Title: "bring me a dream"
Author: monimala
Fandom: GL
Rating/Classification: adult language, slash, het, second person pov.
Disclaimer: Nope, STILL not mine and P&G would probably be horrified by this.
Summary: Filler for August 3, 2005. Sandy offers a drunk Jonathan a ride, but who's been taken for one?
He slings his arm around you and you try not to groan under the weight of him as you stumble to the car. Deliberate dead weight. Asshole. He's not too drunk to stick it to you. Of course, if you want to think about it that way, he *never* had to be drunk to stick it to you and you were pretty compliant yourself after one or two bottled imports. But everybody experiments in boarding school, don't they? That's what it's for. For fumbling around in the dark, smoking up, and playing hooky so you could do a refill run in Amsterdam. For knowing *exactly* why Jonathan gets to people the way he does. Because he's a charismatic devil and you couldn't even come close to the original when you were pretending to be him.
"Sandy, Sandy, Sandy," he chuckles, low, in your ear. "Saaaaandman." You try to ignore it, but it makes the hairs on the back of your neck rise up and other, equally disobedient, parts of you, too. Everybody thinks it's just a nickname. Something he says to get under your skin and while they're right, they would never guess that he thought of it one night while you were tucked away in this cute little Swiss ski lodge. "Sing the girls to sleep, Mister Sandman," he'd whispered, waggling his tongue at you. "Sing 'em to sleep and come with me." If nothing else, Jonathan has a spectacular tongue. Talking isn't the only thing he does smoothly. Damn him.
"Tammy can't forget me...but neither can you, huh?" He slides the hand you have firmly looped into his belt up his chest...and you'd pull it away but you have no desire to wind up sprawled on the pavement beneath him. At least this way, you're still upright. "You're fixed..." He stops, corrects himself with one of those insane grins. The kind that always got you into trouble. "You're fixated on me."
"You're dreaming," you snort. He's dragging his feet now and you have to yank on him. He always lorded it over you...the extra inches. Yeah, *those* extra inches, too. You admit it. You've always been jealous. That's no secret. Jonathan is taller than you, bigger than you, and larger than life. Not that it matters when you're both lying down. Mattered. Past tense. "You're the one who can't leave me and Tammy alone, Jon. You're the one who's fixated." You jingle his keys. "Fix. A. Ted."
"Mutually, Saaandy." He's singing again, lips close enough to tug on your earlobe and you'd punch him but that goes against the Kinder, Gentler, Sandy Foster persona you've been trying to cultivate. Plus, there's that miniscule part of you that likes what he's doing—bottled imports or no. "You love me," he whispers. "You both do."
"Bullshit. I should leave you in the street and call the cops." Of course, if you were going to do that, you would've done it by now...and you both know it. Just like you both know...Tammy does love him. How could she not? Larger than life, right?
"Tell me, Sandman, when you two are in bed, do you both get off thinking of me?" He's slurring, trying to get at your belt buckle and you jerk your hips out of the way as you unlock the passenger door. "I mean, it's got to be awkward, right? What if you both called out 'Jonathan'? Wouldn't that be a kick?"
"I hate you," you lie...which is better than the truth. Once you start being honest, you'd be blabbing it all over the place. Yes, you know full well Tammy thinks about Jonathan when she's with you, because you do, too. In fact, you're not really in a two person relationship. It's a threesome, regardless of whether he's present or not. "Fuck." That is the worst possible thought to have at the worst possible time...because he gets the jump on you and slams you against the side of the car and you picture Tammy caught between you, her head spilling back as you both kiss her and your lips meet somewhere on the side of her throat. Maybe at that little pulse that throbs when she's turned on. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."
"Missing a pronoun," he growls. He smells like booze and soap and his tongue catches on your stubble and before you know it, he's kissing you. Hard. And, well, since you're there, you take a tour. You kiss him back...and you bite.
"Fuck *you*, Jonathan," you hiss, shoving him away and tasting the sharp copper of his blood. "How's that for a pronoun?"
He actually flinches, reaching up to touch the tip of his tongue. His fingertips come away tipped red and he looks as though you went with your first impulse and hit him. That look. You know that look. He uses it all the time on Reva, on Tammy. That hurt victim. So vulnerable. He lurches back and he doesn't resist when you heave him into the car. He just looks up at you. "Sing her to sleep, Sandman," he pleads...orders? "Sing her to sleep and come with me."
"It's too late for that," you sigh, going around to the driver's side, letting yourself in. This is not Switzerland or Amsterdam or even the top of a cliff. "It's way too late for that...and we both know you'd want me to bring her along."
"Then why don't'cha?" He lifts his eyebrows, the tender Jonathan not quite replaced by the prick yet...but just give him time. "Why don't you bring her to me?"
The key in the ignition, the engine revving to life, allows you a moment to think of an answer he'll accept. An answer *you'll* accept. You've known this guy for too many years. Sometimes you think you know him better than you know yourself. Because he defines you. Because he's the worst part of you...and the best. Because he's a charismatic devil and you couldn't even come close to the original.
He's curled up on the seat, eyes closed—but not for long. He's just re-charging before he turns into the asshole again. But he almost, almost looks like he's asleep.
"Because Tammy's not like us," you say, finally. "She's too good for us."
"But we're fixated." He smiles, mockingly. Self-mockingly. Which, basically, mocks the both of you. "Fix. A. Ted. Right, Sandman?"
"Just shut up, Jonathan," you mutter, checking your rearview and your side mirrors. Looking anywhere but at him. "Shut up and sit there and put your seatbelt on."
"You love me, Sandy...you love me SO much you want to *be* me. No, wait...you already tried that!" he crows.
"I hate you," you lie, emphatically. Again. "And I don't want to be you." Once more with feeling.
You want to be Tammy.
Because he'd love you back.
--end--
August 3, 2005.