Fic: how to rise up (PG) Tom
title: how to rise up
author: schiarire
pairing: Tom/Ibhn Khaldun
spoilers: 2x02, Nest of Angels
rating: PG
wordcount: 643
He dreamed about Ibhn Khaldun for days, weeks, months. The bomb exploded; the shrapnel flew; the chain link fences were wrenched down around them and scattered as if by God's fury. When he woke, he heard the slow throb of blood in his ears, the pulse that meant he had survived an explosion, walked through enemy fire, become deaf to the outside world.
Sometimes he was the bomb, and sometimes Ibhn Khaldun was Tom, and sometimes Ibhn Khaldun was the bomb and Tom had his arms wrapped around him like a custom-made flak jacket. He had his face turned, his cheek shoved up against Khaldun's chest and from inside he could hear the bomb ticking: second by inevitable second.
On the nights that they didn't explode, the nights that Special Forces didn't pick their torn flesh out of the playground dust with Special Forces tweezers, they were back in Tom's bedroom, in the dark. All Tom could see was the moonlight trickling like rain over the curves of Khaldun's eyes, the shock of his smile. On those nights, Tom's throat sometimes closed up and swallowed the things he wanted badly enough to say that he had not slept without dreaming of Khaldun in half a year.
On the others, he said, I'm sorry and the word sorry ran from his lips over and over again like water spilling over a prayer wheel. Then he said, I'm sorry I didn't believe you.
The last night that Tom dreamed about Ibhn Khaldun, Khaldun moved out of the moonlight and sat down on his bed, a shadow, invisible. Tom felt sick with adrenaline. He said, "You were a hero."
Khaldun scoffed. Tom reached out and touched his arm; touched the cable-knit sweater he was wearing, the warm wool, the living muscle beneath. "You were," Tom said. "You are. You're a hero to me."
"You didn't think so," said Khaldun, "when I was alive."
The low thrum of his voice made Tom even more determined that Khaldun would not leave him again. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know. I was blind. I didn't know how to read you."
"You are a lonely man, John Stedmann, if I am the best company you can dream for yourself."
Tom said, urgently, tightening his fingers in Khaldun's sweater, "That's not my name."
"I know," said Khaldun. "Does it matter?"
"My name is Tom Quinn," said Tom. He searched the darkness; leaned forward and, by instinct, by touch, bent his face to Khaldun's; kissed him lingeringly. He wondered if Khaldun would kill him.
But it was a dream, and Khaldun only smiled before returning the kiss and pushing Tom down into his pillow with strong, steady hands. "Is this how you greet all your heroes, Tom," he said, and closed his lips on the vulnerable curve of Tom's throat. Tom let go of Khaldun, eyes shut, feeling safer than he did even at Harry Pearce's infrangible side. He could exist. He could just -- be.
Impossibly, he saw Khaldun's face, Khaldun's slow smile as clearly against the black of his own eyelids as if he were seeing him for the first time in the park, picked out against the green of the bench and the green of the grass and the green of the statue of Peter Pan in a cream-colored suit and a clear rush of light.
"You were too valuable for what you did," Tom said. "You shouldn't have done it but you did it. You should have done it and you did it. I don't -- "
Khaldun's voice said, "Yes?"
"I don't know," said Tom, and he felt Khaldun's weight on him through the rough fabric and taped down explosives of that fucking green vest and all that Tom knew was that they would die again tonight, together, they always died like that in the end.
author: schiarire
pairing: Tom/Ibhn Khaldun
spoilers: 2x02, Nest of Angels
rating: PG
wordcount: 643
He dreamed about Ibhn Khaldun for days, weeks, months. The bomb exploded; the shrapnel flew; the chain link fences were wrenched down around them and scattered as if by God's fury. When he woke, he heard the slow throb of blood in his ears, the pulse that meant he had survived an explosion, walked through enemy fire, become deaf to the outside world.
Sometimes he was the bomb, and sometimes Ibhn Khaldun was Tom, and sometimes Ibhn Khaldun was the bomb and Tom had his arms wrapped around him like a custom-made flak jacket. He had his face turned, his cheek shoved up against Khaldun's chest and from inside he could hear the bomb ticking: second by inevitable second.
On the nights that they didn't explode, the nights that Special Forces didn't pick their torn flesh out of the playground dust with Special Forces tweezers, they were back in Tom's bedroom, in the dark. All Tom could see was the moonlight trickling like rain over the curves of Khaldun's eyes, the shock of his smile. On those nights, Tom's throat sometimes closed up and swallowed the things he wanted badly enough to say that he had not slept without dreaming of Khaldun in half a year.
On the others, he said, I'm sorry and the word sorry ran from his lips over and over again like water spilling over a prayer wheel. Then he said, I'm sorry I didn't believe you.
The last night that Tom dreamed about Ibhn Khaldun, Khaldun moved out of the moonlight and sat down on his bed, a shadow, invisible. Tom felt sick with adrenaline. He said, "You were a hero."
Khaldun scoffed. Tom reached out and touched his arm; touched the cable-knit sweater he was wearing, the warm wool, the living muscle beneath. "You were," Tom said. "You are. You're a hero to me."
"You didn't think so," said Khaldun, "when I was alive."
The low thrum of his voice made Tom even more determined that Khaldun would not leave him again. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know. I was blind. I didn't know how to read you."
"You are a lonely man, John Stedmann, if I am the best company you can dream for yourself."
Tom said, urgently, tightening his fingers in Khaldun's sweater, "That's not my name."
"I know," said Khaldun. "Does it matter?"
"My name is Tom Quinn," said Tom. He searched the darkness; leaned forward and, by instinct, by touch, bent his face to Khaldun's; kissed him lingeringly. He wondered if Khaldun would kill him.
But it was a dream, and Khaldun only smiled before returning the kiss and pushing Tom down into his pillow with strong, steady hands. "Is this how you greet all your heroes, Tom," he said, and closed his lips on the vulnerable curve of Tom's throat. Tom let go of Khaldun, eyes shut, feeling safer than he did even at Harry Pearce's infrangible side. He could exist. He could just -- be.
Impossibly, he saw Khaldun's face, Khaldun's slow smile as clearly against the black of his own eyelids as if he were seeing him for the first time in the park, picked out against the green of the bench and the green of the grass and the green of the statue of Peter Pan in a cream-colored suit and a clear rush of light.
"You were too valuable for what you did," Tom said. "You shouldn't have done it but you did it. You should have done it and you did it. I don't -- "
Khaldun's voice said, "Yes?"
"I don't know," said Tom, and he felt Khaldun's weight on him through the rough fabric and taped down explosives of that fucking green vest and all that Tom knew was that they would die again tonight, together, they always died like that in the end.