all kinds of deeper wonderment

deeper wonderment: walk backward toward you

Wed, 22 Aug 2007 07:39:12 GMT

Title: walk backward toward you
Author: just_katarin
Pairings: Bruce/Oliver (mentions of Bruce/Chloe, Oliver/f and Oliver/m)
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 10,376
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
Notes: Art | Oh, perilous place - Bruce's story
Thanks: Much, mucho thanks go to way2busymom and technosage for beta duties.

He really should have waited until the second day of classes, or at least lunch. He should have known Clark would throw some kind of hissy-fit and the last thing he needs is to get reamed by a Prefect in front of all the new kids.

"What do you mean we should open up tryouts for Seeker?" Clark asks, face the perfect picture of outrage. "We have a Seeker, a good one. What you aren't going to play Quidditch anymore?"

"Don't be stupid, Clark," Oliver tells him, buttering a roll and shrugging. "I'm not the right build for Seeker anymore, so I'm going out for one of the open Chaser positions."

"Chaser," Clark replies flatly and rolls his eyes. "Of course. Did Bruce put you up to this? Diana?" Clark turns to her, gesturing with his fork in Oliver's general direction. "Talk some sense into him."

Diana frowns, cocking her head and looking at Oliver. He's seen that exact look before; he watched her make faces like that this summer in Greece and from the intense way she's staring at him he knows she's remembering that too. "It would be a good thing, Oliver, to step outside of Bruce's shadow once in awhile. He's a good friend to you, but don't you think you should be making your own decisions?"

"What Diana is being way too diplomatic to say--" Clark interrupts "--is that we're sixth years, we're examples for our entire House and it doesn't send a good message to the lower classman when you act like Bruce Wayne's lapdog."

"Excuse me?" Oliver asks, giving up even the pretense of enjoying his breakfast and instead glaring at Clark from across the table.

"Are you going to tell me that you just happen to be switching to play Bruce's Quidditch position? Because that's a hell of a coincidence," Clark tells him.

"You can't expect me to just rotate you into one of the open Chaser positions because you want it Oliver," Diana adds, face still pinched and not looking particularly pleased with Clark's handling of this. "There are a lot of students who've been waiting for an opportunity, students who haven't been able to be on the team before."

The clatter of his silverware hitting his plate is loud in the quiet murmur of several hundred students not quite awake in the Great Hall; he sees several heads turn their way and huffs out a breath of annoyance. He stands up, taking hold of his plate in one hand and his newspaper and tea in the other. "I never asked you to do me any favors, Diana. I'm trying out just like everybody else," he tells her with a glare, before rolling his eyes at Clark and heading in the direction of the Slytherin table.

"Kindly hold the witty comments for after I've sat down and they aren't watching anymore," he tells Chloe, tossing his paper onto the table then taking the open seat next to Lex. Chloe's kind enough to move her feet off the chair, and barely manages to hide her wicked smile behind her teacup.

Aside from Chloe, though, there is a certain tightness to the Slytherin table. There's a clump of second and third years being very certain not to look over in their direction, eyes facing down as if their porridge and toast had somehow cast entrancing enchantments on them all. "Well, judging from the expressions down at that end, either Lex has been singing or Bruce has already made someone cry. Since all of the glassware remains intact, I'll assume it was the latter." He looks up at Bruce, a small, tense smile on his face. "Enjoying the reins of absolute power?" It's not as smooth as it could be, as it should be, but he doubts anyone but Bruce will be able to tell.

"So I assume your own flippant remarks call an end to the moratorium on witty comments?" Chloe asks, before Lex or Bruce can even open their mouths and Oliver has no doubt as to what it is she wants to ask. "Because I'd be interested to know what exactly has the heads of Gryffindor causing such a ruckus in the Great Hall." She turns to Bruce with a coy smile. "What is it you call behavior like that Bruce? Common?"

"There are a lot of things that are Common in this room, Chloe." Oliver looks directly at Lex before turning back to her "We Gryffindor's aren't one of them." Chloe doesn't seem terribly amused.

"I'd call it unseemly," Bruce says watching Oliver from across the table, sculpted eyebrows furrowing with disapproval. "All of it."

Oliver just grins at him, no apology in his eyes at all. He ignores Lex's huff of annoyance and instead focuses on his paper in front of him. "I see you've made yet another coup, Chloe," he says, folding the paper in half before he begins to read aloud. "Goblin Cultural Reclamation in the Americas by Chloe Sullivan. "

He reads the entire article, pointing out the most skeptical parts: "It's as yet unknown whether the Goblin Cultural Reclamation Society of America (GCRSA) is planning to reclaim the Goblin Riots of 1700 or the particularly bloody Rebellion in 1612. It is heartening to know however, that thus far, no member of the GCRSA has stepped forward as Urg the Unclean II."

When he finishes, he turns to Chloe. "So tell me, are you trying to piss off the American Goblins or does it just make good copy?"

"A bit of both really," Chloe replies, stealing a piece of bacon off of Oliver's plate. "The entire idea is ridiculous. Goblin society has settled into an uneasy truce with the Wizarding world. And by uneasy, I mean extremely tenuous. Everyone knows there are smaller factions of Goblins working to subvert the wizarding governments of the world."

"Sounds like some one has been reading a bit too much muggle science fiction," Lex tells her, smirking over at Bruce.

Bruce says nothing, just raises an eyebrow in reproach and Lex looks away. Oliver only barely holds back a grin, thinking it best not to provoke Bruce or Lex again. He sets his paper down and takes a bite of his eggs, planning to keep ribbing Chloe about the article that's sure to mean Howlers and hate mail coming her way.

"Continue," Bruce says, and when Oliver looks up he's watching him from across the table.

"Hmm?" Oliver can only manage an inquisitive sound around the food in his mouth. It also helps to cover the flush he feels at Bruce’s regard, Bruce’s eyes on him and he’s glad he has a reason not to speak yet. And it is, of course, for the best; the last thing he needs is a look from Bruce about poor table manners, or anything else really.

"Continue reading... if you please," Bruce says again, and it's the please that makes Oliver smile while he swallows, before picking his paper back up and reading the entire Daily Prophet out loud.

He skips over most of the stock page, only reporting on those that are most important: the galleon is up, the knut is fluctuating again, Wayne, Queen and Luthor stocks are up and Gringott's is expanding again. Bruce isn't the only one listening, Chloe and even Lex are turned toward him and he can see a couple of fourth years further down the table leaning in and quieting down. Story time at the Slytherin breakfast table starring Gryffindor sixth year Oliver Queen.

He hopes Clark's watching.

***

"So is it true?" Wally asks him, pouncing on Oliver the moment he and Clark enter the greenhouse, they’re repotting vendra today and Professor Sprout wants them to pair up in order to watch for ill effects of vendra spore inhalation. "Booster heard from Ted who heard from Bea. And Bill Weasley and Dean Winchester told Bea that you weren't going to be Gryffindor's Seeker this year."

Oliver can feel Clark getting angry beside him, shoulders setting in a rigid line; he's probably only moments away from grinding his teeth. Smooth move, Wally, Oliver thinks but forces himself to smile.

"Not all of us can manage being as fast as you are, or keeping your girlish figure," he teases, slapping his work gloves against Wally's flat stomach. "Speaking of which, don't your parents feed you over summer holiday, West? I swear at this rate you'll come back in seventh year nothing but skin and red hair."

"And I'll still be flying circles around you," Wally shoots back, smiling and smacking Oliver back. "C'mon, can you really blame us for being excited? If Gryffindor doesn't have a Seeker, we're that much closer to winning the Quidditch Cup."

"Gryffindor will have a Seeker," Clark says, moving up close so he's looming over Wally. "Don't doubt that for a minute. There's no way Hufflepuff is beating us again this year."

"Okay," Wally replies, holding his hands up. "I'm going to go over there, with Booster and the other people who aren't crazy." He nods to Oliver once more before backing away. "It's just a game, Clark," he tosses back over his shoulder as he heads deeper into the greenhouse.

"You see what you're doing?" Clark asks, turning to crowd Oliver as soon as Wally's gone. "Wally isn't the first person to say it and he's not going to be the last. All of this is reflecting back on Gryffindor. It's just a matter of time until everyone is saying what Wally is. After last year, we can't afford to screw up like this. We have a good chance for a solid team and you're one of the cornerstones for that. Diana's counting on you. Gryffindor is counting on you."

He works to keep the frown off his face. "Clark, seriously first of all, I'm not quitting. Second of all, like Wally said, it's just a game. Kindly quit being so crazy. We share a dorm and I worry it might be contagious," Oliver tells him setting his things down so he can pull on his Herbology gear.

"Oh so you're actually planning to spend time in the dorm this year?" Clark shoots back. "Because I was beginning to think the Slytherins have some kind of twenty four hour massage parlor down in the dungeons or something, all the time you spent down there last year." Clark grabs hold of Oliver's bicep. "It's no coincidence, all the time you spend with Bruce, doing exactly what Bruce says and hanging on his every word. And now suddenly you don't want to be Seeker anymore. Now you want to play Bruce’s position. Everyone sees it; the entire school saw you crawling to him when Diana and I called you on this stuff. Grow a backbone."

He's not going to hit Clark in a room full of people; he's not going to hit Clark in a room full of people. He's going to fucking kill Clark the moment they're alone. "First, get your hands off me," he tells Clark, eyes narrowed and voice lowered. "Second, take your own advice and grow some spine there yourself. No matter what anyone says about me, it could never match what the entire school says about you. Diana says 'jump' and you don't even ask 'how high' until you're already in the air."

He turns away from Clark, because if he sticks around here much longer he's going to hit Clark until he bleeds, or hex him something fierce. "Hey, Tora," he calls out across the room, smiling when the blonde Hufflepuff timidly looks up, eyes wide. She’s already in her full Herbology gear, eager as always to make things grow as they do not in her frozen homeland. "Tell me you're not working with anyone." He doesn't look back at Clark, just makes his way across the greenhouse.

Abandoning Clark for a Hufflepuff, that should really piss him off.

But even an entire room away from Clark and Clark's words, sitting next to a beautiful girl he spends the entire class period teasing, her pretty face flushing bright red, Oliver can't stop thinking about it. About crawling to Bruce. On his hands and knees making his way across the Great Hall, cock heavy with anticipation and Bruce's eyes dark with lust, watching him. He flushes with shame at the indignity of it as well as how hard just the idea of it makes him.

"Are you okay?" Tora asks, taking off her gloves and pressing a cool hand to his forehead. "You're a bit warm. Did you inhale any of the vendra?" Her hand moves until it's against his cheek, tilting his head up, and he knows his pupils are dilated, so he turns his head and captures her palm in a kiss.

"Just not used to the greenhouse yet. Couple that with my beautiful partner and you can see why I might be a little overwhelmed," he tells her, running his thumb over the back of her hand from knuckles to wrist.

Tora blushes again and looks down, concentrating on trimming the wilted vendra leaves. Oliver tries to readjust himself as subtly as possible. He doubts Tora notices, she’s just not that sort of girl.

***

Wally had told him that Tora and Bea were kind of sort of maybe a couple, and Oliver has to admit he doesn't mind that in the slightest. Bea will be easy to win over; it's Tora who would take convincing. He's not a hundred percent sure the shy, soft-spoken Hufflepuff even likes boys. He offers to walk her to her next class to let him get to know him, warm up to him. Mostly he’s looking to charm the pants off her, literally if at all possible.

Halfway to the Muggle Studies classroom she surprises him by making a joke, a small and not terribly funny joke about vendra. It's really more of a pun than an actual joke but it's so unexpected he can't help but laugh. He’s giving her one of his trademark Queen grins when he hears Chloe's voice calling his name.

He’s always happy to talk to Chloe, especially if she's trying to talk him into something. That flirty little smile she gives when she’s trying to get her way is so endearing. He turns around, grin still in place and sees her standing next to Bruce. His eyes sweep downward, taking in their closeness and how Chloe's hand is resting on Bruce's well-muscled arm. And he isn't angry or upset, or anything else. He's trying to date lesbians. Who cares who Bruce Wayne is dating? It's good that two of his friends are finding happiness, and he wishes them the best and everything else people say in these situations.

"Something I can do for you, Chloe?" he asks, working hard to keep his smile in place and succeeding fairly well.

"Newspaper meeting tonight. Don't forget," Chloe tells him.

"Forget my weekly date with the most beautiful editor in the world?" he teases, all focus on Chloe, his mouth curving wickedly into a smile that's pure innuendo. "Wouldn't dream of it." His gaze wanders for a second over to Bruce, a quick once over as if to confirm nothing else about Bruce had changed before his attention is right back on Chloe. It’s nothing lingering because he is of course, not even slightly interested in how Bruce acts around his girlfriend Chloe. "Same time I'm assuming?"

Chloe glances from Oliver to Bruce, then shrugs, eyebrows high. "Yeah, same room, too, but I hear the staircase moved, so you might want to head out a bit early in case you get lost."

"No problem, gorgeous. If you'll excuse me, I promised Tora I'd walk her to class," he tells Chloe and then leans in closer and winks. "A gentleman's work is never done." His eyes flick towards Bruce briefly for one last time before he's turning around and threading his arm through Tora's, leading them towards her classroom. He’s never gone this long without talking to his best friend and the wrongness of it has him feeling out of his rhythm and that sets his nerves on edge.

***
Everyone is suited up and standing around, bows in hand. Diana's standing with her own bow in front of her, feet spread and wearing the woodland gear of her Veela ancestors. Her voice is serious and her gaze is severe. She's taking the fun right out of this and he can just hear the First Years losing interest and ignoring her.

How is it Clark and Diana can manage to be complete buzz kills no matter what they're doing? And ordinarily he'd let it go but no stupid First Year is getting killed out here because Diana can't get off her power trip for five seconds.

"First rule of Archery Club-" Diana is saying.

"...Is you do not talk about Archery Club," Oliver cuts in with a grin and rolls his eyes. Only three people in the crowd laugh and Oliver isn’t sure if that's because no one else bothers with Muggle cinema or because Diana's glare could kill some one. "The second rule of Archery Club is, you do NOT talk about Archery Club."

"This is of course Oliver Queen, the co-head of the Archery Club," Diana tells everyone, waving her hand in his direction. "As I was saying-"

"What Diana wants to say," but apparently can't because she's more of a tightass than Bruce on his worst day. "Is that Archery Club isn't just about shooting arrows at targets. The most important thing to remember is safety. We have plenty of targets for everyone but an accident out here could be deadly serious. That's why it's extremely important to listen to and abide by the rules."

"Exactly right, Oliver. Archery is a serious skill and a bow and arrow are deadly weapons. This means vigilance while out here training is of the utmost importance. Now, the First Rule of Archery Club-" Diana continues, explaining the rules, what's allowed and what isn't, practicing on your own time and the proper precautions to take. She still looks like she's swallowed a lemon, but when her gaze falls on Oliver her eyes smile ever so slightly.

"All right, everyone! Two quick laps around the practice fields for a warm up and then we begin," he calls out, smiling back at her and indicating he'll take the back and she can have the front. That way she can be the carrot, calling out encouragement to everyone behind her and he can be the stick, smacking anyone who isn't in front of him with the fletching of one of the school's practice arrows.

***

"And that's why you're supposed to be wearing your braces," Oliver tells a first year later that evening, holding the boy's wrist in one hand and his wand with the other. They’re still in the archery field and with all of the tree coverage he can’t see very well in the dying light. "Lumos," he says, tilting his wrist towards the light so he can inspect the sores. The skin's been rubbed raw, bloody in many areas and Oliver doesn't want to see what that did to his bowstring.

"Some of these are awfully deep. Is there a reason you didn't stop... what was your name?" he asks the kid.

"Elias sir," the kid says. "Adair Elias. And I didn't want anyone thinking I couldn't tough it out. It's not that bad, just a scrape."

He's clearly proud of himself and on one hand, sure, Oliver can understand wanting to prove himself to the older students in Archery. But on the other... he doesn't actually want anyone that dumb to be in his club.

"Yes, well, perhaps from now on you'll wear the gear that's required of you and leave the unnecessary macho posturing in the first year dormitory?" he says acidly. "You know if Diana had seen this she'd have taken fifteen points, at least, from Gryffindor. Between inadequately protecting yourself and foolishly ignoring your health and safety, fifteen points would be if she was in a good mood. Now, losing fifteen points for our house, that would put us right behind Slytherin wouldn't it? Instead of in first place like we are right now. You lose first place for us and I'm thinking you'll need that practice ignoring pain when the rest of the house finds out."

Adair turns pale, eyes going wide while he looks around for Diana.

"Nox." The light from Oliver's wand goes out, leaving them in the dying sunlight. "So what do you say Adair, did you want to go see Madame Pomfrey right now and never show up to Archery again without all of your gear? Or, did you maybe want to talk to Diana about this?" His tone is mild, his face blank, but he knows there's anger in his eyes. Anger because this is exactly the kind of ridiculous behavior that got people killed.

"On my way, sir," Adair says, setting his bow and quiver with the other school issue equipment before scurrying towards the castle.

"What was that about Oliver?" Diana asks him, coming over to him from the Ravenclaw third year she'd been helping.

"Nothing to worry about," he says, unslinging his bow from where it's wrapped around his chest.

He points his wand at the target that was meant for Adair, much too close for him to get any proper practice. "Wingardium Leviosa," he says, directing the target to move back a few hundred feet. He shoots a quick look at Diana, silently asking if it's a good distance for her as well. At her nod he drops the target and slides his wand into its holster on his archery gear.

Facing the target, he takes aim, everything falling away but the bull’s eye and himself. He can feel the tendons in his wrist tensing beneath his braces, the air in his lungs moving in and out, and he can almost taste the second right before he lets go, sends the arrow flying across the field to land smack in the middle of the target. Favoring Diana with a grin, he rests his bow in front of him, gesturing for her to take her turn.

"So, I'm thinking we wait till next week to spring weight training and concentration exercises on them, what do you think?" he asks her, pointing to the new students along the far side of the archery field near the tree line. "Give them a taste of what they're working towards and then introduce them to what it really takes to be good."

She nods, not commenting and fires her own bow, aim almost as good as Oliver's. He just hopes no one mentions that or he'll be challenged to a proper test with moving targets and stalking and a time limit, again. And it's not that he doesn't think he can beat Diana, he has before; Chloe and Clark had congratulated him and even Lex was less of a bastard than usual. But the best part of it was when Bruce had almost smiled and slapped him on the back

Bruce isn't, they aren't... that's not going to happen this time around and Clark hasn't had a single civil word for him since Herbology. He can always count on Lex to prove his ill-bred rudeness and Chloe, well he expects Chloe to follow along with what her boyfriend does.

"Is something wrong?" Diana asks when Oliver lets his next arrow fly with more force than is technically necessary. Luckily it doesn't go straight through the target, but it's a near thing.

"No," he says, not looking at her. "Of course not."

"This summer-" she begins, taking a step forward.

He turns towards her, giving his best Bruce impression, face blank without being off-putting. "What about it?" he asks, only barely managing not to flinch when she reaches a hand out to rest on his bicep beneath where his tunic ends and above his braces.

"It seemed…" She stumbles over her words for only a second more, before standing up straight and tightening her grip on him. "You seemed different. It was not like you Oliver." She smiles, her face becoming warm and compassionate. "I was beginning to think perhaps you needed Bruce around to keep control over you."

And he knows she's joking, knows that she doesn't mean it like Clark would, it’s just Diana being Diana. But it's the last goddamned thing he needs to hear from someone. He doesn't need yet another person reminding him that he's apparently Bruce Wayne's bitch and everyone knows it. And last year, he’d woken up hard with Bruce above him and Bruce's hands on his biceps had squeezed hard enough to leave bruises but it hadn't felt unequal at the time. He'd never felt unequal to Bruce until he started getting second opinions.

"Sometimes it's nice to have someone around that's not a constant buzz kill." He turns to face her when he says it, sees her face fall when she realizes he’s talking about her just as much as Bruce. Not that he really enjoyed spending time with any of those women or men, or that it had in any way exorcised him of his memories of Bruce.

"I suppose if that is the sort of person you would prefer to spend time with than you are lucky to be so skilled at healing magic, is it not?" Diana replies icily. "Though I hear there are certain Muggle devices that would be ideal for your situation. Condoms, I believe they are called." She stalks off then, head held high and her stride confident. She stops to assist a third year on the way to the far targets, adjusts his grip and his accuracy improves right away. Finished with helping the third year, she keeps on her way to as far from him as possible. When she reaches the empty targets, Diana lets three arrows fly in rapid succession, practically destroying the center of her target.

His ability to ostracize himself impresses even him sometimes.

***
"So Ted and I are there, completely covered in slime and trying to convince this American police officer that we have no idea how the pillows exploded all while dodging the feathers that are flying everywhere," Booster's voice rings out across the table. Lunchtime and he's eating with Booster, Ted, Wally and some Ravenclaws he doesn't know but assumes are friends with Ted. Tora should be by soon, and with luck Bea will be with her, but seeing as he's had ample time to finish his entire salad, he's beginning to doubt that. "And I'm convinced we're going to be cited by the Improper Use of Magic Office and expelled from school. Ted's just standing there, calm as calm can be and acting completely innocent. So she rolls her eyes and tells us to not even think about coming back into this store again and the store owner is practically squawking about us being delinquents the entire time. And Ted grabs hold of my wrist and just runs with me, completely takes off and we're out of the store and fucking gone and Ted's like, 'if only we could Apparate, if only we could Apparate.' I thought I was going to pass out."

"The moral of the story is, don't ever let Booster near your experimental spells, because he'll do his damnedest to get you arrested," Ted cuts in, rolling his eyes and trying to look stern but the smile that keeps breaking through giving him away. "And do it with slime."

"The slime was a brilliant touch!" Booster's grin is guileless and it's clear no one will get him to admit he had perhaps gone a bit too far, so everyone just laughs.

"You don't mind if we sit here, do you boys?" Bea's voice breaks in on his thoughts.

When he looks up her smile is all for him and Tora is smiling shyly over her shoulder. He's not taking that to mean anything, because Tora is always looking at everyone from over Bea's shoulder, and shy is as much her default setting as flirtation and innuendo are Bea's.

"I know I don't," he answers, clearing a place for them to sit next to him.

Lips twitching with the hint of a contrary smile, Bea seats herself across from him, Tora following closely after. Both of them take their seats like the proper ladies they'd been raised to be, legs folded so neatly it would make his mother proud. So long as she never saw the wicked gleam in Bea's eyes when she caught him watching.

"Is it true what Dean Winchester told me?" Tora asks, once they're seated. "Are you really not going to be a Seeker this year?"

"Oh," he stumbles, because it's really not what he was expecting to have to talk about right now. "I, well, yes actually, I-"

"Oh for the love of Merlin, don't ask him about the Seeker thing," Wally breaks in, appearing at Oliver's side as if out of nowhere with his trademark speed and stealth. "I had the nerve to ask him earlier and Clark nearly took my head off. I'm advising everyone to keep their own best interests in mind and steer clear of the subject."

"I'm right here." He frowns at Wally while the redhead practically bounces into the seat next to him and begins loading his plate like the Ministry had announced that starting tomorrow dinner would be made illegal.

Wally, of course, barely notices, since he's paying such close attention to Bea squeezing a lemon over her fresh fruit and then doing the same for Tora. The two are girls leaning close to each other and Bea whispering something in Tora’s ear that makes her blush.

"Consider the subject closed then," Bea replies, slowly licking the leftover juice from her fingers. Next to him, Wally falls out of his chair and Oliver himself has to concentrate closely on swallowing his drink properly so as not to choke. If the sounds coming from further down the table are any indication, he's not the only one.

***

"Mr. Queen, let's hope you did the summer reading," Snape says, arms crossed and standing across the room. Oliver has no idea why he's even bothering in a class full of sixth years; they've made it this far, clearly he doesn't eat students or anything. "Describe the exact use and origin of Murtlap Essence"

"It's derived from pickling Murtlap tentacles and is used for the healing and soothing of cuts, contusions and similar wounds," Oliver replies, lounging against the desk in front of him and idly fiddling with his cauldron. He grins. He knew Bruce didn't approve but how could he help it? Snape baited him, he baited Snape; everyone knew it was because he was a Gryffindor with a Slytherin best... best friend? "Did you also want me to identify where to find the Murtlap?"

"That will do Mr. Queen, five points from Gryffindor for cheek," Snape answers back before sweeping towards the front of the room. With a tap of his wand against the blackboard an assignment writes itself across the board. "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. I will be monitoring you all closely so do not foul this up. I expect a class full of NEWT level sixth years will be able to do this much, but on occasion even I am astounded by your idiocy."

After five full years of Bruce and Oliver partnering up for every Potions assignment, no one expects them to partner with anyone else. So when Oliver makes his way towards Diana, she and Clark glance back at him in confusion. Oliver just shakes his head and moves on, not in the mood to explain, or rather, invent an explanation.

"Looks like it's just us, huh, Bruce?" he asks coming to sit next to Bruce. They had breakfast together only days ago, they had passed each other on the train. It's not as if they're seeing each other for the first time. It is the first time they've been alone in… awhile. It's awkward, and not just because of this new…thing between them. It's the first time in what feels like ever that Bruce hasn't felt like his best friend.

“As it should be, Oliver. I can hardly help you pass Potions if you are not my partner," Bruce answers, pulling out their ingredients.

"Like I need your help for that," Oliver replies, setting up the cauldron. It's no different than before. This is what they always do, each of them wordlessly doing their part, anticipating what the other might need. No different. "When you're as naturally brilliant as I am Bruce-" Oliver begins with something approaching his usual grin when his wrist brushes against the tips of Bruce's fingers while reaching for their knife.

Bruce's skin against his own and he remembers the softness of the couch underneath him and the hardness of Bruce on top of him. His fingers wrapped around the silky heat of Bruce's cock and Bruce's fingers brushing lightly over Oliver's wrist. Soft fingertips touching the thin skin there, moving over the muscles working Bruce's cock.

He pulls his hand back, setting the knife down on his side of the cauldron and reaching for the scales. He's measuring out the peppermint, ready to shred it when he notices Bruce already has it shredded and ready. He glances at the neat pile of shredded leaves and then looks up at Bruce. He'll grind the lionfish spine.

It doesn't end there, they keep, not quite tripping over each other, but it's as if they're in a constant state of correction.

"Is the hellebore ready?" he asks Bruce while concentrating more than is possibly necessary on the mortar and pestle.

"Yes." Bruce sets it down in front of the cauldron and turns back to his own preparations. Something off in the set of his mouth, the line of his back and Oliver knows it’s because Bruce is just as disconcerted by this distance between them as he is.

He has no idea what to say to him, no idea what he could say. 'So that sex thing we did, weird wasn't it?' just doesn't seem to be the best option.

***

It's not that he was unaware of what it took to be a Chaser; he's been playing Quidditch as long as he's been able to hold onto a broom and he's played each of the positions at some point. But there is a huge difference between the occasional pickup game and focused training. And it's different than what he's been doing during his spare time this summer, trying to get in the proper shape for this. The others going out for the position are just as good as he is, if not better. Miller played alternate all last year, so he's even used to playing Chaser with Clark, Diana and the others, and Kelson spent the summer away at a Quidditch camp. The competition is tough and Oliver's man enough to admit that he's tired.

"Look alive, Ollie," Clark calls out to him, hitting Quaffles out to the Chaser hopefuls in rapid succession. "You're not just waiting around for the Snitch anymore."

"Clark!" Diana warns from Oliver's left.

Oliver catches one of the Quaffles and zips for the nearest goal, maneuvering around the Keeper and throwing. One of the muggleborn third years trying out also moves on one of the other goals, throwing the Quaffle as hard as he can before zipping away. He keeps doing it and Oliver just rolls his eyes.

"Should they be here?" the third year, who he thinks is named Jones, asks him, gesturing with his head to Bruce, Chloe, Lex and a few other Slytherins. The kid looks decidedly nervous.

"Don't concentrate on them," Oliver tells him, catching the next Quaffle thrown their way. "Concentrating on them isn't going to get you on the team." Oliver darts away, making his way around the Keeper and throwing towards the goal. He makes it and moves back with the others without celebrating.

Focus on the game, focus on training, not Clark or Diana and most certainly not Bruce, standing below them with his eyes trained on all of them with the determined look of concentration he gets when he's trying to figure something out. Bruce will know who's going to make it, just by watching practice, he'll have it all figured out and factored into who he puts on Slytherin's team.

Maybe-Jones throws the Quaffle as hard as he can yet again, this time nearly overbalancing and falling when he attempts to correct himself. He'll have a talk with him as soon as he's back in line. Kids these days. Jones doesn't come back to his line though, instead heading for another with another third year and a fourth year.

"It's not like we can expect him to care if the Slytherins are spying on us," maybe-Jones is saying when he gets within earshot. "I mean, he's probably a spy himself. I hear he's awfully cheeky in Potions too, always getting points taken from Gryffindor. You know he's doing it on purpose--"

Oliver doesn't need to hear anymore, he makes an abrupt turn, about-facing on his broom so he's heading back for his own line of Chaser hopefuls. Maybe-Jones can heave himself off his broom for all Oliver cares, fuck him. And fuck Clark for starting this bullshit. And Diana for humoring it instead of crushing it when it started.

And fuck Bruce. Because he's Bruce and he makes things difficult and foggy and if Oliver could just cut him loose he wouldn't be a pariah in his own house.

Fuck Bruce for being irreplaceable and necessary.
He sees Bruce making his way towards maybe-Jones during the water break, watches him standing in front of him with his hands folded and his face calm. Chloe's pretending to be interested in what Kelson's saying about trying out for the team and having practiced all summer and the special Quidditch camp he went to. Pretending because all her attention is on Bruce and maybe-Jones, clearly trying to listen in on whatever Bruce is saying.

"Why don't you back off, Bruce," Clark says, walking up to the two of them. He's not sure if it's on purpose but Clark's still carrying his bat. "You and the other Slytherins can menace from a distance."

Bruce doesn't stop whatever he's saying to maybe-Jones; he finishes and then turns to Clark with that self-satisfied patented Bruce smirk that's guaranteed to piss Clark off. "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."

Maybe-Jones pales, visibly swallowing and Oliver decides enough is enough and makes his way towards Clark and Bruce. When Clark sees him he throws his hands up in the air, "What Ollie? It's not enough I have to deal with Bruce I also have to put up with you too?" he spits out and Oliver notices maybe-Jones and at least four others all looking from him to Bruce and glaring, faces pinched with disdain.

He's fucking had it.

"Clark, why don't you back off, okay? We're the only team allowed to be practicing on the pitch right now. 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," he tells Clark, still standing equally distant from Bruce and Clark, broomstick in hand and pissed. Clark's about to say something else and Oliver doesn't want to hear it, he holds up one hand and glares before turning to Bruce.

"As for you, why don't you leave our people alone Bruce?" he tells him. Bad enough he can't concentrate in class, he's going to ruin Quidditch for him too now? "Quit bugging the hopefuls when we're trying to teach them how to run drills with the team."

Bruce remains as calm as ever, though the pleasant mask he keeps over his emotions slips a little, face tightening with Oliver's words. "Don't cause a scene," he tells Oliver, as if Clark hadn't spoken at all. "I didn't want the boy to get hurt."

"Right because you're Mr. Considerate--" Clark begins before he's cut off by Diana storming in on her broom and glaring at them all. Her anger is obvious, mouth set in a thin line and eyes sparking like blue fire. Oliver hasn't seen Diana this angry in a long time.

"Sonorous," she says, pointing her wand at her throat before turning her attention to the Gryffindor team and hopefuls. "Training is over for the day," she tells them all, the charm making her voice loud enough to be heard clear across the pitch. "I want this pitch cleared in ten minutes or I'm taking points, understood?"

At the rapid round of nods she lifts her wand again. "Quietus," she says and then turns eyes like murder on Clark. "Get cleaned up and meet me in the prefects lounge Clark. Do not think about taking more then 10 minutes either," she hisses before shooting an exasperated glare at Oliver and turning to Bruce. She holds his gaze for several moments, hostility in her eyes, but no actual blame before nodding once and turning to leave.
"Well that's perfect-" Oliver starts, glaring at Bruce but Bruce cuts him off.

"Not here," he says and walks away, heading for the bleachers and clearly expecting Oliver to follow.

He does, which just pisses him off more because maybe there's something to what Clark's been saying. Maybe he does just follow Bruce mindlessly around and everyone has every right to say what they do about him.

When he makes it under the bleachers Bruce is already waiting for him, arms crossed and his back to Oliver. And under any other circumstances Oliver might appreciate the trust that shows, appreciate the fact that Bruce knows he can trust Oliver enough to show him his back. Today it's just more proof that he's Bruce Wayne's lapdog because of course Bruce can turn his back, it’s not like Oliver’s his own man or anything.

"What was that about, Bruce?" he asks, hands in fists at his sides, standing on the balls of his feet like he’s going to hit him. And he doesn’t think he’s going to, doesn’t think he’d ever have the nerve to hit Bruce, but he wants to, Merlin does he want to. "What are you trying to prove?"

Bruce is quiet, still not reacting to Oliver's visible anger and that doesn't help Oliver calm down at all. "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," Oliver spits back, because of course perfect Bruce is going to tell everyone else how to do everything. "Maybe not everyone needs your help."

Bruce turns to look Oliver in the eyes. "It's my business to make sure no Hogwarts students die in foolish Quidditch accidents. Perhaps if you and Clark hadn't been engaged in your private war, I wouldn't have had to say anything." And finally Bruce is mad, visibly pissed and not bothering to hold it in. Tight set to his broad shoulders, stubborn lift in his jaw and his voice, he hasn’t heard Bruce sound this un-composed since Oliver’s mother had sent Bruce letter his own mother had written, back in fourth year.

"Private war?" Oliver scoffs. "My 'private war' with Clark and half of Gryffindor is completely your fault. This--" He gestures to the Quidditch pitch beyond the bleachers. "This is all you, you did this." His eyes are drawn to Bruce's mouth, lips pressed together in the firm line Bruce always makes when he's disappointed or angry or both. He licks his own lips before blinking hard and glaring back up into Bruce's face. "You made it this way," Oliver adds anger, fear and desire causing his stomach to churn before looking away.

"Muffilato," Bruce says, the spell takes an extra second than it should, before covering them in the familiar buzz. Perfect Bruce imperfectly casting such a simple charm tells him just how much this is affecting him but Bruce casting a silencing charm Oliver could do in his sleep makes his cheeks burn and his stomach twist. He didn't ask him to do it and Charms are his area. Even if it were something as basic as matchsticks to needles Oliver would leave the Transfiguring to Bruce. It's part of how their friendship is balanced and Bruce just giving up on that feels wrong.

So does making Bruce shoulder all the blame.

He's a lot of things, but he's never been a liar, not to Bruce at least. But Bruce hadn't said 'no' but he hadn't really said 'yes' either. He'd gone along with exactly what Oliver had wanted, nothing more and nothing less. Reciprocation, not exploration.

And Bruce always does this, always makes him challenge the way he thinks about things and before it's always been a good thing but this time. This time it's something that he shouldn't be challenging. He has obligations and responsibilities and this isn’t how two men of their station act. Just standing here is making him want to hit something, or suck him off, anything.

"Perhaps you'd prefer I'd said no." Bruce's voice is just as calm as it always is, speaking like it isn't an accusation of Oliver's own guilt in this.

He's angry, so angry, and it's wrong. He should never be this angry at Bruce. All he wants to do is hit him, his fist to Bruce's face and maybe all of this will go away. He can't feel this way; he doesn't feel this way. He's not like this. Bruce isn't like this.

After a few seconds of clenched fists and the coil of anger in his stomach curling tighter and tighter in his stomach he settles for shoving Bruce back, up against one of the wooden posts of the bleachers.

"Why do you always have to make things so complicated?" he asks him fingers gripped tightly in Bruce's robes. Bruce is taller than he is, despite how much height he gained this summer Bruce still has a few inches on him. So he's looking up, into the same calm dark eyes he's been watching for over five years, before closing his own and leaning up to press his mouth to Bruce's.

It should maybe be soft, exploratory and unsure but Oliver's spent the entire summer confused and trying to not think about this and obsessed with it anyway. Jerking off thinking about it, ashamed and turned on and knowing that thinking about Bruce like this was wrong. So it's hard, hard enough Bruce probably feels his teeth pressing in, but it was good before. It was so good and Oliver shouldn't want it again but he does. And he doesn't know how to tell Bruce that.

Bruce takes control of the not-quite-kiss, of course he does, he wouldn't be Bruce if he didn't, pushing back and grabbing hold of him in turn. He's spun around and slammed into the wooden post, their roles reversed, and he knew Bruce would do this, knew if he pushed Bruce would push back. It's how they work, how they've always worked.

And it's not like he has long to get angrier or even more confused, because Bruce is leaning in, pressing his mouth to Oliver's and forcing his tongue inside. Wet and heat and Bruce. It's a scent he's familiar with, the clean, crisp smell of forest and midnight, something he associates with every good memory since coming to Hogwarts. Bruce tastes exactly like he smells, and his tongue is every bit as clever and precise as his hands, forcing him open and making him take this.

Oliver reaches his hands up to grip onto Bruce's shoulders through his robes and pulling him even closer. He tilts his head and opens his mouth. This is what he spent all summer waiting for and he arches into him, abruptly hard because it's just that good to have Bruce like this.

Bruce wants him back; he can taste it on Bruce's tongue, smell it in his sweat and feel it in the hard line of Bruce's body against his own. In Bruce's hands on the fastenings of his Quidditch robes, working them off and then attacking the jersey underneath. Oliver feels his fingers against the skin of his belly, moving up his chest and thumbing his nipples. His moan is swallowed by Bruce's mouth but the thrust of his hips rubs his still clothed dick against Bruce again, riding his thigh for the friction. It feels better than anything else, hard muscle against sensitive flesh.

He's gripping Bruce's shoulders but he wants more. He wants more of Bruce and is too impatient to ask, to wait for it. His hands drop from where they're fisted in Bruce's robes to the front of his trousers. Flick open the button and unzip the fly.

His fingers trace the outline of Bruce's cock, the damp fabric of his boxers telling Oliver exactly how much Bruce wants it before reaching inside. And this is familiar, heat and silk and hardness, his thumb swiping over the tip, spreading precome across the head -- and he breaks their kiss just long enough to look down, watch Bruce's cock sliding in and out of his fist.

When he looks back up at Bruce he doesn't bother hiding how much he wants this. He slides to his knees, eyes on Bruce. There's no way to misinterpret this, nothing else he could possibly be doing. And Oliver knows Bruce won't turn him away, he's certain of it. But it doesn't stop the coil of tension in his stomach when he flicks his tongue out for his first taste of Bruce.

Before, in Greece with all those other boys... it wasn't like this. The flavor of salt and musk and Bruce across his tongue and with just that little taste Oliver knows this won't be the only time. He'll be here again, on his knees with Bruce's cock in his mouth and Bruce looking down at him, watching his dick slide into his mouth. He’s licking a thick stripe up Bruce’s cock when Bruce thrusts his hips forward, silent command for Oliver to take him in.

And Oliver knows it's best to begin as you plan to continue, Bruce taught him that, so he breathes deep and slides forward, taking Bruce in deeper and lapping at the underside of his cock with his tongue. He’s aching with want for Bruce, rock hard and every moment here on his knees just makes him harder. His thumbs are settled in the groove of Bruce's hipbones, fingers curled tightly around his hips and he pulls Bruce forward even more, encouraging him to thrust deeper.

He's on his knees between Bruce and the wooden post of the bleachers, all but asking for Bruce to fuck his mouth, his throat, wanting to be pinned by Bruce, lips spread wide around his cock and still panting for it. Still wants something more, wants Bruce to give him some sign that it won’t be like last time.

Then Bruce tenses above him, his entire body going taut and from the corner of his eye he sees Bruce's hands clench. He doesn't have time to worry about swallowing or not swallowing or even how Bruce is going to react to him afterwards because at the same time Bruce slams his hips forward, pinning Oliver's mouth on his cock and thrusting hard. He's trying to relax his throat, choking in the meantime, but he doesn't push Bruce away. Deep breath through his nose and it's just like Greece, he tells himself, just like all the nameless boys he fucked and sucked trying to exorcise the feel of Bruce's skin against his own from his mind, from his body.

But it's not the same, not the same at all and his hands gripping tightly to Bruce's sides, fingernails digging in to the thin skin of his best friend's hipbones are evidence of that.

This is Bruce. Bruce fucking his mouth practically into the wooden post. Bruce actually letting go for once, iron clad control slipping to allow them both this pleasure.

His own dick hard and leaking in his trousers, Oliver throats Bruce's cock, deep as he can, spit and saliva trailing from the corners of his mouth, onto the base of Bruce's cock and down to his balls. He can't help reaching down for the front of his trousers, palming himself and thrusting up against it to relieve some of the pressure.

He feels the weight of Bruce's hands on his head and then familiar fingers are tangling into his hair, holding Oliver in place so his cock can fuck into Oliver's mouth exactly how Bruce wants. As if Bruce would do anything less. He can't taste Bruce nearly as well like this, it's too deep for his tongue to do much at all, but his throat works around Bruce, giving him all he can.

Don't, each deep thrust commands wordlessly, and there's no doubt in Oliver's mind Bruce wants him to stop touching himself. And it doesn't matter that he isn't trying to get off, Bruce is telling him to stop so he does. One more deep, hard thrust into Oliver's throat and then Bruce's hips are losing their rhythm.

"Oliver..." Bruce growls in warning but doesn't let go. Oliver doesn't pull back from the warning; he doesn't even try. He can almost feel Bruce fighting not to slip, not to cry out and as much as he wants him to, it's not like Oliver expects anything else. Bruce is Bruce and will always be Bruce. So it's something of a shock when he hears Bruce groan, fingers tightening in his hair and hips jerking against his face.

And then Bruce says his name, "Oliver," choked out in a voice so raw and alien Oliver hardly recognizes it. He did that, he made Bruce sound like this, brought down that famous self control. There’s a flutter in his chest, satisfaction and pleasure mixed together.

Thick, hot ropes of come across his tongue and Oliver swallows as fast as he can, clumsy and almost choking because he's never swallowed before. He's never wanted to. He has to pull off, lick his lips and the corners of his mouth to get it all, and then he looks up at Bruce. Waiting for what comes next because before they had ignored it and Oliver doesn't know what to do but he knows he doesn't want to do that.

His own hard-on is something distant, a dull ache in the back of his head because this is bigger than coming. More important than his dick getting some relief.

"Come. Get up," Bruce says, words clipped but not hostile. He's zipped back up, skin covered, vulnerability covered, Bruce covered.

And Oliver leans forward for a second, closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Bruce's pelvic bone. There's fabric covering the bruises forming on Bruce's hips. Bruises in the shape of Oliver's fingerprints that he'd left there. But he nods his head and forces his legs to move, to propel him upwards and ignore the throb of his cock against the front of his own trousers.

His legs are shaky, unsteady from wanting to come and sucking Bruce off and for a second Oliver doesn't think he'll be able to stand upright. So he leans back against the wooden post of the bleachers and he's still looking up at Bruce, but this time he's closer. Mouth so fuck-bruised he can feel it, hair in disarray from Bruce's fingers and feeling completely wrecked Oliver meets Bruce's gaze. Trying to keep his eyes as steady as possible given that he knows his pupils are blown wide with lust and wanting and the exhilaration of having had Bruce's cock in his mouth, his come on his tongue.

"Oliver," Bruce growls out, low and deep, stepping close and cupping the back of Oliver's head. The kiss isn't expected and it's still a shock to have Bruce's tongue in his mouth, taste and scent of Bruce all around him. And it's not soft, tongues moving against each other but Bruce's moving deeper and harder like he's trying to lick even the barest hint of himself out of Oliver's mouth.

Bruce doesn't give him time to worry about whether he expects Oliver to get off like before, rub himself against Bruce because his hands are reaching for Oliver's trousers. Unbuttoning and unzipping and reaching inside. Oliver feels like he's been hard forever, underwear wet with precome and sweat and his cock poking through the slit in his boxers.

Bruce's hand brushes over him and he can't help arching up, making a tiny desperate noise in the back of his throat and tilting his head to give Bruce even more access. Bruce's hand wrapped around his cock feels like heaven, better than any of those girls he fucked over the summer, better than the guys on their knees for him. Because it's Bruce and this is what he was imagining anyway. He can feel his balls tightening, hips thrusting his cock into Bruce's fist in jerky shudders.

It doesn't take long at all. His entire body tenses and then he comes into Bruce's fist, moan muffled by Bruce's mouth on his own. It's only the knowledge that it would be a really girly thing to do that keeps him from letting his legs give out. His entire body has gone loose with his orgasm, limbs softer and more languid. He locks his legs, leaning more of his weight against the post behind him and pulls away.

There's a faint pop when their mouths break away and it's brings him back to the here in now.. Oliver's eyes focus; he stares at Bruce from so close before he turns his eyes away from the expected awkwardness. His hands drop from Bruce's shoulders and hang uselessly at his sides for a second before he shoves them into his pockets. His clothes are still rumpled, hair in disarray and mouth fuck- and kiss-bruised, but now that he's not pressed right up against Bruce, it's like he can think again.

And none of this adds up, they shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be wanting to do it. They could stay here all night though, if he waits for Bruce to say something. "So this sex thing we keep doing... it's kind of weird, isn't it?" he asks, face and neck flushing and staring at the Quidditch pitch to their left like that's where his question is directed.

"It's only weird if it's not what you want." He doesn't have to be looking at Bruce to know his best friend's features will be drawn tight with concentration, trying to work out how best to approach this, them.

Running one hand through his hair, he turns back around, watches Bruce through lowered eyelashes. "But we're friends. Friends...this isn't what friends do."

Bruce shrugs. "Illogical. We're friends, we do this. Therefore..." A tiny hint of a smile, "Oliver...it's what we do."

He bites his lip, considering what it is Bruce is saying, because he has a point but it still seems odd. "Would you even want to? I mean, you have a girl to do this stuff with." He gestures between the two of them when he says 'this stuff’ as if to encapsulate “furiously jerking and sucking each other off under cover of darkness and then awkwardly avoiding each other” into a single non verbal cue. "And Chloe's, well she's Chloe. It's not like you really need to do this stuff with me."

Bruce crosses his arms over his chest at that, so near smiling Oliver wants to grin with relief. "In all the time you've known me, when have I ever done something I didn't want to do?" He arches an eyebrow. "I didn't notice you doing 'this stuff' without my participation. And you said it yourself, Chloe is Chloe. And you are you."

"An us thing." Oliver nods. "Okay. I mean, this thing with us, it's good." He punches Bruce lightly in the shoulder. "We're good."

He's cuffed on the back of the head before he even has a chance to mount a proper defense. It's we're good in the language of Bruce.

"No more asking if the hellebore is ready," Bruce says, instead, meeting Oliver's gaze, steady, and with clear intent to reassure him. No more awkward exchanges or clunky questions.

"Pfft," Oliver answers, rolling his eyes. "You never know when I might suddenly need you to chop some hellebore for me." He turns, knocking their shoulders together. "I should probably go, shower up, maybe apologize to Jones." He kind of wants to stay here, but what else could they possibly say to each other? It's enough, for now to just know that this new thing between them hasn't changed anything. "I'll see you at breakfast, yeah?"

Bruce hesitates for a moment, as if he has more to say to him but he just nods. "Of course, bring the Prophet." Every morning since second year, Oliver has read the choicest bits of the Prophet aloud to Bruce and whichever Slytherins happened to be around. And he’s more than pleased to return to that, return to their friendship, as it has been, only with sex. Tomorrow morning, he’ll nip bacon and juice from Bruce and Bruce will quietly listen to the daily news. That’s more than enough.

reflections: by any other name

Tue, 17 Jul 2007 23:38:46 GMT

Title: by any other name
Author: technosage
Pairing: Bruce/Oliver
Rating/Warning: R, genderswap
Word Count: 7440
Summary: When he transforms into a woman (for great justice!), Bruce learns that Bruce by any other name and in any other form is not the same.
Chronology: Post-Hogwarts

The turtleneck stretches across his breasts, uncomfortable and very nearly obscene. It's mid-fall and the top has only one-half sleeves which feel too tight around his biceps; the knee-length skirt, assuredly allowing range of motion, nevertheless exposes his silk-clad crotch to the cool air. As he has not had time enough in this body to learn to suppress its exuberant sexual response to the slightest provocation, the breeze between his thighs causes a distinct chill.

Thanks to Alfred's excellent taste, at least the brassiere offers proper support, and its fabric has heft enough to keep his nipples from poking tents in the navy stretch-fabric of the top when either cold or arousal hardens them.

Neither the clothes, nor the effulgent female sexuality, nor even the cosmetics he has had to learn to apply distress him. Dressing long hair took trial and error, but the effect of a sharp side part and sleeked-down waves tucked behind both ears meets with his approval. In fact, despite the way the fabric clings and hugs this alien form, he finds it all together satisfactory to be a woman.

Except for the shoes. He understands the principle. Wide gold dragon-hide belt must be matched with gold dragon-hide shoes. Yet need they be open-toed with three inch heels and straps that tie around his ankles? To be sure, once he'd mastered the art of walking in them, they gave a graceful sway to his hips and accentuated this body's spare curves. But an ankle broken in hasty flight could spell his, or more worrisomely, Oliver's demise.

Once more, he practices retrieving the wand from inside the sleeve of his loose-constructed jacket. Clench of fist, his forearm releases the spring-load catch; his own wand – if anyone manages to take it from him to identify him with it, it's too late for subterfuge to matter – drops neatly into his finer-boned, more graceful hand.

As ready as he'll ever be, Bruce Wayne lifts his chin and chest, then exits suite 2002 at the Gotham Grand, registered to Bryony Wainright of the Virginia Wainrights. Steps deliberately placed one directly in line with the next, his hips move his buttocks in the graceful pendulum swing he has noted Oliver admiring on too many occasions to make counting purposeful. His arms move through loose arcs of their own, a deliberate mimicry of Beatriz Bonilla da Costa's predatory stalking of Oliver through Hogwarts' halls.

He depresses the elevator button with a single manicured fingertip, smiles at his polished reflection in the mirrored glass, then counsels himself to feminine exasperation while the elevator makes its slow traverse the full twenty floors to the penthouse level. He taps his fingernails against the back of his hand. Chews the inside of his lip. Frowns, then retrieves the Cultured Cassis longwearing lipstick from his gold dragon-hide handbag and reapplies using the elevator lobby as his own personal dressing room.

By the time the Merlin-be-damned thing arrives, the exasperation has ceased being an act. Inside, he leans back on his hands on the railing around the elevator interior, slouching, avoids looking at anything, and purses his lips. In short, he pouts and feels more petulant than he has since before his… more petulant than he has ever felt.

The elevator chimes him on the bottom floor, but now he wants to go back up. His stomach flips and his eyes sting; in fact, this entire body feels internally bathed in a mild acid.

One thought, one single, stray, interrupted thought of the sort he's had thousands of times over the years without incident, but in this body with its unfamiliar brain chemistry, the tears he hasn't shed since the night of Oliver's duel with Lex burn his sinuses. Salt and pressure ache in his jaw, and the habit of detachment has not yet been trained into this brain.

This female brain that circles back again and again to the phrase "petulant as a pampered child" until he must simply accept it and speaks it aloud to banish it.

"Excuse me?" snarls the pinched faced blonde dragging a toddler on each hand and a Pomeranian tucked under her arm trading places with him to get into the elevator.

"Of course." Out of balance, it takes Bruce a moment to catch on to why she's scowling as the doors begin to close. "Oh." He considers drawing his hands to his mouth, but that seems entirely too coy for this persona. Instead he tries out a smile and embarrassed blink-head duck combination. "My apologies. I was speaking of myself."

Before the door draws fully closed, the woman nods and smiles. Emotional crisis successfully averted, the salutary affect of distraction for controlling emotion noted, Bruce crosses the lobby – while attempting to screen out the annoying click shush click shush click of his heels on marble and his skirt against his thighs.

He's never tried to get a taxi as Bruce Wayne before. Even in his various disguises, he's usually Apparated to wherever he needed to be. So it comes as a pleasant surprise that the attendant at the cab stand, Lance from his nametag, whistles up a cab even as he approaches.

Of course he knows to tip Lance, but the smile and the offer of a hand up into the cab is not, Bruce is certain, for his five dollars. Not with the way Lance's gaze skips over his face to his inconvenient breasts and his too-bare legs. The blatant sexuality of the young man's attention would be irritating, if it didn't provide confirmation of the success of this ruse. Still, it will quickly become tiresome.

The cab driver, on the other hand, exhibits a level of rudeness Bruce has never experienced. The man neither turns around nor looks at him, merely grumbles harshly, "Well, where to? I can't read your mind, honey."

Bruce lifts his chin and glares into the rearview mirror, demanding eye contact from the driver whose license, he notes, reads Guillaume Fuqua. "We don't know each other well enough for such intimacies. If you'll take me to The Maker's Mark, that will be sufficient."

The driver makes no answer, simply pulls out of the hotel circle and drives toward downtown. Several times, Bruce has to correct Guillaume when he attempts to take a longer route, and, all in all, an inquiry before the Board of Ministers would be more congenial than this ride.

Despite two close calls with the pedestrians who seem to be beneath Guillaume's notice, Bruce arrives unscathed -- though with his eyebrows drawn up and his lips drawn down. He pays the ridiculous fare, and provides a generous tip that leaves Guillaume staring in his wake; perhaps wondering what he might've made had he behaved in civil fashion.

Even as he disembarks, Bruce can hear Oliver telling him not to scowl so. Yet he feels like scowling.

The stirring of agitation from Lance's attention has ripened into a full-fledged pique. Tense shoulders, tight jaw, narrowed gaze; in his male body, and male brain – already he discerns a difference in his thoughts channeled through this female brain, still logical but less linear – a moment's meditation would smooth it away. But when he closes his eyes and tries to center, calm and focus still elude him.

Standing outside the bar on a corner in downtown Gotham, no matter that he can defend himself physically and magically, only causes him to feel small and overexposed atop the annoyance. When he has to suppress an urge to stamp his sandaled feet, Bruce elects to go inside.

The Maker's Mark. Oliver's favorite bar, or so he's been told. He certainly hopes it to be the case, as the success of this evening depends on Oliver's presence. If Bryony can pass Oliver's unknowing inspection, then she can pass anyone's.

Despite the caricatured déclassé swiveling of male heads – and some female – when he enters, the bar reminds Bruce of The Three Broomsticks where such a thing would never happen. Minus the gillywater and red currant rum, to be sure, as well as Madame Rosmerta, still the place has similarities – particularly the intimate feel and the possibility of having a table out of the way. The smoke burns his eyes at first, but he remembers not to rub them, lest he smear the mascara he painstakingly applied, and instead takes a seat at the near end of the bar with his back to the wall.

Before the bartender, a hard-faced, tired-eyed young woman with a long blonde ponytail, breaks free of three men Bruce surmises to be regulars based on their overly familiar manner, Bruce spots Oliver with Wally, Ted and Michael playing a game of darts. Oliver's laughter rings out over the crowd, bright, but somehow hollow. The others don't seem to notice it, but it's as pronounced to Bruce as it is unexpected.

He watches surreptitiously. Perhaps he can learn what troubles Oliver without being made. If not he will ask him in two nights, at home, when he must return before the spell wears off.

The bartender, whose name turns out to be Laura, asks, "what'll it be, sweetie?" in a voice laced with false cheer. Up close, the lines around her eyes make her appear closer to thirty-five than the twenty-five that seems more likely from her figure.

Momentarily silenced by the horrifying urge to reach across the bar to pat her hand, Bruce finally manages to squeeze out an order for something he's heard called a Sea Breeze, cranberry juice, grapefruit juice, and vodka. Since he's uncertain how much alcohol he can safely hold, drinking anti-oxidants and diuretics with the vodka seems prudent. He'll be sure to order water with the next round to avoid dehydration.

"That'll be four-fifty," Laura tells him as she sets a glass on the counter with a flip of her wrist.

Wally, ever impetuous, catches Bruce's eye, and before Laura's even finished scooping the ice into the glass, he's at Bruce's side. "Allow me, beautiful; what's your name? Haven't seen you here before, but I can't let a beautiful woman buy her own drinks now, can I? That would just be wrong."

Even for Wally, he's talking fast, running his sentences together. Normally, Bruce would raise an eyebrow and chide him for being presumptuous, but, he reminds himself, they don't know each other and he is not Bruce Wayne. Bruce lets his eyes widen and his lips curve into a half-smile – genuine now, although the speed of this body's emotional shifts unbalances him enough to make him wonder if he'd have been better off testing this transformation with more true strangers first to get accustomed.

It's too late for that, of course. "Bryony Wainright. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr…?"

"West, Wally West. Sorry, I should've said that before. I don't always do this, well, okay, yes I do, but this is different, you're different, prettier, um, I mean…" He has the grace to blush, and now Bruce does reach over and pat Wally on the arm, but at least it's deliberate.

"Thank you, Wally. I appreciate it. It's very generous of you to be so kind to a stranger."

"Not at all, Ms. Wainwright. Bryony, that's an unusual name." When he lifts her glass, he smiles, expectant. "You'll join us, won't you?"

"Us?" Bruce asks, as though he hasn't been scoping out the four of them since he walked in.

"Oh, my friends and I." Wally waves his hand toward the others and almost spills Bruce's drink.

Bruce catches it neatly, taking it out of Wally's hand. "You're sure they won't mind?"

"Hel—heck no. Michael and Ted love new people and Ollie, well, Ollie loves beautiful women."

Oliver loves him.

Still, he manages not to bridle, since Wally intends a compliment. "Very well, lead on." Bruce tilts his head closer to Wally's, mimicking the conspiratorial tone he has heard a hundred times from the daughters of his and Oliver's peerage. "You'll tell me which is which, of course, and whether any of you are attached?"

Wally grins and places his hand in the small of Bruce's back; he doesn't shake it off, but only barely. With luck, Wally won't notice the forced nature of Bruce's smile, and this Merlin-be-damned emotional rollercoaster will hit a higher point shortly.

All three of them set their darts down to be introduced. Michael's giddy warmth bubbles over like shaken champagne. "Bryony, like peony, the flower?"

Ted smiles, shaking his head. "Don't mind him. Michael, bryony is also a plant. A climbing vine with small black or red berries, correct?"

Bruce has always liked Ted's mind.

Oliver takes Bruce's drink and sets it upon their table, then catches his hand and lifts Bruce's wrist to his lips. "My heart swells at the pleasure of your acquaintance, Bryony."

The others raise bewildered eyebrows, but of course Oliver would know both the botanical species and the Greek derivation. Moira Queen had excelled at Herbology, and his best friend has taken a renewed interest in the subject since her – Bruce sighs inwardly at the rising ache – death.

The brief touch of Oliver's lips quiets that ache and replaces it with another, lower. He plays off the sudden burst of arousal and flush, letting a true smile grace his mouth. Though Bruce finds he'd be content to let Oliver keep his hand, it would not be appropriate; still he trails his fingertip down Oliver's forearm before disengaging. "How is it you know the Greek bruonia, Oliver, and you, the species, Ted?"

Wally looks chagrined, and Ted and Michael stuff awkward hands in pockets, almost in tandem. Not for the first time, Bruce thinks it would be a courtesy to tell them they hide their relationship poorly.

Of course, Oliver saves them. "Forgive us, Bryony. It's rare we have such a lovely woman with us. We all went to private school together." He pulls a face, frowning in an exaggerated manner that makes Bruce want – Merlin help him – to taste his lips with this mouth. "They made us study botany."

But thoughts of experimentation must be sidelined, must, for if he wants to be accepted he must maneuver carefully. "Really?" Cocking his head, shaped and penciled eyebrows raised, Bruce slants his attention to Oliver. "I went to private school, too. In Salem."

"Excelsior," they all answer at once, but Oliver gives him a considering once over, like he's seeking a hidden wand. Perhaps it's condescending of him, but Bruce hasn't been prouder of Oliver since he beat Diana in target-shooting. "Salem." Oliver offers his best 'c'mon you know you want to talk to me' smile, eyes going blank but warm and encouraging. "I knew a girl who went there once. A most unusual school."

"Oh, it is." Lifting the pinkish drink, Bruce sips through the straw. The taste is satisfactory, tart without being unpleasant. The lipstick, on the other hand, earns his scorn. He's practiced, of course, but he still can't fathom why women put up with something so inefficient as to need to be reapplied upon contact with a glass. When he realizes he's let his mind stray again, Bruce almost rolls his eyes; he catches himself in time to direct what he hopes is a winsome look at Oliver. "It's quite a magical place, what with the history."

As he picks up a dart, suspicion lights Ted's eyes; he stops and turns to Bruce and Oliver. "I always wondered why they only persecuted witches. Surely there must have been wizards, too."

"Probably still are, don't you think, Michael?" Wally chimes in, catching on quicker than Michael; it's not that Michael's stupid, but the Hufflepuff nature is to go slow – ironic, considering that his old housemate is anything but. "I can't imagine that witches and wizards just died out, or something."

"If you believe in that sort of thing," Michael says but his gaze slips to Ted's shoulders as he squares with the dartboard. Though he has always known they'd partnered, in this unfocused mind and body, Bruce actually feels the pull of love and desire between them. Ted's dart hits the outside rim of the ring around the bull's eye and Michael offers a quiet, almost caressing, "Nice toss."

Ted's answer comes in the surreptitious brush of his hand against Michael's hip as he turns back to join them. Wally picks up his dart, throws it, misses completely, plucks it from the wall paneling, moves back to the line and throws it again, this time hitting the outer ring – all before anyone but Bruce even notices he's moved.

Despite returning to their game, his old classmates exhibit uncertainty. Each of them except Oliver, who moves closer again, close enough that when he next inhales, he bites his bottom lip to hide a wide, pleased smile.

For that first instant, it seems to Bruce that Oliver has recognized him – even though Bruce took pains to insure Bryony's scent would shift from Bruce's own heavier forest musks to a lighter moonlit tamaracks and pan-pipes over fairy dew. But then Oliver asks, "Eau de Morgana?" naming the most famous of witches, rather than giving a more subtle, coded message that would accompany him piercing Bruce's disguise.

"Even so." It's strange how he can feel his emotions overtaking this face: delight in the widening of his eyes, but the tiniest trace of disappointment at the corners of his mouth that Oliver doesn't know him. It's best, and, yet, it disconcerts. "Hogwarts, then?" Bruce asks.

"Yes! I'm a Hufflepuff, well, was." Wally's beaming, and if it weren't so…Wally…it'd be almost…cute.

Oh. Merlin. Female hormones are even more inconvenient than breasts. Or maybe it's simply his own sexuality channeled through a brain untrained to automatically avoid such distractions. Either way, suddenly seeing men he has known his entire life as eligible bachelors has Bruce clasping his lowball glass far too hard.

"Michael was too." Wally rattles on, thankfully oblivious to Bruce's lack of mental discipline. "But Ted's a Ravenclaw and Ollie's a Gryffindor. You shouldn't listen if you've heard bad things about Slytherins, because Ollie's best friend, Bruce, he's not here right now, but you might've heard of him, Bruce Wayne of the Gotham Waynes -- you know they were killed by… You Know Who." He takes a swig of beer so fast he almost doesn't stop talking. "Anyway, they're not all bad, the Slytherins. Bruce isn't, he's kind of stuffy, and a little, well, a lot, intimidating, but he's the farthest thing from one of them."

Oliver cuffs Wally in the back of the head, which pleases Bruce, because Bryony can't, and he really wants to. Sighing, Oliver shakes his head. "Bruce's priorities are different from most people's, that's all. He's really the best of us."

Interesting to hear Oliver speak of him. He won't to press it, but Bruce can admit he likes Oliver defending him. He has no choice but to admit it, with the way it flushes his skin warm and pink. "Perhaps you'll introduce us."

At that, Oliver draws back a little, stiffening. "Perhaps. He's not especially sociable."

"Pity, a man like that—"

"Has far more important things to do then join us at the pub," Ted says, cutting off any possibility for Bruce to probe further into why Oliver wouldn't introduce him to…himself. "So where are you from, Bryony?"

"Charlotte, Virginia." Bruce sips his drink, then glances at Oliver through lowered lashes. "I'm here on business."

Well-trained, by him, Oliver perks up again at that. "What sort?"

Time to test his cover story: "Mysterious."

Four sets of eyes widen; "The Department of?" Ted asks.

Brushing his hair off his shoulder self-importantly, Bruce nods.

"Wow, cool. I've never met anyone from…I mean that I know of, and, hey, should you even be talking about…well, I guess you're not, really, are you?" Wally ducks his head. "Not yet, anyway."

"Nor will I," he says with a tight-lipped smile.

They all seem to accept that, even Oliver, but he does so with a pensive frown.

"Do you play?" Michael, ever the Hufflepuff, decides to change the subject by holding out a set of darts Bruce's way.

"Not since I graduated." He hasn't, not precisely, though some of their training exercises include tests of hand-eye coordination like darts. The opportunity to test the skills of this form appeals, so he takes the darts with a level of eagerness he wouldn't usually show. "If you don't mind me being rusty, I'd love a game or two."

After that, they settle into a comfortable rhythm of darts and drinking, occasional attempts at flirtation by one or the other of them rebuffed with genteel politeness. Hearty congratulations abound when he finds his aim and wins the second and third games, and Michael buys the next round of drinks, including Bruce's water.

When they wind down, Bruce sits beside Oliver as he always does, allowing their thighs to press together, also as he always does. Oliver doesn't move away, but neither does he flirt or spread his legs to be closer. He's not at all aloof; in fact, he couldn't be more charming or solicitous, but there is an untouchable core to him.

Bruce identifies it as the public façade: Oliver Queen, the last Star City Queen, out for a night with friends. Yet, with Oliver's occasional need to have a woman when Bruce is away, Bruce would've expected Oliver to come on to him.

Merlin, fuck. That hurts. Both that he strays and that he won't stray for Bryony, and Merlin, how he hates this unfamiliar form and the heat ached of its betrayals.

He hadn't factored in the disorientation of being with Oliver but not with him, of not having the same quality of attention he's used to from his partner. Now he chastises himself for not thinking of how sitting beside Oliver without being permitted absorb his warmth and light might affect him.

"So." Bruce leans forward, putting his chin on his left hand and turning himself to face Oliver, while casually moving out of contact. "Aren't you going to ask me what a nice witch like me is doing in a place like this?"

Fingers spreading to cradle the short, wide glass, Oliver eschews the straw, sips his Citron and soda, then smiles at Bruce over the rim. It's so familiar, Bruce's stomach does a slow flip, and, abruptly, he wants nothing so much as to be going home, to their bed, to sleep beside Oliver and listen to him breathe.

"What, so you can tell me it's strictly need to know and I don't?"

Eyes closing over a wry smile, Bruce tilts his head toward a slender shoulder. Long hair slides over the wool of his jacket with a soft shush. "Now you'll never know what I might've told you if you hadn't reminded me I'm not meant to confide in you."

It sounds far more coy in Bryony's husky alto than he intended, and when Oliver's expression shutters, Bruce regrets attempting to tease. Although he thumbs Bruce's cheek, Oliver has retreated, closing in on himself to where usually only Bruce can reach him.

"Bryony, I…" No one else would know that hesitation for pain, but Bruce does, and even more than usual, he wishes he could protect Oliver from it. "You're beyond beautiful. You're smart, sexy, and… you remind me of someone I care far too much for to do this tonight. I'd say I wish it were different, but I don't. Though I do hope you understand it's because I'd really like to know what it's like to kiss you that I can't."

Bruce schools his features, or tries, but fears he fails. He offers a smile, the correct words: "I confess I am disappointed, as I'd also like to know, but perhaps another time."

"Perhaps," Oliver responds, but he is merely being polite, and that hurts more than all of it, even though part of Bruce sings with pleasure at Oliver's fidelity..

As he finishes his drink, Bruce reflects that the worst thing about being Bryony isn't the shoes, or the topsy-turvy emotions, nor even the effusive sexual response. It's not owning the right to take Oliver home.

* * *

Bruce breakfasts with Ted and Michael who'd taken pity on Bryony after it became obvious Oliver would be going home as usual, and lunches with Wally. That meal, as Bruce had hoped, turns into a visit to Smallville to meet Chloe and Clark and, of course Lex, who – after the sniffing about Bruce expects from his rival – promptly claims the lovely Bryony for dinner, dancing, drinks. And after spending the night and brunch the next morning keeping Lex's hands off Bryony's ass, Bruce decides perhaps the worst thing about being Bryony is not being able to punch Lex in the mouth.

It would've been counterproductive in any event, but it doesn't make Bryony's emotions any easier to bear. In all his life, he's never been at the mercy of such unruly passions, and fending off Lex leaves little time for the sort of meditative focus that might begin to give him control.

By afternoon, edges jagged, Bruce wants routine, familiar golden hair between his fingers, Oliver's lips around his…his lips around Oliver's cock, shower and sleep. Thank Merlin, the spell will reverse overnight. He takes his leave of Lex, Wally, and the others with a polite "next time I'm in town," and after Apparating to the American office of the Ministry of Magic in case he's being tracked, steps inside and Apparates home to the grounds of Wayne Manor.

The Manor's wards don't recognize Bryony, of course, but Alfred does. He admits Bruce with a "Master Bruce" and a quiet smile that turns wry when he amends, "Or should that be Mistress Bryony?"

"You may as well become used to calling this form Bryony, Alfred," Bruce answers upon a moment's consideration. "Begin as we mean to go on."

"As you say, Mistress Bryony." Alfred pulls the door shut behind them, but Bruce hesitates in the foyer, not wishing to come on Oliver unaware. Ever the gentleman's gentleman, Alfred divines the direction of Bruce's thoughts. "Master Oliver is in the gym."

"Thank you, Alfred. I will take afternoon tea in the study. If you will, please don't inform Oliver of my presence."

"Of course, madam," Alfred responds, and with that disorienting shift, strides out of the foyer in search of Bruce's tea.

He's just finished his first cup when Oliver sings out, "Bruce?" on his way into the study. Oliver being Oliver will have heard the door, and has now come to see him with all deliberate haste. He always does when Bruce has been away if Bruce doesn't come for him first.

Setting down the porcelain cup – blessedly lipstick free, as he'd scrubbed Bryony's skin clean of cosmetics after leaving Lex and before coming home, Bruce uncurls from his wingback and rises to greet his partner.

Flushed with surprise, Oliver nevertheless has his wand out and pointing at Bruce in seconds. Bruce fingers his, but hopes, very much, not to have to use it.

"You're not—What're you—Alfred!" Oliver demands, and Bruce winces for the imperious tone.

"Oliver, please. Let me explain," Bruce begins, only to be interrupted by Alfred's appearance behind Oliver.

"You called, Master Oliver?" Alfred's voice betrays nothing, not even the irritation at being summarily ordered to appear that flashes in his eyes. Bruce hasn't seen its like since he turned sixteen and informed Alfred he would, under no circumstances, be throwing a party, Society's rules be damned.

Oliver glares at Alfred. "That—" He nods to Bryony. "Is not Bruce."

"Rather extraordinary, isn't she, sir?"

Merlin bless Alfred's sense of humor and propriety. He will force Oliver to let Bruce explain himself. All Bruce has to do is hold his tongue until Alfred has left and it may yet be managed as is seemly and proper.

"Yes. No. Alfred, what I mean is, what is she doing here?"

Hold his tongue and keep from snapping his fingernails on the back of this chair, Bruce amends.

"Having tea, sir."

"I can see that." Oliver's anger turns to exasperation; it's clear to Bruce he's rather forcibly restraining himself from rolling his eyes at Alfred. "What I'd like to know, Alfred, no more no less, is how she comes to be having tea in our study without Bruce present and without my knowledge."

"I'll have to let her explain that herself, sir." With that, Alfred bows himself out of the room. But when he reaches the door, he collects Bruce's gaze, then adds, "I can, however assure you she means you no harm."

Bruce waits for Alfred to retreat, then steps toward Oliver. Acutely conscious of his form, he takes care not to put a sway in his hips.

Oliver's wand comes up, defensive. "Not another step."

Or Oliver will disarm him with expelliarmus then put a Leg-locker curse on him like they've practiced together thousands of times. In his own body, Bruce is faster, but in this one, he won't chance it. Dueling Oliver is not what he's come home for.

"As you wish, Oliver." Lifting an eyebrow, Bruce extends his hands and arms, turning them over to allow Oliver to see he's tucked his wand back into the sleeve of his crisp white blouse.

Oliver nods, curt, and lowers his wand arm, though he keeps it at the ready. "Explain yourself."

Both pleased with Oliver's ferocity in defending himself and their home, and annoyed at his attitude, Bruce sighs. "I had intended to wait until morning. Explain as myself, but I found I wanted to see you."

"You'll forgive me for not caring what you want." His sharp tone flays Bruce's already raw nerves. Coupled with the marked distrust, it tears a hole straight through him.

"Bryony is a spelled transformation, Oliver. I am myself; I am Bruce."

Forearm shaking with furious tension, Oliver points his wand straight at Bruce's chest. "You are not Bruce Wayne."

Jaw tightening, Bruce brings his own hands up, summons as much of the Wayne hauteur as he can muster, and unbuttons his blouse. As though he hasn't just exposed his breasts, he glares at Oliver, eyebrow lifting again. "Tell me, Oliver Queen, what do you see?"

"Besides a pretty pair of tits?" Oliver snarls, and Bruce's fingers twitch around the cotton. He's never heard Oliver speak like this, and never wants to again.

"Don't be crass, Oliver. It doesn't suit you."

That gives Oliver pause; whether because he's heard Bruce say it precisely that way since second year, or because he knows Bruce doesn't approve of him being crass, Bruce can't be sure. Either way, he ceases sneering long enough for his gaze to light on the bat tattoo nestled in Bryony's cleavage, wings arching to frame the inside and top curves.

Uncertainty softens Oliver's mouth and eyes. "What've you done with Bruce?" Uncertainty and fear.

Merlin, how he wants to bury his fingers in Oliver's hair. Cover his mouth with his own and make this all go away in a blaze of heat and need and knowledge. "On my seventeenth birthday, Chloe threw me a party against your advice. That evening, you visited me in Slytherin dungeon with raspberry sorbet and two spoons."

Oliver's fingers loosen around his wand, so Bruce keeps talking. "You promised me that night you'd do anything for me." Hand outstretched, he grazes Oliver's wrist with his fingertips. "Trust me now."

Gazing going hard and black, Oliver jerks his hand away. "How dare you!"

It stings, but Bruce stands his ground. "How dare I what, Oliver? Not inform you of a disguise only you might be able to penetrate then use you to test it?"

Oliver strains forward onto his toes. His wand disappears into his sleeve, and his fists clench – not to strike but to keep from striking. Bruce or no, Oliver would never strike a woman in anger. "How dare you lie to me!"

Bruce's stomach tightens. His eyes burn, damn this spell. "The mission comes first."

"Don't. Don't you even-- I'm your partner. Or did you forget that when you were flirting with Wally?"

He will not. He will not throw Oliver's infidelity back in his face. Not when even the thought of it nauseates him. "Oliver, please. Don't—"

"Don't make a scene?" Oliver demands, cold, hard, and everything incorrect. Broken. "You might've thought of that before you tried to seduce me into cheating on you."

The illogic of Oliver's turnabout, let alone the subject, hardly register over the red rush of pain. "Oliver." His voice sounds soft, tentative, even to his own ears. "Please. I might've hidden this from you, but I chose not to. I had hoped…" You might steady me, as you always do. "I wanted home." In all his life, Bruce has pled for nothing, but in this barely familiar body with its alien emotions, he trembles at that edge.

Oliver's fury is too great to hear it. "You wanted a dramatic entrance—signs, symbols, portents, revelations. It's all about that with you." He spins away. "Well, you got what you wanted. Enjoy it."

"I wanted you," Bruce says quietly to Oliver's retreating back.

When he goes to bed alone, because Oliver has gone out drinking, Bruce decides the worst thing about being Bryony is the ache of tears that won't let him sleep.

* * *

Bruce aches. His feet ache from three days of high heels clacking on the parquet marble of Luthor Mansion. His head aches from the bruises he paid Eddy the Hand to put on Bryony's delicate cheekbones and lipsticked mouth this morning during his run for a ploy to secure Lex's ongoing sympathies. His entire being aches from three days of Lex's overweening masculinity, and an entire morning of his protectiveness and assurances the perpetrator of the "mugging" would be caught.

Funny how both Lex's masculinity and his "protectiveness" involve near-continuous sexual advances that leave deeper bruises than Eddy's fists. Even so, the worst part of being Bryony this time isn't handsy Lex, but being uncertain of his reception with Oliver when certainty, Oliver, is most...necessary.

At least this time Oliver knows that Bruce has transformed to Bryony. Knows that he spent the last three days at Luthor Mansion trying to discover how the Luthors' house elves learned fire magic. Still, when Alfred directs 'Mistress Bryony' to the study, his heart beats ten beats per minute too fast.

He stands at the threshold, hands at the small of his back, pressed to the doorframe to prevent fidgeting with the long sleeves of the slate silk jacket he accessorized to cover the abrasions from Bryony's fall. Fidgeting, because he has yet to learn any means of dispelling this body's emotional imbalances. The ridiculous vulnerability makes him want to rake his fingernails down the nearest obliging face and fills Bryony's husky voice with scorn. "Whatever the Luthors have done to their house elves, it is in contravention of no explicit law. Even Lionel is not so secure that he would give a Ministry operative a clear shot at him. I retrieved hair and—"

"What happened?" Oliver shoots to his feet, tossing his book to the settee. His expression darkens so fast, for an instant, it seems the balled fists are for Bryony; it's all Bruce can do to stop the instinctual quailing from male fists. Then Oliver's gaze lights on the eggplant-colored bruise that's low continuous throb seems determined to rob Bruce of any rationality and the split lip, and Bruce lets out a held breath. "Who did this? Was it--"

"Eddy the Hand," Bruce answers, before Oliver can threaten to rip Lex apart. He'd neglected to mention the beating when he told Oliver the plan, lest Oliver suggest he be the one to do it. It would've made sense, and probably been safer, but Bruce hadn't liked the thought of what hitting a woman would do to Oliver.

He hadn't liked the thought of what it would do to Bryony, either. "I paid him to do it, so I could tell Lex I'd been mugged."

"I'm gonna kill Lex," Oliver growls.

Though predictably extremist, that very predictability of Oliver's response does what Bruce himself cannot. It cuts through Bryony's emotions, settling him, and more, makes him feel, Merlin help him, safe in a way he hasn't since turning his face aside to catch Lex's kiss of greeting on his cheek. His heart rate slows; his fingernails cease cutting into his palms. He even tries to smile, but the cut in his lip tugs open drawing a wince instead.

Almost as fast as Wally could be, Oliver's at his side. He tilts Bruce's chin up to inspect the damage before Bruce can even say he's fine. His fingers probe the bruise, turning Bryony's stomach. "Oh," slips out on a quiet huff of pained breath, and Oliver draws his hand back, fast.

"Sorry." From the set of his shoulders and the way he won't meet Bruce's gaze, it's clear to Bruce that Oliver's sorry for more than the accidental hurt. He shoves his hands in his pockets the way he always does when he's confused and unsure, the way he hasn't done around Bruce since the first time he'd had to admit he strayed.

Bruce aches for him, too.

In his male body, he'd damn the pain and take Oliver's mouth. He's shorter than Oliver now, and lacks the strength to pin Oliver until his objections melt away. Even if he could, it might not help.

"Normally, I'd treat your wounds and check you for broken bones." Oliver pushes his hand through his hair, then appeals to him with troubled eyes. "I don't even know if I'm supposed to do that?"

Please comes to mind, the desire for the comfort of Oliver's ministrations drowning out the I'm fine he would usually speak. He's fine, except for all the ways that he's not, that Bryony's not. Lifting his shoulders, Bryce closes his eyes and nods.

Bryony's lashes brush his cheeks; her hair cascades off his shoulders into his face. Oliver's hand comes up as though to smooth it away, then stutters, stalls. In sixth year, Oliver lost his temper at Chloe, jealous of Bruce touching her precisely like this to pull a leaf from her hair. Oliver's eyes widen giving Bruce near certainty he is remembering it too.

Part of his brain insists he pull away, ignore the irrational need for Oliver's touch. The rest of him, swamped with Bryony's hormones and Bryony's emotions overrides him.

He turns his head, seeking, and when Oliver's fingers brush Bryony's jaw, Oliver's expression, his entire manner, softens. Gentle, far more gentle than Bruce has ever known him to be, and carefully avoiding the bruise on her cheekbone, Oliver tucks a lock behind Bryony's ear. His hand stalls again in the midst of the next stroke, curling into the mass of hair against her shoulder. "What do I even call you?"

Oliver has years of experience at hiding their relationship. He might call him 'Bruce' without Bruce being concerned that he'd do so mistakenly in public. Yet the question confirms what his behavior suggests: to Oliver, Bryony is not Bruce no matter that the same intellect animates them both. The more time he spends in this female form, the more difficulty Bruce, too, has maintaining himself while he is in it.

"I've asked Alfred to call me 'Bryony' to create a firm association in his mind, should I ever have cause to be a guest at Wayne Manor rather than its…" Perhaps its best that he also embrace the deception. "Mistress." Awkward with the spontaneous decision, flush blooms in his, her, cheeks.

Oliver's thumb traces an uneven oval on the unbruised cheekbone, presumably mapping the borders of an uncharacteristic blush. The caress shivers through Bruce, Bryony, as potent as Oliver's fingers dancing across his groin in his male body, and Bryony can only look up – and that, too, is so strange, to be looking up at Oliver – into familiar brown eyes and breathe, "Oliver?"

Visibly gathering himself, Oliver exhales and steps closer. "Bryony…" Oliver's lips shape the unfamiliar name with a very familiar intimacy, testing it. His left hand slides beneath her hair, both cool and hot at once, to cradle her head. "Bry."

At the shortening of her name, a curl of heat rises from Bryony's groin to warm her through. While perhaps Bruce has chosen to be Bryony in truth, to accept the female pronoun, the name, the re-gendering has not changed his essence – only the manner of its expression. She lifts an eyebrow, lips quirking past pain that seems much less with Oliver's hands on her. "A pet name, Oliver? Will you next offer me your Gryffindor pin?"

"If you wish," Oliver responds dryly, with a hint of a smirk. It melts away again with the spreading dark in his eyes. "But I would still, very much, like to know what it's like to kiss you."

"I'm certain we kissed before I transformed--"

"Bry." Oliver catches her chin on his fingers so she cannot duck away, but she has no intention of it.

She tilts her face up, offering, but Oliver's not kissing her, he's studying her. "Tell me it's okay. Tell me…" Now dark crimson stains his cheeks, but he holds her gaze. "Tell me it's not… you won't…" Pain shreds his voice already raw with worry and desire.

Tell me it's not cheating. Tell me you won't punish me for wanting this. She's his best friend and partner, but not quite, and the last time…it'd been so harsh. In his posture, she sees it, how much it hurt him: Bruce refusing his apologies for straying, refusing his touch for days before relenting and fucking him raw in a rage to claim him back.

Having gone to him at The Maker's Mark to test the transformation now seems a poor idea. It confused matters for both of them, complicating them with the knowledge that Oliver would want her even if she weren't Bruce. And further with the knowledge he hadn't wanted her enough to step out on him.

Will it seem like betrayal when she is Bruce again? She doesn't know. She can't be certain, but she needs him now. She aches for their routines of ice and aloe for surcease and thorough examination before healing, for kisses of greeting and gratitude and relief. For home and Oliver to cleanse away the lingering scent of Lex's magic and the passage of his wandering hands.

The stretch along her arm feels new when she reaches for him; his hair through her slender, shorter fingers feels longer. Yet as it has since second year, the contact grounds her.

Oliver freezes, going stock still; his chest rises and doesn't fall. Breath held and eyes wide, he waits for her judgment.

As much as she wants to, she can't promise she won't think differently when she is Bruce again. Yet with the habits of a lifetime ingrained, she can control her behavior. "I won't."

Eyes falling closed, Oliver moans, low and ragged. "Bruce… Oh, Merlin, Bry." He tangles his fist in her hair almost feverishly, and when he dips his head, everything in her seems to strain toward him. His mouth captures hers – sweet, soft and cautious.

Merlin, fuck. It's like being doused in fire whisky.

"Oliver," she whimpers, Morgana damn it, whimpers, then grasps the ends of his shirt to drag him toward her. She could give a skrewt about her split lip; she just wants Oliver.

For the first time in forever, Oliver is the one to exercise restraint. He rights himself; dusts his knuckles against her unbruised cheek and traces her lips with his thumb. Years ago, she'd done the same with Chloe, but she knew beyond doubt, her eyes never held this particular blend of tenderness, protectiveness, and adoration.

Chloe had never seemed to want to shove him to the ground and mount him either.

Bryony plants her hands on Oliver's broad chest, glares up at him. "I'm fine."

When he smoothes his hand over the back of her hair, pulling her into his arms with a murmured, "No, but you will be," she decides the worst thing about not being Bruce is not having the strength to break free and fuck him into submission.

But when he growls, "if Lex lays a finger on you again, I swear I will kill him," against her hair, she decides it might just be the best thing, too.

A/N: Thanks, as ever, to way2busymom for handholding and beta. This is for my girl just_katarin, for her birthday, with love.

deeper wonderment: all kinds of deeper wonderment [art]

Tue, 17 Jul 2007 21:04:46 GMT

Title: all kinds of deeper wonderment
Created by: slodwick
Created for: all kinds of deeper wonderment by technosage and just_katarin
Notes: So many thanks to slodwick for embracing the challenge of this project as part of her Sweet Charity offering. We couldn't be more pleased with the results.

reflections: Accidentally In Love

Sat, 07 Jul 2007 03:35:09 GMT

Title: accidentally in love
Author: just_katarin
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 406
Summary: Oliver's not in love with Bruce, except for how he is.

He's not sure when it began, he has vague memories of tossing out his notes at the end of 1st year and seeing it doodled across the bottom but even that isn't certain, he could be imagining it. All he does know is that when Clark asks to borrow his Astronomy notes for their OWLs 5th year, he pulls them out of his bag and Bruce's name is written all over the margins. Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, over and over again in his neat scrawl.

"They're a bit of a mess actually," he tells him, shoving the offending scraps of parchment back inside and putting on his most innocent smile, "I'll recopy them on clean paper, then you can have a look, all right then?"

"No that's fine; I'll just grab Diana's." He tosses his books onto his bed and clomps back down the stairs, taking them three at a time and making an awful racket. Oliver barely notices, he's too busy going through every last one of his notes and it's there, everywhere. History of Magic, Transfigurations, Charms, Potions and all of them with Bruce's name in the margins. Even those he kept from last year.

There's nothing else, no silly flowers or hearts or anything, he hasn't been writing Oliver Wayne or anything mind numbingly embarrassing like that. It's just Bruce's name and the occasional doodle of broomsticks or snitches. He daydreams about Bruce, the small, not quite smile that Oliver knows is just for him, the amused quirk of his eyebrows, and the tangle of his fingers in Oliver's hair.

He has other dreams about him too but those are at night and he doesn't like to admit that the tangle of images, dark hair and soft lips, skin and heat and the familiar sense of rightness that he only gets from one place is Bruce. He's not sure what that would mean, if he spent all of his time either with Bruce or thinking about Bruce's expressions or dreaming about his skin or writing his name all over his damn notes.

He'll be studying with him tonight, with Bruce and Chloe and Lex in the Slytherin dungeons because their OWLs will determine the entire course of their lives. Or so Chloe likes to remind them. It's possible he's just been studying too hard, that it will all sort itself out once he stops over extending himself. They're all tired, all of them.

Maybe that's it.

reflections: love in beats per minute

Sat, 07 Jul 2007 03:28:47 GMT

Title: Love in beats per minute
Author: technosage
Pairing: Bruce/Oliver
Rating: R
Word Count: 1235
Summary: Bruce might've maybe missed being able to have Oliver the way he likes him best.
Chronology: Seventh year.

The last five minutes of Friday Potions tick by too slowly. It feels as though Snape, knowing that he and Oliver have signed themselves out for a weekend in Hogsmead, has performed a Slowing Charm on time itself.

Last year, Chloe passed him a note that said as much, and he, possessing no knowledge of the picnic she had planned, had written back with a soft scowl, Dumbledore should be very displeased were that the case. School your impatience. Five minutes is five minutes.

Five minutes might be five minutes, and what he had written to Chloe still held true, but Bruce now had cause to understand what had occasioned the sentiment. Anticipation: his own heart fifteen beats per minute too fast; stolen glances at Oliver reveal his mouth curved into a secretive smile; his breath catches when Oliver's fingertips brush, discreetly, against his wrist.

At length – precisely five minutes later – Snape dismisses them. Gaunt and beaky, he looms over their shared desk, and Bruce puts on his best Head Boy hauteur. "We'll see you next week, sir." Then he gets to his feet and waits for Oliver to do the same before sweeping out the door, leaving Snape not quite agape behind him.

* * *

"What's gotten into you, Bruce?" Oliver teases, as they seat themselves in the carriage a scant five minutes later, their belongings having been fetched from the Manor so they might leave directly from class. His lips form shiny 'Os' and pink arabesques. Brown eyes gleam with mischief. "You were very nearly rude to—prmmph."

Mouth to Oliver's mouth, Bruce breathes, eyes closing with the calm he hasn't felt since rising this morning. His fingers skim the nape of Oliver's neck to tangle in his hair and hold while Bruce chases the taste of Oliver underneath the pumpkin juice and apple tarts Oliver filched for an afternoon snack.

The seat creaks and Oliver huffs, laughing into his mouth as he shoves Bruce in the shoulder. There's merriment in Oliver's eyes, but Bruce can't help the pang of discontent smack in the middle of his chest.

"Miss me?" Oliver asks.

Yes. Yes. "You've hardly been out of my sight."

"Aww, you did. You missed me."

Though he knows Oliver plays with him out of fondness, he knows this, Bruce turns away, looks out the pristine glass window to watch hills and sheep and the odd shepherd's hut roll by. "If I miss anything, it is the lack of necessary duplicity." He tires of being the Wayne heir, the best young Wizard in three generations.

Oliver's fingers card through the back of his hair. Warmsoft lips press beneath his ear. "I miss us, too," Oliver breathes, and Bruce's chest loosens.

He reaches back behind him to cup Oliver's head and pull it down. Quick twist, seat creaking, then Bruce faces Oliver again, lips already locked together and the wheat and wind scent of Oliver's magic surrounding him.

When Oliver gives up a quiet groan and curses the carriage into Bruce's mouth, Bruce very nearly smiles.

* * *

Theirs is the best room at the Inn, of course. No one would dare give less than the best to the scions of Queen and Wayne. Egyptian cotton sheets, noticed only for the way the cream displays Oliver in his most golden glory. Faery lanterns, noticed only for the way the tiny bloomlights halo and shade. A Beaujolais, from the year of Bruce's Scottish grandsire's birth, but Bruce doesn't even taste it until he sips from Oliver's lips.

They try to sit, eat, converse. Candied walnut apricot glazed brie holds no appeal, and talking they have had plenty of at school. With each syllable, they edge closer to each other, slouching, shifting, stretching until first their knees and then their shoulders touch.

Like some celestial algorithm, his fingertips ruffling the hair at Oliver's nape leads to lips being licked shiny. And wine-stained lips spit-shined to mouths joined, then the floor protests as the divan jumps, skids, with Oliver twisting to his back and Bruce riding him down.

Oliver's fingers tug Bruce's shirt free from his pants, but Bruce won't let go long enough for him to pull it off. Not yet. So Oliver's hands forage under starched cotton for skin, find it heated despite the pleasant temperature of the room. Firm strokes, hands flat, Oliver draws him flush tighter, thrusts against the groove of his hip.

Bruce makes a low sound, rumbling, and bites the fleshy part of Oliver's lip. Tastes copper and tannins and finds the Beaujolais much improved by the flavor of Oliver's blood. When Oliver's tongue laves the tiny wound, Bruce pushes it away with his own, licks and licks then drags his tongue over Oliver's palate when he moans.

Now he sits up, strips his shirt over his head and, so very unconcerned but habitually tidy, lays it over the back of the couch. His gaze captures every ripple of tanned flesh as Oliver struggles out of his, not quite helpless but certainly pinned against the cushions with Bruce astride.

Hand out, he smirks; Oliver rolls his eyes and tosses the shirt well out of reach. Bruce scowls for the childishness of it, but the expression dissolves in his teeth on Oliver's throat. Oliver's hips roll, Bruce's echo. Oliver flushes, turns his head aside to give access to the golden arch of his neck, unmarked since public double-dealing requires they pretend Oliver is not his.

One after another, each more brutal than the last, Bruce gifts him a necklace of bruises and Oliver pants and whines for each. Down and down, covering Oliver's chest, unbuttoning his trousers and folding back the flap to expose his hip bones and suck wine-dark seisin there.

Damp, dark gold curls frame a ruddy shaft. Swift inhalation, his own groin tightening at the proof of want glistening on the tip. Bruce swipes his tongue through Oliver's musk, decides it finer than the wine and proceeds to drink. At length. Enthusiastically. With cheeks hollowing, lips numbing, tongue curling to smooth the ride.

Oliver's fingers rake crooked furrows through Bruce's hair, scrape welts into his shoulders, and Bruce nurses the pain off Oliver's prick. Rough whimper and Bruce has a face full of musk and heat and throat full of cock and come; he swallows to the sound of his own name, soft, wondering, a benediction on Oliver's lips.

Slow, he pulls off. Sits up with lips curved into a true smile. Oliver pants, reaches up to thumb-smooth the last of his come into Bruce's mouth. His eyes, deep, dark, lust-blown but warm, say things they – neither of them – put into words, but Bruce can almost hear the best friend and beautiful, when Oliver's eyebrow arches in a mimicry of Bruce's favorite expression. "You really did miss me."

"Perhaps I merely wish to fuck you," he responds, lifting his own eyebrow.

"Whatever. You missed me."

He reaches for his wine glass, still upright on the table despite Oliver's athletic response to his ministrations. Oliver takes it from him, sips, then presses their mouths together, licking deep. "Admit it, Bruce, you missed me," he urges, soft. Intense. "I promise I won't tease."

Bruce pulls away and looks, heart twenty beats per minute too fast. At length, he simply nods.

Oliver smiles, and after, they roll fevered bodies in cool cotton sheets and kiss, taste, lick, fuck…love their fill.

A/N: Written for 60_minute_fics in response to 7.6.2007 trigger #2, "crazy in love". Go to the info page for an explanation of 60 minute insanity.

Unbetaed, so error-spotting welcomed!

deeper wonderment: oh, perilous place

Sat, 23 Jun 2007 21:58:40 GMT

deeper wonderment: oh, perilous place [notes]

Sat, 23 Jun 2007 21:57:28 GMT

deeper wonderment: oh, perilous place, walk backward toward you [art]

Sat, 23 Jun 2007 21:44:27 GMT

Title: oh, perilous place, walk backward toward you
Created by: just_katarin
Created for: oh, perilous place by technosage & walk backward toward you by just_katarin

deeper wonderment: oh, perilous place [part 2]

Sat, 23 Jun 2007 21:28:00 GMT

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

deeper wonderment: oh, perilous place [part 1]

Sat, 23 Jun 2007 21:23:27 GMT

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

"Well, if it isn't our esteemed Prefect come to grace us with his presence," Chloe interrupted Lex mid-sentence as Bruce approached. "Good morning, Bruce."

"Chloe, Lex." Bruce nodded a polite greeting before taking his accustomed seat beside Chloe at the precise midpoint of the wall-side of the Slytherin dining table where the entire hall could be viewed with ease.

"Nice badge you've got there." As ever, Lex missed outright snide by less than a hair. He practiced it, had been practicing it, since third year when Bruce had cast the Silencing Charm at him and refused to reverse it until Lex had promised – by nodding vigorously – to keep a civil tongue in his head.

Bruce ignored him. Wearing a "P" on one's chest entitled one to ignore the jibes of classmates, though Bruce would've done it without the badge. Because, as Oliver had been at pains to tell him last year, not only did "P" stand for "Prefect", but also for "Phallus," "Penis," and "Prick." All of which he had, according to Oliver, to be, to wish to be a Prefect.

Not that Bruce had wanted to be a Prefect; however, as Professor McGonagall had observed, good luck to anyone who'd been appointed Prefect over him.

It was precisely that attitude that had him composing Quidditch drills in his head, while listening with only half an ear while Lex and Chloe returned to comparing the relative merits of the Holyhead Harpies and the Falmouth Falcons. He had no need to pay attention, as his mind would supply him with the exact details of the conversation if he ever required them.

"What about you, Wayne, who do you think will take the British league this year? The Falcons or the Harpies?" From his tone, Lex believed Bruce would agree with him over Chloe who favored Holyhead.

As it happened, he didn't. "Neither. The Falcons' new Beater, Bernie Allston, earned more penalties with the Chudley Cannons than any other three players combined. That alone will cost them the championship. The Harpies' best Chaser, Serafina Sandoval, has been suspended for repeated, flagrant violations of the Muggle Protection Act."

Bruce sipped his tea, gaze scanning the room behind and over Lex's head, still bald, as the hair-thickening charms he'd tried over summer had done nothing but turn his eyebrows into a veil. "The Ballycastle Bats new Seeker, Tifa Lensman was Beaux-Baton's best in over a century, and they've got two new Beaters as well. The Appleby Arrows might beat them, if they stop getting carried away with their own press."

"Speaking of Quidditch players carried away with their own press," Lex muttered, put out; though being disturbed by incisive analysis when one gambled as much on Quidditch as Lex did made no sense. He ought to be grateful. "Your buddy, Ollie, seems to be stirring things up over at the Gryffindor table."

Taking a bite of her blueberry scone, Chloe rolled her eyes and shook her head at Lex. She gave him a pitying look Bruce recognized as meaning you never learn, do you?

Bruce's own expression held not a trace of pity. "I'm certain the Gryffindor Prefects are quite capable of managing the situation without your input." The growing commotion at the far end of the Slytherin table, on the other hand, required his. "If you'll excuse me, I need to see to matters of our own House."

He stood and swept away, robes swirling around his ankles. Behind him, Lex muttered something he didn't quite hear, and Chloe burst into peals of decidedly un-Slytherin sunshine and lemonade laughter. "It could be worse, Lex. At least he's polite when he bends you over."

The scene that greeted him at the end of the table did not, unfortunately, share the un-Slytherin but not at all unpleasant quality of Chloe's laughter. In fact, it partook entirely too freely of Slytherin traditions that Bruce disapproved and intended to bring to an immediate end. Being a Prefect did have its perks.

Two third years, Geoffrey Haddon and Samuel Mirke, from old, if not especially distinguished, wizarding families left off hazing a new Slytherin from an all-Hufflepuff family, Basil Eckleston, at Bruce's approach. "Good to see you, Bruce." Haddon implied an intimacy that Bruce did not share. His companion, choosing the wiser course, simply said, "Good morning."

Taking the empty seat next to Eckleston, Bruce gave the boy a polite smile. "I understand you're the first Slytherin in your family."

This set Haddon and Mirke to smirking.

"Yes, sir." Eckleston looked all Hufflepuff, except for the ambitious gleam in his eyes of which Bruce approved.

"Why do you think you were Sorted as a Slytherin, Basil?"

"Chess, sir."

"Chess." Not quite a question, but Bruce added a hint of an upward inflection to invite the boy to elaborate. The eyebrow he arched at Haddon and Mirke had them exchanging uncomfortable looks, and well it should, since they hadn't done their homework before picking a target.

Basil's chest and chin lifted a little in pride. "I'm the British junior champion at Wizarding Chess, sir. Have a match with the senior champion next month, and odds are 300-13 in my favor."

"What's chess got to do with anything?"

In his irritation, Haddon raised his voice, which earned him another arched eyebrow from Bruce before he turned his attention back to the younger boy. "Slytherins are expected to show proper respect to older Housemates. This means answering their questions." Even those that showed a complete lack of intelligence.

Of course, Haddon and Mirke needed the reminder more than Eckleston, who nodded, and sat quiet for a moment. That he organized his thoughts, selecting those to speak and those to set aside, was obvious to Bruce's eye from the soft focus on the salt cellar in front of him and the slight gnawing on his lower lip.

At length, Basil looked up again and met Haddon's gaze. "Chess requires the accurate prediction of possible outcomes based on variable sequences of moves, the probability of any one move dependent on not only the skill but also the style of the opponent. Winning requires selecting the most probable moves of the opponent and blocking them, while still advancing one's own game." He sought Bruce's gaze, and Bruce nodded confirmation. "I play to win."

"The Sorting Hat—" Bruce allowed his lips to curve into a sly half-smile that made Mirke wince and Haddon look downright miserable. "—is a chess player, and an excellent one, at that. You'll fit in very well, Eckleston, and I look forward to beating you in chess."

Because, of course, Bruce also played to win, and unlike most wizards, he excelled at logic. More to the point, the only player at Hogwarts who had ever come close to beating him was Oliver, and he and Oliver knew each others' game so well, it'd become very like playing himself.

Eckleston smiled, and his eyes held a hunger that said it would be a damned good game. "I guess we'll see, sir."

"It's just 'Bruce.'" As he stood, Bruce added almost as if an afterthought, though the conversation had gone precisely as he'd predicted, "There's more to being Slytherin than ambition, and I'm certain Sam and Geoff will help bring you up to speed." He fixed the two with a sharp glare. "They wouldn't want me to have to deduct points from the House for unacceptable behavior."

Mirke fell all over himself to say, "Of course, Bruce," even while Haddon protested they had too much work to take a first year under their wing.

Bruce cut them both off, crossing his arms over his chest. "I think six inches on the History of Slytherin House from you, Sam, and six from you, Geoff, on 'What it Means to be a Slytherin,' will be more than sufficient to give Basil a firm foundation. You'll have those in the Prefect's Office by tomorrow first bell, I'm sure. I'll see that copies are distributed to all of the first years, in fact. Thank you."

He met each gaze in turn, but his polite smile when he took his leave he directed at Eckleston. "Enjoy your breakfast, gentlemen."

Before he returned to his own breakfast, he informed Professor Snape of the arrangement, which earned him a sneering smile and a "Well done, Mr. Wayne." The other Slytherin Prefect, Meg Masters, was less sanguine, but he blocked the incipient tirade at his treatment of her favorites with a sharply worded reminder that Slytherins did not turn on other Slytherins.

In the ten minutes that passed total, word traveled the entire length of the table. The hunched shoulders and busy gazes that failed to meet his didn't bother him at all. That his tea had gotten cold, did.

Not bothering with his wand, Bruce focused on the tea in the cup. "Reparo."

Head cocking, Chloe gaze him a quizzical look. "I realize Charms is not my best subject, so maybe I'm missing something essential here, but… it's not broken, Bruce."

Bruce responded by opening his hand to direct her gaze to the pleasant curl of steam now rising from the cup. "Hot tea is meant to be hot." He knew six other spells that could've been used to heat the tea, including the hot air charm Dumbledore preferred, a heating spell, and a way to Transfigure cool tea into hot, but he hadn't needed a wand to use the restore charm since third year.

To Bruce, anything that did not fulfill its intended function was broken and could therefore be fixed with the charm. Anything not alive, anyhow.

Lex, being Lex, had to try it – using his wand, of course – but it didn't work for him, and his petulant scowl didn't get any less petulant with Oliver's copy of the Daily Prophet hitting the table next to him. The paper's mid-toss wobble landed it skew, from which, even if Bruce hadn't noted tension in Oliver's forearms and elbows, he'd have known whatever he'd been discussing with Clark and Diana hadn't gone Oliver's way.

"Kindly hold the witty comments for after I've sat down and they aren't watching anymore." Oliver directed his words at Chloe, who decamped her feet from the chair and pretended to hide a wicked smile behind her tea cup. With a glance along the table, he slid into the empty seat. "Well, judging from the expressions down at that end, either Lex has been singing or Bruce has already made someone cry. Since all of the glassware remains intact, I'll assume it was the latter." Oliver's smile when he met Bruce's gaze lacked its usual ease. "Enjoying the reins of absolute power, Bruce?"

Bruce ignored the jibe, since it had as much to do with Diana and Clark as it did with him

"So I assume your own flippant remarks call an end to the moratorium on witty comments?" Chloe smirked at Oliver. "Because I'd be interested to know what exactly has the heads of Gryffindor causing such a ruckus in the Great Hall."

Then she turned a coy smile on him. "What is it you call behavior like that, Bruce? Common?"

"There are a lot of things that are Common in this room, Chloe." Oliver gave Lex a challenging look, Lex sneered and Bruce scowled into his tea at the reopening of annual hostilities between the two. "We Gryffindors aren't one of them."

Setting his teacup down, Bruce collected Chloe's gaze. "I'd call it unseemly." Then, with a pointed look at Oliver, added, "All of it."

Lex had exactly enough desire for Bruce's approval not to gloat at seeing Oliver upbraided, but even so Bruce didn't miss the smirk he buried in his pumpkin juice.

Flippant as ever and anything but apologetic, Oliver merely grinned. Wrists and forearms fluid now that he'd regained his equilibrium, Oliver lifted his paper, folded it in half, and tossed Chloe an easy smile. "I see you've made yet another coup, Chloe. Goblin Cultural Reclamation in the Americas by Chloe Sullivan."

Her second article in the Daily Prophet. Bruce made a mental note to add five points to Slytherin's tally for the accomplishment and congratulate her later, but didn't interrupt Oliver, merely quirked an eyebrow at the animated reading he'd begun.

The article interested him less in its particulars than in Chloe's initiative and in Oliver's inflection as he added his own cynical humor to her witty asides. Even the manner in which he held the paper spoke of his affection for Chloe – no tension in his fingers, an almost sly cock of his wrist, forearm flexing as he tilted the paper to study the pictures.

Corded muscle caught and held Bruce's attention. His best friend had filled out over the summer, gained a few inches in height and at least twenty pounds of muscle, and it looked good on him. But for a moment, Bruce saw firelight shadows on that forearm. Not affection, but need, in the grip of agile fingers and in the body straining up against his.

"So tell me," Oliver's voice, teasing and wry, rather than hoarse and hungry, snapped Bruce's attention back to the present. Tipping his head in unconscious salute, Oliver smirked. "Are you trying to piss off the American Goblins or does it just make good copy?"

"A bit of both really." Chloe leaned across the table to pluck a strip of bacon off Oliver's plate. Oliver looked completely unfazed, and Bruce just shook his head at the two of them. "The entire idea is ridiculous," Chloe continued, doing what she probably thought of as nibbling pensively on the bacon but looked to Bruce like talking with her mouth full. "Goblin society has settled into an uneasy truce with the Wizarding world. And by uneasy, I mean extremely tenuous. Everyone knows there are smaller factions of Goblins working to subvert the Wizarding governments of the world."

Lex curled his lip in an ugly sneer. "Sounds like someone has been reading a bit too much Muggle science fiction."

Only one step from there to calling Chloe a mudblood, and Bruce wouldn't have that. He quashed Lex with a lift of his eyebrow, accompanied by the full-stop of his fork in mid-air. Lex looked away, and Bruce returned his attention to Oliver. "Continue."

Oliver looked up from his meal. "Hmm?"

More aware than ever of the elegance of Oliver's upbringing in the effortlessly gracious table manners he maintained for Bruce's benefit, of Oliver himself, Bruce nodded to the paper. "Continue reading…if you please."

Oliver's reading would assuage the tension Lex's caustic comment had reintroduced and direct attention away from Chloe's blood-status. That Bruce found it pleasant was entirely incidental.

#

"Well." Lex's mouth wore its nearly perpetual sneer, and his tone could've flayed the hide off a Hungarian horntail. "That was only marginally less boring than watching bubotubers grow."

While Bruce shared his assessment of Binns' teaching style, Lex's sense of entitlement grated; as did his sweeping dismissal of the deaths of good witches and wizards during Voldemort's first rise. "History is only boring for those who lack imagination."

A smallish, warm hand slid down his shoulder to his waist – Chloe, and Bruce turned to see the suppressed snicker in her eyes. Slytherins didn't turn on other Slytherins, and Lex had his uses, but neither he nor Chloe had much patience for his pretension. It was one of the many things Bruce appreciated about her.

Bruce pushed the door to the classroom open, holding it for Chloe to pass. "Interesting question about goblin allegiances. How does the answer track with what you learned for your article?"

"I didn't know you were so interested in goblins." Sly insinuation dripped from Lex's words, and Bruce scowled at the implication that he'd only asked because it was Chloe.

"Everything that has ramifications for a resurgence of Dark wizardry interests me." That asking permitted him to show Chloe that he valued her insights pleased him, but it hadn't been the reason that he'd asked.

Chloe's lips quirked. "Everything about everything interests Bruce, Lex. Each piece part of a larger puzzle. Haven't you figured that out yet?"

Another thing he liked about her: she understood how his mind worked, and to a not insignificant extent hers worked the same way.

Lex tired of being odd man out and headed off to Charms with a tight nod. Chloe turned back to Bruce, then lifted her shoulder in an amused shrug.

"I haven't had a chance to think it through, but it fits. The American goblins' renewed interest in their own heritage definitely suggests growing discontent with their second-class status. If You-Know-Who—"

"Voldemort." Bruce slanted her a chiding look. Superstitious refusal to name the Dark Lord wouldn't keep him away.

"If You-Know-Who," Chloe continued stubbornly, because unlike Lex, and rather like Oliver, she'd always felt free to keep her own counsel in the face of his disagreement, "sought sanctuary in the United States, it's likely the goblins would provide it, if he promised them a change in status. That would lead to—"

The warm sound of Oliver's laughter preceded him around the corner. He appeared to be sharing a joke with the fair-skinned, part Veela Icelandic witch, Tora Olafsdotter.

"Hold that thought, Bruce?" Chloe smiled up at him, hand on his arm, and he nodded. "Hey, Ollie!"

Oliver looked up, smile faltering and uncertainty flickering across his face when he glanced from Chloe to Bruce. Bruce arched an eyebrow in question, but Oliver wouldn't meet his gaze, and that bothered him. "Something I can do for you, Chloe?" All smiles and brown-eyed charm again, but Oliver's wrists stayed tense.

"Newspaper meeting tonight, don't forget!"

"Forget my weekly date with the most beautiful editor in the world?" His friend's lips curved into a wicked smile filled with playful innuendo. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Bruce's lips twitched into an almost smile of his own. For an instant, everything seemed right and correct, but Oliver didn't grin as he ought to, only gave him a quick once over before returning his full attention to Chloe. "Same time, I'm assuming?"

Chloe glanced from Oliver to Bruce, then shrugged, eyebrows high. "Yeah, same room, too, but I hear the staircase moved, so you might want to head out a bit early in case you get lost."

"No problem, gorgeous. If you'll excuse me, I promised Tora I'd walk her to class." Oliver leaned closer, offering a slyly intimate wink. "A gentleman's work is never done." Righting himself Oliver flicked his gaze towards Bruce again before he threaded his arm through Tora's, leading her towards Binns' classroom -- even though they had ten minutes left of break.

A surge of cold discomfort accompanied the perception of a complex web of connections dangling by several threads. Bruce suppressed his irrational anger at Oliver's behavior. After all, Bruce hadn't addressed him and he had no obligation to stay and talk. Particularly not, if, as it appeared, he'd taken an interest in Tora.

"Bruce?" When he turned his gaze back to Chloe she gave him a thoughtful look, unnecessary concern amplified by the gentleness of her hand on his wrist. "Everything okay?"

If anyone – Oliver always excepted because Oliver wasn't anyone, he was Oliver – had the right to ask him that question, it would be Chloe. Chloe who had been a constant in his life since the first day of first year when he'd explained the enchantments on Quaffles in precise detail and she'd asked the perceptive question of how they were stored. Chloe, who everyone including Chloe believed to be his girlfriend and who, to the extent he found that concept meaningful, actually was.

"P is for Prefect," Bruce answered, relying on all of that to carry the deception.

"And Prick," Chloe agreed with a very Chloe smile, the one that said whether she believed him or not, she accepted that he wouldn't discuss it.

One more piece of the puzzle of Bruce Wayne, Oliver Queen and Chloe Sullivan -- Bruce arched an eyebrow and she grinned.

Briefly. Then she cocked her head to look up at him. "Bruce, about the meeting tonight--"

"I won't be attending it, nor any, so long as I'm Prefect."

Her relief swept over him, palpable. "Oh, thank God. I wouldn't have cut you, you're the best fact-finder I have, but I've been having nightmares about distracting you from…" Eyes going wide, Chloe wagged her head. "To keep you from deducting points every time someone ditched class, snuck out, or lied."

She should've known better. Probably their relationship obstructed her ability to predict his reactions, though why he'd be any different because of sex, he had no idea. "I see no point to cultivating situations that will require me to deduct points from our House or watch-owl you."

He held his arm out for her books, because that was what one did for a girlfriend, and her expression softened, pink coloring her cheeks and brightening her eyes. Precisely as it had when she'd impulsively kissed him at the train station at the end of last year and he'd kissed back.

She set her books atop his, then stood, lower back and abdomen tense, fingers uncertainly plucking at her robe. Understanding the dilemma – he did know his propriety and distance complicated interactions with those closest to him, he lifted his elbow, offering his arm.

Sudden laughter broke her tension, and she ducked under his arm, wrapping hers around his waist. "I hope you're not planning to break off other things." Her purring emphasis and sly smirk conveyed her meaning with precision, straight to his groin. "Because that would be a shame, Mr. Wayne. I can't help thinking it be very Slytherin for a Prefect to cultivate an intimate relationship with the newspaper editor."

Eyebrow raised, he steered her down the empty passageway in which he'd convinced the stairs to do his bidding. He gave her a level look, though strictly speaking, she had a point. "Outwitting the prefects to engage in private activities—" dueling, plotting, sex, "—is a time-honored Slytherin tradition. As is not turning on other Slytherins."

Chloe elbowed him in the ribs. "So if I were a Gryffindor, you'd break it off between us?"

The combination of sex and Gryffindors wasn't one he wished to address. So when they turned the corner, he stepped into her. Her back nudged the castle stone; her lips parted in invitation, which he took and kissed her until they had to stop or risk being late for Charms.

By his design, she took that as his answer, and the breathy sounds the kiss provoked said she found it more than satisfactory.

#

Slytherin practice for Quidditch trials began on Tuesday. Bruce didn't believe in wasting time, and the trials themselves would be only be used to confirm his decisions made from scrimmage games with the hopefuls.

Chloe accompanied him and Lex to the pitch. As announcer, she needed the practices as much as the players to identify names and tactics. Her diligence usually pleased him.

Not this evening. The way she eyed his bandaged forearm made him grit his teeth. A condition not improved by Oliver's absence, conspicuous for it being the first of Bruce's practices he'd missed since Bruce made Chaser in second year.

"I can't believe Madame Pomfrey okayed you to play tonight." Her eyes flashed, as though challenging him.

Bruce scowled.

"Oh, stop it, Bruce. You're not invincible. That fire crab melted the skin off your arm. I saw it happen."

As if he needed reminding that he'd not improved his care of magical creatures over the summer.

Lex's snorted a nasty laugh. "Lay off, Chloe. If there's anyone less in need of your indignant mother-henning than Bruce, I've yet to meet him."

For that, he might've let Lex have his dick the way he'd been begging for since they left the States by portkey three days ago. Except gentlemanly upbringing insisted Bruce not tolerate him speaking to Chloe in that tone. Turning his head far too slowly to be incidental, Bruce leveled Lex with a meaningful look.

Mood far better than Bruce's, Lex blew it off, rolling his eyes. "It's your own damned fault, Wayne. You could've dropped that ridiculous farce of a class after you A'd your O.W.L. No one's going to die because you can't feed and clean a fire crab without getting burned."

Chloe's jaw tensed and she shot Lex a will you shut up? glare, and Bruce's mood took a turn for the positively foul. Oliver would've teased Chloe into laughter by baiting Lex, but Bruce's mouth flattened to a thin line. "Voldemort's Death-Eaters used fire crab shells for cauldrons."

Both of them flinched at his use of the name, but they bore it in silence. They knew better than to take him on when his consonants went crisp. Which served as one more unpleasant reminder of Oliver's absence. In his head, he could hear Oliver mocking, "And if Lord Voldemort's followers mistreated those poor innocent creatures, it's our beholden duty to protect them. Come off it, Bruce. You're not fooling anyone."

"Madame Pomfrey told me to keep my arm out of direct sunlight for twenty-four hours. Neither moonlight nor Quidditch appeared in her list of restricted activities."

Chloe threw up her hands and stormed off ahead of them, to which Lex shrugged as amiable as he ever was. "Fucking women has its drawbacks."

Stopping dead in his tracks, Bruce rounded on Lex. "It's a pity about Slytherin colors, Luthor. Green is ugly on you."

Lex's mouth curled into its familiar sneer. "There isn't enough gold in Gringotts—"

"Taste can't be bought. Nor breeding. Don't speak of Chloe that way."

"Or what, you'll Silence me again?" Lex snapped.

"Five points from Slytherin, Lex." His voice came out cold, completely lacking inflection. "If you think sneering at Chloe is going to get my dick back in your mouth, you'd better consult Vector's charts again."

Flush claimed Lex's face and his fist clenched to strike. "I don't—"

Bruce lifted an eyebrow. "Go gear up, and if anyone gets hit with a Bludger, you're out for the first two games."

#

No one got hit with a Bludger and by Wednesday's Defense against the Dark Arts class, matters between him and Lex had quite returned to normal. Which was to say, Lex worked to gain his approval, and he withheld it unless it suited him to do otherwise.

The situation with Chloe, however, had not improved. She'd studied on the opposite side of the Slytherin Common Room after practice, had rolled her eyes at him when he'd tried to speak to her at breakfast, and had eaten lunch with Clark of all people. Now, she'd paired up with Jasmine Ayers, one of Meg's friends, for class.

Not that he and Chloe would've partnered for Defense Against the Dark Arts anyhow. On this one, critical thing, he and Lex had perfect accord, and as such, had worked together since the first year. But Jasmine's parents had both been Death-Eaters, and, unlike Lex, she had made no effort to distance herself from them.

Chloe probably believed she could ferret out Jasmine's loyalties by pairing with her, but while he appreciated the initiative, Bruce didn't like Chloe mixing herself up with Meg's lot. Lex apparently shared his assessment, because he flicked his gaze to the pair and lifted an eyebrow in question.

Bruce kept his commentary to a scowl, but he would monitor the situation.

The new Dark Arts professor, Quirrell by name, cleared his throat, summoning Bruce's attention to the lecture he now, haltingly, began. In any other class, his pale face and nervous mannerisms would occasion sneering editorial commentary from Lex, but he listened in silence, quill flashing over paper until he'd accumulated several inches of notes.

Bruce also took notes, but out of discipline, rather than true need, as his eidetic memory rendered them unnecessary. Still, it kept his focus on the classroom rather than on why he wouldn't be sharing his concerns about Chloe's choices with Oliver over dinner.

After explaining the Confundus Charm and expansions developed by Dark Wizard Tauron Ververe during Voldemort's war, Quirrell stopped twisting his hands to lift his class roster. His gaze fell on Lex, returned to the roster in search of his name, and then he looked up again with a twitchy smile. "Mr., ah, Luthor, supposing I were to cast Ververe's Confundus totalus spell at you. How would you combat that?"

Lex tapped his quill on the desk once, then leaned forward on his elbow, quill raised. In that moment, Bruce saw the man he would become. Polished, powerful and dangerous – only the question 'to whom' remained to be answered. It would be a simple matter for Lex's determination to define himself in opposition to his father to become a need to best him; that knowledge, more than anything, compelled Bruce to maintain their friendship, such as it was. As long as Lex sought his approval, he wouldn't turn to the Dark Arts.

"Assuming I were not fast enough to disarm you with expelliarmus…" Quirrell acknowledged Lex's proactive approach with a sharp nod. "And that I had not previously cast or could not now cast protego..." A slight sneer entered Lex's tone. He had nothing but disdain for their classmates who hadn't mastered the basic shield spell, and while the condescension earned him a tight-lipped frown from Bruce, he did agree failure to master the spell was a dangerous oversight. "I would attempt to end the spell's effects with finite incantem."

Bruce's gaze narrowed in thought. The ability to end the spell would depend on the speed of the effect.

Quirrell confimed it. "Confounding occurs nearly instantaneously. Even if the totalus version is used, leaving the affected aware that something isn't right with their thoughts, they'd be unlikely to be able to recall the termination spell to cast it." His attention settled on Bruce. "Mr. Wayne, you look pensive. Enlighten us."

Bruce set down his quill. "If one expected to be dueling with Dark wizards, it would be wise to drill finite incantem until it became the mind's reflexive response to being tampered with." Something to practice in Dueling club. "In the absence of such habit, I would counter the spell in a manner similar to that used in fighting the Imperio Curse."

Several students gasped at his mention of one of the three Unforgiveable Curses, and Chloe's shoulders stiffened. Quirrell, however, beamed. "Very good. Explain."

"The Imperio Curse overrides the subject's will. It can be thrown off if the will is strong enough. By analogy, sufficient clarity of mind should enable the subject to defeat Ververe's Confundus Charm."

Beside him, Lex snorted, muttering, "Too bad most of these sheep have trouble deciding what to eat for dinner."

Bruce slanted him an arch look, even while Quirrell followed up: "And how would you find that clarity, Mr. Wayne?"

"Meditation. Mantra. Personal touchstones. Focus on irrefutable truth. Each of us has core beliefs that no amount of persuasion can change. I would begin there and follow that outward."

"Like Theseus in the labyrinth with Ariadne's red yarn, yes. Can you give us an example?"

My parents were killed by Death-Eaters. "What is truth for me would be meaningless to other students. I would prefer not to."

For the first time in sixteen hours, Chloe's shoulders loosened. She didn't look at him, but he knew if he saw her expression, it would be the soft-eyed oh, Bruce look she always gave him when conversation drew too near that topic. Lex winced, and Professor Quirrell's face drew into a pinched frown, but he didn't press.

"Well, class, Mr. Wayne has the right of it. We'll spend the rest of the session practicing. Know your own minds. Anything of which you are sufficiently certain can serve as a beginning."

Wand raised, Quirrell performed the complicated motions of the modified charm. "Confundus totalus en masse."

A dense fog blanketed Bruce's thoughts. Incorrect, and that could not be permitted. What had happened?

Death-eaters killed my parents. And he had come to be raised by Alfred, then sent to Hogwarts to study. There he'd become reacquainted with Oliver Queen, his friend, and met Chloe Sullivan, now his girlfriend, and Lex Luthor, whose loathing of the Dark Arts near rivaled his own.

Oliver and he had been awkward with each other, Chloe was upset with him, but he and Lex has been in perfect accord while their new Dark Arts professor lectured them on the Confundus Charm.

Death-Eaters killed my parents.

The lesson snapped back into focus, and Professor Quirrell sat watching him, intense curiosity on his face. "You Confounded us," Bruce said, certain.

"Correct, Mr. Wayne. Well done. Now help your partner."

Bruce didn't waste time with satisfaction. He leaned over to Lex, whose face twisted in a frustrated scowl, and spoke quietly in his ear. It was no one's business but Lex's what lived in his heart. "Lionel Luthor."

Sharp shock cleared Lex's gaze, and a half-minute later, he shook his head. "Confundus totalus?"

Bruce nodded.

"Impressive, gentlemen. Five points to Slytherin. Mr. Wayne, you take the left half of the classroom, Mr. Luthor, the right. No spells. See what you can do for your classmates."

The fear in Chloe's eyes made Bruce want to protest the assignment. He could free her easily, but, though Lex made as careful study of their classmates as he, he had never understood Chloe.

Quirrell apparently knew more of them than Bruce supposed, because he said, "Left, Mr. Wayne, before I deduct those points again. Your girlfriend will suffer no lasting harm."

With a meaningful look at Lex, Bruce made his way to the other side of the room. Meg came free with a whispered, "Dean Winchester thinks you're beautiful," because bad blood between her family and the Gryffndor underclassman's could be counted on to rouse her sense of self. His Keeper, Mara Moghedien, cleared to the assertion that the Chudley Cannons had won their last six games; she loathed them.

"Enough, Mr. Wayne, Mr. Luthor," Quirrell chirped. "Let the others have a go at it. You two try Confounding each other."

They returned to their table, both casting concerned glances to where Chloe still struggled under the spell and Jasmine seemed to take perverse delight in not being able to help her. After several spell exchanges with Lex, each terminated faster than the last until neither could Confound the other at all, Bruce grew too concerned about the white around Chloe's eyes to let the matter sit.

"I'm having Alfred send pies by next post," he said, rather too loudly, to Lex. "I think Chloe would like rhubarb, don't you?" To anyone other than Chloe, it would seem harmless conversation between classmates, but Chloe was violently allergic to the tart vegetable.

Lex smirked. "Pie for your girlfriend? Really, Wayne, how positively sweet of you."

A half minute later, Chloe turned to look at them, soft smile curving her lips. "It is sweet, Bruce. Thank you." The emphasis in Chloe's voice was unmistakable, and Bruce allowed himself the satisfaction he'd suppressed earlier.

The sound of Lex's quill scratching pulled his gaze from Chloe's. His partner's notes now included a scrawled: Chloe loves/hates rhubarb. Find out. And that, his piercing intellect, made Lex worth having as an ally.

He favored Lex with an approving nod, but didn't disambiguate. And after class, in the broom closet by the stairs to the Slytherin dungeon, Chloe favored him with heated kisses and sure, quick strokes of her hand that brought him to shuddering release.
#

Part 2

reflections: of smiles and other contrivances

Sat, 16 Jun 2007 03:25:50 GMT

Title: Of smiles and other contrivances
Author: technosage
Pairing: Bruce/Oliver
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 1109
Summary: Bruce no longer remembers how to accept affection or give it, and perhaps never knew how to speak it. Yet, he feels he must, somehow, make certain that Oliver knows how he feels.
Chronology: Sixth and seventh year.

Oliver loves him. Bruce knows this.

If he is honest with himself, he has known it since their third year when Oliver rescued him from the hideous Hufflepuff Halloween Masquerade by costuming them as Sumerian Sun and Moon Gods, so he, per force, could not leave Oliver's side and be accosted by the hordes of girls intent, even then, on being his bride. The research alone proved Oliver's devotion, but his wide, pleased smile at Bruce's acquiescence in such obvious display of their friendship reached into Bruce's thoughts and settled there, something to be remembered when dark longing for his parents came over him.

Had he not known it then, he would have been certain in fourth year at Easter, when Oliver's lady mother stopped sending sweet treats and magical widgets for Bruce and instead supplied a parcel of letters, written in his own mother's hand to her when they were classmates. Proof of Oliver's affections that he had undertaken to explain to his kindhearted, doting mother that his friend did not indulge a sweet tooth or engage in childish games. Further demonstration could be found in Oliver's wide-eyed knowing nod when Bruce needed to be alone that night and the next, and in his silent inquiry the second morning after at breakfast before proceeding, as ever, to read The Daily Prophet aloud for Bruce's pleasure.

Their fifth year made it explicit, when tousle-haired and sloe-eyed, Oliver roused from sleep a-roused and sought relief in the press of Bruce's thigh. The fear that flooded his best friend's face, of rejection, of anger, of him, writ Oliver's feelings large. But even more the quiet sigh, eyelids falling closed, when Bruce nodded and let him rut. Oliver's whimpered longing and the heat of his palm jerking Bruce to his release said everything Bruce had need of knowing and spent a summer not thinking of.

Returned to school the next year, a week's anguished separation, discomfort, uncertainty spelled feelings unabated. Oliver's gaze followed Bruce everywhere, though he would not speak beyond requisite politeness. Disastrous Potions class, that first Friday, hands brushing, gazes firing, bodies clenching in remembrance of shared touch, and embarrassed fumbling after -- so extreme Oliver actually asked whether he'd ground the hellebore (he had, as he always did). Heated press of angry mouths, then Oliver on his knees beneath the Quidditch bleachers – this gave proof positive.

And yet, and yet, when months later, Bruce tried to call a halt between them, return Oliver to the expected path for a Queen scion, return himself to his solitary self-reliance, he found himself surprised by Oliver's reaction – and his own. He had known Oliver loved him, but he hadn't realized:

Oliver loves him.

Stranger still, if the tightness in his chest, shortness of breath when his hand threads into Oliver's hair in moments of uncertainty – as it has since second year – means what he thinks it does?

Stranger still, he loves Oliver.

Unlike his friend, he has no comfort with emotion, is estranged from love. He no longer remembers how to accept affection or give it, and perhaps never knew how to speak it. Yet, he feels he must, somehow, make certain that Oliver also knows.

He considers, and over time arrives at, means by which his dedication may be proved. For another boy, he knows, the path he has contrived would be nothing, regular niceties of friendship. But he is Bruce, and his object is Oliver, and for him and between them, such as he devises is tantamount to a Howler in the dining hall for and between any other two.

1. Apology

This comes of an instant, almost without reflection, and certainly without artifice. After brawling – in public, on the Quidditch pitch, which while unseemly fits them, reflective of the contest their friendship will ever be – he tops Oliver, once again fucks deep into his unprepared body. Fingers clasping white marks on his friend's shoulders, Bruce whispers, anguished, "I'm sorry, so sorry. I didn't know."

2. Smile

Bruce has a public smile, polite, for formal occasions, parents, and pretty Chloe. Otherwise, his mouth remains a straight slash across his face, or more common still, a downward bow. But of a morning, when Oliver reads the Prophet, or an evening when he speaks some witty aphorism or displays his clever mind, Bruce offers a small smile, little more than the curve of the corners of his lips. A sign of pleasure in his company he gives to Oliver alone.

3. Letters

In all the years they have parted for holidays and summer, they have exchanged perhaps two missives over the long separation and the first, always, from Oliver. The sixth year at Christmas, the very first night at Wayne Manor, Bruce solicits Wayne stationery and fresh quill from Alfred then pens a letter for Oliver, signed only "Bruce." He sends it by owl, and receives a reply not five hours later, signed "Yours, Oliver." His next message, that same day, returns "Yours, Bruce."

4. Regard

When several days thence Bruce sojourns to Smallville to spend the holiday with Chloe, the letters continue, in fact, flow longer, faster, more passionate, until at last Oliver fears for Bruce's well-being and arrives unannounced at Luthor Hall on Christmas morning for brunch. Over Lionel Luthor's evident displeasure, Bruce informs the assembled Oliver has come at his request, neatly blocking any possibility of sending him home. And again, outfoxes the likelihood of stowing Oliver in some unpleasant room on account of the antipathy between he and Lex, by demurring that Bruce won't hear of the Luthors' excellent staff being imposed upon at Christmas – at Christmas! – and Oliver may have the other bed in his own suite. Again and again, he chooses Oliver over propriety, until finally they must adjourn to Bruce's rooms, devour each others mouths and tumble to the bed, a tangle of limbs and need.

5. Strength

Sixth year summer, they die. The Queens. Oliver's golden-perfect family shattered by Death-eater greed. Only Oliver's penchant for sneaking out saves him from their fate. Bruce comes, invited but unbidden, to the funeral as Oliver had been at his own parents'. Stands, within Oliver's line of sight but unobtrusive. There, if he is needed. Later he listens to Oliver pretend he's fine, watches him shatter when he asks "does it ever stop?" and Bruce answers honestly "no." Collects the pieces of his best friend's heart and keeps them safe, arm around his hips, lips against his hair.

Bruce loves Oliver. Oliver knows this.

He has probably known it forever. And yet, still, his eyes reveal his surprise, every time Bruce lets him see. Every time Bruce simply doesn't hide.

A/N: Written for 60_minute_fics. Go to their info page for more, yes, info. Trigger #3, Prove my Love: Ah, sweet, sweet love... Ain't it grand? Maybe not so much if the person you're in love with happens to enjoy making your life difficult. Tell me, how far would YOU (or your favorite fandom character) go to prove to that special someone how utterly smitten and devoted you/they truly are? Tell us all about it. Give us pain, shame, embarrassment, and humiliation. Spill your guts. Omit nothing.

It took a turn from the prompt, but considering this is Bruce, well, it's probably as ridiculous as buying an airplane banner for someone else.

reflections: ever since I've known you you've walked that walk

Fri, 09 Mar 2007 04:23:15 GMT

Title: ever since I've known you you've walked that walk
Author: technosage
Characters: Bruce/Oliver, Lex
Rating/Warnings PG13, angst, schmoop
Word Count: 1288
Summary: Lex almost kills Oliver in a duel. Bruce ensues.
Chronology: Seventh year at Hogwarts.

Chloe sent one of the first years, Mejor-Almilla, for him, as soon as it began. Fast though he moved when it concerned Oliver, he arrived when it had ended. In time to see Oliver collapse into a boneless puddle and Lex's face turn chalk white. Bruce didn't spare a second glance for Lex, only bent and scooped (literally) Oliver into his arms, mounted his broom and flew at top speed to the infirmary.

He had no need of explaining to Madame Pomfrey what had happened. One glance at Oliver draped over his arms like a blanket told her everything she needed to know.

"Lay him there," she said briskly with a hard look that told him there would be questions later.

For once, Bruce did exactly as he'd been told. No questions, not a word, nothing that might jeopardize Oliver. And after Oliver had been forced to drink five large beakers of Skele-Gro by funnel, Bruce sat with him through the screaming until his bones began to grow.

When it became clear Oliver would survive, Bruce found Madame Pomfrey. "I must attend some things. If he wakes, tell him I will return shortly."

* * *
In their dormitory, Lex sat amidst several of the younger Slytherins, doubtless reciting his tale of dueling prowess. Bones snapped in Bruce's fingers from clenching. "I'd like a word. In private."

Lex looked up, and only Bruce knew him well enough to see the fear that flashed before he spoke. "Something I can do for you, Bruce?" Since Oliver is too infirm, hung unspoken between them.

Whatever rationality Bruce had fled at that sly and exceedingly ill-timed sexual implication. "Walk with me."

Not waiting for Lex to follow, he strode back into the hallway and did not look back until they had come to the empty corridor outside the Slytherin Prefects' offices, empty, as Meg had been called to meeting with the Headmaster over the duel. Bruce had been excused because...because Madame Pomfrey had never had to regrow so many bones before. Because she could not be sure it would work.

"You will not duel with Oliver again."

Lex sneered. "Tell that to your lapdog. He began it."

Oliver was no one's lapdog, least of all his. But that was not the point, and Bruce would not be distracted. "And I am ending it. You will not duel with Oliver again."

Unimpressed, Lex leaned against the stone, studying his fingernails. "How very chivalrous of you, defending his honor. I notice you rushed to his rescue before."

Bruce started forward, then stopped, eyes hard. "Oliver's honor is his own concern. You very nearly cost me something I value. You will not endanger what is mine again."

That brought Lex's head up. Gaze locked to Bruce's, he challenged, "Or what?"

Or I will see you broken. "There is no 'or.'"

"He asked for it, you know," Lex began casually. "Took exception to something I said about parents--"

His fist connected with Lex's jaw, snapping Lex's head back with the force. "Never. Again." His hand throbbed but it could not compare to the roar of blood in his temples. "You will not duel with Oliver. You will not speak of his parents. You will not speak of my parents. Not ever again."

Lex raised his hand to his face. When it came away bloody, his eyes went wide and white. Surprise, and then fear, and that, the fear as Lex whirled away, tasted like triumph. For the first time since he had laid Oliver on that pallet, Bruce remembered to breathe.

Left alone, Bruce backed up to the castle walls. Breathing turned to gasping for breath, and then to wracking sobs.

Oliver. He had almost lost Oliver. Lex had almost killed him. He had almost lost Oliver.

His brain, it seemed, could not let go of that thought. Nor of the image of Oliver, very nearly boneless, in his arms with only the shape of his skin and internal organs giving him cohesion. His jaw ached, eyes burned, chest heaved.

Oliver.

Fingers scrabbling behind him in the stone, tips bleeding from holding himself upright, Bruce acknowledged his emotions and gave them one minute. One full minute for tears to spill unchecked, and then he stopped them.

x x x
"He's been asking after you," Madame Pomfrey said by way of greeting. She nodded toward Oliver's bed, around which she'd spelled some curtains to give him privacy from the sides but still allow her clear sight of him.

Any other student would be sent away, but Hogwarts' staff had given up telling him what to do in his fifth year, and since Oliver's parents died, Dumbledore had treated Bruce as his de facto guardian or at least next of kin. Where Oliver was concerned, no one interfered with Bruce. Even so, Bruce blinked once, gave a restrained nod. "Thank you."

Oliver's bones had re-grown, but his skin looked pink and flushed, and tears leaked from his tight-shut eyes. Mindful that his face would be sore and tender, Bruce thumbed away the moisture, then took the seat Madame Pomfrey had left for him.

Oliver turned his head to the side, hiding the tears until he could control them, Bruce knew, and whispered only, "It hurts."

"Better than dead."

Oliver's eyes snapped open at the acid in his tone, studied Bruce's face. Bruce could almost hear him thinking. Words like shaken, lost control, really fucked up this time rode so close to the surface, if he kissed Oliver, he'd taste them on his tongue.

Then his expression softened, fingertips reached past a grimace of pain for Bruce's hand, and other words filled his eyes. I'm sorry, so sorry, don't leave me, need you, please.

His chest tightened, jaw ached, salty. Forcing it down, Bruce met Oliver's gaze. "Never again."

"I won't if—"

His hand closed over Oliver's fingers, squeezed too tight for new bones and Oliver grunted. "Never. Again. I won't lose you, Oliver." He released Oliver's hand, looked away, then soft, so soft, "I can't."

For a long moment, Bruce's words – admission, confession – echoed on the silence. I won't lose you, Oliver. I can't. I won't lose you can't lose you won't lose you can't lose you. Won't. Can't. Lose you. Love you.

Then Oliver's voice, calm and quiet: "Bruce."

He didn't look, couldn't.

Again. "Bruce."

Inhaling deeply, Bruce turned, slow until their gazes caught and locked.

"No more. I promise."

Bruce remembered to breathe again.

Oliver glanced out from the curtains; Bruce tracked his gaze and saw Madame Pomfrey engaged in paperwork. Looking up at him, Oliver braved a smile. "Kiss me."

Swallowing hard, Bruce shook his head. Instead, he pushed the hair off Oliver's forehead and left his hand there, buried in the tousled gold.

They sat like that, Bruce's hand in Oliver's hair, Oliver's eyes closed and breathing as relaxed as it had been since before the duel, until Madame Pomfrey excused herself to see about a student in a private room. Then Bruce leaned in and pressed their mouths together, more of a caress of lips than a kiss.

Oliver's tongue smoothed over the seam of Bruce's lips, stuttered. Quested again. He pulled away, reached up to touch Bruce's cheek. "Bruce?"

He must've tasted salt.

Anyone else, and Bruce would have denied it, would have pulled up the cold, blank screen or the polite public Bruce Wayne face. But Oliver was not anyone else.

Bruce shrugged a shoulder. Let Oliver see the same fear and pain that haunted both of their nights.

Oliver shuddered, started to speak, but Bruce smoothed his hair back again. "Sleep."

He did not say, I'll be here when you wake, though he would, and Oliver knew it all the same.

Notes: Mille grazie to eboniorchid for the beta. *kisses* Thanks darling!

Some weeks ago, moosesal asked for the first honest declaration of feeling by either Bruce or Oliver. This isn't quite the first for either in some ways. They've been together for over a year at this point, and Oliver undoubtedly knows that Bruce loves him. Oliver has said the words, and Bruce has said other things. But everything Bruce has said to this point, he has said for Oliver.

This is the first time Bruce is moved, for his own sake, to admit to Oliver how much he means. In typical Bruce fashion, only fear of loss can pry it from him.

It's schmoopy, Sal, but it's got a healthy dose of omgangst, too. …sorry? *g*

reflections: of dreams and dragon's eggs

Wed, 14 Feb 2007 00:41:17 GMT

Title: of dreams and dragon's eggs
Author: technosage
Characters: Bruce/Oliver pre-ship, mentions of Clark, Chloe, Lex
Rating/Warnings G
Word Count: 1327
Summary: On the Hogwarts Express, Oliver falls asleep and Bruce contemplates why Oliver is different than his other friends. Schmoop ensues.
Chronology: Second year; after Christmas holidays

The Hogwarts Express rolls along the tracks, its repetitive chugging providing an inoffensive backdrop to Bruce's reading. Though he has long since completed the assignments, he finds reviewing The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection a useful way to pass the time, as well as to mark the separation between the Christmas holidays and the start of the new term.

Beside him, Oliver also has his textbook open, having curtailed their classmates' glowing reports of their Christmas festivities with a curt, "I should study too," half an hour earlier. Attempts at amusing Bruce with choice excerpts from Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them meeting with flat looks, he has lapsed into silence. Unlike Lex, who takes such rebuffs personally, Oliver merely grins and bides his time.

Bruce approves, and, in his more arrogant moments, flatters himself that he is teaching Oliver discipline and patience. At present, Oliver apparently is learning nothing, as his textbook is sliding from his lap.

Reflexes honed from Quidditch, tennis, and martial arts, Bruce catches it mid-air without the aid of his wand. A glance at Oliver shows him nodding off, so Bruce mentally marks his place – page thirteen, closes the textbook and sets it on the stack with his own.

Were they at school, he would perhaps wake Oliver, but there is no reason he cannot sleep now. Also, his continued silence affords Bruce time to compose his thoughts.

He knows it shouldn't bother him, his classmates' squealing over their Christmas gifts, the parties they attended, the promises their parents made to secure their best behavior upon return to school. He and Alfred passed a pleasant holiday playing wizard chess, expanding his collection of first edition books, visiting Jerusalem to see where the Christmas miracle had taken place. At his suggestion, Wayne Industries held a Christmas pageant and party for the Muggles of Gotham. At Alfred's he spent New Year's Eve watching Muggle movies at Rachel's house. In all, it had been a most pleasant winter break.

So Martha Kent's magnificent Christmas dinner, Chloe and Lex's sledding exploits with Miss Lana Lang, family outings for midnight mass, and endless rounds of parties with Muggle friends, shouldn't bother him. He should be able to do better than, "I'm pleased you had such enjoyable holidays. If you'll excuse me, I need to review."

Lex's scowls do not perturb him, but Clark's crestfallen look, and Chloe's fretful, "Oh, Bruce, how rude of us. I'm so sorry," prick at his conscience. He doesn't begrudge them their happiness. He does not, and it shames him that he cannot at least feign polite interest. His parents have been gone four years now; he should be better at this.

It is different with Oliver. Oliver is different. He speaks of his family but little around Bruce. When he does, it is unabashed and warm with love. He tells Bruce things, but expects no reply, and that is comfortable. Most things are comfortable with Oliver, even sitting in silence, each to their own thoughts. Why that should be, Bruce has no understanding. He would like to know, so that he can extrapolate and apply it to the others.

He watches the English countryside roll by through the window, wondering alternately why a train to the world's foremost magical institution should travel under steam power, and how it has come to pass that Bruce Wayne's best friend is the spoiled Queen scion – a chatterbox and a Gryffindor besides.

And he does like Oliver. Oliver doesn't make him feel stuck up, and he doesn't tease Bruce for being quiet. Not since their fight first year. The memory of Oliver's face, when "broody Bruce" had turned out to be fast, strong, and quite willing to knock him on his ass, has Bruce's mouth twitching into a small smile.

Oliver, Bruce decides as he returns his attention to his textbook, is different because he is Oliver.

Just then, the train pitches and jerks, beginning a climb up a steep hill. Oliver shifts in his sleep, curling into Bruce's side and settling his head on Bruce's shoulder. Bruce stiffens, awkward with the unexpected closeness.

Oliver touches him more than anyone, even Alfred; Oliver may be different, but Bruce is still not sure why he lets him. Mostly, he supposes, it is that telling Oliver 'no' about anything has so little effect. And since Bruce has not the will to punch him for slinging an arm around his neck (the only 'no' that seems to have abiding meaning for Oliver), it is perhaps the path of least resistance.

But this, this feels different. Unintentional. Oliver may be embarrassed when he wakes, which will be awkward.

To Bruce it feels…strange. Not unpleasant exactly but unsettling. Not inappropriate but very private, as though by touching Oliver in his sleep he is made party to his dreams.

His own dreams are not something he would ever wish to share, so he should wake Oliver. Yet that will only call attention to it. If he lets Oliver sleep, he may shift again and they won't have to speak of it. Besides, if he wakes Oliver, Oliver will try to engage him in conversation – about classes, or Quidditch, or his rivalry with Lex.

Careful not to jostle him, Bruce turns the page in his text and continues reading. Oliver doesn't snore and the weight of his head is not sufficient to discomfit him. After a little while, Bruce hardly notices, and when it grows noisy outside their car, he pulls out his wand and performs a charm to buffer the sound so Oliver is not disturbed.

Half an hour later, the door to their car slides open. Bruce aims his wand and speaks quietus before the trolley witch can sing out her wares. Her eyes narrow but Bruce inclines his head toward his sleeping friend. His cheek brushes Oliver's hair as he does, and he wonders fleetingly if the rush of protective warmth is how Clark feels when he snuggles that damned cat of his. The trolley witch smiles, eyes sparkling, and Bruce speaks sonorous, seeing that she understands.

They whisper their way through the transaction. Cold pumpkin juice and ever-hot tea, pumpkin spice pasties and turkey-cranberry paninis. As she counts out the sickles and knuts from the sack in the bag at his feet, Bruce adds Oliver's favorite chocolate frogs and the expensive golden chocolate dragon eggs his mother had put in his last Christmas stocking. Without batting an eyelash at the extravagance, the trolley witch exchanges the smaller coins for a galleon. Bruce presses her to accept a gratuity and she departs with a bright smile.

Through it all, Oliver sleeps, features arranged in a relaxed, happy smile.

She has not been gone ten minutes when Oliver's head nods sharply against Bruce's shoulder. He sits up, golden hair standing every which way. The sheepish look he shoots Bruce is spoiled by a quickly covered yawn.

Pushing a hand through his hair, which improves nothing, Oliver accuses, "Why didn't you wake me?"

Setting his text on his thighs, Bruce arches an eyebrow. "If you're sleeping, you're not talking."

"Yeah, but…" The words fade into a almost-pout.

"Oliver," he chides, but the hurt in his best friend's eyes makes him relent. "It seemed better than boring you with my silence."

Then Oliver's expression turns mulish. "I was studying."

"Instead of having fun with Clark and the others."

Oliver shakes his head. "I heard all about Mrs. Kent's amazing Christmas dinner in Clark's owls, and I need to study."

Bruce doesn't have an answer for that, so he gestures to the food on the window table. "I bought us lunch." Knowing that isn't correct, isn't a sufficient response to Oliver's loyalty, he holds out the frogs and dragon's eggs.

A bright grin splits Oliver's face, then he elbows Bruce in the ribs. "Thanks, Bruce."

He blink-nods his acknowledgment, and reaches to pour juice for them both. No, Oliver. Thank you.

Notes: Once upon a time when I was cranky I made a meme and decreed people should ask for first schmoopy moments from any of my pairings. My ficwife just_katarin suggested "the first time Bruce wakes Oliver up"… this? Turned out something more like the first time he didn't, but, it's inspired by the prompt and is therefore for her. I'll try the first time he does wake him up another time.

Beta'd by my sparkly pink girl keepaofthecheez who indulges me in my crack!otp. ♥ Thank you, baby.

reflections: of certainties and coziness

Wed, 14 Feb 2007 00:01:33 GMT

Title: of certainties and coziness
Author: technosage
Characters: Bruce/Oliver pre-ship, Chloe, Clark, Lex, Diana,
Rating/Warnings G
Word Count: 947
Summary: Bruce has guests for the Christmas holidays and learns from Oliver what "cozy" means.
Chronology: Third year; Christmas holidays.

One by one, they leave the cozy warmth of the small sitting room for the even cozier warmth of the bedrooms Alfred has prepared for them. Bruce knows it's cozy, because Chloe has said so two times since they settled in:

Once, immediately following dinner when Alfred ushered them in, instructing them, needlessly, to ring the servant's bell if they required anything. Bruce thanked him, as he always does, while Chloe spun around in the center of the room, arms out, messy blonde hair spilling down her back, radiant smile on her face. She pulled her arms back in and clasped her hands under her chin, beaming. "Oh, it's wonderful. So cozy!"

And once, after Clark got up to add wood to the fire and Lex snarled that the room was plenty bloody hot as it was. Clark, as he often does, looked confused, and thirteen year-old Chloe shot him a look that wouldn't have been out of place coming from Oliver's mother. "It's cozy." Then she turned a sweet smile on Clark. "I think another log on the fire would be perfect." Diana rolled her eyes, and Oliver glanced to Bruce and Bruce shrugged minutely.

Typically, it is Diana who rises first. "Good night, Bruce, everyone. Please be sure to give my thanks your guardian for allowing us to stay."

"Good night, Diana. Can you find your way, or shall I ring for Alfred?" Bruce gets to his feet as he's been taught.

She waves an imperious hand. "Clark's been here before, has he not?" At his blink-nod, Diana purses her lips then lifts her chin toward Clark. "Clark will show me to the proper corridor."

"I will?" Clark's eyes go wide, then he nods. "I will. Of course, I will."

Oliver stifles a laugh so quickly no one but Bruce catches it. Bruce lifts one eyebrow, and Oliver screws up his face into a scowl that Bruce summarily ignores.

"Good night, then, Clark."

They've not stepped foot out of the room when Chloe gets up. "I should go to bed, too. Night Bruce, night Ollie." She's almost to the door before she relents and wishes Lex a good night also.

"Sleep well and wake rested, Chloe," Bruce says, and it's stiffly formal but he thinks Alfred would be pleased.

Oliver nudges him in the knee with his toe, shaking his head. "Night, Chloe. See you tomorrow."

Stiff and barely civil, Lex nods. "Good night."

After Chloe leaves, the conversation dims. Lex sits in a wingback chair near the fire, and Bruce refrains from pointing out that he wouldn't be so hot if he moved further away.

He and Oliver have the couch, and as ever, Oliver sprawls like he owns it. On his back, one arm over his head, Oliver peers down at Bruce, grins, then thrusts his feet into Bruce's lap.

Breathing in through his nose with an annoyed sigh that isn't near so annoyed as he'd like it to seem, Bruce lifts Oliver's feet off his thigh and plunks them back down. His friend's mouth pulls with displeasure. It's not a pout, but it's a reasonable facsimile.

The next time he sets his feet on Bruce's thigh, Bruce leaves them, and continues the desultory conversation about the Cannons, Lex's favorite team, they've been having with Lex over top of their own conversation of eyebrows and elbows and sharp pointy toes. Shortly, either Lex tires, or tires of being odd man out, and rises to go.

For a moment Bruce feels ashamed that he's been a poor host, but he puts the thought away. They have not been rude, and the patterns are no different than school.

"Good evening Bruce, Oliver," Lex says, then adjourns before they can rise to see him off.

It's unplanned, he and Oliver being the last to sleep, and yet it also feels inevitable. Of course he must be the last, and where he is, often enough, Oliver will also be. Sometimes he thinks he likes the near-certainty of it more than he likes Oliver.

But then Oliver starts talking about his parents and the trip they're going to take in the summer, and oh, Bruce would be welcome to join them, his mother already said. At which Oliver cocks his head in that apologetic half-smile that only Bruce ever sees -- Bruce is as certain of this as he can be without never leaving Oliver's side. "I told her I would invite you. Sorry."

Bruce shakes his head. "Thank her for me, and I'll send an owl."

Oliver nods, falls quiet, then sits up on his elbows. "We should take a vacation together sometime, though, Bruce. Think about it. When we're done at Hogwarts, you and I, a graduation trip to all the grand cities of Europe." He sneaks a cheeky grin at Bruce. "I'll even go to the libraries with you."

Smiling and laughing aren't things Bruce does, but Oliver sometimes makes him want to. Like now, and his lips twitch into what passes for a smile between them, before he looks away into the fire. "You assume we'll still be friends then. What if I get sick of your feet in my lap?"

Oliver kicks him in the thigh, hard. "Of course we will. We'll be friends forever, Bruce. We'll have our own Private Floo Network between your fireplaces and mine, and never be more than a quick trip away from each other."

It seems acceptable, even correct, so Bruce says nothing. Oliver doesn't venture anything more on the subject or any subject, and soon drifts to sleep. Bruce doesn't wake him right away; there's no need.

He's thinking, Oliver's sleeping, and the sitting room...is cozy.

Notes: One cranky afternoon, I asked for schmoop prompts to cheer myself up with. My ficwife, just_katarin said "the first time Oliver spends the night at Wayne Manor". This ficlet is the result.

Beta-ed by my baby keepaofthecheez, who indulges my crack!otp shamelessly.

reflections: his elf army (Bruce/Oliver, R)

Sat, 27 Jan 2007 04:11:31 GMT

Title: his elf army
Author: technosage
Characters: Bruce/Oliver
Rating/Warnings R for language
Word Count: 781
Summary: Chloe and Lex call him "Ollie", but to Bruce he is always "Oliver."
Chronology: Seventh Year

Chloe calls him "Ollie." If they should live to be as old as Albus Dumbledore, and Chloe wears her hair in a tight bun, glasses perched on her nose like Minerva McGonagall, she will still sing out in her lemons and sunshine – decidedly unSlytherin – voice when she sees him in the street, "Ollie!"

Lex calls him "Ollie," too, and he, also, will call him "Ollie" until they day they die. Unlike Chloe, for whom it marks fondness, Lex uses the diminutive to diminish. No matter how casual or seemingly friendly the greeting his "Ollie" always carries a hint of a sneer. He sets himself above not by his own merits but by demeaning; if he did not know Bruce would seal his lips with a gag spell, he would have found a nickname for Bruce as well.

Others call him "Ollie", "Queen," "Mr. Queen," or "young Oliver" as it suits them and him. A wide range of affection, disdain, formality, and respect inhabit the choices, and much may be judged of a person by how they call him.

To Bruce, he is "Oliver." He always has been, and always will be. Bruce has no need of a nickname to mark their relationship to each other. They are Bruce and Oliver, and it requires no explication, inside or out. Bruce has no need of diminution, first because Oliver has earned his respect so many times over that others would stop counting. Bruce never stops counting, and every instance resides in his mind recoverable without a pensieve at any moment.

Second, because he has no need to set himself over Oliver. Oliver chose him. As far back as their second year, Oliver chose to follow Bruce's lead. On occasion, Bruce finds it necessary to remind Oliver that he does lead and Oliver follow, but they have better ways than making Oliver small. Sparring matches, bedroom wars, reasoned argument – they permit both to show their strength and force Bruce to prove his worthiness.

Third, as Chloe puts it, Bruce is "not a nickname guy." Names have power and meaning, and shortening them truncates those meanings. Changing them imposes your will upon the named; and while Bruce understands the allure of being Adam, namer and knower of all things, he prefers to know things by the names they call themselves.

Which, Bruce supposes, is why, although Oliver is always "Oliver," Alexander is always "Lex." His father named him after the conqueror, a short man who demonstrated his prowess over half the ancient world. He chose to call himself "Lex," Latin for "law," claiming him a law unto himself and above the law. By rhyme, he associates himself with Rex, the king. No accident, these, as Lex has the intelligence and strength of will to assert that sort of dominance. No accident either that Bruce spent their school years cultivating Lex's loyalty, asserting his own dominance.

Bruce's name, too, bears kingship in its lineage. Robert the Bruce, a 14th century Scottish hero who achieved independence from England and became the king of Scotland. A man who fought the oppressive Rex to free the people, as Bruce and Oliver now find themselves pitted against an overreaching Lex who may at any day take his claims to heart and become the Death-Eater his father was.

Bruce and Oliver, always a team, and that is fitting. Robert the Bruce and his Alifhar, his elf army against the Dark Wizards. The idea pleases him, but he never mentions it to Oliver. Oliver would hear "elf" and think "small" or "cute," and no amount of explanation from Bruce that the original elves held power and terror and wisdom would suffice to soothe. But the Sidhe were known first as warriors, and Oliver is one.

True, they came to be known as the Fair Folk, the shining ones and beautiful to behold. Oliver is. Shining, brilliant, golden. Beautiful. But Bruce will never tell him that outside of the bedroom, because Oliver will not appreciate it. He will not understand that to Bruce he is the symbol of everything good in the Wizarding world. Everything Bruce works for. He will hear 'beautiful' and think 'girl' and Bruce might as well call him "Ollie" then.

So Bruce calls him "Oliver" when he greets him in the dining hall, even though they have only just risen from tangled limbs and tangling tongues, low moans and slow kisses. He calls him "Oliver" when they rise from their studies to turn in, even though in five minutes they will both be bare of clothes, sweating and striving, fucking.

And when he looks up from his lunch to the brush of elegant fingers over his wrist, though Chloe beams and Lex sneers, Bruce simply nods. "Oliver."

Notes:
Written for 60_minute_fics and just_katarin because when all the world is on notice, she is always there. And because these two boys are my macaroni and cheese. ♥

reflections: the patterns of his grief

Thu, 11 Jan 2007 05:38:19 GMT

Title: the patterns of his grief
Author: technosage
Characters: Bruce/Oliver
Ratings/Warning: NC-17, rough sex.
Word Count: 3427
Spoilers: I suppose, technically, this story spoils everything that comes before it. If you want to be surprised by the course of Bruce and Oliver's relationship and the events of their lives, then don't read this.
Summary: It's the night before the ninth anniversary of Oliver's parents' murder, and he finds rough comfort in sex with Bruce.

Even had Bruce been given to forgetfulness, he'd have needed no Remembrall. He needed only the calendar of Oliver's moods, the slow leeching of mirth from his eyes and warmth from his smile; just as he needed only the shortness of days and snap to the air to track the onset of his matching grief.

At present, Oliver haunted the bay window of the second story master suite, staring out over the grounds of Wayne Manor, but probably seeing the gardens of his own ancestral home. It'd been years since Oliver had spoken of sneaking across that moon-shadowed lawn to find his parents dead, but that he'd had to – that he'd not been home to defend them or die with them – represented Oliver's greatest failing in his own mind.

He ached with it now. Every line of his body revealed it to Bruce. Even the black hawk between his powerful archer's shoulder blades faced inward, giving Bruce its back.

On nights like these, they went to bed together, or not at all.

Though he needed a shower, Oliver needed him near. Making only enough noise to alert Oliver to his presence – the susurrus of silk against skin, Bruce stripped down to his trousers then dropped his clothes in the chute. He made to settle in a dragon-hide wingback in front of the fire, but Oliver's fingers fluttered - go on, I'll be all right.

Possibly Oliver wasn't consciously aware he'd made the gesture, but after nine Junes together, he didn't have to be. By unspoken agreement, they suspended the normal patterns of their partnership for the periods of grief, but those had patterns of their own.

He left Oliver to his thoughts and went to bathe and be with his.

Hot water sluiced away the sweat of a workout not nearly hard enough to purge his mind. If his own parents' death marked his first failure, Oliver's marked his greatest. As early as their first year at Hogwarts, the Queens and their spoiled but brilliant blond scion had come to represent everything he would work for. Joyful families, untouched by the treachery of Lord Voldemort and his kind. Unbroken.

His fists clenched under the spray. His chest burned with labored breath. He should've seen the signs. Should've known the Queens would be a target. Should've kept them safe.

That he had been sixteen, a student and not an Auror or the vigilante he had become, mattered not at all. No child should cry over his parents. That was the mission, had been the mission since he'd turned his funeral robes to ash with anger-born magic. And not only had he failed, he'd failed the one person who had understood and shared it with him. Old news, old failure, but it still burned hot.

He stayed in the shower longer than usual, letting the heat and scented oil smooth the ragged edges of irrational emotion. It would do Oliver no good to see it.

When Bruce emerged finally, towel around his waist, Oliver still brooded at the window. Arm up, he leaned against the casement, black sweats slung low on his hips.

Others would no doubt be moved by the poignant beauty of a wounded warrior, and not even Bruce remained unmoved. Oliver was Prometheus to his Orpheus, though the inapt analogy displeased him almost as much as his inappropriate sexual response.

Not nearly as much as seeing Oliver hurt.

It was that, the brokenness of an Oliver who didn't smile and flirt, and not desire, that drew Bruce to him.

He came to rest behind Oliver, not touching but near enough to be a presence. Near enough to offer himself to Oliver's needs.

It seemed, at first, that Oliver would refuse, muscles of his back bunching and tensing in an effort not to pull away. But as quickly as it had begun, the reaction ceased, and Oliver settled, inviting the contact he could not rouse himself to initiate.

Bruce smoothed the tattooed skin between Oliver's shoulders, bath oil from his fingers making the hawk's head glow, almost iridescent. The once-patronus flattened its ruffled feathers at his touch. The marks enabled them to communicate over a distance – let Bruce find Oliver and come for him when there was need. And when they were together, the tattoos offered insight, adding depth and richness to their private language.

With a tiny shudder, Oliver dropped his forehead to the oak paneling, and Bruce flattened his hand to rub down and back up his spine. He didn't speak, merely gripped the back of his partner's neck.

There was a numb automation to Oliver's movements as he reached back to palm over Bruce's groin. Finding him half-hard, Oliver gripped the towel in a fist that held too tight to the material, then tugged it off. He didn't tease or mock, or carefully fold the bath sheet, only balled it up and tossed it toward the laundry chute which grabbed it out the air, before lifting the other arm to join the first over his head against the wall: make me feel.

Bowed head and bared back, like he waited for flogging, and some of Bruce's hard-won calm slipped away. An Oliver this subdued went against everything good and right in either of their lives, and Bruce wouldn't have it. Oliver knew that, and counted on Bruce to make it right again. For both of them.

Bruce stepped into Oliver, fitting bat to hawk, and his teeth to the neck so docilely offered – hard and swift and with no pretenses. Fingers tensing on the wall, Oliver arched up into the pain with a choked cry, but settled onto the balls of his feet again when the first sharp wave of it had passed.

He gave no quarter, loosening his hold then biting again, this time at the join of neck and shoulder. He'd mark the flesh later, for now, he wanted Oliver's attention. And he got it, in a hiss of indrawn breath and the shifting of Oliver's feet to spread wider for balance.

The next rake of his teeth over Oliver's pulse drew a rough whine but it trailed off into silence. Usually that submissive sound coming from his partner and equal would have Bruce hard and shoving away anything that kept him out of Oliver's ass. But desire and dominance had nothing to do with this. The emptiness of Oliver's responses – no flush of heat against his chest, no grinding back against his groin – raised his anger but not his cock.

He traded long bruising bites for sharp stinging nips that Oliver could not predict, accommodate, then escape. Small gasps and cries greeted the stepped-up assault, but silence reigned between them.

The wrongness ached and the part of Bruce he kept tucked away wanted to turn Oliver in his arms, hold and shelter him against the pain of memory. But tenderness would be unwelcome, unfamiliar and unsettling for being out of character. So instead Bruce dragged his fingers down Oliver's broad back, left livid crimson scratches in golden skin.

That, finally, sent Oliver's hips in motion, first toward the wall, arching away from the pain, then back into Bruce's hands. It wasn't much, but it gave Bruce something to build on. Before Oliver could slip away again, Bruce yanked his sweats off his hips. No prep, no warning given, he forced two fingers into Oliver, opening him with only the residue of bath oil to ease his way.

"Fuck," Oliver gritted out, and Bruce's cock stirred again, hardening at that first real acknowledgment.

Ten feet away, between the pillows on the bed, Bruce kept lube, and there it would stay. Sweet, slick gliding had no more place in this than tenderness. He pumped his fingers, merciless, demanded Oliver be here, stay here in the pain of stretching to allow the invasion.

And the instant Oliver relaxed a fraction, Bruce leaned in, savaged his throat again. Not aroused enough for it to feel good, Oliver bucked, twisted, swore at the fierce suction and brutal thrusts.

When Oliver arched back again, the unrightness loosened its grip on Bruce's chest. He yanked his hand free, grasped Oliver's hips then jerked them back, lifting him onto the balls of his feet. His fingers grazed Oliver's cock – it wasn't hard with wanting, didn't leak with need for release, but when Bruce pushed his cockhead past the outer ring of muscle, a ragged moan tore from Oliver's throat.

He wanted this. Needed it. Even if his body didn't.

Feel this, Bruce insisted, working deep.

Oliver clenched, fighting him, but Bruce didn't let up. He gritted his teeth at the tight squeeze over his head and along his shaft. Sweat beaded on his brow, harsh breaths abraded his throat, but still he drove in, seating himself in Oliver and sharing his pain.

When their hips connected, he pinned Oliver's hands to the wall. Pried his fingers apart to make room for his own between them. Bat covered hawk, even as he covered Oliver.

Heavy hoarse breaths mingled, underscoring the quiet, until Oliver broke and whispered, "Please," into the wall.

"Feel it," Bruce growled, flexing his hips to take another inch.

Oliver rose up onto his toes with a hissed, "Yes."

Bruce drew back, slammed deep.

Again, and Oliver grunted.

Then, again: Feel me.

Oliver's fingers tensed. Bruce trapped them and fucked harder. Not fast thrusts to get himself off, but precise bruising strikes aimed at the chill numbness that suffocated Oliver's smiles.

His mouth found Oliver's throat again, but now Oliver tilted his head away, baring it. "Feel me," Bruce demanded, then sank his teeth and his dick into Oliver.

His keening moan grabbed Bruce by the balls. What Oliver wanted, he gave, branding his ass with thrust after searing thrust. Orgasm clawed at his hips, demanding expression. He blocked it, pounding into Oliver until cries and bitten-off moans filled the suite and real, raw pain replaced ineffectual grief.

"Fuck, Bruce. Hurts," Oliver whispered around a choked sob.

Dropping his sweat-soaked forehead to Oliver's shoulder, Bruce drew an unsteady breath. "I know."

He exhaled, releasing his stranglehold on his body into smoother strokes that sought his pleasure. Oliver tilted his hips to give him space, pushed back. The first white-hot burst burned but he slid through it to bathe their pain with the liquid warmth of his release.

For several minutes, they panted together, leaning heavily against the wall. His chest slipped in the sweat on Oliver's back, and when he adjusted his balance, his right hamstring twinged. Oliver wasn't the only one who would need a hot bath and healing come morning, but his own hurt concerned him not at all.

He disengaged with care, but Oliver whimpered, reaching to clutch his hip with fingers trained to pull a compound bow. Bruce winced at the pressure. "Come to bed."

Oliver nodded, but didn't face him. Bruce ran his fingers down the muscled groove of Oliver's back; Oliver flinched from the salt-sting in raised scratches. He fluttered his fingers: go on, I'll be a minute.

Bruce shook his head, but retreated to turn down the covers on the bed. He lay on his side, watching Oliver with concern. When his hand stole down to encircle his cock, Bruce understood the problem.

It hadn't been about sex, but now, in the real and raw, it was.

"Come to bed, Oliver." His voice rasped, hoarse and husky, and not only from his moans. "Let me."

Oliver's shoulders stiffened. When he turned, the need in Oliver's eyes stole his breath, but he dropped Bruce's gaze almost instantly.

Bruce ached for each halting step to the bed. More, for Oliver settling carefully to the bed and rolling onto his side, facing out. Away from Bruce.

Once more, Bruce fitted their bodies together. "Oliver," he said quietly, pressing a gentle kiss to a bruised shoulder. His hand smoothed down Oliver's arm, and the powerful muscle tensed beneath it. You don't have to.

Ignoring Oliver's awkwardness, Bruce wrapped his fist around the base of his cock and dragged it up to the tip. I want to.

He kept it slow, easy. Now Oliver's body needed, but his mind hadn't caught up yet. Bruce wanted it to, wanted to give Oliver something other than pain to help him through tonight and tomorrow.

Tracing the path of pain he'd laid in Oliver's flesh, he tongued and sucked his way across Oliver's shoulder and up his throat. When Oliver turned his head away, pushing his face into the pillow, Bruce nipped again and stopped the steady stroketwiststroke of his hand. Stay here. Be here.

Oliver sighed, but his eyes fluttered open. He reached back and up to thread his fingers through Bruce's hair and pull his head down. Head turning, he kissed the corner of Bruce's mouth, then his hips thrust forward into Bruce's grip. Make me.

Thumbing over the slit, Bruce almost smiled when Oliver let out a tortured groan. Better. Muted still, not the bright buoyant (oft annoyingly so) spirit that permeated everything they did together – even their most brutal fucks – but Oliver sounded more like himself, moved more like himself. Asking, even challenging, not just taking what Bruce gave him.

If he hadn't come ten minutes ago, he'd be aching-stiff and wanting back in Oliver. As it was, his skin flushed and the air around them warmed at the feel of Oliver slippery-hot over his palm. Then the soft little pleading moans started, and Bruce's body tightened, not caring that he wasn't sixteen anymore and shouldn't be getting hard again. Also not caring that Oliver would be bruised inside and not ready to receive again.

Apparently Oliver didn't care either, because he arched back insistently, aligning their hips so every little thrust worked him harder.

"Oliver…" Bruce bit his shoulder, hard, then growled both concern and warning.

In response, Oliver slid his hand beneath his neck and pulled out the lube. He held it out over his shoulder, and when Bruce didn't take it from him, he circled his hips, slow and provocative. "Bruce." Spoken soft, thick, filled with every true thing between them, and certain.

He'd heal Oliver in the morning.

With a last stroke and a deft twist of his wrist that had Oliver's hips jackknifing and his free hand clutching the sheets, Bruce let Oliver's stiff, heavy cock fall in favor of the elegant fingers curled around a vial of Temura's Tantric Sex Silk (research had shown it to be the best on the market). It wasn't their way, but he laced their fingers together, holding the small bottle between their palms – for a moment, a few heartbeats, just long enough to say he heard and understood.

Then he unstoppered the vial with his teeth, poured most of the lubricant into his cupped palm. Resting his fingertips in the cleft of Oliver's ass beneath the hot, swollen ridge of tissue his dick had so recently abused, Bruce tipped his hand to let the slick liquid drain down his fingers. Oliver clenched a little at the wet touch, but exhaled, a long, slow sigh, when Bruce's fingertip breached his hole.

Careful, so careful not to harm Oliver, Bruce worked him slick. No easy task to be so cautious with Oliver thrusting back to take everything Bruce gave him – so very Oliver, that after a minute, he conceded, pouring the remainder of the lube into his hand to coat his cock and tossing the vial away.

Unwanted before, now the slippery-slow glide of dick into ass felt right. No friction, no resistance, but even so Oliver hissed, stifled a sharp cry when Bruce pushed past the outer ring. He stilled, brought up short by pain without purpose, but Oliver curled his hand around Bruce's hip, dug his fingers into the muscle of his ass, and urged him inward.

Nipping and nuzzling at Oliver's shoulder, he took his partner in hand again. Set up the same, easy rhythm of stroketwiststroke, and took Oliver's fuck-bruised ass inch by slow, gentle inch.

It drove Oliver mad when he did that, usually made him moan and beg like a well-paid whore; now he shivered, locking his teeth around a stream of curses so filthy generations of Waynes and the Queens rolled in their graves.

Had it been any other time of year, Bruce would've pulled out, rolled Oliver, pinned him and blown him. But Oliver needed this. Needed to be spitted on Bruce's dick, split open, held open.

Needed Bruce.

So Bruce bore his pain with a clenched jaw, fought off opposing urges to pull out and to fuck through the searing grip and make Oliver scream for real. With the patient determination Oliver so often mocked him for, he worked in until his balls brushed the under-curve of Oliver's glutes.

The instant he seated himself, Oliver flexed forward then arched back. A shuddering sob tore from his throat and Bruce pulled him in close with the forearm across his hips. Rocked him onto his cock while he fisted him.

With the rhythmic regularity of the movements, Oliver's breathing steadied, settled into low, edgy moans. Bruce's heart hammered against his ribs, as much from the normalcy of the sound as from desire. He wanted Oliver, how could he not? Everything about Oliver pleased him, even the smartass attitude and emotional openness he shook his head over – those were Oliver, his equal, his partner, his complement.

And, fuck, he was sexy. So damned sexy that eleven years after their first accidental fumblings, conversations still ended with Oliver pinned between Bruce and a wall and him kissing Oliver until he stopped talking.

So damned sexy that when he should be treating the abrasions and contusions from the last fuck, he had his dick buried in Oliver's ass again, lips burning against his throat again, body tightening low and sweet in anticipation again.

Oliver shifted his top leg forward, spreading himself, and Bruce adjusted to take the depth and the leverage offered. Long, deliberate thrusts matched with knowing strokes of his hand. None of the brutality of before, but all of the intentionality. He fucked Oliver like he'd trained him to fight, imprinting himself and his truth in Oliver's mind and in his flesh: inescapable, irrevocable, inevitable.

And Oliver welcomed it, moans deepening, shaft lengthening in Bruce's hand. "Bruce."

"Let go." His voice dark with sex and dominance, Bruce murmured across the shell of Oliver's ear, "Give it all to me."

Oliver's body bent almost double, then bowed, head tilting back against Bruce's shoulder. "Yes." A ragged whisper, Oliver's once-a-year confession.

Then he broke, a sharp burst of heat and wet over Bruce's fist. Thick ropes of semen striping Oliver's flat stomach and coating Bruce's fingers.

"So good," he praised, accepting Oliver's faith with a hot kiss behind his ear, then the soft but steady suction of him setting his mark in Oliver's flesh. I am here. I will always be here. And drove it home with a series of powerful thrusts through the sweet, sudden tightness of Oliver's climax.

Oliver pressed back, giving it up to Bruce. He growled, low and soft, plowing in deep one last time, before painting Oliver inside with his come.

It felt good, too good, to cover Oliver like this. To wrap around him and fill him and protect him. Too good because Oliver didn't usually need or want it, and Bruce didn't want him to. But when they came together like this, Bruce grounding Oliver in the here and now, it clicked in hard. Resisting the kiss he wanted to place there, Bruce rubbed his thumb over the hawk's head as he pulled out.

Before he could roll away, Oliver looked back over his shoulder. No longer flat and dull, his eyes brimmed with emotions – too many for Bruce to identify – but his lips curved in the beginnings of a smile. Not a real smile nor the fucked out bliss of coming down. Bruce wouldn't see that for several days yet, but there was pleasure there amidst the ache.

Twisting his arm around, Oliver grasped Bruce's wrist and tugged him back down. "Cold," he said, voice quiet.

"It's June, Oliver," Bruce chided, because it was expected.

It really wasn't safe to feel like this. The sudden warmth in his chest when he gave in to the kiss between Oliver's shoulder blades. Or the fierce satisfaction when he wrapped his arm around Oliver's waist and Oliver fitted himself against Bruce's body.

He should lock it all away.

But it was June. And it was Oliver.

Notes: One night just_katarin and I got a little hot and bothered over the idea of Oliver being tattooed where Bruce could see and lick the tattoo while they fucked. *hands* This is why we shouldn't be allowed to play alone together after dark.
Chronology:Interlude: seven years after they graduate from Hogwarts.