Ficlet: I Love You Only (William/Courtney, FRAO, 900 words)
Warnings: Incest, non-celebrity sibling as a main character, someone finding out about the incest.
Disclaimers: Not mine, never happened. The inclusion of Wal-Mart is for purposes of verisimilitude only and should not be taken as endorsement or approval of their goods, services, or business practices.
Additional Notes: Originally written to entertain inlovewithnight. Title from Nina Simone's "Love Me Or Leave Me."
Summary: It can't be official. They can't have a marriage certificate. They won't be able to claim each other on taxes or health insurance when (if) one of them gets a steady job. But Courtney's driver's license already says Beckett and it'll keep people from asking questions. It gives them a story: fell in love, married young, starting a new life together.
They buy wedding rings, cheap ones from a Wal-Mart in Ohio as they pass through.
"I'll get you something better someday," Bill promises.
Courtney leans against him, her cheek on his arm. "I don't care about that."
The saleswoman smiles at them, approving of their young love.
It can't be official. They can't have a marriage certificate. They won't be able to claim each other on taxes or health insurance when (if) one of them gets a steady job. But Courtney's driver's license already says Beckett and it'll keep people from asking questions. It gives them a story: fell in love, married young, starting a new life together.
*
Bill works a boring full-time job. He still writes and plays some, but only for Courtney. He has the real job so she can work part-time at a coffee shop and take photos the rest of the time.
When Courtney submits her work to a gallery that's doing a show of young women artists, she tries to act like it's no big deal, but Bill knows, because he knows her, that she really wants this. So he knows, too, when he comes home and she says, beaming, "They accepted me," which show she's talking about.
She kisses him, deeper than an everyday welcome home kiss. "Condom," she says against his lips. "Condom, condom."
Bill puts the condom on carefully, always so careful about that. They can't afford, in so many ways, not to be. Condoms also mean bed, and Courtney spread out naked in it.
Three years after they first did this, two years after they stopped having to hide it, and Bill's still amazed, every time, that he gets to have her, that she wants and loves him every bit as much as he wants and loves her.
"I have an idea." Courtney tangles her fingers in his hair. "For a series. I want you to sit for me."
"Yes," Bill says, moving in her, moving with her, "yes, anything," and then they stop talking for a long, enjoyable while.
*
Bill's been to enough art galleries by now that he knows how to hold himself, how to blend in just enough (but not too much; he's part of directing attention to Courtney), how to talk about art. He has only one glass of wine. Courtney sticks to water. They have too much to lose to get drunk in public - it makes Bill talkative and the one time Courtney drank most of a bottle of wine with him, she crawled into his lap and said, "I've loved you since the day I was born" - but they don't look too out of place since it is an exhibition of young women artists, half of whom aren't old enough to drink.
"I'm like the grande dame of this thing," a woman he doesn't know laughs as Bill and Courtney draw close to them in their circuit around the gallery. "I think they bumped the max age up to thirty just so I could participate." The woman catches sight of them and smiles. "Oh, Courtney. Courtney did those photos you liked, Pete. And this must be your husband. William, right? I recognize you from Courtney's work."
The woman introduces them around, but Bill doesn't catch anyone's name because Pete is Pete Wentz, and fuck, he should have known New York wasn't far enough. They should have gone somewhere else, somewhere farther. He could have taken her to Paris.
Bill doesn't care that he's not being very subtle. He grabs Pete's arm and drags him away, into a back office. So what if they're not supposed to be there? Someone can come throw them out if they care that much.
"Don't say anything," Bill says. "Don't fuck this up for her."
"What the fuck?" Pete says. "She's your fucking sister."
"She's my wife." Bill's been saying it for so long now that it sounds right, feels right to say.
Pete, Pete Wentz, is staring at him like he's a monster. "You took her across state lines. That's, like, federal kidnapping or something."
"She was eighteen," Bill snaps, "and she wanted to come." He rubs his forehead. With his left hand, the one wearing her ring. "Please, Pete, please don't fuck this up. This show means so much to her." Paris. They should have gone to Paris.
"Does anyone know you're here?" Pete asks after an interminable silence.
Bill shakes his head. "Courtney emails Mom sometimes, but she doesn't know where we are."
"You better hope your mom doesn't know how to use Google." Pete points at the door to the gallery. "There's art press out there, and if she goes looking, she's going to find you."
That was always a possibility, with Courtney's art. Bill's counting on it taking long enough that he and Courtney will be so settled into their life that no one will be able to force them out of it.
"Plus, dude, she's your sister."
"She's my wife." Bill stares down at Pete - being taller is a good advantage here. "My wife. You ask her and she'll tell you that too."
Pete frowns at him, his mouth going tight and disapproving. "Dude," he finally says, "I hope you know what the fuck you're doing."
Bill nods sharply. "Thank you."
They go back out to the gallery, to Courtney and the people Pete's there with. Courtney doesn't ask if everything is okay, and Bill knows she can see it in his face. She takes his hand when he goes to her, laces their fingers together and squeezes.
"How," the artist whose name he never caught asks, "do you know Courtney's husband?"
Bill holds his breath, but Pete just shrugs and says, "Come on, Lyn-Z, you know I know everyone."
Disclaimers: Not mine, never happened. The inclusion of Wal-Mart is for purposes of verisimilitude only and should not be taken as endorsement or approval of their goods, services, or business practices.
Additional Notes: Originally written to entertain inlovewithnight. Title from Nina Simone's "Love Me Or Leave Me."
Summary: It can't be official. They can't have a marriage certificate. They won't be able to claim each other on taxes or health insurance when (if) one of them gets a steady job. But Courtney's driver's license already says Beckett and it'll keep people from asking questions. It gives them a story: fell in love, married young, starting a new life together.
They buy wedding rings, cheap ones from a Wal-Mart in Ohio as they pass through.
"I'll get you something better someday," Bill promises.
Courtney leans against him, her cheek on his arm. "I don't care about that."
The saleswoman smiles at them, approving of their young love.
It can't be official. They can't have a marriage certificate. They won't be able to claim each other on taxes or health insurance when (if) one of them gets a steady job. But Courtney's driver's license already says Beckett and it'll keep people from asking questions. It gives them a story: fell in love, married young, starting a new life together.
*
Bill works a boring full-time job. He still writes and plays some, but only for Courtney. He has the real job so she can work part-time at a coffee shop and take photos the rest of the time.
When Courtney submits her work to a gallery that's doing a show of young women artists, she tries to act like it's no big deal, but Bill knows, because he knows her, that she really wants this. So he knows, too, when he comes home and she says, beaming, "They accepted me," which show she's talking about.
She kisses him, deeper than an everyday welcome home kiss. "Condom," she says against his lips. "Condom, condom."
Bill puts the condom on carefully, always so careful about that. They can't afford, in so many ways, not to be. Condoms also mean bed, and Courtney spread out naked in it.
Three years after they first did this, two years after they stopped having to hide it, and Bill's still amazed, every time, that he gets to have her, that she wants and loves him every bit as much as he wants and loves her.
"I have an idea." Courtney tangles her fingers in his hair. "For a series. I want you to sit for me."
"Yes," Bill says, moving in her, moving with her, "yes, anything," and then they stop talking for a long, enjoyable while.
*
Bill's been to enough art galleries by now that he knows how to hold himself, how to blend in just enough (but not too much; he's part of directing attention to Courtney), how to talk about art. He has only one glass of wine. Courtney sticks to water. They have too much to lose to get drunk in public - it makes Bill talkative and the one time Courtney drank most of a bottle of wine with him, she crawled into his lap and said, "I've loved you since the day I was born" - but they don't look too out of place since it is an exhibition of young women artists, half of whom aren't old enough to drink.
"I'm like the grande dame of this thing," a woman he doesn't know laughs as Bill and Courtney draw close to them in their circuit around the gallery. "I think they bumped the max age up to thirty just so I could participate." The woman catches sight of them and smiles. "Oh, Courtney. Courtney did those photos you liked, Pete. And this must be your husband. William, right? I recognize you from Courtney's work."
The woman introduces them around, but Bill doesn't catch anyone's name because Pete is Pete Wentz, and fuck, he should have known New York wasn't far enough. They should have gone somewhere else, somewhere farther. He could have taken her to Paris.
Bill doesn't care that he's not being very subtle. He grabs Pete's arm and drags him away, into a back office. So what if they're not supposed to be there? Someone can come throw them out if they care that much.
"Don't say anything," Bill says. "Don't fuck this up for her."
"What the fuck?" Pete says. "She's your fucking sister."
"She's my wife." Bill's been saying it for so long now that it sounds right, feels right to say.
Pete, Pete Wentz, is staring at him like he's a monster. "You took her across state lines. That's, like, federal kidnapping or something."
"She was eighteen," Bill snaps, "and she wanted to come." He rubs his forehead. With his left hand, the one wearing her ring. "Please, Pete, please don't fuck this up. This show means so much to her." Paris. They should have gone to Paris.
"Does anyone know you're here?" Pete asks after an interminable silence.
Bill shakes his head. "Courtney emails Mom sometimes, but she doesn't know where we are."
"You better hope your mom doesn't know how to use Google." Pete points at the door to the gallery. "There's art press out there, and if she goes looking, she's going to find you."
That was always a possibility, with Courtney's art. Bill's counting on it taking long enough that he and Courtney will be so settled into their life that no one will be able to force them out of it.
"Plus, dude, she's your sister."
"She's my wife." Bill stares down at Pete - being taller is a good advantage here. "My wife. You ask her and she'll tell you that too."
Pete frowns at him, his mouth going tight and disapproving. "Dude," he finally says, "I hope you know what the fuck you're doing."
Bill nods sharply. "Thank you."
They go back out to the gallery, to Courtney and the people Pete's there with. Courtney doesn't ask if everything is okay, and Bill knows she can see it in his face. She takes his hand when he goes to her, laces their fingers together and squeezes.
"How," the artist whose name he never caught asks, "do you know Courtney's husband?"
Bill holds his breath, but Pete just shrugs and says, "Come on, Lyn-Z, you know I know everyone."