Title: Due process Fandom: DCU (Batman Family v1) Summary: I didn't peek at the classified info, I swear, Congresswoman. Pairing: Barbara/Dick Rating: Adult Notes: For AskMeHow, in celebration; for Betty, because she loves them; and for Gloss, who showed me the canon that let me believe I could write them. Beta-read by Katarik. He ought to know better than to sneak around the office. He ought not to know how, and the other aides are going to catch him doing something damn stupid -- meaning impossible for a normal kid -- sooner or later. But then, Barbara hasn't been as careful as she can be. She corners him in the office -- because she can sneak up on Robin, on a good day -- and the blinds are already down, and whatever he's doing with the files can damn well wait. "You're in so much trouble," she says, putting on her best Batgirl voice. Dick looks up, startled, then grinning. "I didn't peek at the classified info, I swear, Congresswoman." "I left this door locked," she says, and locks it behind her. The light's not on, and she's theoretically done for the day, so anybody who's looking for her will look somewhere else. Washington's hot nightclubs, or posh restaurants, or maybe just the movie theatre, but not the office. "You need better locks," Dick says, and the little bastard reaches out and pushes her hair away from her face. Or pretends to; she's sure it's all still in its bun. She grabs his wrist. "You need better puns." Dick gives her an ingenuous look that is completely and totally false. "I don't know what you're talking about, ma'am." It only takes a step and a twist -- and him letting her -- to get his arm behind his back. "I'm not that much older than you, dammit." He loses the blank look for a second, then fights to put it back. "Of course you're not. Congresswoman. Ma'am." Another twist -- she's pinching nerves in his wrist and it doesn't take any muscle at all, just know-how -- and he's on his knees, wincing. "Are you this rude to everyone?"   He smiles again, looking up at her through his lashes like he knows just how sweet that is. "Just my superiors, really, Ms. Gordon." She lets him go with a snort. "You're incorrigible, Grayson." He shakes his hand, pretending it hurts, and stands up again. "And you still haven't fired me." Barbara takes him by his wide collar and pulls him in for a kiss, feeling forceful and demanding and knowing perfectly well that he's leaning into her arms as she yanks on him. "You do enough to earn your keep around here." "I don't think any of the classified files are actually missing anymore," he adds, putting his arm around her waist. They never were in the first place, but it's an excuse to push him away. "Are you saying you betrayed my trust?" Another shove, and he's stumbling -- play-stumbling, damn him, too slowly and gracefully to be actually falling -- around the corner of her desk. "No -- I just borrowed them --" Dick catches the arm of her marvelously comfortable chair -- black leather suits her better than she would've guessed -- and twirls it just enough as he sinks -- not falls, he's Robin, he doesn't fall over that easily. It's an invitation. Dick's good at that. "And you expect to keep your job?" Barbara's glad it's dark in the office. He can probably tell she's fighting not to grin, but he probably can't see that her cheeks are all pink. "You'll have to work it off." "I know," he says, running his hand through his hair and looking up at her. Even in the dim light, he's unfairly captivating. Someday he's going to have some kind of facial scar, and he'll no longer stop traffic, but he'll be charismatic 'til the day he dies. As long as he's using his powers for good, she's not going to complain. "It's a good thing you've learned something on Capitol Hill," she says, and even saying that gives her a little frisson. This is very much against everybody's rules except his legal guardian's -- and that's mostly because his legal guardian makes his own damn rules. So does Congresswoman Gordon, on occasion. She takes Dick's invitation and sits in the chair he's all but nudging toward her. "I'm sorry," he says, and pets her thigh. "I really -- I promise I won't do it again." She laughs at him and pats his cheek. "You'd better have more skill with your tongue than telling transparent lies, or you're going to be on trial for treason, never mind just getting fired." His eyes widen and he ducks his head just too late to hide his grin at the so-empty threat. If anyone's in danger of that kind of thing -- He's pushing her skirt up. "I -- I won't promise," he says, rolling down her hose with a practiced hand before he tucks his fingertips into the waistband of her panties. "You'd make fun of me. I just -- I guess I'd better show you." As if she doesn't know. "You must have some kind of qualification," she says, petting his hair, "or you wouldn't have gotten the recommendations you did when we -- oh -- oh. Hired you --" He's been getting some practice in lately, and enough of it with her that it only takes him a few searching licks to make her grip the soft armrests of the chair and bite her lip against the urge to whimper. She settles for tangling her fingers in his hair instead and pushing her hips up, urging him right where she wants him. "Not bad," she says, as drily as she can when she's this wet. "Not -- not bad at all."   He turns his head enough to kiss her thigh and says, "Only 'not bad'? Sorry -- I'll do better," and he doubles his efforts, parting her lips with his tongue and making her writhe against the squeaking leather, seeking the contact she needs. And he gives it to her, that unforceable, sweet touch that makes her clench her thighs and lift her hips, holding him there again. He hums, moans against her. She gasps for breath, holds it without thinking, gasps again, and lets the pleasure crash through her. She lets him go, petting his hair gently, and he raises his eyebrows at her. "Better," she admits. He bites his lip; a pout threatens that makes him look rather younger than he is, which he can scarcely afford. "Then let me try again," he says, winking at her and tucking his hands under her hips, helping her edge forward so he can reach her more effectively. The second orgasm feels like it was lying in wait, just behind the first, and ambushes her as soon as the rough grain of his tongue hits her clit again. She hears herself moan and covers her mouth to choke it off; even though the office is empty, they'd better be a little careful. Sometimes the best possible word for Robin -- for Dick -- is diligent. He knows better than to muss her blouse -- some things are harder to hide than others -- and that it takes longer for her to come again without a little change of pace, so he runs his blunt fingernails down her thigh. Any other time, she'd berate herself for getting off on pain. It's not a good kink for Batgirl. Right now she's clutching at -- at Robin -- and making herself not, not, not scream. Her toes are clenching in her pumps and she knows they're going to hurt, but it doesn't matter now because everything feels so damn good. "You're forgiven," she says when she can feel that cramp in her toes. Dick grins up at her and says, "You're sure?" "As long as you never call me ma'am again." She tugs him up and kisses him again. He's a terrible mess -- he'd better wash his face and brush his teeth before he goes anywhere vaguely resembling public. "Never," he says fervently. She doesn't believe him. Even less when he adds, "Congresswoman Gordon," like he doesn't know her name damn well. Barbara unbuttons his pants, wrinkling her nose at him. "You're not terribly contrite, are you, Dick?" He shivers when she wraps her hand around him. "Sorry. Sorry. I'm really sorry." "No," she says, nipping at his ear and stroking him, "you're really not. But that's all right."
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