Harry turns over on his back, using his arms to prop himself up, with his fingers digging into the dirt, just in time to stare directly at the lit end of Not Sirius’s wand.

The small glow floods the area, and for a flicking second, there’s something faltering about Not Sirius’s expression, immediately replaced by a set jaw and steely, piercing gray eyes. Behind him, Not James Potter blinks, owlishly. His mouth opens, then shuts, and his hand flies through his hair, messing it up, sending a surge of uncontrollable annoyance jolting through Harry’s veins.

It’s a welcome distraction from the pain shooting through his leg, white hot and unexplainably violent, as if the tree had stabbed him instead of tripping him with its giant roots.

He sort of wishes he had been stabbed.

That’s decidedly less humiliating than being captured by the enemies because he’d tripped and fell in the dirt.

“What are you doing here?” demands Not Sirius, while Not James backs up, disappears into the darkness. Only the vague outline of his figure remains visible.

“What?” Harry’s voice is hoarse with pain.

There were Death Eaters in disguise, right? Right. These two wizards were the enemy, his enemy, so why were they looking at Harry like that? Like they’re shocked to see him? Questioning why he’s there when they’re the ones who set the trap?

“You tell me,” says Harry, finally, tilting his head back in agitation, in pain.

“He needs a healing charm,” says Not James, dubiously, stepping back into the small area lit by Not Sirius’s wand.

Before Harry can react, or tense up, another wand is pointed at him, and there’s a cooling sensation spread through his leg, fighting back the pain into a dull ache.

“Are you one of Dumbledore’s?” asks Not Sirius, refusing to lower his weapon. His words sound more like an accusation than a question, one that confuses Harry even further.

“One of Dumbledore’s…” repeats Harry, looking back and forth between the two men. That’s pretty obvious, or at least it should be, if these were really Death Eaters. “Well yeah, beats the alternative, wouldn’t you say?”

“A lot of alternatives are better than being a child soldier,” says James, grim.

“Oh, yeah, like what? Like being a Death Eater?”

“A what?” asks James, slight amusement trickling into his voice.

It’s with this that Harry puts his Death Eater disguised as loved ones theory to rest. Death Eaters aren’t clever enough to laugh at themselves, even while pretending. And all these brilliantly acted theatrics doesn’t serve them. Not in the end. Orchestrating an illusion is too drawn out, takes too long, and Voldemort had never shown patience in killing him before.

What’s worse is the realization that hits him after. That Sirius and James are just as suspicious of him as he is of them.

“Haven’t heard that one before,” says Sirius, also hiding a laugh. “Is that what that old fool is calling us now?”

“Imagine that, Padfoot, us,

Death Eaters.”

James and Sirius laugh, and a ripple of pain pulses in Harry’s leg, injury overcoming the charm.

It’s all disorienting.

His father, alive, mocking him, and Sirius, younger and brighter and somehow more alive than the version Harry knows, the one he’s supposed to be saving.

“Look,” says Harry, gritting his teeth through his pain. “Is Dumbledore here? He can clear this up. Really. We should all go and talk to him.”

Whatever weird, chaotic and nonsensical thing is happening to him - to

them -

 Dumbledore can explain it. Make sense of it. Except James and Sirius stop laughing, stop smiling, at the mention of his name, and Harry gets the feeling he normally only gets after saying Voldemort’s name out loud in a room full of people.

James turns, and adjusts his attention to only Sirius. “Did you Confound him?”

“No,” says Sirius. He loosens his grip on his wand, the glow from the light shifts around in the dark forest, and Harry’s reminded that he isn’t completely helpless. His own wand is still tucked into his pocket. “He’s lost a lot of blood…”

Harry’s eyes snap towards the wound on his leg. His jeans are torn, showing a deep gash, with blood soaking the surrounding fabric and dripping down and seeping into the forest’s floor. Seeing it sends an unbearable wave of pain and panic through him. He sits up, and he’s ready to cover the wound with his hands when -

“-don’t touch it,” orders Sirius. “It’s probably cursed.”

“Cursed?”

“Yeah, mate,” says James. “That’s what happens when you go around setting fires and scorching part of the forest. Can’t really expect it to take that sort of a beating without biting you back, can you?”

“

This

 forest, especially,” agrees Sirius. “It’s always been a vengeful, unforgiving beast.”

The absurdity of the situation, for just a brief moment, outweighs the pain in his leg. That he’s in the middle of the Forbidden Forest listening to his very alive father and definitely not in danger godfather speak about a forest as if it’s a god to be worshiped and feared.

He supposes it makes sense.

The Marauders spent more time in the Forbidden Forest during their years at Hogwarts then even Hagrid had, or at least that’s the way his Sirius makes it sound in the stories he tells.

“Ok, great,” says Harry. “The forest bit me. Will it ever stop bleeding?”

“Maybe,” says James. “If you apologize.”

“But you have to sound like you mean it,” adds Sirius.

Harry pauses, but doesn’t waste any of his time or energy apologizing to the trees. He rolls his eyes, out of annoyance, not really sure how he’s supposed to feel about being confronted by a dead father and a different godfather.

“I didn’t start the fire on purpose,” says Harry, strangely defensive. He still isn’t sure about James, isn’t sure what he is, if he’s even real, but even so, Harry doesn’t want him to think he’s an arsonist. Or has something against forests.

“Oh,” says James. “So you accidentally cast a Fiendfyre?”

“A what?”

“The curse you accidentally cast,” he explains, with a frown, a hint of doubt lining his words. “That’s what it’s called.”

Something prickles at the back of Harry’s mind, and he doesn’t like it, doesn’t like not knowing how or why he’d picked that particular curse. It’s enough, isn’t it? Knowing that it had been necessary at the time is enough, he decides. It’s enough.

He recalls the panic, the confusing and dark hallways of the Department of Mysteries, Death Eaters chasing him and his friends. Someone had been screaming, a detail he remembers even if he can’t place who it had been, even as he strains and tries.

His memories are blurry, like trying to see through fog, but what he understands with clarity is that he has to get back to the Department of Mysteries, has to get away from whatever strange place he’s landed in and back into the fight.

Even if he’s curious about his father. Even if this more-alive version of Sirius is seeing what his life should have been.

He has to get back to reality.

Harry tries to move around a little, but the agony in his leg keeps him pinned to the ground. That time, he does cry out in pain, and James has the decency to put another healing charm on his leg.

“We should get him to Poppy,” says James. “Everything I can do is just temporary.”

“Riddle won’t like us bringing one of them into the castle,” says Sirius, finally lowering the wand from Harry’s face. “Let’s do it. It’s been awhile since His Highness has gotten all red in the face and yelled.”

It’s another instinct. A reflex. Harry hears the name Riddle, and his hand flies to his wand without a second thought.

“

Expelliarmus

,” says James, lazily. Harry’s wand slips through his fingers, soars across the open space, and is caught by James. “On second thought, maybe we should let him know we’ve caught an intruder,

and

take him to the Hospital Wing.”

And Harry thinks, against his own common sense, that maybe he should’ve just apologized to the trees.

James and Sirius make him struggle and limp up to Hogwarts Castle, while they hang several feet behind him, whispering at each other in urgent, panicked tones. Once or twice, Harry catches Sirius saying

check the map

and

it doesn’t lie

, and it becomes clear to Harry that they are rattled by him, distressed about what his last name might be.

But they don’t ask him his name.

Not now, or during that short interrogation. And by the number of times Sirius repeats his pleas, Harry guesses that James doesn’t actually check the Marauder’s Map.

It’s a relief, knowing that James doesn’t want to know, or maybe isn’t ready for the information. That despite him appearing to be calm and collected, he’s privately losing his mind, just like Harry.

*******

Madam Pomfrey bandages him up, muttering about the dangers of the Forbidden Forest and ordering him to lay still, the exact thing Harry doesn’t want to do.

Being still is the opposite of what he should be doing, and now that Pomfrey has his wounds on the mend and he can feel the pain ebbing away for good, he needs to be on his way back to his own reality.

That’s where he is, and he understands that now.

A parallel dimension. An alternate reality. Just like in the science fiction novels that Muggle boy he’d lived with used to read.

The answer had slipped into his mind, as if it had always been hidden there, while James and Sirius helped him climb up the stone steps of Hogwarts and towards the Hospital Wing. Now, laying flat on the twin hospital bed, he can’t let go of the idea.

It’s true, without a doubt, and Harry doesn’t have to question it. He

just knows.

 And with that knowledge, a familiar peace spreads through his body, warms him up.

If there’s a way into this version of reality, then there’s a way back home. Harry just has to find it.

Even with his new burst of optimism, he has to admit, there’s going to be some obstacles.

Like the current one.

James keeps a watchful vigil from the other side of the Hospital Wing. Opting to sit on a nightstand by an empty bed, he twirls Harry’s wand through his fingers and basks in the moonlight pouring in from the open window.

He’s young, Harry notices, but older than the pictures Harry’s seen of him. He catches himself thinking about this world’s Harry. If he’s alive, and if he isn’t, what’s happened to him.

But he shakes himself out of it.

His wand. He needs to get it back. He’s got to focus.

“Can I have my wand back?” asks Harry, daring to sit up, only to have Pomfrey push on his shoulder until his head is back in the pillows.

“Not a chance,” says James. He doesn’t even bother looking at him.

“Okay, I’m all finished,” says Pomfrey. She puts her own wand back into her robes, and for a few seconds, Harry thinks about stealing hers, but his window of opportunity passes. She walks away, only to return with a goblet. “Here. Drink this.”

Harry stares at it. He doesn’t take it from her. “What’s that?”

“Just something to help you rest, a sleeping potion,” says Pomfrey. “I don’t know what you’ve - well, I just can’t imagine what you’ve been put through, being-”

“-he can’t drink that yet,” says James, cutting her off. He shrugs away from the nightstand, and pockets Harry’s wand. “Sirius has gone to tell Tom. He’ll want to have a chat with him first.”

“He’s just a boy.”

“I’m fifteen,” offers Harry, dumbly, and although James turns his head and gives him a funny expression, the two adults don’t acknowledge he’s said anything.

“Surely you must see the res-”

“-Poppy,” says James, gently, tearing his eyes away from Harry and looking back at Madam Pomfrey. “They’re all just kids. Last week Sirius almost got his arm blown off by a twelve-year-old. We’re not the ones turning them into soldiers, but that doesn’t make them any less dangerous.”

Madam Pomfrey steps away from Harry’s bed, taking the sleeping potion with her, and leaving him feeling guilty for something he didn’t do, something he’s not. Whatever’s going on here isn’t his fault. He’s not part of it, so why should he be treated like a criminal by his own emotions?

He tries shaking it off, but the feeling lingers, leaving Harry wishing he could still feel the pain in his leg.

“Make sure he drinks the potion,” says Madam Pomfrey, pushing the goblet into James’s hands. “Once Tom’s done interrogating the injured child.”

She retreats from the room, leaving James and Harry alone, and an awkward silence settles over them. It’s a twisting knot in his gut, knowing this alternate version of his father thinks he’s some dangerous child soldier, ready to attack at any moment.

It’s also an obstacle on top of an obstacle.

He’s never getting his wand back as long as James believes he’s ready to curse them all with another Fiendfyre, or worse, blow off Sirius’s arm.

“I really didn’t mean to set the fire,” tries Harry, not really sure what he could say to prove himself. “I’m not - I’m not whatever it is you think I am.”

“Who were you running from?” asks James, question fired off without warning. Harry stutters out a few

whats

 and James elaborates. “I’ve been an Auror for a while. I know what it looks like when someone is running away, and you weren’t running from us until

after

 the fire started, so that means there was somebody else in that forest with you.”

The question is impossible to answer without sounding like he’s completely lost his mind, so Harry doesn’t say anything, just lets the sound of a soft breeze blowing through the window fill the empty space, let’s James pick up the conversation where he left off.

“Unless, of course, you really do have it out for the forest.”

“It’s possible,” says Harry. “A family of giant spiders live in there, you know.”

“I do know,” laughs James. He stops laughing, but his smile stays. “How do

you

 know that?”

There’s a causal light-heartedness about James, even now, even in what Harry understands is supposed to be a prelude to an interrogation. He wants to tell him the truth, and he wants to keep talking to his dead father, to keep hearing him laugh.

But this isn’t his home. Harry doesn’t even have the information James assumes he does, and he can’t let himself forget it. He can’t get caught up in a different war, a war that isn’t his.

“We could help you,” continues James. “You just have to work with us.”

Just as Harry’s about to tell James he’d been alone in the forest, the double doors to the Hospital Wing slowly creep open. A tall, older man step inside, walk closer to where Harry lay on his bed.

Tom Riddle doesn’t look anything like the Voldemort of Harry’s world, but Harry recognizes him immediately. His hair is short, dark silver. He’s got a nose, and he’s wearing a scowl as he sets his eyes on him.

Harry supposes Tom Riddle’s hatred for him is one of those anomalies that’s true in every universe.


Klaus collapsed into his chair at the dinner table, he felt dead. So very tired from the effects of the weed wearing off and from being drunk. He was surprised he hadn't been sick yet, that would probably come after this meal.

The meal in question was, pasta. Nothing too bad, there were mushrooms mixed through it though. Klaus wasn't very fond of mushrooms. They felt fucking weird in his mouth, only mushrooms he liked were magic mushrooms. Speaking of- they would be a fun thing to have next time. After he's run out of weed.

Klaus just began picking at his food, he supposed he was quite hungry. Even if he also felt sick. That's fine though, just as long as no one else noticed that he was drunk and smelt like whiskey. Oh and weed. That would be a big giveaway. He should have put some sort of aftershave on before leaving his room. Too late!

He was given strange looks from  the rest of his family as he picked all the mushrooms off his pasta, placing them to one side and then eating his pasta without the mushrooms on it. Klaus just ignored them, choosing to instead look at his plate. Fuck off, assholes.

Ben was eating his food just fine, he wanted to get some more reading of his book in and then sleep. He was quite done with today, it had been a lot. Hopefully Klaus wouldn't come and talk to him or try to sleep with him. He didn't know if he'd be able to restrain himself.

Problem was, that he could smell the whiskey coming from Klaus' direction. Which meant everyone else probably knew too. Dad hadn't mentioned it though, luckily for Klaus. Maybe he was just sick of Klaus being such a disappointment. He always told Klaus that he was the biggest disappointment of the family. A waste of time.

Klaus had finished eating the pasta with the mushrooms sitting on the side of the plate. He fidgeted with his sweater as he waited to be able to leave. Watching as Mom came and cleared the plates from the table. then they were allowed to go.

He got up, walking slowly towards his room. Putting focus into walking normally.

"Why do you smell like whiskey?" Luther asked him, he had been walking behind him.

Klaus froze, and swallowed. What to say- "I was out on a walk, some dude spilled it on me. Haven't been for a wash yet." He responded without looking at One. Please leave me alone.

Luther huffed, "You're a liar. Not surprised that you're going back to being like that. Dad always said you were the disappointment." He said curtly before walking past Klaus, leaving him standing there with a heavy heart.

Klaus felt his mood shatter. He felt so alone. He wasn't going back to being like that. He was fine.. it was just, just because they were so horrible to him. All of them. They never took him seriously, always left him out. Thought he was weird.

He thought for a moment to go and speak to Ben to try and cheer himself up, but he decided against that. He locked himself in the bathroom, curling up in the bathtub without any water.

"I hate it here." He whispered, scratching at his arms. "I hate everyone."

He didn't know what to do with himself. He was honestly sick of just about everything. Only reason he liked sticking around was because of Ben. The fun he would have with Ben. All because he loved Ben with his whole heart.

But Ben must hate him. He was a fucking junkie, he was turning into one again. All over again, life was repeating itself. Except this time everyone else was better off, and Klaus felt even more alone than before.

"Should just end it." he murmured, looking around the bathroom for something. Something to make him go numb. He didn't want drugs right now, or drink. He wanted to hurt.

Ben had decided to go to Klaus's room to check on him. He had heard Luther in the hallway, he knew how hard that would hit Klaus. Being told that from Dads favourite. He was surprised that Klaus wasn't there, looked like he had never gone back into his room since dinner.

"Klaus?" Ben called, looking for him around the hall. He was confused until he heard a clatter from the bathroom. Ben frowned, walking towards the bathroom, he wondered who was in. He tried the door, it was locked obviously.

"Hello?" he asked.

Klaus heard Ben on the other side of the door. "Shit." He muttered, looking around the bathroom for something to clean up what he had done. There was only the perfectly clean white towels that Mom had spent so long on.

He grabbed one though, a smaller one. Pressed it against his leg. He didn't answer Ben yet.

"Klaus are you in there? Let me in." Ben said after a couple of minutes had passed and there hadn't been any response. The bathroom had seemingly gone silent.

Klaus frowned, looking down. It was beginning to... stop now. He raked through the cabinet and found some dressings. He quickly wrapped up his thigh, tying it in a knot at the side and stuffing the towel out of sight.

"Klaus, seriously. Answer me." Ben sounded like he was getting angry.

Klaus quickly flushed the toilet and then unlocked the door, opening it and smiling at Ben. "Sorry, was busy." he laughed a little hoping it didn't sound fake.

Ben looked around the bathroom suspiciously before he looked back at Klaus. "Are you good?" He questioned.

Klaus nodded enthusiastically, "Perfect." He grinned, moving to walk past Ben, but Ben blocked his way.

"What were you doing?" Ben didn't trust that Klaus had been using the toilet. He would have just told him to go away straight away, but the fact that there had been no response for around 5 minutes.

"Toilet. Want to know all about my bowel movement? Are you really that interested." Klaus retorted, pushing Ben a little. "Let me go, I want to go to bed."

Ben glared at him. "Klaus, I don't believe you, tell me."

Klaus just shook his head at Ben. "The fucking toilet, I told you." He didn't want to let Ben know what he had done. Ben would be so mad and upset with him. Ben never knew that he used to do that. But it helped, it really did.

Ben stepped back, giving in. "Fine."

Klaus pushed past him, walking to his room with a slight limp. His thigh ached, but it was nice to feel something other than his heart aching. His heart ached too, but the pain in his thigh acted as a slight distraction for what was going on elsewhere.

Ben noticed the limp, he wondered if Klaus had... he wouldn't. He'd never done that, he used drugs when he was feeling down. He didn't hurt himself... unless he did? He followed his brother, beginning to feel upset. He didn't want Klaus to be hurting alone, he wanted to make him feel better.

"Klaus can I come hang out?" He asked as they reached Klaus's door. He noticed the way Klaus faltered in his actions, his shoulders stiffening. "I'd like to hang out." Ben said again after a moment.

Klaus shook his head a little before speaking, "No.. well, um, I guess you can for a little. But I'm tired." He lied. He just ached all over at this point, everything hurt and he just wanted to sleep forever. Hopefully without the nightmares and the dead that haunted him constantly.

"Okay, I won't push you too hard then." Ben teased a little, trying to lighten Klaus's mood, but Klaus didn't even laugh. He just walked in, getting into his bed.

Ben inhaled slowly and exhaled before walking in too, shutting the door softly. "Want to just talk?" he asked, sitting down on the end of the bed.

Klaus shrugged, "About what?"

"I don't know, anything?" Ben replied, looking at his brother. He looked so broken, he could see it in his eyes. Even if he was trying to make himself seem fine. All these years of being left out and their father treating him horribly.

Klaus just shrugged again, biting his bottom lip. He looked over at Ben, he didn't know whether to tell Ben how horrible he felt or whether to pretend that he didn't feel like utter shit. It hurt so bad and he just wanted Ben to make it go away. He had wanted to go away, but Ben had come knocking. Suppose he had maybe saved Klaus from making a bad decision.

Ben sighed, "Klaus, please talk to me. I can see it in your eyes." he said softly, he felt like he needed to protect Klaus. Get him out of this house as soon as they were 18. Not too long.

Klaus let out a small whimper, "I just- I.." he faltered, chewing on his bottom lip for a second. "I'm sick of being alive." He admitted to Ben, hanging his head.

Ben looked at Klaus with sad eyes, "Klaus.. you know that's not a good idea. Don't do that please, I would miss you so much." he moved closer to his brother, gently touching his thigh.

Klaus yelped a little, pulling away. "D-Don't touch that."

Ben frowned, he knew now what Klaus had done. "Did you.." he questioned, gesturing to his leg. "Because you know what doesn't help anything."

Klaus shrugged a little. "It does sometimes." He muttered in reply, looking away.

"Do you know how much pain I feel constantly. I'm so lonely.." Klaus sighed, "My heart aches all day, it hurts all the time. It hurts so much not being able to have what you want. Being known as the sibling that everyone hates. The one with a useless power, my power isn't even a power, I feel like it's a disability." Klaus let out a choked sob.

He was drunk still, but not as much. The pain in his thigh was beginning to sober him up. And so was this chat with Ben. "Ben, it just.. hurts so much. I want everything to be numb. I'm so done. I feel like I'm only really sticking around for you."

Ben gently touched Klaus' arm instead. "Then at least you have one thing to stick around for. Screw everyone else." He told him quietly. "Why does your heart ache?" He asked, hoping Klaus would admit his love again, because after seeing him so broken like this. He just wanted to keep him close and look after him.

"It's your fault!" Klaus shouted, breaking down. "It's always been your fault.."

Ben was taken back by the way Klaus admitted this time. Before it had been in a moment of bliss, this time in a moment of utter despair and so much pain.

"Klaus.. I didn't, I'm sorry." Ben was sorry, he didn't realise how much pain Klaus had been in everyday. No wonder he had turned to drugs, especially after he had died the first time around.

Klaus shook his head, "It hurts to love someone you can't." He said through tears, "It's wrong, but.. I just.." he didn't know what to say. He just wished Ben would return his love, make him feel better.

"Klaus, I don't know what to say." Ben said quietly, looking down at the bed. He wasn't sure if he returned the love quite as strongly as Klaus. He admitted he was quite infatuated with Klaus, he liked him. He did. Maybe just not love yet.

"I do.. like you, but not love." Ben told him, looking up, feeling terrible at the heartbroken look on his brother's face. "I want to love you, though. I want to leave here with you, go somewhere away from all of this. Then we won't have to worry about all of them. All of this." He repeated.

Klaus just nodded sadly, "I knew you didn't love me back, I don't think you ever will. I'm hard to love, I don't understand how you could ever even like me." he was slurring his words through his tears. "I'm sorry for loving you Ben."

"Don't ever be sorry for that, Klaus." Ben touched his cheek gently. "Don't you dare apologise for loving someone."

He leant over gently to a press a soft kiss against Klaus's swollen lips. He felt Klaus kiss back weakly, his own heart began to ache for how upset his brother was.

"It'll be okay, Klaus. I promise." Ben murmured, pulling Klaus into a gentle hug and letting him sob his broken heart out.

"I love you, Ben." Klaus cried, gripping onto Ben tightly.

"I know, I know Klaus."


Bruce isn’t surprised to find Clark waiting for him in the cave, but that doesn’t make him any less pissed off about it, either.

“Stalking me now, Clark?” he asks, slamming the car door shut with more force than he needs to. Petty, yes, but it's been a long night, a League mission that went south followed by several hours on patrol and he’s too fucking tired to deal with this right now. “That’s not very Superman of you.”

Clark crosses his arms. “I wouldn’t have to if you hadn’t run off earlier.”

Bruce walks right past him and doesn’t spare him a second glance.

“Getting lectured by a boy scout isn’t exactly high on my list of favourite activities.”

Bruce heads for the stairs but Clark suddenly disappears, superspeeding away before reappearing directly in Bruce's path. Bruce has to stumble back to keep from running right into him.

“Get out of my way, Clark.”

Bruce’s voice is very quiet. It’s the voice he uses when he’s on patrol, the voice that makes the average Gotham lowlife second-guess themselves and wonder if maybe the stories were true — that the Bat wasn’t just a man, or even a superpowered man; it was the voice that made them wonder if they’d found themselves face to face with some kind of demon.

Something flickers in Clark’s eyes before that goddamn stubbornness takes over again.

“Not until you tell me why took that stupid risk on the mission today.”

Bruce smiles. His split lip re-opens, staining his teeth, and Clark actually flinches at the sight of his bloody grin.

“What’s the matter, Clark? A little blood make you uncomfortable?” Clark’s eyes harden and Bruce's smile widens. Good, Bruce thinks. This he can deal with. “It’s not like you haven’t given me worse. Now get out of the way and get the fuck out of my house.”

He shoves past Clark and heads upstairs, taking two and three at a time, ignoring the pain in his hip where some asshole had landed a well-aimed kick. The house is silent — Alfred is away for the night, probably having decided to make himself scarce after letting Clark into the cave, and all Bruce wants to do is shower and collapse into bed for a few hours. He starts stripping off the batsuit as soon as he’s in his bedroom. Normally he’d have gotten changed in the cave but there was no fucking way he was staying down there while Clark shot him disapproving glares. Being civil — friendly, even — while the rest of the team are around is one thing; putting up with this boy scout bullshit in his own goddamn house is another.

Bruce is down to his underwear when he realises that he’s no longer alone. He can only blame his tiredness for not noticing sooner.

“For god’s sake, Clark.” Bruce throws his undershirt into a corner and glares at him in the doorway. “What part of ‘get the fuck out’ did you not understand?”

But Clark just looks more determined than ever, stalking into the room without an invitation, just doing whatever the fuck he wants to do because right now he's not Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter — right now he's Superman, and Superman doesn't need permission to do anything.

“Why did you go after him on your own?”

“I don’t have to justify my actions to you —”

“You do when your actions could get you killed!” Clark rarely raised his voice but there’s enough force in it now that it actually rattles the furniture. With visible effort, he reins it in. “If you would just listen —”

“To you?” Bruce steps closer. He's almost naked, no suit, no cowl, but Bruce sees Clark tense, knows that Clark is looking at him and seeing Batman stalking towards him and not fragile, weak — human — Bruce Wayne. “I’ve been at this for more than twenty fucking years, Clark. I don’t need your approval, or your permission. I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” Clark stands firm, not backing up even a step as Bruce gets closer and closer. “Looks to me like all you know how to do is run away.”

“Run away?” Bruce stops when he’s within arm’s reach. “You said it yourself, Clark. I went after the guy, I didn’t run away.”

“Maybe not from him, no.” Clark’s eyes are hard, but there’s something bright about them too, bright and hot and — angry, Bruce realises. Clark is truly, genuinely angry with him. “But from everything else? That’s all you ever fucking do.”

“Oh, swearing now, too?” Bruce grins. “Playing at being human doesn't really work when you're in costume.”

He starts to turn away but Clark grabs his wrist, not hard enough to hurt but tight enough that Bruce can’t pull away. Annoyance turns to anger and anger starts turning into something else, something he usually keeps so viciously sealed away that Bruce can actually feel his self-control starting to crack, muscles tensing and heart rate doubling as he contemplates whether it’s worth a dislocated shoulder to yank himself free. It’s too late for this; he’s too tired for this. He’s too fucking old for this.

“Let go of me, Clark.” The grin is gone and he can hear his voice shaking with things he can barely suppress.

“No.”

Bruce decides the dislocated shoulder is worth it and tries to walk away but Clark was ready for it — he lets Bruce finish the motion before he pulls Bruce back, a hard firm tug that should have made Bruce stumble into him — but Bruce had been ready too. He’d known there was no way Clark would let him hurt himself. Bruce uses the momentum of the tug to take Clark by surprise, pushing off the ground and ramming his shoulder right at Clark’s chest. They crash into a table, knocking it over as drawers fall open and spill out all over the floor, but Bruce doesn’t care, just keeps pushing and shoving until Clark's back hits the window with a loud hard thud. At the back of his mind he knows that Clark had allowed it, that if he really wanted to stop Bruce all he had to do was stand still. And then no amount of momentum or preparedness or clever tricks would matter at all, because Clark was absolutely immoveable when he wanted to be.

“What are you going to do, Bruce?” Clark smiles, an edge of mockery in his voice. “Hit me? Good luck Batmanning with a broken hand.”

“Right now, I’m thinking it might be worth it.”

Clark’s eyes flash with anger.

“No, you’re not. You’re not thinking that.”

“How would you know what I think?” Bruce leans closer. “You think you know me, Clark? You think because we’re on a team that means we’re friends?” Bruce shoves him against the glass again, hard enough that the whole wall of windows, floor to ceiling and corner to corner, shakes with the force of it. “You don’t know anything about me, Clark. Or what I’m capable of.”

“I know you weren’t always like this.”

“Like what,” Bruce snaps.

“Hard. Brutal. Angry.” Clark looks him right in the eye, unflinching and unafraid, because why would he be? There's nothing Bruce can do to him and they both know it. Clark licks his lips. “You wouldn’t have taken on a Robin—”

Bruce’s fist is flying before he’s even aware of what he’s doing but Clark is even faster — he’s out of Bruce’s grip in less than a blink of an eye, fingers tight around Bruce’s wrist to stop him from smashing his fist into the glass now that Clark’s no longer leaning against it.

Bruce closes his eyes and forces himself to stay still despite the white-hot rage in his veins. On some level he knows his anger is misdirected but Clark is still the most convenient target, and Bruce is so fucking tired, of Clark and his disappointed frowns and unearned trust and unwavering belief that people were worth saving — always, everyone, even Bruce.

He opens his eyes and catches Clark by surprise — Clark's gaze snaps up quickly, but not before Bruce saw him looking... elsewhere.

“Well, well, well,” Bruce says, keeping his voice low. The faintest hint of pink flushes Clark’s cheeks and Bruce smiles again, but not like before — this is sharper, knowing, and Clark's jaw tightens when he sees it. Bruce drops his head a little and looks at Clark through his eyelashes. “Is this what it’s really about, Clark? You could’ve just asked.”

Clark lets go of his wrist. “What are you talking about?”

Bruce spreads his arms. “Go ahead and look, Clark.” He does a slow turn and can almost feel Clark’s eyes on him, gaze running up and down his back, his arms and legs, his shoulders and chest. His cock twitches but Bruce doesn’t even care anymore; Clark could probably smell it on him anyway. And when they’re face to face again Bruce sees the growing evidence of something he’d always suspected and always purposely ignored, because he knew that nothing would ever come of it — not with Clark, and definitely not with Superman. That is, not until now.

Bruce might be the one in nothing but his underwear but the full Superman suit is just as useless to Clark in hiding it. He watches Clark swallow and smiles again, knowing he's somehow ended up with the upper hand after all.

“I’ve seen you looking before,” Bruce adds, pressing his advantage. “You think you look away fast enough, you think I don’t notice. But I notice everything.” He steps closer, crowding Clark against the window. “Is looking all you’re going to do, Clark?”

Clark takes a deep breath. He flushes a deeper shade of pink but when his eyes meet Bruce’s again, they’re just as determined as ever.

“Why did you go after him alone?”

Bruce grins and ignores the question completely. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid to do more than look?”

Something flares his Clark’s eyes; it could be anger, it could be lust, more likely it was both.

“I’m not the one who’s afraid, Bruce.” His head suddenly darts forward, far enough that their lips would have met if Bruce hadn’t instinctively jerked his own head back. Clark smiles with humourless satisfaction. “Like I said,” he adds. “Always running away.”

“How’s this for running away?” Bruce asks, and starts palming Clark’s cock through the suit.

The back of Clark’s head hits the window as he gasps in surprise.

“Bruce —”

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Bruce steps even closer, nosing at Clark's neck, breathing in the scent of him, the heat. “Or did you want even more?” He feels Clark’s cock twitch against his hand and smiles again. “More it is, then.”

He manages to give Clark’s cock another rough stroke before Clark suddenly pushes him away. Bruce laughs a little, watching Clark take several deep breaths — as though he actually needs them, as though breathing isn't just another one of dozens of affectations he takes up to hide what he really is.

“What’s the matter, Clark? The real thing a little too much to bear?” Bruce’s eyes are hard. “Or a little too disappointing?”

Clark looks him in the eye, gaze as steady as his breathing is uneven.

“Is this the real thing, Bruce? Because I don’t think it is.” He shakes his head. “Seems like just another mask to me.”

“I’m not the one in costume.”

“Yeah,” Clark agrees, watching him with a strange expression on his face. “Superman is my mask. Just like Batman is yours.”

“Batman’s not the mask, Clark.”

Clark laughs, but it’s a bitter sound.

“I know that’s what you want me to believe. Maybe what you want to believe, too. But that’s bullshit, Bruce.” Clark runs his gaze all over him again, lingering on the many, many scars that litter his whole body — from old faded scratches he’d gotten as a boy to ugly, twisted cords of tissue from wounds that nearly killed him. “You want me to believe you’re not afraid? You want me to believe that this is the mask?”

Clark strips off the Superman suit. It doesn’t take long, and in less than a minute he’s standing naked in Bruce’s bedroom — naked and hard and unapologetic about both.

“Tell me to leave again, Bruce.” He takes another deep breath, and if it’s a sign of nerves the look in his eyes is as unwavering as ever. “Walk away without touching me.”

And Bruce — Bruce does try. He looks away, curls his hands into fists, wills his pulse to slow down to normal levels. But Clark is so close, so close Bruce can smell him, so close that Bruce can feel his body heat; Clark is close and hard and willing, offering even — and offering it all to Bruce, of all people. Has been for a while, considering how often Bruce caught Clark looking at him with something hungry in those dangerously pretty eyes.

Bruce meets his gaze again and steps forward, into Clark’s personal space.

“No.”

Clark licks his lips. “No?”

“No.”

And Bruce grabs him by the shoulders and turns him around before shoving him face-first against the window. Clark manages to stop himself from crashing into the glass, superspeed allowing him to brace both hands against it just in time.

Bruce presses himself against Clark’s back and smiles when he feels Clark shiver.

He slips his hands around Clark’s torso as he leans in, one palm coming up to rest against Clark’s chest and the other against his stomach, breathing hotly against the side of Clark’s neck.

“Is this what you wanted?” Bruce whispers into Clark’s skin. “Every time you looked?”

His fingers find a nipple and Clark gasps, back arching into the touch. It makes his bare ass rub against Bruce’s cock and Bruce tugs him closer, rocking his hips until Clark is panting is his arms.

Bruce lets the hand on Clark’s stomach drift lower, sliding slowly into the hair at his groin. He can see their reflections in the windows, the low light effectively turning them into mirrors, and Bruce can see how tense Clark’s face is, can feel how taut his muscles are as Bruce’s hand keeps inching closer and closer to his cock.

“Answer me, Clark.” Bruce shifts his hips, erection finding the cleft of Clark’s ass and he watches Clark’s face in the window as it twists with need. He gives Clark’s nipple another hard pinch and Clark’s jaw drops as he shudders against Bruce’s chest.

“Yes,” Clark pants. He licks his lips again and meets Bruce’s eyes in the window. “And before.”

“Before?”

Bruce takes hold of Clark’s cock and Clark tilts his head back against Bruce’s shoulder, not breaking eye contact.

“When we fought,” he says, chest heaving as Bruce’s hand starts moving over his cock. “Before Doomsday. You were — I’d never —”

Bruce tightens his grip and Clark has to shut his eyes, moaning as he thrusts into Bruce’s fist.

“Keep going,” Bruce insists. He licks at Clark’s neck, nibbles on his earlobe, and Clark makes a strangled sort of noise, head tipping forward to give Bruce better access.

“I’d never been — overpowered, before,” Clark says roughly. “By a human. You were — I thought about —”

Bruce thrusts his hips against Clark’s ass again and Clark cuts off with another moan.

“This?” Bruce asks. “Me inside you?” He licks at the back of Clark’s neck, tasting what must be Kryptonian sweat — salt and musk and something faintly metallic, too. It makes his mouth water, makes him wonder what other parts of Clark might taste like, what they might feel like against his tongue. “Or you inside me?”

“Both,” Clark whispers, closing his eyes as his face flushes with heat. “Either. Any, I don’t care, just —” He cuts off when Bruce starts stroking faster, long smooth pulls that make Clark gasp. Bruce can feel the tremor in his back where it’s pressed hard against his chest.

“Say it,” Bruce insists. “I want you to look at me and say it.”

Clark opens his eyes. Bruce sees open lust there but something else too, something he doesn’t understand — something darker and wilder and more intense than even this, and it makes Bruce remember that as similar as they may look, as familiar as it is to have a body in his arms responding to his touch, Clark is still absolutely alien, and Bruce is in no less danger now than he ever is when Clark looks at him with heat in his eyes. That this heat is from desire rather than anger makes no difference.

“I want,” Clark says slowly, clearly, eyes boring into his, “I want you to fuck me, Bruce.” He takes a breath. “With nothing in between.”

The words hit Bruce like the blows he took during the mission earlier, knocking the air out of his lungs even as his cock gets impossibly harder. His mind brings up the potential dangers as quickly as it dismisses them — as volatile as things between them could be Clark wouldn’t suggest anything that could hurt him, Bruce is certain of that. Still, he knows it isn’t entirely safe — but then, nothing about any of this is safe. And not just physically, some small part of him thinks, but he shoves that thought away in favour of giving Clark’s cock one last rough stroke before he takes a step backwards.

He takes another step to the side, watching Clark watch him in the window as he pulls his underwear off. Clark licks his lips when Bruce is finally naked, gaze raking over Bruce’s body like he wants to devour him alive. It’s not much different to how he’d looked when he lifted Bruce up by the throat and threw him into a parked car and the thought makes Bruce even harder.

There's a convenient tube of lube on the floor — probably from the broken table — and he gets himself slicked up quickly. He strokes himself lightly, and very briefly — he’s painfully hard already and knows he won’t last long. But Clark’s eyes darken immediately, fingers twitching a little against the glass like he’s forcing himself to stay still.

Bruce steps up behind him again. He slowly trails a fingertip down Clark’s back, from the nape of his neck and down along his spine and then even further down than that, slipping into the cleft of his ass until Bruce finds what he was looking for. He doesn’t press in, not yet, just rubs and teases until Clark is pushing back against his hand, sucking in breaths like he’s been hit with a blast of kryptonite. Bruce reaches around him with his free hand and grabs his cock and Clark squeezes his eyes shut, looking almost like he’s in pain.

“Bruce,” he chokes out. “Would you just — oh, fuck,” he gasps, when Bruce suddenly pushes in. Clark pushes back against him and his greed for more makes Bruce groan. Clark is so tight around his finger, so tight and hot, that the prospect of feeling that bearing down on his own cock makes Bruce gasp, the mere thought alone almost enough to make him come.

Clark sees his reaction in the window and smiles, even as he moans when Bruce pushes a second finger in.

“I can make it good for you, Bruce,” Clark says, voice low and rough and breathless. “I’ve thought about it often enough. I know I can make it good.”

And Clark’s eyes are so full of heat, his voice so thick with need, that the last of Bruce’s self-control turns to ash under the force of it. He pulls his fingers out and grabs Clark by the hips, then lines himself up and pushes in with one long, slow thrust.

“Bruce, fuck —” Clark moans, eyes falling shut as Bruce fills him up. “Yes, more —”

“Clark —” Bruce gasps, panting hard and fingers digging into Clark’s hips as he desperately tries not to come at once. Clark around his fingers was nothing, nothing like Clark around his cock, a searing heat and tight pressure that’s so good, so good it’s actually painful, so good Bruce knows he’ll never be able to get past this — he'll never be able to look at Clark again and not remember what it was like to be buried deep inside him. Then Clark clenches around him and Bruce whimpers, actually whimpers, pressing his forehead against the back of Clark’s neck as his hips start moving on pure instinct, thrusting into the perfect heat of Clark’s perfect, willing body.

But Clark is just as far gone, fingers scrabbling at the window as Bruce fucks him hard against it, as Bruce pulls out almost all the way before slamming back in again, over and over, harder and harder, so hard that Bruce would be leaving bruises and drawing blood if it was anyone other than Clark pressed against him. And Clark just takes it, welcomes it, meeting him thrust for thrust, moaning his name and gasping obscenities that Bruce never thought he’d ever hear coming out of that sweet farmboy mouth.

“Look at me,” Bruce whispers into his ear, one hand pumping Clark’s cock in time with his thrusts and the other tangled tight in Clark’s soft, dark hair. “Look at us. Look at what we’re doing.”

With effort Clark lifts his head and their eyes meet in the window again. Clark’s whole body is flushed, chest heaving, arms shaking as he holds himself up against the force of Bruce pounding into him, again and again and again. His lips are parted, hair in disarray, cock hard and leaking in Bruce’s tight fist. Compared to how he normally looks, unassuming in his neat plaid button-downs or radiating pure power in the Superman suit, right now he looks utterly obscene, a pornographic fantasy ripped straight from some dark corner of Bruce’s labyrinthine mind.

“Is this how you imagined it,” Bruce asks, unable to stop himself. “Hard,” he gasps, slamming in again, “and rough?” He lets go of Clark’s cock and his hair, gripping his hips instead to get better leverage as the tension in him spins inexorably out of control. “Did you want to see my scars?” He suddenly slows down, so slow that he and Clark both cry out, shuddering hard against each other. Clark eyes are still on him, still watching his every move in the window, and Bruce can’t stop the words that fall from his lips, escaping from hidden places, ugly and unfiltered and raw. “See every mark — god,” he moans, speeding up again, “— of every failure on this fragile —” another thrust, “human —” and another, “—body?”

His last words are punctuated by thrusts so brutal that Clark doesn't even respond, head bowing against the force of Bruce pounding into him. The sight of their reflections makes Bruce groan and he knows he's seconds away from coming. And then Clark lifts his head again, a sudden smile spreading across his face, like he knows exactly how close Bruce is to losing it — and something flashes in those bright blue eyes that makes Bruce’s gut clench in apprehension. And then —

Clark suddenly tightens around him, hard and deliberate and shockingly strong — so strong that Bruce comes in an instant, his orgasm forcibly ripped right out of him. He cries out again, helpless to stop it, shuddering against Clark’s back, hands tight around Clark’s hips as he comes and comes, spilling into Clark’s body and panting hard against the back of his neck. It’s harsh and violent and unbearably, excruciatingly good, and the thought of what Clark was capable of, of how much control he must have over his own body, just makes Bruce come even harder.

He tries to get his breath back when he’s finally spent, gasping a little as he pulls out. But as soon he takes a step backwards Clark moves faster than he’s able to see and the next thing Bruce knows, his back is against the window and Clark’s hands are on his chest, keeping him firmly in place.

“Clark,” Bruce starts, but finds he has no idea what to say.

He can feel his heart beating against Clark’s palms, a rapid thud that he knows Clark can hear as clearly as Bruce's voice saying his name. Bruce is still panting, the violence of his orgasm still stealing his breath, and staring at Clark now, at the intense expression in his eyes and the clear implied threat in his hands over Bruce’s heart, Bruce knows he’s short of breath for another reason, too.

“You’re afraid of me,” Clark says suddenly. “Even now, you’re afraid of me.” He shakes his head a little, disbelieving despite the fact that he’s got Bruce pressed against the window like a moth pinned to a board. “Me,” he repeats. “Not Superman. Me.”

Bruce says nothing, but his racing pulse is answer enough. Clark stares at him for a moment, the expression on his face entirely unreadable before he slowly, slowly leans in. Bruce stays still but just before their mouths collide Clark ducks his head, and it takes far longer than it should for Bruce to understand what Clark is actually doing: he’s kissing every scar he can find, systematically brushing his lips over the multitude of marks scattered all over Bruce's skin — carved into his chest and shoulders, etched into his hands and arms.

“Don’t,” Bruce says. His voice is unexpectedly rough and it ends up sounding more like a question than an order.

“Yes.”

The word is breathed into one of Bruce’s biggest, ugliest scars, the one that rips across his shoulder and down over his chest. Serrated blades, Bruce remembers, made of some alloy the batsuit hadn’t been able to deflect yet. He'd gotten more than one scar that night, cold metal repeatedly piercing his skin and slicing his flesh, barely missing several vital organs, and Bruce still remembers how white Alfred’s face had been when he finally came to — white as a sheet, white as a ghost, staring at Bruce like — like he was the ghost.

“You see these as marks of failure,” Clark says, lips finding another scar, near his nipple this time — a faded pink stripe from an old fight Bruce no longer remembers the details of. Bruce gasps a little when Clark’s tongue licks over it, flicking over his nipple too. “You see failure,” Clark repeats. “But I see survival.”

He moves down Bruce’s torso, hands trailing down as he goes, the soft press of his lips and the careful flicks of his tongue keeping Bruce in place as effectively as the hands on his chest did before. Those hands are at Bruce’s waist now, and Bruce closes his eyes when Clark gets down on his knees, finding more and more marks to bless with brutally gentle kisses.

Clark mouths along another long scar, one that follows the curve of his hipbone, and Bruce’s breath hitches when his mouth finds the one that creeps up his inner thigh, the one he got when Robin —

“Clark.”

The word comes out like a plea and Clark stills, lips still grazing Bruce’s damaged skin.

“You see weakness,” Clark says softly. “I see strength.”

“Not enough." The words scrape painfully over Bruce's throat, bone-dry and squeezed tight with things long-buried. “Never enough.”

Clark stands. He waits until Bruce meets his eyes before he speaks again.

“Maybe not on your own,” he says. “But you’re not on your own. Not anymore.” He seems to hesitate, then adds, “Maybe you never were.”

Bruce tries to look away but Clark grabs his jaw and forces him to maintain eye contact. His grip isn't painful but it certainly isn’t gentle, either, and neither is the look in his eyes as he stares Bruce down.

“You’re afraid of me because you look at me and you see what I could do,” Clark says.

“You could snap me in half like a twig, Clark.”

“I could,” he agrees. “But I won’t. I wouldn’t.” Something flashes in his eyes again, something almost like desperation, or despair. “Why can't you look at me and just see what I'm doing now, instead of what I could do?”

Bruce swallows.

“And what are you doing right now, Clark?”

“This.”

For a split second he's gone in a sudden gust of wind, but before Bruce even registers what's happening Clark is lifting him up by the waist like he weighs nothing at all, holding him up against the window as he presses a finger into him.

“Fuck,” Bruce gasps, unprepared but not — not unwilling. Clark's finger is wet with lube and Bruce moans a little at the thought of how fast Clark must have moved to get his hand slicked up without Bruce even seeing it. He instinctively wraps his legs around Clark's waist and Clark hoists him up even higher; it makes his stomach brush over Bruce's oversensitive cock and Bruce gasps again, pleasure-pain shooting through him, not knowing whether he wants more or less of it. Clark pushes another finger in, staring at him like he's the only thing left in the entire world.

Then Clark adds another finger, and all three curl and hit Bruce in just the right spot, and against his will Bruce shudders hard before going boneless against the glass, Clark's superhuman strength the only thing keeping him upright.

“No,” Bruce tries to say, but the word dissolves into a moan as his head tips back and his hips push forward, trying to get more. Because he does and he doesn't want it; he wants Clark inside him but not — not like this. Bruce wants to be taken like he took Clark, a hard brutal fucking, just another fight like the ones they’ve had before but with the contexts flipped around. Not like this, this slow and careful undoing, this measured application of — not force, Bruce realises with a moan, as Clark replaces his fingers with his cock and Bruce can do nothing but close his eyes and take him in. This is something far worse, a controlled execution of something that hits more deeply than a physical blow ever could.

But Clark is relentless, single-minded in his attack. He fucks Bruce agonisingly slowly, hitting his prostate with merciless accuracy, until Bruce is shaking in Clark's arms, hands clutching his shoulders like he's a lifeline. Clark's face is flushed, with concentration as much as pleasure, and Bruce tries to turn away from the intensity in those damned blue eyes but Clark refuses to give him that, too — one hand comes up and cups the back of Bruce's head, fingers tangling in his hair and holding him in place, forcing Bruce to look him in the eye.

“I thought about it like this too,” Clark rasps, his voice so deep and rough that Bruce can practically feel it, dragging over his skin and sinking into his bones. “Nothing,” Clark adds, briefly closing his eyes when Bruce clenches around him, “nothing in between.”

Clark leans forward but stops when Bruce wrenches his head free, turning away and saving himself from that one last intimacy, despite knowing full well that Clark could take that by force as well. But Clark doesn't, and Bruce knew that he wouldn't, and it's that irrefutable truth that makes Bruce look back at Clark's face, where he sees a look in Clark's eyes that's far, far too understanding, too accepting by half.

“Nothing in between,” Clark repeats, voice barely audible, when Bruce meets his eyes again. He emphasises his words with another torturously slow thrust, and this time — this time Bruce doesn't look away, even though Clark is no longer holding his head still. He just stares back, and he doesn't know what he's seeing in Clark's eyes but he hopes whatever Clark can see in his is something less open, less exposed, less — weak, he thinks, but knows at once that that's a lie. Clark is staring at him just like he's fucking him — raw, bare, direct, the look in his eyes so clear it's impossible to misunderstand what he means.

This is the opposite of weakness, and they both know it.

And Clark must see it, see the understanding in the depths of Bruce's eyes, because he makes a choked sort of noise and slams Bruce against the window, and whatever control he showed before cracks wide open as he starts fucking Bruce for real. Not as hard as he could, nowhere near that hard, but hard enough that Bruce can do nothing but take it, the rest of the world obliterated by the feeling of Clark moving inside him, Clark's arms around his waist, Clark's unrelenting gaze staring right into him. It's almost too much for Bruce to process, tension building in him again even though he's already come, but Clark feels unbearably good inside him, like satisfying a craving he hadn't even known he'd had, and Bruce wishes he could be hard again for this, that he could feel it as intensely as Clark is feeling it now.

Neither of them speaks, neither of them can speak. Not with words, at least, because Bruce is sure that Clark is telling him something with every desperate thrust, with every moan that Bruce feels breathed out against his own skin. And Bruce tries to control it, bites his lip to stop it escaping, but his answers fall out anyway, quiet gasps and tiny wordless noises of his own, and it's not just because he's being fucked raw by someone who could destroy the whole goddamn planet if he wanted to. But that's just the point, Bruce thinks, as Clark hits his prostate again and again, as Bruce clenches around Clark's cock and drags out another low moan.

See what I'm doing, not what I could do.

Clark lifts one hand away from Bruce's waist, still effortlessly holding him in place, and touches Bruce's face, his neck, his chest. His fingers find Bruce's scars again and he traces over them like braille, like he can read their histories through his fingertips, and something inside Bruce twists when he realises that Clark's own skin isn't as unmarked as he thought it was. There is one scar, just one, faint but visible if you know where to look — and Bruce does know, because he's replayed the moment Clark got it over and over in his head a dozen, a hundred, a thousand times at least.

Bruce tries to look away again but Clark shakes his head, a desperate wordless plea, and Bruce can't refuse him this, not now that he's remembered. Not when Bruce can feel that Clark is almost, almost there, so close his whole body is shaking with it. So Bruce keeps looking, hands moving up from Clark's shoulders and tightening around his neck, and Clark leans forward again until their foreheads meet. They pant hard against each other’s open mouths, breathing each other in, so achingly close the temptation is maddening — but Clark doesn't move any closer, and Bruce can't take something he's no longer sure is being offered. But still they maintain eye contact, all filters gone, and as Clark drives into him again and again, shuddering with the effort of maintaining some sense of control, time loses all meaning until Clark screws his eyes shut, whole body tensing for a drawn-out second before he finally, finally comes. Bruce can feel it when it happens, Clark's cock pulsing inside him, and again he wishes he could be hard for this, that there was some way he could release the tension that's still building even now as he watches Clark lose himself in it, in Bruce's own body. Clark is utterly silent as he comes, biting his lip, the hand on Bruce’s waist squeezing hard enough to bruise, the fingers on Bruce’s chest curling over the racing heartbeat there like he wants to hold it in his hand and never let it go.

They stay like that for a while, Clark still buried deep inside him, Clark’s eyes still shut tight. And for the first time ever Bruce lets himself stare, lets himself run his eyes all over Clark’s face in a way he never has before: at the way his hair curls at the nape of his neck, at the sheen of sweat on his skin; at the sharp angle of his jaw and the dark sweep of eyelashes where they rest against his cheek.

And then Bruce looks down, over Clark's throat, across his chest, and his eyes land on the mark that he can hardly bear to look at, let alone touch. But Clark is still inside him, still wrapped around him, and — Clark had gotten what he’d wanted, Bruce realises, because there’s nothing in between them now, nothing at all. Bruce takes an unsteady breath but he bows his head anyway, pressing his lips against the one and only imperfection that mars Clark’s otherwise flawless skin. For a second or two Clark goes absolutely still, so still he must have stopped breathing, and it’s far too close a reminder of why Clark was scarred in the first place that Bruce’s fingers tighten reflexively around Clark’s neck. He hears Clark’s breath hitch; feels it too, stuttering through his chest, and Bruce presses another kiss to the scar before he opens his mouth and says:

“Stay.” He brushes his lips over the mark again and feels Clark’s heartbeat pound hard against his mouth. “Tonight.”

“Just tonight?”

Bruce closes his eyes.

“Making promises isn’t wise for people in our line of work.”

Another hard thump of Clark’s heart against his lips, and then another and another.

“That’s an excuse, not an answer.”

Clark’s voice is quiet but utterly resolute and really, Bruce hadn't expected anything less.

He can feel Clark’s eyes on him, watching, waiting, asking for nothing. Asking for everything.

“Stay,” Bruce repeats. Clark tenses, waiting for the caveat, the clause. But Bruce is silent, and Clark inhales sharply before he speaks again.

“All right,” Clark says eventually, one hand tight around Bruce’s waist, the other warm and heavy on Bruce's chest. “Okay.”

If his voice is a little unsteady, they both pretend to ignore it.

*

Sunlight streams in through the windows, hitting Bruce full in the face. His eyes flicker open but he has to shut them again quickly, the room far brighter than it usually is when he wakes up in the morning. It must be late, he thinks. And then the bed shifts beside him, and Bruce remembers — everything, really.

He turns his head.

Clark is lying next to him, slowly coming awake too. He stretches like a giant cat, arms pulled taut over his head as his back arches up off the bed. Morning light catches the sharp jut of a hipbone, the curve of his bare chest, before Clark lays back again and just soaks it all up, practically glowing with it, warm and gold and — alive.

When he opens his eyes he’s looking right at Bruce, like he knew he was being watched. Like he knew, maybe, what Bruce was thinking. What Bruce was going to say.

“Waking up in a glass box seems to be good for you.”

Clark stares at him for a moment.

“I’m not sure it’s just the box, though.”

Bruce can think of a dozen different ways to end this before it inevitably gets out of hand, ways to make Clark look at him with something he can handle better than the way Clark is looking at him now. But he's the one who asked Clark to stay, and Clark had done as he was asked, and seeing him now, the barest hint of tension in his body as he lays there on Bruce's bed, watching Bruce with eyes that are still stubbornly unguarded despite the increasingly lengthy silence, Bruce knows there's really only one thing he can do.

He reaches over and touches Clark’s chest, covers the faint mark there with the palm of his hand. Clark’s heartbeat is strong and steady and if there's anything Bruce might be inclined to count on, surely this would be one of them.

“Maybe we should find out,” Bruce says, and feels the heart under his hand skip a beat.

Clark briefly closes his eyes. And then he smiles, just a little, and if Clark doesn’t mention it then maybe Bruce can pretend his own pulse doesn’t pick up at the sight of it.

“Sounds like a plan,” Clark says. He sits up a little and reaches out too, fingers sweeping over Bruce’s arm and shoulder before coming to rest against the side of his neck, thumb brushing over his stubbled jaw.

“I'm told it's what I do best,” Bruce replies. “Making plans.”

Clark's smile widens.

“So I’ve heard.” He shuffles closer, slowly, giving Bruce all the time in the world to move away. Bruce stays right where he is. “Do you take suggestions?” Clark asks, gaze lowering to Bruce’s mouth before flicking back up again.

Bruce doesn’t answer. But when Clark leans down and kisses him, Bruce just pulls him closer and kisses him back.


Going back to class made Clarke happy. But not as happy as walking there hand in hand with Lexa.

The blonde couldn't stop smiling. She was literally glowing.

Lexa blushed shyly from time to time and Clarke found it adorable and endearing. The blonde couldn't be more in love.

They kissed briefly in front of the lockers and Clarke teased Lexa about how cute her ears looked all red.

During lunch they sat with the gang, ate, revised their notes about the upcoming and important math test.

Clarke observed Lexa while the brunette talked with Murphy. Being finally able to act like any other couple was so great.

"God you're practically drooling" Raven rolled her eyes at the blonde.

Clarke raised an eyebrow at her friend "Envy is a bad disease, Raven. I hope you get the help you need"

Raven snorted "Very mature, Clarke"

The blonde simply smiled shaking her head and returned her gaze to Lexa. The brunette found her hand under the table and they laced their fingers together.

----

Lexa hugged Clarke from behind as the blonde opened the door of their house.

"Aren't you tired?" Clarke asked, grinning as Lexa kissed her neck and hugged her more tightly "Today was a long day"

"I'm feeling fresh and renewed now" Lexa smirked kissing the blonde's neck again.

"Good" Clarke chuckled and turned her face to press her lips to Lexa's in a loving kiss.

Clarke giggled quietly while Lexa dropped more kisses on her neck as they walked like that into the living room.

A firm cough broke the moment the girls were immersed. Lexa's smile faded away when she saw her father standing there.

Clarke grew serious too and wanted to complain when she felt Lexa pulling back from her body. She gazed at the brunette and held her hand reassuringly. Lexa offered the blonde a soft smirk in return and held her hand more firmly.

"Abby is working tonight" Marcus began statically "I'm going to make the dinner"

"We can take care of that" Clarke offered while looking at Lexa "Right?"

The brunette looked back at the blonde and nodded "Yeah" she brushed her thumb over her hand.

"If you want" Marcus shrugged "Ok"

When the girls changed their clothes they began with the cooking.

Lexa sticked out her tongue in concentration as she cutted the vegetables and potatoes. Clarke seasoned and cut the chicken with a smile.

"I hope we still do this when we live together" Lexa said distractedly.

"We already live together" Clarke chuckled.

Lexa smiled "Yeah. But I mean when we live outside the Campus" she began while putting the cut vegetables and potatoes inside the casserole "In our own apartment, you know" she smiled at Clarke "Or maybe in a loft. That would be cool"

Clarke stared at the brunette in total awe and adoration.

Lexa frowned "Clarke, the chicken" she pointed at the counter where the chicken was waiting to join the casserole "Clarke?"

But the blonde simply closed the short distance and kissed Lexa. Long and lovingly. She wanted to pour everything she was feeling in that moment into that kiss.

Lexa's hands rested on the blonde's hips as she pulled back a little "What was that for?"

"I love you" Clarke started emotionally. Her blue eyes shinning "And I can't wait to live with you in our own place. Apartment, loft or shoes box, I don't care as long as we're together"

Lexa smirked and moved one hand to caress the blonde's cheek "I love you too, my love" she kissed Clarke once more before pulling back with a smile "A shoes box, really?

Clarke laughed merrily, grazing her blunt nails over the back of Lexa's neck "I admit we'll be a little tight, but that doesn't have to be a bad thing" she pecked the brunette's lips sweetly "We can be cuddling all the time"

"Yeah?" Lexa bit her lip.

Clarke nodded happily.

"And what about a tent in some campsite?" Lexa continued, enjoying the blonde's bright smile.

"Would do too" Clarke shrugged.

"A black one?"

"Green" Clarke clarified running her thumb over the brunette's jawline.

Lexa smirked "Will you marry me?"

For a moment Clarke froze unsure if what she heard was real or not. She stared at Lexa in total surprise. Her heart pounding so hard and loud that she wonder if the brunette could hear it too.

"When we finish College" Lexa continued, looking at the stunned blonde lovingly "Will you?"

"Yes" Clarke choked, she was already crying without noticing "Yes" she repeated more loudly, more happily. Lexa's green eyes grew watery too and Clarke cupped her face smiling through her own tears "Yes, I will totally marry you, Lexa"

Lexa smiled and trapped the blonde's lips in a intense kiss.

Clarke rested her forehead against the brunette's when the kiss ended. Her heart racing and a permanent smile on her lips.

----

The dinner wasn't as awkward as they expected. Marcus was silent, but Clarke and Lexa couldn't stop glancing and smiling at each other.

"How are things going at high school?" Marcus asked while picking a piece of chicken with his fork. His eyes on the plate.

"Good" Lexa replied simply.

"I can't believe we're gonna graduate in a few months" Clarke said cheerfully, gazing at Lexa with a grin.

"But first is your birthday" the brunette smirked and pointed her fork at Clarke.

Marcus cleared his throat, making both girls to look at him "Did you....apply for College, Lexa?"

"Yes" the brunette nodded seriously "Now I have to wait"

"And soon I'll be applying too" Clarke added happily.

"Where?" Marcus asked rasing his eyes to the blonde.

"Polis UC" Clarke glanced at Lexa with a smile.

Marcus chewed his food "Are you going to go to College together?"

"That's the plan" Lexa bit a potato.

Marcus simply nodded and grew silent for a couple of minutes "Polis is really far away from here" he said after taking a sip of his water.

Lexa and Clarke exchanged curious looks before the brunette replied to her father.

"Only 5-6 hours in car"

Both girls stared at Marcus. Waiting for him to say something.

But he nodded again and continued the dinner in silence.

----

The next morning was grey and the air is crispy and cold. Even with the Spring around the corner, the town was loyal to its usual weather.

But inside Lexa's bed they felt warm, calm and happy.

After the dinner last night, they washed the dishes and Marcus retired to his study mumbling good night, and basically disappearing for the rest of the night.

But Clarke was more than happy to drag Lexa into her room and kiss her passionately, before undressing in front of hungry, eager green eyes.

The brunette's question about marriage still fresh and vivid on the blonde's mind. Making her heart race uncontrolled and static.

And there they were. Naked, flushed together, satisfied and blissful.

Lexa sighed softly as she started to wake up. Clarke running her fingertips over the brunette's arm around her waist.

"I have to go to the arts club" the blonde whispered lazily, breaking the peaceful quietness of the room.

Lexa sighed again but didn't move.

Clarke smirked and slowly turned around, pressing her body to Lexa again,  and tangling her legs with hers.

"Come on" the blonde urged gently "I want to have breakfast with you before leaving"

Finally Lexa's green eyes opened a little. A tiny smirk dancing on her lips.

"Or you could stay here and I'll bring you the breakfast to bed" the brunette offered with sleepy voice.

Clarke smiled widely and pressed their bodies impossibly closer "Come on, baby. Rise and shine" she cooed cheerfully.

After sharing sleepy, lazy kisses for long solid minutes, Lexa went to shower first as Clarke gave the last touches to the drawings she needed to take to the arts club.

Clarke went to shower after the brunette emerged from the bathroom, and kissed her full lips with a hum of pleasure.

Lexa dried her hair and dressed before descending the stairs. Marcus was on the kitchen sipping at his coffee, dressed and ready to leave for work.

"Good morning" Lexa said softly, opening the fridge and grabbing the orange juice.

"Good morning" Marcus replied looking at his watch "Abby is still sleeping after the night shift. I'm leaving now, ok?"

Lexa nodded and poured two glasses of juice.

"I made french toasts" Marcus spoke again after clearing his throat "The mail is on the coffee table" he instructed before grabbing his briefcase "Clarke's magazine about art is there"

Lexa smiled softly, despite how cold things were between her and her father. It was clear the man was trying. In his own way, but trying at least.

"Thank you, dad" the brunette finally said.

Marcus nodded and left the house. Lexa shook her head with a smirk.

The brunette was tempted to call Clarke and tell her to hurry up. But Abby was sleeping and she didn't want to disturb her rest.

So she walked to the living room while waiting for the blonde, and grabbed the mail from the coffee table around a big yawn.

Clarke's arts magazine was effectively there. The blonde subscribed a couple of months ago.

Lexa smirked and put the magazine over the table again. She frowned when she saw a different envelope under one of the bank's letters.

When she grabbed the envelope and fully saw it, she widened her eyes and opened it without care.

She read the words a couple of times trying to convince herself it was real. And it was.

The brunette jumped with a happy yell and ran upstairs calling out Clarke.

"Clarke!" she climbed up the stairs in big strides "Clarke!"

The blonde opened her bedroom door confused and alarmed. Her hair still wet "Lexa, what's wron--" but she couldn't finish because the brunette hugged her and twirled her around as she laughed with happiness.

"I'm in, Clarke!" Lexa exclaimed when she put the blonde on the floor again. Her smile radiant and wide "I'm in! I'm going to Polis UC!"

Clarke smiled brightly "You're in!" she cupped the brunette's face.

"I'm in!"

"You're in!"

They kissed lovingly, dizzy.

Lexa laughed again and lifted the blonde, twirling her around the room.

Clarke's laughter joined the brunette's.


The problem with having a doctor for a parent is that hiding injuries or illness is much more difficult. Taehyung already knew this, but he never thought this would be something he would have to worry about. He tells his fathers everything already, so he didn’t think he would ever have to hide something like that from them.

Thankfully, no bruises formed by the time he got in the car to go home. Unfortunately, he was still feeling the side-effects of having his head slammed against the wall so violently as well as the shock of his boyfriend doing something so brutal to him.

He had a bit of trouble maintaining his balance for the rest of the day, stumbling whenever he needed to pick something up. He even bumped into corners a few times, which was pretty unpleasant. On top of all of that, he was having trouble remembering things that occurred that day. Taehyung definitely remembers how his injury happened, but he doesn’t remember much else about the day.

Did he do his presentation with Jackson today? He can’t remember. Did it go well? He thinks today was supposed to be the day of the project, but he can’t really remember. “How was your day, Tae?” Jin had asked as soon as Taehyung got in the car. He seemed to think nothing was abnormal about his son, but Taehyung’s account probably isn’t the most reliable.

“It was okay,” Taehyung said, which was obviously a lie. The only thing he can definitively remember about his day was the pain Jackson caused him, so he would definitely consider that a bad day.

Jin, Jimin, and Jeongguk didn’t have anything else to say about Taehyung. He probably didn’t seem suspicious. He hardly said anything for the duration of the drive, after all.

When he arrived home, however, things took a turn for the worse.

Taehyung’s head was already pounding by the time he arrived home, which was something he could live with. It’s just a headache and he can handle that. If he took any medicine for it, his parents and brothers would probably get suspicious because he doesn’t usually get headaches.

On top of his ever-present headache, however, Taehyung was beginning to feel nauseous.

It started during dinner. The smell of the japchae was simply too much for himto handle. He usually loves the dish, so when Taehyung hardly ate any of it, Namjoon could tell that something was the matter.

“Are you feeling alright, Tae?” Namjoon asked, looking at his son curiously. “You’ve hardly touched your food.” Japchae is something Taehyung loves, so it came as a bit of a surprise when he hardly ate any of it.

“Um...yeah,” Taehyung had responded. He knew it was a bit too slow, so the suspicious looks from his family came as no surprise. “I’m just...not really hungry right now.”

That’s even more suspicious, because Taehyung isn’t a picky eater. He doesn’t eat as much as Jimin and Jeongguk do (those two could probably finish an entire buffet by themselves), but he’s much more open to eating different foods than Hoseok and Yoongi. Yoongi is the pickiest eater of the bunch, so it isn’t unusual for him to leave a large portion of his meals untouched if he doesn’t like them.

Still, Namjoon decided to let it slide. Maybe Taehyung had a tough day at school. As long as he’s still saying he’s okay, Namjoon believes him. He’s never had a reason not to trust the boy before (other than the little pranks and shenanigans he and Jimin do, but that’s a different story).

However, when Taehyung suddenly stood up from the dinner table and ran to the bathroom, everyone was surprised. No one spoke for a moment, simply looking at each other and the direction in which Taehyung took off.

“Should someone...?” Jimin began to ask, concerned for his brother. He seemed just fine this morning, so it would be rather surprising to learn that he hadn’t been feeling well all day. Something must have happened at school today, then. There weren’t many times during the day that Jimin wasn’t with Taehyung, except for the classes they didn’t share and at lunch, since Jimin was sitting with his new friend group.

“I’ll go check on him,” Namjoon said, standing up slowly, pushing his chair in. Jin nodded, deciding to leave the situation to his husband. While Namjoon dealt with whatever was going on with Taehyung, he would help the kids currently at the table relax, and reassure them that his brother is just fine despite not knowing the answer himself.

The second Taehyung bursts into the bathroom and immediately throws up into the toilet, he knows his fathers are going to have a hard time believing that he’s fine, as he has been saying recently. He’s especially worried about Namjoon. He knows his father is a doctor, so that makes hiding his injuries even more difficult.

Even though Namjoon is a cardiac specialist, he’ll still know much more about health than anyone else in the family. So, when his father opens the bathroom door and gives him a sympathetic look, he isn’t surprised.

“Sorry,” Taehyung chokes out, flushing the toilet. He tears off a piece of toilet paper to wipe his mouth with. “I don’t know what’s going on with me.”

That much is very true. Taehyung knows he is in way over his head when it comes to Jackson. Sometimes he feels bad for lying to his family so much about everything. Actually, he feels that way most of the time. Maybe it would be better to just tell his fathers. Maybe it would be better to break up with Jackson even if he’s afraid of the consequences.

He knows that Jackson won’t ever stop. No matter how many times his boyfriend apologizes, he knows his words mean nothing. Maybe it would be better to tell someone and get it to stop already.

Whatever. It’s not like he can even form a coherent sentence right now.

“It’s fine, Tae,” Namjoon says, giving his son a hug. He doesn’t feel a fever, so he isn’t quite sure what’s wrong with the boy. He might have to dig a little deeper if he wants to figure out what’s going on. “Can you tell me a little bit about your day while you rest?”

Namjoon leads Taehyung to the boy’s bedroom, allowing him to lie down on the bed. Taehyung looks exhausted, and Namjoon wonders what’s going on with him. How much does he not know about Taehyung?

Asking the boy about his day seems like a good start. Depending on how well he can recall the events of the day and depending on what those events were altogether will tell Namjoon a lot about the boy’s condition.

“I don’t know,” Taehyung says. His words are becoming a bit slurred, which Namjoon suspects might be either from exhaustion or...something else. “It was okay, I guess. I think I did my project with Jackson today.”

“Jackson,” Namjoon thinks aloud, trying to recall why that name sounded so familiar. “That’s the boy you’re interested in, right?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Taehyung responds. “He’s my boyfriend now, Appa. He’s on the football team and he’s sooo cute. I really like him.”

That comes as a shock to Namjoon. Boyfriend? Since when did Taehyung have a boyfriend? He knew about his son’s crush on his classmate, but he didn’t know they were officially together. That sounds like a pretty big thing to hide from his parents. Namjoon wonders if the other boys know about this.

“Oh,” Namjoon says. “That’s...that’s great, Tae. I’m really happy for you.” He’ll have a more in-depth conversation with his son about the matter later, but he needs to treat him gently for now, since he still isn’t entirely sure what’s going on. “Do you sit with Jackson at lunch, or are you and Jimin still as close as ever?”

Namjoon would be able to tell a lot from the boy’s answer. If Taehyung isn’t hanging out with Jimin anymore, then this Jackson guy must be a very important person to Taehyung. He isn’t sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing.

“I don’t know,” Taehyung says. He huffs out a sigh and covers his eyes with his arm. “Jiminie and I had a fight a while ago, so he stopped sitting with me at lunch. I’ve been sitting with Jackson since then. We made up on your birthday, but Jimin still sits with his own friends.”

That is news to Namjoon.

He had a feeling that something was strange between Jimin and Taehyung recently, as did Jin, but he didn’t realize it had become a bigger issue. Perhaps Taehyung is simply trying to replace Jimin with Jackson, even if they have supposedly “made up.” That’s what it sounds like, anyway.

“Okay,” Namjoon says. “This Jackson guy...does he treat you well, Tae?” That’s a very important question to ask. If Jackson isn’t good for his son, then he won’t approve of the relationship. If Jackson isn’t an absolute gentleman to Taehyung, then Namjoon doesn’t approve.

“Sometimes,” Taehyung responds. His words are becoming even more slurred, and Namjoon thinks he has an idea of what is going on with his son. “When he’s nice, he’s really nice. But when he’s mean, he’s really mean. That’s normal, though, I guess.”

That’s definitely not normal. With all of Namjoon’s life experience, he knows that relationships will have their ups and downs, but a partner should never be “mean” in a relationship, especially if it’s Taehyung who’s saying that; Taehyung, the boy who thinks highly of even the worst of people. If Taehyung is calling his own boyfriend “mean,” Namjoon isn’t sure what to think.

“Oh,” Namjoon says again. He has a feeling that Taehyung wouldn’t be telling him all of this if he wasn’t in the state he’s currently in. “Okay.”

If Namjoon wants to get to the bottom of this strange situation and ensure his son’s safety, he’ll have to ask the difficult questions. If he’s wrong about his suspicion, then he might lose Taehyung’s trust. If he’s correct, though...

“Do you want to tell me how you got that concussion, Taehyung?” Namjoon asks. He says this gently yet sternly as if to tell Taehyung that there isn’t any room for excuses.

Taehyung’s breath hitches in his throat. Did he say too much? He must have, if his father is asking him something like that. How did he know it is a concussion, anyway? Oh, right. His dad is a doctor. Of course he would know right away. Of course he would know even when Taehyung himself didn’t know.

“I-I...” Taehyung struggles to come up with an answer. He’s pretty sure that even if his brain was functioning normally, he wouldn’t be able to. “I can’t say, Appa.” A brief pause. Then, “You already know.”

That’s all that Namjoon needs to hear.

“Okay,” he says, stroking his son’s hair. He is sure that the boy needs all the kindness and gentleness he can get right now. “Get some rest, Tae. You’re in no condition to go back to school tomorrow, so don’t worry about waking up early. Sleep as long as you’d like, okay?”

Taehyung doesn’t have the strength to argue, so he simply nods. He rolls over on his side and allows himself to relax for the first time in days.

While he does so, Namjoon gets up to find his husband. “Jin, honey?” he asks, seeing the man beginning to clean up after dinner. Unfortunately, neither Namjoon nor Taehyung had the opportunity to eat much of it, but that’s the last thing on his mind right now. “We need to talk.”

Jin looks surprised. “I need to finish cleaning,” he says, though there is no conviction in his voice. If it’s serious, he’ll drop everything he’s doing at a moment’s notice. If it isn’t, he would rather finish cleaning up first.

Namjoon shakes his head. “No, Jin, we need to talk now,” he says, much more seriously this time. Jin can tell that the man is angry, but he knows that anger isn’t directed towards him. It probably isn’t directed towards Taehyung, either, so Jin is very confused.

“What’s going on?” Jin asks after he and Namjoon head to their shared room. Namjoon sucks in a deep breath. Jin can tell that whatever he’s about to say is going to be extremely serious. His usually-happy and kind husband hardly ever gets upset like this.

“It’s Taehyung,” he says. “I think...I think he’s being abused.”