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Getting Hank and Jen separated from each other is the hard part, but now that Todd knows Hank can read his mind, he has to talk to him -- sooner rather than later.
Since Todd and Jen moved in with Molly, Hank hasn't been able to crash at their place quite as often as he once did, and certainly not often enough that Todd's tempted to charge him rent anymore. It's nice on a certain level, but it also means that Jen spends almost as much time at Hank‘s apartment as Hank used to spend at theirs.
Still, Todd swings by Hank's place after he's done at the radio station for the night. He pulls late shifts a lot; working in the wee hours has an odd appeal to him. He knows he's going to wake Hank up, and he also knows that there's a good chance Jen might already be there.
But when he knocks on Hank's door, it's Hank who answers, and while Hank is bleary-eyed and stubbly, he doesn't smell of sex, and there‘s no hint of Jen in the room.
"What the hell, Todd? It's --" Hank turns to look behind him at the bright red digits on his alarm clock. "It's four in the morning. Is -- Is Jen--?"
"Everyone's fine. I would have signaled you if there was an emergency," Todd says, folding his arms across his chest.
Hank blinks, and it takes Todd a moment to realize that the look on his face is surprise; Hank doesn't wear the expression very often. Of course not.
It only takes a moment for Hank to collect himself, and the next words out of his mouth sound a lot more like the Hank he knows than the one who answered the door. "So you just decided to drop by in the middle of the night to chat."
Hank steps back from the door to let Todd into the room -- less apartment and more dormitory, really. The room is dark, but that doesn't keep Todd from noticing the complete lack of clutter. Hank seems to hardly own anything, and it's so unlike Todd that it throws him a little.
"I need to talk to you," Todd says, finally, as he pulls the door shut behind him.
A lamp near the bed turns on of its own accord -- even though Todd can turn into his own shadow, the telekinesis thing is still pretty freaky -- and Hank gestures at the armchair against the wall opposite the messy, slept-in bed. "So talk.”
Todd thinks about staying standing, but he and Hank are starting to get along, and he is about to ask for a favor, so he sits. "So… you can read minds after all," Todd begins, and he'd said the same to Hank earlier in the day, when they were on their way to Peru, but it still feels strange to have his suspicions confirmed, and to voice those suspicions as the facts they are.
"Yes," Hank says, settling himself down at the foot of his bed, and folding his legs up to sit lotus style. "And Jen was telling you the truth when she said I don't pry unless it's absolutely necessary."
"Do you ever--" and this is the scary part of this conversation. This is the part that's pushing it into new territory. "Do you, um, pick stuff up anyway? Accidentally, I mean." Getting the words out is a struggle, and when Todd looks up, Hank is staring at him with those cold, blue eyes, like he's a specimen on a lab table somewhere or something. And people think Todd's creepy.
The expression passes, softens, and after a moment, Hank replies, so quietly Todd wouldn't have heard him if so much weren't riding on the answer. "Yeah. Sometimes."
For a moment, it's as though everything in Todd's world freezes. His hearing cuts out and everything slows down, and he has the sneaking suspicion he's turned white, or maybe green -- like Jen, and isn't that a laugh?
And then the world and Todd's brain catch up with each other again, and Todd forces his mouth to work, and it takes everything not to ask Hank if he knows. It takes three tries before he's able to formulate a response that doesn't make him want to go crawl under a rock somewhere, and another try before he finally manages to get the words out. "If you pick anything up from me…" he has to stop here, certain he's going to lose it, lose everything. "I would… really appreciate it if you'd keep whatever you learned to yourself."
There. That was relatively diplomatic. Todd definitely deserves to give himself a pat on the back after this is all over.
"Todd…" Hank begins, and then drifts off, as though he's unsure what he actually wanted to say. Or maybe he's just searching for his words the same way Todd had been earlier.
"Don't, King," Todd says, sharply as he can muster, and he's a little surprised at how angry he sounds when he shuts Hank down. "I don't want to talk about it."
"I wasn't going to tell her," Hank says, just plowing straight through Todd's protests and into the Land of Discomfort. "Even before you said anything to me," Hank clarifies, and looks up from his hands to meet Todd's eyes.
The gaze is too much, like he's looking straight through Todd, even though Todd knows at least half of that feeling is just knowing what Hank can do. Todd imagines this is what it's like to be on the other side of his own shadow powers, except all the time. He forces himself not to glance away.
"It's not my story to tell," Hank says, with a certain finality to it.
How could you not? Todd wants to ask. Wouldn't you want to warn her that I feel this way? Wouldn't you want to turn her against me as much as you can? I'd do the same if I had something on you.
Instead he just says, "Thanks," and looks away. The word comes out weakly and doesn't sound very heartfelt. Maybe it's because Todd still doesn't really trust Hank. His mom was a flake and his dad was a super villain so bad they had to cart him off to another dimension. And he can read Todd's mind. It's enough to make a guy paranoid.
The silence stretches; once the break in the conversation grows long enough, it starts to seem awkward to be the first to break the silence, and Todd doesn't know about Hank, but it's not like he's a model of social grace.
And, God, what he must think of you, Todd finds himself thinking, a sick pit opening up in his stomach at the thought of how much he -- how much the way he feels about her (his sister. Christ.) -- must disgust Hank.
And now he knows that Hank knows.
"Todd," Hank says, firmly. He and Syl have no actual genes in common, but sometimes the resemblance is uncanny.
Todd looks up, although he can't quite meet Hank's eyes this time. He instead finds himself staring at Hank's bare torso, at the light dusting of hair on Hank's chest -- more red than blond, not quite matching the hair on his head -- and Hank looks scrawnier than usual. Todd isn't sure if Hank's been beefing himself up with illusions, or if it's just seeing Hank in nothing but a pair of sweats that makes him seem smaller.
Hank's pretty tan, for a redhead; although, Todd supposes, he's really a blond. In any case, he spends far too much of his time at the pool with Jen, which is probably why his hair's so light these days. Sun-bleached. There's a tan line from his watch on his right wrist, and his shoulders are still a bit ruddy with sunburn.
But he's skinny -- skinnier than Todd, even, and Todd's pretty slim -- and his eyes always look too sharp for his facial expressions--
And that's about the time Todd notices that Hank's been saying something, and Todd hasn't been listening. Because apparently he was too busy checking his sister's boyfriend out, and nothing's ever simple, but, jeez, this is just getting ridiculous.
"There's nothing wrong with your brain. Seriously," Hank says, sharply enough that it cuts past Todd's roving eyes and the lurking sensation of an impending panic attack.
"I should go," Todd says, because if he stays here, he'll just keep thinking things, like being told not to think of a zebra and suddenly being able to think of nothing else. Except Todd's trying not to think about a sex zebra. Metaphorically.
"I'm not grossed out." By the time Todd has processed the words, Hank's continuing on. "I'm not going to tell Jen anything. There isn't anything wrong with you. You haven't done anything. And I'm not going to hold any of this over your head. You can stop freaking out. And you can talk to me about it. I mean, if you want." There's a strange curl to Hank's mouth that's not quite a smile. "Since I know anyway."
"I'm Catholic, King," Todd says. "That's what confession's for."
Hank's expression actually does turn into a smile at that. "Yeah, ‘cause that's obviously helping."
Todd shakes his head at that, and doesn't see why Hank's being so deliberately obtuse. Unless, he figures, Hank is trying to sabotage him, and is just playing nice to get on his good side, to get information. But no, Hank's a telepath; he wouldn't need to do that, he could just pry if he wanted to know. Todd's just being paranoid then. "I don't--" Todd begins, and cuts himself off. He curls his fingers in the ratty upholstery of the armchair. Somehow he'd thought Syl would be keeping his favorite (only) nephew in better digs than this.
"I like being independent," Hank replies, more a mutter than an actual comment to Todd.
Todd has to look directly into Hank's eyes at that, fighting not to turn the full shadow on him because, okay, he doesn't like Hank, but Hank is one of the good guys. "Thought you said you didn't pry," Todd challenges.
The look of mild amusement is still stuck on Hank's face, and only grows with Todd's commentary. "Maybe I lied," Hank says with a shrug. It's a weird admission, and something about it still doesn't strike Todd as entirely accurate.
Maybe he isn't doing it on purpose, Todd considers. He takes Hank's new statement at face-value anyway. Two can play the deliberately obtuse game, in any case. "Then why aren't you just reading everything you want to know straight from my brain?"
"Maybe it'd be better for you to say it," Hank replies almost automatically.
"Maybe I don't want to," Todd snaps.
"Maybe you haven't thought things through enough to know what you actually want," Hank says.
And suddenly the air in front of Hank's body shimmers for a moment, like looking at the horizon past too-hot asphalt.
Todd knows it's an illusion, which doesn't make it seem much less real. It's as though she's right there. He barely has the moment to take it in, but the reproduction is frighteningly accurate. Her skin and hair are the exact right shades of green, her eyes just the right shape, her nose just upturned enough, and hell, Todd's even fairly sure she actually owns the camisole and shorts the illusion is wearing. And then Hank (Jen) is surging forward and leaning over him, and Todd can't even register what's going to happen before it does, and--
Jesus Christ.
Hank is kissing him, wearing Jen's face, Jen's body. The illusion of touch is almost as good as the visual. The mouth pressing against Todd's is smaller, softer than what Todd thinks Hank's would probably feel like. He hasn't put much thought into it, but Hank's lips are thinner than Jen's are, at the least.
The illusion of Jen leans over him, settling her hands on the back of the armchair, one on either side of Todd's head. Todd's not even sure that Hank's physically there, occupying the same space as the illusion. He could be anywhere for all Todd knows, but a part of him is fairly certain Hank's right there, and that's. That's something. Something fucked up.
Something even more fucked up than this already is.
Jen (the illusion) is sucking at his bottom lip, and settling her knee next to his thigh on the chair, leaning in closer, and Todd kind of wants to cry or something, which he's also pretty sure is one of the top five stupidest reactions to this particular set of events. Because, God, in a way it's everything he's wanted with maybe half the guilt, because yeah, Hank's a guy, and yeah, Hank's cheating on Jen by doing this, but at least it's not.
At least it's not incest, Todd forces himself to just think the word already.
And then he has to get his hand up to Jen's shoulder and push her back, off him because it's not right. It's not -- it wouldn't even be what he wants because it's just something that looks like her, but it's not her, and if it was her, then it would be even less right.
Jen's biting her lip, this sort of coy smile on her face, and she's so unbearably pretty. The illusion looks almost as sweet as Jen actually is. She's breathing a little heavily from their kiss -- Todd is, too, as much as he hates to admit it -- her chest rising and falling, and he wants her so much and this… it isn't--
"Todd," she says. "Look at me." And the voice is right too, although Todd already has the sense that the accent will be off. She'll sound like a Jen raised in the Hudson Valley, not Jen-from-Milwaukee like she really is.
I can't stop looking at you, Todd thinks, in actual words, because he can't bring himself to say them aloud. He can feel the flush of burning shame rising on his cheeks. His sister's stupid boyfriend is so weird.
It's true, though. He can't stop looking at her. She's smiling at him, leaning in, but only brushing a kiss to his forehead, her fingers lightly trailing down Todd's nose, and something in Todd's chest seizes, and he grabs her wrist and pulls her hand back.
"Hank, stop it," he says.
They can't use her like this. It's not. It isn't right.
Jen's eyes narrow a little, peering in at Todd's face, and Todd knows Hank is reading him, and not bothering to hide it. And, God, that means Hank is half on top of him on the chair for real, and Todd is -- he isn't made of stone for God's sake.
When the illusion of Jen melts away, it's still jarring. Hank hasn't ever been this close into his personal space before, and Todd hadn't even realized Hank had been messing with his sense of smell, too; there's an underlying musky smell to Hank, different than Jen's scent, but there's still an appeal to it. Todd's fingers are still wrapped around Hank's wrist; he tightens his grip and feels the bones shifting beneath the skin.
Hank sucks in a breath, and Todd spares a glance up at Hank's face.
There's a flush to Hank's face that is almost unattractive, and his freckles are even more prominent than usual. His normally sharp blue eyes are only partway focused, but are aimed at Todd. Todd lets his eyes roam, since they're doing this, since Hank started it and it is therefore no longer Todd's fault. Hank's shoulders are broad, and he's much too skinny for his frame. His chest is rising and falling at the same pace Jen's had been, and that's both surprising and unsurprising at once.
"Well, there you go," Hank says, and his voice seems lower than it was just moments ago. Todd isn't sure if that's because he's comparing it to Jen's voice or because Hank is. Aroused.
"Yeah, thanks for proving just exactly what the hell is wrong with me," Todd replies as bitterly as he can muster.
For his trouble, he gets Hank's face moving in, far too close, their noses nearly touching. Because I didn't just tell you things about me she wouldn't like either. The thought comes to Todd unbidden, and it doesn't even sound like his own internal monologue. And then he realizes it's not; it's Hank's voice in his head.
It feels like an intrusion, but not the same way that Hank reading him does, because at least Todd knows he's there when Hank's putting thoughts into his head instead of taking Todd's out. It's still pretty weird.
Weirder still when Hank closes the gap between them, and Todd was right, Hank had been messing with his sense of touch earlier. Hank's lips are thinner, and the pressure behind this kiss is a little harder than the pressure behind the illusion's had been. There's a hint of stubble on Hank's face, rough against Todd's cheek, and the whole thing is so different and yet so very similar that Todd can't quite wrap his brain around it.
He can barely wrap his brain around the idea that he's kissing a guy.
That he's kissing his sister's boyfriend.
No illusions, no tricks, just Hank's tongue in Todd's mouth, and Hank's hands on Todd's shoulders, and Todd didn't even know Hank swung that way until about five minutes ago.
The weirdest part is the images flashing in Todd's head -- they have to be from Hank because they're things Todd doesn't know and they're being thought in a way that Todd doesn't think.
A flash of Jen and Hank in bed, from Hank's point of view. A flash of Todd's ever presence in the old apartment. Green and black and the images don't even make any sense.
Quit it, King, Todd thinks as deliberately as possible, and finally lifts one of his hands from the arm of the chair. He weaves his fingers into Hank's hair and tugs. Like maybe the thought plus the physical reminder will get Hank to keep his thoughts in his own brain for once.
Hank's body shifts above Todd, pushing back, off of him, to stand more solidly on the floor, which is both a relief and a disappointment. And then a second later, Hank's hand clutches at the front of Todd's shirt and pulls Todd forward.
He's cheating with the telekinesis, Todd realizes nearly right away because there's no way Hank is actually that strong.
Todd thinks, for a moment, to protest, but when he opens his eyes -- he's barely even noticed he'd been keeping them closed -- Hank just looks so…
They wind up on the bed, with Hank halfway underneath Todd, grabbing at Todd's shirt, fumbling with the buttons with uncharacteristically clumsy fingers. There's this tendon in Hank's neck that Todd can't quite get his mouth off of.
And Todd can't quite stop himself from grinding down a little against Hank's hip, humiliating as it is to be this subject to his base desires. But when he does, Hank sucks a sharp breath in through his teeth, and his hips lift a little to meet Todd's. Hank's hard too, which Todd knew, rationally, but holy Christ, it's weird to experience.
The whole thing is fucking weird; although it's sex, which Todd is beginning to suspect might just be weird all the time.
Hank pushes up a thigh, between Todd's, getting them tangled together, and Todd can only thrust against Hank's body, while he buries his face against Hank's neck. Todd's face is burning with something like embarrassment. (But not quite, since Hank's here with him, making the same kind of noises and pushing up just as insistently against Todd.) It feels too good to stop, though.
Todd aches with it, and of course it ends up being Hank, of all people, who has to see him this way -- but Hank is also hard and solid beneath him, straining up to touch more of him, his fingers working the buttons on Todd's shirt undone so he can get at more skin. Hank's breathing out low noises and matching the grind of Todd's hips. Hank's other hand slips from Todd's shoulder down along his back.
He's so warm, Todd finds himself thinking irrationally, like he expected Hank to be freezing cold or something.
And then Hank's hand is on Todd's ass, pulling Todd in tight against him, and Todd hadn't --
He wasn't expecting --
His hips jerk down against Hank's and then he comes in his freaking pants, like the biggest loser virgin in the world. (Which he is, and which Hank knows, but did it have to be so obvious?) And that aching, unsettled feeling in Todd is growing unbearably large, about to burst.
Todd sucks in a breath, shaking, trying to pull himself from Hank, but Hank's legs are still entangled with Todd's own.
He forces his eyes open, pushing back just enough to look down at Hank, who is staring back at him, mouth slack and sharp eyes dulled with lust. It's a punch to the gut when Todd realizes that it's not that Hank is attractive because he has Jen, or that he's attractive because of their rivalry, or that he's attractive because he's an illusionist. Hank's attractive because he's actually attractive.
And that's a terrifying thought.
Todd doesn't know if Hank's reading him or not, only that he loosens his grip on Todd, and slides his hand from Todd's chest down his own, past the waistband of the sweats, to -- oh God, he's jerking himself off (because he knows Todd can't bring himself to do it, not quite) and Todd could pull back, could gather his sense and turn away, but he can't bring himself stop watching.
If he could slip into shadow form and plaster himself to Hank's wall to watch this as surreptitiously as possible, Todd would feel a lot less exposed. But Hank isn't letting him off that easily, and it's not as though Todd could pull himself away from this. From the feeling of a warm body beneath him and Hank's low half-uttered noises, and the occasional flash in his head of green skin or shadow or any of a number of people Todd doesn't quite recognize doing things he'd never really thought about all that intently.
It doesn't take very long before Hank grows silent for a moment, and his eyes screw up and Todd can actually feel -- in his head -- the bright shock of Hank's orgasm. He doesn't even think Hank tried to share that, although Todd can't really be certain of how much of Hank's mind bleeding into the world around him is on purpose or not at the best of times.
Todd tamps down the growing surge of arousal in his body the sight, the feeling of Hank coming sets off in him. He can't. It isn't--
Because Jen.
And, oh, God. Todd feels the yawning, gaping silence opening up between them again, and he's not going to panic, but oh God what has he done.
And when Hank opens his eyes, he looks sated, yes, but there's a slight frown on his face.
"Hank," Todd begins, but isn't sure where to go from there. It would help if his life made sense pretty much ever. It would help if Todd weren't so messed up.
Hank's eyes focus in, that too-intense sharpness back in them, and he has this strange half-smile on his face as he brings his clean hand to Todd's face, thumb brushing lightly across Todd's bottom lip. "So, Todd. How much do you think I could tell her without implicating myself?" he asks, nonchalantly.
Todd freezes for a moment, because, oh God, he's going to tell Jen anyway?
But then his brain works past the paranoia, and -- "Oh," Todd says. Lying would be a possibility, but they both have too much dirt on each other now. Neither of them could destroy the other without blowing himself up in the process.
"You can crash here, if you want," Hank offers, and that's it. Hank's brain is back in his head, and he's pulling his hand back from Todd's face, idly wiping the other off on his stomach, not even really seeming to think about it. It's as though Hank just shut whatever the hell just happened off. Like a switch.
Todd's still not sure what happened except that his underwear is an uncomfortable mess right now and-- "I think I'm just gonna head out," he says, and he can hear the tremor in his voice.
"Suit yourself."
Todd pushes himself up, off the bed, away from Hank. It's going to be impossible to look at him now, too, and not think of this. Impossible not to think of kissing the illusion of Jen when he sees her, impossible not to think of Hank's mouth, his hand on Todd's ass, when he sees Hank, and this was a horrible decision. Todd grits out a quick goodbye and rushes out the apartment door, out of the complex.
He's back in his car, resting his head against the steering wheel, before he lets himself think, and even then, it's all too much. This didn't solve anything.
Except, a tiny part of him realizes, maybe it kind of did.