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Atlas Shrugged (Reardon/Tony, Reardon/d'Anconia)
Title: Acceptance
Fandom: Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand
Pairings: Hank Reardon x Tony (aka Non-Absolute or Wet Nurse), Hank Reardon x Francisco d'Anconia
Rating: PG-13 for boy-kissing
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, including Hank Reardon, Francisco d'Anconia and Non-Absolute/Wet Nurse are the property of Ayn Rand and her estate. The author in no way profits from this fic.
Summary: A re-imagining of the scene where Reardon returns to his mills to find rioting, and is told of Atlantis.
Notes: Some text lifted directly from Atlas Shrugged, but altered, out of order, interwoven and otherwise made my own.
[edited for typos and formatting 07 feb 2015]
The boy's head dropped on Reardon's shoulder, hesitantly, almost as if this were a presumption. Reardon bent down and pressed his lips to the corner of a bloody, dust streaked mouth. The boy jerked back, raising his head with a shock of incredulous, indignant astonishment.
"Do you know what you did?" the boy whispered, as if unable to believe that it was meant for him.
"Put your head down," said Reardon gruffly, "and I'll do it again."
The boy's head dropped, and Reardon kissed his forehead, then his fluttering eyelids and finally his slack mouth. He swept his tongue past the boy's lips, tasted the sweet copper of his blood and the heavy iron of his nearing death. The boy lay still, accepting the kiss but not strong enough for anything more.
"I...I like you very much Mr. Reardon," the boy said softly, and Reardon could see the strength it had taken to speak.
"Hush," Reardon said gently, "I know it." The boy's features had no power to form a smile, but it was a smile that spoke in his glance.
There was no convulsion in the boy's face as his head fell back; he looked as if he had found pure serenity. Reardon walked on, feeling in his arms the brief stab of convulsion in the body, that last cry of protest, and Reardon went on slowly, not altering his pace, even though he knew that no caution was necessary any longer. He walked, as tribute to the young life that had ended in his arms. It gave some small direction to his boiling anger. Some small outlet for the pure rage he felt, not only for those who had put a bullet through the body of the boy in his arms, but for the entire system that had delivered him, unarmed, to his place of execution.
Reardon went through the gates of the mills, barely noticing the guards who let him enter, who stared at his face and his burden. He did not pause to listen to their words, only walking on slowly toward the wedge of light which was the open door of the hospital building. Stepping in, he gently laid the boy's still body on a bed, smoothing his hair back from his wide, unseeing eyes. The world seemed in a hush as he leaned down, leaving the boy with one last kiss, sour with blood and death.
Mind still whirling with the death of the boy and deep hatred of the system that had killed him, Reardon found his way blindly up to his office. He did not really realize he was there until he was calling "enter!" in reply to a knock on the door. And then reality hit him like a sucker punch to the gut, because standing in the doorway, looking as though he were dressed in white tie and tails, not dirt and coveralls, was Francisco d'Anconia. He was shocked to stillness, and then Francisco grinned, the smile of greeting to a childhood friend on a summer morning, as if nothing else had ever been possible between them, and Reardon could not help but smile in response. Some part of Reardon felt an incredulous wonder, but another, larger part knew that this was irrefutably right.
"You've been torturing yourself for months," Francisco said almost gently, as if to spare Reardon any more pain as he approached. "Wondering what words to use to ask my forgiveness, wondering if you had the right to ask it. But you must know Reardon, it isn't necessary. There's nothing to ask or to forgive." Reardon closed his mouth, tongue flickering over his dry lips, tasting ashes and blood.
"Yes," Reardon said simply, because that was the only answer necessary. "Yes, I know it."
Francisco sat down on the couch beside him, and slowly moved his hand over Reardon's forehead, then into his hair and down, to rest gently on the back of Reardon's neck. Reardon's breath quickened in anticipation, and Francisco did not disappoint him, leaning in to kiss him gently, a soft sweet promise, a healing touch that closed the past.
"There's only one thing I want to tell you," Reardon said when they parted, and Francisco lowered his head slightly in acceptance. "I want you to hear it from me," Reardon said, reaching up to run his fingers along Francisco's soot smudged face, the curve of his lush mouth.
"You kept your oath," Reardon said softly. "You were my friend. I wanted...I wanted to find you Francisco, but I had no right to look for you. No right, and all this time...all this time-" Francisco smiled, leaning in to stop Reardon's mouth with another kiss, capturing the hand that gestured at his filthy coveralls.
"I didn't think you'd mind," Francisco said cheekily when they parted. "You offered me the job yourself." Reardon smiled warmly in remembrance, reaching back up to again trace Francisco's face, as if uncertain the other man were quite real.
"How long?" Reardon had to ask, and Francisco smiled.
"On the morning you were reading my farewell message over New York, I was reporting here for my first shift as your furnace foreman," Francisco replied. Reardon gasped softly, things clicking into place in his mind.
"That night," Reardon said in soft wonder, "at James Taggart's wedding, when you said you were after your greatest conquest...you meant me, didn't you?" The warm look on Francisco's face faded as he nodded, into a look of serenity.
"Of course," Francisco said firmly, drawing himself up slightly, as if for a solemn task. "I have a great deal to tell you," Francisco said, hand stroking gently along Reardon's thigh, unwilling to give up physical contact completely. "But first," he said, eyes still smiling even if his mouth wasn't, "will you repeat a word you once offered me and I...I had to reject, because I knew that I was not free to accept it?" Reardon smiled.
"What word, Francisco?" Reardon asked. Francisco inclined his head in acceptance and answered:
"Thank you, Hank," then raised his head and kissed Hank once more. "Now I can tell you the things I've come here to say. Now you are ready."
Fandom: Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand
Pairings: Hank Reardon x Tony (aka Non-Absolute or Wet Nurse), Hank Reardon x Francisco d'Anconia
Rating: PG-13 for boy-kissing
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, including Hank Reardon, Francisco d'Anconia and Non-Absolute/Wet Nurse are the property of Ayn Rand and her estate. The author in no way profits from this fic.
Summary: A re-imagining of the scene where Reardon returns to his mills to find rioting, and is told of Atlantis.
Notes: Some text lifted directly from Atlas Shrugged, but altered, out of order, interwoven and otherwise made my own.
[edited for typos and formatting 07 feb 2015]
The boy's head dropped on Reardon's shoulder, hesitantly, almost as if this were a presumption. Reardon bent down and pressed his lips to the corner of a bloody, dust streaked mouth. The boy jerked back, raising his head with a shock of incredulous, indignant astonishment.
"Do you know what you did?" the boy whispered, as if unable to believe that it was meant for him.
"Put your head down," said Reardon gruffly, "and I'll do it again."
The boy's head dropped, and Reardon kissed his forehead, then his fluttering eyelids and finally his slack mouth. He swept his tongue past the boy's lips, tasted the sweet copper of his blood and the heavy iron of his nearing death. The boy lay still, accepting the kiss but not strong enough for anything more.
"I...I like you very much Mr. Reardon," the boy said softly, and Reardon could see the strength it had taken to speak.
"Hush," Reardon said gently, "I know it." The boy's features had no power to form a smile, but it was a smile that spoke in his glance.
There was no convulsion in the boy's face as his head fell back; he looked as if he had found pure serenity. Reardon walked on, feeling in his arms the brief stab of convulsion in the body, that last cry of protest, and Reardon went on slowly, not altering his pace, even though he knew that no caution was necessary any longer. He walked, as tribute to the young life that had ended in his arms. It gave some small direction to his boiling anger. Some small outlet for the pure rage he felt, not only for those who had put a bullet through the body of the boy in his arms, but for the entire system that had delivered him, unarmed, to his place of execution.
Reardon went through the gates of the mills, barely noticing the guards who let him enter, who stared at his face and his burden. He did not pause to listen to their words, only walking on slowly toward the wedge of light which was the open door of the hospital building. Stepping in, he gently laid the boy's still body on a bed, smoothing his hair back from his wide, unseeing eyes. The world seemed in a hush as he leaned down, leaving the boy with one last kiss, sour with blood and death.
Mind still whirling with the death of the boy and deep hatred of the system that had killed him, Reardon found his way blindly up to his office. He did not really realize he was there until he was calling "enter!" in reply to a knock on the door. And then reality hit him like a sucker punch to the gut, because standing in the doorway, looking as though he were dressed in white tie and tails, not dirt and coveralls, was Francisco d'Anconia. He was shocked to stillness, and then Francisco grinned, the smile of greeting to a childhood friend on a summer morning, as if nothing else had ever been possible between them, and Reardon could not help but smile in response. Some part of Reardon felt an incredulous wonder, but another, larger part knew that this was irrefutably right.
"You've been torturing yourself for months," Francisco said almost gently, as if to spare Reardon any more pain as he approached. "Wondering what words to use to ask my forgiveness, wondering if you had the right to ask it. But you must know Reardon, it isn't necessary. There's nothing to ask or to forgive." Reardon closed his mouth, tongue flickering over his dry lips, tasting ashes and blood.
"Yes," Reardon said simply, because that was the only answer necessary. "Yes, I know it."
Francisco sat down on the couch beside him, and slowly moved his hand over Reardon's forehead, then into his hair and down, to rest gently on the back of Reardon's neck. Reardon's breath quickened in anticipation, and Francisco did not disappoint him, leaning in to kiss him gently, a soft sweet promise, a healing touch that closed the past.
"There's only one thing I want to tell you," Reardon said when they parted, and Francisco lowered his head slightly in acceptance. "I want you to hear it from me," Reardon said, reaching up to run his fingers along Francisco's soot smudged face, the curve of his lush mouth.
"You kept your oath," Reardon said softly. "You were my friend. I wanted...I wanted to find you Francisco, but I had no right to look for you. No right, and all this time...all this time-" Francisco smiled, leaning in to stop Reardon's mouth with another kiss, capturing the hand that gestured at his filthy coveralls.
"I didn't think you'd mind," Francisco said cheekily when they parted. "You offered me the job yourself." Reardon smiled warmly in remembrance, reaching back up to again trace Francisco's face, as if uncertain the other man were quite real.
"How long?" Reardon had to ask, and Francisco smiled.
"On the morning you were reading my farewell message over New York, I was reporting here for my first shift as your furnace foreman," Francisco replied. Reardon gasped softly, things clicking into place in his mind.
"That night," Reardon said in soft wonder, "at James Taggart's wedding, when you said you were after your greatest conquest...you meant me, didn't you?" The warm look on Francisco's face faded as he nodded, into a look of serenity.
"Of course," Francisco said firmly, drawing himself up slightly, as if for a solemn task. "I have a great deal to tell you," Francisco said, hand stroking gently along Reardon's thigh, unwilling to give up physical contact completely. "But first," he said, eyes still smiling even if his mouth wasn't, "will you repeat a word you once offered me and I...I had to reject, because I knew that I was not free to accept it?" Reardon smiled.
"What word, Francisco?" Reardon asked. Francisco inclined his head in acceptance and answered:
"Thank you, Hank," then raised his head and kissed Hank once more. "Now I can tell you the things I've come here to say. Now you are ready."