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A Handprint on the Heart

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Robin has tight control over her powers. Amon knows this. Living undercover isn't easy, but he's never worried about Robin loosing control. She may not be as precise without her glasses, but she still has control. Her calm presence and surety are perhaps the only outward signs that she could, if she chose set the whole building on fire with a blink. Amon sometimes wonders if Robin's gotten better since the whole fiasco with Solomon. Knowing oneself is controlling knowledge and Robin can choose to boil water on the stove, just as well as she can with do it her vision.

Amon's never really been afraid of the physical side of a romantic relationship with her. The emotional side was terrifying, the ethical side was dubious, and it took a few years without witch hunts, catastrophes or messages from the STNJ for Amon to warm up to the idea. Robin often points out they've been flirting for years. She says all Amon really needed was the space, and Amon thinks she's right. The space to think about his own family and what he wants now that his job isn't everything, or even his job anymore. Robin is still there, and Robin is still his. More so perhaps than when they were first partnered, and she was a strange quiet girl with a strange quiet way in serious need of a pair of glasses.

Amon supposes she has always been his, There with her calm attention fixed on him in STNJ meetings, and her swift backup in the feild, slipping across his blindspots and watching his back without Amon needing to give her any direction. It's just taken a while for Amon to be hers. Or to admit that. Amon's not used to giving much of himself away. It has been the downfall of his past relationships, among other reasons. But Robin doesn't mind him keeping to himself, because she already knows him. Amon never asks quite how, but he thinks it might be the way her eyes track him when they scan the opposite sides of the grocery store isle to find where they've moved the cereal to. Amon no longer wears a necklace of Orbo, Robin's little red rock hangs off their bedpost but rarely her neck. Amon has a non-STNJ issue car. Robin still rides her vespa most anywhere. Amon did not die from shock the morning he found Robin in the kitchen wearing jeans, though for some reason he was strongly reminded of Doujima which was unsettling.

It's been three years and they have an appartment and a cat. Robin still cleans fastidiously and Amon still wears his long black trenchcoat when he goes to work. Amon has grown used to things, and perhaps that's why he asks. Robin rarely uses her powers. Sometimes she'll light the candels on the dinning room tabel without moving, but she's never showy, and it's a rare, if commonplace thing. So when Amon says "Show me," in a roughend voice he's not sure what Robin will do, if anything at all. Robin perched above him, her hands on either side of his head, her hair spilling down across her shoulders. He feels her reaction in a stutter of the grind of her hips. She leans back slowly, shifting, sitting astride him, still moving slightly. The moonlight catches on her breasts in a white glow before her hands move in front of her. Like fireflies there are suddenly little balls of fire dancing around her head. They soar over the room. The illumination sparkles off the sweat on her upper thighs and between her breasts. Amon cannot help moaning low and throaty at the sight.

Robin is looking down at him with a full and breathless smile. Her hands are hot as they caress across his chest, but he sees no flame. It feels like the room is crackling and Amon arches up his arms coming around her back as he hugs her to his chest. Robin leans in her fingers trailing through the air, just barely above his back and he can feel the flicker of heat, like holding ones hand close to a fire. Amon doesn't wonder if he should be concerned with the room catching fire. It feels like maybe it already has. Robin hot around him, her fingers gliding everywhere, and a sizzle like water on a burner where sweat sticks at the nape of his neck when her hands pull back on his hair. Amon rolls them over so Robin is under him, hair splayed chaotically across the pillow. Her hands gripping his upper arms. Her spine bows to meet him. Amon grabs her hand, breath harsh in his chest, and places it there.
"Here." he whispers and wonders if Robin can feel his heart thundering beneath her fingers.

Robin doesn't speak but her lips part around half voiced words. He can see the question in her eyes. are you sure? Amon nods, not breaking eye contact, pressing her hand to his heart and her expression is dazzeling. Then her hand is burning beneath his. His own hands come down to tangle in her hair and stroke down her sides. He can feel the heat of it on his chest, searing. Each finger a point of fire, the pain of it, and the pleasure ending him. Robin withdraws her hand. The room is dark and cool and she draws him down to rest his head, pillowed between her breasts. Amon slowly curls against her side, feeling his skin prickle and pull. Robin's hands are carding through his hair, her fingers feel strangely cool against his forehead. Amon thinks he can, perhaps feel her smile where she rests her lips against the top of his head.

Robin helps him tend to the hand print on his chest the next day. Amon can tell she's worried.
"I'm sorry." She whispers, "I should have noticed sooner. You're supposed to run them under cold water immediately." Amon gently grabs her hand again.
"It's not bad." He says. It does hurt, but Amon doesn't like the expression on Robin's face. "I would have done something about it, if I wanted to. I asked. This is not your fault."
Robin is shaking her head. "If I'd been more careful..." Amon holds her face between his hands, tilting her head up so she has to meet his eyes.
"Robin. Thank you." He leans down and kisses her, a light brush of lips. Robin's hands still and she waits looking at him closely. She nods and he lets go.
"I have some burn cream we can apply once it's a bit more healed, we can minimize scarring, and it's not a very bad burn so it should heal quickly. We'll have to be careful. It's larger than I'd like." Her voice is brisk, and she seems to be fluttering even in place, holding antiseptic in one hand and gauze in the other.
"Robin." Amon stops her with his voice. "I don't want burn cream. I want it to scar." Robin's eyes are wide, Amon smiles at her. "I don't mind." he says again, clearly, warmly. "Look," Amon guides her hand, fingertips cool and sticky with antiseptic, "it's really just the outline of your hand. you didn't hurt me. I want this. I want to keep this." In the quiet of the room Amon hears Robin's soft hiccup of sound, not pain or distress, but her eyes are brimming with tears. Amon's about to ask when she throws her arms around his neck leaning up and forward. Her kiss is hot and hard and Amon knows, once again Robin understands him better than anyone else ever has or will. She's his, always has been and now no one will ever doubt he's hers.