Fic: Wish You Were Here
Title: Wish You Were Here
Pairing: Jon/Neil
Rating: R
Warnings: Sexual references.
Disclaimer: This is fanfic for AU fanfic. I don't know who owns it but it's not me.
A/N: Set after Part 7 of Fast Fuse. Neil's side of the story. What Neil tells his parents about Jon.
Neil's parents have always been fairly pragmatic about his line of work. They know he goes undercover, know there are be long periods when he can't contact them. He knows they worry themselves sick, but they never speak about it. They don't really do tearful reunions, but as the car pulls up in the driveway there are sighs of relief, reassuring hugs and offers of cups of tea all round. Neil drinks the tea and returns the hugs, gives his parents a thin smile as he sinks into a sofa. They know better than to bombard him with questions.
They talk, though, about his grandad, the funeral, the cards that had been sent and the relatives who had driven down from all over the country and had had to be put up in the spare rooms and the local B&Bs. About his brother's new car, the shop and how well business is going, about Mabel from down the road who's broken her hip and gone into a home, about Janine who's had a baby, another boy, would you believe, she's almost got her own football team. About the rain and the pot holes on the high street. About anything and everything except what Neil has been doing for the past few months.
Their words begin to wash over him, after a while, a calming lull of chatter and familiarity. In a funny kind of way, Neil reflects, it's like going back in time. The feeling only increases as, yawning, he makes his way upstairs to his room. His room, still, although he's got a flat in London he hardly uses, what with him being away so much of the time. It's hardly changed since he was a kid. It's comforting, when so much of the time his identity is in flux, to have something solid and unchanging. Even if it is just a battered old stuffed toy and a couple of football trophys on a shelf and the same old peeling blue wallpaper.
He sighs as he sits down on the bed and kicks his shoes off. He should be used to it by now, Neil tells himself. He's been debriefed, had time to adjust to 'civilian life'. It should get easier, every time, not harder. Maybe each time he leaves a little part of the real him behind. He chokes off a memory of brown eyes and soft curls, lips pressed against his skin. Not that, he's not thinking about that. About him.
It's less easy to push the thoughts of Jon away as he wakes in the night, sheets twisted, sweating and heart racing from some unfairly erotic dream. Neil lies awake, frustrated. It's quiet, far too quiet. He misses the noise and the traffic of London. He tries not to think that he misses Jon, his warmth beside him, the sound of his breathing. He closes his eyes and thinks himself back there, in that poky flat, Jon on top of him, straddling him; he imagines himself buried in the heat of him as he bucks upwards into his own hand and stifles his cry of Jon into his pillow as he comes.
In the morning he strips the sheets and tries to rebuild the crumbling walls in his own mind that stop him from thinking about him.
*
Neil barely leaves the room for three days. His mum brings up food and takes the plates away untouched without a murmur.
On the fourth day he emerges, rubbing the back of his neck ruefully, an apology on his lips.
"Oh you're up," his mother says, briskly but not disapprovingly. "You know where the kettle is."
Neil makes his way over to the sink and fills the kettle.
This is what he'd longed for, after such a long stint undercover, the familiarity and comfort of home. And yet the urge to lie seems to creep over him. What if that is who he really is and this, the dutiful son, is just another part he plays?
"You alright, love?" His mum asks, abandoning her ironing and sitting down at the kitchen table.
"Fine, mum," he replies automatically, flashing her his trademark brilliant grin as he sets the teas down on the table.
"Neil my lad, you may be able to fool other people for a living but if you think you can pull the wool over your own mother's eyes you're sorely mistaken." She fixes him with a piercing look. Neil looks down sheepishly at his mug of tea. "Something went wrong, didn't it?" She asks it lightly, not looking at him. Giving him time.
"No..." He's going for confident and reassuring but from the tense look on her face, he's fallen short of the mark. Out of practice, already.
"Someone hurt you." She does look at him then, scanning for possible injuries.
"No," he's quicker to respond this time. "No."
"You had to hurt someone, then," she suggests. It's always a possibility. He's never had to shoot to kill so far, but if circumstances required it...
"No," He assures her. But that isn't true, is it? He thinks of Jon, eyes bright with unshed tears as he begged him not to go. He doesn't want to think about him. Doesn't like the guilty feeling that image summons up, the ache in his stomach. He forces the image away. "Not in the way you mean, anyway," he concedes.
"What then?" A gentle pressure. No demands, just enough to make you want to talk. She'd have made a good police woman, his mum.
"I..." He falters, the images flooding back in, the dam he'd built up not strong enough. Jon on his knees behind the counter in the record shop sucking him off; fucking Jon hard across the sofa in his flat; lying breathless and dazed in his arms and not wanting it to ever end. Not the sort of things you tell your mother over a cup of tea. "I met someone," he says. It sounds pathetic. A limp, polite phrase that conveys nothing of the fierce lust, desperate passion and gradual friendship that characterised their relationship.
"Oh?"
"A.. a man." He doesn't know why he's blushing. Like a teenager coming out and revealing a first crush. She frowns, still not understanding. "We... well, we... were lovers." He cringes. Even worse than 'I met someone'.
"Ah. I see."
Do you? Neil wants to shout, Do you see? Because I don't.
"It wasn't anything," he finds himself babbling, "It was just convenient, yeah, and... god, you don't want to know any of this, but... he was just there for me. And..." He trails off, finding it suddenly hard to lie.
"You want to talk about it?"
No, Neil thinks, I don't want to talk about him. I want to forget about him. I don't want to remember the way he tasted or the way he moaned when I ran my tongue over his cock, or the way he looked at me when I left, when he told me he'd fallen in love with me, like I'd ripped his world apart...
His chest hurts and his mouth tastes of salt. He takes a swig of tea, still too hot, burning his mouth in the process. His mum says nothing, just sits looking at him knowingly. Neil sighs.
"Jon. His name's Jon."
And then he tells her everything. Well, the edited, PG rated version. About how they'd met (leaving out the blow job in the car), the moment they'd met again, how he'd got Jon to agree to help him, how he'd been there for him when he'd heard about his grandad, how he'd taken care of him, giving him massages and making him tea. How he'd never let Neil cut his hair, even though it grew to falling over his eyes. How his eyes crinkle and light up whenever he really, properly smiles.
There's a pause, when he's finished spilling his guts over the kitchen table. He feels oddly relieved. As if somehow, talking about Jon now, here - as Neil, not Elliot - has made him more real. As if he's been talking himself into something, even though he doesn't know what it is yet.
"Well," says his mum. It's the sort of 'well' that's a sentence in itself, implying everything and saying nothing. Neil reads between the lines, the inflection in his mother's raised eyebrow, the way she stirs her tea. They say, well, son, I'm happy you found someone but you've been a bit of an idiot, haven't you? He thinks that's what they say, anyway. "And where is he now?" she asks.
"I don't know. He's alright though. I made sure they're going to take care of it. Of him."
It's true, he doesn't know. But it wouldn't be rocket science to give his mate Leroy in the force a call and sweet talk him into handing over Jon's new name and address. Now that he's thought of doing it, he knows he will. The familiar thrill of risk makes the corners of his mouth twitch.
"Go on down to the shop and take your dad some sandwiches, will you, love?" His mum says at last. Neil nods and heads out. It's a fair walk but he hopes the air will do him good, clear his head.
While in the shop he picks a postcard from the rack, a particularly hideous, touristy one of the bay. He looks at it absently, wondering stupidly what Jon would make of it.
He doesn't mean to slip it in his pocket. He's almost surprised when his fingers run over the edges of it a week or so later.
He doesn't mean to write it, either. He feels almost giddy as he grabs a pen and scrawls a message, just four words,
Wish you were here.
Pairing: Jon/Neil
Rating: R
Warnings: Sexual references.
Disclaimer: This is fanfic for AU fanfic. I don't know who owns it but it's not me.
A/N: Set after Part 7 of Fast Fuse. Neil's side of the story. What Neil tells his parents about Jon.
Neil's parents have always been fairly pragmatic about his line of work. They know he goes undercover, know there are be long periods when he can't contact them. He knows they worry themselves sick, but they never speak about it. They don't really do tearful reunions, but as the car pulls up in the driveway there are sighs of relief, reassuring hugs and offers of cups of tea all round. Neil drinks the tea and returns the hugs, gives his parents a thin smile as he sinks into a sofa. They know better than to bombard him with questions.
They talk, though, about his grandad, the funeral, the cards that had been sent and the relatives who had driven down from all over the country and had had to be put up in the spare rooms and the local B&Bs. About his brother's new car, the shop and how well business is going, about Mabel from down the road who's broken her hip and gone into a home, about Janine who's had a baby, another boy, would you believe, she's almost got her own football team. About the rain and the pot holes on the high street. About anything and everything except what Neil has been doing for the past few months.
Their words begin to wash over him, after a while, a calming lull of chatter and familiarity. In a funny kind of way, Neil reflects, it's like going back in time. The feeling only increases as, yawning, he makes his way upstairs to his room. His room, still, although he's got a flat in London he hardly uses, what with him being away so much of the time. It's hardly changed since he was a kid. It's comforting, when so much of the time his identity is in flux, to have something solid and unchanging. Even if it is just a battered old stuffed toy and a couple of football trophys on a shelf and the same old peeling blue wallpaper.
He sighs as he sits down on the bed and kicks his shoes off. He should be used to it by now, Neil tells himself. He's been debriefed, had time to adjust to 'civilian life'. It should get easier, every time, not harder. Maybe each time he leaves a little part of the real him behind. He chokes off a memory of brown eyes and soft curls, lips pressed against his skin. Not that, he's not thinking about that. About him.
It's less easy to push the thoughts of Jon away as he wakes in the night, sheets twisted, sweating and heart racing from some unfairly erotic dream. Neil lies awake, frustrated. It's quiet, far too quiet. He misses the noise and the traffic of London. He tries not to think that he misses Jon, his warmth beside him, the sound of his breathing. He closes his eyes and thinks himself back there, in that poky flat, Jon on top of him, straddling him; he imagines himself buried in the heat of him as he bucks upwards into his own hand and stifles his cry of Jon into his pillow as he comes.
In the morning he strips the sheets and tries to rebuild the crumbling walls in his own mind that stop him from thinking about him.
*
Neil barely leaves the room for three days. His mum brings up food and takes the plates away untouched without a murmur.
On the fourth day he emerges, rubbing the back of his neck ruefully, an apology on his lips.
"Oh you're up," his mother says, briskly but not disapprovingly. "You know where the kettle is."
Neil makes his way over to the sink and fills the kettle.
This is what he'd longed for, after such a long stint undercover, the familiarity and comfort of home. And yet the urge to lie seems to creep over him. What if that is who he really is and this, the dutiful son, is just another part he plays?
"You alright, love?" His mum asks, abandoning her ironing and sitting down at the kitchen table.
"Fine, mum," he replies automatically, flashing her his trademark brilliant grin as he sets the teas down on the table.
"Neil my lad, you may be able to fool other people for a living but if you think you can pull the wool over your own mother's eyes you're sorely mistaken." She fixes him with a piercing look. Neil looks down sheepishly at his mug of tea. "Something went wrong, didn't it?" She asks it lightly, not looking at him. Giving him time.
"No..." He's going for confident and reassuring but from the tense look on her face, he's fallen short of the mark. Out of practice, already.
"Someone hurt you." She does look at him then, scanning for possible injuries.
"No," he's quicker to respond this time. "No."
"You had to hurt someone, then," she suggests. It's always a possibility. He's never had to shoot to kill so far, but if circumstances required it...
"No," He assures her. But that isn't true, is it? He thinks of Jon, eyes bright with unshed tears as he begged him not to go. He doesn't want to think about him. Doesn't like the guilty feeling that image summons up, the ache in his stomach. He forces the image away. "Not in the way you mean, anyway," he concedes.
"What then?" A gentle pressure. No demands, just enough to make you want to talk. She'd have made a good police woman, his mum.
"I..." He falters, the images flooding back in, the dam he'd built up not strong enough. Jon on his knees behind the counter in the record shop sucking him off; fucking Jon hard across the sofa in his flat; lying breathless and dazed in his arms and not wanting it to ever end. Not the sort of things you tell your mother over a cup of tea. "I met someone," he says. It sounds pathetic. A limp, polite phrase that conveys nothing of the fierce lust, desperate passion and gradual friendship that characterised their relationship.
"Oh?"
"A.. a man." He doesn't know why he's blushing. Like a teenager coming out and revealing a first crush. She frowns, still not understanding. "We... well, we... were lovers." He cringes. Even worse than 'I met someone'.
"Ah. I see."
Do you? Neil wants to shout, Do you see? Because I don't.
"It wasn't anything," he finds himself babbling, "It was just convenient, yeah, and... god, you don't want to know any of this, but... he was just there for me. And..." He trails off, finding it suddenly hard to lie.
"You want to talk about it?"
No, Neil thinks, I don't want to talk about him. I want to forget about him. I don't want to remember the way he tasted or the way he moaned when I ran my tongue over his cock, or the way he looked at me when I left, when he told me he'd fallen in love with me, like I'd ripped his world apart...
His chest hurts and his mouth tastes of salt. He takes a swig of tea, still too hot, burning his mouth in the process. His mum says nothing, just sits looking at him knowingly. Neil sighs.
"Jon. His name's Jon."
And then he tells her everything. Well, the edited, PG rated version. About how they'd met (leaving out the blow job in the car), the moment they'd met again, how he'd got Jon to agree to help him, how he'd been there for him when he'd heard about his grandad, how he'd taken care of him, giving him massages and making him tea. How he'd never let Neil cut his hair, even though it grew to falling over his eyes. How his eyes crinkle and light up whenever he really, properly smiles.
There's a pause, when he's finished spilling his guts over the kitchen table. He feels oddly relieved. As if somehow, talking about Jon now, here - as Neil, not Elliot - has made him more real. As if he's been talking himself into something, even though he doesn't know what it is yet.
"Well," says his mum. It's the sort of 'well' that's a sentence in itself, implying everything and saying nothing. Neil reads between the lines, the inflection in his mother's raised eyebrow, the way she stirs her tea. They say, well, son, I'm happy you found someone but you've been a bit of an idiot, haven't you? He thinks that's what they say, anyway. "And where is he now?" she asks.
"I don't know. He's alright though. I made sure they're going to take care of it. Of him."
It's true, he doesn't know. But it wouldn't be rocket science to give his mate Leroy in the force a call and sweet talk him into handing over Jon's new name and address. Now that he's thought of doing it, he knows he will. The familiar thrill of risk makes the corners of his mouth twitch.
"Go on down to the shop and take your dad some sandwiches, will you, love?" His mum says at last. Neil nods and heads out. It's a fair walk but he hopes the air will do him good, clear his head.
While in the shop he picks a postcard from the rack, a particularly hideous, touristy one of the bay. He looks at it absently, wondering stupidly what Jon would make of it.
He doesn't mean to slip it in his pocket. He's almost surprised when his fingers run over the edges of it a week or so later.
He doesn't mean to write it, either. He feels almost giddy as he grabs a pen and scrawls a message, just four words,
Wish you were here.