all the spiders wonder what we've got in us
Last week's South Park reminded me to download a copy of the new Indiana Jones. I don't know, I just didn't hate that movie the way a lot of people seemed to. It didn't rape my childhood or anything, and I actually found it quite fun; certainly no more implausible than the earlier installments, and with the same cheesy adventure spirit. Plus I didn't want to murder Shia LaBoeuf's character, which is saying something, because Mutt could, without hyperbole, quite easily have been the worst character in the history of film. Ever.
Anyway, that's all just my explanation for the below, which sprang from the Very Wrong Ideas I had while watching the movie on the big screen several months ago, and of which I was reminded on rewatching a couple of days back. It's wrong, yes, but I couldn't help myself. Partly because I like to rape my own childhood when the opportunity presents itself, and partly because I find the thought of Harrison Ford and Shia LaBoeuf screwing to be weirdly hot.
Black Sheep Boy
(Indy/Mutt)
Indefinite leave of absence, the official documentation says, and Indy wishes he could read it as anything other than you're fired. Of interest to the Bureau, loyalties and record in question because of an unavoidable situation: that's what decades of service to your country gets you, these days. It's not easy as it once would have been, just to throw a few things in a rucksack and head for the horizon; he finds himself wandering around the house, picking things up and putting them down, trying to decide what he needs to take now and what can be shipped later. He looks at the photos on the study desk, Marcus, his father, and it only reminds him how alone he is now. Looking at them, he feels old.
In the end he doesn't pack the photos. Taking them would seem too much like he's dragging his ghosts with him, and he's not the sort to do that. His ghosts have always done an admirable job of dragging themselves along.
*
The kid - Mutt - is a live wire, spiky and defensive and almost painfully bright behind it. He puts up a good front but Indy hears the worry in his voice when he talks about Oxley, his mother, what might be happening to them. He's smart enough not to panic when the KGB goons make a grab for them, quick to catch on and to improvise, and the way he holds it together through the chase that follows earns him some serious points, in Indy's book. Indy would have helped him anyway, of course - how could he not, even if Ox hasn't spoken to him in twenty years? - but the way Mutt's eyes light up at the prospect of a five hundred year old mystery makes Indy think that this might even be fun.
It would be cliche to say that Mutt reminds Indy of himself at that age, and besides, it isn't true. Indy's sure he was never so cocky.
*
Indy sleeps where he can: long, punctuated plane journeys are an old habit to him and he learned early on to doze his way through them; you never know when you'll next get the chance. He dreams in snatches, the disjointed fragments that always accompany such shallow sleep, and as always when a new adventure is beginning he dreams of the old: caves and palaces, friends and enemies, treasures won and companions lost. He wakes, gasping, from a dream of his heart being ripped whole from his chest, and finds Mutt watching him with a mixture of curiosity and concern.
"You okay?" Mutt asks cautiously.
"Yeah," he says, "Just a dream."
"Looked like a pretty bad one."
"Nah," Indy tells him. "Not that bad. Just old."
*
They overnight in Havana in a dirt-cheap hotel, where no one asks questions about where they're from and the owner happily accepts American dollars. The room is barely large enough for the two narrow beds, and with the windows open in the oppressive heat they can hear every passing car and every drunken argument from the street below. Indy would be happy just to crash out straight away, but he can see that Mutt's looking a little freaked out, eyes startled and overwhelmed like his tough-guy facade is on the verge of cracking. This is all new to him, Indy reminds himself, and he's worried about his family; can't blame the kid for being stressed.
"How 'bout you tell me some more about your mom," he suggests casually, sprawling out on the covers and folding his arms behind his head. Mutt shrugs dismissively, but in the reflected streetlight Indy can see something in his face that might be relief, or gratitude.
"She's pretty okay, I guess," he says. "She's strict about some stuff, and she worries a lot, but I guess that's what all moms are like. She's pretty stubborn too - she will not drop the whole 'me finishing school' thing. And she definitely doesn't approve of me fixing motorcycles for a living."
Indy lets one corner of his mouth tug up into a sympathetic grin; he's never been a teenager with a mom, but he knows parental disapproval. Standing up for what you really want: that's something he can respect.
Mutt keeps talking, and gradually the traffic noise dies away. A breeze sifts through the window, stirs the muggy air, tang of smoke and ocean salt.
*
It's still dark when he wakes and there's a weight across his body, and Indy is halfway to panic before he smells Mutt's tacky cologne only inches away. At the realisation, the adrenaline scarcely subsides. Mutt's breathing is ragged, too close, too intimate, and Indy can feel the kid trembling.
"Kid?" he says, not wanting to say anything that might cause damage. Mutt exhales long and low, warm against Indy's cheek.
"My mom," he says, his voice hardly more than a tremor. "There's a lot of stuff about me that she wouldn't approve of."
"Kid," Indy starts again, but god, where does he go from here? I'm not like that, I'm too old for you, you're just scared, confused, young? But at least one of those things is a lie, and the rest is just what Indy would have hated to hear himself, when he was young and confused and lonely. At this stage of his life, can he become a hypocrite?
"Please," Mutt breathes against his mouth, fingers on his belt. Indy rests a hand on the back of the kid's neck, and closes his eyes.
*
"You're not my dad!" Mutt spits the words, and Marion seems shocked by his vehemence. Indy sees the horror he feels reflected in the kid's eyes, thinks back to the sand pit, the sickening few moments after Marion told him where the thought occurred that maybe he should just let himself sink. He wishes to god he could tell the kid it's not true. But he can't, and Mutt can't fall apart now just like Indy couldn't let go: there's something they both still have to do.
The Russian snarls a threat, makes a move and then he's down; a look, and Mutt's tossing his knife, precisely how Indy needs him to. The easy synchronicity makes Indy want to laugh, or possibly to cry. When he thinks about it, they always did understand each other a little too well.
[/fic]
So with this, and this, can I officially lay claim to a Father/Son Incest Extravaganza? Or do I need a few more installations?
In other news, Scotland is cold in winter. I was aware of this on an abstract level, of course, but it's only since autumn's kicked in that I've started to realise just what that's going to mean. I need a new scarf.
Anyway, that's all just my explanation for the below, which sprang from the Very Wrong Ideas I had while watching the movie on the big screen several months ago, and of which I was reminded on rewatching a couple of days back. It's wrong, yes, but I couldn't help myself. Partly because I like to rape my own childhood when the opportunity presents itself, and partly because I find the thought of Harrison Ford and Shia LaBoeuf screwing to be weirdly hot.
Black Sheep Boy
(Indy/Mutt)
Indefinite leave of absence, the official documentation says, and Indy wishes he could read it as anything other than you're fired. Of interest to the Bureau, loyalties and record in question because of an unavoidable situation: that's what decades of service to your country gets you, these days. It's not easy as it once would have been, just to throw a few things in a rucksack and head for the horizon; he finds himself wandering around the house, picking things up and putting them down, trying to decide what he needs to take now and what can be shipped later. He looks at the photos on the study desk, Marcus, his father, and it only reminds him how alone he is now. Looking at them, he feels old.
In the end he doesn't pack the photos. Taking them would seem too much like he's dragging his ghosts with him, and he's not the sort to do that. His ghosts have always done an admirable job of dragging themselves along.
*
The kid - Mutt - is a live wire, spiky and defensive and almost painfully bright behind it. He puts up a good front but Indy hears the worry in his voice when he talks about Oxley, his mother, what might be happening to them. He's smart enough not to panic when the KGB goons make a grab for them, quick to catch on and to improvise, and the way he holds it together through the chase that follows earns him some serious points, in Indy's book. Indy would have helped him anyway, of course - how could he not, even if Ox hasn't spoken to him in twenty years? - but the way Mutt's eyes light up at the prospect of a five hundred year old mystery makes Indy think that this might even be fun.
It would be cliche to say that Mutt reminds Indy of himself at that age, and besides, it isn't true. Indy's sure he was never so cocky.
*
Indy sleeps where he can: long, punctuated plane journeys are an old habit to him and he learned early on to doze his way through them; you never know when you'll next get the chance. He dreams in snatches, the disjointed fragments that always accompany such shallow sleep, and as always when a new adventure is beginning he dreams of the old: caves and palaces, friends and enemies, treasures won and companions lost. He wakes, gasping, from a dream of his heart being ripped whole from his chest, and finds Mutt watching him with a mixture of curiosity and concern.
"You okay?" Mutt asks cautiously.
"Yeah," he says, "Just a dream."
"Looked like a pretty bad one."
"Nah," Indy tells him. "Not that bad. Just old."
*
They overnight in Havana in a dirt-cheap hotel, where no one asks questions about where they're from and the owner happily accepts American dollars. The room is barely large enough for the two narrow beds, and with the windows open in the oppressive heat they can hear every passing car and every drunken argument from the street below. Indy would be happy just to crash out straight away, but he can see that Mutt's looking a little freaked out, eyes startled and overwhelmed like his tough-guy facade is on the verge of cracking. This is all new to him, Indy reminds himself, and he's worried about his family; can't blame the kid for being stressed.
"How 'bout you tell me some more about your mom," he suggests casually, sprawling out on the covers and folding his arms behind his head. Mutt shrugs dismissively, but in the reflected streetlight Indy can see something in his face that might be relief, or gratitude.
"She's pretty okay, I guess," he says. "She's strict about some stuff, and she worries a lot, but I guess that's what all moms are like. She's pretty stubborn too - she will not drop the whole 'me finishing school' thing. And she definitely doesn't approve of me fixing motorcycles for a living."
Indy lets one corner of his mouth tug up into a sympathetic grin; he's never been a teenager with a mom, but he knows parental disapproval. Standing up for what you really want: that's something he can respect.
Mutt keeps talking, and gradually the traffic noise dies away. A breeze sifts through the window, stirs the muggy air, tang of smoke and ocean salt.
*
It's still dark when he wakes and there's a weight across his body, and Indy is halfway to panic before he smells Mutt's tacky cologne only inches away. At the realisation, the adrenaline scarcely subsides. Mutt's breathing is ragged, too close, too intimate, and Indy can feel the kid trembling.
"Kid?" he says, not wanting to say anything that might cause damage. Mutt exhales long and low, warm against Indy's cheek.
"My mom," he says, his voice hardly more than a tremor. "There's a lot of stuff about me that she wouldn't approve of."
"Kid," Indy starts again, but god, where does he go from here? I'm not like that, I'm too old for you, you're just scared, confused, young? But at least one of those things is a lie, and the rest is just what Indy would have hated to hear himself, when he was young and confused and lonely. At this stage of his life, can he become a hypocrite?
"Please," Mutt breathes against his mouth, fingers on his belt. Indy rests a hand on the back of the kid's neck, and closes his eyes.
*
"You're not my dad!" Mutt spits the words, and Marion seems shocked by his vehemence. Indy sees the horror he feels reflected in the kid's eyes, thinks back to the sand pit, the sickening few moments after Marion told him where the thought occurred that maybe he should just let himself sink. He wishes to god he could tell the kid it's not true. But he can't, and Mutt can't fall apart now just like Indy couldn't let go: there's something they both still have to do.
The Russian snarls a threat, makes a move and then he's down; a look, and Mutt's tossing his knife, precisely how Indy needs him to. The easy synchronicity makes Indy want to laugh, or possibly to cry. When he thinks about it, they always did understand each other a little too well.
[/fic]
So with this, and this, can I officially lay claim to a Father/Son Incest Extravaganza? Or do I need a few more installations?
In other news, Scotland is cold in winter. I was aware of this on an abstract level, of course, but it's only since autumn's kicked in that I've started to realise just what that's going to mean. I need a new scarf.