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erinya_fic
A Little Knowledge (2/3)
Title: Drink Deep or Taste Not
Fandom: RPF
Rating: Light R, I suppose?
Pairings: Johnny/Keira
Disclaimer: The following work of fiction is not in any way intended to reflect or speculate on the characters, behavior, or morality, etc, of any real-life persons named, all of whom I respect intensely. It is merely extraordinarily self-indulgent fantasy on the part of the author. Please don't sue me. (I'm poor, so it wouldn't be worth it anyway.)
Summary: What Johnny knows isn't helping, either. Part II of A Little Knowledge. DMC spoilers.
Notes: Obviously, the original title mangled the quote (it's really "a little learning is a dangerous thing.") "A Little Learning" would be an entirely different fic, though. Johnny's POV here was so damn hard to write, and it came out just okay, as far as I can tell, although better than I'd hoped, which was not much. Feedback and constructive criticism is deeply appreciated. If there are weird grammar/spelling issues, blame sleep deprivation but please notify me.
Drink Deep, or Taste Not
Yeah, of course he knows. He tried to ignore it at first, but she's all too easy to read. He hears it in the nearly-concealed hitch in her voice when she speaks to him, sees it in her heightened color, the way her gaze follows him and then slides away when he looks up to meet it. It surprises him, her transparency, for young though she may be, he knows she's quite the accomplished little actress.
He begins to wonder if she wants him to know, after all.
He knows that Jamie hasn't been visiting her as much lately, although he doesn't know whether that lapse is a symptom or a cause of this...thing...she's nursing. Call it a crush. It can't be more; they both know that. He hopes.
Still, there's danger here between them. He knows that well enough; and not just because she exudes the kind of beauty that he's always found irresistible. Certainly that graceful gamine body, those luminous eyes and delicate features of hers, occasionally trouble his dreams--smooth skin, the slender curve of her waist, the shape of her against him, small pert breasts filling his hands, his name desperate on her lips as she wraps her legs around him and he sinks into her, takes her, the hot breathless Island night pulsing around them as if in approbation--but if they do, he draws on them to fuel his acting and reminds himself that he often dreams in character while on a project. Tells himself that these are Jack Sparrow's dreams, and not his own at all.
That's not what worries him.
She'd asked him, once, during the second week of shooting on Dead Man's Chest, "Johnny, do you ever…" And trailed off, tracing the rings of condensation on the table with her finger, frowning into her glass. They'd been stuck inside the hotel VIP lounge for several hours, waiting for word on whether they'd be working tomorrow in spite of increasingly dire hurricane advisories, or if the production team was going to pay to fly them all home for the duration. Confronted with forced inaction, Johnny smoked incessantly; Jack, Kevin, and Naomi began a cutthroat but well-lubricated poker tournament; Orlando, blessed by a conjugal visit-lucky son of a bitch that he was-had vanished in the direction of his suite, his lovely Kate in tow. Keira merely fidgeted, chattering brightly and inconsequentially; so the abrupt change in tone that accompanied her words made Johnny sit up a little in his chair and turn to look at her.
Curious when no further query appeared forthcoming-his full attention, now given, seemed to unnerve her, for she dropped her head and bit her lip--he prompted, "Well? Do I ever what?"
She glanced up at him suddenly, seriously; the intensity of that glance sent a shock through him, something like adrenaline. Alarm, even. It stilled his hand for a moment as he stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. But she went on to say, "When you're acting. Do you ever get…blurred? I mean, forget where you end and where your character begins?"
Relieved, he laughed. "Oh, yeah. Always. That's what acting is. The process of losing yourself." He searched his pockets for his rolling papers and the right words. Ah. "You learn everything about that character, really get to know him. Or her. Of course the edges blur." His practiced fingers made short work of his next smoke; he tongued the end, regarded her thoughtfully. "Almost like falling in love, isn't it?"
He flicked open his Zippo, and saw the spark flare in her eyes. "You want to crawl inside someone else's skin," she said softly, holding his gaze. "Only when you act, you can. You forget yourself."
"Creative abandon," he said, equally softly. "Yeah. It's a kind of happy insanity. Like love." He grinned. "Or, you know, just plain insanity. Multiple personalities. We're all a little psychotic in this business."
"Speak for yourself," she laughed. "I'm quite sane, thanks."
"Give it time," he growled. Then, struck by a thought, he leaned forward, pointing his cigarette at her for emphasis. "And if you aren't crazy yet, maybe you should be. Art, any art, is about letting go, Keira. Not holding back. Not staying safe."
"Rather like love," she said. Her face, upturned to his, glowed with the flush of discovery, her lips slightly parted, her eyes dark and wide and shining.
Sweet Christ, she was lovely. And young, so very young. He felt suddenly ancient, a tarnished old man next to her incandescent purity.
"Mmm." He drew a deep breath, sat back in his chair. "Exactly like love."
She appeared to remember that she had a drink in front of her, took a small, distracted sip. "But how do you get you back? After you've risked it all and lost yourself?"
"You don't."
"What do you mean, you don't?"
"The metaphor holds up. How do you bring yourself back from love? You don't. It changes you. Each and every time."
"But when it's over…when you go your separate ways…"
"You put yourself back together. But you won't ever be the same."
She considered this, wide-eyed. "That's…terrifying."
"Yeah. Yeah, it is. But it's worth it. It's joyous." He knocked ash off the end of his cig into the tray, quirked an eyebrow at her. "Ever been in love, Keira?"
"No." She blushed, looks away. "Yes. I…maybe. I don't know."
"Then you haven't. If you had, you'd know it."
She grimaced. "You shouldn't say things like that. You sound just like my Dad."
"I'm old enough to be," he said, meaning to remind them both.
"I'm not that young," she protested, inaccurately.
"Oh, but I am that old."
She'd shot him an odd look, then, like she wanted to say something more, but thought better of it; he had pretended not to notice. They'd been allowed to fly home that night, the separate planes that carried them skirting the edges of the gathering storm that tore through carefully-constructed sets and scuppered their production schedule for six precious weeks of Provence and Vanessa and his little ones; and he didn't think much at all of Keira when he was sprawled on the floor under joint attack by Jack and Lily-Rose, or in later hours under a wholly different brand of irresistible assault by his wife.
But when they are called back again, finally, to resume the project, and Keira presses up against his back, warm and pliant as the cameras roll and she murmurs in his ear (You do know Will taught me how to handle a sword, and that throaty voice she's using for the line makes it hard, indeed, to miss its double edge) he knows that something's changed about her in those too-short weeks. And when he turns to look at her and sees not the blithe, bubbly Miss Knightley but instead a fierce Elizabeth Swann-all powerful desire and self-righteous pride-he knows.
Keira's stopped playing it safe, and now she's well and truly lost.
He smiles; Jack Sparrow smirks. And when she tilts her face up to his, eyes half-lidded and dark with Elizabeth's lust, her breath warm on his cheek, he's lost right along with her. He forgets that he's a father, and she barely more than a child at nineteen-twenty, now, because he sent her flowers on her birthday; not that it matters, she's still young enough to be his daughter either way-forgets that he knows it's wrong to want her this way, for she's not his daughter after all, and they both know it all too well. Forgets the degree to which he's been feeling his age lately, thinks that to taste the sweet vibrancy of her would be to forget that gnawing awareness of time, of having everything to lose; thinks even that her touch might erase the cold sense of mortality from the back of his neck and the base of his spine. He forgets himself, gives in to piracy and the surge of Jack's blood pounding in his ears as it races south to his groin.
Even though they've read the script, he knows they both think for a moment that he's really going to kiss her. Perhaps Gore thinks so, too, because Johnny hears him, faintly, shouting "Cut!" It takes another moment for the directive to register before they break apart. Keira's deep flush belies her attempt at a casual grin before she flees below, muttering something about the heat.
He seats himself on one of the prop cannons, accepting the bottle of water handed to him absently as he comes back to himself, carefully piecing back together enough of Johnny to get by with from the soul of Jack, and willing his hard-on to subside.
This is going to be a long shoot, he thinks. A long project, with another whole movie to go, and he and Keira will have to play a full range of variations on this theme, carry this tension through scene after scene. And they haven't even made it to the actual Big Movie Kiss yet. Well, fuck.
And then he thinks, at least he will have his chance to taste her.
"Oh, fuck," he says, startling the makeup artist who has swooped down upon him to touch up the "raw spot" on his jaw. "Sorry, Heather. Ignore me. Ravings of a madman. Carry on with Jack's syphilis, by all means."
He wonders, not for the first time, just how closely Jack Sparrow's desires are woven into his own, and whether he'll be able to untangle them when the third movie is finally in the can, whether he knows even now which threads are which. And he wonders which of them is really crazier, in the end.
Fandom: RPF
Rating: Light R, I suppose?
Pairings: Johnny/Keira
Disclaimer: The following work of fiction is not in any way intended to reflect or speculate on the characters, behavior, or morality, etc, of any real-life persons named, all of whom I respect intensely. It is merely extraordinarily self-indulgent fantasy on the part of the author. Please don't sue me. (I'm poor, so it wouldn't be worth it anyway.)
Summary: What Johnny knows isn't helping, either. Part II of A Little Knowledge. DMC spoilers.
Notes: Obviously, the original title mangled the quote (it's really "a little learning is a dangerous thing.") "A Little Learning" would be an entirely different fic, though. Johnny's POV here was so damn hard to write, and it came out just okay, as far as I can tell, although better than I'd hoped, which was not much. Feedback and constructive criticism is deeply appreciated. If there are weird grammar/spelling issues, blame sleep deprivation but please notify me.
Drink Deep, or Taste Not
Yeah, of course he knows. He tried to ignore it at first, but she's all too easy to read. He hears it in the nearly-concealed hitch in her voice when she speaks to him, sees it in her heightened color, the way her gaze follows him and then slides away when he looks up to meet it. It surprises him, her transparency, for young though she may be, he knows she's quite the accomplished little actress.
He begins to wonder if she wants him to know, after all.
He knows that Jamie hasn't been visiting her as much lately, although he doesn't know whether that lapse is a symptom or a cause of this...thing...she's nursing. Call it a crush. It can't be more; they both know that. He hopes.
Still, there's danger here between them. He knows that well enough; and not just because she exudes the kind of beauty that he's always found irresistible. Certainly that graceful gamine body, those luminous eyes and delicate features of hers, occasionally trouble his dreams--smooth skin, the slender curve of her waist, the shape of her against him, small pert breasts filling his hands, his name desperate on her lips as she wraps her legs around him and he sinks into her, takes her, the hot breathless Island night pulsing around them as if in approbation--but if they do, he draws on them to fuel his acting and reminds himself that he often dreams in character while on a project. Tells himself that these are Jack Sparrow's dreams, and not his own at all.
That's not what worries him.
She'd asked him, once, during the second week of shooting on Dead Man's Chest, "Johnny, do you ever…" And trailed off, tracing the rings of condensation on the table with her finger, frowning into her glass. They'd been stuck inside the hotel VIP lounge for several hours, waiting for word on whether they'd be working tomorrow in spite of increasingly dire hurricane advisories, or if the production team was going to pay to fly them all home for the duration. Confronted with forced inaction, Johnny smoked incessantly; Jack, Kevin, and Naomi began a cutthroat but well-lubricated poker tournament; Orlando, blessed by a conjugal visit-lucky son of a bitch that he was-had vanished in the direction of his suite, his lovely Kate in tow. Keira merely fidgeted, chattering brightly and inconsequentially; so the abrupt change in tone that accompanied her words made Johnny sit up a little in his chair and turn to look at her.
Curious when no further query appeared forthcoming-his full attention, now given, seemed to unnerve her, for she dropped her head and bit her lip--he prompted, "Well? Do I ever what?"
She glanced up at him suddenly, seriously; the intensity of that glance sent a shock through him, something like adrenaline. Alarm, even. It stilled his hand for a moment as he stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. But she went on to say, "When you're acting. Do you ever get…blurred? I mean, forget where you end and where your character begins?"
Relieved, he laughed. "Oh, yeah. Always. That's what acting is. The process of losing yourself." He searched his pockets for his rolling papers and the right words. Ah. "You learn everything about that character, really get to know him. Or her. Of course the edges blur." His practiced fingers made short work of his next smoke; he tongued the end, regarded her thoughtfully. "Almost like falling in love, isn't it?"
He flicked open his Zippo, and saw the spark flare in her eyes. "You want to crawl inside someone else's skin," she said softly, holding his gaze. "Only when you act, you can. You forget yourself."
"Creative abandon," he said, equally softly. "Yeah. It's a kind of happy insanity. Like love." He grinned. "Or, you know, just plain insanity. Multiple personalities. We're all a little psychotic in this business."
"Speak for yourself," she laughed. "I'm quite sane, thanks."
"Give it time," he growled. Then, struck by a thought, he leaned forward, pointing his cigarette at her for emphasis. "And if you aren't crazy yet, maybe you should be. Art, any art, is about letting go, Keira. Not holding back. Not staying safe."
"Rather like love," she said. Her face, upturned to his, glowed with the flush of discovery, her lips slightly parted, her eyes dark and wide and shining.
Sweet Christ, she was lovely. And young, so very young. He felt suddenly ancient, a tarnished old man next to her incandescent purity.
"Mmm." He drew a deep breath, sat back in his chair. "Exactly like love."
She appeared to remember that she had a drink in front of her, took a small, distracted sip. "But how do you get you back? After you've risked it all and lost yourself?"
"You don't."
"What do you mean, you don't?"
"The metaphor holds up. How do you bring yourself back from love? You don't. It changes you. Each and every time."
"But when it's over…when you go your separate ways…"
"You put yourself back together. But you won't ever be the same."
She considered this, wide-eyed. "That's…terrifying."
"Yeah. Yeah, it is. But it's worth it. It's joyous." He knocked ash off the end of his cig into the tray, quirked an eyebrow at her. "Ever been in love, Keira?"
"No." She blushed, looks away. "Yes. I…maybe. I don't know."
"Then you haven't. If you had, you'd know it."
She grimaced. "You shouldn't say things like that. You sound just like my Dad."
"I'm old enough to be," he said, meaning to remind them both.
"I'm not that young," she protested, inaccurately.
"Oh, but I am that old."
She'd shot him an odd look, then, like she wanted to say something more, but thought better of it; he had pretended not to notice. They'd been allowed to fly home that night, the separate planes that carried them skirting the edges of the gathering storm that tore through carefully-constructed sets and scuppered their production schedule for six precious weeks of Provence and Vanessa and his little ones; and he didn't think much at all of Keira when he was sprawled on the floor under joint attack by Jack and Lily-Rose, or in later hours under a wholly different brand of irresistible assault by his wife.
But when they are called back again, finally, to resume the project, and Keira presses up against his back, warm and pliant as the cameras roll and she murmurs in his ear (You do know Will taught me how to handle a sword, and that throaty voice she's using for the line makes it hard, indeed, to miss its double edge) he knows that something's changed about her in those too-short weeks. And when he turns to look at her and sees not the blithe, bubbly Miss Knightley but instead a fierce Elizabeth Swann-all powerful desire and self-righteous pride-he knows.
Keira's stopped playing it safe, and now she's well and truly lost.
He smiles; Jack Sparrow smirks. And when she tilts her face up to his, eyes half-lidded and dark with Elizabeth's lust, her breath warm on his cheek, he's lost right along with her. He forgets that he's a father, and she barely more than a child at nineteen-twenty, now, because he sent her flowers on her birthday; not that it matters, she's still young enough to be his daughter either way-forgets that he knows it's wrong to want her this way, for she's not his daughter after all, and they both know it all too well. Forgets the degree to which he's been feeling his age lately, thinks that to taste the sweet vibrancy of her would be to forget that gnawing awareness of time, of having everything to lose; thinks even that her touch might erase the cold sense of mortality from the back of his neck and the base of his spine. He forgets himself, gives in to piracy and the surge of Jack's blood pounding in his ears as it races south to his groin.
Even though they've read the script, he knows they both think for a moment that he's really going to kiss her. Perhaps Gore thinks so, too, because Johnny hears him, faintly, shouting "Cut!" It takes another moment for the directive to register before they break apart. Keira's deep flush belies her attempt at a casual grin before she flees below, muttering something about the heat.
He seats himself on one of the prop cannons, accepting the bottle of water handed to him absently as he comes back to himself, carefully piecing back together enough of Johnny to get by with from the soul of Jack, and willing his hard-on to subside.
This is going to be a long shoot, he thinks. A long project, with another whole movie to go, and he and Keira will have to play a full range of variations on this theme, carry this tension through scene after scene. And they haven't even made it to the actual Big Movie Kiss yet. Well, fuck.
And then he thinks, at least he will have his chance to taste her.
"Oh, fuck," he says, startling the makeup artist who has swooped down upon him to touch up the "raw spot" on his jaw. "Sorry, Heather. Ignore me. Ravings of a madman. Carry on with Jack's syphilis, by all means."
He wonders, not for the first time, just how closely Jack Sparrow's desires are woven into his own, and whether he'll be able to untangle them when the third movie is finally in the can, whether he knows even now which threads are which. And he wonders which of them is really crazier, in the end.