Fic - "You Never Can Tell"
Title: You Never Can Tell
Author: colonel_bastard
Characters/Fandom: Hal Stewart, Wayne Scott (Metro Man). Megamind.
Word Count: 4,228
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Starting over isn't so bad when you've got someone to keep you company.
Warnings: Crude language, sex-talk.
Notes: Written for yami_neko_tsuki and her wonderful prompt at megamindkink: Hal and Metro Man in an in-character, consensual relationship. I love a good challenge! Now, I'm always determined to make my pairings really work, no matter how cracky--- but even I was surprised by how well these two fit together. Bonus-points were offered for non-powered Hal, so the fic is set after the movie! Title taken from the Chuck Berry song. It is their song.
NOW WITH INCREDIBLY LOVABLE CHARACTER DESIGNS BY junosunderland: TWO GUYS WHO GET EACH OTHER!!
AND A TRULY WONDERFUL ILLUSTRATION BY junosunderland: THE BEST REVENGE IS LIVING WELL!!
“Hey, Metro Munch!” Hal calls from the front door. “I’m home!”
“I know!” Wayne calls from the living room. “I can smell you from here!”
“Oh, ha-ha, yeah, I really appreciate that, thanks.”
Actually, Wayne can’t smell him at all, but Hal doesn’t necessarily need to know that. He’s been agonizing all week about this month’s community service assignment: working at a homeless shelter. It’s supposed to be easier than picking up roadside trash, but Hal vehemently protested that he’d much rather be doing the outside work. I’m gonna reek like a hobo! He’d been whining for days. This is bogus, they’ve got plenty of jerks that volunteer there, they don’t need me! Wayne has reminded him a hundred times that the whole point of the rehabilitation program is to give him a better appreciation of the community as a whole, not just the parts he picks and chooses.
Wayne would know. He created the thing.
See, it turns out that he couldn’t go quite as cold-turkey on the hero business as he thought. Oh, sure, he was thrilled to hang up the cape and tights--- but the instinct to be out there doing good never really quite left him. It took an embarrassing length of time for him to remember that he already had a civilian identity that was custom-made for philanthropy. He could still fight for the cause of justice, only now he could do it in a proper three-piece suit and tie. He added wings to hospitals and donated generously to the cause of keeping music in schools, but his true passion always stayed with the law. He still wanted to contribute to the battle. He just wasn’t quite sure how to do it.
On the one-year anniversary of what Metro City now referred to as “the Titan incident,” Wayne got the idea to pay a visit to the maximum-security ward of the Metro City Prison for the Criminally Gifted. If anyone could give him some insight on the subject, surely it would be Hal Stewart, who infamously went from being an ordinary citizen to a destructive supervillain seemingly overnight. Maybe if Wayne had a better understanding of what had gone wrong for this man, he could figure out a better way to make it right for others.
The warden was of course extremely reluctant to leave Mr. Scott alone in the visitor’s room. Sometimes it’s so hard for Wayne to resist the urge to just say, “Look, I have laser vision, I think I can handle one chubby guy in handcuffs, thank you,” but somehow he’d politely persuaded him to get lost. It was a lucky thing, too, because the moment Hal was let into the room, he burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Wayne wondered nervously.
“Either I’m as nuts as they say I am,” Hal giggled, “or you are totally Metro Man.”
Scott was so startled that it didn’t even occur to him to lie. “How did you---?”
“Puh-lease!” Stewart rolled his eyes. “Glasses? A beard? That’s your genius disguise? You are so lucky that everyone in this city is completely retarded.”
“Not everyone, apparently.” Wayne raised his eyebrows and nodded in Hal’s direction.
The redhead sneered. “Yeah, well, that’s why I’m in here, isn’t it? ‘Cause I don’t play by their rules anymore. I’m done with the bullshit.” His eyes suddenly narrowed. “Wait a second, who cares why I’m here, what are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be dead right now?”
“It’s... a long story.”
“Dude,” Hal gestured impatiently at the prison walls with his cuffed hands. “In case you haven’t noticed, I have plenty of time.”
Wayne studied him carefully. He didn’t look the same as he had during the fateful live broadcast from Metro Tower. His face was no longer lean and predatory , but his eyes were just as fierce and challenging now as they were then. It was a perpetual gleam of triumph, one that could only come from the experience of throwing away an unhappy old life for a dangerous and uncertain future. Never mind what I become--- at least I won’t be who I was. Wayne recognized that gleam. He’d seen it in his own mirror. And unexpectedly, outrageously, he realized that Hal Stewart might be the one man in Metro City who could understand him.
“So, you were done with the bullshit, huh?” he chuckled weakly. “I can relate.”
And boy, could he ever. As he told his story, he couldn’t even get through two sentences without Hal interrupting him--- not to scold or belittle, but to emphatically agree. I just felt so--- trapped. I felt like no one knew who I really was--- or like no one cared. I wondered if anyone even saw me as a person--- or just as a tool. Hal neither condemned nor condoned. When the story was done, he simply cracked his knuckles and shrugged, “Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do, man. Fuck the rest. Your secret’s safe with me.”
Afterwards, Wayne shook his hand and said, “I’d like to visit again, if that’s all right with you.”
“Whatever.” Hal picked at his fingernails. “I’m not going anywhere.”
So Wayne visited again. And again. He visited until they became friendly, he visited until they became friends, until he looked forward to those visits more than anything else in his life. Hal grinned like an idiot every time he saw him, as if every time he was just as surprised and amazed as he had been the first time, when he ducked his head and mumbled sheepishly, “You know, I didn’t really think you were gonna come back.” They talked for hours, ranting, complaining, commiserating. Wayne had never felt quite so comfortable around another person before. He didn’t have to perform for Hal, didn’t have to be super-perfect Metro Man or even super-charming Mr. Scott--- he was just another guy in the process of starting over. Never mind what I become--- at least I won’t be who I was. Hal got that. Hal was there, too. Metro Man never had a single friend. Neither did Wayne Scott, not until now, and it was something he could definitely get used to.
Then he started to miss Hal when they weren’t together. That had to change.
No one was going to let Titan walk away from destroying Metro City, but with the right spin and the right donations, Wayne was able to launch a brand new rehabilitation program; one that placed a particular emphasis on reintegrating criminals into society. Couldn’t do that locked up in prison, could they? Candidates were evaluated for their eligibility to be placed into the program. A certain prisoner might have been given priority. A certain prisoner might have been excused from the requirement of staying in government housing.
There’d be no way to do it under the table, not with one of them being so famous and the other so infamous. The only way to get away with it was to make the whole goddamn thing as public as possible. Hal Stewart wasn’t being smuggled out of a government facility. He was being generously taken under the wing of that noble philanthropist Wayne Scott, who was so dedicated to this new program that he was taking personal responsibility for the man who needed it most. Hal was to spend his days in ever-changing community service and the rest of his time living as a guest of Scott Manor.
“So,” Hal sniggered after the press conference. “Does this officially make me your ward?”
“Guess so,” Wayne said neutrally.
“You do realize that everyone’s gonna assume we’re fucking, right?”
They had both laughed. It was that absurd. Funny thing is, even when they did end up fucking, no one ever suspected a thing. Hal was right--- everyone in this city is completely retarded.
“Be honest. Do I fucking reek or are you just being a dick.”
Hal is currently standing in the living room doorway, the hem of his t-shirt pulled up over his nose for an ongoing sniff test, his pale stomach exposed and pooching out over the front of his jeans.
“It’s not so bad.” He inhales loudly through his nose. “You dick. I smell fine.”
“I may have exaggerated,” Wayne picks at the strings of the guitar in his lap. “For comedic effect.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not laughing.”
“I am.” Scott turns and flashes his pearliest superhero grin. “Ha, ha, ha.”
Hal yanks his shirt back down with a snarl. “Whatever. Be a dick. See if I care.”
Before Wayne even has a chance to apologize, the redhead has swung around and stomped off in the direction of the kitchen. The former superhero takes a moment to try his hand at the opening chords of Paint It Black, but honestly, he’s a terrible musician and the fingering evades him. He sets the guitar aside and pads in stockinged feet down the hall, following the sound of clattering coming from the open refrigerator. Hal is rummaging furiously for one of his Sam Adams lagers, the bottles all mixed in with the ritzy seasonal brews that Scott tends to stock up on. Wayne sneaks up behind him and presses a quick kiss to the back of his neck--- only to be rewarded with an elbow jabbed violently into his gut, a shotgun reflex so quick that it drives him back a good three steps in surprise.
“Dude, do not pull this faggoty snuggly crap right now,” Hal mutters, fishing among the bottlenecks. “I am not in the mood.”
“Okay, what gives?” Wayne crosses his arms, leans back against the counter. “Look, I’m sorry I said you stink. You smell fine. You smell great. You smell like the Old Spice Guy. Happy?”
“Oh, wow, okay, you think I really give a shit about how I smell?” Hal kicks the fridge door shut, a bottle of beer in one hand. “What the fuck do you think I am, a teenaged girl? Don’t tell me I smell nice, that’s fucking gay.”
Scott’s dark eyebrows shoot up almost to his hairline. “Really? That’s where you draw the line? I can suck your dick but I can’t say that you smell good?”
“Hey!” Hal barks. “What we have--- this---” He gestures vaguely between them. “This is not some gay thing. What, I’m your boyfriend? I’m not your boyfriend. If you ever call me your boyfriend I will never stop kicking you in the balls. Like, I would kick you forever. I know you have super-invincibility or whatever but I would wear you the fuck down.”
“Okay, so, if this isn’t some gay thing,” Wayne actually makes finger-quotes around the phrase and hates himself for it, like, way to be super gay, Wayne. He shrugs it off and makes the same unifying gesture between them, indicating Hal and then himself. “What is this?”
“This is just, like, two guys who are--- really good friends.” Hal distracts himself by going from drawer to drawer, digging around for the church-key to open his beer. “Two guys who get each other. That’s it, man. It’s just, like, we’re cool with each other. It’s cool. It’s not a big deal. Like, hey, whatever, we can have sex or whatever, no biggie. That doesn’t mean we’re in love or anything. It doesn’t have to be some faggy romantic thing. That would ruin it. We’re just two guys who are, like, really close. Nothing wrong with that, man, nothing.”
His rambling hunt for the bottle-opener has finally lured him close enough for Wayne to lay a hand on his shoulder. Hal tenses, then relaxes, then grudgingly offers his beer to the bigger man. Scott pries off the bottle-cap with a simple flick and hands it back, not saying a word. Hal accepts the bottle, seems about to turn away, then reconsiders and drops his forehead to rest against the center of Wayne’s broad chest. The urge to wrap his arms around him is almost overwhelming, but Wayne has learned through punches and curses that when Hal says he doesn’t want to snuggle, he really means it. The unspoken rule for these moods is simple: do not hug unless hugged. Do not kiss unless kissed. Anything else risks triggering that reckless, redheaded temper, so he keeps his hands in his pockets--- for now.
Finally, Hal heaves a defeated sigh and retreats to a safe distance to take a swig of his beer. He considers the bottle for a long while. Then he just blurts it out.
“Roxanne was there today.”
Wayne actually does a double-take. “What?”
“Yeah,” Hal rubs self-consciously at the back of his neck. “She came to check on me. Doing some big follow-up story, since it’s been two years. You know. Since I got out.”
Neither of them was particularly surprised when Roxanne Ritchi proved to be the most vocal public opponent to the effort to get the one-time Titan released on probation. Wayne could hardly blame her--- she had a pretty rough time during the whole mess. Still, even Megamind had publicly endorsed the rehabilitation program, reminding the whole city that their own hero had once been reviled as a lost cause. For most people, that was enough. For Roxanne, the old wounds never quite managed to heal. She remained one of a small but significant minority that was anxiously awaiting Hal’s inevitable relapse into villainy.
“Did she give you a hard time?” Wayne hates to sound like a mother hen, but he does worry about him sometimes, about the unhappiness that still nags at his heels. “If I’d known she was gonna turn up, I would have come by to make sure---”
“Nah, it’s fine, she was fine,” Hal waves dismissively, but his expression is distant, pensive. “The usual. Asked me about what I’ve been up to, what kind of work I’ve been doing. Kept trying to get me to admit that I was all full of anger or whatever. Talked to me like I was five. The usual.”
His shoulders are hunched up defensively to his ears, his hands wringing around the neck of the beer bottle. It’s an ugly feeling, to come so close to the old ghosts. Wayne feels the same uncomfortable twist in his stomach when he sees old news footage of Metro Man. No one likes to be reminded of the one thing they wish they could forget.
“It’s just,” Hal grits his teeth, ashamed. “She still makes me feel so fucking small.”
“No,” Wayne shakes his head sharply. “Come on, don’t say that.”
“I’m doing my fucking best, okay?” The redhead takes a steadying gulp of lager. “I know I fucked up. I know I’m fucked up. That’s not gonna change overnight, but goddamn it, I’m trying, and she comes around with her stupid microphone and gets all up in my face like how-do-you-really-feel-about-what-the-fuck-ever and I’m like bitch will you just get out of my life!”
He kicks the refrigerator with a growl of frustration. It lurches at the impact, and Wayne’s super-hearing picks up the whisper of the glass bottles brushing against each other inside.
“Hey,” he says, hands outstretched in a soothing gesture. “It’s okay. I know. It sucks.”
“You don’t know.”
“Yes I do.” Wayne jerks a thumb at the phone on the nearby side table. “Every other day I’ve got Megamind calling me up and telling me I should put on the cape again. When it’s not him, it’s Roxanne. They still don’t believe me when I tell them I’m never going back, and like you just said, that’s not gonna change overnight. Here’s the thing: I’m done with letting other people tell me what I’m supposed to be doing with my life. I’m done with letting them make me feel guilty. I don’t need it. You don’t need it. Forget about it.”
Hal worries at the mouth of the bottle with his thumb, circling the lip again and again with his fingerprint. Wayne approaches gingerly, his head tilted low to try and catch the other man’s eye.
“Come on,” he urges. “Just forget about it. Don’t let her make you feel like shit. The best revenge is living well. Drink that beer and let’s go play Guitar Hero. It’s that easy.”
Then Hal finally looks up at him, his face skeptical, his bright brown eyes narrowed in doubt. Wayne has always had such a weakness for redheads. Hal is adorable enough when he crinkles his nose like that--- the freckles are the icing on the cake.
“Hey,” Wayne says again, fond and familiar. “She’s wrong, you know. About you.” And he reaches out to lay both hands solemnly over Hal’s stomach. “You are definitely not small.”
“You son of a bitch!”
The outcry is punctuated by a wild left hook that catches Wayne square in the chin and leaves Hal yelping on the recoil, his fist effortlessly deflected by that pesky super-invincibility that he was only just complaining about. He flaps his hand against the sting. Impulsively, Wayne catches him by the wrist, guides the hand to his mouth, and presses his lips against the knuckles. Hal goes very still, but when Wayne checks his face, he sees a crooked smile.
“Oh my God,” Hal chuckles. “You are such a fag, dude.”
Okay, sure, why not. Wayne leans down and kisses him, one hand still clasped with Hal’s, the other reaching up to cradle the back of his head, his fingers buried in the messy ginger hair. It’s certainly not the first time they’ve kissed, but they don’t do it often. Hal arches his back in surprise, pulling in a sharp breath through his nose--- the sound is unexpectedly and intensely sexy. Then there’s a cold jolt on Wayne’s back, and he realizes that Hal has slung a lazy arm around his neck, the beer bottle now resting between his shoulderblades. The kiss only lasts for one long breath, and their mouths come apart with a mutual sigh.
“Way to prove my point,” Hal smirks, and he taps Wayne on the back of the skull with the bottle as he brings it back for a drink. “Fag.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Wayne holds up his hands. “Last I heard, we’re just two guys who get each other. Nothing wrong with that.”
The corner of Hal’s mouth twitches with genuine affection, his eyes darting down to the floor to hide it. Wayne sees it, and he cherishes it, but he never draws attention to it. That’s not how they do things around here.
“So,” the redhead says nonchalantly as he finishes the beer. “You know what I think would be the absolute best way to get back at Roxanne?”
“What?”
“If you gave me a totally amazing blowjob.”
Wayne arches an eyebrow. “Oh, really.”
“Think about it. This bitch is like, obsessed with ruining my life, right?”
It’s not remotely true, but Wayne gives him an indulgent nod anyway. He wants to hear where Hal is going with this. The empty beer bottle gets carefully set aside on the nearest countertop, leaving Hal’s excitable hands free to gesture wildly as he rambles.
“Okay, so, that’s a whole lot of negative energy or whatever to have against someone. I believe that if I were to receive a truly amazing blowjob--- I mean, like, the best possible blowjob--- then she would somehow sense that I was out there, somewhere, just enjoying the fuck out of myself. Like her spidey-sense would tingle and she’d be like, oh my God, somehow, somewhere, Hal is getting an amazing blowjob and there’s nothing I can do to stop it! Right? I think so.”
“Are you saying that I’m capable of giving a blowjob so good that it causes psychic shockwaves?” Wayne sniffs daintily and lays a hand over his heart. “And you said you weren’t a romantic!”
“Come onnn,” Hal wheedles, hooking his index fingers in the belt loops of Wayne’s jeans. “You just said, you just said that the best revenge is living well. I think this would be living the best. Right? You know I’m right.”
“You know, I think I could be persuaded,” Wayne grins coyly, then assumes an expression of deadly seriousness. “But if you start yelling I’m Castor Troy! again I will stop immediately.”
Hal snorts, incredulous. “Okay, fine, that was supposed to be a compliment, but I guess if you’re like, offended, then whatever, I won’t do it anymore.”
“That was a compliment?” Wayne groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Hal, do me a favor: compile a phrasebook for me, a translation guide for someone who doesn’t speak Stewartese. You do realize that you’ve created your own lexicon, right?”
“Lexicon, shmexicon,” Hal strikes a weird, awkward pose that’s apparently meant to imply suavity. “You just can’t handle my super-slick turns of phrase.”
“Sometimes I don’t even think we’re speaking the same language.” Wayne taps him playfully on the side of the head. “English, motherfucker! Do you speak it?”
Now it’s Hal’s turn to look suddenly, stupendously serious.
“Whoa. Whoa, hold up, Wayne. You do not want to challenge me to a Tarantino showdown. I will destroy you.”
Wayne tries to interject, but Hal cuts him off, his voice urgent.
“No, dude, I’m serious, I know you only know the famous lines and I know like all of the lines and I guarantee you that I have the perfect comeback to anything you were planning on saying. Don’t make me do it, dude. Don’t make me make you look like a jackass.”
And Wayne realizes: this is the Stewartese equivalent of a romantic gesture. Hal doesn’t do roses and chocolates, he doesn’t do candlelit dinners. Hal leaves the last packet of PopTarts in the box. Hal listens to him play the guitar for an hour, even though they both know it’s terrible. And Hal refuses the occasional opportunity to show off at Wayne’s expense. A phrasebook might not be necessary after all--- not as long as Wayne is able to figure out the really important stuff.
“You’re right,” he bows. “I defer to the master.”
“Very wise,” Hal nods, then widens his eyes in an epiphany. “And in return for sparing your dignity, I officially demand---”
“---an amazing, psychic-shockwave-creating blowjob.” Wayne tousles his hair. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll do my best, but I can’t make any promises.”
“Okay, dude, like, no homo, but,” Hal mumbles, suddenly very interested in his feet. “You give a pretty awesome blowjob. Just so you know.”
Wayne smiles. Billy Shakespeare, eat your heart out--- no sonnet on earth could ever compare to that breathless, blushing confession. He loops an arm around Hal’s shoulders and steers him down the hall that leads to the stairs that lead to their bedroom. Hal slips an answering arm around his waist and absentmindedly sneaks his fingers into the pocket over his hip. Wayne feels it, and he cherishes it, but he doesn’t draw attention to it.
That’s just not how they do things around here.
__________end.
Author: colonel_bastard
Characters/Fandom: Hal Stewart, Wayne Scott (Metro Man). Megamind.
Word Count: 4,228
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Starting over isn't so bad when you've got someone to keep you company.
Warnings: Crude language, sex-talk.
Notes: Written for yami_neko_tsuki and her wonderful prompt at megamindkink: Hal and Metro Man in an in-character, consensual relationship. I love a good challenge! Now, I'm always determined to make my pairings really work, no matter how cracky--- but even I was surprised by how well these two fit together. Bonus-points were offered for non-powered Hal, so the fic is set after the movie! Title taken from the Chuck Berry song. It is their song.
NOW WITH INCREDIBLY LOVABLE CHARACTER DESIGNS BY junosunderland: TWO GUYS WHO GET EACH OTHER!!
AND A TRULY WONDERFUL ILLUSTRATION BY junosunderland: THE BEST REVENGE IS LIVING WELL!!
“Hey, Metro Munch!” Hal calls from the front door. “I’m home!”
“I know!” Wayne calls from the living room. “I can smell you from here!”
“Oh, ha-ha, yeah, I really appreciate that, thanks.”
Actually, Wayne can’t smell him at all, but Hal doesn’t necessarily need to know that. He’s been agonizing all week about this month’s community service assignment: working at a homeless shelter. It’s supposed to be easier than picking up roadside trash, but Hal vehemently protested that he’d much rather be doing the outside work. I’m gonna reek like a hobo! He’d been whining for days. This is bogus, they’ve got plenty of jerks that volunteer there, they don’t need me! Wayne has reminded him a hundred times that the whole point of the rehabilitation program is to give him a better appreciation of the community as a whole, not just the parts he picks and chooses.
Wayne would know. He created the thing.
See, it turns out that he couldn’t go quite as cold-turkey on the hero business as he thought. Oh, sure, he was thrilled to hang up the cape and tights--- but the instinct to be out there doing good never really quite left him. It took an embarrassing length of time for him to remember that he already had a civilian identity that was custom-made for philanthropy. He could still fight for the cause of justice, only now he could do it in a proper three-piece suit and tie. He added wings to hospitals and donated generously to the cause of keeping music in schools, but his true passion always stayed with the law. He still wanted to contribute to the battle. He just wasn’t quite sure how to do it.
On the one-year anniversary of what Metro City now referred to as “the Titan incident,” Wayne got the idea to pay a visit to the maximum-security ward of the Metro City Prison for the Criminally Gifted. If anyone could give him some insight on the subject, surely it would be Hal Stewart, who infamously went from being an ordinary citizen to a destructive supervillain seemingly overnight. Maybe if Wayne had a better understanding of what had gone wrong for this man, he could figure out a better way to make it right for others.
The warden was of course extremely reluctant to leave Mr. Scott alone in the visitor’s room. Sometimes it’s so hard for Wayne to resist the urge to just say, “Look, I have laser vision, I think I can handle one chubby guy in handcuffs, thank you,” but somehow he’d politely persuaded him to get lost. It was a lucky thing, too, because the moment Hal was let into the room, he burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Wayne wondered nervously.
“Either I’m as nuts as they say I am,” Hal giggled, “or you are totally Metro Man.”
Scott was so startled that it didn’t even occur to him to lie. “How did you---?”
“Puh-lease!” Stewart rolled his eyes. “Glasses? A beard? That’s your genius disguise? You are so lucky that everyone in this city is completely retarded.”
“Not everyone, apparently.” Wayne raised his eyebrows and nodded in Hal’s direction.
The redhead sneered. “Yeah, well, that’s why I’m in here, isn’t it? ‘Cause I don’t play by their rules anymore. I’m done with the bullshit.” His eyes suddenly narrowed. “Wait a second, who cares why I’m here, what are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be dead right now?”
“It’s... a long story.”
“Dude,” Hal gestured impatiently at the prison walls with his cuffed hands. “In case you haven’t noticed, I have plenty of time.”
Wayne studied him carefully. He didn’t look the same as he had during the fateful live broadcast from Metro Tower. His face was no longer lean and predatory , but his eyes were just as fierce and challenging now as they were then. It was a perpetual gleam of triumph, one that could only come from the experience of throwing away an unhappy old life for a dangerous and uncertain future. Never mind what I become--- at least I won’t be who I was. Wayne recognized that gleam. He’d seen it in his own mirror. And unexpectedly, outrageously, he realized that Hal Stewart might be the one man in Metro City who could understand him.
“So, you were done with the bullshit, huh?” he chuckled weakly. “I can relate.”
And boy, could he ever. As he told his story, he couldn’t even get through two sentences without Hal interrupting him--- not to scold or belittle, but to emphatically agree. I just felt so--- trapped. I felt like no one knew who I really was--- or like no one cared. I wondered if anyone even saw me as a person--- or just as a tool. Hal neither condemned nor condoned. When the story was done, he simply cracked his knuckles and shrugged, “Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do, man. Fuck the rest. Your secret’s safe with me.”
Afterwards, Wayne shook his hand and said, “I’d like to visit again, if that’s all right with you.”
“Whatever.” Hal picked at his fingernails. “I’m not going anywhere.”
So Wayne visited again. And again. He visited until they became friendly, he visited until they became friends, until he looked forward to those visits more than anything else in his life. Hal grinned like an idiot every time he saw him, as if every time he was just as surprised and amazed as he had been the first time, when he ducked his head and mumbled sheepishly, “You know, I didn’t really think you were gonna come back.” They talked for hours, ranting, complaining, commiserating. Wayne had never felt quite so comfortable around another person before. He didn’t have to perform for Hal, didn’t have to be super-perfect Metro Man or even super-charming Mr. Scott--- he was just another guy in the process of starting over. Never mind what I become--- at least I won’t be who I was. Hal got that. Hal was there, too. Metro Man never had a single friend. Neither did Wayne Scott, not until now, and it was something he could definitely get used to.
Then he started to miss Hal when they weren’t together. That had to change.
No one was going to let Titan walk away from destroying Metro City, but with the right spin and the right donations, Wayne was able to launch a brand new rehabilitation program; one that placed a particular emphasis on reintegrating criminals into society. Couldn’t do that locked up in prison, could they? Candidates were evaluated for their eligibility to be placed into the program. A certain prisoner might have been given priority. A certain prisoner might have been excused from the requirement of staying in government housing.
There’d be no way to do it under the table, not with one of them being so famous and the other so infamous. The only way to get away with it was to make the whole goddamn thing as public as possible. Hal Stewart wasn’t being smuggled out of a government facility. He was being generously taken under the wing of that noble philanthropist Wayne Scott, who was so dedicated to this new program that he was taking personal responsibility for the man who needed it most. Hal was to spend his days in ever-changing community service and the rest of his time living as a guest of Scott Manor.
“So,” Hal sniggered after the press conference. “Does this officially make me your ward?”
“Guess so,” Wayne said neutrally.
“You do realize that everyone’s gonna assume we’re fucking, right?”
They had both laughed. It was that absurd. Funny thing is, even when they did end up fucking, no one ever suspected a thing. Hal was right--- everyone in this city is completely retarded.
“Be honest. Do I fucking reek or are you just being a dick.”
Hal is currently standing in the living room doorway, the hem of his t-shirt pulled up over his nose for an ongoing sniff test, his pale stomach exposed and pooching out over the front of his jeans.
“It’s not so bad.” He inhales loudly through his nose. “You dick. I smell fine.”
“I may have exaggerated,” Wayne picks at the strings of the guitar in his lap. “For comedic effect.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not laughing.”
“I am.” Scott turns and flashes his pearliest superhero grin. “Ha, ha, ha.”
Hal yanks his shirt back down with a snarl. “Whatever. Be a dick. See if I care.”
Before Wayne even has a chance to apologize, the redhead has swung around and stomped off in the direction of the kitchen. The former superhero takes a moment to try his hand at the opening chords of Paint It Black, but honestly, he’s a terrible musician and the fingering evades him. He sets the guitar aside and pads in stockinged feet down the hall, following the sound of clattering coming from the open refrigerator. Hal is rummaging furiously for one of his Sam Adams lagers, the bottles all mixed in with the ritzy seasonal brews that Scott tends to stock up on. Wayne sneaks up behind him and presses a quick kiss to the back of his neck--- only to be rewarded with an elbow jabbed violently into his gut, a shotgun reflex so quick that it drives him back a good three steps in surprise.
“Dude, do not pull this faggoty snuggly crap right now,” Hal mutters, fishing among the bottlenecks. “I am not in the mood.”
“Okay, what gives?” Wayne crosses his arms, leans back against the counter. “Look, I’m sorry I said you stink. You smell fine. You smell great. You smell like the Old Spice Guy. Happy?”
“Oh, wow, okay, you think I really give a shit about how I smell?” Hal kicks the fridge door shut, a bottle of beer in one hand. “What the fuck do you think I am, a teenaged girl? Don’t tell me I smell nice, that’s fucking gay.”
Scott’s dark eyebrows shoot up almost to his hairline. “Really? That’s where you draw the line? I can suck your dick but I can’t say that you smell good?”
“Hey!” Hal barks. “What we have--- this---” He gestures vaguely between them. “This is not some gay thing. What, I’m your boyfriend? I’m not your boyfriend. If you ever call me your boyfriend I will never stop kicking you in the balls. Like, I would kick you forever. I know you have super-invincibility or whatever but I would wear you the fuck down.”
“Okay, so, if this isn’t some gay thing,” Wayne actually makes finger-quotes around the phrase and hates himself for it, like, way to be super gay, Wayne. He shrugs it off and makes the same unifying gesture between them, indicating Hal and then himself. “What is this?”
“This is just, like, two guys who are--- really good friends.” Hal distracts himself by going from drawer to drawer, digging around for the church-key to open his beer. “Two guys who get each other. That’s it, man. It’s just, like, we’re cool with each other. It’s cool. It’s not a big deal. Like, hey, whatever, we can have sex or whatever, no biggie. That doesn’t mean we’re in love or anything. It doesn’t have to be some faggy romantic thing. That would ruin it. We’re just two guys who are, like, really close. Nothing wrong with that, man, nothing.”
His rambling hunt for the bottle-opener has finally lured him close enough for Wayne to lay a hand on his shoulder. Hal tenses, then relaxes, then grudgingly offers his beer to the bigger man. Scott pries off the bottle-cap with a simple flick and hands it back, not saying a word. Hal accepts the bottle, seems about to turn away, then reconsiders and drops his forehead to rest against the center of Wayne’s broad chest. The urge to wrap his arms around him is almost overwhelming, but Wayne has learned through punches and curses that when Hal says he doesn’t want to snuggle, he really means it. The unspoken rule for these moods is simple: do not hug unless hugged. Do not kiss unless kissed. Anything else risks triggering that reckless, redheaded temper, so he keeps his hands in his pockets--- for now.
Finally, Hal heaves a defeated sigh and retreats to a safe distance to take a swig of his beer. He considers the bottle for a long while. Then he just blurts it out.
“Roxanne was there today.”
Wayne actually does a double-take. “What?”
“Yeah,” Hal rubs self-consciously at the back of his neck. “She came to check on me. Doing some big follow-up story, since it’s been two years. You know. Since I got out.”
Neither of them was particularly surprised when Roxanne Ritchi proved to be the most vocal public opponent to the effort to get the one-time Titan released on probation. Wayne could hardly blame her--- she had a pretty rough time during the whole mess. Still, even Megamind had publicly endorsed the rehabilitation program, reminding the whole city that their own hero had once been reviled as a lost cause. For most people, that was enough. For Roxanne, the old wounds never quite managed to heal. She remained one of a small but significant minority that was anxiously awaiting Hal’s inevitable relapse into villainy.
“Did she give you a hard time?” Wayne hates to sound like a mother hen, but he does worry about him sometimes, about the unhappiness that still nags at his heels. “If I’d known she was gonna turn up, I would have come by to make sure---”
“Nah, it’s fine, she was fine,” Hal waves dismissively, but his expression is distant, pensive. “The usual. Asked me about what I’ve been up to, what kind of work I’ve been doing. Kept trying to get me to admit that I was all full of anger or whatever. Talked to me like I was five. The usual.”
His shoulders are hunched up defensively to his ears, his hands wringing around the neck of the beer bottle. It’s an ugly feeling, to come so close to the old ghosts. Wayne feels the same uncomfortable twist in his stomach when he sees old news footage of Metro Man. No one likes to be reminded of the one thing they wish they could forget.
“It’s just,” Hal grits his teeth, ashamed. “She still makes me feel so fucking small.”
“No,” Wayne shakes his head sharply. “Come on, don’t say that.”
“I’m doing my fucking best, okay?” The redhead takes a steadying gulp of lager. “I know I fucked up. I know I’m fucked up. That’s not gonna change overnight, but goddamn it, I’m trying, and she comes around with her stupid microphone and gets all up in my face like how-do-you-really-feel-about-what-the-fuck-ever and I’m like bitch will you just get out of my life!”
He kicks the refrigerator with a growl of frustration. It lurches at the impact, and Wayne’s super-hearing picks up the whisper of the glass bottles brushing against each other inside.
“Hey,” he says, hands outstretched in a soothing gesture. “It’s okay. I know. It sucks.”
“You don’t know.”
“Yes I do.” Wayne jerks a thumb at the phone on the nearby side table. “Every other day I’ve got Megamind calling me up and telling me I should put on the cape again. When it’s not him, it’s Roxanne. They still don’t believe me when I tell them I’m never going back, and like you just said, that’s not gonna change overnight. Here’s the thing: I’m done with letting other people tell me what I’m supposed to be doing with my life. I’m done with letting them make me feel guilty. I don’t need it. You don’t need it. Forget about it.”
Hal worries at the mouth of the bottle with his thumb, circling the lip again and again with his fingerprint. Wayne approaches gingerly, his head tilted low to try and catch the other man’s eye.
“Come on,” he urges. “Just forget about it. Don’t let her make you feel like shit. The best revenge is living well. Drink that beer and let’s go play Guitar Hero. It’s that easy.”
Then Hal finally looks up at him, his face skeptical, his bright brown eyes narrowed in doubt. Wayne has always had such a weakness for redheads. Hal is adorable enough when he crinkles his nose like that--- the freckles are the icing on the cake.
“Hey,” Wayne says again, fond and familiar. “She’s wrong, you know. About you.” And he reaches out to lay both hands solemnly over Hal’s stomach. “You are definitely not small.”
“You son of a bitch!”
The outcry is punctuated by a wild left hook that catches Wayne square in the chin and leaves Hal yelping on the recoil, his fist effortlessly deflected by that pesky super-invincibility that he was only just complaining about. He flaps his hand against the sting. Impulsively, Wayne catches him by the wrist, guides the hand to his mouth, and presses his lips against the knuckles. Hal goes very still, but when Wayne checks his face, he sees a crooked smile.
“Oh my God,” Hal chuckles. “You are such a fag, dude.”
Okay, sure, why not. Wayne leans down and kisses him, one hand still clasped with Hal’s, the other reaching up to cradle the back of his head, his fingers buried in the messy ginger hair. It’s certainly not the first time they’ve kissed, but they don’t do it often. Hal arches his back in surprise, pulling in a sharp breath through his nose--- the sound is unexpectedly and intensely sexy. Then there’s a cold jolt on Wayne’s back, and he realizes that Hal has slung a lazy arm around his neck, the beer bottle now resting between his shoulderblades. The kiss only lasts for one long breath, and their mouths come apart with a mutual sigh.
“Way to prove my point,” Hal smirks, and he taps Wayne on the back of the skull with the bottle as he brings it back for a drink. “Fag.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Wayne holds up his hands. “Last I heard, we’re just two guys who get each other. Nothing wrong with that.”
The corner of Hal’s mouth twitches with genuine affection, his eyes darting down to the floor to hide it. Wayne sees it, and he cherishes it, but he never draws attention to it. That’s not how they do things around here.
“So,” the redhead says nonchalantly as he finishes the beer. “You know what I think would be the absolute best way to get back at Roxanne?”
“What?”
“If you gave me a totally amazing blowjob.”
Wayne arches an eyebrow. “Oh, really.”
“Think about it. This bitch is like, obsessed with ruining my life, right?”
It’s not remotely true, but Wayne gives him an indulgent nod anyway. He wants to hear where Hal is going with this. The empty beer bottle gets carefully set aside on the nearest countertop, leaving Hal’s excitable hands free to gesture wildly as he rambles.
“Okay, so, that’s a whole lot of negative energy or whatever to have against someone. I believe that if I were to receive a truly amazing blowjob--- I mean, like, the best possible blowjob--- then she would somehow sense that I was out there, somewhere, just enjoying the fuck out of myself. Like her spidey-sense would tingle and she’d be like, oh my God, somehow, somewhere, Hal is getting an amazing blowjob and there’s nothing I can do to stop it! Right? I think so.”
“Are you saying that I’m capable of giving a blowjob so good that it causes psychic shockwaves?” Wayne sniffs daintily and lays a hand over his heart. “And you said you weren’t a romantic!”
“Come onnn,” Hal wheedles, hooking his index fingers in the belt loops of Wayne’s jeans. “You just said, you just said that the best revenge is living well. I think this would be living the best. Right? You know I’m right.”
“You know, I think I could be persuaded,” Wayne grins coyly, then assumes an expression of deadly seriousness. “But if you start yelling I’m Castor Troy! again I will stop immediately.”
Hal snorts, incredulous. “Okay, fine, that was supposed to be a compliment, but I guess if you’re like, offended, then whatever, I won’t do it anymore.”
“That was a compliment?” Wayne groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Hal, do me a favor: compile a phrasebook for me, a translation guide for someone who doesn’t speak Stewartese. You do realize that you’ve created your own lexicon, right?”
“Lexicon, shmexicon,” Hal strikes a weird, awkward pose that’s apparently meant to imply suavity. “You just can’t handle my super-slick turns of phrase.”
“Sometimes I don’t even think we’re speaking the same language.” Wayne taps him playfully on the side of the head. “English, motherfucker! Do you speak it?”
Now it’s Hal’s turn to look suddenly, stupendously serious.
“Whoa. Whoa, hold up, Wayne. You do not want to challenge me to a Tarantino showdown. I will destroy you.”
Wayne tries to interject, but Hal cuts him off, his voice urgent.
“No, dude, I’m serious, I know you only know the famous lines and I know like all of the lines and I guarantee you that I have the perfect comeback to anything you were planning on saying. Don’t make me do it, dude. Don’t make me make you look like a jackass.”
And Wayne realizes: this is the Stewartese equivalent of a romantic gesture. Hal doesn’t do roses and chocolates, he doesn’t do candlelit dinners. Hal leaves the last packet of PopTarts in the box. Hal listens to him play the guitar for an hour, even though they both know it’s terrible. And Hal refuses the occasional opportunity to show off at Wayne’s expense. A phrasebook might not be necessary after all--- not as long as Wayne is able to figure out the really important stuff.
“You’re right,” he bows. “I defer to the master.”
“Very wise,” Hal nods, then widens his eyes in an epiphany. “And in return for sparing your dignity, I officially demand---”
“---an amazing, psychic-shockwave-creating blowjob.” Wayne tousles his hair. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll do my best, but I can’t make any promises.”
“Okay, dude, like, no homo, but,” Hal mumbles, suddenly very interested in his feet. “You give a pretty awesome blowjob. Just so you know.”
Wayne smiles. Billy Shakespeare, eat your heart out--- no sonnet on earth could ever compare to that breathless, blushing confession. He loops an arm around Hal’s shoulders and steers him down the hall that leads to the stairs that lead to their bedroom. Hal slips an answering arm around his waist and absentmindedly sneaks his fingers into the pocket over his hip. Wayne feels it, and he cherishes it, but he doesn’t draw attention to it.
That’s just not how they do things around here.
__________end.