Bug’s only half paying attention as they watch Clarence talk. He’s droning on, repeating one of his pre-thought answers he always makes up during his free time just so he can avoid being honest in those sessions. It’s useless, Bug can see right through him and he knows that, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. The so-called therapist just sighs and hums along.
“Ya know this would go faster if ya were honest,” they declare, interrupting him.
That makes Clarence stop. Bristle. He doesn’t like their tone, as if he’s being an annoyance. “I am being exactly that,” he retorts.
Bug frowns at him, but in that condescending way they sometimes have. Like they’re trying to be helpful to a pouting toddler refusing to eat its vegetables.
“What the fuck would you know about honesty anyways?” he snaps, and regrets it immediately. He hates how Bug has that way of making him talk when he shouldn’t. Clarence’s hands are itching for a fight.
“If you’d just stopped resisting-”
“If you’d just stop nosing around people’s privacy!” He's trying to provoque them, which he knows is a bad idea, because it won’t accomplish anything, but he doesn’t really care.
“I’m here to help ya.”
What a load of shit. “Sure. Sure you are. And I guess you decided to go work with Shadaloo of all things to help people. Because you’re such a good person. So, tell me, Bug, or whatever you fucking name is, why should I trust you.”
Clarence only now realises he’s standing. He shouldn't lose his cool like that, but he can’t help it when it comes to the fucker. They’d been on his nerves since day one, scurrying about with questions and notepads . He kind of wishes he could just turn off the part of himself that’s caring about that, but he can’t. Taking a deep breath doesn’t help calming himself down.
Bug stands too. Approaches. Shakes their head. Still that self satisfied smile on their face, like they’re winning at a game. They probably are, whatever is that game they made up. Half of its face is obscured by that obnoxious contraption strapped to it, the opaque lens still leaving Clarence with that haunting feeling of being observed. They cock their head. “By all means, you shouldn’t.”
Clarence waits for them to say more, but they don’t, like it’s their final word on the subject. Like they don’t need Clarence to trust them to already know what’s going on in his head. Of course, that’s a classic Bug move. They know best, everyone else is stupid, and they’re not going to listen to anyone who might have a better idea. Fucking prick.
Finally, he thinks he sees something flashing in their eye. He doesn’t have the time to identify what it is before it disappears, and the split second of satisfaction for having provoked a reaction is short lived because suddenly, Bug’s hand is in his hair and holy shit, the little fucker is strong. He thinks they might have used their right hand, the one with that strange brace they try to hide but sometimes let slip out.
They pull Clarence down to his knees and he gasps. The landing is a bit hard on his kneecaps and he’s worried they’re going to bruise. Bug forces him to look up at them, and it all happened so fast Clarence is stunned speechless. “But I don’t need your trust to know what I’m doing. I’m handling it, Clarence.”
He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Bug like this before. The only word that comes to his mind is strong, but that’s not quite it. There’s still this infuriating smile on their face, that slight manic quality to their only eye. But seeing them towering over him? He can’t quite admit to himself what it’s doing for him. They’re the same dischevelled, time wasting incompetent liar of a sorry excuse for a doctor, but Clarence feels hot all over in a way that’s both good and bordering on the uncomfortable.
The grip on his hair is so tight it hurts, but Bug’s words come out gentle and stern at the same time. “I am simply doing what’s best for you. The fact you are resisting the process was to be expected, but I think we could try other… methods.” They almost sound like a stern professor, which is ludicrous given how little attention to themself they seem to give. He thinks they’re trying to go for something scary, maybe, but aren’t quite managing.
Or maybe it’s not that at all, but he doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not.
“What kind of methods? You want to fight? Because while I talk much better with my fists, I doubt you would be able to handle me.”
He wants to stick a well placed knee up right into that smirk.
“I’m going to take care of you,” they say, with a tone that’s too calm for the intensity of their gaze. It makes Clarence squirm under it. His face feels hot, and he realises he’s staring at them with his mouth agape. The hand on his hair is a bit less tight, but it doesn’t feel one bit less controlling. Possessive.
Bug pulls at his hair again, almost experimentally this time. Like they’re testing something, something that makes Clarence’s mind go wonderfully, blissfully blank. He moans quietly, and immediately regrets it. What the fuck just came over me? he thinks, wishing the floor would swallow him up. He’s frozen as Bug stares at him for a moment longer, like they’re turning the cogs inside their head to come to a conclusion Clarence is not sure he wants to know.
Then they haul him up to his feet and push him back on his chair. He pins them with their hips and oh god, Bug is half hard. There’s something twisted inside Clarence that finds this horribly, devastatingly hot.
“Really?” he asks breathlessly, “This is doing it for you?”
“I could say the same to you,” Bug snickers, and he belatedly realizes that he is also sporting a semi. His face goes even redder. There’s something almost predatory in their grin, like everything is going according to plan. Was embarrassing him further supposed to help them question him? Maybe. Who could never tell with the fucker.
Clarence would like to say it’s a purely physical response, that he’s not attracted to Bug nor has ever been attracted to anyone who isn’t decidedly a woman, but that would be a lie. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more turned on in his life. Maybe it’s the surprise at Bug’s behavior. Maybe it’s because of all of his own unresolved issues. Maybe it’s a combination. Or maybe Clarence is just deeply fucked up, because he shouldn’t be wanting to do anything with Bug, and he really shouldn’t be getting hard because Bug roughed him up a bit.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
And then Bug’s hand is on his waistband, beginning to unbutton his trousers. Clarence grabs their wrist, stopping them.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he gasps, eyes wide.
“Something I should have tried a while ago,” the other says, drawing on the “i” and looking Clarence right in the eyes. The smirk has been replaced by something else Clarence doesn't have the words to describe. “I’m taking care of you.”
‘Like hell you are,’ he wants to say, but he can’t find the connection between his mouth and his brain to actually get the words out. His palms suddenly feel clammy, and his hold on Bug’s wrist loosens slightly.
“Ya know, therapy’s supposed to make the patient feel good,” they declare, as if they’re not basically offering a handjob in exchange for some answers.
Clarence doesn’t want to be agreeing with Bug right now, but he is. He can see their train of thought, now that the shock of their offer has worn off. They have done so much to stress him out and poke at him with their questions and that way they have to crawl around and invade every space of his life just to observe him like he’s a specimen, and he’s going to what, let them have their way with him? But it’s true, this is one small way they can make up for all the shit they’ve done, bringing Clarence something positive instead of the constant stress.
Clarence knows he should say no. Push them away. Their relationship is fraught enough as it is, without adding in the complications of whatever this is. He’s not even completely certain Bug is entirely human. But god, they feel human against Tim now, warm and breathing, and they’re splaying a possessive hand on his neck and fuck, that’s hot.
He gives in. He releases his hold on their wrist and Bug gets right back to work unzipping his trousers and freeing him from the confines of his pants. They wrap a hand around him and stroke him to full hardness, and Clarence is grateful he’s been pushed on the chair because his legs feel weak. Bug pins him like they want to make sure he’s not going anywhere.
They begin to jerk him off in earnest, and he arches into their touch. Damn him to hell, it feels really, really fucking good. Bug’s hand is dry, but the roughness is just right. Clarence is not sure he can allow himself to feel good without something uncomfortable accompanying it, and he immediately hates that he just had that thought because he knows that’s exactly what a therapist would want him to be realising. But fuck all of that, Bug’s probably not even a real therapist and everything just feels too good to be brooding over that. Regrets will be for future Clarence.
They hold his face in their free hand so he can’t look away, so they can watch his face as they take him apart. He’s sure it’s part of their freaky tendency to observe and catalogue and label everything obsessively, but his traitorous dick doesn’t care.
“Fuck, Bug,” he gasps.
They’re watching him with almost hungry pupils, drinking in every reaction. The freak’s gonna study them later, he fucking knows it. He doesn’t know why he finds the idea of Bug replaying that scene in their head even hotter than what’s already happening. The self-satisfied smirk is still on their lips, but something changed in their eyes. They’re no longer taunting, more… Amazed. Like they’re not quite believing everything that’s happening. Or- no, like a scientist making a breakthrough only they can understand.
It’s been longer than Clarence would care to admit since he has been touched by another person, and it’s like every bit of him is more sensitive than it usually is. Bug’s touch is like electricity, sending sparks of pleasure through him. The pressure builds fast, and, far too quickly, Clarence is spilling over Bug’s hand with a strangled cry. The endorphins of his orgasm at least save him from the worst of the embarrassment over cumming in two minutes.
He goes boneless in the chair, leaving Bug’s touch as the only thing keeping his head upright. It’s intimate, more physical closeness than Clarence has experienced in weeks. He allows his eyes to close for a moment, and he hears the rustle of movement to his side. He imagines Bug is probably grabbing a tissue from the desk to clean their hand off. Clarence hopes he didn't damage the contraption on their hand, and in the same thought realises that while they'd grabbed his hair with their right hand, they'd used the left for… everything else that happened. They also clean Clarence up, gently wiping the drops of cum that managed to land on his stomach and his trousers.
With that done, their hand finds its way back to Tim’s hair, but they are gentle as they card their fingers through his locks, not pulling this time. It’s soft, soothing, and he is almost able to forget about how awful his fucking life is. And he's got but one person to blame.
But all good things must come to an end, and eventually Clarence picks his head back up and clears his throat. He doesn’t know what to say. Bug's smirk is back and he wants to punch it. They take a step back, and he misses their touch immediately.
When he finally looks at them again, and their face is flushed. There is also still an obvious tent in their pants. Clarence guesses he should… What, return the favour? No, no he should not. That’s not something you ask another man, and certainly not after something like that just happened. It’s better to just… Ignore it. Regardless of how enticing the idea of Bug moaning in his hand is at this moment.
He tucks himself back into his pants and does his trousers up. He squares his shoulders. Right. The session is either over, or will continue in a very awkward silence he does not want to endure. He’s not certain his legs can support his weight.
He doesn’t think about the last time he did that, nor the person with him.
Bug sits back in their chair. Fiddles with a pen. Grins even more. “So, before we get back to your childhood. Who’s Richard?”
Clarence wishes he could melt into the floor.