Title: Low
Summary: It was like reckless driving when she was talking. Who was the road and who was the rider? She really couldn't tell.
Backstory: Summary: It's less than a story, more than a drabble that begins with a kiss between Joe and Jun on Dinah Laurel Lance aka the Black Canary's world. "It was like reckless driving when she was talking. Who was the road and who was the rider? She really couldn't tell." Notes: I've been following the interactions of Berg Katse, Jun the Swan and Joe the Condor over at Sages. The backstory comes from Bird Go!, Going to STAR and Dinah's San Francisco, and All Good Boys Go To Heaven.
March 13, 2005

Sweetness in his kiss -- it's an embrace that's too hot to leave room for anything else but honey in her mind. The wet give and take of his tongue on and in her mouth drives them to their knees. He's heavy, so heavy as he leans against her. His legs are ceramic-metal. She can feel the sutures on his chest from the surgery earlier. His mouth is like burnt sugar and the parts of him turned so recently into flesh are thrillingly warm, alive, and hard without bringing pain.

She's gone under and taken him with her. Or it's the other way around for them. If time and tide wait for no man, she's like the moon.

If Jun were thinking clearly – and she's not, even though they're on a different world and they only have her to protect them both – if Jun were thinking clearly she would not be running her hands along the bare skin of Joe's back. His pallor would have stopped her. His fluttering breath would have stopped her. She should not be doing this. They should not be doing this: straining against each other with the echo of terrible words still ringing in their ears. Clinging to one another as her inhibitions flame up only to burn lower than her center of gravity.

He's a sick man. She knows better.

He kisses like he talks. His voice is low, expressive, penetrating and textured. Full of strength and flexibility as it goes soft to loud, gentle and harsh, basso profoundo to baritone.

The linoleum burns cold through her jeans. Part of her not given over to the Joe-shaped urgency in her arms thinks that the hospital floor must be cold against his bare knees. But, his shifting grip on her hips, waist, back, shoulders, face…that distant ripping sound so hard to identify, the words he's saying, the things he's claiming between those hungry hungry kisses keep sweeping concern out of its proper place.

It is a stumbling dance, a broken waltz, that takes them against the wall. She cushions the back of his head with her palm as they bump up against it. He slides down, dragging her with him. His legs part and she positions herself between them, like she's been there before only she's nearly swooning at the proximity, writhing against him as he frames the base of her long neck with his calloused hands and claims the length of her throat with his lips.

Her blood is singing. That deep, flexible voice of his is rough from the tube that had been thrust into it. It feels like restless driving as they tangle themselves in each other. But his gaze isn't as it should be if they're in love and on fire with it. It's not entirely desire that has blunted the steel of his blue stare. Sensors break the satin rub of her skin against his as she runs her hand across his chest. It's that steady beat beneath her hand and finger tips. That calm and measured pulse that thrums in his wrist beneath her hands that brings her to sensibility. "The beat of your heart…" she says.

"Regulated," his voice is a burr of breath against her ear.

The band about his wrist tangles in her hair as he brushes it from her face. The temperature gauge on his fingertip scratches her skin. He brushes his thumb over that. At her wince his lips trade places with that finger, and his mouth is over hers. With a gasp and a sigh, she breaks their kiss and says, "You should be in bed."

He tells her she's greedy. She asks him about his butt as it's between them and the floor. He tells her he stopped feeling it some time ago, the floor is so cold. Other than the hands tracing her waist and skimming the gap between her blouse and jeans, he's not moving. His eyes have fixed on her face. She can barely speak, her face turning one way, and then another, as she manages to gasp, "I – can feelit – OH – through –m-my – Ahhh! jeans."

"You're hot enough for us both," he says, with something like wonder and a little amazement. The resulting blush hits her from the tips of her ears to the points of her breasts. "See?" he whispers sensing that heat by touch. But the shudder that racks him at the end of that murmur could only be from the cold. She stands, unsteadily. His hands slide down her sides and to her waist before leaving the confines of her shirt. She braces herself against the wall; helps him to his feet. There's another kiss, something slow, searing, that revs like a motor that shouldn't be able to but will. His knees buckle. She begins to laugh because he'd been practically holding her up – for a few moments, it felt like flying with her feet were literally off the ground – but when impulsive, dramatic Joe groans with pained surprise, her gut churns with feelings other than desire. As his legs stop holding him, the shift in their relative heights brings it forcibly to mind that he is far from whole.

Jun gasps, aflame with shame and uses her knowledge of her body to keep him off the ground. They work their way back to the bed. Where he sits, he nearly drops to his side. His face is asweat. He's gingerly touching his chest. She stands back from him, thinking 'I did this' but before she can step away from what she's done, he's gripping one of her arms with two of his hands. Heat blooms on her cheeks as aided by the light from the partially shuttered window she sees that his gown is no longer intact. He quips, "I seem to be a lot more naked than I was on the operating table." His voice is a little slurred.

She looks him over, shame has the upper hand. He looks gray. There are bruises on his chest. "We shouldn't be doing this. I shouldn't be doing this."

She can see the sutures that were poking her earlier bumping out of his skin. His eyes are heavy but it is dim but she should still be able to read his expression, but she can't. They get him cleaned up and into another gown. It's hard to do so as they take turns kissing one another. Once he's under covers he says, "Never, Jun. Never say I don't love you."

Ti voglio, Joji. She tells him, cradling his hand in hers, pressing it against her chest. She's tracing his features with her finger.

"Never say so," he slurs.

She can't answer. Her words have gone away.

"You look so sad," he tells her, his fingers, clumsier by the second, graze her chin. She'd turn her face into it and kiss the palm, but she -- not the impulse – feels wrong. She closes her eyes against thought. When she opens them his are at half-mast.

Once she's satisfied he's asleep she takes herself out onto San Francisco's hilly, winding streets. He told her he loved her. He kissed her with passion and fire. He just had surgery. There's another woman – someone she likes. Someone he trusts. She rides when she needs to clear her head. She rides when life runs particularly strong within her and she's full of hope and fire.

Tonight she walks.

Thanks for reading. Send feedback to ebonbird at hotmail dot com.