Fic: Fool's Paradise
Title: Fool's Paradise
Author: ash_of_roses
Pairings: Chris/Dave
Rating: R
Summary: Sometimes, they don't have the energy to be enemies--not that they ever fit the standard definition.
Warnings: Fluff, a bit of angst. Sadism, masochism.
Notes: Actually begun for a prompt on kink meme, before getting entirely out of hand.
"You know, you were right-- before." They're just sitting together, one of those rare moments of peace when Chris has run out of energy to be the grand villain and Kick-Ass is too mellow and too DAVE to force him back into their comfortable roles. He's wearing his old costume. The smell of gunsmoke and sickening burned flesh has never quite come out, no matter how many times it's been to the cleaners. The smell isn’t as strong as the memories, ghosts filling up the space between Red Mist and Kick-Ass. They both have so many ghosts.
"I told you so." Red Mist breathes a lazy ring of smoke into the air over the city, mimicking the fog creeping in below. "What was I right about?" He asks a moment later.
"You do have to be. A bit of a masochist. For this." Red Mist doesn't answer, just hands him the joint without meeting his eyes. He takes a drag, long and slow and practiced--it's been a long time since that car ride, the first time, when the smoke had been hot enough even second-hand to burn his lungs. Now it's familiar. Not something he’d ever have by himself, just on nights like this when the city is so cold that the heat is welcome instead of painful. Nights like this, it's impossible to tell whether Red Mist should be counted as one of the living or one of the ghosts that they both carry around. The scars have faded from bright red to white, but never really go away. Neither do memories. "So yeah, you were right." He hands the joint back, with hands that are steady even though his voice isn’t.
"I told you so," Red Mist says again, then pauses as though planning to add more. "I did." He finishes, and they both know that that wasn't what he'd meant to say. Fragrant smoke curls up from the thing in his left hand, apparently forgotten.
"Do you think the pain is the reason?" It's a tactless question and Dave knows that before he finishes the sentence, rushing to clarify despite knowing that his actual question is worse. "Do you think you need to be a sadist to decide to play villain?" Because it's Red Mist sitting next to him, and not Motherfucker, Dave doesn't immediately get kicked in the head. Because it isn't Chris, either, he doesn't get an answer right away.
"Fuck." Red Mist says it in the tone of voice one would comment on the weather, completely matter-of-fact. "I don't know. I was never the right thing at the right time." That's a little too honest, so he takes another drag but doesn't let it out. Dave is watching him, not Kick-Ass but DAVE, with something that Chris knows from long experience he doesn’t want put a name to. Dave hasn't earned that, isn't allowed to look at him like that. Red Mist grabs him by the back of the mask, shoves their mouths together, and shotguns the smoke straight down his throat. Dave isn't quite surprised and breathes in at the same moment, sucking down cold, sweet smoke that he knows is the best high he’s ever going to find. It's not surprising either when it turns into a kiss, not slow and not gentle, but lazy with a weariness that goes deeper than the ache of pounding pavement and being pounded back.
"It doesn't matter, though." Red Mist pulls away, and for an eerie moment Dave isn't sure quite which persona he's talking to, except that those eyes are so terribly, terribly cold. "Since the only pain I give a fuck about is yours." It comes out a growl, a feral sound. Kick-Ass isn't really present anymore; Dave is looking out of his eyes, and it’s Dave that strips off his mask. Chris, whoever he is at the moment, recognizes the gesture and grins. Dave is pushed flat on his back on the roof, enjoying the force of it, the unspoken need in Chris’s forcefulness and the knowledge that bruises are rising under his suit. The suit isn't going to last long anyway. Chris strips him for once, even though he needs Dave's help with the zipper, even though it should really be the other way around. Chris's hands are shaking harder and Dave doesn't know, never knows, if the shaking is a symptom of rage or desire. The two don't actually seem to be different things for Chris. So Dave stretches out stark naked on the freezing concrete of the roof-top, gathering scrapes that he'll only feel later, and lets Chris study him like the secrets of universe are spelled out in his flesh.
Chris, for once in his life, isn’t thinking about how he wants to hurt Dave next. That brutality is the fastest way to bring them both to the boiling point, but Chris isn’t in a hurry right now. It might be a little redundant anyway, with so much honesty still hanging in the air. Honesty, Chris thinks, as settles himself straddling Dave, is crueler than anything he could come up with anyway. For both of them. The thought sends heat racing through his blood, as he leans down to whisper, "Do you know why we do this?"
Dave smirks. "There's nothing on television at three in the morning?" It's amazing, how comfortable he is, secure in the knowledge that there's nothing Chris can do that both of them won't enjoy some way or another. Chris kisses him again and bites down, drawing blood and a soft moan.
"I know why I do this. I like your pain. I like the taste of your blood." Dave's smile vanishes for a moment, replaced by an expression that's almost sad before the teasing returns.
"You are such a vampire. Next thing you're going to tell me you're a Twilight fan." Chris's shudder is not for effect. "Besides, if that were all there was to it you'd have killed me years ago." It isn't hyperbole, just a statement of bald fact. Dave doesn't sound especially bothered by the prospect of his death at the hands of whoever-Chris-is-at-any-given-moment, either. "You’re here because there’s nowhere else you can go where it doesn’t matter which mask you’re wearing." Dave arches his back, grinding up into Red Mist's hips, at the same moment Chris draws him into another heated kiss. No biting this time. In fact, it's almost gentle. The shaking in Chris's hands has gotten worse, and Dave would be willing to bet anything at all that it was fear, this time. Chris had a few reasons to admit that his relationship with Dave wasn't quite your standard enmity. He had a lot more not to.
"You're a fool," Chris growls when he pulls away for air, and Dave nods solemnly. He's never denied that, and probably never will when they're together like this, intimacy more terrifying than mere nakedness. "...and I am, too." Dave only smirks, and presses them closer together, accepting the harsh bites Chris scatters on his skin like treasures, like gifts.
“I’m here, too,” Dave points out. Something in that simple phrase sends Chris fumbling for a little bottle from his utility belt. Dave has to take it from him, unscrew the cap and spread Chris’s fingers with the shining liquid. Then Chris’s fingers are inside him, and Dave is writhing and starting to bleed where he's scraped himself on the concrete and Chris is lapping it up like communion wine, sacred and terribly sweet. Dave is gasping, hot breath misting in the cool air like the smoke from before, like the fog below. “Please, Chris,” he gasps, and is stunned when Chris doesn’t backhand him for using the wrong name, just slides inside of him with a choked cry. They rock together soft cries of pleasure tainted slightly with pain because they've both forgotten there was ever another way of doing it. Eventually they come to rest, sated but never satisfied; Chris tucks himself away and fixes his pants, while Dave struggles back into the scuba suit, freezing and scraped raw.
"I should kill you for that Twilight remark." Dave looks at Chris and smirks, is still smirking when Chris strikes him across the mouth with one lightly-armored hand. Dave licks away the resulting trickle of blood, and laughs.
"And I thought I was going to go three whole days without a split lip. Thanks, man." He's not really upset; Chris knows that before Dave kisses him again, slowly, leaving the taste of blood in his mouth like a bittersweet promise.
"It'll heal. They always do."
"I think you just like to see me bleed."
"You know I do." Dave turns to leave, heading for the fire-escape. He's not going to say good-bye, they never do. It's too much like acknowledging that the next time they meet, they'll be trying to kill each other again. "And Chris? You've always been the right thing for me." Chris laughs, but it's bitter.
Dave is gone by the time he mutters to himself, "You're an idiot if you think it'll ever be the right time."
Author: ash_of_roses
Pairings: Chris/Dave
Rating: R
Summary: Sometimes, they don't have the energy to be enemies--not that they ever fit the standard definition.
Warnings: Fluff, a bit of angst. Sadism, masochism.
Notes: Actually begun for a prompt on kink meme, before getting entirely out of hand.
"You know, you were right-- before." They're just sitting together, one of those rare moments of peace when Chris has run out of energy to be the grand villain and Kick-Ass is too mellow and too DAVE to force him back into their comfortable roles. He's wearing his old costume. The smell of gunsmoke and sickening burned flesh has never quite come out, no matter how many times it's been to the cleaners. The smell isn’t as strong as the memories, ghosts filling up the space between Red Mist and Kick-Ass. They both have so many ghosts.
"I told you so." Red Mist breathes a lazy ring of smoke into the air over the city, mimicking the fog creeping in below. "What was I right about?" He asks a moment later.
"You do have to be. A bit of a masochist. For this." Red Mist doesn't answer, just hands him the joint without meeting his eyes. He takes a drag, long and slow and practiced--it's been a long time since that car ride, the first time, when the smoke had been hot enough even second-hand to burn his lungs. Now it's familiar. Not something he’d ever have by himself, just on nights like this when the city is so cold that the heat is welcome instead of painful. Nights like this, it's impossible to tell whether Red Mist should be counted as one of the living or one of the ghosts that they both carry around. The scars have faded from bright red to white, but never really go away. Neither do memories. "So yeah, you were right." He hands the joint back, with hands that are steady even though his voice isn’t.
"I told you so," Red Mist says again, then pauses as though planning to add more. "I did." He finishes, and they both know that that wasn't what he'd meant to say. Fragrant smoke curls up from the thing in his left hand, apparently forgotten.
"Do you think the pain is the reason?" It's a tactless question and Dave knows that before he finishes the sentence, rushing to clarify despite knowing that his actual question is worse. "Do you think you need to be a sadist to decide to play villain?" Because it's Red Mist sitting next to him, and not Motherfucker, Dave doesn't immediately get kicked in the head. Because it isn't Chris, either, he doesn't get an answer right away.
"Fuck." Red Mist says it in the tone of voice one would comment on the weather, completely matter-of-fact. "I don't know. I was never the right thing at the right time." That's a little too honest, so he takes another drag but doesn't let it out. Dave is watching him, not Kick-Ass but DAVE, with something that Chris knows from long experience he doesn’t want put a name to. Dave hasn't earned that, isn't allowed to look at him like that. Red Mist grabs him by the back of the mask, shoves their mouths together, and shotguns the smoke straight down his throat. Dave isn't quite surprised and breathes in at the same moment, sucking down cold, sweet smoke that he knows is the best high he’s ever going to find. It's not surprising either when it turns into a kiss, not slow and not gentle, but lazy with a weariness that goes deeper than the ache of pounding pavement and being pounded back.
"It doesn't matter, though." Red Mist pulls away, and for an eerie moment Dave isn't sure quite which persona he's talking to, except that those eyes are so terribly, terribly cold. "Since the only pain I give a fuck about is yours." It comes out a growl, a feral sound. Kick-Ass isn't really present anymore; Dave is looking out of his eyes, and it’s Dave that strips off his mask. Chris, whoever he is at the moment, recognizes the gesture and grins. Dave is pushed flat on his back on the roof, enjoying the force of it, the unspoken need in Chris’s forcefulness and the knowledge that bruises are rising under his suit. The suit isn't going to last long anyway. Chris strips him for once, even though he needs Dave's help with the zipper, even though it should really be the other way around. Chris's hands are shaking harder and Dave doesn't know, never knows, if the shaking is a symptom of rage or desire. The two don't actually seem to be different things for Chris. So Dave stretches out stark naked on the freezing concrete of the roof-top, gathering scrapes that he'll only feel later, and lets Chris study him like the secrets of universe are spelled out in his flesh.
Chris, for once in his life, isn’t thinking about how he wants to hurt Dave next. That brutality is the fastest way to bring them both to the boiling point, but Chris isn’t in a hurry right now. It might be a little redundant anyway, with so much honesty still hanging in the air. Honesty, Chris thinks, as settles himself straddling Dave, is crueler than anything he could come up with anyway. For both of them. The thought sends heat racing through his blood, as he leans down to whisper, "Do you know why we do this?"
Dave smirks. "There's nothing on television at three in the morning?" It's amazing, how comfortable he is, secure in the knowledge that there's nothing Chris can do that both of them won't enjoy some way or another. Chris kisses him again and bites down, drawing blood and a soft moan.
"I know why I do this. I like your pain. I like the taste of your blood." Dave's smile vanishes for a moment, replaced by an expression that's almost sad before the teasing returns.
"You are such a vampire. Next thing you're going to tell me you're a Twilight fan." Chris's shudder is not for effect. "Besides, if that were all there was to it you'd have killed me years ago." It isn't hyperbole, just a statement of bald fact. Dave doesn't sound especially bothered by the prospect of his death at the hands of whoever-Chris-is-at-any-given-moment, either. "You’re here because there’s nowhere else you can go where it doesn’t matter which mask you’re wearing." Dave arches his back, grinding up into Red Mist's hips, at the same moment Chris draws him into another heated kiss. No biting this time. In fact, it's almost gentle. The shaking in Chris's hands has gotten worse, and Dave would be willing to bet anything at all that it was fear, this time. Chris had a few reasons to admit that his relationship with Dave wasn't quite your standard enmity. He had a lot more not to.
"You're a fool," Chris growls when he pulls away for air, and Dave nods solemnly. He's never denied that, and probably never will when they're together like this, intimacy more terrifying than mere nakedness. "...and I am, too." Dave only smirks, and presses them closer together, accepting the harsh bites Chris scatters on his skin like treasures, like gifts.
“I’m here, too,” Dave points out. Something in that simple phrase sends Chris fumbling for a little bottle from his utility belt. Dave has to take it from him, unscrew the cap and spread Chris’s fingers with the shining liquid. Then Chris’s fingers are inside him, and Dave is writhing and starting to bleed where he's scraped himself on the concrete and Chris is lapping it up like communion wine, sacred and terribly sweet. Dave is gasping, hot breath misting in the cool air like the smoke from before, like the fog below. “Please, Chris,” he gasps, and is stunned when Chris doesn’t backhand him for using the wrong name, just slides inside of him with a choked cry. They rock together soft cries of pleasure tainted slightly with pain because they've both forgotten there was ever another way of doing it. Eventually they come to rest, sated but never satisfied; Chris tucks himself away and fixes his pants, while Dave struggles back into the scuba suit, freezing and scraped raw.
"I should kill you for that Twilight remark." Dave looks at Chris and smirks, is still smirking when Chris strikes him across the mouth with one lightly-armored hand. Dave licks away the resulting trickle of blood, and laughs.
"And I thought I was going to go three whole days without a split lip. Thanks, man." He's not really upset; Chris knows that before Dave kisses him again, slowly, leaving the taste of blood in his mouth like a bittersweet promise.
"It'll heal. They always do."
"I think you just like to see me bleed."
"You know I do." Dave turns to leave, heading for the fire-escape. He's not going to say good-bye, they never do. It's too much like acknowledging that the next time they meet, they'll be trying to kill each other again. "And Chris? You've always been the right thing for me." Chris laughs, but it's bitter.
Dave is gone by the time he mutters to himself, "You're an idiot if you think it'll ever be the right time."