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thejusticelounge2013-07-23 02:04 pm
bossymarmalade) wrote in thejusticelounge2013-07-23 02:04 pm
retreat and advance
Bruce hears the shouting and laughter from the dining room—and stops in the corridor that leads to the exit. He takes a breath, listening, and then pushes through when he’s sure it’s cleared, heading for the coffee machines. It is dark and Bruce purposefully uses the darkness to avoid being seen.
Roy laughs a little, but immediately groans again, both hands against his stomach. He slumps over, without warning, face-first and into his sandwich.
Dickiebird blinks. "…Oh god, did we kill him?"
Oliver shakes Roy’s shoulder. “Roy? Are you fucking with us? This better not be the lead-up into an Aliens joke, or so help me god…"
Roy does not budge. Dickiebird grabs Roy’s other shoulder. “Should we sit him up? Lie him down? Check his pulse!"
Oliver gets faintly panicked and pushes Roy up, fingers digging into his shoulder. “Roy??" He starts instantly going through the mental list of who on this hunk of orbiting junk he can tear to pieces for serving his child unsafe foods.
Dickiebird shakes Roy and slaps his face. “Roy! Wake up! Come on…"
Roy belches, a loud, hard belch that erupts hundreds of thousands of stars into the air in a geyser, an almost literal geyser of suns and galaxies that glitter and sparkle in the air. He hiccups, guffaws laughter. “MAN, that felt good!!" Roy falls over onto his side, belching again and laughing, uncontrollably.
Oliver turns beet red, spluttering with rage. “You little shit!" he bawls, punching Roy hard in the shoulder. “Goddammit!" Dickiebird stares for a long moment, and then punches Roy in the leg.
Roy winces, but is still laughing. “OW! HEY! I almost died!!" Oliver waves his hands around to dispel the shower of suns falling down on them. Dickiebird glares at him. “Day ain’t over yet, Roy."
Roy laughing so hard, and belches again. “Oh.. Fuck.." The laughing takes on another higher pitched giggle. “I think—" Another eruption of stars, but these do not come from his mouth.
Oliver gets up, glowering, and addresses Dick. “Keep him from drowning in those things," he says, “or filling his pants with them. I need some damn coffee to handle this bullshit."
Dickiebird holds up his cup. “Mind getting me a refill?"
Oliver takes Dick’s cup and strides over to the coffee station, where he finds Bruce half-slipping away. “Hey! You’re — you haven’t — you’re up here."
Bruce looks at Oliver, half turned. He nods, and, unlike when he’d arrived, he is no longer cape-and-cowled, but down to the compression shirt, the bottom half of the suit still on, as if he had stopped for coffee before the next leg of his night. "..needed to download satellite feeds."
Oliver stares at him, one eyebrow slanting up slowly. “Okay, I admit that wasn’t my most eloquent," he says, “but what I meant by it was something more along the lines of ‘why hasn’t anybody seen you in weeks and now I find you creeping around up here’ rather than ‘what’s the sitrep’."
Bruce stares at Oliver, the pupils of his eyes blown wide to see the other man in the darkness. He takes in the sight of him, noting minute changes in weight, the way he’s carrying himself, and when it all comes back as him being hale, responds: "..been busy."
"Been busy. Doing what? Avoiding everybody? Licking your wounds alone?" He reaches out with his free hand, clasping Bruce’s elbow. “Honey. You don’t have to do /everything/ alone. Not even be busy."
Bruce doesn’t pull his elbow away, but doesn’t move to return the gesture. He looks to Oliver, then back to his coffee mug, the tablet computer he has in his hand. The flash drive in his hand. He looks back over to Oliver, and asks: “I heard Roy and Dick. Were you having dinner?"
Oliver laughs slightly, the irritation with Roy’s prank already transmuting into amusement, in the forgiving haze of hindsight. “No, we were all trying some weird alien crackers that made us spit out these sparkly little sun-things. You know how it goes with alien food." He shakes his head and refocuses on Bruce, frowning. “I know you don’t talk. About … things. That aren’t computers and crime stats. But if we’re gonna do this, Bruce, if we’re gonna — you know — then you have to at least start to let me in a little bit. I don’t need much room, I promise, just gimme a crack and I’ll wrangle a way in. That’s all I need. Okay?" His fingers shift on Bruce’s elbow, caressing, stroking.
Bruce lifts his hand, the one that had been holding his coffee, and when he sets his hand on Oliver’s wrist, the glove—he is still wearing them—is hot to the touch. He removes Oliver’s hand from his elbow—the surety of his grasp leaves no other choice, really—and nods, once. “I have to get back to work." His voice is not flat, but there is a clean cultivation of distance in the tone, the nuances. It is nearly clinical, detached.
Oliver twists one side of his mouth. “That’s fine," he says, in a fierce undertone, stepping closer to Bruce. “I don’t intend to get in the way of your /work/. But I also want to know what’s going on with you, Bruce. I need to. And you’ve known me long enough to understand that if I think I’ll have to push and bull my way into finding out, I damn well /will/."
Bruce narrows his eyes at Oliver.
"You’ve never been able to scare me off with that, B." Ollie considers this for a moment and amends, “Well … not for a long time, anyhow."
Bruce growls a bit. “You’re a damned fool, Queen."
Oliver shrugs. “It’s been said before. It doesn’t change anything, though."
Bruce reaches for his coffee mug again and lifts it, turning away from Oliver, and towards the exit doors. “You should let it."
Oliver watches Bruce leave, but doesn’t make a move to follow him. “I feel it’s only fair to warn you," he calls conversationally after the other man’s dark, retreating form, “that you’ll now be subjected to the full force of attention that Oliver Spencer Queen is capable of. Get ready for it, Bruce, and don’t say you didn’t know it would be coming."
Bruce shakes his head, but does not answer him, exiting the kitchens and heading towards the laboratory.
Oliver turns back to the coffee machine to dutifully fill Dick’s cup, but then puts the full cup down and leaves the cafeteria, picking up speed as he jogs and then sprints down the corridor, catching Bruce just as he’s entering the laboratory. Ollie’d already ascertained that the room would be empty, so he slaps the lock on the automated door and grabs Bruce’s face, kissing him in short impassioned bursts. “I won’t let you do this bullshit," he says in between. “Hiding yourself away from me. I won’t let you."
Bruce drops the coffee—the mug cracks, splits in two, the contents spilling across the floor—and the tablet follows a moment after. His gloved hand slides around Oliver’s waist as a heavy groan leaves him, the other carding through his blond hair as he whirls, turns to slam Oliver against the wall. Bruce returns the kisses with his own, lips working against the blond’s, teeth scraping his lower lip as he brings his hips solidly against the archer’s, pinning him. He returns them, blow for blow, before he pulls back, chapped lips already swelling from the brutality of his kisses, growling. "..not in the goddamned lab, Oliver."
Oliver leans forward to push his cheek against Bruce’s, the rough scrape of their skin giving him a satisfied shiver. “You didn’t exactly leave me a choice, Longears," he points out, with only a bit of smugness. Okay, maybe more like a healthy dash of smugness. “It’s either make out with you in the lab, or follow you home. Alfred would let me in. He’d let me sit on all the furniture and thumb through your books."
Another growl leaves Bruce and he brings a gloved hand down, to seek out Oliver’s sex between his thighs, against his own cock, hidden and contained behind the protective cup of his suit. "..’Make out’?" He inquires, strong, deft fingers pressing in, cupping as he looks down the defined ridge of his nose at the other man. "..is that all?"
Bruce smirks, his lip curling over his teeth as he brings his body in closer, half-crushing Oliver as he palms his length, hand slipping up, in, against the band of his jeans. It’s a sneer, when he feels the hardening length against the tips of his calloused fingers; he wraps his hand around the thick root, thumb working to trace the girth of it. "..you thought you’d just.. what. Get off easy, Queen?"
Oliver scrunches his eyes shut as Bruce’s hand pushes against him, fingers insistent, his voice curling with a contempt that — oddly — doesn’t feel contemptuous at all. Ollie opens his eyes again and rolls his hips forward, pushing into Bruce’s grasp and motions on his cock, putting one hand to the side of Bruce’s neck and the other against his ribs to hold him close. “Getting off /was/ part of the plan, such as it was."
Roy laughs a little, but immediately groans again, both hands against his stomach. He slumps over, without warning, face-first and into his sandwich.
Dickiebird blinks. "…Oh god, did we kill him?"
Oliver shakes Roy’s shoulder. “Roy? Are you fucking with us? This better not be the lead-up into an Aliens joke, or so help me god…"
Roy does not budge. Dickiebird grabs Roy’s other shoulder. “Should we sit him up? Lie him down? Check his pulse!"
Oliver gets faintly panicked and pushes Roy up, fingers digging into his shoulder. “Roy??" He starts instantly going through the mental list of who on this hunk of orbiting junk he can tear to pieces for serving his child unsafe foods.
Dickiebird shakes Roy and slaps his face. “Roy! Wake up! Come on…"
Roy belches, a loud, hard belch that erupts hundreds of thousands of stars into the air in a geyser, an almost literal geyser of suns and galaxies that glitter and sparkle in the air. He hiccups, guffaws laughter. “MAN, that felt good!!" Roy falls over onto his side, belching again and laughing, uncontrollably.
Oliver turns beet red, spluttering with rage. “You little shit!" he bawls, punching Roy hard in the shoulder. “Goddammit!" Dickiebird stares for a long moment, and then punches Roy in the leg.
Roy winces, but is still laughing. “OW! HEY! I almost died!!" Oliver waves his hands around to dispel the shower of suns falling down on them. Dickiebird glares at him. “Day ain’t over yet, Roy."
Roy laughing so hard, and belches again. “Oh.. Fuck.." The laughing takes on another higher pitched giggle. “I think—" Another eruption of stars, but these do not come from his mouth.
Oliver gets up, glowering, and addresses Dick. “Keep him from drowning in those things," he says, “or filling his pants with them. I need some damn coffee to handle this bullshit."
Dickiebird holds up his cup. “Mind getting me a refill?"
Oliver takes Dick’s cup and strides over to the coffee station, where he finds Bruce half-slipping away. “Hey! You’re — you haven’t — you’re up here."
Bruce looks at Oliver, half turned. He nods, and, unlike when he’d arrived, he is no longer cape-and-cowled, but down to the compression shirt, the bottom half of the suit still on, as if he had stopped for coffee before the next leg of his night. "..needed to download satellite feeds."
Oliver stares at him, one eyebrow slanting up slowly. “Okay, I admit that wasn’t my most eloquent," he says, “but what I meant by it was something more along the lines of ‘why hasn’t anybody seen you in weeks and now I find you creeping around up here’ rather than ‘what’s the sitrep’."
Bruce stares at Oliver, the pupils of his eyes blown wide to see the other man in the darkness. He takes in the sight of him, noting minute changes in weight, the way he’s carrying himself, and when it all comes back as him being hale, responds: "..been busy."
"Been busy. Doing what? Avoiding everybody? Licking your wounds alone?" He reaches out with his free hand, clasping Bruce’s elbow. “Honey. You don’t have to do /everything/ alone. Not even be busy."
Bruce doesn’t pull his elbow away, but doesn’t move to return the gesture. He looks to Oliver, then back to his coffee mug, the tablet computer he has in his hand. The flash drive in his hand. He looks back over to Oliver, and asks: “I heard Roy and Dick. Were you having dinner?"
Oliver laughs slightly, the irritation with Roy’s prank already transmuting into amusement, in the forgiving haze of hindsight. “No, we were all trying some weird alien crackers that made us spit out these sparkly little sun-things. You know how it goes with alien food." He shakes his head and refocuses on Bruce, frowning. “I know you don’t talk. About … things. That aren’t computers and crime stats. But if we’re gonna do this, Bruce, if we’re gonna — you know — then you have to at least start to let me in a little bit. I don’t need much room, I promise, just gimme a crack and I’ll wrangle a way in. That’s all I need. Okay?" His fingers shift on Bruce’s elbow, caressing, stroking.
Bruce lifts his hand, the one that had been holding his coffee, and when he sets his hand on Oliver’s wrist, the glove—he is still wearing them—is hot to the touch. He removes Oliver’s hand from his elbow—the surety of his grasp leaves no other choice, really—and nods, once. “I have to get back to work." His voice is not flat, but there is a clean cultivation of distance in the tone, the nuances. It is nearly clinical, detached.
Oliver twists one side of his mouth. “That’s fine," he says, in a fierce undertone, stepping closer to Bruce. “I don’t intend to get in the way of your /work/. But I also want to know what’s going on with you, Bruce. I need to. And you’ve known me long enough to understand that if I think I’ll have to push and bull my way into finding out, I damn well /will/."
Bruce narrows his eyes at Oliver.
"You’ve never been able to scare me off with that, B." Ollie considers this for a moment and amends, “Well … not for a long time, anyhow."
Bruce growls a bit. “You’re a damned fool, Queen."
Oliver shrugs. “It’s been said before. It doesn’t change anything, though."
Bruce reaches for his coffee mug again and lifts it, turning away from Oliver, and towards the exit doors. “You should let it."
Oliver watches Bruce leave, but doesn’t make a move to follow him. “I feel it’s only fair to warn you," he calls conversationally after the other man’s dark, retreating form, “that you’ll now be subjected to the full force of attention that Oliver Spencer Queen is capable of. Get ready for it, Bruce, and don’t say you didn’t know it would be coming."
Bruce shakes his head, but does not answer him, exiting the kitchens and heading towards the laboratory.
Oliver turns back to the coffee machine to dutifully fill Dick’s cup, but then puts the full cup down and leaves the cafeteria, picking up speed as he jogs and then sprints down the corridor, catching Bruce just as he’s entering the laboratory. Ollie’d already ascertained that the room would be empty, so he slaps the lock on the automated door and grabs Bruce’s face, kissing him in short impassioned bursts. “I won’t let you do this bullshit," he says in between. “Hiding yourself away from me. I won’t let you."
Bruce drops the coffee—the mug cracks, splits in two, the contents spilling across the floor—and the tablet follows a moment after. His gloved hand slides around Oliver’s waist as a heavy groan leaves him, the other carding through his blond hair as he whirls, turns to slam Oliver against the wall. Bruce returns the kisses with his own, lips working against the blond’s, teeth scraping his lower lip as he brings his hips solidly against the archer’s, pinning him. He returns them, blow for blow, before he pulls back, chapped lips already swelling from the brutality of his kisses, growling. "..not in the goddamned lab, Oliver."
Oliver leans forward to push his cheek against Bruce’s, the rough scrape of their skin giving him a satisfied shiver. “You didn’t exactly leave me a choice, Longears," he points out, with only a bit of smugness. Okay, maybe more like a healthy dash of smugness. “It’s either make out with you in the lab, or follow you home. Alfred would let me in. He’d let me sit on all the furniture and thumb through your books."
Another growl leaves Bruce and he brings a gloved hand down, to seek out Oliver’s sex between his thighs, against his own cock, hidden and contained behind the protective cup of his suit. "..’Make out’?" He inquires, strong, deft fingers pressing in, cupping as he looks down the defined ridge of his nose at the other man. "..is that all?"
Bruce smirks, his lip curling over his teeth as he brings his body in closer, half-crushing Oliver as he palms his length, hand slipping up, in, against the band of his jeans. It’s a sneer, when he feels the hardening length against the tips of his calloused fingers; he wraps his hand around the thick root, thumb working to trace the girth of it. "..you thought you’d just.. what. Get off easy, Queen?"
Oliver scrunches his eyes shut as Bruce’s hand pushes against him, fingers insistent, his voice curling with a contempt that — oddly — doesn’t feel contemptuous at all. Ollie opens his eyes again and rolls his hips forward, pushing into Bruce’s grasp and motions on his cock, putting one hand to the side of Bruce’s neck and the other against his ribs to hold him close. “Getting off /was/ part of the plan, such as it was."