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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.
***
no subject
because their was actualfax sex.I FORGOT ALL ABOUT THE CHANGING SCENE OMGGGGGGGG YES AND THE SEX NEXT DOOR AS;KFKSDF. ALSO JON PUNCHING THE RICH GUY IN THE FACE TO SAVE SPENCER'S VIRTUE. \O/
no subject
Not even the whole movie even, just the best scenes. *bats lashes* *looks pitiful/hopeful*
part 1
~~
It's like, right after they have a huge fight, and Spencer sneers at Jon that he's impossible, and Jon shoots back that he's no better, and Spencer yells, "God, I hate you!" and pounds his fists into his pillow, his back to Jon. "Well, that's good," Jon shots back, "I was really starting to worry you were falling in fucking love with me or something." Spencer snorts loudly, and Jon absolutely does not stare at the hard lines of his back.
And they are both laying there in the silence and all of sudden they hear the door open and slam shut. Jon squeezes his eyes shut and tries to drown out the giggling through the thin walls. And it's working fine until - squeak-bang-squeak-bang.
Emily's really going at it, moaning and groaning and under all her noise, Jon can hear the man's heavier grunting. He opens his eyes and he can tell by the way Spencer's spine has gone stiff that he's awake too.
The man's groaning gets louder, rougher, and there's a very clear, "oh yeah, fuck," through the wall, followed by Emily's high-pitched laugh. Jon closes his eyes and buries his face into his pillow, trying to think of anything but the sound of sex next door and how he's suddenly so very aware of Spencer lying less than a foot away from him. The bed shifts a little when Spencer moves his legs slightly; Jon is completely still, barely breathing. The man calls out, "god, yeah," the bed banging harder against the wall, and it's then Jon hears the tiny, tiny little sharp intake of breath from Spencer. Jon squeezes his eyes shut tighter; he refuses to acknowledge the way his body's stirring, or how he suddenly really, really wants to just push his hips against the mattress, and he especially refuses to imagine what Spencer would look like all spread out underneath him, flushed and gasping and begging.
He's trying to hold as still as possible, praying that Spencer doesn't look at him right now. Because if he does, Jon's not sure he can control himself. Spencer makes that little noise again, low in his throat and rolls over onto his belly.
And Jon can't take it. He leaps up off the floor and grabs his boots and coat. "Going out," he says tersely, not bothering to see if Spencer's watching him.
He's hard when he runs out the door of the brothel downstairs, and all the girls smirk at him. One of them actually calls out after him, "Rough night, Jonny?" and all the girls laugh. Jon grits his teeth and slams the door behind him. It would be so easy to talk one of the girls into a cheap night, just a quick blowjob or something, but as much as he needs release, that's not what he wants. And that pisses him off even more, not that he'd ever admit it.
part 2
Jon fights three men that night, and wins every time. He comes home at dawn, knuckles bloody and with a black eye, and one of the girls, Greta, helps him upstairs, clucking her tongue at Jon's face.
When the two of them stumble through the door, Spencer's eyes go wide as he yells, "Where the hell have you been all night? What the fuck happened?" His voice is high, tight, almost as if he were actually worried about Jon.
"I fought a good fight, Spence," Jon slurs, because he's drunk from celebrating and happy, hugging Greta around the shoulders. "Actually, I fought three. Here." He tossed a couple of bills at Spencer, more than they make in a week's worth of work at the factory. "Go buy yourself something nice."
Spencer crosses his arms over his chest and glares at the bills fluttering to the floor, and then glares some more at Jon and his arm around Greta. "Where. Were. You?" he enunciates slowly, eyes sharp and narrow.
"Fightin', obviously!" Jon beams at him. "I'm a star, Spence. I've found a place that appreciates me for my talents." He kisses Greta sloppily on the cheek. "Right, love?"
Greta laughs and rolls her eyes at Spencer. "Sure, darling. You beat 'em all."
Jon blinks lazily at Spencer as he stumbles over to the bed. Spencer looks really flushed for some reason, and he's yet to stop glaring at Jon. Which isn't anything new, but Jon's not quite drunk enough to not feel slightly hurt that Spencer can't just give him this, this little success.
Greta smiles kindly at Spencer and Jon wants to make a fuss. He thinks they might be talking about him in that way they do, without words. He doesn't like it.
"Can't a man get his eye patched up around here?" he says and Greta sighs.
"Fine, you great idiot. I'll get the iodine and a rag."
"No," Spencer says, stopping her, "I'll do it. You should be downstairs."
She looks back and forth between them suspiciously. "All right, supplies are in the bathroom under the sink."
Spencer looks back at him. "Don't move, I'll be right back."
Jon falls back onto the pillow, careful not to get blood on the sheets. But he can smell Spencer on the pillow, a trace of his cologne, the last expensive he still had left from Ireland. Thinking about Spencer lying here worrying about him sobers him up a bit. Before he can think on it too long, Spencer's coming back through the door, hands full. He sits up slowly, not wanting to jar his head too much.
Spencer doesn't say anything, just kneels on the floor and takes his hand, wiping the blood from his shredding hands. He does each finger one by one, making sure the wounds are completely clean before he starts dabbing them with iodine.
"Jesus, fuck," Jon hisses and Spencer just holds his hand more firmly.
"What did you think was going to happen, they were going to heal on their own?" Spence asks, still not looking at him.
part 3
"You're a stupid man who went out boxing, I should punch you myself." Spencer closes his eyes for a second and sighs. "We're going to be late for work now."
"Fuck them all, I quit!" Jon flails his hand at the money on the floor, then points to his left boot. "Look in there. There's enough to pay rent for weeks."
Spencer frowns, but stops tending Jon's injuries long enough to pull his boot and let a rather impressive pile of money fall out. He gapes, looking back up at Jon. "I don't believe it," he whispers.
Jon smirks at him. "I am actually worth something, Spencer Smith," he says, and tries to play it off like a joke, and not like he's still hurt.
"You always were," Spencer says and Jon thinks he must have misheard him. He wraps Jon's hands neatly, ties off the gauze and getting up off the floor. He hands Jon the bowl and settles next to him on the bed. Before touches the cut over Jon's eye, he finally looks at him. "This is going to hurt."
And it does. It fucking stings but Jon grinds his teeth and tries not to wince too much. Spencer's other hand is holding his chin steady, his thumb just brushing the corner of Jon's mouth.
"All done." Spencer drops the stained rag into the bowl. He starts to stand up, but Jon stops him.
"I meant it, you know. We don't have to work for weeks." There's a sad look in Spencer's eyes and he doesn't like it at all.
"I can't, Jon. I need to work and pay my own way. I wouldn't be kept by Alex and I won't be kept by you either."
"I'm not keeping you, I'm just saying you don't have to work at that godamned factory." The room's starting to spin a bit, so Jon huffs loudly and falls back on the bed, letting his eyes fall shut. He's starting to pass out when he says, softer, "We could get out of here, Spence. We could..." Jon sighs and fades into sleep, one leg still hanging off the bed.
He dreams about Spencer standing over him, mumbling, "Stupid, stupid," as he brushes the hair off Jon's forehead. It's a nice dream because Spencer would never touch him like that in reality.
Re: part 3
THEY DON'T HAVE TO WORK IN THE FACTORY ANYMORE. THEY, AS IN THE TWO OF THEM. (I always loved that part, where she slips and says "we" and he kind of looks at her all puzzled and so she corrects herself and says "you. I mean you." OH GOD. THE PRIDE! THE MISUNDERSTANDINGS! THE UST!! AND YOU GOT IT ALL. YOU NAILED IT.
Thank you SO MUCH for this, sweetie, seriously. You didn't have to do that. I love it SO MUCH. I'm gonna point people in this direction so they can read it, too, okay?
Re: part 3
Like...with sex?