Fic: Send-Off (Daken/Johnny Storm) - NC-17
Title: Send Off
Pairing: Daken/Johnny Storm; hints of Daken/Bullseye, Daken/Mystique, Daken/Romulus, Daken/everybody
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Daken and Johnny Storm make the best of their brief time together.
Warnings: Sex. Angst. Dub-con (because it’s Daken). Have to warn for child abuse.
Spoilers: Daken #4
Send Off
You can tell a lot about a person just by looking in his room. Less is more, bigger is not always better, and he who has a lot of wealth usually has a cleaning lady. Daken considers himself an expert in personal space, so getting a glimpse inside of Johnny Storm’s private quarters merely confirms what he already knows to be true: Johnny’s a bigger neat freak than he is.
Johnny’s Fantastic Four quarters are impeccable and orderly-almost austere. There are no stray clothes or magazines lying around; his CDs are lined up on a shelf, and his bedspread is pulled tight across the mattress. Daken almost laughs. This is the room of a womanizer. Playing the field-and being good at it-requires an almost-zealous attention to detail. Text messages have to be erased on a daily or hourly basis. Appointments need to be kept. Bathrooms must be swept clean of evidence.
But Daken knows a few other things about Johnny-namely, that he likes to take his partners to a crash pad in another part of the city. (Daken has been a guest. Twice.) So why keep his Fantastic Four quarters in such immaculate condition? Answer: Because he has to. Anal-retentiveness is a built-in part of his personality. Or, at the very least, a long-time habit.
To sum it all up: Johnny Storm cares about things. He cares about his family. He cares about keeping up appearances.
When Johnny presses a pair of jeans and shirt into his hands (folded up like he just got them back from the dry cleaner), Daken says, “I appreciate your help. More than you could ever know.”
Johnny pauses. He steps back. His forehead creases, and Daken can tell that he’s chewing on his own anxiety and fucked-up relief.
“It’s okay, Johnny,” Daken says, trying not to smile too much. It’s hard to not be secretly pleased by another person’s concern-especially if that concern wasn’t something you planned. Daken spent some effort trying to get Karla to like him, trying to get Mystique in his corner. But Johnny’s devotion to him is fascinating because it’s so unbidden, so artless. “It’s me.” He points to himself. “I’m fine. I promise.”
Johnny opens his mouth, and then closes it. “Just . . . let me know if those things don’t fit.” He goes over and sinks onto the bed.
As he dresses, Daken stares into Johnny’s wardrobe and tries not to laugh at the presentation-the suits organized by season, the jeans folded and placed on the shelf as they would be at the store. He recalls that Lester was similarly organized, but with Lester anal-retentiveness was merely a symptom of his multiple psychoses. He’d polish his knives and then order them by size with Rain Man-like obsessiveness.
But Johnny doesn’t have knives; he has ties. And many of them still have tags. Retail therapy, Daken thinks. Johnny’s been in a bad way-over him. He knows he just should concentrate so that he can get what he came for, but the fact that Johnny worked himself into this clusterfuck is both intensely gratifying and a little unsettling. Without even thinking, he’s already remembering what Romulus used to tell him: You are the type of person others will always find themselves drawn to. But it is not you they love; they love themselves. You are a reflection of what they wish they could be. Immediately he feels deflated. Then he shrugs it off. Memories of Romulus float to the surface when he least expects them; he needs to work harder at forgetting. He’s here for a very specific reason. He can’t get distracted.
As he pulls on Johnny’s jeans, he keeps himself from peeking at the label. To do so would just be tacky. Besides, he knows by the feel and fit that these jeans cost at least two hundred dollars. He glances over his shoulder to find Johnny watching him. “You’re being very quiet,” he says.
***
Daken’s been gleaning information from people’s domestic places all his life. When he was eleven or twelve, Romulus started sending him to case the houses of both crime lords and ordinary citizens.
“Western paintings,” Daken told him one time, climbing back into the car where Romulus waited. “A library. Not too big. The size of an ordinary bedroom.”
“What kind of paintings? What books? Did you look inside of them? Did you look at the wall behind the paintings?”
“I-” Daken thought hard. In his mind he saw a painting of a family. The letters in the books looked like small arrows. “There was a painting of a family. Old.”
Romulus was still, and Daken could sense that he was angry. “You have too much to learn. And I know if I can wait for you to learn it. You might be more trouble than you’re worth.”
Next thing Daken knew, he was being pressed against the leather car seat. Blackness started to creep at the corners of his vision. Romulus was choking him. His trachea snapped. His claws popped out. His arms hung limply at his sides.
Minutes later he regained consciousness. He took several deep, gasping breaths. And then Romulus told him to get out of the car.
Daken’s larynx hadn’t quite grown back yet, but he was good enough to move. He pushed the door open and slid outside. He fell to his knees. He couldn’t stand. Or talk.
“Go back into that house,” Romulus said calmly. “Get the name of every painting. Every author of every book. I want to know how many closets. How many dishes. The names of every one of their friends. And when they come home, finish them.”
He couldn’t even breathe to protest. Not that he would have protested, anyway.
***
The Fantastic Four’s living room is small but elegantly decorated. There are floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, nice furniture, and a widescreen TV. Photographs of Franklin and other family members hang on the wall, and a few board games and toy trucks sit in the corner. Kids play in here, so the room’s got to be “family appropriate.”
The Fantastic Four live in the public’s eye, and Daken knows what that’s like. This carefully-ordered room is evidence of how hard they work to maintain this semblance of an all-American superhero team. And perhaps it’s not a front-perhaps they really are this white-bread. But Daken’s already figured out that Johnny’s a different story. He’s got his appetites, his issues.
Daken feels sorry for Johnny. It’s one thing to be a dead man. It’s another thing to have to censor major parts of your life, to have to think of the children.
“I can rest in here?” he says to Johnny. He tries to hide his disappointment-he was hoping Johnny would offer him his bed. But apparently Johnny isn’t quite as eager to kiss and make up as Daken had thought.
“Uh-huh,” Johnny says. “At least until I can talk to Reed and Sue about this . . . thing you want. Let me handle it first. If it comes from you, they’ll say no. But if it comes from me, they’ll be more open. You need me to vouch.”
Daken sits on the sofa. He picks up a pillow and holds it in his lap.
Johnny doesn’t leave to find Sue or Reed. He seems to hover for a moment, staring at Daken, his emotions ping-ponging between relief and anger. He wears his emotions all over his face and body, which makes this easy. Daken doesn’t even have to work that hard to figure out what he’s thinking and feeling.
Daken decides to change the subject. “I like this shirt.” He smiles and glances down at himself. “It’s a good color.”
Johnny’s face relaxes a little; the crease in his forehead disappears. “It looks good on you.”
“Better on you,” Daken says. “Well, thank God about Franklin. Poor kid. How is he now?”
“Sleeping. I don’t think he’ll remember much.”
“Thank God,” Daken says again. “Certain little things like that-they add up. Kids are fragile. Believe me, I know.”
Johnny stares at him for a moment and his brow tenses again. “Hmm, yeah.”
Daken fidgets with the pillow. Runs his fingers across the fabric. “I missed you.”
“Yeah.” Johnny ventures forward. Then he seems to remember himself and steps back again.
“That was the worst part of dying. Thinking I might not see you again.” He pauses. “I miss us.”
“As much as you miss Mystique?”
He sets the pillow aside.
“I was there when they pulled you out of the building, Daken. I followed up on things. Asked questions. It wasn’t hard to piece together what happened.” He crosses his arms. “I’m not a total fucking idiot, Daken.”
Yes, you are, Daken thinks. He also thinks these are awfully pious sentiments coming from Johnny. After all, wasn’t he in Miami with his little mamacita? Daken did his homework, too.
But he decides not to bring this up. The last thing he needs is a pissing match about the ethics of cheating on another cheater. Johnny’s raw and wounded; just having Daken back has sent him into a shit-fit. “I told you,” Daken says, “I’m not perfect. I’ve never pretended to be. But Mystique and I had business together, and it was about my father, and things happened the way they did. I’d take it back if I could.”
“Yeah,” Johnny says. “Well, I’ll talk to Sue and Reed. Leave you to get some rest.”
“Wait-Johnny,” Daken says. He stands. “I did it because . . . I envy you.”
Johnny looks up, arms still crossed over his chest. He seems uneasy but not entirely surprised.
“You get to be proud of who you are,” Daken continues. “You get to walk around in public without people thinking you’re a criminal. Or worse. But you know what else? You have this whole family. You have people to come home to. Shit, you have a home. I bet you have no idea how rare that is. You’re lucky. I-when I had to do what I did, I took comfort in the fact that you’ve got people to depend on, so you’d eventually be okay. If I’d thought that you wouldn’t make it through, I’d have reached out to you sooner.” He pauses. “And yeah, you know. Maybe I resented you a little bit for that, for your good luck in life. I’m not saying it’s right. I’m just telling you how I felt.”
“You didn’t have to go around feeling like that, Daken,” Johnny says, dropping his arms and moving forward. “Look, you could have those things too. Easily. Just stay with us.”
Daken looks down. When he finally speaks, he’s quiet. “You know, a lot of people think I joined Osborn’s Avengers for the power and the money. And they’re partly right. I’m the first to admit that my motives were skewed. But you know what else, Johnny? I wanted to know what it was like to be a part of something bigger than myself. Moreover, I just wanted a place to call my own.”
He suppresses a smile. He can’t help but think of his time back at Avengers’ Tower. He and Lester used to run up these huge drinking and entertainment tabs, all on the U.S. government’s dime. Coke had little effect on Lester except to make him hornier, so Daken made sure to keep some of that around.
Johnny stands in the doorway. “I get that, Daken. So stop running. Stay here. Stay with us.”
“I can’t. I have to make things right, Johnny. I’m-I’m not like you. Look. Whatever bad things you’ve heard about me? They’re probably true. Or true enough. I can’t stay here. And I’m not sure that Reed would really go for it.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Johnny says quickly.
Daken’s got to be careful here. He’s just left himself open. Johnny could very well talk Reed into letting him stay.
“If people find out I’m alive,” he says, “it’ll put you all in danger. No, I have to keep going. Maybe someday I can stay. But not now.” He takes a step toward Johnny.
Johnny stays in place. His gaze is both appraising and intensely trusting. Soft. He is so soft. Daken thinks of Mystique-Mystique, who’d fuck you senseless before poisoning your drink. Even Mystique eventually lay down for him. Johnny’s trying to feign skepticism, but only because the situation calls for it. Really, he wants to just brush aside all of Daken’s transgressions and start over. He doesn’t even want to pretend to put up a fight.
He is so easy that Daken feels a funny pang.
Johnny studies him. “Why change now, Daken?”
“Because I want to be a better person,” he says right away, leaning towards Johnny and pressing a hand against his own chest. “Because being part of Osborn’s Avengers, as fucked up as it was, showed me that there’s a better way to use power-that you don’t have to make people fear you. Because I don’t want to be locked up with the same people I helped put away. I don’t want to be locked up with . . . Osborn. I know I can be somebody different.”
Daken steps back to let this sink in. “You have to trust me, Johnny. I need you to believe me. I need to have someone believe in me. I have nothing else right now. Without you-”
Johnny makes his way into the room. He sits down on the sofa and rests his forehead in his hand. When he looks up at Daken, his eyes are wet. “I thought you were gone.”
“I know,” Daken says, “and I’m so sorry you were hurt.” He slides onto the couch next to Johnny and puts his hand behind him. He’s made quite a few superheroes cry by now (he tries not to smile at the memory of Clint Barton), but he’d be lying if he didn’t admit that it still shocks him a little. “And if I could take it back to change that, I would.”
Johnny blinks his tears away and shrinks back-just slightly-as if he’s conscious of himself, as if realizing that he’s not in complete control of this situation. (This isn’t uncommon-most people aren’t easily wrested away from their inhibitions.) But then he relaxes. He leans against Daken, and Daken rubs his back and his shoulders. Brushes his knuckles against his cheek. Before long, they’re kissing.
Daken gives Johnny a series of short, careful kisses and then leans in harder, pressing his tongue inside of Johnny’s mouth. Johnny leans back against him. Daken keeps going. Then he touches Johnny’s waist. Eases his hand into his crotch. Starts to undo Johnny’s pants.
“Wait,” Johnny says, pulling away and sitting back.
Daken sits up and tries not to roll his eyes. He hates it when guys as experienced and whorish as Johnny pretend to resist, but he understands that most people need to shore themselves up by saying I’m not this or I’m not sure I want that.
But instead, Johnny undoes his own pants and takes out his cock.
Daken closes the gap between them again. He kisses Johnny on the cheek, on the neck. Johnny’s so clean and well-kept-the most pleasant-smelling person Daken has been with in a while. “Don’t worry,” he whispers. “I won’t mess up your shirt.”
***
Daken rests his elbows against Johnny’s thighs and leans into him, kneeling between his legs. He takes him into his mouth.
Johnny presses back against the sofa, hard. His ass tenses, and his calves flex and relax. His breathing picks up. He moans-very quietly.
Daken would be lying to say that this is an act he enjoys. Though it’s not that he hates it, either. On the contrary, he finds it somewhat satisfying to be able to command this kind of pleasure. But it doesn’t give him pleasure-doesn’t even turn him on with the anticipation of pleasure.
He was sixteen when Romulus kicked him out of his bed. “You’re turning into a real degenerate,” he said. “You want it. You sit there thinking about it. Waiting for me. You don’t understand how disappointing you are. When’s the last time you were with a woman?”
Daken couldn’t bring himself to look up. He’d never been with a woman, and Romulus knew it. But he didn’t really want to be with a woman-he didn’t understand the attraction. Or the desire either. Come to think of it, he didn’t really desire anybody.
“You’re weak,” Romulus said. “You’ve let your appetites bleed into your emotions, and you’ve let your emotions take over your mind. It’s degeneracy. It’s disgusting. Go take care of it. Get a woman. Learn a few new things.”
Now he tightens his mouth around Johnny and tugs at his balls. Johnny’s getting close. He lets out a slow breath and pulls back. Out of the corner of his eye, Daken sees him reach for a box of tissues. He slides off of Johnny and signals to him that it’s okay. Then he goes back to what he’s been doing and picks up the pace. A few seconds later, Johnny twitches and grunts and comes in his mouth.
As Johnny catches his breath and pulls up his pants, Daken gets up and sits next to him on the sofa. Discretely, he wipes the back of his mouth. Johnny leans against him, but Daken nudges him away when he hears someone in the hall. They sit up. Then Sue appears in the doorway.
She considers them carefully and gives her brother a knowing look. “We want to see you in the lab.”
***
This is a family that has no secrets.
Reed and Sue sit across the table from him. They’ve just finished fitting him with his new glove, and now they’re serving him coffee.
“What’s next for you, Daken?” Sue asks. Daken can tell that she’s sizing him up-not so happy that her brother has picked him for a partner, but hoping for the best.
Reed pushes the plate of cookies in his direction.
Daken takes one. “To be honest with you, Sue, I don’t know. I’m just taking it one day at a time.”
Reed and Sue seem to accept this as his final answer.
Ben’s nicer to him now, too. When he leaves them alone on the roof, he leaves an entire cooler of beer. It’s an act marked by generosity, Daken thinks, and he wonders what Johnny was like to live with when he thought Daken was dead.
Beer in hand, Johnny peers over the side of the building. “I’m not going to bother asking you when you’re coming back, or if you’ll call.”
“I’ll come back,” Daken says. “Calling, I don’t know.”
Johnny leans farther over the side. “It is what it is, I guess.”
“Johnny,” Daken says. “You’re making me nervous. Don’t do that. Come on, come on back here.”
Johnny looks sharply over his shoulder. “What? You think I’m going to fall? You sound like my sister.”
“I don’t think you should go flying off when drunk.”
Johnny braces both hands against the concrete. “Now you really sound like my sister.”
Daken takes a swig. “She’s very smart.” He thinks of Johnny’s family, tucked inside and waiting for him to leave so they can go back to being normal.
Johnny turns to face him.
***
In the old painting, the family sat across the table from one another. They looked past each other or shared food, and they were tired and careworn, and finished pretending. Daken stared up at the painting. The Potato Eaters. The title meant nothing to him at the time, but even back then what he saw didn’t surprise him: people grew tired of one another. As he stood over the still-cooling bodies of the real-life family he’d just murdered for Romulus, he knew that it would always be his job to catalogue what other people lost.
But on the rooftop, he is surprised--surprised by how hard Johnny fucks him. He pushes Daken against a brick wall and pulls his pants down around his ankles. Then he tears open a condom and slides it on. Daken doesn’t look. He presses his hands against the bricks and waits.
You think you know somebody, he thinks as Johnny enters him with a jolt and starts thrusting. Daken pushes back, and Johnny doesn’t seem to like that. He presses into him harder and speeds up.
The bricks scratch Daken’s left cheek. He relaxes and decides to wait it out.
Johnny fucks him for another minute and then comes with a loud groan. He slumps against Daken and exhales and then pulls away.
Daken figures he’s getting rid of the condom. He reaches down and starts to pull up his pants.
“No,” Johnny whispers. He grabs Daken’s shoulders and turns him around. Peers at him. Then, drops to his knees.
Daken sighs. He tries not to think about how much it probably hurts to kneel on cold concrete. (He’s been there.) Instead, he closes his eyes and leans back. Johnny touches his ass. Wedges his hand between his thighs.
Daken’s legs feel weak and shaky. When he comes, he can’t help but buckle a little.
Johnny rises to his feet and peers once more at Daken. After a long lapse of silence, he finally speaks. What he says is unmemorable. He tells Daken to take care of himself.
Daken falters for a moment. He waits for an invitation that doesn’t come. He waits to be asked back inside to join the lives of other people.