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Not!Fic: want, too [far and away au]
So, because I needed something self-indulgent, and because I spent a good part of today emailing ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
siryn99 about a Far and Away AU, I wrote what basically amounts to the scene in the empty house.
If you've never seen the movie, um...there's angsty kissing? *hands*
want, too [far and away au]
Jon/Spencer | 2000 words | PG-13
They braved the wind and snow for nearly three days, huddling for warmth in alleyways where no one could see them. Food was nonexistent, and while Jon told himself he could ignore the painful growling in his stomach, he couldn't ignore the same sounds when they came from Spencer's. More than anything, it reminded him that this was all his fault. The bruises around his eye and on his hands, the still-tender crack in his lip, the ache in his ribs—none of it mattered. What mattered was getting them someplace warm and dry where Spencer wouldn't shake so hard.
Jon didn't know what made him stop in front the house at the end of the street. But he noticed the windows where shuttered, and no lights burned inside.
"Jon, we've got to keep moving," Spencer said softly beside him, arms folded tightly across his chest as he shivered in his threadbare coat. He coughed once, and Jon wouldn't think about that, about how that same cough had grown deeper and rougher over the past twenty-four hours. He simply had to do something, even if it meant something stupid. But at this point, Jon figured they had nothing else to lose.
"Wait," Jon replied, and promptly kicked at the door to the cast iron gate surrounding the property. "I think this house might be empty." He kicked the gate again, harder, and finally the door fell open. Jon wanted to melt with relief, but instead he grabbed Spencer's hand and pulled him along through the snow to the back door of the house.
"This is crazy, we'll be caught." Spencer's voice was a little stronger this time, holding a hint of that familiar haughtiness Jon had grown so accustomed to over the past year.
He gave Spencer what he hoped was at least a shadow of his normal, charming smile and replied, "At least in prison we'll have heat and some food." He jiggled the knob, shoved his weight against the frame, and the door opened, almost as if it were meant to. Jon beamed, even though it tugged painfully at the split in his lip, and stood back to usher Spencer inside. "After you," he said.
The house was far from abandoned; it was beautifully decorated inside, and smelled of old, polished wood. But everything was dark and still, and no one came running when Jon closed the door behind them. It seemed they were completely alone in this big, empty home.
"So lovely," Spencer whispered, looking up at the chandelier that hung in the dining room. Jon ducked into the kitchen to check the pantry for food, and to his utter delight, found it fully stocked. There was bread, cheese, bottles of wine, and a variety of fruits.
"Spence, there's food here!" Jon hissed, although he knew there probably wasn't any need to whisper anymore. He took the loaf of bread and began tearing off chunks, stuffing them into his mouth as he reached for the cheese. It was the most delicious bread he'd ever tasted. He found a dish towel and wrapped everything up inside to take it into the dining room where they could perhaps eat like normal human beings; God knew he was tired of scrounging in trash heaps.
But when he got to the dining room, Spencer was standing in the archway into the living room, his shoulders hunched. He rarely stood tall or squared his shoulders anymore, and Jon felt a sharp tug in his chest; the boy who'd glared fiercely with his nose in the air upon meeting Jon in a stable over a year ago would never have let himself stand that way.
"It's Christmas," he heard Spencer say, his voice sad. Jon sat the food down on the table and walked up behind him. He finally saw what Spencer had been staring forlornly at—a seven-foot-tall decorated Christmas tree. "I forgot it was Christmas," Spencer added softly, reaching his hand out to skim his fingers over a crystal ornament.
Jon couldn't stand the resignation in Spencer's tone, but he also couldn't think of anything to say except, "Come on, you need to eat something." He touched Spencer's elbow gently and motioned to the dining table. "There's wine, too. That's a good change of pace, don't you think?"
Spencer sunk into the closest chair and shrugged, his hair damp from the snow and hanging over his forehead. "This food isn't ours, Jon. We're burglars." But he still picked up a chunk of cheese and nibbled it tentatively.
"We're temporary unannounced guests," Jon replied, holding up the wine bottle with a smile. "May I pour you a glass, my young master?" He used a thick, snooty accent, hoping to make Spencer smile as well. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Spencer grin.
"Don't." Spencer shook his head, grabbing Jon's wrist. "Don't serve me, just. Just sit down, okay?" He looked up at Jon with wide, pleading eyes.
Jon swallowed as his felt his chest tighten. "All right," he whispered, and sat down in the chair beside Spencer's, their knees barely touching.
"We can't eat this," Spencer said sadly. "It's stolen, we'll never—"
Jon laid his hand on Spencer's. "We have to," he said softly, hating the dark circles under Spencer's eyes and how thin his face had gotten, his round baby cheeks all but gone. "We've got to keep our strength up, or we'll—" He stopped, took another breath. "Just—pretend this house is ours. That we own it, you and I. That, that you're..." Jon suddenly bit his lip, flushing a little. He was too hungry, he wasn't thinking clearly.
Spencer tilted his head to one side. "That I'm what?" He leaned closer, and made no move to pull his hand away from Jon's touch. His hair fell into his eyes, clinging to his lashes, and for just a moment, Jon flashed back to waking up in a strange bed and looking up into beautiful blue eyes. He remembered wondering if he'd woken up in a dream. It felt like a lifetime ago.
He licked his lips, no longer thinking about the wine or the food. "That you're my beloved, my husband," Jon said, barely above a whisper. The air in the room suddenly felt too close, and his heart was beating much too fast.
"But...if I'm your beloved, that would mean you'd have to pretend to love me," Spencer whispered. His eyes dropped to Jon's mouth, and Jon licked his lips again without thinking. He could feel their knees pressing together beneath the table, and Spencer's hand was very warm under his own.
"All right," Jon said, and it was so quiet he swore he could hear his heart pounding. "I'll pretend I love you."
The hand underneath Jon's turned over, palm up, and slowly their fingers threaded together as Spencer breathed, "I'll pretend I love you, too," just before leaning in the rest of the way to press their mouths together.
It was gentle, chaste, nothing more than a touch of lips. But then Spencer exhaled softly, and Jon found himself carefully flicking the tip of his tongue over the seam of Spencer's mouth. Spencer opened easily for him, making a small sound in the back of his throat, and suddenly it was all too much, the way their tongues slid together, the way Spencer's taste filled Jon's mouth, the way Spencer cupped Jon's cheek and skimmed his thumb over the bruise surrounding Jon's right eye.
Jon broke out of the kiss, panting. "Spence," he gasped, leaning into Spencer's touch.
"Don't stop," Spencer whispered, just as breathless. "Please." He pulled Jon back into another kiss, this one deeper and wetter than before.
Jon would be lying if he said he'd never thought about this late at night, tucked into his bed with Spencer laying only a few feet away, or every night he boxed to burn off the frustration he felt every time Spencer looked at him with a mixture of heat and contempt in his eyes. He'd always thought about this since the moment he'd first watched Spencer tend to his favorite horse in that stable thousands of miles away.
He sucked at Spencer's lower lip and managed to say, "C'mere," as he tugged Spencer into his lap. Spencer gasped and wrapped his arms around Jon's neck, his thighs bracketing Jon's hips.
"God, Jon," he whimpered, and Jon never thought he'd actually get to hear Spencer say his name like that, ever. He dug his fingers into the curve of Spencer's ass, holding him tight as he ground his hips up against Spencer. They both moaned in unison, gasping into each other's mouths, and Jon thought, Yes.
But, like a great dream, it was never meant to last. There was loud bang of a door being thrown open, and an angry voice cried, "What the hell? Who goes there?"
Spencer jerked upright in Jon's arms, eyes wide and terrified. "Fuck, Jon, what—" He never finished his thought, because a second later they heard the sound of a shot gun being cocked.
"Run," Jon hissed, and they tumbled out of the chair and ran for the front door. Shots started firing once they both got outside, and Jon reached back blindly to grab Spencer's hand, but it was too late. Another shot rang out—Spencer screamed and fell to the ground.
"Spencer!" Jon dropped to his knees in the snow at Spencer's side, struggling to get him to his feet again. There was a small, dark red smudge on the shoulder of Spencer's coat, and it was quickly growing larger.
"Get the hell off my property!" the man yelled after them as Jon stumbled down the dark streets with Spencer draped over his side. "Police! Someone get the police!"
Everything was a blur of panic in Jon's mind; there was nowhere to go, no place safe for them, and Spencer was shot. They couldn't stay outside, not if Spencer was going to live.
After limping down the streets and calling out for help to no avail, Jon realized he no longer had any choice. He turned around slowly and headed in the direction he'd been avoiding since they were evicted; the direction that lead back to Spencer's family.
When he finally rang the doorbell of the brownstone, Jon wasn't surprised that it was Greenwald who answered. His eyes flared upon first seeing Jon's face, and then Spencer's unconscious body in Jon's arms.
"Walker," he breathed. "What the hell have you done?"
"Just take him," Jon said, too winded from carrying Spencer for blocks in the snow. He handed Spencer off to Greenwald, his stomach painfully tight. It was if they'd come full circle, with Spencer back in the arms of his betrothed.
Greenwald carried Spencer into the parlor and set him down gingerly in an armchair. He told the maid to go fetch a water basin and a clean cloth as he began rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt.
"When did it happen?" he asked, his voice level, devoid of emotion. He didn't look at Jon, only Spencer.
"A few hours ago." Spencer looked deathly pale, the entire back of his shirt nearly soaked through with blood. Jon swallowed hard and shoved his hands through his hair, wanting to cry but not having the strength.
"If I can get to the bullet, he should be all right." Greenwald finally looked up at Jon, and his expression was grim. "You brought him to the right place."
Jon could do nothing but nod miserably as he watched Greenwald tear open the back of Spencer's shirt, wincing at the amount of blood. He felt sick.
"I—I know you'll take good care of him," Jon whispered. He took one last look at Spencer's pale face and slowly backed out of the room.Greenwald didn't look back when Jon opened the front door and quietly slipped outside.
He didn't start to cry until he reached the sidewalk.
***
siryn99 about a Far and Away AU, I wrote what basically amounts to the scene in the empty house. If you've never seen the movie, um...there's angsty kissing? *hands*
want, too [far and away au]
Jon/Spencer | 2000 words | PG-13
They braved the wind and snow for nearly three days, huddling for warmth in alleyways where no one could see them. Food was nonexistent, and while Jon told himself he could ignore the painful growling in his stomach, he couldn't ignore the same sounds when they came from Spencer's. More than anything, it reminded him that this was all his fault. The bruises around his eye and on his hands, the still-tender crack in his lip, the ache in his ribs—none of it mattered. What mattered was getting them someplace warm and dry where Spencer wouldn't shake so hard.
Jon didn't know what made him stop in front the house at the end of the street. But he noticed the windows where shuttered, and no lights burned inside.
"Jon, we've got to keep moving," Spencer said softly beside him, arms folded tightly across his chest as he shivered in his threadbare coat. He coughed once, and Jon wouldn't think about that, about how that same cough had grown deeper and rougher over the past twenty-four hours. He simply had to do something, even if it meant something stupid. But at this point, Jon figured they had nothing else to lose.
"Wait," Jon replied, and promptly kicked at the door to the cast iron gate surrounding the property. "I think this house might be empty." He kicked the gate again, harder, and finally the door fell open. Jon wanted to melt with relief, but instead he grabbed Spencer's hand and pulled him along through the snow to the back door of the house.
"This is crazy, we'll be caught." Spencer's voice was a little stronger this time, holding a hint of that familiar haughtiness Jon had grown so accustomed to over the past year.
He gave Spencer what he hoped was at least a shadow of his normal, charming smile and replied, "At least in prison we'll have heat and some food." He jiggled the knob, shoved his weight against the frame, and the door opened, almost as if it were meant to. Jon beamed, even though it tugged painfully at the split in his lip, and stood back to usher Spencer inside. "After you," he said.
The house was far from abandoned; it was beautifully decorated inside, and smelled of old, polished wood. But everything was dark and still, and no one came running when Jon closed the door behind them. It seemed they were completely alone in this big, empty home.
"So lovely," Spencer whispered, looking up at the chandelier that hung in the dining room. Jon ducked into the kitchen to check the pantry for food, and to his utter delight, found it fully stocked. There was bread, cheese, bottles of wine, and a variety of fruits.
"Spence, there's food here!" Jon hissed, although he knew there probably wasn't any need to whisper anymore. He took the loaf of bread and began tearing off chunks, stuffing them into his mouth as he reached for the cheese. It was the most delicious bread he'd ever tasted. He found a dish towel and wrapped everything up inside to take it into the dining room where they could perhaps eat like normal human beings; God knew he was tired of scrounging in trash heaps.
But when he got to the dining room, Spencer was standing in the archway into the living room, his shoulders hunched. He rarely stood tall or squared his shoulders anymore, and Jon felt a sharp tug in his chest; the boy who'd glared fiercely with his nose in the air upon meeting Jon in a stable over a year ago would never have let himself stand that way.
"It's Christmas," he heard Spencer say, his voice sad. Jon sat the food down on the table and walked up behind him. He finally saw what Spencer had been staring forlornly at—a seven-foot-tall decorated Christmas tree. "I forgot it was Christmas," Spencer added softly, reaching his hand out to skim his fingers over a crystal ornament.
Jon couldn't stand the resignation in Spencer's tone, but he also couldn't think of anything to say except, "Come on, you need to eat something." He touched Spencer's elbow gently and motioned to the dining table. "There's wine, too. That's a good change of pace, don't you think?"
Spencer sunk into the closest chair and shrugged, his hair damp from the snow and hanging over his forehead. "This food isn't ours, Jon. We're burglars." But he still picked up a chunk of cheese and nibbled it tentatively.
"We're temporary unannounced guests," Jon replied, holding up the wine bottle with a smile. "May I pour you a glass, my young master?" He used a thick, snooty accent, hoping to make Spencer smile as well. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Spencer grin.
"Don't." Spencer shook his head, grabbing Jon's wrist. "Don't serve me, just. Just sit down, okay?" He looked up at Jon with wide, pleading eyes.
Jon swallowed as his felt his chest tighten. "All right," he whispered, and sat down in the chair beside Spencer's, their knees barely touching.
"We can't eat this," Spencer said sadly. "It's stolen, we'll never—"
Jon laid his hand on Spencer's. "We have to," he said softly, hating the dark circles under Spencer's eyes and how thin his face had gotten, his round baby cheeks all but gone. "We've got to keep our strength up, or we'll—" He stopped, took another breath. "Just—pretend this house is ours. That we own it, you and I. That, that you're..." Jon suddenly bit his lip, flushing a little. He was too hungry, he wasn't thinking clearly.
Spencer tilted his head to one side. "That I'm what?" He leaned closer, and made no move to pull his hand away from Jon's touch. His hair fell into his eyes, clinging to his lashes, and for just a moment, Jon flashed back to waking up in a strange bed and looking up into beautiful blue eyes. He remembered wondering if he'd woken up in a dream. It felt like a lifetime ago.
He licked his lips, no longer thinking about the wine or the food. "That you're my beloved, my husband," Jon said, barely above a whisper. The air in the room suddenly felt too close, and his heart was beating much too fast.
"But...if I'm your beloved, that would mean you'd have to pretend to love me," Spencer whispered. His eyes dropped to Jon's mouth, and Jon licked his lips again without thinking. He could feel their knees pressing together beneath the table, and Spencer's hand was very warm under his own.
"All right," Jon said, and it was so quiet he swore he could hear his heart pounding. "I'll pretend I love you."
The hand underneath Jon's turned over, palm up, and slowly their fingers threaded together as Spencer breathed, "I'll pretend I love you, too," just before leaning in the rest of the way to press their mouths together.
It was gentle, chaste, nothing more than a touch of lips. But then Spencer exhaled softly, and Jon found himself carefully flicking the tip of his tongue over the seam of Spencer's mouth. Spencer opened easily for him, making a small sound in the back of his throat, and suddenly it was all too much, the way their tongues slid together, the way Spencer's taste filled Jon's mouth, the way Spencer cupped Jon's cheek and skimmed his thumb over the bruise surrounding Jon's right eye.
Jon broke out of the kiss, panting. "Spence," he gasped, leaning into Spencer's touch.
"Don't stop," Spencer whispered, just as breathless. "Please." He pulled Jon back into another kiss, this one deeper and wetter than before.
Jon would be lying if he said he'd never thought about this late at night, tucked into his bed with Spencer laying only a few feet away, or every night he boxed to burn off the frustration he felt every time Spencer looked at him with a mixture of heat and contempt in his eyes. He'd always thought about this since the moment he'd first watched Spencer tend to his favorite horse in that stable thousands of miles away.
He sucked at Spencer's lower lip and managed to say, "C'mere," as he tugged Spencer into his lap. Spencer gasped and wrapped his arms around Jon's neck, his thighs bracketing Jon's hips.
"God, Jon," he whimpered, and Jon never thought he'd actually get to hear Spencer say his name like that, ever. He dug his fingers into the curve of Spencer's ass, holding him tight as he ground his hips up against Spencer. They both moaned in unison, gasping into each other's mouths, and Jon thought, Yes.
But, like a great dream, it was never meant to last. There was loud bang of a door being thrown open, and an angry voice cried, "What the hell? Who goes there?"
Spencer jerked upright in Jon's arms, eyes wide and terrified. "Fuck, Jon, what—" He never finished his thought, because a second later they heard the sound of a shot gun being cocked.
"Run," Jon hissed, and they tumbled out of the chair and ran for the front door. Shots started firing once they both got outside, and Jon reached back blindly to grab Spencer's hand, but it was too late. Another shot rang out—Spencer screamed and fell to the ground.
"Spencer!" Jon dropped to his knees in the snow at Spencer's side, struggling to get him to his feet again. There was a small, dark red smudge on the shoulder of Spencer's coat, and it was quickly growing larger.
"Get the hell off my property!" the man yelled after them as Jon stumbled down the dark streets with Spencer draped over his side. "Police! Someone get the police!"
Everything was a blur of panic in Jon's mind; there was nowhere to go, no place safe for them, and Spencer was shot. They couldn't stay outside, not if Spencer was going to live.
After limping down the streets and calling out for help to no avail, Jon realized he no longer had any choice. He turned around slowly and headed in the direction he'd been avoiding since they were evicted; the direction that lead back to Spencer's family.
When he finally rang the doorbell of the brownstone, Jon wasn't surprised that it was Greenwald who answered. His eyes flared upon first seeing Jon's face, and then Spencer's unconscious body in Jon's arms.
"Walker," he breathed. "What the hell have you done?"
"Just take him," Jon said, too winded from carrying Spencer for blocks in the snow. He handed Spencer off to Greenwald, his stomach painfully tight. It was if they'd come full circle, with Spencer back in the arms of his betrothed.
Greenwald carried Spencer into the parlor and set him down gingerly in an armchair. He told the maid to go fetch a water basin and a clean cloth as he began rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt.
"When did it happen?" he asked, his voice level, devoid of emotion. He didn't look at Jon, only Spencer.
"A few hours ago." Spencer looked deathly pale, the entire back of his shirt nearly soaked through with blood. Jon swallowed hard and shoved his hands through his hair, wanting to cry but not having the strength.
"If I can get to the bullet, he should be all right." Greenwald finally looked up at Jon, and his expression was grim. "You brought him to the right place."
Jon could do nothing but nod miserably as he watched Greenwald tear open the back of Spencer's shirt, wincing at the amount of blood. He felt sick.
"I—I know you'll take good care of him," Jon whispered. He took one last look at Spencer's pale face and slowly backed out of the room.Greenwald didn't look back when Jon opened the front door and quietly slipped outside.
He didn't start to cry until he reached the sidewalk.
***
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