Fuel for Fire (LJS/Secret Circle)
Title: Fuel for Fire (Nick, Adam, 15, language)
Summary: All the chanting in the universe wasn't going to get them off this island, and an oath wasn't going to keep him here when the time was right.
Disclaimers: All characters belong to L.J. Smith.
Notes: Written for windiain in the LJSanta 2006 fic exchange.
"Sixty-nine coup," Adam said appreciatively, gliding his hand along the rusted skeleton propped careful as china in the garage of Number Two, fresh from the lot and still reeking of New Salem's refuse in the unseasonably warm weather. Flakes of weathered paint sifted to the concrete like ash. "Unbelievable find."
Nick leaned back against the workbench, giving the shell a satisfied onceover; a gem discarded with piss-soaked mattresses and warped Tom Jones records, and now all his. "Unbelievable price," he said, reaching for the cigarette behind his ear. "The owner even threw in a set of mismatched hubcaps."
"It's going to cost you a fortune to rebuild." Adam squinted through the driver's side window, inhaling the mildewed leather of the interior - the first thing Nick had done when he'd spotted it behind a pile of sinks and refrigerators. His uncle hadn't given a damn, barely lifting his nose from his beer when he'd towed it home, and Deborah had gotten as far as the garage door before asking, "What the hell is that /smell/?" She was even less impressed with the car-shaped hunk of metal casting a few years' worth of labor in her bike's parking space. Conant murmuring "beautiful" to the mass of shredded padding that had once been a backseat was enough to put a strange taste in Nick's mouth.
"So what do you want, Adam?" He glanced up from the unlit tip of his Camel, rubbing a stray leaf of tobacco between thumb and middle finger. Conant straightened, eyes still on the Mustang. "Diana ask you to come?"
Nick could see the smirk in his shoulders. "Just wondering if you've given any thought to what she asked."
"Summer on the Cape?" They locked eyes as Adam turned, hands tucking into his armpits as he leaned comfortably into the car, free of polite restraint. If Nick hadn't already been annoyed, this would have been done the trick nicely - that physical ease that bordered on propriety. The guy owned every inch he occupied. "Yeah, I thought about it."
"And?"
"And I'll tell you what I told her," he said, tapping the cigarette against his palm. "No."
Adam nodded, jaw squared with thoughts of his own, but diplomacy was going to win out for now. At Diana's urging, he was sure. "Because you have better things to do?"
"You're sittin' on it. Engines don't build themselves."
A twist of the mouth. "And Master Tools don't find themselves."
"It's the engine I give a shit about." The cigarette bounced on his lip with each word, and Adam's eyes shifted towards stormier weather; par for the course if they had a conversation longer than five minutes. Diana's influence only reached so far with either of them, and was particularly out of place with the tang of distressed steel, engine oil, and garbage clinging to every surface. The only elemental guardians here were Ford, sweat, elbow, and grease, and that's just how he liked it. Nice, simple, and solid as a wrench in the hand.
Adam watched Nick rifle through the workbench drawers for matches. He spoke carefully, undoubtedly weighing his temper against whatever shred of pretense he'd chosen to maintain. Nick wondered why he even bothered. "Would it make a difference if I was the one asking?"
Nick's hand paused over a small box of screws. He stared into the drawer, unseeing; kicked it closed with a snap of the knee. "You don't need me to go with you," he said flatly. "Always done just fine on your own."
"If you call wild goose chases and third degree sunburns fine." Adam pushed away from the car, flexing his thumbs into the fabric of his t-shirt. For the first time, Nick saw humility - or was it embarrassment? - running a taut line through that unfailingly confident face. Lo, there was something in the world Adam Conant wasn't good at, and behold, Nick didn't care enough to question or enjoy it. "I could use another set of eyes in the search, and someone at my back on the boat."
"Smart idea." Freelance help on the fishing boats was cutthroat, sometimes literally. Hard work, little play, and nothing to spend extra cash on but alcohol to deaden better judgement. Other than witch hunters, who were few and far between, they were the sparring partners of choice on a typical Henderson Saturday night. "Good luck with that."
Adam's sudden smile was all edges. "And that's that. You really don't have a sense of responsibility, do you?"
"To who?"
The temper was winning out now. "The Circle," Adam said from between his teeth. "The people you've sworn an oath to."
And that was the crux - Adam's inexorable sense of duty and Nick's refusal to play up to the expectations. The same goddamn story since they were riding tricycles and fighting over G.I. Joes; since Diana had found that strange, old book in the attic and turned it into a blueprint for living, as if spells and herbs and nursery rhymes was any normal way to live. All the chanting in the universe wasn't going to get them off this fucking island, and an oath wasn't going to keep him here when the time was right.
"I told Diana I'd go to the meetings," Nick replied blandly. "What more do you want?"
"Balls."
Matches, under the duct tape. The flame sparked sulfur between his fingers. "Spare me the reverse psychology or get a tape measure," Nick muttered into his cupped palm. The cloud of smoke he exhaled hovered about Adam's head. He didn't flinch. "I play along because /they/" - he jerked his chin towards Crowhaven - "seem to get something from it, and it keeps them out of trouble with the outsiders."
Adam's stare was flinty, probing. "Nice to know you care about people." A pause. "Other than Faye."
Nick ignored this. It was too easy, especially for Adam. He turned to the workbench, squinting at the array of tools already laid out for the job ahead of him. "We done?"
"Do you even feel it in you?" Adam continued at his back, not about to be dismissed. "Possibilities? Pride?" But it wasn't pride on the line here, and they both knew it. "Or do you plan on hiding under hoods for the rest of your life?"
"Why do you care?" Nick snapped, finally reaching his limit for tit-for-tat bullshit. The glare he tossed over his shoulder would have sent anyone else scurrying, but things had never been that simple between the two of them. And even now Adam had no answer. He nodded at the Mustang, hollow and dormant on its blocks, as he headed for the driveway.
"Good luck with that."
Later that night, when Nick turned up unannounced on Faye's doorstep with a half-finished bottle of Jack and no jacket, she pulled him upstairs with a coy smile and undressed him without preamble. She didn't ask questions. She didn't care about cars or oaths. She didn't make him feel anything at all.
Summary: All the chanting in the universe wasn't going to get them off this island, and an oath wasn't going to keep him here when the time was right.
Disclaimers: All characters belong to L.J. Smith.
Notes: Written for windiain in the LJSanta 2006 fic exchange.
"Sixty-nine coup," Adam said appreciatively, gliding his hand along the rusted skeleton propped careful as china in the garage of Number Two, fresh from the lot and still reeking of New Salem's refuse in the unseasonably warm weather. Flakes of weathered paint sifted to the concrete like ash. "Unbelievable find."
Nick leaned back against the workbench, giving the shell a satisfied onceover; a gem discarded with piss-soaked mattresses and warped Tom Jones records, and now all his. "Unbelievable price," he said, reaching for the cigarette behind his ear. "The owner even threw in a set of mismatched hubcaps."
"It's going to cost you a fortune to rebuild." Adam squinted through the driver's side window, inhaling the mildewed leather of the interior - the first thing Nick had done when he'd spotted it behind a pile of sinks and refrigerators. His uncle hadn't given a damn, barely lifting his nose from his beer when he'd towed it home, and Deborah had gotten as far as the garage door before asking, "What the hell is that /smell/?" She was even less impressed with the car-shaped hunk of metal casting a few years' worth of labor in her bike's parking space. Conant murmuring "beautiful" to the mass of shredded padding that had once been a backseat was enough to put a strange taste in Nick's mouth.
"So what do you want, Adam?" He glanced up from the unlit tip of his Camel, rubbing a stray leaf of tobacco between thumb and middle finger. Conant straightened, eyes still on the Mustang. "Diana ask you to come?"
Nick could see the smirk in his shoulders. "Just wondering if you've given any thought to what she asked."
"Summer on the Cape?" They locked eyes as Adam turned, hands tucking into his armpits as he leaned comfortably into the car, free of polite restraint. If Nick hadn't already been annoyed, this would have been done the trick nicely - that physical ease that bordered on propriety. The guy owned every inch he occupied. "Yeah, I thought about it."
"And?"
"And I'll tell you what I told her," he said, tapping the cigarette against his palm. "No."
Adam nodded, jaw squared with thoughts of his own, but diplomacy was going to win out for now. At Diana's urging, he was sure. "Because you have better things to do?"
"You're sittin' on it. Engines don't build themselves."
A twist of the mouth. "And Master Tools don't find themselves."
"It's the engine I give a shit about." The cigarette bounced on his lip with each word, and Adam's eyes shifted towards stormier weather; par for the course if they had a conversation longer than five minutes. Diana's influence only reached so far with either of them, and was particularly out of place with the tang of distressed steel, engine oil, and garbage clinging to every surface. The only elemental guardians here were Ford, sweat, elbow, and grease, and that's just how he liked it. Nice, simple, and solid as a wrench in the hand.
Adam watched Nick rifle through the workbench drawers for matches. He spoke carefully, undoubtedly weighing his temper against whatever shred of pretense he'd chosen to maintain. Nick wondered why he even bothered. "Would it make a difference if I was the one asking?"
Nick's hand paused over a small box of screws. He stared into the drawer, unseeing; kicked it closed with a snap of the knee. "You don't need me to go with you," he said flatly. "Always done just fine on your own."
"If you call wild goose chases and third degree sunburns fine." Adam pushed away from the car, flexing his thumbs into the fabric of his t-shirt. For the first time, Nick saw humility - or was it embarrassment? - running a taut line through that unfailingly confident face. Lo, there was something in the world Adam Conant wasn't good at, and behold, Nick didn't care enough to question or enjoy it. "I could use another set of eyes in the search, and someone at my back on the boat."
"Smart idea." Freelance help on the fishing boats was cutthroat, sometimes literally. Hard work, little play, and nothing to spend extra cash on but alcohol to deaden better judgement. Other than witch hunters, who were few and far between, they were the sparring partners of choice on a typical Henderson Saturday night. "Good luck with that."
Adam's sudden smile was all edges. "And that's that. You really don't have a sense of responsibility, do you?"
"To who?"
The temper was winning out now. "The Circle," Adam said from between his teeth. "The people you've sworn an oath to."
And that was the crux - Adam's inexorable sense of duty and Nick's refusal to play up to the expectations. The same goddamn story since they were riding tricycles and fighting over G.I. Joes; since Diana had found that strange, old book in the attic and turned it into a blueprint for living, as if spells and herbs and nursery rhymes was any normal way to live. All the chanting in the universe wasn't going to get them off this fucking island, and an oath wasn't going to keep him here when the time was right.
"I told Diana I'd go to the meetings," Nick replied blandly. "What more do you want?"
"Balls."
Matches, under the duct tape. The flame sparked sulfur between his fingers. "Spare me the reverse psychology or get a tape measure," Nick muttered into his cupped palm. The cloud of smoke he exhaled hovered about Adam's head. He didn't flinch. "I play along because /they/" - he jerked his chin towards Crowhaven - "seem to get something from it, and it keeps them out of trouble with the outsiders."
Adam's stare was flinty, probing. "Nice to know you care about people." A pause. "Other than Faye."
Nick ignored this. It was too easy, especially for Adam. He turned to the workbench, squinting at the array of tools already laid out for the job ahead of him. "We done?"
"Do you even feel it in you?" Adam continued at his back, not about to be dismissed. "Possibilities? Pride?" But it wasn't pride on the line here, and they both knew it. "Or do you plan on hiding under hoods for the rest of your life?"
"Why do you care?" Nick snapped, finally reaching his limit for tit-for-tat bullshit. The glare he tossed over his shoulder would have sent anyone else scurrying, but things had never been that simple between the two of them. And even now Adam had no answer. He nodded at the Mustang, hollow and dormant on its blocks, as he headed for the driveway.
"Good luck with that."
Later that night, when Nick turned up unannounced on Faye's doorstep with a half-finished bottle of Jack and no jacket, she pulled him upstairs with a coy smile and undressed him without preamble. She didn't ask questions. She didn't care about cars or oaths. She didn't make him feel anything at all.