Work Text:
Feinberg isn't nearly stupid enough to think he's found Clown's home. The large, luxurious apartment is owned under Clown's legal and public-facing name; it's so simple to find that Couri stumbled over it by accident. And besides it's sprawling, open, with a wall of windows exposed to the city below and a neighbor across the hall. Fein and Clown disagree on a lot, but they both know the place is completely indefensible.
Either way, though, it's occupied. Over the past week Fein's watched Clown come and go from the place with casual regularity. He brings Branzy with him almost half the time, Leo and Minute once, and shown up alone the remainder of evenings and mornings.
It's a little stalkerish, Fein will admit. But there's nothing else he's supposed to do right now, and he's bored. Couri was more than willing to send him off on his little hobby hunt—nobody wants a repeat of the last time Fein got too bored in HBG offices.
Anyway, this apartment is definitely Clown's, but not sensitive enough that Fein would get his throat torn out over it. And when it came down to it, it was remarkably easy to break into.
The winter sun is setting outside the windows; through the smoggy haze settled over the city it turns the sky a sort of dull honey orange. Fein's lounging on the sofa, feet propped on the coffee table and swirling a Coke in one hand.
He hadn't decided yet if he wanted to talk to Clown—it could be fun to move things around and vanish—but a second later the door unlatches and the decision is made for him.
To Fein's significant pleasure, Clown stiffens the instant he's through the door, obviously surprised to sense someone else's presence.
Their eyes lock and Clown's narrow. He closes and locks the door without turning, composure once again solid and spine knife-straight.
They stare at each other for a moment. Fein waves.
"Sorry, is this supposed to impress me?" Clown's voice drips sarcastic annoyance, although his expression is mild.
Fein shrugs and makes a sound to indicate he neither knows nor cares. "Nice surprise, huh?" He can't fight the cheerful buoyancy creeping into his tone. "What, cat got your tongue? Long day at the office?"
"You've stolen from me," Clown observes, gesturing to the drink in Fein's hand.Fein glances down at it.
He'd considered making himself a cup of coffee when he spotted the French press on the counter, just to leave more evidence behind and fuck with Clown. Thirty seconds later he had learned with disgust that the guy doesn't keep any real sugar, just an assortment of bullshit synthetic sweeteners, and that was the end of that. In the absence of any sort of evidence Fein has decided to blame Branzy for the gap.
"It's one Coke, man," Fein drawls, gaze trailing back to Clown's face. "You can swing it. Besides, this whole place is practically begging me to break in."
Clown laughs at that, a single short sound that's nearly under his breath. Fein's grin stays broad on his face.
Clown's eyes trace over the room then land back on Fein. "And not even a window broken. Congratulations, then. I wasn't sure you understood a clean job."
Fein flips him off, but without force. If either of them were seriously mad, one of them would already be dead now—he's not worried.
"I should kill you for this, you know," Clown adds, right on cue.
Fein tilts his head to one side. "Sure, I know." He swings his feet off the table and sets his Coke in their place—Clown has coasters set out; Fein avoids them. "I mean, I'm down if you wanna go."
Clown laughs again. The barest hint of a smile flits over his mouth, and then he sprints forward across the room.
Fein rolls out his shoulders and braces without standing. He's not worried.
Clown hits like a ton of bricks; the two of them get launched over the back of the chair as it tips and land on the floor with bruising force. Fein rams his knee into Clown's—just under the kneecap. In the second of distraction he flips them, hands pinning Clown's shoulders.
Clown pushes off the floor as if Fein weighs nothing.
On his feet, Fein lunges in to snap his teeth half an inch from Clown's face. He's got far more of a feral reputation than Clown—he's not afraid to lean into it. Besides, he's not the one in officewear here.
Clown's retaliation is swift and merciless: teeth dug into Fein's upper arm with enough force to bleed.
Fein grins. "Alright, you wanna play? Let's play."
Clown pulls back, presumably to quip back. Fein punches him. Clown growls low in his throat and Fein ducks back, forcing him to lunge.
They're both fast, tough, dedicated—they fight like scrapping animals and Fein hasn't felt this alive in weeks at least. A flurry of fists and knees and claws whirls through the open room.
He can feel Clown holding back, throwing him into walls with less force than he could muster, something held back in the jaws locked around his flesh, and Fein answers in kind: hits kept playfully nonlethal, pulling his nails out cleanly rather than ripping Clown open.
His heart pounds in his chest, the knife's edge of fear and joy burning within him. Clown could turn this real in a moment. Fein could commit to a hit and break Clown's rib. This close, he can feel Clown's pulse hammer the same otherworldly tune.
It ends with Fein pinned on the floor, Clown's knee digging into his stomach, teeth set just close enough to his throat to feel their points.
He tells himself he was holding back.
"I should kill you," Clown says, somehow managing to enunciate in the bare space between their skin.
Fein lolls his head back, the motion smooth and easy and unafraid: confident even in submission. "Oh yeah? You think so?"
Clown pulls back. He stares into Fein's eyes, a challenge Fein meets head on. "Coming here was stupid. Do you understand that?"
"Mhm?" Fein grins, fangs on display. "Lemme guess, I caught you in a good mood? You're gonna let me off with a warning?"
Clown just sighs. "Do you drink?"
That, at least, gets Fein to blink. "Like, alcohol? I guess, sure. Don't have a problem with it." His playful grin returns. "What, did you remember you should take me out to dinner first?"
"I'm having a gin and tonic," Clown informs him curtly. "What was it? A long day at the office?" Fein can't help but laugh. "You'll drink with me."
"What?"
"You'll have a drink with me," Clown repeats. He looks almost bored already, although his teeth and nails are still sharp. "The least you can do is accept my hospitality, Feinberg."
Fein shrugs as best he can from the floor. "Yeah, sure. Whatever, man."
Clown tilts his head, a light smile flitting over his face. "Looks like I've caught you in a good mood, then."