But We're Not Normal

Resolve

(TRIGGER WARNING: brief mention of injury, implied abuse)

"What are you doing?" A voice growled from some few steps behind him. He didn't need to look up and into the bathroom mirror to know it was Jethro. It was always Jethro.

"Washing my hands?" Clark replied, as though it were a question. Surely Jethro could see that he was stood at the sink, sleeves pushed back just above his wrists and hands beneath the stream of water, and infer what was going on.

"You know that that's not what I meant." Jethro continued lowly, glaring at Clark's back as if it would make him turn around. Clark turned off the tap silently, seemingly unfazed. Jethro knew his best friend well enough to see the shift in his shoulders, to sense the change in the air. "What are you doing?" He repeated bitingly, slower and more annunciated than the first time.

"You're going to have to be more specific, Jethro." Clark replied flatly. Jethro's name had never sounded more similar to nails on a chalkboard or a fork being scraped on a plate. Hearing it shoved him closer and closer to the edge. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean." That was it.

Before Clark could quite register what was going on, he was slammed harshly against the bathroom wall. Jethro had him pinned, his hands boxing in Clark's head and his neck craned to glare down at him wildly. Clark had lost all sense of fear all too long ago, staring back at Jethro with the same neutral expression. He lifted his hands to push Jethro back and out of his face, only for him to grab both of his wrists and slam them against the wall as well.

Clark yelped before he had the chance to stop himself, a pitiful noise Jethro had only ever heard once before and swore to never hear again, and Jethro immediately snapped to his senses.

He leant back, keeping Clark boxed in but giving him space to breathe, and searched Clark's face with wide eyes. "When? How many? Why didn't you tell me? Do they hurt?" Jethro bombarded, pulling at Clark's bandages to expose maybe six half-healed welts nestled amongst the thousands of scarred memories of similar occurrences that marred Clark's forearms. Clark attempted to pry himself from Jethro's grip, writhing against the cold tiles.

"Would you fucking shut up for a second?!" Clark roared, finally tearing his arms free and yanking the bandages back over his hands, making sure to thread his thumbs into the holes he'd cut. Jethro stared, taken aback by the sudden outburst, with his mouth slightly open in a half-formed question.

"I'm treating them, it's fine." Clark huffed, rubbing at the fabric and ignoring the way it scratched over raw and healing skin. "I'm safe here, there's no use worrying." He reasoned and Jethro ached to press more but a searing glare shut him down fast. They had agreed the first time Clark showed him: Jethro wouldn't ask questions.

(TRIGGER WARNING OVER)

"Look, what do you want, Jethro? Did you seriously just follow me into a public bathroom in order to pin me to the wall and pull off my bandages? Bit of a dick move, don't you think?" Clark grumbled, rubbing at the back of his head where it had bashed roughly against the wall. A dark, sticky guilt formed in Jethro's lungs.

"No I- you're acting weird. Why?" He squeezed, ever the articulate one. Clark was much too tired to have this conversation and, frankly, wanted to return to the group to finish lunch.

"You told me to stop messing with your head, so I stopped the flirting. You told me to stop being annoying so I'm being quiet and calm." He explained and Jethro's eyebrows knit in a confusion he didn't deserve.