Weekend...

So yesterday, Zoomboy had a seeding tournament. It consisted of four mini-games, to determine which division the teams were in.  Mate's team (and thus, Zoomboy's) won all four games.

I told Mate he shouldn't get used to it, because now they were in a higher division.

He was still excited-- his team did really well.

Today, tired and kind of spacey, we decided to go to lunch and to the movies. It was one of those days that if we stayed home, we'd sleep. If we tried to get stuff done, we'd whine.  Stopping to get my new eyeglass prescription and then making it to lunch and a movie seemed like the height of productivity. Yeah, when I say my family has oddish priorities, well, there it is, in action.

Anyway-- we saw The Man From U.N.C.L.E. which was amazing, and awesome and tremendous-- and slashy as hell.

You heard me-- Guy Ritchie did it again, he managed to craft a bromance that toyed with our affections just as much as the Sherlock movies did. And Henry Cavill and Armie Hammer were… *droolz*  Also-- and for some reason I find this sexy as heck-- they had what I call the Winchester Height Syndrome.

What this means is that one of the actors (Cavill) stood 6'1", which is pretty damned tall for Hollywood. The other one (Hammer) stands 6'5".  So, when Cavill was on his own, he dwarfed the delicate female costar. But when Hammer was next to Cavill, he looked like he could eat Cavill for brunch.

So see?

Sam and Dean all over again. The Winchester height syndrome indeed.

Anyway-- it was delicious, and since folks sort of like the idea of a FanFic Friday here, I'll see if maybe these two bite me hard enough for me to bite back. Meow!

And tomorrow, ZoomBoy starts his new math class. And I'm so nervous. C'mon, ZoomBoy-- after all that fuss, we'd better not fall behind.

And Squish wants all of you to know that she's been reading The House of  Dies Drear and she thinks it's really awesome. I told her I'd tell you-- because I think she's awesome and had to share.

Quarks

*** In Amy news, huzzah! I wrote my e-mail and talked too much and Zoomboy's principal said he could switch math classes.

Now, holy crap baby, you'd better not suck. That's all I've got to say, you'd better not suck.  Anyway-- on to SuperBat, and I think the ending of this chapter.  Should I tag all these or something? Or hey! I could put them on GoodReads!  Ooh… I'll have to remember to do that.

Anyway-- on to the end.

***

They never knew the room was bugged. But that was okay--Diana cleared the observation deck as soon as she saw them sitting, hips touching, Bruce with his head on Clark's shoulder.

Finally it was going to happen.

And it wasn't like she was a born voyeur, but hey-- she'd known both of them biblically, and…

Well, at the very least she wanted to see them happy.

*  *  *

Clark fell into the kiss like a rock into a well.  Oh… everything. Everything he'd ever hungered for in sex, but had been missing, it was in the taste of Bruce Wayne's mouth, in his rough-skinned touch on Clark's biceps, in the urgent way he cupped Clark's neck and urged him closer, harder, more.

Clark barely had the presence of mind to lift his head.  "Bed," he rasped. "Shouldn't we… bed--nung…"

Bruce lay on his back, hands busy at Clark's leather belt.  "We're on mats here," he panted. "Bed too far."

Bed too far, words too complex, Bruce shoved the jeans down past Clark's hips and groaned as he grabbed himself a double handful of super-ass.  He kneaded, and licked Clark's ear, then nibbled, then nipped.

"Ah-ahhhh…"

"Does it hurt?" Bruce asked, breath shivering in the cave of Clark's ear. "You're Superman… you topple buildings… my teeth, right there…"  he nipped again, and Clark heaved against him, grinding his bare cock into the crease of Bruce's thigh.

"Nungh…"  Clark couldn't make words, couldn't explain the weird inversion of quantum mechanics that controlled the density of his body when he was in close proximity with humans, couldn't give voice to why he'd never fucked a woman to death and had never shot a hole through a man's ass with his super sperm. He couldn't talk about hickeys on his skin, or why he'd never clench someone's dick off, or the time he'd masturbated until he was raw, hearing Bruce's voice in his ear while he was far away, visiting Krypton, receiving reports from the JLA for no other reason than they missed talking to him.

He could just quiver, and grind against Bruce's leg, and shudder, because it had been long, so long, and he'd wanted this man with unrelenting need.

Bruce's low laughter was edged with desire. "Don't care if it hurts," he muttered. "As long as it drives you--"

He went to nip again, and Clark let out a roar of frustration.  He ripped off Bruce's T-shirt, and shredded his sweats, watching in fascination as Batman, scourge of Gotham city, went boneless underneath him, staring at him hungrily with parted lips and hooded eyes.

"Insane," Clark panted, so there was no mistake, and then he lowered his head to Bruce's chest.  Nipple… suck… lave… nip… feel Bruce's fingers, tightening in his hair.  Other nipple… suck… lave… nip--

"You gonna get to my cock soon?" Bruce goaded, thrusting his hips up.

Clark's moan sounded broken, even to his own ears. Bruce shoved at his head, not gently, and Clark followed his lead, wanting to taste, wanting it in his mouth, while Bruce lay helpless beneath him.

Helpless. The man hated being helpless.

Clark wanted his body in full fighting trim-- wanted his muscles hard and impervious, wanted his cardio muscle beating strong and rhythmically.

It was Bruce's figurative heart Clark wanted to hold in his hand.

Clark couldn't cup it there, next to his chest, make sure Bruce Wayne was never hurt again.  His body, his humanoid, animal body, was urging him to mate, to claim, with mouth, and ass and cock, and that was the best he could do.

He lunged at Bruce Wayne's cock--thick and hard, wider than any man Clark had been with, and only a little shorter than Clark's own.  Clark stretched his mouth around it, took it deep into his throat, swallowed hard, fed from him, and Bruce's breathless yelps of pleasure/pain were sustenance to his soul.

He cupped Bruce's ass, spreading it, hefting Bruce's hips closer so he could take that cock to the bottom  of his throat.  Ah-- ah… Bruce grunted, allowing a little precum to spurt, and Clark wanted it, all of it, lining his throat, filling his stomach, making him human--you are what you eat.

"If I cum now,  you'll have to top," Bruce panted.

It was enough to make Clark pause.  He pulled back, allowing Bruce's cock to flop on his cheek and bounce off.  "No," he whispered, tortured.  "No. Fuck me. I… need…"

He needed Bruce inside. If Bruce was trapped inside him, they could never be separated, never be parted, their atoms would mingle, their cosmic dust would form the same stars.

He shredded his own clothes and while Bruce was still kicking off sweats and shoes, he blurred, to the bedroom and back, for the bottle of high end personal lubricant that had been sitting there, hopefully, since he'd moved in.

Bruce laughed softly when he returned. "You are an optimist," he muttered, pushing gingerly to his knees and pulling Clark in for a kiss by his bare shoulder.

"Why?" Clark couldn't seem to get his breath.

"That's a big bottle."  Bruce smiled, inviting Clark to get the joke, but Clark couldn't.

He squirted a dollop and turned around, hands and knees, and reached behind him, plunging his lubed fingers in without hesitation or second thought.  Helpless. He was helpless before the desire that consumed him.

He thrust hard and deep, grunting, body lost in the throes of the animal act, and when Bruce grabbed his wrist he almost did the unforgivable and shook him off.

But he didn't.

He succumbed to the whispered, "Sh… sh… it's okay. I've got you. I'll take you. You need me."

Superman, most powerful man on the planet, buried his face in his arms and waggled his bare, stretched ass in the air. "I do," he half sobbed. "I do. I ned you. I need you. I need you so bad…"

Bruce's hands on his hips reassured him, and his cock, thick and still wet from "super drool" breached him slowly, carefully, until Clark wished he could clench and rip a man's dick off because he was dying, begging, every sob, every syllable, a cry of debasement, of acknowledgment.

I'm helpless without you. I'm nothing. I'm space dust. I'm only real with you inside me, in my head, in my heart, in my body.

Bruce seemed to know. He slid all the way in and then gentled his hands over Clark's body, tender touches, and he was murmuring words.

My beautiful one… my sky. My blessing, my promise, the matter of my heart. 

Oh God… Bruce Wayne spoke poetry during sex.

Clark Kent closed his eyes and howled, needing the animal, needing the fucking, unsure of when he would ever hear words like that again.

But the fucking was inevitable, like colliding planets but faster, fuller, until it wasn't just a cock in an orifice, it was a Bruce Wayne inside Clark's skin, inside his body, taking residence in his heart, until Clark couldn't hold him there anymore and he exploded, detonated, became atoms, electrons, protons, quarks.

He came, his cock spewing semen like any other man.

And his ass clenched, triggering Bruce's climax, hard and strong, still arousing Clark, even as his arms trembled, went out from under him, and he collapsed in a puddle of his own cum, Bruce on top of him, sweaty, and laughing and exhausted.

And still murmuring. Of course I love you, how could I not? And when I die, I'll become dust, and I'll fall through the heavens to touch your skin.

Clark felt tears start. Bruce was mortal, Clark was not, but no. No, he didn't want this end, not for them.

He spoke his own poetry.

When you die, my matter will fly outward, our dust will mingle, we'll be the same, particles, neutrons, atoms, quarks, we'll be inside each other, creating, recreating, the planets, the suns, the stars.

Bruce nuzzled his ear, and they both stopped telling each other silly words.  "My leg hurts," he confessed, and Clark almost broke down right there.

"Get off me, asshole. I'll carry you to bed."

He did, too, feeling like he'd actually succeeded in the JLA goal, and rid the world of evil.

He'd earned Bruce Wayne's trust, could see him helpless, could prostrate himself before his heart's god and be given sweet release.

It was a quark of happiness in a universe of chaos. It was enough.

* * *

Diana saw it all-- heard their vows, watched their sex. And yes-- a part of her needed a lover desperately after that, and she would go find one, because she had no qualms about sexual gratification, nor should she.

But a part of her was troubled. She would remember their words--for forty years, they would haunt her. Bruce Wayne grew old, eventually retiring to the watch tower, where his fine mind continued to benefit the world, even if he could no longer execute acrobatics in the field.

Clark Kent aged slowly, looking fifty to Bruce's eighty--but still looking at Bruce Wayne, every day, like he hung the sun and the moon and the stars.

The day the Watchtower exploded was the worst day of her life.  Bruce was inside, scrambling desperately to reroute the reactor leak that had been created by an enemy, and Clark, flying faster than light, faster than thought, but not faster than time, trying to get there to save him, as he'd always saved him, even from that first bomb that had nearly destroyed them both.

He was too late.  He'd felt the heat of the blast as he'd reached into the flare of it, and as Diana screamed, "Clark, no!" she watched it happen.

It was an act of will.

She saw his body fade, his molecules spreading, the density and power that was Superman becoming thinner, more human, until, as the blast wave expanded, he was taken out, vaporized, like Bruce Wayne had been but a half-second before.

When the bad guy had been caught--because they were always caught-- she'd presided over their services. In front of the entire world she'd recited the words that only she had heard, the vows the lovers had said before each other and one reluctant voyeur:

 Of course I love you, how could I not? And when I die, I'll become dust, and I'll fall through the heavens to touch your skin.

When you die, my matter will fly outward, our dust will mingle, we'll be the same, particles, neutrons, atoms, quarks, we'll be inside each other, creating, recreating, the planets, the suns, the stars.

Why jeans?

Qua da fuq, cat. Qua da fuq.

So, tonight was back to school night for Zoomboy, and I've got to say-- I was irritated as hell.

I'm about to be a diva mom-- forgive me. As a former teacher I should know better, but I've gained some perspective since then-- and it doesn't always skew in the teacher's favor.

See, in the 5th grade, Zoomboy had a perfectly nice teacher. Who did not mesh with ZB at all. She was all about the Homework, and all about the class procedure, and ZB was… not.  She liked him, he liked her, but as teacher and student? She bored him shitless and he drove her bugshit.

So, tonight, the first class was gym, and there's no way to make that more exciting or more personal than gym class ever is. The second class was math. We decided that math would be ZB's one NON honors class but he's been bored. So, I raised my hand and said, "If your kid wants to move to honors…" and she said, "ZB? Oh, not with his behavior and organization."

I was sort of… floored, actually. I mean, I talk to teachers all the time. His sixth grade teachers-- he had three-- adored him. And I was like, "Oh God-- what if a teenage monster has stolen ZB's skin! And we didn't see! I'm the worst mother ever!"

So, at every class, I made it a point to talk to the teacher personally-- they had very little time-- but I was like, "One word answer-- how's he doing?"

I got responses from "Awesome," to "He works so hard" to "He's so smart, he just needs to organize" to, "He's a doll. I love that kid."

And I had a lightbulb.

It was the fifth grade teacher all over again.

It's not even her fault-- she's creating the best class she's got-- but her class is designed to move the lower achievers to grade level.

ZB is above grade level and he's bored to tears.

So, I have to fix this. Something. Because if four out of five of the teachers surveyed recommend ZB as an awesome kid, then the one teacher who doesn't has the potential to fuck up every good thing going on in school.

*urg*  I hate being a special snowflake. I do. But he's my odd little duck--and I am always so torn between wanting to fight for my kids and wanting them to do it on their own. I think this time he needs me.

*  *  *  *

And now the SuperBat.  (Short tonight-- was a long day!)

"Why jeans?" Bruce asked, bobbing lightly under the rope and landing solid air punches before ducking again the other way.

"What?"

Clark looked up from his laptop. Bruce had stayed up late the night before, looking over Wayne holdings, and Clark had confiscated the damned thing because… reasons.

Because Bruce needed rest reasons.

And Clark had promised he'd scan some of the e-mails Batman had singled out as breaks in the mad bomber case. It had been the only thing that had dragged Bruce to his bed-- no longer in the infirmary, thank God.

"I asked you," Bruce said, not puffing at all, "why jeans? You wear them when you're not working or wearing red undies and tights."

Clark looked down at his jeans-- not too faded, not too new, perfectly tailored to not be too tight or too loose.  "They're comfortable," he lied. Yoga pants were comfortable. The form fitting leather of his Superman suit was comfortable. Jeans chafed and were cut awkwardly and invariably grabbed his… package… when he didn't want it to be grabbed.

"Your cock is too big," BRuce said, not even looking at him to see if he'd blush.

Of course Clark blushed. "You wouldn't know," he muttered.

Because yes, Bruce had been okay with the sleeping over-- even sleeping in the same bed.  He hadn't complained that Clark had moved his things in, or that they had seemed to seamlessly weave their lives together without even mentioning that they'd taken two pairs of pants and sewn a circus tent out of them.

And day by day, Superman had watched Batman push and repair and heal the wreck his body was back into the finely honed human machine he wanted it to be.

But neither of them had mentioned…

Well, anything.

Bruce stopped his bobbing and weaving drill and swung around--on his good leg, Clark noted, because Bruce had little tricks to hide whether or not an injury was still hurting him and that was one of them.

"Are you saying you'd like me to check," Bruce said, eyebrow arched.

"No," Clark muttered.  Bruce took one, two, three cocky steps forward and then…

"Fuck!" Bruce said, his once broken leg collapsing over too much work.

"Fuck!" Clark snapped, setting the laptop down and rushing to where he writhed on the floor.

"Goddammit,"Bruce snarled, face taut with pain. "Goddammit. I was close-- I was so damned close!"

"Close to what?  Crippling yourself for life?"

Bruce rolled to sit, knees bent in front of him.  He buried his face against his knees and let out a sound of supreme frustration, and Clark kneeled behind him, rubbing a soft circle on his back.

"You don't need to feel sorry for me," Bruce growled after a moment.

"Feel sorry for you?"  God, they never touched. They laid in the same bed, night after night, and watched each other in sleep, but they'd never… "You're driving me to blue balls, do you know that?"

Bruce straightened up and turned to look at him.  "If you want me so bad, kiss me," he muttered. "You just lay there, looking. It's getting boring."

Clark scowled. "You're a grown man, you know--"

"You moved into my house, and pretty much told the JLA we're married, and you don't have the guts to fucking kiss me?" Bruce demanded.  "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Why don't you kiss me?" Clark asked, stung. "I mean--"

"How do I know it's not pity?"

Clark snapped his jaw shut. "I'm sorry?"

"We chase each other for five years, and suddenly you move in… because you feel sorry for me?"

"I feel sorry for me," Clark Kent sputtered. "I have fallen in love with the most exasperating, closed off, communicatively crippled self-obsessed--"

"I fell in love with Superman," Bruce Wayne said in his boardroom voice. "And Clark Kent.  I'm not so self obsessed that I don't get altruistic alien trumps millionaire playboy any day of the week."

"Do you really love me?" Clark asked, feeling pathetic. He had his arms wrapped around his knees too, in a mirror pose of Bruce, and he scooted his but, easy like a child, until their sides were touching, hip to hip.

"God," Bruce said, laying his head on Clark's shoulder. "You close your eyes every night and I think, 'He'll kiss me tomorrow.'"

"I don't just want to kiss you," Clark confessed to the top of his head. "I want to… oh, gods do I want to…"  He wasn't so fluent in the F word that he could use it in the way for which God intended.

"Why don't you?"  Bruce turned his head, and to Clark's surprise, ran his lips along his jaw.

"Because you were hurt."

Ah. Lightbulb moment, for both of them.

"Why do you think I've trained so hard," Bruce admitted, running his lips down Clark's neck.

"So we could--"

"You won't hurt me," he said in his Batman voice.

"YOu'll tell me if it hurts," Clark begged him.  Their mouths were so close to touching.  They were going to kiss. They were going to make love. T hey were going to fuck.

Bruce Wayne smiled, eyes dancing.  "If you'll tell me why jeans."

Clark blushed, when the idea of being naked, of having Batman inside him, hadn't made him even stutter.  "Why not?" he played for time.

"Because they look uncomfortable on you, and you have better stuff to wear on your off hours. Why jeans?"

Clark smiled sheepishly. "Because I wanted you to notice my ass," he admitted.

Bruce whispered in his ear. "I noticed your cock," he whispered, and Clark shivered.

"Care to notice it in person?" he all but begged.

"Kiss me, asshole."

Bruce Wayne tasted… like everything. The dark of the sky between the stars, the depth of the blackest cave, the twist of the night dweller's heart-- all of it was in his kiss.

Clark moaned and pushed Bruce gently against him-- and kissed some more.


***
Maybe tomorrow, we'll get to some smex!

And Then This Happened...

So, yes, fan fiction tomorrow, I promise.

See, my phone has been dying all day. Mate and I are trying to figure out why it's not charging, hardly at all, and why it's hemorrhaging power and bandwidth, but since I rely on it a lot, it's been a pain in the ass.

So, Mate called me when he was just about to leave work and told me he was going home to nap, and that we could take the phone to the service store when I got home from taking the kids to dance. We hung up and I dropped the kids off and ran to the gas station to fill the tank and get them some ice water. (It's all fans in the dance studio, no AC, and it was around 100 degrees today.)

Anyway, so I was in the AM/PM when I get a text with this photo, captioned with "Fuck!"

And that's when my phone died.

Of course it was.

So, anyway, Mate is okay, and long story short, that's why I didn't get home until 9:30 tonight, and why I'm writing fanfic TOMORROW and not today.

Poor Mate-- he really loves this car.

Be it Krypton or Gotham…

The promised fanfic-- but first, a brief Mate moment:  We were watching 48 Hours when we started giggling. It seems that we can't ever watch a movie about San Quentin without remembering the time I accidentally traveled that bridge THREE TIMES because Mate was taking a nap and the detour was REALLY DAMNED CONFUSING.  "All I was doing was taking a nap!" "And all I was doing was getting bumfuck lost!"

*happy sigh*  Good times.

And that being said…

***

Clark came by after his expected shifts at The Planet-- about twice a week, now that he was spending most of his time as Superman at The Watchtower or Hall of Justice.

But twice a week he flew, a red and blue blur, through the waterfall and into the infirmary in the BatCave.

He always changed into old man jeans and a polo shirt on his way.

"Why the jeans?" Bruce bitched as he tried--once again-- to take weight on his broken leg. He collapsed between the support bars, and Clark grunted, something in his stomach twisting.

"It's still broken," he said, using his X-Ray vision to confirm what he knew. He stood and crossed his arms, clutching at his elbows to keep himself from reaching out.

"Bullshit," BRuce said, clambering to his feet.  He balanced on one leg and rested his weight on the good shoulder.

Which wasn't so good.  He gave a little gasp and his knee gave and he crumpled, but Clark caught him before he hit the ground.

"Why?" he asked gruffly. "You can't fucking heal?"

"He's still out there," Bruce muttered, not meeting his eyes.

"Fine," Clark snapped.  He should let go. He should let go and let the leg fracture again, let the shoulder hit the ground and dislodge the pins, let the damned stubborn brain splatter like an egg in its shell.  Instead he scooped up the fragile, human body, bulky muscles fading with the lack of food and exercise, and cradled it like an infant's.  "You're being stupid."

Without acknowledging what he was doing, Clark levitated up and glided out of the physical therapy room.  The infirmary had become Bruce's main bedroom these days, but Bruce made a reluctant whimper as they neared it.

"God, please," he muttered. "I hate this… I want to get--"

Clark didn't let him finish the sentence.  Not too fast or too rough, as smooth as he could possibly fly, but quickly too, he whooshed up through the BatCave, under the waterfall, and into the open air.

The sun was setting in the late spring night, and Clark settled down lightly on the topmost gable of Wayne manor, Bruce still cupped in his arms.

"This is humiliating," Bruce muttered.

"You're welcome."

"I don't mean this moment."

Clark had to think about that-- about Bruce trying to overcome injuries Clark would never suffer.  About the Justice League scrabbling to find a killer while Bruce couldn't sit at the computer for the pain.  About how Batman-- even Batman--had to succumb to human frailty.

"Next time," he said, voice bitter, "maybe you'll get the fuck out of there."

Bruce sighed.

And then, miracle of miracles, laid his head against Clark's shoulder, his muscles softening, going lax, giving up the fight.

Mostly.

"Next time," Bruce muttered, as the sun disappeared behind the city in a flash of tarnished gold.  "Next time, maybe you'll keep up with me."

Clark closed his eyes.  "Stop running away from me then," he whispered.

"Just a human.  Just a weak, fragile human--how can I possibly outrun the mighty Superman? Why should I even--"

"Just shut up," Clark said, voice choked. "I don't give a shit why you've run from me for five years. I don't care anymore. Just… just stop running, or let me go."

"You're the one holding me, Superman."  Dripping irony.  "Maybe I should say the same about you."

"No."  Bruce felt so sweet in his arms.  Sweet and trusting--for once giving up, letting Clark do all he knew how to do.  "Not letting go. Not now."

"Good," Bruce admitted.  Clark listened to his heartbeat slowing, his breathing leveling out. He was falling asleep, stubbornly refusing to admit he was tired.

"Why good?"

"Because it's a long way down without you."

Oh.

Bruce cuddled into his chest like a kitten into a mama's furry folds, and Superman watched gray and then purple wash over Batman's beloved Gotham.

"I waited five years for this," he said, almost puzzled.  "Five years, I've been waiting for one of us to break.  And now? Now, I'd chase you for another ten years, twenty, your lifetime, if only you were up at the Watchtower, giving me shit about assignments."

Bruce's hand--battered, but soft after the weeks of inactivity, came up and cupped his smooth cheek. No stubble for Superman, no stubble for Clark Kent.  He rubbed his thumb over Clark's lips, and Clark sighed, sucking the thumb into his mouth.

"In twenty years I'll be too old to heal well from this," Bruce said.  Not asleep. Clark should have known.  "In twenty years, I'd be really asleep."

Clark gave a solid pull on Bruce's thumb and released it, dropping his head to nuzzle the stubborn man's temple. "You wasted five mortal years, playing catch with me?" he asked, angry-- blazingly angry--but not about to yell at Bruce now.

"Age isn't the worst thing to happen to us, you know."  Bruce Wayne's inky dark eyes were focused on Clark's face.

"What is?"

"I don't know, Cal-El-- you tell me."

Clark didn't answer.  The use of his name-- the last name of a dead planet--was enough.  The air began to chill and Bruce shivered in his arms.

"We should go--"

"No-- not yet."  Bruce turned his face to the sky and searched the darkness.  He smiled and gestured with his chin. "The moon is rising there, in the northeast. It'll come right over Gotham."  He smiled.  "It's my favorite time."

"God your demand--"

"Don't come by anymore," Bruce said suddenly, face turned toward the sky.

Clark almost dropped him.  "What?"

"Not while I'm recovering. Wait-- I'll be able to--"

"No."

"We'll be equals-- that's all I ever--"

"No."

"Clark!"  The pleading in his voice almost made Clark relent.

But, "No. No, I'm not going to leave you alone.  I'm going to take you outside and keep you from hurting yourself and give Alfred a break and…"  He took a deep breath.  "No.  Because I said so."

"I'm not weak."

"No."  And then, like it was being ripped from his chest. "I'm weak, Bruce. Can't you just let me be weak? Please?"

Bruce snorted. Big fucking imposition, obviously. "If you're going to come, could you bring some beer?"

"It's bad for you."

"Wine?"

"No."

"Chocolate?"

"Favorite?"

"Expensive and difficult to obtain. And good with strawberries and champagne."

"God, you're a pain in the ass!"

Again, that sleepy, I'm-just-staying-awake-to-dick-with-you snort. "Well you wouldn't know that, would you?  Because you spent the last five years running."

"Toblerone. I'll swing by the French provinces for the champagne."

"I'll have Alfred get the strawberries."

The window from the gable behind them swung open, and Superman glided forward a few feet, looking behind him in surprise.

"Alfred will get strawberries if you get him back inside. Alfred is, quite frankly, too old for this shit. If he gets sick--"

They were gone before Alfred could finish that sentence, and Bruce was asleep before Clark got him back to his own bed.

He looked younger, asleep. Younger and pale, and so sad.

What's worse than being dropped? Of falling behind? Of getting blown up by a mad bomber from your own miscalculations?

Being alone.

Alfred didn't bring him strawberries-- he brought him soup, on a silver tray with a silver trencher. And a crystal flagon of orange juice.  And a cot, with a pillow.

Clark didn't go back to the Daily planet the next day.

He didn't go back to the Watchtower the next night.

In fact, he sat at Batman's precious console and dicked with the settings until he could hear Diana's voice there, clear as rain, and see the same feeds they got in the Hall of Justice and the Watchtower.

"Where are you?" Diana asked, puzzled.  "Is that Bruce's--"

"I'm home," Clark muttered, daring her to correct him based on what she saw on his feed.

A quiet, dawning comprehension flittered across her face.  "Tell Alfred to ready himself for some deliveries," she said without missing a beat.

"Tomorrow."

"Yeah-- sure."  She looked behind her shoulder.  "Barry, did you hear that? No running down there in the small hours of the night, do you understand?"

Barry's grunt could be heard off camera.  "Killjoy."

"Should we tell Dick you're there?"

Great.  "Yeah, sure. Tell him the same thing about arriving in the middle of the night."

"That was never Dick's style," Diana said dryly.

"I don't want to hear about it," he muttered.  God, who could figure out the twisted relationship between Dick Grayson and Bruce Wayne.  Suddenly he brightened.  "YOu know what?"

"You're the most sexually repressed man in history?" Diana asked, with no irony whatsoever.

"Possibly. But I am his healthiest relationship."

"You know what?" she asked, her china blue eyes wide with horror.

"You're finally figuring out why you and I never worked?" he said, only partly facetious. They should have been fantastic. Diana and Batman should have been fantastic. But apparently that was not the pairing off the gods wanted.

"No," she said, no humor at all.  "But I could fly there, find a random guy on a football field and bang him on the roof of the World Trade Center, and I would still have the healthiest relationship of all you random assholes in this little club."

Superman blinked.  Thought of his exchange with Bruce, and what they'd had to do for things to progress this far.

"I am not going to argue," he said after a moment. "Keep Barry out of our bedroom. I need a cold pack on my head."

Which was a lie, of course, because Clark Kent didn't get headaches.  But he did need to go watch Bruce sleep some more.  He especially needed to stretch out on the bed and look at him, defenseless and vulnerable, letting Clark have his back while he got better.

Five years.

Totally worth it.

A brief political interlude

First off, I'm still writing some more on that SuperBat fic I started last night. I want to see what happens, and if your'e not in a political frame of mind, just blow right by this.

Second of all--I'm not putting this out on social media, because I know it invites debate and anger. I'm not really up to debate and anger-- if you do have a reasoned response to this, feel free to post it, and I'll publish it. If I get ranting, I'll press delete--and I'm not going to reply to anyone's reasoned response. I'm saying my piece--people will say theirs, and we will let it stand there and hopefully part as friends.

But this needs to be said. From the bottom of my toes, I believe it needs to be said:

This is bothering me.

My daughter's soccer coach-- not her father this year-- was telling a parent that he was upset that his daughter was being taught about Islam in school, and he was going to protest that.

I taught English for 18 years.

We taught about the Puritans arriving on the shores of this country and bringing their moral fortitude, as well as hypocrisy and-- quite deliberately-- smallpox.

We taught The Crucible wherein the Puritan belief system was responsible for the deaths of a scandalous number of people, not to mention the persecution of thousands more.

We taught Jonathan Edwards and "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God" and William Blake's "Little Lamb, Who Made Thee" and Nathaniel Hawthorn's The House of Seven Gables and-- do I need to go on?

Religion drives mores and principles. Mores and principles--and a reaction AGAINST the mores and principles--drive history, politics, culture and literature. History, politics, culture and literature define humanity.

Understanding how a people defines itself is one of the few ways of establishing empathy and finding peace.

The surest way-- and I do mean the surest way-- to ensure that our species destroys itself with violence is to refuse to learn about the religions--and hence the history, mores, principles, politics, culture, and literature-- that drive the many people in our pluralistic society.

So let's be honest here. If you're complaining that there should be a "division of church and state" because someone is teaching the history of a religious belief in school, what you're really saying is not that you believe in the division of church and state. It's that you believe your state should only respect your church.

And that your church-- and I don't care which religion you practice, it is still only a percentage of the world at large-- is the doctrine which should make policy.

Ignorance is not freedom-- ever. Thank you, George Orwell, for teaching me that. It's amazing what you can learn if you open your mind.

Chinks in the Armor

"Get out of here, Wayne!"  Superman gritted his teeth and pushed his bulk against the iron door. "This blast is going to take you out."

Batman didn't deign to answer. He was busy playing finger-dance on a control panel that he swore, left and right, was going to stop the bomb from going off.

"Get them out," he said tersely, and Superman looked behind him to the family, cowering in the corner of the alleyway. They hadn't asked for this, Superman thought, swallowing. They hadn't asked for this, and Batman had put himself right in the way.

"You get them--"

"Get them the fuck out of here," he snarled. "Come back if you have time."

Augh! Arrogant, self-serving, overreaching, prideful fucking martyr who had been going into that fucking building alone until Superman spotted him. Oh, who was Clark kidding-- if Superman hadn't tailed him. Because they were supposed to be working on the mad bomber case as a team, but damned if Bruce Wayne could do anything but find the problem and try to fix it. He was like a fucking automaton, one of those machines that would throw itself against a wall again and again and again until all it's parts fell off and it was just a mechanical stump, oozing oil!

The image added impetus, and Superman moved as quickly as he could without hurting the people he was carrying, two at a time. Family of six, one, two, three trips-- yes!  There was Bruce, still working doggedly at the control panel, but Superman could hear the whine of the detonator. It was going to go off early, and he was standing there, just standing there, and Superman was going at warp speed and he'd get there in time he'd get there in time he'd get there in time oh please God let him get there in--

BOOM!

Except bombs never made that sound, did they?  They just created a big empty vault of silence that the ear and the head would remember as noise later.  In the tumble of that silence, Superman managed to be between the annihilated metal door and Bruce Wayne when it went off, and even managed to wrap his arms around Bruce's shoulders, but they'd been thrown about, like dolls in an empty box, being shaken to pieces by an angry baby.

In the chaos, Superman tried to cup his body around Batman's, a muscular hand cupping an egg, but it wasn't enough.

The explosion ended, and Superman, Bruce Wayne in his arms, pulled his legs under him and pushed, heaving half a brick wall off his back.  In the clearing dust, it looked…

So bad.

His armor was pierced--destroyed in places, and he was bleeding from his mouth and nose.  One shoulder hung, unsupported by bone, and a bone in his leg had popped through not just the flesh but the body armor as well.

Superman stared at him, impervious body shaking, and prayed.  C'mon, you stubborn fucker-- breathe. 

C'mon, Batman, breathe. 

Oh please. Please Bruce. Please. 

The flutter of his chest was enough.  Superman clutched him as tight as he dared and flew away, faster than thought.

He should have taken him up top, to where the Justice League was beginning to function like the well-oiled machine they could be.

But Bruce hated that place--it didn't feel like home.

Superman knew where the Batcave was.

***

It took him and Alfred and Diana several hours to put Batman back together again.  Even unconscious, he didn't moan with the pain.

"I hate him for that," he ground out, when Diana pointed it out to him. "Stubborn fucker."

"Clark!" She looked almost comically surprised, and after the twelve hours they'd just put in, sewing parts of a man back together that should never be exposed, Clark let out a wounded laugh.

"He's rubbing off on me," he said, scrubbing at his face with a bloody hand.

Her touch on his shoulder was nothing but kind.  "Yes, well, you've been working together for years."

"Yes."  The bleeding had been stopped internally. He'd had to laser a hole through Bruce Wayne's skull to keep his brain from swelling and squishing like a ripe peach.

"You're the only person he talks to," she said, trying to make it light.

"There's Alfred," he disclaimed.

"We all talk to Alfred."

"Yes."  Because he needed something to say. "What were we talking about?"

"How you need to shower and change," she said gently. "I'll take the first watch."

Alfred slept in a cot next to Bruce's bed, his lined, aristocratic face relaxed into worry, but even his posture-- on his back, hands lightly clasped across his chest--was correct in sleep.  Superman got out of the shower and shooed Diana into her own shower, sitting down and watching with reassurance as the  the sound of Batman's heartbeat continued, with obstinate regularity.

"You don't have superpowers," he said after a moment. His voice rang strangely in the sterile room.  "You're so smart-- so damned smart-- you beat us all to the bad guys, but you don't have superpowers.  How's that fair?  I don't understand how that's…"  He took a breath and ran his hand through his wet hair.  "I don't understand how that's fair," he finished weakly.  "How is it fair that you should be tagging after me, after Diana, after Barry and Hal-- you should be… obnoxious. A kid, trailing after his older brothers and sisters. But you're not. You're… you're the first one there."

His voice broke on the anger. "Goddammit, why do you have to be the first one there!"

Bruce should have been too drugged to answer, but Superman heard it anyway.

"You're slow," he slurred. "Slow and dumb."

Superman let out a crippled laugh.

"Hand," Bruce muttered, flexing his fingers.

"Does it hurt?"

"No."

Superman stared at his hand, IV inserted, and saw the fingers do the flexing thing again.  "Wha--"

"Clark!"  And yes. He was lying there, mostly dead, making an incredibly odd request, and getting pissed because Clark Kent couldn't read his mind.

Clark watched his fingers wiggle again and, slowly, praying Diana was still in the shower, or asleep in the other room, touched his fingertips to Bruce's.

Bruce laced their fingers together.  "Slow and dumb," he muttered, as his fingers tightened.

Clark rested his head on the mattress.  When he woke up, the heartbeat monitor was still going, but Alfred and Diana were gone.

Bruce was looking at him through swathes of bandages.

"What?" Clark asked, wiping his mouth self-consciously.

"Superdrool," Bruce said. "Should bottle that."

"Shut up."

"Sure. Go save somebody. I'm recovering here."

Clark recoiled. "Well, fine--if you're going to be an asshole about--"

"He doesn't want you to see him weak," Alfred said crisply, hustling in with a tray. "Do you Master Bruce."

Even through the bandages Clark could see him wince. "Alfred…"

"Shut up."

"You're fired," Bruce growled.

"Excellent. I won't have to watch the two of you make cow eyes at each other for another five years."

"He's dumb," Bruce explained patiently, like a child lecturing a parent on the reasons school sucked. "Dumb and slow."

Alfred cast an exasperated look at Clark. "I am not going to argue with you. But given that only a saint could love you, I'm going to ask that you cut us all a break and not drive him from your bedside."

For the first time, Bruce's eyes met his, searching, searching…

Clark looked back, not sure what he should see.  "He's right," he said after a moment.

"Don't tell him that," Bruce begged. "Man thinks he's in charge already.  What's he right about."

"Only a saint could love you."

Batman snorted.  "Buy a fucking halo, asshole," he muttered, and then fell back asleep.

** *

End of Part 1-- thank Chicken for sending me the inspirational .gifs, and I'll finish it tomorrow, barring anything interesting on the home front.  (I need to finish it-- I promised you people sex, and as soon as I put up the disclaimer box, people got REALLY interested, didn't they?)  And thanks, all, for bearing with me. I have no promises for how long my fanfic binge is going to last, but for some reason, it's just making me happy as hell right now.  And I'm writing fiction like a fiend as well, so it's like, win/win for the right brain!

So tune in tomorrow-- hopefully there'll be smex then.

We Resume Our Regularly Scheduled Posts Tomorrow...

Today, Mate and I had a sort of "nothing" day.

I wrote-- a lot. I cleaned off the kitchen table-- a little. 

We watched the following movies: Singing in the Rain, Nine to Five, The Gift, one episode of Frankie and Grace, the last episode of True Detectives (and dammit-- I wanted them all to live, that's all I'm saying), and mate is finishing off with The Edge and Ballers while I work some more.

I can't remember the last time we did one of these.  I think it was some time in February.

I needed this.  We needed this.  So tomorrow, I resume my regularly scheduled blog with some fanfic thrown in.  You may have noticed the "Adult Disclaimer" button-- that means I can get a wee bit more explicit with the fanfic.  Wee-hoo!!!!

And in the meantime, I've done SuperBat and Batman/Nightwing.  Let's hear from some fandoms you'd like to see!  Not promising I can do one of them or any of them for that matter-- but I sure would like to try!

So list your favorite fanfic pairings--even my own work, if you like.  I'm sort of enjoying the option to blog in fiction, so knock yourselves out!  Maybe some of them are my favorites too ;-)

Amy

You Got That Right...

Mate was reading his phone this morning.  I came in and read over his shoulder.

"Who's that?" I asked.

"Sports news."

"Bout whom?"

He laughed, because, you know. I apparently don't know my football players.  "Aaron Rodgers.  He's a football player for Green Bay."

"Oh-- did he get traded?"

"No-- he's dating someone hot."

"Ooh… anyone I know?"

"Olivia Munn."

"Who is she?"

"She's in that show-- the Aaron Scorsese one on HBO… you know, we used to watch it?"

"Aaron Scorsese?"

"Yeah!  You know the one-- had Bill Pullman? Or Bill Paxton in it. It was called the Field of Journalism or something."

"Don't you mean Martin Scorsese?"

"No… wait. Not him. Not Scorsese.  It was about news."

And it all clicked into place for me.

"The Newsroom!"

"Yes!"

"Directed by Aaron Sorkin."

"Yes!"

"Staring Jeff Daniels."

"Yes."  Beat.  "I didn't get anything right, did I?"

"Aaron Rodgers,"  I said.  "You got him."

"And Olivia Munn."

Yup.  He got that right.

Do we want some more Super Bat?

(I KNOW this photo isn't copy
righted, since I took it!)

I thought we did…

Bruce Wayne wasn't afraid of heights.

No, he couldn't fly. *snort* As it. And yes, if someone decided to shoot him out of the sky as he sat, leaning back on the glass plating that was angled forty-five degrees on the top of the building, there was a distinct possibility that they could.

Except the building was seventy-five stories high, and they'd have to be kneeling in the street with a high powered scope.  Or on the top of one of the buildings around him-- and he could see all those access points.

And he'd done his calculations. He was safe.

He could stay there forever.

But he didn't think he'd have to.

OH yeah-- sure enough, there was the guy who thought he was gonna bring Batman down.

He could fly.  And he just levitated his muscular ass right up even with Bruce and glared at him.

"Still perching like a vulture and trying to scare the populace?" Superman sneered.

Bruce rolled his eyes.  "Still letting Pajamas 'R'Us pick out your clothes?"

Superman scowled. "This is a specially formulated cotton polymer that can withstand most of the things my own skin can stand and that ensures I am never…"  Superman blushed.  "Not dignified," he finished weakly.

"Which is why you have the specially reinforced red undies, right?" Bruce said soberly. "Because that dignity needs to be preserved at all cost."

"You had nipples built into your body armor," Superman defended.  Like a petulant weenie.

Batman smiled, knowing that it wouldn't reach his eyes through his mask.  "They're pour points," he said mildly. "Do you want to touch them and see?"

Superman glared, and for a moment, his eyes flared red.  Oops, yeah. Bruce had struck a nerve.  Good. Mr. Pajama pants had been flying around Bruce's city, getting all high and mighty, and bitching about Bruce getting hurt, and how he had no superpowers and how he needed to mind his own business and let the crime fighting be done by the real heroes.

Yeah, Bruce knew exactly what ol' red undies wanted, and it wasn't for Bruce to back off and leave the crime fighting to Superman.

And it wasn't for Batman to operate on the right side of the law, either.

No, no-- Mr. Clark Kent had some long buried needs that he wanted to keep deeply hidden.  Bruce Wayne knew all about buried needs.  He thought those needs were long overdue the chance to come out and play. 

"YOu need to get down now," Superman said, sounding remarkably like the hall monitor in junior high.

"Make me," Batman said, sounding bored.

Superman flew closer, his face inches away from Batman's, so close that Batman could smell minty fresh breath.

Boy scout.

Bruce yearned to taste him.

"What is it with you?" Superman growled. "You won't cooperate with me, you won't cooperate with the police-- you're like a walking death wish, and every time you get involved with an operation, there's bodies on the floor to prove it."

Ouch. Direct hit. Batman leveled a look at him. "Not by my hand, Boy Scout," he said clearly. "So you can't hold that against me. What is your problem? Really?"

Superman opened his mouth, and Bruce knew that he was about to unravel his entire litany of complaints, and suddenly he was way bored with this game and not in the mood to hear them.

He reached behind Superman's head as he hovered and hauled him in for a kiss.

For a moment Clark Kent stared at him, eyes wide and surprised, lips pursed shut so tight BRuce wondered if maybe the rumors were true and his flesh was as cold as steel as well as strong as such.  Bruce closed his eyes and kissed harder, hard enough to brutalize another man's mouth, to leave his lips bleeding against his own teeth.

Superman groaned and opened his mouth, and Bruce swept in.  Breath mints.  Hot man.  Soft, soft welcome.  With a groan, Superman wrapped his arms around Bruce's shoulders and pressed them, body to body, to deepen the kiss.

Batman felt his feet leave the ground, and knew, without a doubt, that he would live and die on the sufferance of this very human alien who was whimpering with need in his arms.  Bruce kissed him back, easing up on the brutality, leaving room for some softness, some tenderness, the sweet touch of skin against skin.

It was okay if Superman held Bruce's life in his arms.  He'd held his heart for quite some time.

It was okay that they were flying.

Bruce never had been afraid of heights.

The days when I was a bitch...

They're getting fuzzier, but I still remember them.  Those days when I was legendary for losing my temper, for shooting off my mouth, for pissing people off.

I once dropped the F-bomb during a staff meeting in front of a state representative who was cheerfully explaining why we were going to fuck all of our special education students over with the new high school exit exam format.

 I once launched myself across a table at an administrator who suggested that I'd over-declared on the number of hours I'd spent developing the senior project for the entire school.  I wasn't planning to lay hands on her, I just got so angry while I was explaining--in detail-- the seven layers of hell they'd put me through that I just sort of took over the table.

My finest moments came right when I started the blog, when I invited everybody to come look. It appeared NOBODY had come to look, so I sounded off frequently when I was irritated.  The post labeled "Dear Library Nazi" was a particular hit. I learned to keep my opinions to myself.  (In my defense, the woman walked into my room to chew me out over things I had no control over, in front of my students.)

I learned to temper my online presence-- and fix my goddamned temper. Grown women did not just launch themselves into the stratosphere like that--not if they wanted to really be heard.

It hasn't been until the last five years when I've realized that zero-to-bitch is not my default position. I was driven there by stress that I can't even believe I lived through.  People--women in particular-- were bailing from the campus like flies from a reanimated corpse.  We had a string of leadership mishaps--and when we did get a good leader, the poor guy was beaten into the ground with politics.  I had two small children and two adolescents--and two of those kids had special needs, one was being bullied, and EVERYBODY even the baby had after school activities. My staffroom was toxic as hell if you didn't have a penis. I particularly treasure the department head bitching about how he needed to get married so he could have a baby so he could go on part time and have the whole world work around his schedule, because God knows, he needed the fucking break. The kids ping-ponged through our rolls like acid dropping weasels through an electrified labyrinth, and while this happened we would attend staff meetings where we were constantly harangued for not marking our roll sheets accurately--this, while kids were being moved in and out of our classrooms while we were taking roll.

I could go on. I mean, I did go on. Circumstances were not ideal, and I was not quiet about it.

I've forgotten how many times I didn't lose my temper.  I've forgotten what it was like to deal with stress and not turn into a major bitch.

I didn't even realize it had happened again until I got a call from a co-worker now, letting me know I went from zero-to-bitch on an edit.

And I am appalled.

Six years of building up professionalism in this business, of building friendships and relationships and of seriously learning what it was like to deal with professionals and good people doing good work-- and I was the one to blow that?

I realize-- retroactively, because for me, that's always the case-- that I was stressed, and I"m only now coming down. I just hadn't realized how badly I was dealing with it. I hadn't realized I was taking it out on other people like that.

I apologized, of course-- and have done what I could to correct the damage. Part of it was just poor communication--I thought I was being concise and efficient, and it looked like I was being heinously flamingly bitchy.

But I still have that sort of sick feeling in my stomach. I remember waking up and remembering the events of the day before and thinking, "OH Jesus. How bad is the fallout going to be?"  In this case, not so bad--I mean, I feel badly, but I hope I haven't destroyed that relationship at this point--but I didn't miss that feeling. I didn't miss thinking, "Oh God, I'm supposed to be a grownup, what sort of tantrum did I throw now?"  I didn't miss wondering whose feelings I hurt.

I really was proud of not being that person-- that fly-off-the-handle fuck-it-all flaming twat that would rather be right than behave right.

I don't think I am, really. I think maybe I can avoid waking up without that feeling for a few more years now. I would, in fact, be super happy not to ever feel like that again.

Let's hear it for putting the days when I was a bitch behind me. I won't be sorry to see them go.

Moktar, God of Traffic

Okay, Astrology fans-- somebody tell me which planet or card or number rules transportation.  Then, if you've got the hookup and all, give them a solid punch in the 'nads just for me.

Today, the following happened:

*  Mate got stuck in a granddaddy of all traffic jams before, during, and after dropping ZB off on the way to work. He claims the best part of this incident was watching the asshole next to him drop his shit every time the short light stopped him before he got to go.  Watching his face contort with FUUUUUCCKKKKK!!! was apparently high comedy.

Heh heh heh-- Mate has a brutal sense of humor sometimes.

*  I got flipped off by a little old lady in the drive thru line. Okay-- this might have been my fault, but she stopped her car in that awkward place where I couldn't get to the speaker and the person in the adjoining lane couldn't move to the window, and there was a three car gap between her and the window. I think she was rooting through her purse, but seriously, just ten feet forward and two people could be giving their orders and then she could find her money, right?  Anyway, she did that for three minutes (yes, I looked at the dash clock) and hit the horn.

And she flipped me off.

And I laughed for the next five minutes.

*  I was not laughing at the gym when Chicken called to tell me that a mere 36 hours after returning to San Diego, she got into her first fender bender.

And then she put me on the phone with the guy and he sounded like a real dick.

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't know why her name doesn't appear on the insurance card, but I assure you, I've seen the bill where the car is insured and so is she."

"Well, I don't see her name.  How do I know this isn't a scam?  My car was new and she took out the passenger side-- doesn't have a scratch on her car."

"I'm just glad everyone's okay. Let me give you her father's number, okay?"

Mate reported later that the guy just needed to hear it from another man-- the reason Chicken wasn't on the card was that there was only room for two names, but that if the guy looked, he could see that the car was on the policy.

Whatever. Chicken said that he had a scratch on his ten year old car and that he didn't want her or her friend taking pictures.

I think our assessment of "dick" might be very much on the balls.  (She took pictures anyway. Because. Dick.)

*  I was also not laughing later on this evening.  In order get the kids to dance class, we have to turn left onto one of those big four-lane roads with a suicide lane--no light.  The intersection is on sort of a plateau before a rise.  Everything from the intersection with the light to Greenback is uphill, and it puts someone pulling out in sort of a disadvantage. In order to get a safe view of the street, it's important to pull forward over the stop sign line-- which, unfortunately puts you right square in front of the place where the sidewalk levels down to let pedestrians and bike riders walk across the street-- but there is no crosswalk.

Repeat-- there is no crosswalk.  Probably because the whole "creeping across the line so you can see" thing I mentioned before.

Anyway-- this usually isn't a problem.  Walkers feel safer dodging behind your car, and bike riders aren't usually going that fast (uphill, right?), so if they have to go behind you, again, they're not quite as naked to traffic.

But this guy was hauling ass. I had already crept forward-- there was no way to back up, and even if there had been, he would have needed to stop to let me.  I stayed where I was, grimacing at his obvious fury.  He hurtled off the curb and dodged around the back of the car, but not before I saw the contorted face.  I know those words.

"Fat bitch" isn't particularly hard to  lip read.

 He crossed the street behind me, tossing epithets over his shoulder, while I shouted, "Asshooooooollle…." in my car (with the windows closed. The kids were much amused.)

I found my opening in traffic and gunned it, and wondered at my position on the road--but forget about it.  Staying back behind the stop line not only cuts your visibility to the extremely busy road, it also cuts your visibility to the sidewalk.  It's just as easy to take out, say, a bike rider coming off the curb at 25 MPH (this guy was bookin'!) as it would be to get T-boned by a car if I stayed back behind that line.

*grrrrr*

*sigh*

*grrrrr*

And it's time to say it, people.

We need to chill the fuck out regarding traffic faux pas.

Driving defensively isn't like "being defensive about your driving"-- it means watching for other people because they might be stuck between a rock and a hard place, or sentenced to the same traffic jam you are, or trying to do the safest thing in an unsafe situation.

We all drive too fast, get impatient, zig when we should zag, cut people off on accident, turn too late or too soon, get lost, or are forced to accelerate out of a blind turn because that's just the way traffic was planned.

There are too many cars and not enough road and everybody has a fucking cut off line--but unless you're driving your convulsing child or dying pet to medical aid, there is absolutely no need to be a fucking douche about it.

And even then, make sure you're the one who forgives people when it's their turn to drive like douches.

Because I've got nearly 10K on my "new" minivan-- and I can tell you this for sure:  I may be the world's safest driver, but I did not rack up 10K on that car by driving like an angel for every goddamned mile. And if you do obey every traffic law, every safety regulation, every goddamned sign, I guarantee that you have put people in danger simply by being the odd duck out and not speeding or creeping forward or passing the geezer in front of you going fifteen miles too slow, even if traffic conditions don't actually warrant it.

Did I mention the too many cars/not enough space dilemma?

So yes-- drive as safe as you can.  But by all means have a little patience with little old ladies finding their purses, geezers going 15 miles under the speed limits, and people trying not to get T-boned by hurtling blind into one of the fastest stretches of road in your city.

Just be decent--and if you do get into an accident, don't be a dick.  That's all I"m saying.  Seriously. Don't be a dick-- following that rule would just make scads of people happy, right?

So, I wonder what happened...

I sorta kinda wrecked my knee a little-- nothing doctor worthy, just need to rest, elevate, ice, and compress.  I bought a brace, and when it's acting up, I wear the brace.  I did not baby it on Saturday, however, when I was wandering back and forth on the soccer field on opening day, and on Sunday and Monday I was not walking well.  Time in the pool helped it a little-- that was nice. So nice, in fact, I forgot the brace at the gym, and today, after some laundry and some cooking, yes, it was a little sore, why do you ask?

So this is going somewhere.

The house started filling with smoke.

Yes-- Mate and I looked everywhere, and finally determined it was coming from across the street behind us. There's a fire truck now, and I have no idea how bad the damage is, because, well, no knee brace, bad knee.  I don't want to hobble around in the smokey night, but I do want to know what happened.

"Mate, go around the corner and see what happened."

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"I want to make sure our neighbors are all right!"

"I'm not social."

"But don't you want to know what happened?"

"No."

"But--"

"There's a police car outside, making sure people stay in their houses."

*pout*

"You'll find out tomorrow, when you get your brace back."

*pout*

"Come help me make the bed."

*sigh*

I would really like to know what happened.

But I would also like to walk and breathe.

Misanthropy

* Note-- I hadn't written an Amy's Lane post this month, and after I finished this one, I realized that it would serve nicely. So yes. I'm triple posting it in my blog, at my website, and at the RRW site. Please don't get mad at the repletion, kk?

Every so often, my switch flips.

All of the energy I pour into the world suddenly flips off, and I turn inward. Talking to the kids becomes a chore. The animals and their constant desire for attention becomes an unbearable burden. I am irritable, bitchy, and I can be heard frequently growling and muttering to myself about the stupid world and the stupid people and why can't everybody just leave me the fuck alone!

It doesn't last long--and there is a cure.

When I was teaching, this stage was cyclical--predictable.

The first week after school let out, mom would just disappear in the house, and that was that. The end. Get your own damned sandwich, right?

Now that my life is not so dependent on public education's circadian rhythms, this period of snarling, feral self-protective aggression has become less predictable.  Sometimes, it happens when I've been away for too long, on too many trips, and sometimes it happens after a vicious string of deadlines-- ones that I usually miss. Sometimes it's when family obligations have crested in a violent surf over my head.

I've recently dealt with all three, constant and unrelenting, and when my switch flipped, it flipped with a vengeance.

And I picked my favorite drug.

Books.

I remember when The Goblet of Fire arrived at my doorstep, after a hideous, heinous school year. Oh, thank you, J.K. Rowling, you have saved my everlovin' life. The year I discovered Laurell K. Hamilton when just the thought of going back to teach made me cry--shotgunning nine books in a row (some would argue the best nine)--and cooking for the kids with a book in my hand got my ass back into the game.  There were the early years, when my son wouldn't stop crying, my daughter was on the way, and my mother-in-law's regency romances were everything the world had to offer--and more. Or when I was longing, longing for a third child, and suddenly I plunged into heady, beautiful moment, when I realized J.D. Robb had over twenty (now nearly forty) books under her belt, and I could be Eve Dallas for fuckin' ever.

Oh, blessed Goddess, to not have to be myself for a few hours. To be Harry Potter or Anita Blake or Sookie Stackhouse or Mercy Thompson or Temperance Brennan. To trade in my obligations for theirs, trade in my own demons for those of someone far more capable of handling their own.

To disappear from all of the things pressing on my chest until I can't breathe.

Of course, like all addictions, there is a price to pay. Puzzled children, needing my full attention, a house that tends to collect crap in the corners that is suddenly overflowing, a spouse who is surprised by the emotional needs of the children and who sort of wanders lost without me when I am not wholly present.

But when I crawl out of the cave made by other's words and my imagination, I am always so much more game, so much more able to deal with these things than when I crawled in.

My favorite flavor of drug has changed multiple times over the years--and I'm afraid I'm not very faithful to any one brand. I step off frequently, often as soon as my shotgun run has passed, and I usually regret not being able to continue my indulgence.  It's for this reason that I never indulge in books written by people I actually know, a list that is getting smaller by the year, I might add.  It is vitally important that I not be answerable to anyone for simply stepping off a series and walking away. I am well aware that my bailing point very rarely has anything to do with the author's skill or with the series itself--this really is a case of "It's NOT YOU, it's DEFINITELY me!"but that's a freedom you don't have when you talk to the writer on a regular basis. There are often hurt feelings involved, ("You didn't like that one? I loved that one. That was MY FAVORITE BOOK IN THE WHOLE SERIES!" Why no, I've never felt like that, why would you think so?) and since I genuinely love all of my writer friends, I'd just as soon not do that to them. It is, in fact, much easier to do this with perfect strangers, so there.

It also can't be canonical fiction. Because there's an obligation there, right? "I am reading IMPORTANT FICTION. I must ENGAGE BOTH LIZARD AND ANGEL BRAINS. I must not, by any means, ENJOY THIS EXPERIENCE."  (Or no, Amy, you're the only one who does that. Dork.) So, to me there is an obligation when reading canonical fiction that makes it less…

Less of a drug. Less brain sugar, more brain protein. And I won't lie--I need the damned sugar. I need it. I need to mainline it, straight into the cerebral cortex, no waiting, no hem-hawing about the delicate beauties of language or the overpowering benefit of this piece of writing to the collective unconscious of mankind.

I just need my fucking cookie. I need a box of them. A case. My cookie lets me escape myself long enough to heal. My cookie bandages my psychic booboos and gives me a shot of mental morphine and helps propel my battered ragged ass back into the fray of human existence.

There's a period of withdrawal, of course. A period of sleeping. A long, exhaustive, heartbroken moment of realization: I am NOT Eve Dallas/Harry Potter/Temperance Brennan/Jack Reacher/Anita Blake/Mercy Thompson/Sookie Stackhouse/Number Ten Ox/Betsy Davis/Whoever the flavor of the month is. It's a sad time--I deal with it gracelessly, disillusioned with the world without my word-colored glasses.

But I get over it. And I re-enter my world refreshed, with a new perspective (and usually some new facts, collected like a sixth grader collects trivia learned from How It's Made) and the serene knowledge that me--mere me--can deal with whatever lies outside my fevered brain.

Even if it's picking up kids from school and dealing with the garbage and the laundry and several new deadlines and holy Goddess is it fucking soccer season again?

After being someone else for a period of time, I can be me again, and with the empathy engendered by a full-powered charging, my misanthropy passes, like the storm of stressed neurons it was, and new stories can grow.

So Long, Chicken...

Squish, pinkening nicely in the heat. 

Yesterday was Opening Day for soccer, and tomorrow morning, Chicken is leaving.  Today was sort of a lazy, doughnut kind of day, with a venturing out into the cauldron of hell that IS Sacramento so we could meet grandparents and Chicken could get one last chance to socialize with family.

We came home and watched Ferris Buehler's Day Off--and Mate made a really impressive observation:

Remember the part where Cameron does the impression of Sloane Peterson's father? He gets the deep voice and pretends to be a real fucking prick?

Yeah.  Mate was watching it tonight and he said, "You know he gets that from listening to his own father on the phone."

And as goofy/fantasy oriented as that movie is, that was an important thing right there.

Because it's no less true today.

My children and parents, happy after Chinese Food
and catching up. 

We're sending our Chicken out into the world tomorrow.  She has no school to attend, and she's going to be searching for employment in a really competitive market.  She's terrified. She wants to get a job, she thinks she can get a job, but she's not sure. She has all of the scaredy girl things that I had when I was a kid.  What if I fail? What if I can't do it? People try to get this job/pass college/enter the arts fields all the time-- what makes me special?

And I worry-- what would Cameron's father think if he heard Cameron on the phone? Would he be proud that his son assumes he's an unmitigated asshole who's every utterance is meant to inspire hatred and fear?

What have I passed on to my daughter besides an emerging sense of self worth and critical thinking skills and a love of the arts and some stunning red hair?

Well, it must be something wonderful. It must be. Because she loved it at home. She was safe, and we fed her doughnuts when she asked, and movies were sacred and mom was here to talk to and she loves her siblings intensely.

But I must have taught her something. I must have.

Because in spite of all the fears and in spite of knowing that home doesn't suck…

She's going back to her apartment in San Diego tomorrow, armed with a laptop and a volunteer job and plans to find more things.

She says it's for the shower that she'll get to herself--but I like to think it's more.

I like to think that there's a little bit of fearlessness in her, and some confidence too. I like to think that she'll wake up someday and think, "Oh my God! My life may not have followed the path I planned, but by golly, it followed a path I loved!"

It would be the best going away gift I could give her, if I could give her that. It would be the best parting gift I could get, if she could give it back.

May we all raise fearless, generous daughters and compassionate, brave sons.  Let them conquer their fears instead of the world, and accept diversity, defeat, and the joy of life's eternal struggle.

Let us see the best in them, and know that if we gave that to our children, we gave them something grand.

My my little girl travel safely and sally forth into adulthood with a lot of confidence and a little luck.

Holy Goddess, merciful God, so may it be.

Amen

Augh! Noooooo...

So, I was working on a pair of socks for a friend, and I finished the first one. I had Zoomboy turn them on and…

AUUUUUUUUUUUUGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

Internet response was terrific and sympathetic-- I've been given virtual chocolate, virtual kleenex, and lots of virtual hugs.

And someone on FB told me to "put it in the timeout basket until it behaves!"

Which made me think…

I have crafters and writers and quilters and knitters galore out there--we all have our own way of dealing with setbacks like this.

This first thing *I* did was cast on the next sock, figuring that I'd start from scratch and unravel the fucked up sock to fill in the toe of the second one if I needed to.  Of course, I fucked up THAT sock and need to recast, but still.  It was something to do, right?

When I have a newish release and I get hit with the first crappy reviews (and yes-- there are ALWAYS crappy reviews for EVERY new release-- even the ones that have decent scores on GR or Amazon) I always throw my energy into what I'm working on now, because that work I can do something with, and the other one has been set loose into the world already and can either make friends or enemies but it cannot be changed.

So I've got my ways of dealing with screwups and disappointments in the things that I create.

What do yOU do? Do you have a timeout basket? (Brilliant idea!)  Do you jump on the frog-wagon like it was an olympic sport? Do you cast on a totally new project RIGHT NOW because the old one is dead to you?  I'm just curious-- how do we deal with the agony of defeat?

Pithy Observations

*  Today was the first day of school… and the first day of the rest of my life in traffic. Good God--I'd forgotten what a time suck kids in different schools could be. So glad I brought my knitting!

*  While the kids were gone, the dogs spent their time barking outside at the workmen next door. When it came time to go pick up the kids, only the small dog elected to go.  This is her, asleep in the car. No, people, she's not dead.

2014

2015

*  Soccer practice has started again.  I know that in years past I have posted pictures of the kids practicing on verdant green fields.

What a difference three years of drought makes.

*  The kids have started playing MAD LIBS, which is great, but it resulted in the following convo between me and Squish:

"Mommy, do you want to play a game? You don't even have to come out of the toilet to do it!"

0.0  "Uh, okay, Squish, you can just wait for--"

"No, no, no! Let's do it now! Name an adverb!"

*  Also, unbeknownst to me, Chicken has instituted a new house rule: Farting on the couch gets you kicked off so someone else can come sit.  Of course, this rule is a by-product of A. Not enough living room space for the whole family to sit comfortably and B. Too much gas.

As a result, Zoomboy was dragged off the couch, kicking and screaming I might add, so an exultant Squish could sit between her father and big sister.

I like this rule.  So do they-- but that's because they haven't realized that the winner has to sit on the other person's farts. They'll figure it out soon enough.

*  And that's about all.  For those interested in the "list"--
      ~ Finished Winter Ball-- it will be out around Christmas.

     ~ Finished Lollipop-- it will probably be out around February

    ~  Working on Selfie-- it will probably be out around April

   ~  Next project is one of the DreamSpun Desires-- a categorical romance project from Dreamspinner Press.  These are just like the Harlequin or Silhouette romances we all grew up on-- a little bit predictable, a little bit tropey, and a whole lot enjoyable and comforting and fun.  I'm so excited for this line of books-- and so excited to be writing for it.  *happy purry sound*  I'm pretty sure that one has a 9 month lead in, so it will probably be out around June or July.

   ~  Then I have a stand alone novel of WHEEEE!!!!  I don't want to commit to whatever this will be, because the last time I just dove into a stand alone novel of WHEEEE!!!! I wrote Winter Ball, and I think it was pretty special.

    ~ Then I will be working on a sequel. I have so many to choose from, but I think first stop is going to have to be Johnnies.  I have some plot work to do.

     ~ Then I will be reassessing my queue and seeing where I'm going with it.  This needs to be done sometimes. I know I would love to write Wasted Grace and Chicken Sh*t-- but we shall see how things go.

So there you have it-- the first day of school and the rest of my year!  Enjoy :-)