Title: "Three Claw Monte"
Fandom: "Jurassic Park 3" (spoilers ahoy)
Rating/Classification: AC for language. Slash, angst, ficlet. Grant/Billy.
Disclaimer: Other people, Crichton, blah bliddy blah. Not I.
Summary: There's a sucker born every minute and Alan Grant is one of them
after Isla Sorna.
He's thinking of doing something mundane. Selling insurance. Opening
up a used car lot. Retiring and playing canasta with his mother in an old folks community in Palm Springs. His doctor says his cholesterol is way too high and that if he doesn't slow down soon, he'll need by-pass surgery.
He ignores his doctor.
He figures that's better than saying, "If velociraptors can't do it, I don't think fettuccini fucking alfredo will."
His editors want a book about Isla Sorna. The contributions to his research, courtesy of the Kirbys, have been more than sufficient to have him digging in dirt for two lifetimes. All he wants to do is forget he ever heard the word "dinosaur." Ever felt the fetid breath of one fan across his cheek. But he can't do that...
Because he can't ignore Billy.
"Alan...?" The younger man winces as he turns to his side in the less-than-comfortable hotel room bed. He's barely healed...just released from Bethesda...but the military isn't done with either of them quite yet...hence their extended stay at a lovely establishment a few miles from base. National security and cover-ups take precedence over taped-up ribs.
He's used to this. Has done it before. But Billy hasn't.
"Go back to sleep," he says, with more of an edge than he intended, fingertips crimping the edge of the battered, dusty, hat he knows he'll never, ever, lose again. Not if he can help it. "I'll wake you in two hours for your medication."
They gave the kid good drugs. He'll give them that. Painkillers to keep
him flying. He didn't want to take them. Misery was bright in his dark eyes and he set his black-and-blue jaw and whispered, "No. I don't need them."
"If this is your way of punishing yourself for stealing the eggs...forget
it," Alan had snapped, with *twice* the edge he'd intended. "Maybe your dissertation will mysteriously go south...maybe I'll wait till you're healed and kick your ass till you can't walk...but don't go martyr on me right now."
Billy had swallowed the first dose of Vicodin with no further protests.
So, insurance. Or maybe he can take up golf. Permanently. Try and go
pro. Arnold Palmer. Jack Nicklaus. Alan Grant. 19 holes, beautifully clipped green grass, sand traps, and water hazards...no t-rexes and spinosauruses. No compys. No fucking raptors.
Except that he can't let go. And not just because the government has
kept them here for over a month. But because...because..."Damn you," he hisses, staring down at his toes scrunching into the plush carpeting.
Billy's palm is cool against his bare back...not warm, thank God, which
means the kid doesn't have a fever. "Alan...? Alan, I'm sorry," he says, barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning unit in the corner and the mini fridge.
"Quit being sorry!" he growls, swinging around and catching the bandaged fingers in his own.
"The eggs...if I hadn't...then..." He coughs, closes his eyes, and looks like death. Peaceful despite the pain.
Alan wants to shake him because it's creepy and terrifying...and so he
does. Hard. "It's not about the goddamned eggs!" Tangled in sheets up to the waist, they're quickly tangled in each other. "You fucking idiot," he hears himself say against slack, bloodless, lips. "The raptors would've chased us anyway. We would've nearly died anyway...but did you have to keep making it so EASY?"
Billy makes a sound like a yelp...and then he's kissing him back, one
hand creeping up to tangle in his thinning hair. It was simply site fucking... they would hit the sheets after a long day on a dig and a couple of beers...and they haven't done... this...since before...before Isla Sorna. No...no...Alan can't even properly say they've done *this* at all...because he's kissing Billy with something like tenderness and fierce affection and all of a sudden it's more than two 'L's and enthusiasm this lover shares with his previous.
He can't forget Isla Nublar. He can't forget Isla Sorna. He can't forget the dinosaurs, because despite all the knowledge there is to gain about this remarkable species, there is one important piece of knowledge he already has: they hurt people. Some of them even *enjoy* it.
He dreams of doorknobs turning, clutched in claws, while harsh cawing
voices crow to each other, "We found him!" He dreams of the laughing raptors eating out of Billy's chest cavity, their razor-sharp mouths smeared red. He dreams of pterodactyls sitting on telephone wire and watching the carnage, cards hanging from their beaks that judge the performance with 10s across the board.
He thinks that if he sells flood insurance he might not.
But all the insurance in the world won't make him stop caring about this
stupid, beautiful, reckless, kid who idolizes him. And that...that may just be more hazardous to his heart than cholesterol or raptors.
He kisses the top of Billy's head, murmuring, "Get some rest, Kid," and
retreating to his side of the bed.
Billy's eyes are already drooping, but his mouth, blushed pink and swollen, forms a tiny smile. "Two hours," he reminds, a half syllable away from sleep. "Wake me..." He dwindles into unintelligible murmurs and Alan simply clasps his hand under the sheets and squeezes.
He's thinking of doing something mundane.
Something that doesn't include being in love.
February 18, 2003.