FIC! O:
Title: Normality.
Pairing: Cliff/Larry
Fandom: Doom Patrol
Rating: PG
Summary: Their relationship is kind of odd.
"What am I meant to do, Larry?" Cliff asks, and the other man looks up at him, tilting his head in such a way to indicate total perplexion.
"What d'you mean?" He asks, settling himself on the floor, cross legged before the cyborg, his trenchcoat creasing awkwardly around his bandaged legs. Cliff tries to focus not on Larry's completely emotionless, staring aviators, but on the glowing green that envelopes the other man.
"I mean," He tries, looking down at his hands carefully "We can't have any sort of physical relationship. I'm almost entirely mechanical, and you're radioactive and completely mummified constantly. It'll make things weird, I'll give you that." He chuckles, seeing Larry dip his head in what appears to be a gesture of amusement and embarassment combined.
"Oh," He nods, and gets to his feet. Although with Larry, it's never quite just getting to his feet. More like getting to his feet and then several inches off the floor. Nevertheless, the radioactive man just sort of hangs there, watching Cliff.
It was something that used to majorly weird Cliff out, that he could never quite tell where Larry was looking with his sunglasses permenantly affixed to his face, but, like most things in the Doom Patrol, one simply learnt to suck it up and get on with it.
"What?" He asks, scratching his head, suddenly self conscious. "What? What's up?" Larry shakes his head, not answering Cliff directly and sweeps a little closer in that vaguely disconcerting way of his.
Then Cliff can just about feel, through the warm metal of his new, cyborg skin, the vague warmth of a bandaged mouth against his jawline. As quickly as it's there, it's gone, and Larry has pulled back, resuming hovering a few inches in front of Cliff.
"It never really had the capacity to be a normal thing anyway though, did it?" Larry asks, and again, there's no emotion. No nothing, just a blank, bandaged face, and flat black planes of glass for eyes. Larry just shakes his head, doing his best to smirk with the face that nature never gave him.
"I guess not, Larry," He agrees "We're just not the two kids and a skoda type." Larry gives a noise that possibly indicates some amusement, and shrugs amiably.
"Skodas are shitty anyway," He allows himself to drop onto the couch beside the cyborg with a soft thump. "And don't get me started on kids."
So maybe it's not normal. Maybe Larry is radioactive, and on occasion a fucking hermaphrodite; but then, Cliff's hardly one to talk. A human brain is all he's got left, that and a body that makes him look like something out of transformers.
Maybe they never will have a family, or a dog and a front porch.
But then again, maybe, just maybe, things will be okay.
And that's good enough.