#killerfly

Even now, hours after both men had started sinking back beers like they were going out of fashion, both Garfield and Drury were maintaining enough restraint to allow for the night to continue long after they were typically passed-out in drunken stupors.

Drury, his hands locked around the neck of the cheap, shitty beer which Garfield preferred, could feel the weariness in his bones as his fingers shook with the mild effort. His escape from Arkham had been a total mess; some damned Joker explosions allowing for those who were in transit between cells to slip away with just a little violence.

The guard he had left unconscious, Mills, wasn’t too bad of a guy. He didn’t have the same power trip as most of the guards and he was a bit more lenient with the blankets when it came to the colder Winter nights. Swigging from his beer, Drury privately hoped that he hadn’t been killed in the ensuing chaos.

Free of that shithole, his first instinct had been to find Garfield and crash with him until things were more settled. A familiar go-to plan which hadn’t failed him yet as he transitioned from his months behind bars. It was never too hard to find Garfield, he was a creature of habit and often haunted the same bars and shitty apartments in the same even more shitty parts of town.

Garfield Lynns.

Firefly.

Drury’s best friend - not that either man would ever vocalise such a thing. They had been very good friends for years now, both men coming up in Gotham at the same time and quickly finding out that real monsters, ones which both tactfully avoided where necessary, shared those same streets. Friends in the game were necessary and their camaraderie was good fortune and little more.

That said, Drury was a man comfortable in his own skin and with that comfort came an acknowledgement that his opinion of Garfield had long been muddied by an unspoken attraction which had planted itself in his mind long ago and never quite withered out.

Garfield was a strong man; his body thick and gnarled like an old tree and Drury had watched that strength in action many times during their time together as Garfield lifted things with an ease that made him envious. His skin was very rarely put on display but in those odd moments where he changed between clothing or was forced into the Arkham showers same as everyone else, Drury had observed him quietly. The scarring was expansive, almost all of Garfield’s skin being an angry shade of mottled red, but beneath the surface damage lay strong muscle and a broad chest that defied any imperfections.

“What’re you thinking about?” A gruff voice interrupted Drury’s thoughts and he startled.

“What?”

“You look like you’re thinking hard.” Garfield repeated, leaning back on his chair as he adjusted the cuff of his long-sleeve t-shirt.

“Nothing.” Drudy denied quickly. “Just planning what comes next.”

“Well, me case es tu casa until you get sorted. Least I could do.”

“Thanks, Gar. I ‘preciate it.”

Reclining in his own seat, Drury took a moment to glance around the apartment. It was as bare as could be, sad in its own way as there were no personalised touches to indicate that anyone lived there. Casting his gaze over to Garfield, he paused to admire the tight navy blue t-shirt and the dark, comfy pants which wrapped around his thick thighs and calves.

“What do you have coming up?” Drury asked. “Anything planned?”

Tilting his neck until a satisfying pop echoed through the room, Garfield shrugged.

“Got Cobblepot on the horn, asking for some ‘help’ with a little project he has coming up. Says that there are some buildings in need of a kiss from the flames.”

“And he thought you were the man for the job?” Drury chuckled, sarcasm lacing his tone. “I suppose I could see it.”

Expecting a matching chuckle in response but receiving nothing, Drury cast his eyes over to Garfield but frowned as he took in the almost pained expression which graced his features.

“You okay?” He asked.

“Skin feels tight.” Garfield grumbled, rolling his shoulders in position.

“Haven’t been keeping up with it like I should.”

“What do you need?”

“I need to keep up with the cream shit the docs gave me or it gets tight and itchy as hell. Makes it hard to focus, y’know?”

Drury winced at the thought, imagining the discomfort.

“Where do you need to go to get them?” He asked. "I could pic-"

“I have ‘em, I just haven’t been keeping up with putting them on. It’s hard to reach my back without help and it’s not like I have a line of babes waiting their turn.”

“I could do it.”

The offer slips free before Drury can truly think about what he’s saying and an immediate burn alights in his face as he realises the implications of the words. His gaze slips to Garfield with an almost apologetic look as he desperately attempts to reject the phantom sensation of finally getting to run his fingers along the scarred skin.

“Sure.” Garfield says slowly, a strange look crossing his face as he indicates the top drawer of a nearby sideboard. “Just be careful not to drop it. Costs a fucking bomb.”

Drury moves quickly, his heart hammering as an almost surreal sensation sits in his chest. The pot of cream is heavily in his hand as he plucks in free of the rickety drawer and he stands before Garfield with an awkward gait, unsure what to do next.

“So, how do you want to-” Drury trails off, allowing Garfield to set the moment.

With only a slight hesitation as his eyes sweep across Drury, Garfield pulls his long-sleeved t-shirt overhead and drops it in a messy pile to the floor. He moves rapidly, shifting his body from the chair to the corner of the bed in such a way that he can perch over the edge and allow Drury to stand behind him and apply the cream.

“This’ll be fine.” Garfield says, his words low and almost slurred.

Wordlessly, Drury approaches his from behind, drinking in the sight with an almost breathless intensity. Gnarled and pocked, the reddened skin held a texture which made his fingers itch to touch it and his hand shook slightly as he opened the pot of cream. The cream itself was cool and surprisingly thin in consistency and he held a glob of it on his fingers as he carefully placed the pot down on the bed.

The room is painfully silent, as though the air itself knows that some unspoken barrier is about to be breached, and Drury takes a short inhale as he rubs the cream between his hands to warm it up before laying the flats of his palms on Garfield’s back.

The heat is the first thing which he notices. Garfield’s skin is unbelievably warm and it sparks a heat in his own body as he considers how it would feel pressed against his own. Shaking his head to dispel the thoughts, he focuses on the task at hand as he runs his hands along Garfield’s back with a methodical precision to ensure that no area is left untouched by the cream.

“Feels nice.”

Garfield’s words are quiet, so quiet that Drury could choose to ignore them if he wished.

But no.

“I’m trying to be gentle.” He replies, the words coming out in a breathless rush.

“Don’t need to be gentle,” Garfield counters, “and ‘specially not with me.”

Taking the words at face value as his mouth goes dry, his hand presses roughly into Garfield skin, following the natural curve of his shoulder blade and Drury swears he feels his heart stop as a slight groan slips free of Garfield’s lips at the sensation.

“Gar?”

As things often do, everything seemed to happen in an instant.

One moment, Drury was still behind Garfield with his hands rolling across the scarred skin and in the time it took him to blink, he found his arm gripped by Garfield’s hands as he used his strength to pull Drury around to fall into his wide lap.

“Gar?!” Drury repeated, the name coming out a little higher than he would have liked.

However, any follow-up to the question was swiftly cut off by the feeling of Garfield’s lips on his own as Garfield pressed him for a gentle, almost questioning kiss. The taste of beer was strong in their mouths and Drury adjusted his body to something more comfortable as he kissed back with a force that surprised even himself.

Vague imagination and fantasy come to fruition, there was no way in hell that Drury was going to pass on the opportunity to finally taste the man who had haunted his thoughts for so many years.

It wasn’t a filthy kiss but it certainly wasn’t chaste either. There was a familiarity to it which made Drury’s heart leap in his chest as the chapped lips of Garfield held the strength and delicious texture which he associated with the other man.

Before too long, they broke apart and Drury met Garfield’s eyes as though seeing him properly for the first time that evening as Garfield opened his mouth.

“How long-”

“Too long.” Drury cut him off, having no interest in explaining his mild pining.

Reaching off to the side as his thick thighs flexed to hold Drury in place, Garfield picked up the remnants of his beer and inclined the neck of the bottle to Drury’s flushed face.

“Like a moth to the flame.”

Sinking the last of his drink, Garfield enjoyed the sting of the beer as it trickled across the scarred skin of his lower lip, the flesh there never quite healing due to its constant movement and overuse. He then dropped the empty bottle back to the floor as his arm returned to support the weight of Drury as he struggled to keep balance on his lap.

A defeated groan filled the air as Drury rubbed at his temple with the lower heel of his hand, tactfully avoiding getting the antiseptic cream over his face.

“Christ, Gar, don’t start with that shit.”

“Why not? Makes me laugh.” Garfield chuckled back, tilting his chest forward to press the wide expanse of his scarred skin against Drury’s t-shirt as he grunted in his ear. “It’s almost romantic in a way.”

“Mmm.” A hummed response as Drury once more went in for a soft kiss, greedily chasing this sudden development with a hidden smile as the reality proved to be much better than anything he had imagined.