Fic: "Head Games," ATWT/Dallas x-over, Reid/John Ross, R
One of those strange crossover ideas that comes out of nowhere!
Title: “Head Games” 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: As the World Turns/Dallas x-over
Rating/Pairing: R for language, Reid Oliver/John Ross Ewing, slash.
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters and am making no profit from randomly slashing the Hell out of them.
Summary: 1450 words. Takes place in late 2006, prior to Reid’s arrival in Oakdale, when JR’s in the throes of his depression and his family has to take action. The urge to diagnose the son with a terminal case of daddy issues catches him by surprise…
Notes: Cross-posted to A03: http://archiveofourown.org/works/442383
He can pinpoint the exact instant privileged little shits with more mouth than sense become his biggest pet peeve. It’s when he’s marveling over the cleanest scans he’s seen in years, assuring Dr. Collins that “there is no neurological reason for the patient’s condition. This brain is such a work of art that it should hang in the Louvre.” The man is pushing 80, and the labyrinth of his mind is so pristine, so sharp, that Reid can’t begin to guess why he’d be suffering from depression. Stupidity, that‘s something to be morose about. Stupidity is something you can’t change. In the middle of this rather brilliant diatribe, the door to the MRI observation room is thrown open, revealing someone who proves his hypothesis quite nicely.
Approximately 5’9, if one were to be generous--which Reid has seldom been accused of being--with an appalling bit of facial hair passing for a mustache and not enough tact to know that you don’t yell in a hospital. “What’s going on in here? You having a goddamn tea party? We’ve been waitin’ hours to find out what’s wrong, and I demand an answer!” The man can’t be more than a handful of years younger than him, but he sounds like a whining six-year-old who didn’t get his post-checkup lollipop from the pediatrician. “Do you know how much money my family has donated to this hospital?”
“The son,” whispers Collins, urgently. “The one who’s been away. John Ross Ewing.”
But of course he has two names. Everything is so much bigger in Texas that even the names are at a surplus, and people can grab as many as they like. Reid allows himself a small smile at the mental set-down...and lets it get just one touch wider as he self-corrects: No, not everything in Texas is big. When John Ross Ewing strides over to him, waving his hands and spewing self-important threats, Reid towers over him by inches. The 5’9 really was generous.
Reid didn’t master chess, the biological sciences and the power of life itself by being easily intimidated. He stares down his patrician nose, hoping he positively radiates East Coast liberal intellectualism. Reid Oliver, neurological badass, not to be fucked with. He’d wanted that on his office door. The hospital board, predictably, had balked.
“Who the Hell are you?” Ewing looks up, nostrils flaring, mismatched eyes--heterochromia iridis, how intriguing and banal at once--glittering with privilege.
He knows better than to repeat the invisible words from his door. “The best neurosurgeon in the country, as requested,” he says instead, the badassery implicit.
This factoid doesn’t impress. Ewing Junior gives him a once-over, the blatant disdain making it clear that a lanky genius in a lab coat and khakis is someone he finds inherently lacking. “And what do you have to say for yourself, Harvard?”
He’s never quite heard the Ivy League used as an epithet before. It seems someone has an inferiority complex. “It’s not my self that’s in question,” he assures, hoping he sounds even more insufferable than he did before. “It’s the patient’s. And I can say, unequivocally, that his issues are psychological, not neurological, in origin. We’ve already spoken to your mother and uncle about shifting him to a new long-term care facility.”
“Another home?” John Ross huffs, his bravado slipping just a fraction. “JR Ewing in an old folks’ home. Christ,” he swears, shifting his gaze to the monitors where the scans are on display. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
“From what I’ve been told, you haven’t seen many days with your father at all.” Reid hated his psychiatry rotation with a passion. Frankly, he has no patience whatsoever for head shrinking. Give him a scalpel, and he’ll give you a concrete solution. So the urge to diagnose the son with a terminal case of daddy issues catches him by surprise. “Perhaps if you visited him more, we’d see a marked improvement in his outlook.”
The illustrious John Ross doesn’t take kindly to the observation, his momentary vulnerability vanishing into a puffed chest and an unattractive sneer. “Fuck off, Harvard,” he snarls before pivoting to glare at Dr. Collins. “And you? You’re off my daddy’s case.”
Collins pales and begins sputtering. Reid doesn’t even blink. Ewing is, in point of fact, writing checks his mouth can’t cash. “If we’re off the case, then you have even less business in this room. Get out,” he snaps.
Junior rocks back on the heels of his scuffed cowboy boots, those unsettling eyes going almost theatrically wide. Reid has the incongruous, inappropriate, thought that this must be what he looks like when he’s being fucked. Shocked that someone’s gotten to him, cutting deep under the skin, and more than a little angry that his soft underbelly is on display.
No, not soft. John Ross Ewing, of the two names and the entitlement, will be hard. His hands, fisted in anger, are suntanned; his rolled-up sleeves reveal surprisingly brawny arms. He’s used to actual labor, not just spending his father’s oil money on trips around the world and expensive prostitutes. Maybe he’s worked on a rig. Maybe he’s dug ditches. It’s possible that he’s done a hundred things with his fingers that Reid would never dare do, in case it interfered with his ability to operate.
“Make me,” he growls, getting right up in Reid’s space. So they’re toe-to-toe, nearly nose-to-nose. “You fucking make me, you stuck-up, self-righteous son of a bitch.”
Oh, Hell. He pinpoints the exact instant privileged little shits with more mouth than sense become his biggest pet peeve…and his biggest turn-on.
When he repeats his “get out,” it’s to Dr. Collins, who, unlike their unwanted guest, actually listens to commands once in a while. The door slams shut behind him, and Reid is now alone with someone basically begging for a fight. He won’t be given that satisfaction. “You need to calm down, Mr. Ewing,” Reid advises, at his most patronizing. “I’m not interested in your, no doubt epic, Shakespearean conflict with your ‘daddy.’ I’ve reported my findings, and my consult on this matter is done. There is no need to throw a tantrum demanding results. You have them.”
As expected, this only serves to further infuriate John Ross. He grabs a fistful of Reid’s lab coat and the henley beneath it, too. Does he know that’s a promise and not a threat? It seems so. Something sharp in his blue eye clashes with something frustrated in his green one. “What the Hell is your problem?” he demands, his Texas good ol’ boy drawl almost like the dark purr of a motorcycle engine.
Reid’s never been on a bike…but he’s no stranger to a fast ride. “My ‘problem’ is that you don’t know when to shut up--and I most certainly can make you do that.” He covers Ewing’s hand, applies just enough pressure to make the real meaning of this little game of dueling egos clear. This is the moment where he either gets a fist in the face or a channeling of all that angry energy into something far more enjoyable.
It’s a moment that stretches from 15 seconds into 30, to almost a minute. And, then, the only thing that makes contact with Reid’s admittedly glass jaw is the tickling edges of a mustache. “Fuck off,” John Ross breathes into Reid’s mouth, teeth catching his bottom lip firmly enough to draw blood.
There is no discussion of orientation. No negotiation of who tops or who bottoms. He gets the sense that if Junior has fooled around with a ranch hand or two in his time, it’s not something that has ever made him question his sexuality or, god forbid, label himself as gay. This is about power, plain and simple. Claiming it, owning it…particularly in the face of the powerlessness that comes from being a sick man’s son.
Again with the psychological analysis, which isn’t the least bit arousing. But Reid’s quick to shove all of that aside, just as he shoves John Ross up against the wall, using his height to battle against the younger man’s muscle. Buttons are undone, zippers yanked down. They don’t talk, except to curse. To trade snide “Harvard”s and “Mr. Ewing”s where other men might trade kisses. The slide of skin, the rhythm of their flesh slapping together, the basic animal need to possess, is more pain than pleasure. It’s quick and it’s dirty, something visceral and messy in the midst of such clinical sterility.
Reid enjoys every last bit of it.
He didn’t master chess, the biological sciences and the power of life itself by being easily intimidated. He has always mastered spoiled brats with a similar sangfroid.
--end--
June 23, 2012
Title: “Head Games” 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: As the World Turns/Dallas x-over
Rating/Pairing: R for language, Reid Oliver/John Ross Ewing, slash.
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters and am making no profit from randomly slashing the Hell out of them.
Summary: 1450 words. Takes place in late 2006, prior to Reid’s arrival in Oakdale, when JR’s in the throes of his depression and his family has to take action. The urge to diagnose the son with a terminal case of daddy issues catches him by surprise…
Notes: Cross-posted to A03: http://archiveofourown.org/works/442383
He can pinpoint the exact instant privileged little shits with more mouth than sense become his biggest pet peeve. It’s when he’s marveling over the cleanest scans he’s seen in years, assuring Dr. Collins that “there is no neurological reason for the patient’s condition. This brain is such a work of art that it should hang in the Louvre.” The man is pushing 80, and the labyrinth of his mind is so pristine, so sharp, that Reid can’t begin to guess why he’d be suffering from depression. Stupidity, that‘s something to be morose about. Stupidity is something you can’t change. In the middle of this rather brilliant diatribe, the door to the MRI observation room is thrown open, revealing someone who proves his hypothesis quite nicely.
Approximately 5’9, if one were to be generous--which Reid has seldom been accused of being--with an appalling bit of facial hair passing for a mustache and not enough tact to know that you don’t yell in a hospital. “What’s going on in here? You having a goddamn tea party? We’ve been waitin’ hours to find out what’s wrong, and I demand an answer!” The man can’t be more than a handful of years younger than him, but he sounds like a whining six-year-old who didn’t get his post-checkup lollipop from the pediatrician. “Do you know how much money my family has donated to this hospital?”
“The son,” whispers Collins, urgently. “The one who’s been away. John Ross Ewing.”
But of course he has two names. Everything is so much bigger in Texas that even the names are at a surplus, and people can grab as many as they like. Reid allows himself a small smile at the mental set-down...and lets it get just one touch wider as he self-corrects: No, not everything in Texas is big. When John Ross Ewing strides over to him, waving his hands and spewing self-important threats, Reid towers over him by inches. The 5’9 really was generous.
Reid didn’t master chess, the biological sciences and the power of life itself by being easily intimidated. He stares down his patrician nose, hoping he positively radiates East Coast liberal intellectualism. Reid Oliver, neurological badass, not to be fucked with. He’d wanted that on his office door. The hospital board, predictably, had balked.
“Who the Hell are you?” Ewing looks up, nostrils flaring, mismatched eyes--heterochromia iridis, how intriguing and banal at once--glittering with privilege.
He knows better than to repeat the invisible words from his door. “The best neurosurgeon in the country, as requested,” he says instead, the badassery implicit.
This factoid doesn’t impress. Ewing Junior gives him a once-over, the blatant disdain making it clear that a lanky genius in a lab coat and khakis is someone he finds inherently lacking. “And what do you have to say for yourself, Harvard?”
He’s never quite heard the Ivy League used as an epithet before. It seems someone has an inferiority complex. “It’s not my self that’s in question,” he assures, hoping he sounds even more insufferable than he did before. “It’s the patient’s. And I can say, unequivocally, that his issues are psychological, not neurological, in origin. We’ve already spoken to your mother and uncle about shifting him to a new long-term care facility.”
“Another home?” John Ross huffs, his bravado slipping just a fraction. “JR Ewing in an old folks’ home. Christ,” he swears, shifting his gaze to the monitors where the scans are on display. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
“From what I’ve been told, you haven’t seen many days with your father at all.” Reid hated his psychiatry rotation with a passion. Frankly, he has no patience whatsoever for head shrinking. Give him a scalpel, and he’ll give you a concrete solution. So the urge to diagnose the son with a terminal case of daddy issues catches him by surprise. “Perhaps if you visited him more, we’d see a marked improvement in his outlook.”
The illustrious John Ross doesn’t take kindly to the observation, his momentary vulnerability vanishing into a puffed chest and an unattractive sneer. “Fuck off, Harvard,” he snarls before pivoting to glare at Dr. Collins. “And you? You’re off my daddy’s case.”
Collins pales and begins sputtering. Reid doesn’t even blink. Ewing is, in point of fact, writing checks his mouth can’t cash. “If we’re off the case, then you have even less business in this room. Get out,” he snaps.
Junior rocks back on the heels of his scuffed cowboy boots, those unsettling eyes going almost theatrically wide. Reid has the incongruous, inappropriate, thought that this must be what he looks like when he’s being fucked. Shocked that someone’s gotten to him, cutting deep under the skin, and more than a little angry that his soft underbelly is on display.
No, not soft. John Ross Ewing, of the two names and the entitlement, will be hard. His hands, fisted in anger, are suntanned; his rolled-up sleeves reveal surprisingly brawny arms. He’s used to actual labor, not just spending his father’s oil money on trips around the world and expensive prostitutes. Maybe he’s worked on a rig. Maybe he’s dug ditches. It’s possible that he’s done a hundred things with his fingers that Reid would never dare do, in case it interfered with his ability to operate.
“Make me,” he growls, getting right up in Reid’s space. So they’re toe-to-toe, nearly nose-to-nose. “You fucking make me, you stuck-up, self-righteous son of a bitch.”
Oh, Hell. He pinpoints the exact instant privileged little shits with more mouth than sense become his biggest pet peeve…and his biggest turn-on.
When he repeats his “get out,” it’s to Dr. Collins, who, unlike their unwanted guest, actually listens to commands once in a while. The door slams shut behind him, and Reid is now alone with someone basically begging for a fight. He won’t be given that satisfaction. “You need to calm down, Mr. Ewing,” Reid advises, at his most patronizing. “I’m not interested in your, no doubt epic, Shakespearean conflict with your ‘daddy.’ I’ve reported my findings, and my consult on this matter is done. There is no need to throw a tantrum demanding results. You have them.”
As expected, this only serves to further infuriate John Ross. He grabs a fistful of Reid’s lab coat and the henley beneath it, too. Does he know that’s a promise and not a threat? It seems so. Something sharp in his blue eye clashes with something frustrated in his green one. “What the Hell is your problem?” he demands, his Texas good ol’ boy drawl almost like the dark purr of a motorcycle engine.
Reid’s never been on a bike…but he’s no stranger to a fast ride. “My ‘problem’ is that you don’t know when to shut up--and I most certainly can make you do that.” He covers Ewing’s hand, applies just enough pressure to make the real meaning of this little game of dueling egos clear. This is the moment where he either gets a fist in the face or a channeling of all that angry energy into something far more enjoyable.
It’s a moment that stretches from 15 seconds into 30, to almost a minute. And, then, the only thing that makes contact with Reid’s admittedly glass jaw is the tickling edges of a mustache. “Fuck off,” John Ross breathes into Reid’s mouth, teeth catching his bottom lip firmly enough to draw blood.
There is no discussion of orientation. No negotiation of who tops or who bottoms. He gets the sense that if Junior has fooled around with a ranch hand or two in his time, it’s not something that has ever made him question his sexuality or, god forbid, label himself as gay. This is about power, plain and simple. Claiming it, owning it…particularly in the face of the powerlessness that comes from being a sick man’s son.
Again with the psychological analysis, which isn’t the least bit arousing. But Reid’s quick to shove all of that aside, just as he shoves John Ross up against the wall, using his height to battle against the younger man’s muscle. Buttons are undone, zippers yanked down. They don’t talk, except to curse. To trade snide “Harvard”s and “Mr. Ewing”s where other men might trade kisses. The slide of skin, the rhythm of their flesh slapping together, the basic animal need to possess, is more pain than pleasure. It’s quick and it’s dirty, something visceral and messy in the midst of such clinical sterility.
Reid enjoys every last bit of it.
He didn’t master chess, the biological sciences and the power of life itself by being easily intimidated. He has always mastered spoiled brats with a similar sangfroid.
--end--
June 23, 2012