one pill two pill

[bossymarmalade]

Ollie sleeps for almost two hours, snoring loud enough to be heard through the whole condo despite the bedroom door being shut, and despite the size of the condo. But eventually he’s up, and wrapped in a blanket, he sits down on the sofa where Jason’s drowsing and makes himself comfortable there.

Jason isn’t really a very hard sleeper, and wakes up as soon as the couch shifts when Ollie settles there. Eyes wide, he glances around, quickly trying to remember where he is, waking up in a new place always a little jarring. Right, the condo. He glances at the window, trying to gauge how much time has passed. Maybe twenty minutes since he fell asleep, which is still the most he’s gotten in twenty-four hours. Trying to muffle a yawn, he glances over at Ollie. “How you feeling?”

"Me? I’m fine, kiddo." Ollie doesn’t seem to be moving gingerly, or stiffly; any arrested motions seem to be due to his body’s limitations after the beating he’s taken, rather than his own conscious registering of pain. "How’re you doing? I knocked you around pretty good out there. You need some painkillers? Something to eat? I make great grilled cheese."

Jason shakes his head. “Nah, I’m okay… unless you’ve got rabies or something,” he notes, rubbing his shoulder where Ollie had bit him the night before. “You give a mean hickey, Jolly Green. Should be good to go if you’ve got coffee or something.” The offer of food is tempting, especially since the last thing he ate was a single piece of pizza two days before, but his stomach’s been tied in knots ever since the parade.

Ollie prods Jason’s leg with his foot. “You sure you gotta go? I mean, I know it’s probably no fun hanging out with your friends’ dad all night, but I could use the company.” He gets up and goes to the kitchen, putting up a cup of coffee and bringing back two popsicles. “What I really want is oatmeal cookies,” Ollie says, handing one to Jason and unwrapping the other for himself, “but I get the feeling my mouth isn’t in good enough shape for that.”

Jason hesitates for a moment before shaking his head. “Nah, don’t have anywhere I need to be, I can stick around if you want.” His kittens can take care of themselves, and after that patrol, he doesn’t really want to go anywhere else for the rest of the night. Though he didn’t ask for it, he’s never one to turn down the free food, so he takes the popsicle without complaint. “Well, you can make ‘em so they’re soft if your mouth hurts. Still waiting to hear that you don’t have rabies,” he adds teasingly.

Ollie swipes two bloody, swollen fingers over his chest in a cross and then holds them up. “Scout’s honour, I’m totally disease-free,” he says. “Although I never was a boy scout, so you’re gonna have to just take my word for it.” He sits down and takes a big bite from the popsicle, chewing and swallowing with a pleased sound. “How d’you make oatmeal cookies soft? That’s just … oatmeal. Oooooh, hey, I should make some oatmeal!” Ollie gets up again. “I’ll make you some too. I make excellent oatmeal, if you like brown sugar.”



Jason laughs faintly as he shakes his head. “I’ll take your word for it, but if I start foaming at the mouth, or howling at the fool moon, you’re first on my list.” He takes a smaller bite of his own popsicle, the cold rather unpleasant for his teeth. “You just add more butter that’s the right temperature, I think, been a while since I made any.” Staying on the couch, he just blinks up at Ollie for a second. “Uh… sure.” Sweets really aren’t his thing, but with the night the older man had, he’s not about to say anything that might disappoint him.

Ollie goes back into the kitchen, still talking to Jason over the counter where he’s doling oatmeal and salt into two bowls — it’s an open concept floorplan, only a counter between the two rooms. “Oh, you meant if you’re making cookies from scratch! Hell, kid, I was just gonna pop open a bag of ‘em. What, d’you like to bake? That something you picked up on your own, or was that an Alfred thing?” He lets a beat pass before he asks, “…or a Bruce thing?”

Jason pushes himself up off the couch, crossing the room to lean against the counter. “Course I meant from scratch, they’re always way better that way.” He bobs his head from side to side, considering the question. “Yeah, I kinda do, just sorta like making most stuff. It’s kind of an Alfred thing, I mean, he taught me a lot, but I learned a bunch on my own.”

—- —- —-

Bruce makes his way into the condo through the window access, just as the sun is turning the sky around it purple, and violet, and hazy shades of blue that look like the bruises he leaves on her skin, the hue of the sound that slides out of his mouth when they’re together.. Bruce would notice these things, except he doesn’t, because exhaustion has taken hold of his body, and his fingers move against the latch on the sliding glass doors in auto-pilot, his boots muddied with blood and grit and grime, tracking him across the carpet as he walks through the living room, to the kitchen. He goes for a glass, turning the tap on, but doesn’t bother with the built-in filter: he drinks the first one straight, then the second, his arm leaning against the edge of the sink as he breathes.

Ollie hears the movement in the kitchen and sits up on the sofa, watching Bruce at the sink. “Jason stayed with me until he got called away,” he says, voice quiet. “Did you get what you needed to get done?”

Bruce doesn’t answer him, finishing the third glass and setting it in the sink, as he turns off the tap. Doesn’t answer him, even as he moves over, away, and towards the man on the sofa—how had he missed him there?—moving his hands up to unclip his cape, letting the sodden thing drop onto the floor with a slopping noise against the hardwood. The gauntlets are next, the sharp spikes catching on the rug’s pile, before he pushes the cowl clean off the top of his head, and he manages to unbuckle the armor before he drops down, to his knees, on the floor in front of the sofa. He still doesn’t answer, hands sliding over Ollie’s waist, pulling the blanket away, off the couch, letting it pile to the side of him as his gloved fingers pull at the drawstring of his pants. Lowering his head, still silent, Bruce gloved fingers make quick work of getting Ollie’s cock out—just the tip—and he settles it in between his lips, the inside molten, damp heat, suckling softly.

Ollie hisses, hips lifting as Bruce takes him in. “Christ,” he murmurs, “just getting right down to business, huh?” He pushes his hand into Bruce’s hair — it’s always a strange texture like this, just out of the cowl, all rubberized and blue-black as if it’s made of squid ink — and rubs the curls between his fingers, not noticing when strands slip into the cracks and cuts over his knuckles. “mmmm. It’s good that you hydrated first, though. Very prudent.”

Bruce rises up, kissing Ollie’s mouth, and sets the tone for the archer, paints it in as broad strokes as possible: his mouth is soft, the lips chapped, and there is a tender desperation as he settles his lashes low over his eyes, dark with worry, with fear. It’s as sobering a thought as any, the Batman, afraid, but he stinks of it, of the rage he holds inside of his chest because of it, and he laps at Ollie’s mouth, once, twice, before ducking his head again and taking more of Ollie, sucking him down to the root, his nose delving deep into the thatch of dark blond pubic hairs as he inhales, flattens his tongue against the bottom of his hardening shaft.

Ollie shifts, groaning, and his breathing is already heightened and rattly through his swollen throat. “It’s okay,” he says, “Bruce, honey, it’s okay, it’s okay. It’s gonna be all right. You always keep your city together in the end, and Kate survives things that would destroy lesser people. I … jesus, baby …” The words melt back into Ollie’s tongue as Bruce’s mouth moves on him, and Ollie links his knotty fingers behind Bruce’s neck, following the rock of his head. “I’m not goin’ nowhere, I promise.” Ollie’s body won’t quite listen to him, legs stiff and awkward, but he does his best to pull Bruce in, wrap him up to make him feel safe.

Bruce moves his hands down, to wrap around the outside of Ollie’s legs, and he moves those stiff muscles for him, around his waist, as he continues to drag his tongue over the soft skin of his lover’s cock. Ollie is getting hard, not as fast as normal but fast enough that the back of Bruce’s tongue is awash with the musky, bitter taste of his precome, but he doesn’t stop. He pulls his head back, tongue lashing against the veins and ridged corona of the length, before using his lips to push back the man’s foreskin, closing his lips over the head of him, pressing down on the spongy head with just the muscles there, flickering his tongue against the slit where slick, clear beads ooze as he grows thicker. Harder. Bruce makes no move to get the rest of his armor off, doesn’t even seem cognizant of the fact that he is in it: his world has narrowed to this, the sunlight breaking over Ollie’s skin, washing him in a golden halo of rose-tinged amber, the taste of him drowning Bruce’s sense of taste, smell.

For his part of it, Ollie’s content to stay where he is and let Bruce take the helm, watching the angles of Bruce’s face appear, disappear as he slides up and down. Feeling the heat of his breath and wet warmth of his mouth, hot almost to scalding, the way that Bruce’s breathing has a rough little burr at the tail end of it, hrrrrrrrr. Ollie focuses on that, on Bruce’s hair and face, because he doesn’t like looking at the rest of it, all the plated armour and black-grey livery; he’s never wanted to fuck The Batman. Not even now. “Love you,” he says, but the last bit of it trails off because his mouth screws up to the side slightly. There’s pain slowly creeping in, all over his body, and that’s the last thing Ollie wants to be aware of. So he bears down his concentration and clutches Bruce’s hair, and urges, “Don’t be afraid. I love you,” as his cock throbs, beating to its own pulse.

Don’t be afraid. The words shiver down his spine and Bruce’s eyes screw shut, nearly against his will, because he doesn’t mean to shut his eyes and leave the watching to Oliver. He doesn’t mean to make the low and shaky little noise that pulses out of him when Ollie says what he does, doesn’t mean to bow his head under the weight of memory. Don’t be afraid, don’t— Bruce lowers his head, angling it, and gently scoops his hands around Ollie’s thighs, under his ass, pulling him forward on the couch, pushing his knees up, so he can get lower, begin licking his way across, behind the soft sac, tongue delving deeper. Lower.

The breath catches against the back of Ollie’s throat for a moment when Bruce pushes his knees up, but he licks around his mouth, once, twice, and then breathes out long and slow until the pain recedes again, to a cul-de-sac of his nerve endings somewhere, and Ollie scoots down obligingly. “You’re not alone,” he says. “In the fight or in the rebuilding. And I don’t even mean your family, or Kate and me. I mean the rest of the League too.” He clasps his hand over Bruce’s, holding Ollie’s leg up, and after a long, soft moan at the route that Bruce’s tongue is taking, says, “And Gotham herself.”

Bruce moves lower, until he’s arrived at the place he needs to be, the wrinkled pucker of Ollie’s asshole, and he doesn’t hold back the swipe of his tongue, slicking it across the surface until he feels like it’s wet enough, damp enough, to delve inside. He’s clean here, musky and warm, and Bruce only pulls back far enough to get the man’s pants off the rest of the way, shucking his gloves with a quick bite to the tip of a finger, a jerk of his head, before returning. He pushes a finger against the ring of muscle, slipping it inside, before lifting his head and bringing his gaze to Ollie, adding a second. He pushes them in, watching the archer’s face, his own stark desire cleanly etched into his features.

Ollie leans his head against the back of the sofa, meeting Bruce’s exhaustion-bright blue gaze when the man raises his heavy, dark head to get … connection? Approval? To gauge what Ollie’s thinking or wants? Pressing his bruised mouth against the fabric for a moment to ride through the pressure of Bruce’s fingers working inside of him, Ollie looks back, eyelids lowered slightly, and nods. “I need you too, baby,” he says, face still half-dragging against the sofa. “Always do.”

Bruce doesn’t work Ollie all the way open, like he might, any other night, and instead, he pulls his hand out of the archer, slowly, before reaching out and taking both of his hands, liquid, nimble fingers—archer’s fingers—and bringing them to his.. chest. He pushes Ollie’s hands and fingers, like he might a child’s, against the hardened ballistic ceramics, the curve of each breast, before showing him the inside zipper, the eyelets, showing Ollie how to remove the armor like Bruce himself might. Then, slowly, bit by bit, Bruce removes the hardened kevlar, triple-Nomex, shedding it all as he gently urges Ollie to take over the process, hoping he’s understood, that he’s caught on.

Ollie has caught on as far as the idea of getting rid of the Batman goes, at any rate; he runs his fingertips along the hard formations, catching the zips and fastenings, sometimes leaving them to touch other parts of the costume before coming back and undoing them. “I didn’t wear this suit when I was the Bat. When I was temporarily being the Bat while you were gone.” He unhooks pieces of it, dropping them to the side of the sofa, over the back, wherever, until he’s laid the compression wear bare. “The one I wore was simpler. Easier to get on by myself. And take off.” Ollie digs his fingers into the waistband of the tights. “You haven’t said a word to me yet, you know.”

Bruce breathes easier as Ollie begins to remove the suit, all of the pieces falling off him, leaving him lighter—physically, metaphorically, spiritually? Bruce doesn’t attempt to keep track—and he allows Ollie to pull him closer by the waistband, using that as cue to swing the elastic down, push the cup out of the way of his hardened cock, and sling the length out—nearly fully hard, Bruce’s sex pulses against the edge of the couch, as if it feels how warm Ollie is, how close. He looks up at Ollie when he speaks, and he asks, quietly. “..do you need me to talk?”

Ollie stills, even with his hands on Bruce’s hips, knuckles brushing the length of Bruce’s cock, to meet that gaze and hold it, listening to the both of them breathe. “After what happened the last time we saw each other tonight,” he says, parceling each word out as if he’s paying by the pound, “yeah, Bruce. I need you to at least call me by my name, even if you don’t say anything else.” As if to underline his point, Ollie pulls off his t-shirt, charcoal grey jersey giving way to the pale skin and dark gold hair on his lower belly, blooming into a florid bruise sprawling over most of his upper torso. He puts his hands back on Bruce’s hips, watching him levelly.

Bruce looks down at Ollie’s skin when he bares it, and his expression shifts, changes, right before Ollie’s eyes, even if his eyes don’t shut, even if his eyebrows remain exactly the same; for Bruce, the devil is in the details. The way his pupils contract, pinpricks of black against the blue as he takes in the damage, recalling in perfect detail what had caused it, where on his body Bruce would be able to pinpoint the soreness tomorrow—later today—and how hard he had hit the other the man. He exhales, and leans back, his hands remaining hooked around the archer’s narrow hips, and states: “..I went after them, after Hatter, when I left.” Bruce lifts his gaze to Ollie, his breathing settling, even as his erection flags, sagging as he licks his lips, pale skin wind-cracked and he pushes a hand through his hair. “..I went to find out how I could get my hands on him, because seeing you go after—” Him. Me? Bruce inhales, his nostrils flaring and his expression settles. “—couldn’t find him.”

"We’ll find him." Ollie rubs the hardened edge of his thumb along the ridge of Bruce’s hipbone, abrading it with each pass. "You’ve always found him before. Won’t be any different this time." He digs one knee into Bruce’s side, where the slats of his ribcage end. "I don’t wanna stop. I just needed you to talk to me, a little." Ollie grasps Bruce’s cock, the curving slant of it, and squeezes, bringing his thumbnail up under the ridge of the head. "I didn’t know what I was doing, when I attacked you both. I get that it upset you to see me attacking Jason."

Bruce pushes his hips forward, slowly, into Ollie’s hand, as he meets the other man’s gaze. He doesn’t speak, allowing the archer’s hand to move over the length of him a few times, his nail sliding against the head of it, and continues to breathe, before speaking again.. “Did you know when you asked for him to stay with you?” Bruce asks, his cock unmoving in Ollie’s touch.

Ollie doesn’t answer that question. Instead he says, “I’m not scared of you, Bruce. That’s not why I wanted him to stick around.”

Bruce does not blink when Ollie avoids the question, not when he answers one Bruce. Did not. Ask. Gently, and with no anger in him, he tugs Ollie’s pants back up, picks up the discarded blanket to settle it across his lap. His erection is almost completely gone, but he doesn’t move away—he just doesn’t want the archer to be chilled. “..alright,” he says, because there is nothing else he can say to that, before he tilts his head, eyes squinting as the sunlight hits him, dead on. He exhales, and rises up, slowly, gracefully tucking himself back into his own compression pants, the cup he wears.

Ollie shoves himself back, shoulders angled into the corner of the sofa as he frowns. “Isn’t that what you were worried about? When you asked me why I wanted Jason to come with me?” Blowing air through his lips, Ollie runs a hand over his hair. “I hate being alone after I’ve taken a licking. Jason’s fun to have around and knows how to sew up a head wound. Et voila.” He looks up at Bruce, curling his fingers in the blanket to keep from reaching out to grab him, pull him back. “You don’t have to go. That’s not what I wanted.”

Bruce doesn’t answer anything else that Ollie says, because yeah, he has made great leaps and bounds in terms of how he communicates with the archer, with Kate—he’s had to, and either by logic, or not wanting to hurt them, or some equal parts of both, Bruce has learned how to speak on things that no other living man or woman had been able to pull from him. But this, here.. He stops, and assures Ollie, on what he can: “..need to shower.” He settles his hand on top of the archer’s head, as he moves, leaving bits and pieces of Batman around the living room as he makes his way to the bathroom, where he knows it is.

Ollie watches Bruce leave and shuts his eyes, feeling the pain come back. And this time it’s not nibbling around the corners; it comes clawing in, chewing at his entrails and spreading outwards, every bruise and abrasion and cut declaring itself over a loudspeaker. Once he hears the water turn on, Ollie drags himself up from the sofa and goes to his room, picking up his discarded Green Arrow hoodie. One of the pockets has been crammed full of the little sweet-tart candies, the Deep Freeze, and he turns a light blue one over and over in his palm before putting it in his mouth. It’s only a few seconds of the candy dissolving before the pounding ache of his broken tooth subsides, and Ollie stands there quietly, tongue working the rest of it into powder that’s quickly washed down his throat, before he goes back to the sofa.

Bruce finishes showering quickly because he doesn’t wait for the water to heat up, and steps out with a towel slung around his waist, using another to dry his hair, his neck, when he looks back at the corridor. There is little evidence for him to go on that Ollie had moved—the hardwoods don’t pick up tracks or impressions like carpet might—so he has no idea Ollie has moved as he makes his way back, into the living room. He takes a seat across from Ollie, ignoring the sight of the armor around him.

"Feeling better?" Ollie’s used this time to get himself the bag of oatmeal cookies he’d mentioned to Jason earlier, and he holds it out towards Bruce, shaking it. "Time to fuel up, buckaroo."

Bruce takes one of the cookies, but doesn’t eat it yet. He looks up at Ollie, about to ask him something, when the urge passes and he settles, taking a bite from the cookie. He speaks after a moment of chewing and swallowing. “..have a board meeting at noon,” he states, indicating how long he has to sleep—if he goes down around seven, he’ll get a good four hours before he has to wake, tidy, get into the Bruce role before then.

Ollie finishes his own mouthful, nodding. “You can bring those to bed, then,” he says. “I don’t mind if you get crumbs in the sheets. As long as we shake ‘em out before Kate needs to sleep.” He doesn’t return to anything that they were talking about before, and instead stands up, holding a hand out to Bruce; the middle fingernail is black, flooded underneath with clotting blood. “Hupsy-daisy.”

Bruce shakes his head, indicating that he would do no such thing. For a moment, even the thought of leaving a single crumb behind makes Bruce pause in his eating, but by then, Ollie is standing asking him to rise, but he shakes his head, voice soft. “Sit down, Ollie.”

Ollie plops back down, startled. “What? Why?”

Bruce ’s brow furrows when Oliver sits straight down, right on the floor, without bothering for the couch.. or even his lap. He’s been running on two hours of sleep for the last fort-eight, but Bruce sluggishly begins to recall back the whole of their conversation, since he had arrived at the condominium. He sets the cookie down on the table, looking at the archer. “..stand up.”

Ollie scrambles back up. “You didn’t say Simon Says,” he mutters, scowling.

Bruce states, without a question in his voice. “..you took more.” Bruce frowns, immediately following up with: “How did you get more?”

Ollie scrunches up his bottom lip, stubbornly. “It has a long effect,” he says, folding his arms.

Bruce’s gaze sharpens, and the softness of his mouth hardens into a tense line. “Go get me what you have left.” He rises up, removing the towel from around his neck and shoulders, staring at Oliver.

Ollie goes completely rigid for a moment, every muscle in his body tense, but then he whirls and goes jerkily back to his room, bringing back his hoodie entirely and shoving it in Bruce’s arms. A few of the candies spill out of the stuffed-full pocket, and Ollie swoops down to pick them up.

Bruce has gathered up his suit in the time it takes Oliver to return, and he removes an evidence bag from his belt, a nitrile glove. He moves to push his hand between Oliver’s and the pills, and he gathers them up, sealing them inside the bag before stripping the glove off. He says nothing to Oliver, moving (with the drugs) into the bedroom. He returns, dressed in acceptable street wear for Bruce: a polo shirt, slacks, soft leather dress shoes, a duffel bag, and a burner phone. He snaps the battery in, waiting for it to turn on, as he shoves his armor into the bag. “I have to get these to the lab, for analysis,” he states, his four hours of sleep effectively vanishing before them.

"You’re a complete and utter bastard, you know that?" Ollie clenches his hands into misshapen fists, glaring at Bruce as he puts himself together. "What’s the fucking harm in leaving me a couple of them until I heal up? I have so much fucking /work/ to get done, Bruce! Those woulda helped me get through it! You /know/ I can’t take a lot of regular painkillers, goddammit!"

Bruce is silent as Oliver rants, his expression unchanging as he gathers up the rest of his things: he doesn’t bother to try and clean the carpet, or the floor, where his boots had first touched down. He looks at Oliver as the duffel is zipped up, belt tucked into it, plastic baggie sliding into his breast pocket. “Go get your cell phone and write a message to Kate—” He pauses, and adds: “Your wife. Tell her that you were drugged and proceeded to take more of the drugs, and send it. Then, you stay here, and drink a glass of water every half an hour.”

Ollie mutters, “Christ, I can’t stand you sometimes,” as he digs his phone out of the couch cushions and starts sending this message to Kate as ordered. “Can’t let anybody step on /your/ sacred duty of putting your body through the meat grinder to keep the streets safe, can you? Nope, only Bruce gets to push himself past the point of sanity in order to do what needs to get done, got it, sorry to be so presumptuous, sir. Sirrity sir sir sir.” He throws the phone back down and picks up the glass of water on the coffee table, draining it and putting that down too. “Satisfied?”

Bruce answers, simply, over his shoulder as he moves towards the door: “No.” He looks back at Oliver, and states, firmly: “Stay safe until Kate gets here.” Glancing down at his wristwatch, he estimates that time to be around forty-five minutes to an hour.

"Fuck you!" Ollie yells, then goes and puts himself to bed, where it’s safest, to wait for Kate.

Bruce locks the door on his way out through the encrypted-application on the phone, securing the apartment as best he can, before dialing out, as he steps into the elevator: “..Alfred.”