Daydream Believer

By Megan

Disclaimer: Vic and Babs are property of DC comics. Song/Title are property of The Monkees. "The Gypsy" is property of the Ink Spots. Blame my Pop Culture class.

Summary: Victor/Barbara. Vic asks her about Prom. For BlackShield

Notes: HAPPY BIRTHDAY JEAN, YOU RASCALLY THING YOU. I'll make this into a comic for ye's like I said. Just want a story to take notes from instead of random drawings. +dies+ The song was stuck in my head, and it fits you so well (YOUR NAME IS IN IT, OMG), so…yeah. Have fluff. Set before the Keystone City battle, obviously.

Cheer up, Sleepy Jean.
Oh, what can it mean.
To a daydream believer
And a homecoming queen.

—"Daydream Believer" by The Monkees

"Mmph. M'mra, di' hoo e'r ho hoo 'rom?"

Barbara's head whipped toward the source of the noise, startled and amused. "What?" she said, a single, slim eyebrow snaking up to her bangs. On the couch beside her, Victor reluctantly turned onto his side.

Rubbing the early signs of sleep from his eyes, he repeated, "You ever go to prom?"

At the age of twenty seven, Barbara thought the question was rather silly, until she remembered that the superhero business cut a person's life off at the knees. She supposed she could've waved the query off with some excuse, but 'I don't recall' wasn't a valid point for Oracle. Victor was watching her intently, his usual half-smile settled comfortably on his face. "Now, what kind of question is that," she asked with a shake of her head. Barbara's thick, red hair dropped in front of her face, narrowing Victor's view of her expression. He was experienced enough with the occurrence to notice bemusement and discomfort, though.

Sitting up, he moved over to the middle seat, closer to her wheelchair. Leaning over, he nuzzled the soft hinge of her jaw, just below the ear. Her hair was thick and soft, a barrier between them that smelled of everything that red hair should—sweat and grass and fruity shampoo. "A 'Victor' question, of course. I'm just curious—you never seem to talk about your life before bein' Batgirl."

She wove an arm around his strong torso, which felt real for the first time in years. Before Dick managed to clone him, Victor's human form had been stiff and gold, it's warmth reminiscent of a car's hood after a long drive, accompanied by the hum of an overworked computer. She'd never exactly resented the inhuman part of him—it was rather adorable how cats would flock to him as they would any other heat-source—but she, they, were still grateful to Dick for giving him back his body. Barbara wondered if it was the source of his current questioning—if a shift toward normalcy made him curious about how the world now worked. Her mind, sharp as it was, had still managed to overlook the fact that he'd never gone to his own highschool prom or had the chance at other milestones. She sighed, embracing him, wondering if there'd ever come a day when she was granted such grace, such reward as a new body. Victor began to trace her jaw with his lips, and she welcomed the distraction—such thoughts always made her lower half ache like phantom limbs, which they were, in a way. Sensations in her lower half technically should've been redirected to other body parts, but somehow, it had never happened. She felt nothing, nowhere, except the pain her mind manufactured. Perhaps it was a psychological defense against the terror of lost limbs. Barbara made a note to ask Victor about it, because it was one of the things they shared—the fear of seeing a body they could not feel. The only difference being that Barbara knew what her body did and did not do, because the part she couldn't feel did nothing; Victor, on the other hand, had moved his body without a sense of it doing so. That control had been the first thing to attract her to him, along with their similar circumstances. While her paralysis was far more mundane, Victor's own experiences kept him from growing frustrated with it.

Coming out of her hidden self, she brushed away the hair and turned her face to his, kissing him tenderly, trying to make her gratitude known. Yet, Victor always had a way of knowing; an air of certainty that assured his peers that their thoughts and feelings did not go unnoticed. "It's okay," he said softly, "You don't have to answer if you don't want to." Which was obvious, she thought, since no one ever had to speak if they didn't want to, and it was a silly thing to say it, but it was just another part of Victor that she took for granted until it presented itself—that gentlenes, that reassurance.

"I'm fine," she murmurs against his lips, dusky pink against her softer shade. "I didn't."

"Why?" he asks, flatly. Too many emotions were being relayed through touch—their weakness—to be present in his voice. 'How could you pass that up,' his fingers said with their bemused wanderings. 'How could anyone,' was on his lips but never beyond them. It was a tenderness that wounded and healed at the same time, brushing over her cheeks and eyelids and ears, soft and moist. Then the dryer form, firmer, on her arms and ribs, disappearing over her knees like spies, like the Batplane, stealthily slipping out of the radar. Blip, blip, blip, went her searching mind.

"Money, danger, and no dates," she said, forehead against his own. Her glasses pressed harshly against her nose, but she was loathe to remove them—she wanted to see him, because when she was with Victor every sense mattered; everything had to be perfect. Every moment had to be stark and amazing and memorable, because their jobs lowered life expectancy drastically, and lowered relationship expectency even more harshly than that. Depsite the healing power of good deeds, their pasts marked them as walking wounded; left them as incomplete, as warped puzzle pieces. The world refused to change, to allow them a fit, so they bumped against each other until they found the best one they could. Barbara once thought her fit was with Dick, until she learned that he felt he could fit with several people at a time, and pulled away from the picture completely. It hadn't been her job to fit with the word—she was the one that examined the box itself and told them how to fit together. She was the creator and solver of puzzles, and had not remembered her role as the missing piece until Victor showed up to sweep her off of her feet. "I wasn't enthusiastic enough to defy dad, that's for sure. Gotham was, and still is, a dangerous place for children."

Victor chuckled. "I can't hardly imagine you ever bein' a child, Babsy."

Babsy. It was one of her odder monikers, but she'd lost her taste for the singlular syllable of 'Babs' long ago. Victor could get away with murder in her eyes, and had, simply because he was different. He was a change of pace that she adored every minute of. Dick had been predictable—Victor was…methodical, but able to surprise anyone he chose to. "Living in Gotham does that to people, I guess." Victor lifted her out of the chair and onto the couch. Usually, being away from it worried her, because most of her defenses were built into it, but she knew she was safe—between the Tower's defense systems and Victor's presence. His body still hummed, but she found it pleasant. The hum was something she could latch onto, something she was familiar with. Underneath his skin, Victor was still a machine, and Barbara liked to think machines were something she could control. She had no real power outside of her mind; thus, any semblance of it was intoxicating. "Does that disappoint you?"

"That you didn't go? I ain't sure." His hands massaged her shoulders, the only part of her that ever felt any strain these days. "Most people might expect me to be relieved that you don't have somethin' I don't, but I ain't most people."

Grinning, "Yeah, because most people can't get away with saying 'ain't' to me." She hugged him tightly, relieving his hands of their duty. "You're such a sweet person Victor…how on earth did I end up with you in my life?"

"Oh, that's easy—you asked." He kissed her forehead, and she could feel his smile. "That's all anyone has to do; you're just the only one smart enough to figure it out."

"That's true—the rest of the clan isn't exactly open about…anything."

His smile widened against her skin. "There's my girl—no more moping or modesty for you Babsy. You know you're too good for everyone but me." The smile became a playful grin.

"Just because you don't have a modest bone in your body doesn't mean no one else does."

"Ah, I'm right an' you know it. That's why we've made it so far—you know I love you and I know you love me, 'cause we ain't shy about sayin' it. That's the problem with all these superhero types—they think you gotta be normal and have normal relationships before you can ever be happy. But I'm part machine an' shakin' up with the smartest, prettiest woman alive, who lives in a tower full of computer monitors, and I don't think I've ever been happier in my whole life."

Victor's words made her heart ache—and it wasn't anything like a phantom limb—she could feel it fully, in the right place at the right time, and she wasn't imagining it. "God, you sure are full of sap tonight," she muttered, yet she found herself unable to hide a smile of appreciation. "Making me feel sorry for all those girls who missed out on you, Victor Stone."

He stood up, still holding her, and swung her body around until he had her shoulders in one arm and her knees in another. "We should do somethin' tonight—have dinner or go dancin' or to a movie…." Barbara watched him babble with a slight smile.

"You know I can't leave the Tower right now—the boys are on patrol, and they're always calling in with some problem or another."

Grinning mischieviously, he rubbed his nose against hers. "Who said we had to leave? We can dance right here, an' then I can cook dinner an' grab a movie an' pamper you 'til you can't stand it no more."

Barbara loved this side of Victor—there was no pity in his fawning, only adoration. He treated her with care because he felt she'd earned it; not because of her condition. No one had pampered Victor when he awoke as a teen, seemingly stripped of his humanity. He'd had to wait and fight for his reward, and expected the rest of the world to do the same. "How exactly are we supposed to dance?" she asked after a moment of silence.

"With music, of course." Without bothering to set her down, he reached out to find the radio. Using the powers of the Omegadrome, his arm elongated, offering support and turning the knobs at the same time. She tried not to shudder as the skin shifted against her back, the rasp of fabric not enough to cover the digital hum, nor the dissolving of bone. "It's okay," he said again. "I've got you."

Finding an oldies station, he retracted his hand as an old Ink Spots song filtered through the speakers, through time. Victor sang along, only slightly off-key. "She looked at my hand and told me my lover was always true, and yet in my heatr I knew dear, somebody else was kissing you. But I'll go there again 'cause I want to believe the gypsy. That my lover is true, and will come back to me some day…." Barbara pushed his chin with her forehead playfully, a silent mockery of his voice, but not an indication to stop.

"Alright," she murmured. "Now what?"

Breaking off as the song ended, Victor turned his attention back to her. "Now, you hang onta me like this," he said, moving her so that she had her arms around his neck, elbows resting on his shoulders. "I'll hold you like so," he curled his hands under her thighs, so that she was cradled as though on a swing, with her knees on his hips. If I had control of my legs, I could hold on with them, she thought ruefully. Until she remembered, with equal bemusement, that having control of her legs would make the support unnecessary. "I got you," he said lightly, as though sensing her mood. "It's no trouble Babsy, no trouble at all." He kissed her neck reassuringly, and began rocking in time with the music, which had moved on to a hit by Miles Davis. Barbara relaxed against him, putting her head on his shoulder.

"Mmm," she muttered, "I could get used to this."

Victor chuckled. "I hope you do, 'cause I ain't goin' nowhere."

"What gave you the idea anyway?" she asked.

"Just givin' us a chance at somethin' the world took away."

The song changed again, shifting from the forties to a slightly more recent era.

"This is our song!" Victor crowed, nodding his head to the chorus, humming along. "Oh what can it mean, to a daydream believer, and a homecoming queen."

Barbara grinned at him curiously. "How so," she asked. "We aren't either of those things."

He held her close, pressing his dark, humming hands against her legs. She was amazed that the vibration was detected by them, and shivered. "Oh Babsy," he whispered huskily, with the faintest trace of sadness. "They're exactly what we should've been."

Yay! I wrote het! Time to get back to the boi-luv now.