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Sturdy and Serviceable

lo entenderás cuando llegue tu Healing Buttsex

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Ten drabbles
Pretty please
This is just the drabbles in the last entry with some embarrassing errors corrected, and put in an entry to allow me to tag them. Carry on, nothing here to see.

Also, man, the best thing about this method is that all the drabbles come pre-titled. How cool is that?

There's no point to his escapes, he knows that. There's nothing outside for him, and no one. His sprees don't bring Nora any closer to him. His medical condition is a joke to all of Gotham. They only stop laughing at him in the instant before he kills them.

All the same, Victor Fries can't bear to remain in Arkham. It isn't the howling of his cell mates, or the food, or the intrusive idiocy of doctors who imagine he's there to be cured. In Arkham, there's nothing to do but remember.

Eventually, Dinah gives up. Babs knows the day it happens. One evening, Dinah doesn't call to ask if Babs wants to split some Thai and watch college volleyball. When she's a half hour past Babs' outside estimate, Babs checks Dinah's signal and aims a camera to make sure she's all right. Dinah's in Towne Theatre, watching Casablanca, eating popcorn alone.

It's fair, Babs hasn't been able to give Dinah what she wants. Babs connects her machine to the mainframe, and falls into the endless whisper of data. Shortly, she shakes off the feeling.

Africa is about 5000 miles from top to bottom. Or bottom to top; Clark tries not to fall into the ethno-centric geography. Sometimes, he likes to fly low over the earth. If he stays below the speed of sound, which he considers to be only polite, Africa takes about six hours.

He loves the shape of this planet; the bowl of the coasts containing the secret life of the Kalahari, and the roads laid over paths older than memory. He loves the rift Valley and the-. But Lois calls his name, and he breaks mach 3.

Jason's always known the swing and smack of a fist, a boot, an elbow. Before Bruce these things came with the adrenaline of panic: bite, kick out, run away. After Bruce, the thrill of control, of being the one feared was added, and the pride in moves well learned. But Bruce didn't teach him anything about himself he didn't know.

This is what Bruce gave him: the moment of falling with no one to catch him, the wind high between buildings that touches no one but him, and the perfect freedom on the edge of infinity.

Humans consider themselves Earth's dominant species, although they don't like to think too carefully about Superman; J'onn prefers they don't think too carefully about him.

What a human concept, dominance. In another life, J'onn strove with his people strove to achieve perfection of spirit, a pursuit few here truly understand. Some attempt it, but the human condition seems to hinder this goal. J'onn once spent a month in Hub City, in Chesterton Park, in the form of a tree. He believes the Nutmeg Hickory is the Earth species with the most highly developed soul.

Everything is too bright. The buildings are all in faded candy colours, lime, pink, blue, and they blaze in the sun. There's no shade. Roy is sitting against a wall painted with a Pepsi advertisement, sweat beading on his upper lip and forehead, trying to keep his clothes from touching his skin.

Blocking the sun, a figure stands, hand outstretched. Roy accepts the beer gratefully: it's ice cold. He puts it to his neck, feels it suck the fever from his veins.

"I was not kidding about the sexual favours," he promises.

Catwoman watches the jewellery shop. They can take the hit, they're insured. She's checked; nothing ruins a job like the sinking feeling of guilt. In walk a couple, a man and a woman. They're holding hands, and so desperately happy it shows, frightened, excited. He's in a good shirt, and his best jeans, she's wearing nondescript clothes, and sneakers, a nurse coming off shift. She watches them march up to the counter together, turn into each other a moment, and then point out the ring to the clerk.

Catwoman watches the shop.

There's a sick feeling every time it happens, and how sick is it that she can think "every time?" A woman's not supposed to fall (the dame was pushed!) off a building once, never mind twice, never mind multiple times.

"Sick son of a bitch probably likes to see women -- Clark, I'm falling here -- beat up, some kind of fixation, hmm, mommy issues?" she says, and wishes she'd brought her recorder to make a note.

"I know," says Clark next to her. "I've got you. The private meeting was a trap, I take it?"

"Oh, sure, gloat."

"And he's choking to death, you know, just-- he can't even cough, he's turning blue, and this asshole is trying to smash me with a chair while his boyfriend is dying, right there, and I--"

Babs pets his hair.

"I sometimes think there's no point, you know, no point to what we do, I should just give it up and become an EMT, and live a happy and productive life of stabilizing peoples' spines, or--." Dick turns over and talks inaudibly into her bedspread. Babs continues to pet his hair.

"Sure you do, hon. Sure you do."

She knew this part was coming, but she didn't expect to feel like such a cow. Eight months, and all she does is pee, eat, and lever herself into and out of the chairs that don't make her back ache. Her big boobs make her feel alternately sextastic and depressed; she's not going to breast feed.

The worst is that she knows Robin is out there, doing crazy-dangerous stuff. He's leaping from roof to roof, and normally she'd be scrambling after him, but right now it's just not on. She hopes he comes home safe.

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Oh. I missed these before, and now I'm sorry. These are wonderful, so the delay in reading them seems unacceptable to me.

They were easy to miss, tucked away in the comments like that. Writing from quotes was super fun, people gave me such interesting stuff to work with.

Thanks for the feedback.

OK, Steph is the one that really gets me. My baby! I didn't realize I left fandom when I read War Games, but I haven't been able read more than two or three since, even when someone gives them to me all shiny. Aw, Steph.

...on less emotional issues, the Clark/Lois pair were terrific fluff, cute and sweet.

Yeah, you know how they say all comic writers are trying to recreate the comics they read in their teens? I'm trying to write like Chuck Dixon, more often than not. That's where the pure, pure steph is, for me. I love Gabrych, but Dixon is where her home is.

Thanks! I love writing Lois/Clark. (Because obviously, you can be bitchy and neurotic and have the World's Finest fall for you. This is good news for me!)

These are great. I particularly enjoyed the Lois & Superman ones. Lois: so aintrepid it would be terminal if Superman wasn't there to save her. ;)

Loia Lane: Genre Savvy enough to know that committing suicide by proxy will not only fail but also guarantee her the front page story ;)

Also, I loved J'onn's one. Nutmeg Hickory? I'll have to check that out.

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