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After any mission, if you could call them missions, the members of the Doom Patrol tended to go off to their own rooms. To decompress, to sulk, whatever they did was all the same to Cliff. It all still left him alone, in his room, working on his cars.
After a particularly hard mission, one more search for the Chief with a dead end, Cliff stopped Larry before how went into his room.
“Hey, Larry. How are you holding up?” Cliff remembered when Larry panicked during the mission. Not over anything serious, Cliff just got too excited behind the wheel, and took a left turn too fast and too sharp for the bulky black bus.
Too sharp and too fast had Cliff Steele written all over it, didn’t it? He was too fast, too loud, and too Cliff Steele.
Larry had been thrown on the floor of the bus, his chest had glowed electric blue, and all at once the negative spirit was face to face with Cliff. Almost too close for comfort. It had just stared at Cliff for a few moments, almost like a warning.
Cliff thought it was funny. Like the spirit was saying ‘Watch it, NASCAR.’
It was funny, but Larry was clearly tired once the spirit returned. And quite unhappy at being thrown across the floor by Cliff’s excited driving.
“I’m fine.” Larry said, snapping Cliff out of his memory.
“Are you tired?”
“Yes, Cliff.”
“Do you want to be alone?” Cliff wasn't very good with his words. But he was worried about his friend, so sue him.
“No, Cliff.”
“Oka- wait, what?”
“I don’t really want to be alone right now. Do you?”
“No.”
“Do you want to come inside?” Larry asked, gesturing vaguely to his room.
“Sure, thanks.” Cliff replied as they entered a space between two doors, and Larry pressed buttons which started a shower of decontamination chemicals.
“I always forget that you’re radioactive.”
“It’s a good thing I don’t.” Larry almost chuckled.
Cliff had never been in Larry’s room before. It was sad. Dark and gloomy, despite wide windows and plants lining the walls. At least he tried to spruce the place up a bit, pictures and things. Cliff spotted what looked like the wings of a plane behind a large rack of bandages. He stopped looking around then. The story of how he got those would be fun later, he was sure.
“You’re quiet.”
“Your room is sad, Larry.”
“Ouch.” Larry said blandly, and Cliff sat on his bed.
Cliff quickly realized that his bed was definitely too small for both of them, and maybe even too small for Larry. His room really was sad.
Cliff thought about his too-small bed, probably better than a too-big one. Cliff had his fair share of too large beds. Before, after, and in-between Kate, he knew what that felt like. Alone. Alone, with your bed big and cold around you. Alone, and trying to fill the space in his heart by filling the space in his bed with whatever, whoever, he could.
Cliff shut down that train of thought immediately.
Larry was messing with a VCR player. No doubt contraband he smuggled in to watch something other than Rita Farr Pictures. Larry put something on, a western, and settled in beside Cliff.
He rolled his head onto Cliff’s shoulder, leaned on him, and ended up laying across Cliff’s lap. Ignoring the movie Larry looked up at Cliff’s face, much more interested in memorizing the sharp bronze angles.
Cliff looked down.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Not gonna fall asleep on me this time?” Cliff asked, fond and teasing.
Larry was still for a moment. Teasing was not new, and neither was fondness. Staring at Cliffs face and laying across his lap was new. Larry briefly tried to pinpoint when and where that feeling had started, but he was too comfortable just being with Cliff to over-analyze it now.
“Maybe I’m not tired anymore.”
“I thought that's why you had a movie on.”
“I put the movie on to show you the train robbery scene. Because that's how fast you were diving today, Cliff. You threw me on the floor.”
“Technically, your friend there threw you on the floor.”
“Don’t dodge the consequences of your actions.” Larry retorted.
“Whatever.” Cliff scoffed. He liked western movies. A train robbery sounded fun to watch, albeit a little cliche.
Larry sat up and leaned on Cliff again, resting his chin on his shoulder.
“I’m bored.”
“You wanted to watch the movie.”
“Cliff, I’m bored.” Larry was trying to get a rise out of Cliff now, no doubt for his own amusement. Larry briefly stood up and slung one leg over Cliff’s, ending up directly in his lap, arms linked around his neck.
Speaking of cliche.
Larry was blocking Cliff’s view of the VCR player, go figure.
“Trainor, I can’t see.”
“So?” Larry tilted his head to the side, questioning and staying face to face with Cliff.
“So I can’t watch that scene you wanted to show me, something about ‘the consequences of my actions’.”
“So make me move.” Larry said, fondly mocking Cliff’s inflection
Cliff stood up, underestimating both his own strength and Larry’s tenacity. He found himself standing with Larry clinging to his front like a baby koala.
It was a weird picture, comparing an Airforce pilot to a baby koala. But that's what he looked like. A robot and a mummy, in a baby koala tango.
“Okay, you mean it, you’re bored with the movie.” Cliff said, moving his arms under Larry’s legs so he wouldn’t fall.
Cliff would laugh if he could. When he tried it sounded hollow and sad, like Larry’s room, so he didn’t try anymore.
Larry was being stupid, he knew. But he was bored, and honestly, he wanted Cliff’s attention. It might be wrong to want that, but Larry had believed that everything he wanted was so wrong for so long, and both he and the negative spirit were sick of it.
He found himself swept up into the air, almost falling as Cliff stood and his seat on his lap disappeared. Thankfully Cliff’s arms found themselves under Larry’s legs, holding him up. Not touching anyone for 50 years, Larry had said in their group therapy. It gets lonely. Cliff made him feel less alone, from the first time they met.
Not touching anyone for 50 years. Cliff had never been afraid to touch him, his brain was well protected against radiation. And even if it wasn’t, Larry doubted he would care.
Not touching anyone. This felt nice. Really nice, as Cliff held him up and every square inch of Larry was pressed against Cliff's chest.
For 50 years. It felt really, really nice. His pelvis was pressed into Cliff, legs latched tightly around him so he wouldn't fall.
It felt really, really, nice, and Larry was almost in a compromising position when Cliff started to move. Larry was sure he would be blushing if he could.
Cliff turned around, unintentionally grinding his and Larry's hips together. Carefully, Cliff got on his knees in Larry's bed and lowered him back.
“What the hell are you doing?” Cliff asked, blunt and indulging in Larry’s antics.
“I don't know.” It was a good thing that Cliff couldn't feel.
Larry really, really, liked looking up at Cliff. This was an even better angle to memorize his face from. Larry liked it. He liked when Cliff stayed kneeling on his bed, Larry’s legs unlatching from around Cliff and falling on the bed beneath him. He liked when Cliff was above him, his hulking form filling Larry’s vision.
It was a very good thing that Cliff couldn’t feel. It meant he couldn't feel the very awkward erection currently pressed against his thigh as Larry looked up at Cliff.
Cliff was very still and very quiet. Larry pictured a spinning ‘buffering’ wheel, almost laughing at the image. The silence made him realize the tension in the air, hanging above their heads like his plants in their wicker baskets.
Instead of laughing, he focused on the fact that his pelvis was pressed into a very nice crease between Cliff's stomach and thigh, cushioned by worn denim.
“Uh,” Cliff started, “Do you wanna fool around?”
Shit.
Larry realized that there was no way Cliff could have felt him, hard and pressed into Cliff's jeans. So Cliff must have gathered that statement from the palpable tension in the air. That must have been why he was loading, thinking of how to tell Larry what he wanted.
Now Larry was buffering, paralyzed beneath Cliff. Neither of them had moved. Staring and staring, empty red met dark goggles, gazing endlessly into each other's eyes.
“Larry?” Cliff sounded nervous. He had gone too far. He had gone too far, too fast, eternally too fast Cliff Steele.
“Fuck, I’m sorry. You know I’m no good with words. Fuck.” He had gone too fast, of course, too fast. Cliff was ready for rejection, but too afraid and wanting to get off of Larry yet.
Larry's mouth was dry, bone dry. He couldn't quite process, couldn't quite speak. Cliff wanted him. Wanted him. He missed being wanted. Then Cliff moved, dragging motion and friction along Larry's length.
“Ah.” Larry gasped, breaking his silence. It cut through the tension like a knife.
“Shit, are you okay?” Cliff almost yelled, trying to move off of Larry.
But Larry had his hands twined in the lapels of Cliff’s jacket, pulling him back down.
“Wait. Yes,”
“What? I’m sorry, I shouldn't have asked--” Larry cut Cliff off, pressing their approximations of lips together. Bandages on metal, feeling nothing and everything at the same time.
“I do,” Larry realized that was a loaded statement. Larry didn’t care that it was a loaded statement.
“I do want to fool around. With you.” Larry continued.
“Okay!” Cliff exclaimed, then inwardly winced. Too loud, too fast, too Cliff for right now.
Larry fondly laughed at Cliff’s antics. Cliff’s first instinct was to kiss Larry, and trail those kisses down his neck and under his turtleneck.
His turtleneck. Clothes. That was a good place to start. Cliff pulled at the shoulders of Larry's jacket as Larry ran his hands up and down Cliff’s chest and back.
“No, leave it. I’ll be . . . more comfortable, like this.” Hands running up and down, up and down Cliff’s chest, his back. Hands Cliff couldn't feel, but he settled further down on Larry all the same.
Cliff had Larry pinned down, straddling his hips as Larry began to rock upwards into the crease between Cliff’s stomach and thigh.
“Am I crushing you, Larry?”
“No.” Larry groaned. His hips bucked upwards, hard and fast, creating delicious friction as pleasure shot down his thighs and into his stomach.
“Yes.” Larry gasped.
“Kinda getting mixed signals here,” Cliff started, “Are you okay?”
“Yhea, yes. I like it like this. I love it like this.”
Larry had wanted and wanted for so long, and he was crumbling apart at realizing that Cliff might have wanted and wanted him right back.
Memories of John, straddling Larry's hips like Cliff was now, holding him close and closer. John had held Larry's hands, his wrists, held them above his head, too.
Larry grabbed fistfuls of Cliff's jacket, leather whining under his grasp. He ground his hips upwards into Cliff again, still wrapped in bandages and sweaters and coats.
A million layers between them, and Larry was being held close and closer by Cliff's gaze. Red and empty and Cliff.
He liked it like this. He loved it like this.
Larry pawed at Cliff's metal face, clumsy fingers wrapped thickly in bandages catching on loose bolts and tight corners.
Cliff realized that he wasn't moving. Not since Larry said 'no’ then 'yes’ and Cliff couldn't follow. He couldn't feel when Larry pressed against him, what had made him cry out like that. Cliff couldn't feel, couldn't give Larry anything like he wanted to be able to. Like he should be able to, damn it.
All Cliff could do was watch. He watched as Larry writhed underneath him, moving and humping and grinding. Cliff felt like two teenagers on prom night, captivated as Larry moved sinuously and beautifully beneath him. Larry ran hands that Cliff couldn't feel over his chest, his face, anything.
And Cliff had nothing to give back. He wanted to touch, to caress, he had been so good at it before . . . before the accident. Before Larry.
A lot of things had happened before Larry.
Cliff decided that maybe he didn't mind so much that he couldn't feel. As long as he had someone to make him want to feel.
Cliff also realized how quiet he was, in sharp contrast to Larry’s sharp pants and gasps and . . . whines? Was Larry whining?
“Are you whining?”
“Shut . . . Up . . . Clifford.” Larry managed to say. It didn’t have as much venom behind it as he intended, considering each word was punctuated by a rock of his hips upward. Larry had one hand twined in Cliff's shirt and one on his face, his thumb running over a metal approximation of a cheekbone.
“Okay, I can do that.”
“I can shut up.” Cliff said again.
“You look really nice.” Cliff continued, not shutting up at all. “Real nice”
“Oh yhea?”
Did Larry like hearing that? Okay.
“Oh, yhea. Real nice. Pretty.” New territory here, that was fine. Cliff was good at making things up on the fly, especially in the bedroom.
“Real pretty, Lar. Just for me.”
Larry's hands twitched against Cliff, and his hips stuttered in their punishing rhythm.
“Cliff . . . Would you-” Larry couldn't finish the sentence.
Memories of John. Of holding and being held. Of someone across his hips, holding his hands. His wrists. Above his head. Pretty.
“What?”
Pretty. So pretty, for me.
Larry's hands floated to rest on the pillow above his head, wrists crossed.
Cliff, gorgeous, gentle Cliff, took the hint. He carefully followed Larry's movements to hold his wrists in place.
“Kinky fucker, aren't you?” Cliff said, albeit with fondness, as Larry definitely whined again.
“Maybesaythatagain,” Larry said, all in one rushed breath.
“That you're a kinky fucker?”
“No, not-”
“A bad boy?” Cliff carefully continued, clearly uncomfortable. “Larry, I'm not sure if-”
“That I'm pretty,” Larry murmured, sounding ashamed of himself. They were definitely going to address that attitude later, Cliff thought.
“Oh. Okay.”
Larry had stopped grinding on Cliff at some point in their exchange.
“You're . . . Pretty, Larry.”
Hands on his wrists. Pretty. Pinned down by his hips. So pretty, for me. Holding and being held. For me. Held close and closer. For me, mine.
“Yes, Cliff, please.”
Okay, Cliff thought, that must be what he wanted.
“You're so pretty, Larry. So pretty for me, Lar.”
“Yhea, yhea, yours,” Larry said through grinding teeth, beginning to rock up onto Cliff again, “For you, yours, Cliff.”
“Yhea, Larry. You're all mine. So pretty for me, and all mine.”
Cliff liked this. He couldn’t touch, couldn’t feel, but he could talk. He like talking to Larry, he really liked watching his words get Larry so worked up.
Larry whined again, hips moving faster.
“All mine, Larry. Goddamned gorgeous, so pretty. I want you so bad, Larry. I want you like this, all pretty for me, all the time. So beautiful.”
“Okayokayyhea” Larry said, the words riding on one sharp exhale.
“Really, Larry. You're beautiful. And I want you, I want you all the time, all mine, all the time.” Cliff was finding his stride, so he continued. This was also driving Larry crazy, so he definitely continued.
“You're so beautiful, Lar. So good for me, so pretty.”
Larry jerked his hands against Cliff's grip, gasping and what Cliff hoped wasn't sobbing underneath his bandages. His chest started glowing electric blue and Larry moved faster, getting half assed friction through layers and layers of clothes.
“Just say the word and I'll let go, okay?” Cliff said.
Cliff moved a hand down to Larry's chest as he had seen him do to the glowing energy so many times. His other hand stayed holding Larry's wrists tight.
“You're perfect, you know that? So prefect, so pretty. You're so smart, Larry. And kind. And you're mine, Larry. After the accident, I didn’t think I could be happy again, but you make me happy. And I couldn't be happier to have you.”
Larry went shock still beneath Cliff, moaning and wrecking his vintage khakis. Cliff kept gently running his thumb over the blue light.
“You try to be snarky but we all know you care. You're so good to us, Larry. All of us.”
“O-okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yhea,” Larry sniffled under his bandages, and Cliff had been hoping so much that he wasn't crying.
The light in his chest faded away, and Cliff let go of Larry's wrists. Cliff carefully balanced gently moving off of Larry’s hips and shaking the entire bed with his movements.
Larry wordlessly moved to hold Cliff, head on his chest as Cliff slid an arm behind his shoulders.
“Are you gonna shower?” Cliff asked.
“Is that really the first thing you want to say right now?” Larry retorted.
“Do you really have to critique my pillow talk? For the record, the first thing I said was ‘Hey, Larry, how are you holding up?’, and then I told you how much I like you.”
“Skip to the last part.”
“I could tell that part was your favorite.”
“Yhea, no shit,” Larry said, gesturing vaguely to them, bodies a tangled mess of cuddling limbs.
“I meant it, you know. I do care about you. You’re good to the team, Larry. You know I’m not good with words, but you’re really good to us. And I want to make sure that we’re- that I’m good to you.”
“Thank you, Cliff.”
“Next time you aren’t holding up so well, will you tell me? If I forget to ask?”
“I . . . I can do that.”
“That means a lot to me, Larry. I . . . always want to make sure you’re okay. Whatever you need, I’ll be here for you. I care about you.”
“Cliff?”
“Yhea?”
“You’re good with words.”