That Temporary Kind 
by Nancy Brown (nancyelizabrown@aol.com)
Copyright 2004
NC-17 

Disclaimer: DC and Warner Brothers would be very mad at me
if they knew about this. 

Notes: Great big spoilers for "Wake the Dead."  If you don't
want to be spoiled, avert your eyes.  Thanks go to
XFFan_2000 for the beta.

*

I know you, John Stewart.

I know the way your eyes crinkle at the edges when you
smile, and I know how low your voice gets when you chuckle.

I'm learning more.

I knew about her, before last night.  I read the files and I
heard the gossip and, more importantly, I saw what you were
like when the League reformed.  It wasn't a secret, you
know, as much as you wish it had been.  I think some people
living in caves in Siberia might not have guessed what you
two had.

You don't talk about her, and that tells me volumes.  You
never say her name when you're awake.  Or you didn't, until
last night.

I didn't know what you were like when you were around her. 
How could I?  Like the rest of us "new recruits," all I knew
of the first League was what I saw on the TV, or met
streaking through the sky.  You were a shooting emerald star
and some of us grumbled about the "Just Us Club," but we all
wanted to be with you so bad we could taste it.  Tasted like
clover honey, and like tin.

You taste like coffee; you drink too much.  I'd blame Flash
but I don't think he got you hooked on the stuff.  I think
he just ensures by example that you'll never take yours too
sweet.  You're not big on sweet anyway.

Christ, this is a mess.

Or maybe, maybe I'm hoping it's a mess.  Maybe I'm imagining
I mean more to you than it felt like when you walked away
with her.  And I followed you, followed with the others
because what else was I going to do?  Stand there, and let
everyone else know you just passed me over for the woman who
splintered your heart?  There's only so much humiliation I
can take in one night.

We were going to go to dinner.  We were going to go dancing,
although you didn't know that.  Instead I got beaten up by a
zombie and you cared, you did, you came to gather me in your
arms after she ...

I haven't played the role of Rebound Girl in a long time.  I
forgot how easy it is to make myself believe it's not just
therapy with fringe benefits.

You know, I never saw her without the mask before last
night.  All the pictures, all the files, not one of them
mentioned how pretty she is.  But I get people coming to
their feet when I walk into a room, and that's a kind of
royal service even the Princess doesn't always receive.

You think I'm beautiful.  I know you like what you see when
you look at me.  You hid it at first, held it close against
you just like you do all the rest of your feelings until you
need them.  You're not as good at it as Batman, but I'm
glad.  Think of it as a weakness that let me inside.

Actually, you probably do.

I want to ask you what you're thinking, what feelings you're
not sharing this time, and there's just no way I'm making
that phone call.  I know you went back to your apartment.  I
know you went there alone.  I don't want to know if you're
not still alone.

We came here, both times.  Your place was closer but you had
your excuses: laundry on the floor, empty fridge.  You tried
to pass yourself off as a typical bachelor, which might have
worked if I hadn't been talking with Flash.

And it was fine, coming here instead.  My home, my bed, my
rules, and I always keep my place as tidy as I know you do. 
Besides, I make it a habit of not fucking in another woman's
bed.  I know it was yours first, but like I said, I know you
and I know how you think.

I know what you like, too.  I know you like to see me on my
knees in front of you with my mouth around you.  Not that
this is news.  I haven't met a human man yet who would say
no to a blowjob.  Maybe not all of them want a woman right
there, but spit and lick and suck and slick deep, and
yeah.  No objections there, not from you.  You make good
noises when I'm going down on you, the best, and I know when
you do that you're focused entirely on me, on what I'm doing
to you with my mouth and my hands.

You give as good as you get.  I don't know who taught you. 
You weren't with your little birdy long enough for it to be
her, but I bet she enjoyed what you already knew.  Three
hundred cups of coffee at least washed out your mouth after
you touched her, before you first tasted me.  I wanted to
ask how long it'd been since you'd had a human lover, and
then your tongue swiped over me and I couldn't speak.

You were surprised that first time when I came so fast. 
Makes me think she didn't, and this is a thing to know now,
here alone in my own room.  A fact, or a comfortable
assumption.  Not a weapon.  Not exactly.

It's been over a decade, more.  I can tell by the clumsy way
you put on the condom, like some kid who's barely got hair
on his balls.  Then you lay me down and you're nothing like
a kid at all.

I want to say it's perfect, but I'd be lying, and I don't do
that to you.  It's good and it's passionate and when you're
inside me I feel whole.  I don't know what you feel, but the
pleasure I can read on your face and hear in your throat.  I
think it helps give you back whatever you lost, whatever she
drew away in her wake as she fled.

And it's a fight, a little.  Sex is, well it's not a game,
but it's not something I tend to take lying down, you might
say.  I want to roll on top of you and clench myself around
you and feel you thrust from beneath me.  It's power, like
the power that flows through me when we're in a battle, but
you've got your own power.  Your hands hold my shoulders to
the mattress, and it's not what I want, but you are
what I want and when I come again you stop long enough to
kiss me, long and low and wet.  Then that green fire grows
in your eyes, and I'm riding the wave of you, and a part of
me is ashamed at being grateful that you're looking at me as
you get near the edge.

You only come when I'm on my back and it isn't quite joy on
your face when you do.

Maybe looking at two nights isn't the best way to spot a
trend.  Maybe after we wined and dined and danced last
night, you would have taken me back to your perfectly neat
apartment, taken me into your perfectly made bed, taken
me, and maybe it would have been ... perfect.  

Instead I'm alone, and you're alone, and I don't care if
she's alone.  I care that she was miles away and was still
in my bed with us.  You fucked me the way the missionaries
do entirely because you could never have that with her. 
Wouldn't want to damage those pretty wings with something as
vulgar as a little nighttime rutting, would you?

You never said you loved me.  I didn't say it either,
because I don't.  Not yet.  I could.  I could love you,
John.  I could be the woman you need, the woman you want.  I
could see us with a future, a life.

I wish ...

I wish I could tell you what I see when I look at you.  I
wish I could hold up a mirror to the pain she caused you and
tell you not to let yourself fall again, now that she's
glided back into your world.  I wish I could think you'd
ever listen to me when it comes to her.  I wish I believed
you're on your way over here right now, and that you're
sorry, and that you want to come in and stay and not leave
ever again.

But I know you too well for that.

*