms were, even if he did have to feel along the wall first to find the doorknob. He doubted that he’d make it through every room, especially if she kept staying as close as she was, but he was willing to try.
She loved that stumble stop. It helped her to feel powerful, even with the dowdy clothing and the dark hair. It helped ease her vulnerability in ways that were, maybe, unhealthy. She was lucky, she knew, that he was the kind of man he was. He would never take advantage of the fact that she would do absolutely anything for him, without even stopping to consider whether she wanted to, or whether she should. Too, he let her control things in a way she wouldn't do with the slightest bit of resistance on his part. He never resisted and she, in turn, would never intentionally hurt him. She smiled when he glanced over his shoulder, a little thrilled and impressed that he managed to continue on. Once upon a time, she might have considered that disinterest, but that ma'am let her know it was just part of the game, and the darkness hid the teasing grin on her lips.
She wasn't expecting him to turn and face her, and now it was her turn to stumble to a stop. In the shadows, she could just make out the twitching of his lips, and she found it very, very hard not to respond in kind. When his gaze lingered, she swayed toward him the tiniest bit, and her lips turned up, warm and inviting, the promise there impossible to miss. She almost laughed when he turned. "I'll stay behind you," she promised, moving very close indeed. Her fingers strayed to his hips, looking for a baton, for handcuffs. "Do you have things to protect me with?" she asked, husky innocence as her fingertips intentionally sought out cool metal in the dark.
It was no secret that, when it came to games like this, he never managed to last very long. He tried, but inevitably he would reach a point where his self-control failed him and what patience he did have ran dry. For now, though, he thought he was doing a pretty good job of playing along, and he liked that he could still turn the tables on her every once in awhile, even though it was incredibly difficult to turn away from the warm promise and sway towards him. There was something thrilling about having his back turned, about not being able to see her, and the feel of her fingers on his hips made him hesitate, building up the restraint to keep himself still before responding. “Of course I do,” he said, a hint of teasing beneath his exaggeratedly stoic tone of voice. “Standard-issue police baton, ma’am,” which was in his belt, “no firearm, but if there is an intruder I don’t need much more than that and these.” He slid one hand into his pocket and withdrew a pair of handcuffs, clinking together in the silence as he held them up. His free hand turned the doorknob, and after a cursory glance into the darkened interior and a step forward, he deemed it “clear” and stepped back into the hallway. Then, very intentionally, he slid the handcuffs back into his pocket, pushing them to the very bottom before resuming his search.
"You're so brave and strong. My husband leaves me here all alone, and I get so lonely and so scared," she said, her voice all husky exaggeration, before she repeated the same sentence in even huskier, more deliberate French. "I bet you wouldn't do that," she added, all sweet ingenue in her voice, layered with something that wasn't sweet at all. A second later, the forced stoicism in his voice made her almost giggle aloud. She heard the handcuffs clink in the dark, and her gaze was drawn down to the slightly glinting metal. She considered, as she rocked harmlessly against his back, one finger tracing a line just above the black belt that circled his hips. She watched them for a moment, the handcuffs, as he glanced into the darkened room, and she kept looking as they disappeared deep into his pocket. She followed him as his search continued, but a very obviously fake shriek sent her flying against his back, her hands on his shoulders, his hips and, oddly enough, deep into that pocket that the handcuffs had disappeared into - by mistake of course. "I thought I heard something," she whispered against his ear, tugging the handcuffs free with one, quick yoink. Her other arm circled his waist, and it accidently slid along the front of his uniform pants for just a hint of a moment. Now she just needed to find a way to get the cuffs on him. Then she'd worry about that baton.
He started to speak, to respond to her lamentation of her husband’s shortcomings, but the French effectively silenced him, and he had to muffle a groan against the back of his hand. She knew he had a thing for her speaking in a foreign language, which he thought was unfair for her to use against him, but he wasn’t giving in that easily. Not yet. “No, ma’am, I wouldn’t,” he said, and while he was still obviously making an effort, it was harder to maintain his previous stoicism. “Your husband is a very lucky man. He should learn to appreciate what he has, if you don’t mind me saying. If you were my wife, the last thing I’d do is leave you alone.” He gave her a look over his shoulder, heated even in the darkness, before returning his attention forward. The display of the handcuffs, and the very obvious slide of them back into his pocket, was intentional, and he was expecting something. Even so, the shriek surprised him, and he stumbled when she pressed against him, catching himself with one hand pressed against the wall. He didn’t mind the excuse to touch him, not in the slightest, and he smiled when her hand slid into his pocket. He felt it, of course, but he pretended he didn’t, feigning ignorance instead. “Understandable,” he began, but the words cut off sharply when her arm brushed over the front of his pants, breath hitching at the barely-there contact, despite how fleeting it was. It would have been easy to turn the tables on her, to take back the handcuffs and use them on her instead, but he was admittedly curious to see what she would do; he’d let her try, but he wasn’t easy to overpower even without putting up a real fight. “Just stay close,” he said, a heavy whisper, and his fingers closed around her wrist to keep her arm around his waist, tugging her with him as he moved.
She felt that muffled groan, and she wondered if she could get away with speaking nothing but French for the remainder of the game. She was still considering it when he spoke again, and she made soft, agreeing sound against his shoulder when he spoke of her husband. It was more the hum of words against the tan fabric of his uniform there, just were his shoulder curled down to his arm, and not really sound at all. And, of course, it required she be very, very close. "He's very busy," she said of her husband, before her voice became a hushed, confessing whisper. "He's always at work, or so he says. But I think he's just tired of me. Would you be tired of me?" Her voice went mournful, wistful, and she smiled when he caught himself with that hand against the wall. The movement meant she could press herself more completely against him for a second, and that she could allow herself a little murmur of her own pleasure. That breath hitch was almost worth the torment of pulling her arm away slightly. When his hand caught her wrist, she stilled, trying to figure out if she could manage the handcuffs with one hand. But a quick swing of the metal turning in on itself told her that yes, police issue or not, they were similar to the ones she'd used for work. A second later, she stumbled accidentally, and she grabbed for that hand that held her wrist and pulled it back, as if it was just to keep herself from tripping. Her weight was completely against his back then, and she was counting on the effort to keep both of them from toppling to distract him long enough to tug his other arm back, and to snap the handcuffs on him. She knew better than to think she could overpower him, and she knew he would have to give in to let her do it; she only hoped the distraction, the very real threat of falling, made him not consider it before he let her have what she wanted.
It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep himself still, and despite his efforts he couldn’t help pressing back against her, a shift of his body against her solid weight. Once, then again, his breaths becoming heavier each time. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I’d never be tired of you. Your husband doesn’t deserve you.” Pause. “Ma’am.” He wanted to rock back against her when she pressed herself more fully to him, and only just managed to refrain, though his fingers tightened around her wrist in the process. Admittedly, if she hadn’t acted, he wasn’t sure how long he would have been able to keep up the act, especially when she was so close. Just then he didn’t care if it was intentional, the accidental stumble, didn’t care if it was all one long attempt to maneuver him into a position where it was easier to get the handcuffs on him. It helped that he wanted what she wanted, but he could give her that without making it so blatantly obvious that he was capitulating. He played along, for the most part, but part of his reaction was pure instinct, a desire to keep her safe and unharmed that ran too deep for him to fight. He let go of her wrist when she pulled on his hand, he let her pull, and his other hand slid away from the wall as he shifted his weight in order to keep his balance, his and hers, and prevent them from stumbling forward. His goal was to keep her upright, which also meant keeping himself upright, and he didn’t need his hands to do that.
She managed to grab onto his other arm, to tug it back in a believable approximation of someone who was doing so to keep from falling. The snick of the cuffs behind his back was quick, and it was skilled. She had been tying people up for a living in so many ways, and for so long, that it was a natural, silky smooth thing. She didn't fumble with the cuffs, and she didn't overtighten them like a novice would. They clicked into place, and she pressed herself against his back with a happy, husky little laugh against his ear. "Hi," she whispered, dropping the facade for just a second, before winding around him and slipping it right back on. She nudged him further back in the hallway, back to where it was darker, where there was less light from the bedroom window. She pressed against him in the dark, her body against his chest, as his shoulders were nudged against the wall. "You see, officer, I get so very bored," she said, reaching for the Mag flashlight tucked into his belt. She lit it, and she stepped back, using it to illuminate him from head to toe, lingering along his chest and groin, then back up again. She held it high then, at eye level, like policemen were trained to do. It eclipsed his view of her, but it meant she could see his face perfectly. "Will you help me, officer?" she asked, feigning innocence again, waiting for his answer before proceeding. "Please," she added, the tone familiar, pleading. And maybe it was playing dirty, but it was all for his benefit, even if he didn't realize it yet. She never, ever managed to get him to stay still for her; this time she intended to manage it.
Even though he knew what was coming, the ease and skill with which it was executed still surprised him. It probably shouldn’t have, given her time as a dominatrix, but he was expecting something, even just a moment, of hesitation that might allow him to put up some semblance of a fight. Instead, he found his arms handcuffed behind his back in less time than it took to actually register what was happening. Her laugh made his concession worth it, though, and he smiled at the familiar whispered greeting. He moved back when she nudged him, unable to do much else, the sensation of being essentially without the use of his arms one that was foreign to him. Despite that, he still strained against the handcuffs when she pressed against him, all instinct and no actual expectation of being able to break his restraints; he knew he wouldn’t be able to. He just wanted to touch her, and that desire made him struggle even if it was a fruitless effort. After a few seconds, when she slid the flashlight from his belt and stepped back, he went still, even though it took some effort to do so. His immediate reaction, when the flashlight’s beam reached his face, was to wince and look away, which he tried to do since he couldn’t exactly raise a hand to block the light. Even before her please, his answer would have been yes, but that plea just solidified it, ensured that he didn’t even bother trying to turn this around on her. “Yes,” he said, the word breathless and rushed. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll help you. Whatever you need. Whatever you want.”