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.