Primatech Boys and the Morally Grey Advantages of Handcuffs
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Noah Bennet woke up one morning to discover that – no, he hadn't transformed into a giant cockroach.
But that was the only upside to his situation.
A light yet dutifully persistent headache was the first thing to welcome him into the hazily-drawn world, but a vicious cocktail of vertigo combined with sea-deprived seasickness was quick to follow.
Having made his peace with that pleasant combination of sensations, he proceeded to assess the matter further.
One - he was completely naked.
That probably wouldn't have bothered him as much under a different set of circumstances – occasional nudity was an inevitable part of nature's master plan, after all. But there was another factor to consider in the present state of affairs.
Two - he was also handcuffed to the bed.
Some days, waking up was just a profoundly bad idea.
He'd accepted a certain deviation from the norm and personal safety when he'd signed up for this job, but even by Primatech standards, this couldn't be good.
Still, that was no reason to panic. He was sure there was a perfectly good explanation for this… predicament. All he needed to do was puzzle it out.
First – establish a location.
A motel room, by the look and smell of things.
Think. Think.
He was desperately grasping at strands of recollection, but they seemed keener on drowning under a tide of nausea and a slow-building anxiety.
But he wasn't panicking – simply apprehensive.
It was a smart thing to be, when naked and cuffed to a bed, he rationalized.
Some fractions of memory started to return, flashing images onto his mind at random, like a film consisting solely of subliminal messages. He remembered the room – he and Claude had booked it three days ago on an assignment. They were tailing a woman with an unregistered ability. It seemed to be a recent trend of the Company, sending them on surprise missions; Claude thrived on it, of course, but Bennet generally preferred his surprises less… surprising.
They'd apprehended the subject without much trouble. After that, everything went incredibly… fuzzy.
His less-than-stellar attempt of equilibration was cut short as he heard a key turn in the lock. The door gave an unimpressive creak and opened without further warning, letting in an amount of bright light that he found disproportionably abusive – the optical equivalent of a sledgehammer to the forehead.
So much for a light headache.
He stifled a groan, his heartbeat quickening at the sound of nearing footsteps.
This was a largely thankless job, and satisfied customers were significantly outnumbered by the grudge-holding ones. It wasn't out of the question that somebody who belonged to the latter group was responsible for his condition.
He'd experienced such backlash before, more than once, and it'd never been pleasant, but neither had it come anywhere close to his present state.
On an objective scale of vulnerability, he was about as helpless as it got.
He struggled to raise his head high enough to gain a field of visibility that encompassed more than just the slowly-rotting ceiling and the cobwebs that decorated it. His neck protested at the movement, failing to decide whether it was stiff or sore and thus treading a fine line between the two.
It took two steps for the invading party to become visible.
Visible and grinning like a severely overjoyed Cheshire cat with a river-wide sadistic streak.
Claude.
Bennet let his head drop back to the pillow, exhaling in relief.
The sentiment wasn't long-lived. Bodily harm might've been out of the question, but now a brave new world of possibilities opened up, none of them particularly appealing.
This was hardly the first time Claude had seen him with his clothes off, and Bennet wasn't exactly the self-conscious type to begin with, but there was something… discomforting about this particular position. To say the least.
Claude, on the other hand, couldn't have looked more at ease if he'd been propped up on a bundle of pillows like a particularly well-fed genie.
"Mornin'," he declared with an air of casualness that scraped aggravatingly against Bennet's skin – an effect that was undoubtedly intentional.
This required a response. As far as he knew, there was no manual that dictated the proper behavior under such hostile conditions. He considered that a highly unfortunate oversight; a matter that had to be remedied as soon as he was in the condition to do something about it. But for the time being, he had to improvise. The best course of action, he decided, was to act natural.
The unabashed glee that was currently stretched over his partner's face made it significantly more difficult a feat.
"Morning," he replied, his voice failing to carry the jovial note Claude's had. It came closer to grim, actually.
Claude advanced towards him, stopping a couple of feet from the bed and folding his arms.
And just stood there.
To spite him.
For several improbably long seconds, the only sound in the room was that of his breathing – he couldn't hear Claude's, as though his partner had slipped into an alternative state of existence. Most likely booked his favorite seat in the 'voyeuristic son of a bitch' pocket universe.
The silence didn't contribute to his comfort-level.
Then again, small-talk wasn't ideal for the occasion, no matter how tempting it was to bring up the various attributes of the weather.
Speaking of which, his face felt unnaturally hot. More than just his face, actually. Sweat was building at the back of his neck, in his armpits, across his chest – tagging along a myriad of sensations, tingling and radiating and burning like a slowly spreading wildfire.
It couldn't have been that warm in here. Claude was wearing a suit, which was more than he could say for himself, and he clearly wasn't affected.
Then again, Claude might've had little room to gather heat, since right now, every cell and every molecule of his partner's body was occupied by mocking.
From this angle, it looked like the invisible menace was preparing to open his mouth.
He wasn't going to allow it.
"Shut up."
"Didn't say a word, mate."
"Well," that was a technicality - they both knew it full well. "Keep it that way."
"Are you bein' bossy with me, rookie?" While Claude's voice was composed almost exclusively of amusement, the challenge in it was unmistakable. He edged in closer to the bed, spicing up the words with a taunting raise of the brow and a malicious curve of his lips, setting Bennet's nervous system on edge; an endless set of thin needles poking from underneath his skin. There was little he could do for retaliation – a punch was obviously out of the question, and an attempt to kick out would result in an undignified outcome at best. So he kept still, awarding Claude with a deadly gaze which the bastard conveniently disregarded. "Don't think you're in the optimal position for that."
Not that there ever was an optimal position of being bossy with Claude – the invisible man regarded the concept of authority as one would a rubber ball, good only to bounce off walls.
"Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked, failing to hit the unperturbed note he was going for. Knowing Claude, this line of questioning was downright rhetorical. "You think this is funny?"
Claude's expression shifted, the lines of his face hardening.
"Nothing funny about losing a potentially dangerous subject, Bennet."
And suddenly, the heat was drenched with hard chill.
He could handle the movement restriction and the lack of clothing, and abuse from Claude, be it of the verbal or visual variety, was nothing but routine by now - but incompetence stung.
"I know," he said, a numbness spreading from his throat through mouth to voice. "I'm sorry. I wasn't –" he stopped talking the moment he noticed the look Claude was giving him. He knew that look. It was the 'I know something you don't, but I'm having too much fun watching you squirm' look. "What?"
"We got 'er. Couple of hours ago," his mouth quirked, making Bennet wish he could pull a Roger Rabbit just so he could give him a brief, well-deserved choke. "She spoke very fondly of you. Said you were a true gentleman."
What he was experiencing was the textbook definition of mixed feelings - relief spilling into annoyance and confusion then overrun by a sneaking suspicion…
"We?"
"Had to get backup – Thompson decided he need to come down here and take care of the matter personally."
"Thompson is here?" Surely, this was the cue for a panic attack. "Where-"
"Right here, Bennet."
The voice echoed throughout the room, disturbingly omnipresent and laced in self-satisfaction that could only genuinely belong to one person.
Thompson condescension – accept no substitutes.
The heat had disappeared entirely, usurped by deep, mortifying freeze.
This was a moment when, ideally, he should have kept his mind perfectly blank - gone into a self-induced coma, played dead, anything - for self-defense purposes. But his mental processed sped up instead, leading an assault reminiscent of an electric shock treatment, each though worse than the one before.
There was absolutely nothing he wouldn't have done to possess Claude's ability right now.
He refused to look anywhere near the source of the voice; stared directly into the ceiling instead, deep down praying for the possibility of it collapsing and burying them all alive.
"I see you're taking good care of your partner, Claude."
The words slithered over sound waves, filled with artificial charm and held together by tight strings of irony. Bennet felt as if an oversized slug had crawled down his throat and started decomposing.
"He's doing a bang-up job takin' care of himself."
To empathize, Claude brought his hand down on his thigh in a half-hearted slap. It was anything but reassuring.
And as if that patronizing gesture wasn't enough, Claude kept his hand there for a good few seconds, adding invisible pressure through his fingertips and letting an unwelcome warmth seep into his skin - throwing new sensations into the mix – sensations he could do without right now.
He kept still – practically corpse-like - fighting to keep his breathing under strict control.
He hoped - against all hope - that he wasn't… responding.
The expulsion of air coming from Thompson's end of the conversation signaled a soft yet fully derisive snort.
Bennet adapted a revolutionary tactic - pretending he didn't exist, and waiting for them to follow suit.
Psychological invisibility. As opposed to Claude's psyche-abusing kind.
It may have been an approach befitting a two-year-old, but it was his best bet at the moment.
And it seemed to work.
"We're leaving in an hour," Thompson stated, and Bennet didn't have to look at him to sense the formation of his trademark smirk. "Be sure to enjoy yourselves in the meantime."
He was about to let out a mental sigh of relief when Thompson spoke again.
"Oh, and Bennet -"
So much for invisibility.
He swallowed, his response struggling to exit through a far-too-dry throat.
"Yes?"
"I can't wait to hear your report on this."
He was deeply grateful that he couldn't see the expression that accompanied the statement.
The sound of the door shutting brought a minuscule semblance of peace back, allowing the comforting murkiness to overtake the room once more.
The only thing that could possibly make this worst case scenario any worse, Bennet decided, would be a surprise appearance by Mr. Nakamura.
Oh God.
He could've accidentally invoked the wrath of Murphy's Laws.
His gaze darted throughout the room, spiced with a touch of panic and a dash of paranoia.
Once he was absolutely certain the unsettling Japanese gentleman wasn't about to burst through the door, sneak in through the narrow window, or leap down from the ceiling – all very viable options when it came to that particular Company executive, he firmly believed – he allowed himself to breathe.
This was one of those occasions when pressing a hand to his forehead would've been the most accurate way of expressing his emotional tapestry, but he was deprived even of that.
He closed his eyes, listening to the deep, rhythmic thumps beating against his temples.
Claude's presence almost managed to slip his mind.
But it was always an almost. He suspected that the invisible man had found a loophole that allowed him to crawl under his skin permanently.
"Don't cry, pup," Claude said with dubious encouragement, patting him lightly on the shoulder as he settled beside him on the edge of the bed. "Happens to the best of us."
Bennet let out an exasperated sigh, opening his eyes to shoot his partner a pointed look. There wasn't a single portion of that sentence that wasn't begging for a sharp retort.
Really? When exactly was the last time you were handcuffed naked to a bed with your boss there to survey the proceedings? Is there something going on between you and Thompson I'm not aware of?
And of course there was also the traditional I'm not a goddamn puppy.
But he had to set one thing straight.
"I wasn't going to cry."
"Sure looked like it from where I was standin'."
He could've easily provided a counterstatement, but arguments with Claude often came with an inbuilt hazard of entering a deeply childish territory - one that was ridiculously easy to slip into, yet nearly impossible to escape.
"Why didn't you do anything?" he asked instead.
"Like what?"
"You could've –" he shut his eyes for a moment, drawing a harsh breath, "made me disappear."
"And have to explain how I lost my rookie partner? Sorry mate, but I think I'd rather face your wrath than a Thompson cross-examination."
Bennet got the distinct impression that Claude was severely underestimating the extent and capacity of his wrath.
He had no outlet for it at the moment, of course, but he was sure he could keep it neatly filed away, ready to draw out as soon as the opportune occasion presented itself.
For now, he had to let the subject drop.
"So what was her ability?" he inquired, professional curiosity taking over.
"You should know better than anyone," Claude tilted his head suggestively, apparently expecting some kind of confirmation on his end, but Bennet had nothing to offer him in return other than a thoroughly baffled look. "Oh, it's a good one," Claude assured with a crooked grin. "Her skin releases a paralyzing poison. Bit like licking a toxic frog."
"A toxic frog," he echoed blankly, trying to wrap his mind around the analogy. "I take it you have experience in the field?"
"I was bein' metaphorical, genius. Could've been less literate-minded and told you got handed a nice dose of mutant-Acid."
Bennet let the words settle into his mind, their meaning finally sinking in through the lingering, quiet headache.
"I was drugged."
"In so many words."
He searched for a way to describe his feelings on the subject in a nutshell.
"Great."
The dryness of his response, worthy of a nuclear wasteland, seemed to have struck a chord with Claude, who finally managed to muster up some long-lost dignity and look a little sympathetic.
"Well, there's a first time for everything."
He wasn't sure how that was supposed to make him feel better, and since this was Claude, he couldn't assume the intentions behind the murky statement were honorable, either.
He shook his head in hope that the movement would provide some clarity.
Unsurprisingly, none came.
"But –" he began, hoping he'd never have to ask this question again for as long as he lived, "why am I naked?"
Claude raised an eyebrow.
"You sure you wanna know?"
He considered the matter carefully for a few split seconds.
"No."
He spent the next minute gloomily surveying recent developments in the cobweb department. It was about as engaging as daytime TV. He wondered absent-mindedly how many illegitimate children, siblings and ancestors the spider responsible for the webs had, and whether it'd ever fallen into a dramatic coma.
"So," Claude declared cheerfully, invading the comfort zone of silence and severing his deep contemplation. "Need a hand?"
"Yeah," he answered automatically. It was about time Claude did something useful.
Then his mind caught up with him.
This wasn't exactly 'expect the unexpected'.
This was simply 'expect Claude to be Claude'.
And he'd had his fair share of experience with that.
So he wasn't particularly surprised when Claude's hand went…
He sighed loudly, resisting an eye-roll.
…there.
"That's not what I had in mind."
"That's because you aren't a creative thinker," Claude informed ever-helpfully, keeping his hand immobile and impossibly warm, leaning closer with a devious smile. "Luckily you've got me for that."
While he had to agree that he was an analytical thinker for the most part, he failed to see the astounding creativity in this particular approach.
"Let go."
"And why should I do that?"
There was a mischievous spark in Claude's eyes, making him resemble an overgrown pixie.
The mental image of a miniature Claude with wings, while certainly disquieting, didn't help in alleviating the tension that had began to gather throughout his body.
Suddenly he was far more aware of the metallic pressure the cuffs were applying to his skin, a cool contrast to much warmer sensations forming in his stomach and heading downwards -
He pressed his lips together, finding the composure necessary to reply.
"Because –" he decided a full list of reasons wasn't necessary, "I was just subjected to an –" he drew a breath, faster and sharper than he'd intended, "audit by Thompson. And I was nauseous before that, too."
"Let me guess – you've also got a headache."
"Well, actually-"
"Fine," Claude declared, not without a touch of passive-aggressiveness. He removed his hand, leaving a trail of vacant, breezy air and unexpected frustration. "Suit yourself."
Claude got up from the bed, and Bennet briefly contemplated the possibility of a swift, well placed kick to a strategic spot in his partner's body – he had the element of surprise, after all – but his remaining sense of dignity, feeble as it was, won over.
Claude had enough to mock him about without adding nude kicking attempts to the list.
"Where are you going?"
"Could use a shower."
"Wait, you can't just –" he stopped himself, refusing to stoop to truly pathetic levels.
Claude turned, an amused tilt to his mouth.
"You want somethin', Bennet?"
"Yes," he gritted through his teeth to avoid growling. "For you to uncuff me."
Claude shrugged.
"Haven't got the key."
"Since when have you needed a key?"
"Not in the right frame of mind for lockpicking," Claude said, the apologetic note stapled to the words screaming of forgery, "can't help you without my muse."
"Your," he couldn't believe he was actually uttering those words, "lockpicking muse."
"'s right – it's an art, mate, not a skill."
He should've kicked him when he'd had the chance, dignity be damned.
"The art of bullshit?"
Claude's face transformed into a theater of mock hurt.
"That's not very polite, rookie. I thought you had better manners than that."
He was about to give him another not-very-polite piece of his mind, but Claude had already began melting out of sight, the sound of footsteps heading in the bathroom's direction.
He closed his eyes.
Took a deep breath.
I will not murder my partner. I will not murder my partner. I will not murder my partner.
He opened his eyes.
"Claude," he called after him, attempting to relay in a commanding tone what was essentially a plea, "come back."
No response came.
He waited.
Still nothing.
A sinking feeling built in his stomach when he realized Claude was really gone, having left him here to marinate.
Son of a -
The pressure of lips against his, sudden and at an odd angle, startled him into a near-jump. Or would have, had he been in the capacity to perform anything of the like.
So he could be stealthy when he wanted to.
The mattress gave a screech of lackadaisical protest as invisible weight was added onto it, but the sound was lost in haze of sensation, building and unraveling rapidly - the smooth texture of the tongue tickling and pressing against his lips, employing morally ambiguous manipulation to convince him to part them and allow more thorough access – a decision he couldn't bring himself to regret – the fabric of Claude's suit scratching his skin as the invisible man climbed on top of him, knees anchoring around his waist - his heartbeat taking the hint and picking up the pace.
He attempted to raise his head higher, deeper into the kiss –
And suddenly he felt as if a couple of hot pokers were shoved through his pupils directly into his brain, sending a blinding shock through his system.
He let out a groan, the sound dying out in his throat, coming closer to a whimper.
The room swam around him in uneven, threatening, choking waves, the ceiling turning into something… kaleidoscopic.
He blinked several times, trying to locate lost awareness; only belatedly realizing that the heavy, erratic breathing belonged to him.
Claude's face – fully visible - was another thing he failed to notice until it was an inch from his, expression atypically concerned.
"-alright, mate?"
It took him a few seconds to register the question - it sounded more like an echo than a voice – and several more to decipher it.
He made a noncommittal noise – a crossbreed incoherently stuck between 'yeah' and 'mhhm'.
Claude was talking again, simultaneously too close and too faraway, but only one word made it through.
"-stop?"
He may have been one step away from losing consciousness or vomiting – neither a very appealing option - but if his bastard of a partner thought he was going to let him stop now, he had another thing coming.
Employing the little that was left of his entropy-laden energy supply, he threw his head up, managing to catch Claude's lower lip between his teeth and brush his tongue over it before the headache and its troublesome associates caught up with him and sent him back into the pillow in an undignified crash landing.
Something must have gone terribly wrong, because he was now surrounded by grinning Claudes.
Three of them.
"That's cute, rookie. I'm guessin' that's a no?" Claude's grin – grins - took a tilt sideways. "You were the one whining about a headache earlier. Wouldn't want to shag you into a near-coma."
He glared up at him, struggling with the inhuman task of keeping his gaze focused on just one apparition, and making it sufficiently cold and steely.
He didn't know whether he was successful or not, because Claude was kissing him again, at a more leisurely pace this time, bringing his hands to the sides of his head and pressing gently -
He was beginning to lose focus between the warmth and wetness at his mouth, and the deft, measured movement of finger pads against his temples and forehead - so fluid he could've easily confused them for a natural extension of his own body.
In between deepening breaths, he wondered where Claude had picked up this particular skill set, and whether he was actually hypnotizing him, using some secret headache-exorcism technique known exclusively to the invisible community.
The world was no longer spinning, frantic speed gradually drawing into slow motion. He could barely remember what tension was.
His vision was graying around the edges, eyelids growing heavy…
"Don't even think about fallin' asleep on me."
"I wouldn't dream -" the rest of the sentence was subdued by Claude's mouth and tongue, and rather persuasively at that.
Claude's hands left the hypnotic hotspots – their warmth lingered; energy conservation, the Claude edition - sliding down to his chest, mouth moving along his jawline in a ticklish, probing pattern, prickling against his senses –
And reality was suddenly heavier - unhinging again, growing fractured and – God - needy -
"We should do this more often," Claude murmured against his ear, and he could feel the smile tugging at the edges of his lips, softly taunting, "maybe I should keep you tied up. Bet you'd make a fun pet."
He was sure he could find a decent, highly insulting comeback, given the time and will, but the heat was so – distracting – he sucked in a breath, failing to make it even remotely steady.
"Go to hell."
Claude released a low, melodic chuckle, and he found himself automatically wetting his lips at the sound.
"Pretty sure we're on the right track, mate."
Much as he enjoyed being contrary to Claude…
He couldn't argue with that.
Claude was slipping into transparency again, lingering in the ambiguous zone between visibility and lack of thereof for longer than necessary - likely well-aware that he couldn't tear his eyes from the sight – it was mesmerizing, surreal.
A lot of things about Claude possessed that quality.
Finally, he was fully gone.
"Close your eyes," came an invisible command.
He wasn't one to question orders, but this one came from a dubious source, and the only resistance he could put up at his state was the verbal kind.
"What for?"
There was movement at the side of his ear, then a light nibble that made him trap his breath for a moment.
Claude's accent grazed against his perception, walking a thread-thin balance between rough and soft - and so goddamn addictive -
"You trust me, Bennet?"
A dare.
They practically breathed those.
He didn't answer. Just closed his eyes.
He remembered to breathe a few seconds later.
"You can relax, y'know. I'm not gonna pull the Spanish Inquisition on you."
He supposed he could take Claude's word on that.
Torture was a subjective term, though, and he wasn't sure his definition entirely matched Claude's.
But he did trust him.
Couldn't think of anyone he trusted more.
Claude moved down, one hand obtaining a strong grip on his hip, another hovering over his chest and stomach, brushing lightly against skin and drawing shapes and patterns – whether they were high-caliber post-modern art or stick figures, he couldn't have cared less.
A finger stumbled onto his nipple, as if it had just gotten there by accident – rookie or not, he was jaded enough to know there were no true accidents where Claude was concerned, only illusory ones.
But the illusion was very convincing.
Claude's mouth was trailing hotly over his stomach, around his navel and down between his thighs, finding all the right and wrong spots and pushing every available button until he couldn't control his breathing anymore – drawing in air in rough pants, hands clenching into half-fists, encountering the frustration of forced immobility.
There was a philosophical angle lurking here - doing this, with his hands bound, eyes closed and with an invisible man – an existential edge to it, even; but at the moment, he couldn't really wrap his mind around it, nor was he particularly eager to try.
Claude was an expert at pulling him off the edge of reality into a world that existed solely for them.
He could easily get lost in this.
An unwanted memo arrived from the rational part of his mind -
This was a temporary world. It always would be.
He opened his eyes, licked the sweat from his lips.
Talking to thin air was a habit reserved for those of a questionable mental state, but this special brand of insanity was remarkably easy to pick up in their line of work.
And besides, this was very… unconventional air.
"You know -" he paused to insert a breath, "we have less than an hour."
"You tellin' me to get to the point?"
He could hear the teasing smirk accompanying the question - almost taste it - just the thought making him ache –
Another breath.
"That'd be nice."
And for once in a lifetime, Claude actually did what he was told.
Bennet held onto the moment, stretched between unbearable heat and a chill that sent electric shivers through his skin; listened to the rapid hammering of his pulse -
The only thing that existed in the world was Claude's mouth and that feeling, burning him from the inside –
Nothing else.
Then a random thought made him choke back a misplaced laugh.
Invisible men do it better.
But laughing was the last thing on his mind -
He swallowed, fought to find his vocal chords -
"Claude -"
He couldn't say more - didn't need to.
Claude understood.
Atmosphere melted inwards, defying physics and turning corporeal - and he caught the devilish, intent gleam in Claude's eyes, holding his gaze for a few impossible seconds before releasing a choked, fragmented groan.
All air torn out of him, he let the curtain draw over reality, relishing the blissful blur and drowsy warmth.
He was beginning to regain a semblance of awareness just in time to see Claude making a face and spitting onto the dirty motel floor.
He stretched, smirking loosely at him.
"Spitting isn't very polite."
He received a headshake and a cynical snort in return.
Fair trade.
He found himself nearly drifting back to sleep as Claude worked on the cuffs, quickly and efficiently. When he was done, he ran a hand through his hair, eliciting a quiet hybrid between a sigh and a moan.
He forced himself into a seated position, rubbing his wrists to get circulation going.
"Thanks," he muttered at Claude, who offered him a smile with a wicked edge.
"What're partners for?"
He released a soft snort.
That was a question he'd asked himself countless times in the last few months.
He hadn't found an answer yet. Or maybe he'd found one too many.
At any rate, questions and answers required thinking, and no matter how much he searched for logic or rationality… thinking had absolutely nothing to do with them.
But this wasn't the time for contemplation.
Thompson was waiting.
Some days, waking up was just a profoundly bad idea.
Today…
Today was just your average crazy, hazy, lazy day of Primatech. And he could live with that.
And there was always tomorrow.
---
To every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.
Newton's Third Law
---
Claude Rains woke up one morning to discover that – no, he hadn't transformed into a giant cockroach.
But that was the only upside to his situation.
He cursed inwardly.
Then outwardly.
He was going to bloody kill Bennet.