Requested ficlet: Succession [EQ; for dune_master ]
Another one from the prompt post.
Title: “Succession”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: G
Timeline: post-movie
Summary: For every action, there is a reaction. John Preston learns it the hard way. [very mildly hinted Jurgen/Preston if you squint the hell out of your eyes]
Disclaimer: Equilibrium belongs to Kurt Wimmer and Dimension Films.
Prompt: consequences for dune_master.
SUCCESSION
“For every action, there is a reaction,” said Jurgen in a grave Monastery instructor voice. “And consequences. One would think a grown man like you should know that.”
Preston, to whom admonishments were addressed, lay sprawled on the sofa, looking lifeless and green. The good old spectacular green that Libria had been completely missing out on during the past n number of years. He didn’t seem to catch the meaning of Jurgen’s didactic tirade, not at once at least. When it finally reached him, his eyes opened a fraction and he said, philosophically:
“Blegh.”
Jurgen rolled his eyes. Without the daily threat of being discovered by the Tetragrammaton, the self-destructive instincts that were already natural for any human being off Prozium blossomed beyond control. If Preston had listened to Jurgen and remained mindful of how much alcohol he consumed at the party that the Resistance activists had thrown in the Underground to commemorate years of hiding, he would have saved himself the embarrassment of being dragged home by his prepubescent son, drunk as a - Jurgen’s imagination failed him - Cleric off Prozium.
Jurgen snorted quietly. This called for a special entry in the encyclopaedia of the new world that a couple of his friends were currently working on.
The aforementioned overtly responsible son was by the way perched on the sofa arm-rest, looking smug and snickering mercilessly at his father’s predicament.
“At least tell me you walked,” sighed Jurgen. “Drunk or underage driving is something the world most definitely did not miss under Father’s reign.”
“Considering how many junior Clerics have been relegated to traffic police?” Robbie scoffed. “You bet.”
Jurgen flashed him a pointed you-are-not-helping look.
“Hey, John!” beamed Robbie, skillfully ignoring the glare. “I learnt a new word from Robbie Taylor today. It describes you.”
To his credit, Preston managed to squint, indicating interest. Robbie’s grin grew even wider, which Jurgen decidedly did not like.
“Shitfaced!” declared Robbie with pride, and withdrew into the other room before Jurgen could kick him out with his own hand.
“Are all his friends such smartasses?” he asked half-rhetorically, sliding on the sofa and holding a mug of hot liquid to John’s mouth and forcing him to take a gulp.
“Yeah,” Preston exhaled. He grimaced; the drink gargled in his throat. “Half of them are called Robbie, too.”
Jurgen shuddered at the thought of an army of identical glib, impudent youngsters; that alone would have been enough to overthrow the regime if they had only given it a thought. One thing about Robbie’s name baffled Jurgen: why would a senseless family use the affectionate contraction to name their child? He had tried asking Preston about it, but apparently the father had “no idea”.
“Nnngh,” Preston groaned, teeth clattering against the rim of the mug. “What’s in there?”
“Tea. Strong sweet tea. Come on, finish it.”
“I’ll throw up.”
“Go ahead, but first, finish the tea.”
Preston squeezed his eyes shut and drank on heroically. Naturally, within a few seconds both the contents of the mug and the contents of his stomach were on the floor. He released another long-drawn-out moan of suffering and dropped his head back on the cushion.
“Never gonna drink again.”
“Sure you will,” Jurgen chuckled, looking wearily at the puddle. “Just not this much.”
He was about to go get a rag to clean up the mess when Preston’s hand suddenly moved spasmodically and assaulted the front of his sweater. Preston tugged at the fabric, forcing Jurgen to lean closer.
“It’s your f-fault,” he slurred through clenched teeth.
“Certainly,” said Jurgen, confidentially. “I initiated a revolution just to get you drunk.”
He pried Preston’s fingers loose gently. Preston’s eyelids drooped shut drowsily; he inclined his head slightly, looking more vulnerable than Jurgen ever remembered him to do. Jurgen smiled and trailed his fingers down John’s temple, brushing a few sweat-drenched strands of hair aside. At times, the newly clean Librians were dumb and dumber, but Jurgen would not stop them from making these mistakes even if he could. After all, it was a very human experience.
“He’ll be fine,” Jurgen said when one of the kids came in. “Should have seen my first time.” He looked up to see Lisa standing in the doorway, watching him with apprehensive eyes. He frowned. “Everything okay?”
She gave him her usual secretive smile, barely visible upon her lips.
“Mom used to do that,” she whispered. “When he was asleep.”
Jurgen’s gaze flickered back to the sleeping Preston. He was still sifting his fingers through Preston’s slightly grown hair. Oh, well. Someone had to take care of heroes that couldn’t take care of themselves.
April 24, 2010
Title: “Succession”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: G
Timeline: post-movie
Summary: For every action, there is a reaction. John Preston learns it the hard way. [very mildly hinted Jurgen/Preston if you squint the hell out of your eyes]
Disclaimer: Equilibrium belongs to Kurt Wimmer and Dimension Films.
Prompt: consequences for dune_master.
SUCCESSION
“For every action, there is a reaction,” said Jurgen in a grave Monastery instructor voice. “And consequences. One would think a grown man like you should know that.”
Preston, to whom admonishments were addressed, lay sprawled on the sofa, looking lifeless and green. The good old spectacular green that Libria had been completely missing out on during the past n number of years. He didn’t seem to catch the meaning of Jurgen’s didactic tirade, not at once at least. When it finally reached him, his eyes opened a fraction and he said, philosophically:
“Blegh.”
Jurgen rolled his eyes. Without the daily threat of being discovered by the Tetragrammaton, the self-destructive instincts that were already natural for any human being off Prozium blossomed beyond control. If Preston had listened to Jurgen and remained mindful of how much alcohol he consumed at the party that the Resistance activists had thrown in the Underground to commemorate years of hiding, he would have saved himself the embarrassment of being dragged home by his prepubescent son, drunk as a - Jurgen’s imagination failed him - Cleric off Prozium.
Jurgen snorted quietly. This called for a special entry in the encyclopaedia of the new world that a couple of his friends were currently working on.
The aforementioned overtly responsible son was by the way perched on the sofa arm-rest, looking smug and snickering mercilessly at his father’s predicament.
“At least tell me you walked,” sighed Jurgen. “Drunk or underage driving is something the world most definitely did not miss under Father’s reign.”
“Considering how many junior Clerics have been relegated to traffic police?” Robbie scoffed. “You bet.”
Jurgen flashed him a pointed you-are-not-helping look.
“Hey, John!” beamed Robbie, skillfully ignoring the glare. “I learnt a new word from Robbie Taylor today. It describes you.”
To his credit, Preston managed to squint, indicating interest. Robbie’s grin grew even wider, which Jurgen decidedly did not like.
“Shitfaced!” declared Robbie with pride, and withdrew into the other room before Jurgen could kick him out with his own hand.
“Are all his friends such smartasses?” he asked half-rhetorically, sliding on the sofa and holding a mug of hot liquid to John’s mouth and forcing him to take a gulp.
“Yeah,” Preston exhaled. He grimaced; the drink gargled in his throat. “Half of them are called Robbie, too.”
Jurgen shuddered at the thought of an army of identical glib, impudent youngsters; that alone would have been enough to overthrow the regime if they had only given it a thought. One thing about Robbie’s name baffled Jurgen: why would a senseless family use the affectionate contraction to name their child? He had tried asking Preston about it, but apparently the father had “no idea”.
“Nnngh,” Preston groaned, teeth clattering against the rim of the mug. “What’s in there?”
“Tea. Strong sweet tea. Come on, finish it.”
“I’ll throw up.”
“Go ahead, but first, finish the tea.”
Preston squeezed his eyes shut and drank on heroically. Naturally, within a few seconds both the contents of the mug and the contents of his stomach were on the floor. He released another long-drawn-out moan of suffering and dropped his head back on the cushion.
“Never gonna drink again.”
“Sure you will,” Jurgen chuckled, looking wearily at the puddle. “Just not this much.”
He was about to go get a rag to clean up the mess when Preston’s hand suddenly moved spasmodically and assaulted the front of his sweater. Preston tugged at the fabric, forcing Jurgen to lean closer.
“It’s your f-fault,” he slurred through clenched teeth.
“Certainly,” said Jurgen, confidentially. “I initiated a revolution just to get you drunk.”
He pried Preston’s fingers loose gently. Preston’s eyelids drooped shut drowsily; he inclined his head slightly, looking more vulnerable than Jurgen ever remembered him to do. Jurgen smiled and trailed his fingers down John’s temple, brushing a few sweat-drenched strands of hair aside. At times, the newly clean Librians were dumb and dumber, but Jurgen would not stop them from making these mistakes even if he could. After all, it was a very human experience.
“He’ll be fine,” Jurgen said when one of the kids came in. “Should have seen my first time.” He looked up to see Lisa standing in the doorway, watching him with apprehensive eyes. He frowned. “Everything okay?”
She gave him her usual secretive smile, barely visible upon her lips.
“Mom used to do that,” she whispered. “When he was asleep.”
Jurgen’s gaze flickered back to the sleeping Preston. He was still sifting his fingers through Preston’s slightly grown hair. Oh, well. Someone had to take care of heroes that couldn’t take care of themselves.
April 24, 2010