FIC: Pine [1/1, Vantage Point]
Title: Pine
Part: 1 of 1
Fandom: Vantage Point
Disclaimer: Not mine. No copyright infringement is intended.
Rating: PG-13, slash
Continuity: set pre-movie, but major spoilers for sure.
Summary: "You don't feel sorry for Barnes."
Note: There's a companion fic, Wide Open. You don't need to read one to understand the other, but they're definitely meant to be read together.
You don't feel sorry for Barnes.
The man does make for a pitiful sight, sitting on the edge of an unmade bed, shoulders hunched. Barnes has never been a man of neat lines, but he embodies a kind of proto-American male spirit, all disarming grin and unbreakable pride. But you don't care for it much in the same way as you don't feel sorry for him now.
Either option implies a level of giving-a-damn that you don't have.
You sit down next to him, leaving a buffer for his bubble of self-loathing. Barnes is a mess, disheveled hair and days-thick stubble, worn t-shirt and sweatpants. Good thing you changed out of your suit and tie before coming over, into casual jeans and a t-shirt. No use in reminding Barnes the things he has lost.
"What're you doing here, Kent?"
His voice is rough, the scrape of cheap tires over gravel, like he hasn't spoken in days. He holds himself stiff, either slept too much or not enough. Both is a curse, when nightmare and reality twist together to form some grosteque misshapen whole.
You know a little about that. In the deep dark of night, you forget sometimes whose name is your own, what face you ought to wear. Kent Taylor is a myth, and you're a humble actor striving to keep all the pieces in place.
But that doesn't mean you hold an ounce of sympathy. Or envy for that matter, even if Barnes is one of the most honest men you know.
"Thought you could use the company."
Barnes laughs, sounding like a smoker when you know he hasn't touched a cigarette in years.
"I'm sure you've got better things to do than visit... me."
The hesitation could have been a thousand different self-directed insults, but Barnes bit back. You think that's a good sign. Not too far gone yet.
Barnes sighs and makes an attempt to straighten, get a little posture into his spine. He gives up halfway and sinks back into a hunch.
"Not that I don't appreciate the thought," he says, "but I'm not fit company right now, as you can see." Barnes glances over at you, a bemused expression on his face. "How'd you get in anyway?"
You shrug and smile, and Barnes snorts.
"Breaking and entering. Cute."
You scoot a fraction closer. "How about you get dressed and we go grab a bite to eat? I bet you haven't had a thing all day."
Barnes scrubs his face with his hands, less trying to refresh himself and more attempting to rub himself out of existence most likely. He makes another sound, something choked that's supposed to be a laugh.
"You mean other than my liquid lunch?"
"Damn it, Barnes."
Another sigh, and Barnes swipes a hand across his face, a rasp like sandpaper over grit. "It was just a beer, all right? Jesus." Barnes breathes deep, his whole frame moves. Not shake. Barnes doesn't shake, except when he does. "I appreciate it, I really do." He's not looking at you. He won't look at you. "But you gotta stop, okay?"
You're not here for your health, or his for that matter. You just need Barnes back on the job. You've pushed and cajoled, pep-talked Barnes like a coach during halftime of a loser game. The job needs you, Barnes, the President needs you, a giant pile of bullshit on bullshit. You think it gets through sometimes, you can see it in his eyes, but the moment never lasts long enough.
"Kent. You need to go."
Talking to Barnes -- talking to anyone at all, your whole life right now -- is like a constant multiple choice exam. You thought once that it would be meaningful, to have every move of yours be filled with purpose. But the reality of every word being careful chosen and every expression meticulously schooled is exhausting. What do you do, what do you say? Barnes tells you to go, but you know you can't. You wouldn't if Barnes is your friend, except he isn't. He's Kent's friend. You don't forget that. You never forget that.
You move closer. It's a risk, but you take it. The safe and easy isn't working anymore, pep-talks and Hallmark sentiments. They chose you for a reason dammit, and it's because of this. Because you can do this, be that guy someone would trust. With his life. With more.
"You think this is the end of the goddamn world, but it isn't." You let the words come out harsh, gritty between your teeth like sand. "It's just self-pitying bullshit." You push closer still, cut into Barnes' space, until you press against him from shoulder to knee, voice in his ear. "You're falling, and if you let yourself hit ground, you're never coming back up. Is that what you want? Is that what you really want?"
Barnes is still, almost frozen. But you've seen this before; it doesn't mean anything. You see it now though, what you did wrong all this time. Barnes is cracked, and he won't be flawless again. You were trying to make him whole, no wonder it didn't work. You have to break it wide.
From bullets to silk, you soften. You whisper.
"It's not the end of the world, Tom. It's going to be all right. You gotta believe that. You believe me, don't you? 'Cause we need you. And you need this." You pause, infuse everything and nothing into your next words. "I need you."
Barnes snaps his gaze toward you. Stares.
"I need you, Tom."
Barnes stares and stares, and there is plenty you can say, but every word is a multiple choice, and you don't want to talk anymore. You can see in Barnes' face that he knows what the tone of your voice implies. You're putting it all on the line here, but that's what you have to do sometimes. Make or break, sink or swim.
You stare right back at him, and you won't flinch. Barnes doesn't move an inch; he won't make the move. So you do. You do, and Barnes moves with you.
But you don't kiss him. It'd be mundane and sentimental. There are places where you put your lips, but they aren't kisses, barely a touch, and you never place your mouth on his. The faint sounds Barnes makes are ones you never thought you'd hear from him. You put your hand on his chest, on skin-warmed cotton over his heart, staccato rhythm under your palm, and you thought you knew Barnes' ache. But it all comes pouring out now, like blood from a fatal wound, unstoppable.
At just the right moment, you whisper in his ear: everything's going to be all right, and Barnes grips you hard enough to leave bruises. It jolts something inside you, and for a second, you think maybe. Maybe, just maybe, a little bit of this is for yourself, too. Not comfort, but release, a moment when it doesn't matter whose skin you're under and you own the flesh you wear. This is when you should be on your utmost guard, but Barnes breathes hot against your throat, and all you can think is that you don't feel sorry for Barnes, you don't like him, he's not your friend, but you don't hate him either. Maybe the idea of him, but not him, Tom Barnes who's the most honest man you've ever known, even amongst those whom you owe your true allegiance. And then there's Kent. Kent, who thinks the world of Barnes, and sometimes you can feel it, too, a slip-slide shadow of fondness. But you're not Kent. You remember this. You always do. You have to.
Barnes sleeps. You don't.
You make coffee in the kitchen the next morning, move around like you live here, like you've always been here, half-dressed and disheveled. Barnes stumbles out of the bedroom eventually, bleary-eyed and confused when he sees you there. He walks up to you, barefoot and cautious, not wanting to admit to a single thing before you open your mouth. You can deny it, chalk the whole thing up to liquor and delusion even though both of you were stone cold sober last night. You probably would if you were really Kent Taylor, but you're not, so you don't. You hand Barnes a mug of black coffee and smile.
Uncomprehending and unsure, Barnes smiles back. When he does, that's when you know it will happen again. Just a handful of times, fumbling and quiet, whenever Barnes needs it.
It's three more months before Barnes is back on the job, and the very next morning after he's back on active duty, he comes to find you at your door.
You're dressed for work already, and so is he. Appropriate, considering. Professional, neat, calm. Barnes looks like his old self, but you can see the edges peeking, lurking. He's awkward as he sits there on your couch, but he's trying not to be.
"I just wanted to come by and thank you. For getting me back."
"It's nothing."
"You know it's not nothing."
"You're welcome then."
Barnes gives you a look, and for a moment, you see all the unraveled threads behind those blue eyes.
"I wanted to say--" Barnes breathes deep. "I wanted to say thank you. But I wanted to say, too, that now I'm back...."
"I know. And it's fine, Tom. It's fine."
Barnes looks relieved, but a little bit sorry, too. It's the latter that almost gets you, even though you've been waiting for this conversation, even though it hasn't been much of anything. Neither of you is particularly sentimental, and you know he thinks he knows what this is, what this used to be, even though there are questions in his eyes that will never make it past his lips, just kept there, behind his teeth, under his tongue. You can't help but think about Kent and Barnes; you shouldn't, but you do. Except you know it's going to be like this even if you weren't in the equation.
Barnes is sorry. Kent is sorry, too.
You're not.
~end~
Part: 1 of 1
Fandom: Vantage Point
Disclaimer: Not mine. No copyright infringement is intended.
Rating: PG-13, slash
Continuity: set pre-movie, but major spoilers for sure.
Summary: "You don't feel sorry for Barnes."
Note: There's a companion fic, Wide Open. You don't need to read one to understand the other, but they're definitely meant to be read together.
You don't feel sorry for Barnes.
The man does make for a pitiful sight, sitting on the edge of an unmade bed, shoulders hunched. Barnes has never been a man of neat lines, but he embodies a kind of proto-American male spirit, all disarming grin and unbreakable pride. But you don't care for it much in the same way as you don't feel sorry for him now.
Either option implies a level of giving-a-damn that you don't have.
You sit down next to him, leaving a buffer for his bubble of self-loathing. Barnes is a mess, disheveled hair and days-thick stubble, worn t-shirt and sweatpants. Good thing you changed out of your suit and tie before coming over, into casual jeans and a t-shirt. No use in reminding Barnes the things he has lost.
"What're you doing here, Kent?"
His voice is rough, the scrape of cheap tires over gravel, like he hasn't spoken in days. He holds himself stiff, either slept too much or not enough. Both is a curse, when nightmare and reality twist together to form some grosteque misshapen whole.
You know a little about that. In the deep dark of night, you forget sometimes whose name is your own, what face you ought to wear. Kent Taylor is a myth, and you're a humble actor striving to keep all the pieces in place.
But that doesn't mean you hold an ounce of sympathy. Or envy for that matter, even if Barnes is one of the most honest men you know.
"Thought you could use the company."
Barnes laughs, sounding like a smoker when you know he hasn't touched a cigarette in years.
"I'm sure you've got better things to do than visit... me."
The hesitation could have been a thousand different self-directed insults, but Barnes bit back. You think that's a good sign. Not too far gone yet.
Barnes sighs and makes an attempt to straighten, get a little posture into his spine. He gives up halfway and sinks back into a hunch.
"Not that I don't appreciate the thought," he says, "but I'm not fit company right now, as you can see." Barnes glances over at you, a bemused expression on his face. "How'd you get in anyway?"
You shrug and smile, and Barnes snorts.
"Breaking and entering. Cute."
You scoot a fraction closer. "How about you get dressed and we go grab a bite to eat? I bet you haven't had a thing all day."
Barnes scrubs his face with his hands, less trying to refresh himself and more attempting to rub himself out of existence most likely. He makes another sound, something choked that's supposed to be a laugh.
"You mean other than my liquid lunch?"
"Damn it, Barnes."
Another sigh, and Barnes swipes a hand across his face, a rasp like sandpaper over grit. "It was just a beer, all right? Jesus." Barnes breathes deep, his whole frame moves. Not shake. Barnes doesn't shake, except when he does. "I appreciate it, I really do." He's not looking at you. He won't look at you. "But you gotta stop, okay?"
You're not here for your health, or his for that matter. You just need Barnes back on the job. You've pushed and cajoled, pep-talked Barnes like a coach during halftime of a loser game. The job needs you, Barnes, the President needs you, a giant pile of bullshit on bullshit. You think it gets through sometimes, you can see it in his eyes, but the moment never lasts long enough.
"Kent. You need to go."
Talking to Barnes -- talking to anyone at all, your whole life right now -- is like a constant multiple choice exam. You thought once that it would be meaningful, to have every move of yours be filled with purpose. But the reality of every word being careful chosen and every expression meticulously schooled is exhausting. What do you do, what do you say? Barnes tells you to go, but you know you can't. You wouldn't if Barnes is your friend, except he isn't. He's Kent's friend. You don't forget that. You never forget that.
You move closer. It's a risk, but you take it. The safe and easy isn't working anymore, pep-talks and Hallmark sentiments. They chose you for a reason dammit, and it's because of this. Because you can do this, be that guy someone would trust. With his life. With more.
"You think this is the end of the goddamn world, but it isn't." You let the words come out harsh, gritty between your teeth like sand. "It's just self-pitying bullshit." You push closer still, cut into Barnes' space, until you press against him from shoulder to knee, voice in his ear. "You're falling, and if you let yourself hit ground, you're never coming back up. Is that what you want? Is that what you really want?"
Barnes is still, almost frozen. But you've seen this before; it doesn't mean anything. You see it now though, what you did wrong all this time. Barnes is cracked, and he won't be flawless again. You were trying to make him whole, no wonder it didn't work. You have to break it wide.
From bullets to silk, you soften. You whisper.
"It's not the end of the world, Tom. It's going to be all right. You gotta believe that. You believe me, don't you? 'Cause we need you. And you need this." You pause, infuse everything and nothing into your next words. "I need you."
Barnes snaps his gaze toward you. Stares.
"I need you, Tom."
Barnes stares and stares, and there is plenty you can say, but every word is a multiple choice, and you don't want to talk anymore. You can see in Barnes' face that he knows what the tone of your voice implies. You're putting it all on the line here, but that's what you have to do sometimes. Make or break, sink or swim.
You stare right back at him, and you won't flinch. Barnes doesn't move an inch; he won't make the move. So you do. You do, and Barnes moves with you.
But you don't kiss him. It'd be mundane and sentimental. There are places where you put your lips, but they aren't kisses, barely a touch, and you never place your mouth on his. The faint sounds Barnes makes are ones you never thought you'd hear from him. You put your hand on his chest, on skin-warmed cotton over his heart, staccato rhythm under your palm, and you thought you knew Barnes' ache. But it all comes pouring out now, like blood from a fatal wound, unstoppable.
At just the right moment, you whisper in his ear: everything's going to be all right, and Barnes grips you hard enough to leave bruises. It jolts something inside you, and for a second, you think maybe. Maybe, just maybe, a little bit of this is for yourself, too. Not comfort, but release, a moment when it doesn't matter whose skin you're under and you own the flesh you wear. This is when you should be on your utmost guard, but Barnes breathes hot against your throat, and all you can think is that you don't feel sorry for Barnes, you don't like him, he's not your friend, but you don't hate him either. Maybe the idea of him, but not him, Tom Barnes who's the most honest man you've ever known, even amongst those whom you owe your true allegiance. And then there's Kent. Kent, who thinks the world of Barnes, and sometimes you can feel it, too, a slip-slide shadow of fondness. But you're not Kent. You remember this. You always do. You have to.
Barnes sleeps. You don't.
You make coffee in the kitchen the next morning, move around like you live here, like you've always been here, half-dressed and disheveled. Barnes stumbles out of the bedroom eventually, bleary-eyed and confused when he sees you there. He walks up to you, barefoot and cautious, not wanting to admit to a single thing before you open your mouth. You can deny it, chalk the whole thing up to liquor and delusion even though both of you were stone cold sober last night. You probably would if you were really Kent Taylor, but you're not, so you don't. You hand Barnes a mug of black coffee and smile.
Uncomprehending and unsure, Barnes smiles back. When he does, that's when you know it will happen again. Just a handful of times, fumbling and quiet, whenever Barnes needs it.
It's three more months before Barnes is back on the job, and the very next morning after he's back on active duty, he comes to find you at your door.
You're dressed for work already, and so is he. Appropriate, considering. Professional, neat, calm. Barnes looks like his old self, but you can see the edges peeking, lurking. He's awkward as he sits there on your couch, but he's trying not to be.
"I just wanted to come by and thank you. For getting me back."
"It's nothing."
"You know it's not nothing."
"You're welcome then."
Barnes gives you a look, and for a moment, you see all the unraveled threads behind those blue eyes.
"I wanted to say--" Barnes breathes deep. "I wanted to say thank you. But I wanted to say, too, that now I'm back...."
"I know. And it's fine, Tom. It's fine."
Barnes looks relieved, but a little bit sorry, too. It's the latter that almost gets you, even though you've been waiting for this conversation, even though it hasn't been much of anything. Neither of you is particularly sentimental, and you know he thinks he knows what this is, what this used to be, even though there are questions in his eyes that will never make it past his lips, just kept there, behind his teeth, under his tongue. You can't help but think about Kent and Barnes; you shouldn't, but you do. Except you know it's going to be like this even if you weren't in the equation.
Barnes is sorry. Kent is sorry, too.
You're not.
~end~