deeper wonderment: oh, perilous place [part 2]
Title: Oh, perilous place
Author: technosage
Pairings: Bruce/Chloe; Bruce/Oliver
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 11,129
Summary: Late night, accidental frottage at the end of fifth year left matters between Bruce and Oliver awkward. Unresolved tension, emotional strain, breaks in the routine they have come to count on make for a miserable week until a fight brings the situation to its perhaps inevitable head.
Chronology: Sixth year
If Defense Againt the Dark Arts had left him satisfied, the pleasure was transitory. He'd had to demerit two Slytherin first years for taking up where Haddon and Mirke had left off, which put his House behind Gryffindor in the House standings. Mara and Lex had a mid-air collision during Quidditch practice that sent them both to the infirmary overnight. And despite the stimulating challenge of transforming a cat into a clock that kept them too busy to talk in Transfigurations, lunch proved beyond doubt that Oliver was avoiding being alone with him. So instead of spending the afternoon drilling finite incantem with him, Bruce had made do with Chloe instead.
Which wasn't to say spending time with Chloe didn't have its pluses, but the simple - and emotional, so therefore even more unpleasant - truth was that he missed Oliver. After the easy reunion over breakfast on Monday, he'd thought the events of end-of-term behind them, but instead it seemed to have launched Oliver into an orbit that didn't track, at all, with his.
By the time they had Potions on Friday, a favorite class but tense at the best of times, Bruce had begun to reevaluate his entire plan for the year to minimize the disruption.
As had become his habit, Professor Snape began class by singling out Oliver.
"Mr. Queen, let us hope you've done the summer reading," he began, looming from his corner of the room. The tone and the posture might be threatening, if they hadn't already been through five years of it. "Describe the exact origin and use of Murtlap Essence."
Lounging like the wastrel son of an old wizarding family, Oliver tossed off an amused half-smirk before replying. "It's derived from pickling Murtlap tentacles, and is used for the healing and soothing of cuts, contusions, and similar wounds." Only the restless movements of his fingers along the rim of his cauldron indicated anything but perfect ease, and only Bruce would know that, especially when the smirk spread to a grin. "Did you also want me to identify where to find the Murtlap?"
Bruce breathed out through his nose. Really, Oliver, must you?
Snape deducted five points from Gryffindor for Oliver's cheek, narrowing their lead to ten. Bruce should've been pleased, but instead he felt obscurely angry - at Snape for provoking Oliver, and Oliver for falling for it. Again.
With a tap of Snape's wand, an assignment wrote itself across the blackboard. He turned to face the class, perpetual sneer twisting his lip, then stared them down. "You will be expected to produce a working Everlasting Elixir by the end of the class period. Separate into groups of two, and begin at once."
He concluded by issuing his usual proclamations about their stupidity, but as they didn't pertain to Bruce - and he found empty menace grating - he ignored them and set up the ingredients.
Oliver might prefer not to work with him now, but after five full years of partnering - because in first year they'd each been the only students of their respective Houses willing to work with someone from the other House - it would've caused a scene to do otherwise.
It didn't stop Oliver from considering it, Bruce noted, as did Clark and Diana, who exchanged confused looks. Diana continued to watch, lovely mouth pursed in a thoughtful frown, until Oliver meandered his way to Bruce's side. Then, she turned back to Clark with a shrug and a scowl. Clark made an effort at furtive, watching out of his peripheral vision, which Bruce tolerated before Oliver sat, but as soon as he did, he lifted an eyebrow at Clark, putting a stop to it.
"Looks like it's just us, huh, Bruce?"
Why Oliver felt the need to dissemble ease when Bruce could read his discomfort in the stiff movements of his agile fingers while he set up the cauldron, Bruce would never understand.
"As it should be, Oliver." His own discomfort, he assumed, equally obvious in the stiff formality he hadn't applied to Oliver in five years. "I can hardly help you pass Potions, if you are not my partner." An effort, an inquiry in code: what is the problem?
"Like I need your help for that." Oliver's reply, and his subsequent grin said no problem and of course we're still friends but the restraint in his hands and the way Oliver wouldn't meet his eyes screamed aren't we? "When you're as naturally brilliant as I am, Bruce-"
In an unusual stutter-step in their working rhythms, Oliver's wrist brushed against his fingertips. Memory hit like a static shock, a memory obviously shared from the sudden vulnerability in Oliver's face.
Oliver's wrist under his fingertips, an indrawn breath almost a moan, muscle moving under soft skin, while a warm hand slicks over his cock. The couch beneath his knees, Oliver between them, the ache in his balls and the one in his chest that has more to do with Oliver, and their friendship, than his impending release.
Then memory shattered, Oliver's hand moving back, setting down the knife to reach for the scales. That Oliver measured out the peppermint, preparing to shred it, when Bruce had already done so, felt wrong. So wrong that Bruce had no words to chide Oliver for it.
He ignored it, pushed down the bleakness of the prospect of another hour like this, let alone a year, and kept up with the preparations. It didn't get better from there; out of step, they continued to not quite stumble over each other until Oliver finally broke down and asked whether the hellebore was ready.
He couldn't meet Oliver's gaze, merely set the herb down in front of the cauldron with a clipped, "Yes," and turned his back.
That night, he'd done it for Oliver, not turning him away, not making an issue out of it for the sake of their friendship. That he'd wanted it too wouldn't have mattered had Oliver not. Now Oliver acted like a skittish cat.
Bruce had a few ideas of how to fix it, but he very much doubted Snape would appreciate them brawling, dueling, or fucking in his classroom.
#
The Quidditch pitch that evening made a much better location for the former two items on his list at least, and Snape had stopped monitoring the practices when it became clear Bruce had the matter well in hand. Despite the persistent presence of Lex and Chloe at his side while he watched the other teams drill, Bruce intended to correct things between himself and Oliver.
The Gryffindors had the pitch last, which suited Bruce fine. The Ravenclaw captain would be selecting Gervase Kelvin to fill their open Chaser spot, and the Hufflepuff captain would follow tradition and bring forward their reserves to replace the departing Seeker and Chaser, rather than fielding a motley team. They played less brilliantly, but far more cohesively, for it. In any event, neither team's choices impacted Bruce's but having watched them first, he could factor them out of his thought processes conclusively.
It also underscored his seriousness when he told Lex and Chloe to be about their business and not expect him back to the dungeon until late. While both had noticed the tension between he and Oliver, they knew better than to expect him to discuss team strategy before he'd worked out every last detail. That he only needed to know whether Oliver would be made Chaser or remain Seeker to solidify his plans, they had no need of knowing.
This question, and not his appreciation for Oliver's flying, drew his eye again and again to his friend's Quaffle drills. This question and the overstressed play of Quentin Jones, the third year trying for the same spot - which he definitely would not get, as he'd be lucky to leave the pitch alive at this rate.
With growing consternation, Bruce watched Jones make error after dangerous error and Diana, of whom he thought much better, did nothing to stop him. Instead, she spent the majority of the first half of practice running interference between Clark and Oliver.
So when she called a water break, Bruce approached Jones - well aware of Chloe's prying ears and Lex's glower - to have a quiet word.
"Um. Mr. Wayne?" Jones squeaked.
Bruce put on his kindliest 'helpful Prefect' expression and folded his hands together. "You've got a lot of natural talent, Jones."
Jones tilted his chin down and sideways, submissive and suspicious all at once, like he expected some sort of Slytherin trick but had no idea what it could be. "Uh, thank you?"
"I'm not here to trick you. That would be unseemly, and my Slytherins have no need of ruses to win Quidditch matches. You, on the other hand, have need of some advice." He gave the boy a level look. "To survive them."
Blue eyes went wide and white, and Jones's hands shook. "You can't-"
Suppressing a sigh, Bruce tried out a smile. "I'm not threatening you either. You're trying too hard and you're going to get hurt. Since Ms. Prince is otherwise engaged, I felt it wise to suggest you settle down and fly to your strengths." A quick glance toward Clark who'd begun an approach, bat still in hand, and then, "Because you belong in the reserve spot come Monday, not in an infirmary bed."
"Why don't you just back off, Bruce?" As ever, Clark jumped in with both feet, leaping before he looked. "You and the other Slytherins can menace from a distance."
Turning smoothly from one conversation to another, although with Clark, calling it conversation was a kindness, Bruce shook his head. "Honestly, Clark. You'd think after six years, you'd realize that if I was menacing your player, he'd be in tears by now."
Jones paled, and Bruce could hardly blame him. Being caught between Clark and anyone would be upsetting enough, but being caught between an angry part-giant and the Wayne heir would be downright terrifying. Add to that the temperamental scion of the Queen family now approaching, and possibly even Aurors would be backing away. All that was needed to make it a Dementor's nightmare was Diana in full Veela fury, and with the fire blazing in Oliver's eyes, she wouldn't be far behind.
"What?" Clark rounded on Oliver. "It's not enough I have to deal with Bruce but I have to put up with you, too?" He threw his hands in the air.
Doubtless, Bruce shouldn't find it amusing, but Chloe smiling behind her hand and Lex looking fit to burst into snarls made it hard not to be smug. Even with half the Gryffindor bench looking from him to Oliver with something like disdain painted on their bright shiny faces.
Foolish of them to push Oliver like that.
Anger on Oliver's behalf, and concern for Oliver's temper overtook his sense of humor, dark as it was, and by the time Oliver raised his voice to Clark, Bruce had gone steely cold.
"Clark, why don't you back off, okay? We're the only team allowed to be practicing on the pitch right now." Oliver's agile hands clamped around his broom, knuckles white with strain. While that boded ill for rational conversation, it did suggest he'd have no trouble bringing matters between them to a head. "That doesn't mean we're allowed to cover the field with a shielding and invisibility charm to keep people out. Anyone is allowed to come to tryouts, training and practice. And since I didn't hear about anyone dying and making you headmaster I'm assuming the rules still stand."
Clark began to protest, but Oliver cut him off with an imperious arch look, a raised hand, and gave him his back.
"As for you," Oliver began, and even with him spitting fury, his tone spoke more of desperation than anything. "Why don't you leave our people alone, Bruce?" Bruce understood his feelings to some extent, but if Oliver didn't want them at odds, why did he persist in behaving so…incorrectly? "Quit bugging the hopefuls when we're trying to teach them to run drills with the team!"
His jaw too tight, Bruce still managed to keep his features and his tone polite. "Don't cause a scene." He spoke to Oliver, ignoring Clark who was no longer of consequence. "I didn't want the boy to get hurt."
"Right, because you're Mr. Considerate-" Clark's words died on his lips when Diana swept in on her broom. Even he knew better than to take her on with her eyes glowing that shade of blue and her pretty mouth set in a hard, ugly line.
She pointed her wand at her throat. "Sonorous." Turning to face the Gryffindors, she announced that training had ended for the day. "I want this pitch cleared in ten minutes, or I'm taking points. Understood?"
A rapid exchange of nervous looks preceded vigorous nods, then the team disbanded with a speed Bruce would have envied if not for the disarray.
Tapping her wand to her throat again, she growled, "Quietus," then turned a venomous glare on Clark. "Get cleaned up and meet me in the prefects' lounge, Clark. Do not think of taking more than ten minutes either."
She shot an exasperated look at both him and Oliver, then swept off again, robes snapping around her ankles.
Oliver rounded on him, mouth open to speak, and Bruce cut him off. "Not here."
Lex and Chloe had already made it halfway to his side. He turned, far too slowly for it to be casual, and fixed them in place with a level look. "Lex, if you would please escort Chloe back to the castle. She has an article to write." His crisp tones made it clear he expected her coverage of this incident to end with Diana's exit.
Stubborn, Chloe set her jaw, but even though Lex sneered, he set a hand on her arm. She shook it off. "How dare you-"
"I'll see you both at breakfast," he said smoothly and walked off the pitch toward the bleachers, knowing Oliver would follow.
#
Arms crossed over his chest, robe pulled tight around him, Bruce stood in shadow beneath the bleachers. He glared through narrowed eyes at the faded drape of last year's House Cup banners, but saw only Oliver, awkward, and heard only Oliver, asking whether Bruce had performed so simple and rudimentary a Potions task as grinding the hellebore, when they had always been partners, the distribution of tasks between them, easy, seamless, unspoken.
Jaw clenched against inappropriate, indecorous words, Bruce gave Oliver his back as he approached. The heavy, uneven tread gave away Oliver's belligerence, and Bruce knew him well enough to know his fists would be clenched. That Oliver wouldn't hit him with his back turned didn't make him less dangerous an opponent.
Opponent; Oliver. The idea sat so wrongly in his brain, tangled his thoughts into such a snarl, he almost missed the two habitual, deep breaths that signaled an upset Oliver composing himself to speak.
"What was that about, Bruce?" No matter that he tried to imitate Bruce, Oliver's effort at brusque came out breathy and nervous. "What are you trying to prove?"
And, rather than throwing Oliver to the ground and beating the ignorance out of him like he wished to, Bruce held himself still. "Jones almost got killed trying to impress Diana. I told him to trust his skills and fly to his strengths."
"Maybe it's not your business to be telling Gryffindors how to play Quidditch or make the team. Maybe not everyone needs your help."
Oliver would insist on provoking him, despite his efforts at calm. That, at least, was a typically Oliver thing to do. "It's my business to make sure no Hogwarts' students die in foolish Quidditch accidents." He turned, then, pinning Oliver with his gaze. "Perhaps if you and Clark hadn't been engaged in your private war, I wouldn't have had to say anything."
"Private war?" Armoring himself in the hauteur of the Queen scion, Oliver scoffed. "My 'private war' with Clark and half of Gryffindor is completely your fault." He gestured sharply to the emptied Quidditch pitch visible between the bleacher posts. "This is all you. You did this."
Bruce met Oliver's accusation with a tight frown, lips pressed together. When he did not fight back, saying nothing at all for several minutes, Oliver's bravura cracked. He blinked hard and licked his lips, then looked away. "You made it this way."
His fault, because Oliver had wanted him and he had allowed it. To fix it, they would have to address it, no matter that he preferred it otherwise. But Oliver wasn't rational, everything had broken, and the need was now.
Usually Oliver would spell cast for their privacy. Usually, he would have done so already; but that, too, was broken. Oliver never could concentrate when he'd lost his temper.
Grimacing, Bruce pulled his wand from his sleeve. "Muffliato." It was a measure of his own distress, he knew, that the charm wobbled before taking hold and blanketing them in the drown-out buzz.
Bruce studied Oliver while he considered the many things he might say. He wasn't interested in recriminations, fault, or beating around the bush. Only in fixing he and Oliver. "Perhaps you'd prefer I'd said no."
Oliver whipped around to stare, eyes burning dark and fierce. His fingers curled so tight into his palms that his knuckles whitened.
Bruce waited, ready and watching Oliver's forearms and his mouth for the tiny muscle twitches that always telegraphed his first strike.
It didn't come, the blow that Bruce expected. Instead, Oliver held, expressions flickering with his uncertainty, thinking fast, furious, irrational thoughts, and Bruce tried to think of anything but how wrong it was that he had to perform Charm spells and that when their hands touched, he thought of sex.
Oliver broke, finally, and shoved him up against one of the wooden posts of the bleachers. "Why do you always have to make things so complicated?" Heart pounding hard enough for Bruce to hear it and fingers knotted fast in Bruce's robes, Oliver tilted forward and pressed their mouths together hard enough that their teeth crushed their lips.
For thirty seconds, Bruce endured Oliver kissing but not kissing him, and that was more broken than any of it. If they were going to do this, then they were. Not halfway.
Taking the advantage Oliver's unbalanced position gave him to push back and pivot, Bruce dragged Oliver around and slammed him into the next post over. Without giving him a chance to fight back, he simply grabbed Oliver's mouth with his own; and when Oliver's breath rushed out between parted lips, Bruce forced them wide and claimed the space between. Oliver grasped his shoulders, and, for an instant, it seemed Bruce might have misjudged.
Then Oliver's head tilted, slotting their mouths together, and, just that simply, what had broken between them was fixed.
The remembered heat of Oliver beneath him merged with the hard arch of Oliver up into him now. Oliver reached for more with the same hunger that had driven him in the firelight-shadowed Slytherin dungeon at end of term, and Bruce answered back with same certainty he'd had that night.
What was new, different, was the kissing: Oliver's mouth wet and open under his, tasting like a kiss should taste - hot, sweet, a little salty from the sweat of exertion - accepting without yielding. And also desire. Bruce's, for Oliver. Because of course he wanted him.
That knowledge hit him with the ringing clarity of Dumbledore chiming a glass for attention, and with a sudden flush of full arousal: he wanted Oliver.
The decision that he'd have him followed only seconds behind, certainty enhanced by the hard line of Oliver's cock grazing his hand as he thrust aside the heavy fabric of Oliver's robes. It lacked finesse, his assault on his best friend's clothing, but he burned for the feel of skin.
Hands rucking up Oliver's jersey, Bruce sought the plane of Oliver's abdomen, the dips and swells of ribs and pectoral muscles and newly broad shoulders. He curled his hand around the back of Oliver's neck, dragging him closer, licking deeper into Oliver's mouth, and Oliver didn't resist.
Moaning, Oliver thrust his hips forward to ride Bruce's thigh, and kissed back. His oft-lamented tongue stroked Bruce's palate, saying 'yes' and asking for more. Bruce had barely deciphered the question through the haze of need when Oliver's fingers traced the contours of his erection, molding the damp fabric of his boxers to sensitive skin.
He groaned, biting at Oliver's lips, when the pressure ceased and restrained himself barely as nimble fingers sought his fly, opened his trousers, and wrapped around his leaking prick. Then his hips snapped, gut cramping at the sudden pleasure of Oliver's already familiar touch.
Only once before, but his body recognized Oliver's thumb flicking over the head of his cock and responded Merlin, yes. His brain caught up, ticking over just enough for him to agree. When Oliver slid his fist along Bruce's shaft, the oh Merlin, Oliver, so good hit just as Oliver sank to his knees between Bruce and the post.
Oliver tongue swiped at Bruce's cock, and Bruce's brain stuttered. Oliver Queen, the second proudest boy he knew, knelt - knelt - at his feet. Then Oliver looked up, pupils already blown, lips wet and shiny from his tongue working over them. And when their gazes locked, it stole Bruce's breath with the certainty and correctness of it.
It wasn't the first time Bruce'd had another boy at his feet, ready to suck him off. Not nearly the first blowjob, but it was the first time the boy was Oliver, and the sheer want in Oliver's eyes said this would be nothing like Lex or even Chloe.
Ignoring the splinters digging into his palms, Bruce braced against the post, legs parting and spreading to give Oliver access and anchor him against the need to thrust. But Oliver's mouth stretched wide, took him slow and easy; his fingers tightened on Bruce's hips, pulling him closer still.
He'd done this before. Oliver had done this before.
Bruce's fists clenched, and blood pounded in his ears. How dare Oliver change all the rules? How dare he do it without consulting Bruce? How dare he wait so long to do it? How dare he put them through this week of hell when all he ever had to do was ask? How dare he?
It wasn't kind, or mannered, or rational, but he didn't give a damn. He wanted answers and demanded them from Oliver's mouth. Crowded him up against the bleachers and cramming his dick through willing lips with precise, practiced thrusts. And Oliver didn't shove back, hardly flinched. Just dug his fingernails into Bruce's hips and hung on.
Oliver's tongue flickered over the head to taste him - he knew that was what Oliver was doing, could tell from the eager way he caught Bruce every time he pulled back to slam in again. Oliver's tongue drove him insane, but he wouldn't come.
Not until he'd fucked the taste of every other cock out of Oliver's mouth.
Rough, unsteady with his need, Bruce reached out, tangled his fingers in short, soft blond hair and gripped tight. He held Oliver's head to his groin and fucked, insisting Oliver forget and demanding he remember - forget the others and remember him.
Groan working its way past his lips, Bruce shuddered, then Oliver palmed the front of his trousers, and the very last of Bruce's control shredded. If he could've kicked Oliver's hand away without losing the driving rhythm of his hips, he would've. He couldn't, so he yanked Oliver's head closer, used his entire body to say, "Don't."
The straying hand rejoined the other at Bruce's hips. His throat worked around Bruce's cock, squeezing and swallowing, hot and open, pulling Bruce's climax from him. Balls slick with Oliver's spit drew up close to his body.
"Oliver…" Bruce growled warning, but he had no intention of coming anywhere but into Oliver's mouth.
Oliver didn't even try to pull away. His eyes said please so clearly Bruce could hear his voice. Dark lashes fanned flushed cheeks --
Beautiful.
The thought broke to the surface, incongruous, because he hammered Oliver's mouth, Oliver struggled to keep up, and Bruce still didn't have the answers he wanted; but it was there, and it was real. He'd never seen anything more perfect than Oliver sucking him off, and that, he knew distantly, would be a problem.
Bruce managed to bite back the incoherent babble of Merlins, Olivers, and yeses, but when the swirling heat of his orgasm took hold, he gave in to a long, low moan. Oliver's hair between his fingers, Oliver's mouth, wet and tight around his cock, and by the time he broke, the shuddering cry of Oliver's name didn't even sound like him. By the time he recovered enough to notice, he couldn't even care how indecorous it was.
Especially not with Oliver licking thick ropes of his come from shiny red lips, staring up at him, vulnerability plain in his lust-blown eyes.
He didn't know what to do now, and he was asking Bruce, the same as he had every other time he'd been uncertain in the past five years. For a few seconds, an eternity in Bruce-time, he didn't know either. He'd never been sucked off by a friend before. Only Lex, his ally, and Chloe, his girlfriend, and there were rules for dealing with them.
But Oliver had always had his own rules, and Bruce had always been himself with Oliver, never more or less.
Which was the answer.
Quickly tucking himself back into his trousers, he reached down, offered Oliver his hand. "Come. Get up." Terse, but not unkind, and he projected with his voice his confidence that this solution would be the correct one.
For an instant, Oliver dropped his forehead to Bruce's pubic bone, then he climbed to his feet. When he leaned back against the bleacher post, Oliver looked so wanton and wrecked, he could have been a dockside whore -- except for the refinement of his features that made him look a thousand times more dissolute.
And beautiful.
Curling his hand around the back of Oliver's neck, Bruce pulled him into a kiss. Orgasm drained his unexpected anger, leaving behind only the desire to taste himself on Oliver's tongue. His kiss punished even so, forced Oliver to open wide, so Bruce could lick his come from Oliver's mouth even while he worked at the buttons on his trousers.
When they slipped beneath the open placket, Bruce's fingers encountered damp cotton and Oliver hard with wanting. This was new. All of it. From the tiny desperate sounds Oliver made to the silky-slick heat branding his palm while their tongues made free of each others' mouths and Oliver's fingers tangled and clenched on his shoulders and in his hair.
At end of term, Oliver had rubbed off against his hip without so much as a touch from him. But here and now, he fisted Oliver fast and hard, kissed deep for the taste of them together, and did for him with pleasure what he'd rationed to Lex to control and shape him.
Body bowing, Oliver came, hot and sticky over his fist, on a quiet, shuddery moan. Bruce chased it, caught it, savored the sound like a Quidditch victory, and if Oliver hadn't pulled away immediately, Bruce would've slipped an arm around his waist to hold him steady while he recovered.
But Oliver did, clearly locking his knees as he drew himself up. Already he didn't quite meet Bruce's gaze. Bruce couldn't have that, wouldn't have that. So after he discreetly wiped his palm on the initial embroidered handkerchief Alfred had taught him to carry in his pocket, Bruce stepped back into Oliver's space. He didn't make deliberate physical contact, only made himself impossible to avoid.
At length, Oliver flushed, face and neck turning Gryffindor crimson. "So…this sex thing we keep doing…" He stared out at the Quidditch pitch, like the answers might be found there. "It's kind of weird, isn't it?"
Bruce studied him anew, taking in fucked-red lips, sated sloe eyes, and tousled gold hair. It would take getting used to, seeing Oliver in a sexual light. He tugged at his robe, straightening it. "It's only weird if it's not what you want."
Oliver pushed his hand through his hair, which did nothing to help the disarray. "But we're friends. Friends. This isn't what friends do."
"Illogical. We're friends; we do this. Therefore…" Fingers stalling on the buttons of his robe, Bruce shrugged. One way or another, he wouldn't lose what he most needed. "Oliver… It's what we do."
Oliver's teeth raked white points in his lower lip, while he slanted Bruce a considering look. "Would you even want to? I mean, you have a girl to do this stuff-" He gestured between the two of them. "With. And Chloe's, well, she's Chloe. It's not like you really need to do this stuff with me."
This, too, was new, or so old as to amount to the same thing. Oliver hadn't been this uncertain of his reception with Bruce since first year when he'd wanted to be Bruce's friend and Bruce had wanted him to go away. Resisting a smile that felt altogether fond, Bruce crossed his arms over his chest.
"In all the time you've known me, when have I ever done something I didn't want to do?" He lifted an eyebrow, and Oliver's lips twitched with a hint of a smile. "I didn't notice you doing 'this stuff' without my participation. And you said it yourself. Chloe is Chloe. And you are you."
Oliver nodded. "An us thing." Then he broke into a real grin, wide and pleased. "Okay, I mean, this thing with us, it's good."
Still grinning, he punched Bruce in the shoulder, and Bruce used the speed he'd trained and his longer reach to cuff Oliver in the back of the head before he could sidestep away. He met Oliver's gaze, steady, willing him to understand that no matter what else happened between them, it was okay, correct, to be as they'd always been. "No more asking if the hellebore is ready."
"Pfft." Oliver rolled his eyes. "You never know when I might suddenly need you to chop some hellebore for me." But he knocked their shoulders together, signaling he understood. "I should probably go. Shower up, maybe apologize to Jones." But then Oliver hesitated, just slightly, like perhaps he wanted to stay, then said a bit more quietly, "I'll see you at breakfast, yeah?"
Bruce wanted him to stay; he found himself almost willing to ask him to. The last five days had been harsh, disturbing; it felt good, relaxing, to be all right again. Still, in truth, they had nothing more to say, and Bruce had House responsibilities to see to before bed.
So he nodded and answered, "Of course," because he had to eat, and where else would he be? "Bring the Prophet."
~*~
Notes | Art
Author: technosage
Pairings: Bruce/Chloe; Bruce/Oliver
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 11,129
Summary: Late night, accidental frottage at the end of fifth year left matters between Bruce and Oliver awkward. Unresolved tension, emotional strain, breaks in the routine they have come to count on make for a miserable week until a fight brings the situation to its perhaps inevitable head.
Chronology: Sixth year
If Defense Againt the Dark Arts had left him satisfied, the pleasure was transitory. He'd had to demerit two Slytherin first years for taking up where Haddon and Mirke had left off, which put his House behind Gryffindor in the House standings. Mara and Lex had a mid-air collision during Quidditch practice that sent them both to the infirmary overnight. And despite the stimulating challenge of transforming a cat into a clock that kept them too busy to talk in Transfigurations, lunch proved beyond doubt that Oliver was avoiding being alone with him. So instead of spending the afternoon drilling finite incantem with him, Bruce had made do with Chloe instead.
Which wasn't to say spending time with Chloe didn't have its pluses, but the simple - and emotional, so therefore even more unpleasant - truth was that he missed Oliver. After the easy reunion over breakfast on Monday, he'd thought the events of end-of-term behind them, but instead it seemed to have launched Oliver into an orbit that didn't track, at all, with his.
By the time they had Potions on Friday, a favorite class but tense at the best of times, Bruce had begun to reevaluate his entire plan for the year to minimize the disruption.
As had become his habit, Professor Snape began class by singling out Oliver.
"Mr. Queen, let us hope you've done the summer reading," he began, looming from his corner of the room. The tone and the posture might be threatening, if they hadn't already been through five years of it. "Describe the exact origin and use of Murtlap Essence."
Lounging like the wastrel son of an old wizarding family, Oliver tossed off an amused half-smirk before replying. "It's derived from pickling Murtlap tentacles, and is used for the healing and soothing of cuts, contusions, and similar wounds." Only the restless movements of his fingers along the rim of his cauldron indicated anything but perfect ease, and only Bruce would know that, especially when the smirk spread to a grin. "Did you also want me to identify where to find the Murtlap?"
Bruce breathed out through his nose. Really, Oliver, must you?
Snape deducted five points from Gryffindor for Oliver's cheek, narrowing their lead to ten. Bruce should've been pleased, but instead he felt obscurely angry - at Snape for provoking Oliver, and Oliver for falling for it. Again.
With a tap of Snape's wand, an assignment wrote itself across the blackboard. He turned to face the class, perpetual sneer twisting his lip, then stared them down. "You will be expected to produce a working Everlasting Elixir by the end of the class period. Separate into groups of two, and begin at once."
He concluded by issuing his usual proclamations about their stupidity, but as they didn't pertain to Bruce - and he found empty menace grating - he ignored them and set up the ingredients.
Oliver might prefer not to work with him now, but after five full years of partnering - because in first year they'd each been the only students of their respective Houses willing to work with someone from the other House - it would've caused a scene to do otherwise.
It didn't stop Oliver from considering it, Bruce noted, as did Clark and Diana, who exchanged confused looks. Diana continued to watch, lovely mouth pursed in a thoughtful frown, until Oliver meandered his way to Bruce's side. Then, she turned back to Clark with a shrug and a scowl. Clark made an effort at furtive, watching out of his peripheral vision, which Bruce tolerated before Oliver sat, but as soon as he did, he lifted an eyebrow at Clark, putting a stop to it.
"Looks like it's just us, huh, Bruce?"
Why Oliver felt the need to dissemble ease when Bruce could read his discomfort in the stiff movements of his agile fingers while he set up the cauldron, Bruce would never understand.
"As it should be, Oliver." His own discomfort, he assumed, equally obvious in the stiff formality he hadn't applied to Oliver in five years. "I can hardly help you pass Potions, if you are not my partner." An effort, an inquiry in code: what is the problem?
"Like I need your help for that." Oliver's reply, and his subsequent grin said no problem and of course we're still friends but the restraint in his hands and the way Oliver wouldn't meet his eyes screamed aren't we? "When you're as naturally brilliant as I am, Bruce-"
In an unusual stutter-step in their working rhythms, Oliver's wrist brushed against his fingertips. Memory hit like a static shock, a memory obviously shared from the sudden vulnerability in Oliver's face.
Oliver's wrist under his fingertips, an indrawn breath almost a moan, muscle moving under soft skin, while a warm hand slicks over his cock. The couch beneath his knees, Oliver between them, the ache in his balls and the one in his chest that has more to do with Oliver, and their friendship, than his impending release.
Then memory shattered, Oliver's hand moving back, setting down the knife to reach for the scales. That Oliver measured out the peppermint, preparing to shred it, when Bruce had already done so, felt wrong. So wrong that Bruce had no words to chide Oliver for it.
He ignored it, pushed down the bleakness of the prospect of another hour like this, let alone a year, and kept up with the preparations. It didn't get better from there; out of step, they continued to not quite stumble over each other until Oliver finally broke down and asked whether the hellebore was ready.
He couldn't meet Oliver's gaze, merely set the herb down in front of the cauldron with a clipped, "Yes," and turned his back.
That night, he'd done it for Oliver, not turning him away, not making an issue out of it for the sake of their friendship. That he'd wanted it too wouldn't have mattered had Oliver not. Now Oliver acted like a skittish cat.
Bruce had a few ideas of how to fix it, but he very much doubted Snape would appreciate them brawling, dueling, or fucking in his classroom.
#
The Quidditch pitch that evening made a much better location for the former two items on his list at least, and Snape had stopped monitoring the practices when it became clear Bruce had the matter well in hand. Despite the persistent presence of Lex and Chloe at his side while he watched the other teams drill, Bruce intended to correct things between himself and Oliver.
The Gryffindors had the pitch last, which suited Bruce fine. The Ravenclaw captain would be selecting Gervase Kelvin to fill their open Chaser spot, and the Hufflepuff captain would follow tradition and bring forward their reserves to replace the departing Seeker and Chaser, rather than fielding a motley team. They played less brilliantly, but far more cohesively, for it. In any event, neither team's choices impacted Bruce's but having watched them first, he could factor them out of his thought processes conclusively.
It also underscored his seriousness when he told Lex and Chloe to be about their business and not expect him back to the dungeon until late. While both had noticed the tension between he and Oliver, they knew better than to expect him to discuss team strategy before he'd worked out every last detail. That he only needed to know whether Oliver would be made Chaser or remain Seeker to solidify his plans, they had no need of knowing.
This question, and not his appreciation for Oliver's flying, drew his eye again and again to his friend's Quaffle drills. This question and the overstressed play of Quentin Jones, the third year trying for the same spot - which he definitely would not get, as he'd be lucky to leave the pitch alive at this rate.
With growing consternation, Bruce watched Jones make error after dangerous error and Diana, of whom he thought much better, did nothing to stop him. Instead, she spent the majority of the first half of practice running interference between Clark and Oliver.
So when she called a water break, Bruce approached Jones - well aware of Chloe's prying ears and Lex's glower - to have a quiet word.
"Um. Mr. Wayne?" Jones squeaked.
Bruce put on his kindliest 'helpful Prefect' expression and folded his hands together. "You've got a lot of natural talent, Jones."
Jones tilted his chin down and sideways, submissive and suspicious all at once, like he expected some sort of Slytherin trick but had no idea what it could be. "Uh, thank you?"
"I'm not here to trick you. That would be unseemly, and my Slytherins have no need of ruses to win Quidditch matches. You, on the other hand, have need of some advice." He gave the boy a level look. "To survive them."
Blue eyes went wide and white, and Jones's hands shook. "You can't-"
Suppressing a sigh, Bruce tried out a smile. "I'm not threatening you either. You're trying too hard and you're going to get hurt. Since Ms. Prince is otherwise engaged, I felt it wise to suggest you settle down and fly to your strengths." A quick glance toward Clark who'd begun an approach, bat still in hand, and then, "Because you belong in the reserve spot come Monday, not in an infirmary bed."
"Why don't you just back off, Bruce?" As ever, Clark jumped in with both feet, leaping before he looked. "You and the other Slytherins can menace from a distance."
Turning smoothly from one conversation to another, although with Clark, calling it conversation was a kindness, Bruce shook his head. "Honestly, Clark. You'd think after six years, you'd realize that if I was menacing your player, he'd be in tears by now."
Jones paled, and Bruce could hardly blame him. Being caught between Clark and anyone would be upsetting enough, but being caught between an angry part-giant and the Wayne heir would be downright terrifying. Add to that the temperamental scion of the Queen family now approaching, and possibly even Aurors would be backing away. All that was needed to make it a Dementor's nightmare was Diana in full Veela fury, and with the fire blazing in Oliver's eyes, she wouldn't be far behind.
"What?" Clark rounded on Oliver. "It's not enough I have to deal with Bruce but I have to put up with you, too?" He threw his hands in the air.
Doubtless, Bruce shouldn't find it amusing, but Chloe smiling behind her hand and Lex looking fit to burst into snarls made it hard not to be smug. Even with half the Gryffindor bench looking from him to Oliver with something like disdain painted on their bright shiny faces.
Foolish of them to push Oliver like that.
Anger on Oliver's behalf, and concern for Oliver's temper overtook his sense of humor, dark as it was, and by the time Oliver raised his voice to Clark, Bruce had gone steely cold.
"Clark, why don't you back off, okay? We're the only team allowed to be practicing on the pitch right now." Oliver's agile hands clamped around his broom, knuckles white with strain. While that boded ill for rational conversation, it did suggest he'd have no trouble bringing matters between them to a head. "That doesn't mean we're allowed to cover the field with a shielding and invisibility charm to keep people out. Anyone is allowed to come to tryouts, training and practice. And since I didn't hear about anyone dying and making you headmaster I'm assuming the rules still stand."
Clark began to protest, but Oliver cut him off with an imperious arch look, a raised hand, and gave him his back.
"As for you," Oliver began, and even with him spitting fury, his tone spoke more of desperation than anything. "Why don't you leave our people alone, Bruce?" Bruce understood his feelings to some extent, but if Oliver didn't want them at odds, why did he persist in behaving so…incorrectly? "Quit bugging the hopefuls when we're trying to teach them to run drills with the team!"
His jaw too tight, Bruce still managed to keep his features and his tone polite. "Don't cause a scene." He spoke to Oliver, ignoring Clark who was no longer of consequence. "I didn't want the boy to get hurt."
"Right, because you're Mr. Considerate-" Clark's words died on his lips when Diana swept in on her broom. Even he knew better than to take her on with her eyes glowing that shade of blue and her pretty mouth set in a hard, ugly line.
She pointed her wand at her throat. "Sonorous." Turning to face the Gryffindors, she announced that training had ended for the day. "I want this pitch cleared in ten minutes, or I'm taking points. Understood?"
A rapid exchange of nervous looks preceded vigorous nods, then the team disbanded with a speed Bruce would have envied if not for the disarray.
Tapping her wand to her throat again, she growled, "Quietus," then turned a venomous glare on Clark. "Get cleaned up and meet me in the prefects' lounge, Clark. Do not think of taking more than ten minutes either."
She shot an exasperated look at both him and Oliver, then swept off again, robes snapping around her ankles.
Oliver rounded on him, mouth open to speak, and Bruce cut him off. "Not here."
Lex and Chloe had already made it halfway to his side. He turned, far too slowly for it to be casual, and fixed them in place with a level look. "Lex, if you would please escort Chloe back to the castle. She has an article to write." His crisp tones made it clear he expected her coverage of this incident to end with Diana's exit.
Stubborn, Chloe set her jaw, but even though Lex sneered, he set a hand on her arm. She shook it off. "How dare you-"
"I'll see you both at breakfast," he said smoothly and walked off the pitch toward the bleachers, knowing Oliver would follow.
#
Arms crossed over his chest, robe pulled tight around him, Bruce stood in shadow beneath the bleachers. He glared through narrowed eyes at the faded drape of last year's House Cup banners, but saw only Oliver, awkward, and heard only Oliver, asking whether Bruce had performed so simple and rudimentary a Potions task as grinding the hellebore, when they had always been partners, the distribution of tasks between them, easy, seamless, unspoken.
Jaw clenched against inappropriate, indecorous words, Bruce gave Oliver his back as he approached. The heavy, uneven tread gave away Oliver's belligerence, and Bruce knew him well enough to know his fists would be clenched. That Oliver wouldn't hit him with his back turned didn't make him less dangerous an opponent.
Opponent; Oliver. The idea sat so wrongly in his brain, tangled his thoughts into such a snarl, he almost missed the two habitual, deep breaths that signaled an upset Oliver composing himself to speak.
"What was that about, Bruce?" No matter that he tried to imitate Bruce, Oliver's effort at brusque came out breathy and nervous. "What are you trying to prove?"
And, rather than throwing Oliver to the ground and beating the ignorance out of him like he wished to, Bruce held himself still. "Jones almost got killed trying to impress Diana. I told him to trust his skills and fly to his strengths."
"Maybe it's not your business to be telling Gryffindors how to play Quidditch or make the team. Maybe not everyone needs your help."
Oliver would insist on provoking him, despite his efforts at calm. That, at least, was a typically Oliver thing to do. "It's my business to make sure no Hogwarts' students die in foolish Quidditch accidents." He turned, then, pinning Oliver with his gaze. "Perhaps if you and Clark hadn't been engaged in your private war, I wouldn't have had to say anything."
"Private war?" Armoring himself in the hauteur of the Queen scion, Oliver scoffed. "My 'private war' with Clark and half of Gryffindor is completely your fault." He gestured sharply to the emptied Quidditch pitch visible between the bleacher posts. "This is all you. You did this."
Bruce met Oliver's accusation with a tight frown, lips pressed together. When he did not fight back, saying nothing at all for several minutes, Oliver's bravura cracked. He blinked hard and licked his lips, then looked away. "You made it this way."
His fault, because Oliver had wanted him and he had allowed it. To fix it, they would have to address it, no matter that he preferred it otherwise. But Oliver wasn't rational, everything had broken, and the need was now.
Usually Oliver would spell cast for their privacy. Usually, he would have done so already; but that, too, was broken. Oliver never could concentrate when he'd lost his temper.
Grimacing, Bruce pulled his wand from his sleeve. "Muffliato." It was a measure of his own distress, he knew, that the charm wobbled before taking hold and blanketing them in the drown-out buzz.
Bruce studied Oliver while he considered the many things he might say. He wasn't interested in recriminations, fault, or beating around the bush. Only in fixing he and Oliver. "Perhaps you'd prefer I'd said no."
Oliver whipped around to stare, eyes burning dark and fierce. His fingers curled so tight into his palms that his knuckles whitened.
Bruce waited, ready and watching Oliver's forearms and his mouth for the tiny muscle twitches that always telegraphed his first strike.
It didn't come, the blow that Bruce expected. Instead, Oliver held, expressions flickering with his uncertainty, thinking fast, furious, irrational thoughts, and Bruce tried to think of anything but how wrong it was that he had to perform Charm spells and that when their hands touched, he thought of sex.
Oliver broke, finally, and shoved him up against one of the wooden posts of the bleachers. "Why do you always have to make things so complicated?" Heart pounding hard enough for Bruce to hear it and fingers knotted fast in Bruce's robes, Oliver tilted forward and pressed their mouths together hard enough that their teeth crushed their lips.
For thirty seconds, Bruce endured Oliver kissing but not kissing him, and that was more broken than any of it. If they were going to do this, then they were. Not halfway.
Taking the advantage Oliver's unbalanced position gave him to push back and pivot, Bruce dragged Oliver around and slammed him into the next post over. Without giving him a chance to fight back, he simply grabbed Oliver's mouth with his own; and when Oliver's breath rushed out between parted lips, Bruce forced them wide and claimed the space between. Oliver grasped his shoulders, and, for an instant, it seemed Bruce might have misjudged.
Then Oliver's head tilted, slotting their mouths together, and, just that simply, what had broken between them was fixed.
The remembered heat of Oliver beneath him merged with the hard arch of Oliver up into him now. Oliver reached for more with the same hunger that had driven him in the firelight-shadowed Slytherin dungeon at end of term, and Bruce answered back with same certainty he'd had that night.
What was new, different, was the kissing: Oliver's mouth wet and open under his, tasting like a kiss should taste - hot, sweet, a little salty from the sweat of exertion - accepting without yielding. And also desire. Bruce's, for Oliver. Because of course he wanted him.
That knowledge hit him with the ringing clarity of Dumbledore chiming a glass for attention, and with a sudden flush of full arousal: he wanted Oliver.
The decision that he'd have him followed only seconds behind, certainty enhanced by the hard line of Oliver's cock grazing his hand as he thrust aside the heavy fabric of Oliver's robes. It lacked finesse, his assault on his best friend's clothing, but he burned for the feel of skin.
Hands rucking up Oliver's jersey, Bruce sought the plane of Oliver's abdomen, the dips and swells of ribs and pectoral muscles and newly broad shoulders. He curled his hand around the back of Oliver's neck, dragging him closer, licking deeper into Oliver's mouth, and Oliver didn't resist.
Moaning, Oliver thrust his hips forward to ride Bruce's thigh, and kissed back. His oft-lamented tongue stroked Bruce's palate, saying 'yes' and asking for more. Bruce had barely deciphered the question through the haze of need when Oliver's fingers traced the contours of his erection, molding the damp fabric of his boxers to sensitive skin.
He groaned, biting at Oliver's lips, when the pressure ceased and restrained himself barely as nimble fingers sought his fly, opened his trousers, and wrapped around his leaking prick. Then his hips snapped, gut cramping at the sudden pleasure of Oliver's already familiar touch.
Only once before, but his body recognized Oliver's thumb flicking over the head of his cock and responded Merlin, yes. His brain caught up, ticking over just enough for him to agree. When Oliver slid his fist along Bruce's shaft, the oh Merlin, Oliver, so good hit just as Oliver sank to his knees between Bruce and the post.
Oliver tongue swiped at Bruce's cock, and Bruce's brain stuttered. Oliver Queen, the second proudest boy he knew, knelt - knelt - at his feet. Then Oliver looked up, pupils already blown, lips wet and shiny from his tongue working over them. And when their gazes locked, it stole Bruce's breath with the certainty and correctness of it.
It wasn't the first time Bruce'd had another boy at his feet, ready to suck him off. Not nearly the first blowjob, but it was the first time the boy was Oliver, and the sheer want in Oliver's eyes said this would be nothing like Lex or even Chloe.
Ignoring the splinters digging into his palms, Bruce braced against the post, legs parting and spreading to give Oliver access and anchor him against the need to thrust. But Oliver's mouth stretched wide, took him slow and easy; his fingers tightened on Bruce's hips, pulling him closer still.
He'd done this before. Oliver had done this before.
Bruce's fists clenched, and blood pounded in his ears. How dare Oliver change all the rules? How dare he do it without consulting Bruce? How dare he wait so long to do it? How dare he put them through this week of hell when all he ever had to do was ask? How dare he?
It wasn't kind, or mannered, or rational, but he didn't give a damn. He wanted answers and demanded them from Oliver's mouth. Crowded him up against the bleachers and cramming his dick through willing lips with precise, practiced thrusts. And Oliver didn't shove back, hardly flinched. Just dug his fingernails into Bruce's hips and hung on.
Oliver's tongue flickered over the head to taste him - he knew that was what Oliver was doing, could tell from the eager way he caught Bruce every time he pulled back to slam in again. Oliver's tongue drove him insane, but he wouldn't come.
Not until he'd fucked the taste of every other cock out of Oliver's mouth.
Rough, unsteady with his need, Bruce reached out, tangled his fingers in short, soft blond hair and gripped tight. He held Oliver's head to his groin and fucked, insisting Oliver forget and demanding he remember - forget the others and remember him.
Groan working its way past his lips, Bruce shuddered, then Oliver palmed the front of his trousers, and the very last of Bruce's control shredded. If he could've kicked Oliver's hand away without losing the driving rhythm of his hips, he would've. He couldn't, so he yanked Oliver's head closer, used his entire body to say, "Don't."
The straying hand rejoined the other at Bruce's hips. His throat worked around Bruce's cock, squeezing and swallowing, hot and open, pulling Bruce's climax from him. Balls slick with Oliver's spit drew up close to his body.
"Oliver…" Bruce growled warning, but he had no intention of coming anywhere but into Oliver's mouth.
Oliver didn't even try to pull away. His eyes said please so clearly Bruce could hear his voice. Dark lashes fanned flushed cheeks --
Beautiful.
The thought broke to the surface, incongruous, because he hammered Oliver's mouth, Oliver struggled to keep up, and Bruce still didn't have the answers he wanted; but it was there, and it was real. He'd never seen anything more perfect than Oliver sucking him off, and that, he knew distantly, would be a problem.
Bruce managed to bite back the incoherent babble of Merlins, Olivers, and yeses, but when the swirling heat of his orgasm took hold, he gave in to a long, low moan. Oliver's hair between his fingers, Oliver's mouth, wet and tight around his cock, and by the time he broke, the shuddering cry of Oliver's name didn't even sound like him. By the time he recovered enough to notice, he couldn't even care how indecorous it was.
Especially not with Oliver licking thick ropes of his come from shiny red lips, staring up at him, vulnerability plain in his lust-blown eyes.
He didn't know what to do now, and he was asking Bruce, the same as he had every other time he'd been uncertain in the past five years. For a few seconds, an eternity in Bruce-time, he didn't know either. He'd never been sucked off by a friend before. Only Lex, his ally, and Chloe, his girlfriend, and there were rules for dealing with them.
But Oliver had always had his own rules, and Bruce had always been himself with Oliver, never more or less.
Which was the answer.
Quickly tucking himself back into his trousers, he reached down, offered Oliver his hand. "Come. Get up." Terse, but not unkind, and he projected with his voice his confidence that this solution would be the correct one.
For an instant, Oliver dropped his forehead to Bruce's pubic bone, then he climbed to his feet. When he leaned back against the bleacher post, Oliver looked so wanton and wrecked, he could have been a dockside whore -- except for the refinement of his features that made him look a thousand times more dissolute.
And beautiful.
Curling his hand around the back of Oliver's neck, Bruce pulled him into a kiss. Orgasm drained his unexpected anger, leaving behind only the desire to taste himself on Oliver's tongue. His kiss punished even so, forced Oliver to open wide, so Bruce could lick his come from Oliver's mouth even while he worked at the buttons on his trousers.
When they slipped beneath the open placket, Bruce's fingers encountered damp cotton and Oliver hard with wanting. This was new. All of it. From the tiny desperate sounds Oliver made to the silky-slick heat branding his palm while their tongues made free of each others' mouths and Oliver's fingers tangled and clenched on his shoulders and in his hair.
At end of term, Oliver had rubbed off against his hip without so much as a touch from him. But here and now, he fisted Oliver fast and hard, kissed deep for the taste of them together, and did for him with pleasure what he'd rationed to Lex to control and shape him.
Body bowing, Oliver came, hot and sticky over his fist, on a quiet, shuddery moan. Bruce chased it, caught it, savored the sound like a Quidditch victory, and if Oliver hadn't pulled away immediately, Bruce would've slipped an arm around his waist to hold him steady while he recovered.
But Oliver did, clearly locking his knees as he drew himself up. Already he didn't quite meet Bruce's gaze. Bruce couldn't have that, wouldn't have that. So after he discreetly wiped his palm on the initial embroidered handkerchief Alfred had taught him to carry in his pocket, Bruce stepped back into Oliver's space. He didn't make deliberate physical contact, only made himself impossible to avoid.
At length, Oliver flushed, face and neck turning Gryffindor crimson. "So…this sex thing we keep doing…" He stared out at the Quidditch pitch, like the answers might be found there. "It's kind of weird, isn't it?"
Bruce studied him anew, taking in fucked-red lips, sated sloe eyes, and tousled gold hair. It would take getting used to, seeing Oliver in a sexual light. He tugged at his robe, straightening it. "It's only weird if it's not what you want."
Oliver pushed his hand through his hair, which did nothing to help the disarray. "But we're friends. Friends. This isn't what friends do."
"Illogical. We're friends; we do this. Therefore…" Fingers stalling on the buttons of his robe, Bruce shrugged. One way or another, he wouldn't lose what he most needed. "Oliver… It's what we do."
Oliver's teeth raked white points in his lower lip, while he slanted Bruce a considering look. "Would you even want to? I mean, you have a girl to do this stuff-" He gestured between the two of them. "With. And Chloe's, well, she's Chloe. It's not like you really need to do this stuff with me."
This, too, was new, or so old as to amount to the same thing. Oliver hadn't been this uncertain of his reception with Bruce since first year when he'd wanted to be Bruce's friend and Bruce had wanted him to go away. Resisting a smile that felt altogether fond, Bruce crossed his arms over his chest.
"In all the time you've known me, when have I ever done something I didn't want to do?" He lifted an eyebrow, and Oliver's lips twitched with a hint of a smile. "I didn't notice you doing 'this stuff' without my participation. And you said it yourself. Chloe is Chloe. And you are you."
Oliver nodded. "An us thing." Then he broke into a real grin, wide and pleased. "Okay, I mean, this thing with us, it's good."
Still grinning, he punched Bruce in the shoulder, and Bruce used the speed he'd trained and his longer reach to cuff Oliver in the back of the head before he could sidestep away. He met Oliver's gaze, steady, willing him to understand that no matter what else happened between them, it was okay, correct, to be as they'd always been. "No more asking if the hellebore is ready."
"Pfft." Oliver rolled his eyes. "You never know when I might suddenly need you to chop some hellebore for me." But he knocked their shoulders together, signaling he understood. "I should probably go. Shower up, maybe apologize to Jones." But then Oliver hesitated, just slightly, like perhaps he wanted to stay, then said a bit more quietly, "I'll see you at breakfast, yeah?"
Bruce wanted him to stay; he found himself almost willing to ask him to. The last five days had been harsh, disturbing; it felt good, relaxing, to be all right again. Still, in truth, they had nothing more to say, and Bruce had House responsibilities to see to before bed.
So he nodded and answered, "Of course," because he had to eat, and where else would he be? "Bring the Prophet."
~*~
Notes | Art