(no subject)

[geminids]

WHO: Broderick & Bracken
WHEN: Late night Monday, 2/19 (okay, EARLY morning Tuesday) after this.
WHERE: Broderick's apartment
WHAT: Broderick, a good person and supportive friend, helps Bracken, a gigantic asshole, work through (some) issues when it comes to friendships, packs, and the assumptions therein.
WARNINGS: Implied & mentioned redacted activities, bad morale & mental health.

Bracken buries his face into the pillow and lets himself imagine how the next few days could go if he stays exactly like this — laying prone and well-fucked on a big cozy bed, inhaling commingled scents of cedarwood and mountain air, within punching distance of Broderick. Probably better than the alternative.

He groans his displeasure, melodramatic and bone-weary, into the pillow and finally insists for the first time that night (or early, early morning): "Only said the truth."

From the other side of the bed where Broderick has collapsed into an exhausted doze on his back, there’s a grunt of acknowledgement.

“Am I supposed to pretend I didn’t hear that,” he inhales deeply, lids heavy even as his mind boots back up to a state of greedy alertness. Was Bracken being forthcoming? "Or are you just talking to yourself?"

"Maybe both." Bracken only turns his head enough to shoot off a glare, trying to decide if he already regrets opening his mouth at all — which is how he got into this mess in the first place, so maybe it's a smart move. Then again, Bracken isn't really known for his smart moves.

He snakes his hand down and flicks at the waistline of Broderick's boxers, then tugs, both indicators that the foot of space between them won't suffice. Some say 'needy,' he says 'tactile.' "Maybe neither."

The insistence is met with a halfhearted swat to the werewolf's hand, a meaningless reprimand when Broderick lets himself be pulled in anyway. He ensures that Bracken gets the full force of his long-suffering huff as he settles onto the now shared pillow, though (his pillow, not that you'd know that from the way Bracken has gotten comfortable in his life).

"You only said the truth," he echoes, prompts. It’s been said, Broderick won't be letting him stuff it back down into the recesses of emotional constipation.

Bracken nods. Through brute force (and strong hands), some of his earlier irascibility's quelled and been replaced by something he's not ready to admit's a distant cousin of remorse. "Wasn't 'We ain't and that's great.' I didn't expect 'em to..." He shrugs and, unsure of exactly what he's looking for, he just narrows his eyes, searching Broderick's expression for some indication that, actually, how he'd handled everything was fine. And mature. And helpful.

(He's braced for disappointment.)

And he gets it, Broderick’s gaze (growing less distant with sleep every moment) steady, unimpressed, even as his brow arches as if to ask: you’re kidding, right?

Still, the censure is gentled by the way Broderick reaches over to settle his hand on Bracken’s waist, thumb brushing the skin there. It's just about the only thing that keeps the werewolf from hitting the Eject button. “You didn't expect them to take that as an I don’t want to be, and we never will be? The word choice was a little harsh.”

"Well." Bracken knows he's getting defensive and it's probably obvious from how his hands retreat back up under the pillow, but he's feeling petty enough not to care. "Didn't want anybody to take it as a Promise we'll be one soon, neither."

Broderick’s thumb continues to caress the sharp line of the other man’s obliques, the knuckle of his index finger bending to trace the ropey slash of scarring that curves up Bracken’s side and over his back.

“You overcorrected,” the wizard says plainly but not unkindly, because they both know it to be true. “I don’t think they actually have any expectations Bracken.” He knows his brother doesn’t at least, appreciative of what he can learn, but still dubious about what the hell it even means to be a wolf.

“But the whole ‘nothing’ bit probably didn’t feel great.”

And that had been Bracken's attempt at reassurance — that they wouldn't be stuck with the first wolves they met, that they were allowed to make their own choices, that the Hemmings didn't come in with any assumptions about whether or not they'd get a pack out of the whole situation. But explaining that's all a bigger cheque than his mouth can cash right now, especially with the distraction of wandering fingers.

"'Nother overcorrection," he explains as and stretches into Broderick's touch, at least trying to be relaxed by it. With his eyes closed—which now, they are—he can almost trick himself into thinking it works. "Tried to make 'em understand that kind of shit's up to them 'n gave a good reason why they should be careful about claimin' pack to boot." (Being attached to Bracken, mostly.)

With his eyes closed, Bracken can’t see the look of consternation on his companion’s face. The words are all reasonable, the intention thoughtful though actioned horribly, but Broderick feels he knows enough of these brothers (of Bracken) to hear an echo of self-flagellation in there.

He bites his cheek, eyes narrowed and focused on a few smaller, fainter scars at the wolf’s upper back. “Does it scare you,” Broderick says after a long moment, punctuating the question with a kiss to the mark there at Bracken’s shoulder blade. “The prospect of people looking to you, of the idea of a new pack?”

Bracken pops one eye open, just barely, so he can angle the echo of his last glare at Broderick. And then he mumbles "No shit," even as a hand slides over the sheets and the other man's upper arm, fingers eager for something more grounding than a pillow to clutch like a petulant kid. "After I told you what it's like"—to lose one is implied—"you reckon I wanna rush back in? I can't go through it a third fuckin' time."

“Third?” Broderick leans back, settling down to rest his head on the pillow, brow creased in confusion. “You've been part of two packs?”

It takes one dumb second, stretched out over aeons, for Bracken to realize his slip-up. Jesus fuck.

Three packs, technically speaking, but explaining that would require even more stretching of the truth, and he's... a bad liar. Also, even trying make his stomach curdle. Also, Broderick dedicated how much of his night to disrespecting Bracken in the most respectful ways possible? He'd know immediately. Bracken's sure of it.

Point being, he doesn't want to dig so many holes that he can't remember where to step without putting his foot somewhere he shouldn't. (Or else however will it be free to shove in his own mouth!) This is why he stayed away from everyone in Minnesota: no need to navigate the half-truths he's erected in self-defense.

"Second wasn't–" He presses the pad of his thumb between Broderick's eyebrows like he can force away the frown, more for his benefit than Broderick's. "Bri 'n me when he left. Don't blame him," he adds, a rumble in his voice making it a threat despite the vulnerability inherent in laying naked in another man's bed. "We were both still idiot kids 'n too fucked up to handle it. Might hurt but it ain't his fault."

“Briar,” Broderick’s voice even sounds bewildered. “What do you –,” he huffs in exasperation, grabbing Bracken’s thumb and tugging the now trapped hand to his chest. With the pause comes some sort of clarity (as much as possible given what Broderick actually knows - are all wolves like god damn booby trapped vaults?) and the wizard’s expression slackens.

“I wouldn’t judge him,” Broderick says after a lengthy pause, eyes searching Bracken’s for the extent of the hurt he so casually mentioned. “If anything, mine and Keda’s plans have only moved up.”

He squeezes Bracken’s hand. “I’m sorry. For both of you.”

If they weren't in the lead-up to a full moon Bracken could've been wiser about how he reacts — but they are and he doesn't know he has a line until Broderick crosses it and he's growling "Fuck off with the pity."

Is it earned? Not entirely, and the journey Broderick's face just went through gave him more than enough warning, but still his mood and hand swing in tandem as he tries to wrest the latter free and backs off enough to put some weight behind a scowl. "I'll get the same shit next week 'cept in triplicate. We don't gotta talk about this."

Broderick let’s Bracken’s hand go immediately, though his empty fingers hang there a minute, a frustrated sigh unable to escape his chest.

“No, we don't,” Broderick glares back, mouth twisted in real apology because truly, he just can't seem to get things right with these wolves. With Byron. With Bracken. “You brought it up,” he reminds him. “And it wasn’t pity, Christ. Just like these new wolves aren’t trying to…put expectations on either of you. Or pity you. They like you. They trust you. It doesn’t have to be a pack, they just want to be around the both of you. Like you don’t feel the exact same way.”

He inhales deeply, shifting away onto his back so he can expel it just as quickly. “It wasn’t pity,” he says again, sharp and short. Bracken has real trauma here, it’s just: “I care about you. I was trying to be supportive.”

Bracken pushes up until he's sitting cross-legged, his own way of letting in some deep breaths that also conveniently forces his eyes away from Broderick's. "The two feel the same," he replies in a smaller voice, too defensive again, and busies his hands by picking at the sheet across his lap. "And they do got expectations. They got hope for what they'll get out of us whether or not they're too polite to say so. And we said okay. We want to. But..." He and Briar had let themselves be made responsible for the well-being of three very objectively good people in one very objectively bad situation with no clue of how to proceed. "Fuck, I dunno. It's just a lot."

Broderick rubs at his eyes, listening attentively though neither is actually looking at the other. He presses his thumb to the nose bridge there, harder and harder until the tide of frustration quells to a fierce kind of affection.

These fucking wolves and their insecurities. His brother included.

“So tell them that.” The sheets shift as Broderick pushes himself up to sitting, arm thrown over a propped up knee so that he can better see Bracken when he leans forward.

“You’re putting too much pressure on yourself, both of you. Catastrophizing. And I’m pretty sure you’re putting words in their mouths.” He doesn’t touch Bracken again, but they’re close enough that he might as well be. “Everyone here is just doing their best. Maya and Sharona are your friends, they know that.”

Friends didn't offer curry to everyone else on the face of the planet except for Bracken. (He allows himself this childish thought along with a huff, short and forceful.) "D'you want your brother to keep talkin'– shit, thinkin' about himself how he does? 'Cause that's what you're lookin' at if we don't sort this out. Pressure's exactly how it should be."

The prospect of Byron maybe saying even more uncharitable shit about himself that Broderick was unaware of, has the elder Best brother narrowing his eyes. Still, he dismisses Bracken's statement with an arrogant shake of his head. "How he feels about himself isn't your responsibility. You're giving him support and the tools he needs to feel more comfortable, to figure himself out."

Not your responsibility. Mine goes unsaid.

"Seems to me that you've all been putting enough pressure of yourselves, individually, for a while. This is supposed to be the part where that pressure eases because you can start to rely on each other. So,” he chides gently, “stop making this so god damn hard for yourself."

"I can't." Bracken considers asking if he'd suggest that someone having an anxiety attack 'just relax,' but luckily for both of them he can't handle two arguments at once.

"They gotta work through all their shit if they're gonna do good. They need an–" alpha, he nearly says, but he swore he wouldn't deal with that again, so he recalibrates, picking up momentum without meaning to: "a... friend who can guide 'em through it, who's good with humans and wolves, and that ain't me. I fuck up whatever I try. Like I gotta work with all them through their baggage—and yeah, I know it's a lot, they've been through hell—but then Briar's gotta tell me I word somethin' wrong when meaning to do good and so I just do hurt to everybody instead 'cause they expected me to have my shit together 'n say all the right stuff and I don't 'n I can't 'cause I never fuckin' could."

“Bracken,” Broderick’s expression creases in concern, and he’s unable to control the determined, forbidding expression that follows (nor does he particularly care to. The idiot needed to get used to people caring about him). He telegraphs each movement, but the wizard isn’t exactly hesitant when he slides one hand up to grasp the side of Bracken’s neck, the other cradling the werewolf’s cheek, forcing him to meet Broderick’s eyes.

“Hey, none of that bullshit is true, ok? Everyone makes mistakes, it doesn’t make you any less good. Worthy.” His and Keda’s plans really need to evolve past playful revenge fantasies. “You try, Bracken. That’s the most important part. You care enough to try to do well by them, so much so the thought of failing them somehow has you…” he swallows hard and the hand that was braced against Bracken’s neck slides up to the sharp line of jaw. He’s properly cradling Bracken’s face now.

“Stop punishing yourself.”

The urge to bite back No. is so, so strong, only barely drowning out the one where Bracken says Then why not do it for me. And even though he was the one who pulled away, Broderick's hands are exactly the kind of reassurance he needs...

... Except for one thing.

"Talkin' this way looks easy in movies," Bracken mutters, scrunching his nose and absolutely not, in any way, deflecting someone's extremely valid compliments. "Kind of awkward up close."

If Broderick was someone who got easily embarrassed, there was a sort of mortification in the awkwardness of a grand proclamation given with great feeling falling flat in face of a joke. One designed to distract, sure, but.

Instead, Broderick just rolls his eyes, that sigh building in his chest again. “You’ll survive somehow.” He lets his hands drop, already sinking back into the bed before the words are out of his mouth.

Grateful to have his face freed (and gaze free of prolonged eye contact) but not to be free, Bracken follows him down so he can push his nose and cheek into the side of Broderick's neck where he'd just been gripped, breathing him in — an apology writ in affection. "I try," he echoes, and punctuates it with a nip at the wizard's collarbone, "but that ain't gonna be enough if nothing changes."

“Then change them Bracken,” Broderick murmurs, annoyance seemingly seeping into the soft embrace of his admittedly incredible mattress. He tilts his chin up, lets Bracken burrow deeper for whatever comfort he finds there, but Broderick doesn’t know what Bracken wants from him that he hasn't already tried to give.

“Tell them what you told me.”

"Dunno if I can without..." Bracken trails off, ending the sentence in a grunt instead of you. And he can't tell if that's obvious but he wraps his arms around Broderick's torso nonetheless, a knee sliding over the other man's thighs, remorse for the evening's mood swing(s) climbing onto his already-too-tall pile of recent regrets. "Gotta bank all my words for at least a–"

This, too, immediately flops onto the regret pile.

Broderick's made at least three heartfelt speeches of support, and they were fucking good, and all he's managed to do is stick his own head further up his asshole so he can deflect — and in the process, belittle and dismiss pretty much everything Broderick's come up with. But now the question is: can he finish a sentence if it's not self-denigrating?

"If I can manage to agree with at least..." (this pause is for a calculation, not a diversion, and he does bury his face deeper in Broderick's neck as the maths math) "... a third of what you 'parently see in me, I reckon I got a chance."

Broderick hums, eyes sliding closed as the weight and supernatural heat of Bracken’s body pins him with a kind of finality.

His fingertips ghost the line of sinew and muscle that make up a powerful forearm stretched across his chest, before he wraps his own arms around Bracken and cages him in return.

“I’m never wrong.”

Bracken's exhale comes out as a snort—a closed-lids eye-roll—and he drags that nuzzle all the way up until his lips graze the skin just behind the wizard's ear. Then he administers a little pinch to Broderick's side: half agreement, half incredulity. "Only reason I ain't callin' bullshit's cause I was a jackass when you said all that nice stuff about me."

Broderick’s chuckle is low enough to be barely a huff of air and he does his best not to flinch at the pinch, lest he give Bracken the satisfaction. “You're always a jackass,” he proclaims confidently, though quietly, like the embrace on the bed reintroduced some sort of cozy shroud. He keeps his eyes closed; there's a pressure there that suggests a migraine in the coming hours, and he’s too tired to offer further passionate appeals to Bracken’s self flagellation, or be annoyed.

“I just wish you'd be better to yourself.”

"Came here, didn't I? Without the promise of sex. Didn't even open an app." Truth be told, he is pretty proud of his restraint in the face of a truly righteous fucking. Not that he expects anyone else to be — Broderick least of all.

But he's not so self-absorbed that the bedtime cues (at an easy four in the morning) go unnoticed, so he settles in, shifting until he's sure his tangle of limbs around Broderick is more blanketing than a nuisance, and mumbles: "There's folks who'd call that a breakthrough in bein' better."

“Let me go get a gold star,” Broderick quips and even as he drifts, he turns his head, mouth pressed to Bracken’s forehead in a sleepy punctuation of affection and reassurance.