Post by Griff on Jul 27, 2011 8:31:08 GMT 10
Title: Goodly, Jon
Rating: PG-13
Couple: Jon/George
Event: Love long jump
Words:~1300
Summary: After Alanna wins a duel for George's honor, he decided to conclude things with Jon.
A/N: this isn't quite the fic I promise, only because the fic I promised turned out to be not fluffy at all, and it's a growing beast on my hard drive. So, you'll likely be able to read it, anyway, when it's finished. I just needed something that could be called romantic if looked at sideways, in the dark, during a rainstorm, with curtains in the way.
-
“Jonathan,” George called down the empty corridor, halting his escape with the heavy sincerity in his voice. Jon stopped regretfully, closing his eyes as he listened to the natural slap-click of shoes on stone. It was purposeful, he knew, because George was naturally silent as death. It was easy to forget the brogued listener had killed more men in his time as Rogue than Jon was likely to do in his entire reign.
“He'll live,” George announced without preamble. “Running the lad through looked impressive, but 'Lanna knows her sword. He'll be laid up for a few weeks, but she slipped around anything important. Baird is patching him up and Ambassador Termodge is all sorts of pretty shades.”
“His wife fainted,” Jon added. “On Cythera's skirts. Gary says she's livid. Apparently, she drools.” He smiled and turned, ready to continue as they always did, Jon holding back and George keeping his distance. It hadn't always been like this, but Jon knew that was his fault, too.
He was a king. Kings did not pressure married men.
“Don't start that,” George tugged his ear with sad playfulness. “You spent the morning looking positively somber to your people while you slipped rude cracks to your wife about my delicate personage. I know you enjoyed yourself.”
“I think Thayet likes you better,” Jon chuckled. "Every time she rearranged her skirts, she stomped my feet and said I was being rude.”
“I'd sympathize, but I heard you tell the court historian to chronicle the fight with me clutching Alanna's favor to my chest.”
“I thought it added a certain ambiance to the story,” Jon smirked happily at the reminder.
George rolled his eyes and sighed, clipping his arm around Jon's shoulders and he tugged them forward into a walk. “I'm confused where I supposedly gathered this favor. She never carries a kerchief, I don't think she owns a ribbon, and the only sash she wore was holding up her pants.”
“Oh, you missed that part, then,” Jon said, recounting the tale with childish enthusiasm. “The Lioness, Sir Alanna of Trebond, Olau, and Baronness of Pirate's Swoop, King's Champion under the Reign of King Jonathan the III, and his beautiful wife, Thayet jian Wilima, answered her king's call to stand forth on the field of battle to defend the honor of her husband, the brave and noble Baron Cooper; the kind-spirited common-born servant of the king who proven himself valiant despite his birth when he stood stoically among the knights of Tortall during the Tirragen and Eldorne Rebellion lead by Duke Roger, the king's own cousin, against the goodly Jonathan on the day of his coronation.”
“Goodly, Jon?” George asked, pained.
“Hush, I am very goodly. I'm goodly at chess. I'm goodly at poker. I'm goodly at mocking Lord Termodge long-winded speech as to why his comments about me and my court were entirely founded and not at all insulting and the whole mess was Alanna's womanly vapors acting up.”
“You still haven't explained what favor I wept into as Sir Kalvan's blade sang menacingly down, down, ever slowly downward– which is likely why he lost – towards my true love's heart.”
Jon smiled, feeling the shake of George's shoulders as he laughed, bright green eyes dancing merrily in his tan face. George was a beautiful man, not simply for the strength of his body and his captivating bearing, but for his humble confidence and earthly features. He was strong in himself without vanity – a skill Jon had never mastered – and because of his comfort, he cared little for impressing his appearance on anyone else. His hair was combed, but hardly stylish, his clothes were clean, but too simple for fashion. He was solid and enduring, and Jon wanted to kiss his lips because they curled into a smile without shame and his eyes crinkled without a though to age and wrinkles.
“Jon?” George stopped, watching him thoughtfully.
“Ah,” Jon shook his head, “Sorry.”
“I interrupted you,” George said without a hint of question. “You disappeared as soon as Termodge issues his formal apology. It isn't like you. You've been tense over this whole ordeal; I've noticed.”
“It's nothing, George,” Jon pushed away, separating them. “It's simply the first time I've had to issue a challenge of insult for the crown.”
“But that's exactly it, isn't it?” George challenged, allowing him his space, even as he cornered him with words. “You didn't issue a challenge of insult for the crown. You issued it for me.”
Blasted man was too bloody smart, Jon cursed, even as he knew his actions had been transparent. “I ennobled you. A question of your nobility is an insult to me, which is an insult to Tortall.”
“Except you didn't issue the challenge after he called me a fatherless street squalor.”
“Why are you pressing this, George?” Jon snapped abruptly, anger rushing through him hot and bitter. “What will it accomplish? Do you want a confession? You already have it. Do you want to hear how his blatant wanton entitlement boiled my blood, how I wanted to wield my sword myself and declare you mine? It's bloody well and good, isn't it? Here, remind me I'm a mortal man and the world doesn't bend to my whims. You do it so often, but this, reminding me I can't have this is the sharpest tool you have.”
“Stop it,” George said sharply, “You claim to love me one moment and then toss my integrity in the dirt the next. I'm worried about you, Jon, but I won't accept your sneering any more than I'll settle for Termodge's.”
“I am not-”
“Going to call me a whore as well, Jon? It would be an improvement. That would be the first insult you didn't mean.”
“Why do you do this,” Jon yelled, throwing his dignity by the wayside, letting his temper rage openly. “You call my bluff and cut me open and expect me to greet you with a polite 'Oh, thank you', as if salting my wounds is exactly the sort of pain I needed,” Jon jabbed a finger hard in his chest. “You're a better man than me, you always have been, but by all the gods, George, you are still a cruel one.”
Jon expected an tirade in return, but to his surprise, George dropped his head and said regretfully, “I don't mean to be. I worry and I can't leave well enough alone, I know. But, Jon, you're hurting and I can't stand that. I keep pretending it isn't my fault, that I can snap my fingers and solve any problem, but I can't, can I?”
Jon's anger deflated, leaving him tired and hollow as he shook his head and stepped back. “No, you can't,” he agreed.
“But,” to his shock, George caught him by the wrist and pulled him back. His green eyes were serious as he told Jon, without a hint of question, “I can fix this one, can't I?”
“George-” Jon never managed to complete his thought and, later he wouldn't remember whether he was objecting or asking, but the hot press of press cut him off and he learned there were some things a king would never learn on his own.
Jon nearly yelled when George pulled away sharply, a look of thoughtful consideration on his face. If he changed his mind, Jon was going to murder him.
Thankfully, George merely shook his head and gasped out, “Not the place.”
But, apparently, the small scribing office to their left was exactly the place. It had a convenient flat surface, plenty of empty space, and a chair, right there, for them to toss all of their clothing.
Of course, later, when Alanna appeared tired and stunned, they'd realize it didn't have a lock.
Rating: PG-13
Couple: Jon/George
Event: Love long jump
Words:~1300
Summary: After Alanna wins a duel for George's honor, he decided to conclude things with Jon.
A/N: this isn't quite the fic I promise, only because the fic I promised turned out to be not fluffy at all, and it's a growing beast on my hard drive. So, you'll likely be able to read it, anyway, when it's finished. I just needed something that could be called romantic if looked at sideways, in the dark, during a rainstorm, with curtains in the way.
-
“Jonathan,” George called down the empty corridor, halting his escape with the heavy sincerity in his voice. Jon stopped regretfully, closing his eyes as he listened to the natural slap-click of shoes on stone. It was purposeful, he knew, because George was naturally silent as death. It was easy to forget the brogued listener had killed more men in his time as Rogue than Jon was likely to do in his entire reign.
“He'll live,” George announced without preamble. “Running the lad through looked impressive, but 'Lanna knows her sword. He'll be laid up for a few weeks, but she slipped around anything important. Baird is patching him up and Ambassador Termodge is all sorts of pretty shades.”
“His wife fainted,” Jon added. “On Cythera's skirts. Gary says she's livid. Apparently, she drools.” He smiled and turned, ready to continue as they always did, Jon holding back and George keeping his distance. It hadn't always been like this, but Jon knew that was his fault, too.
He was a king. Kings did not pressure married men.
“Don't start that,” George tugged his ear with sad playfulness. “You spent the morning looking positively somber to your people while you slipped rude cracks to your wife about my delicate personage. I know you enjoyed yourself.”
“I think Thayet likes you better,” Jon chuckled. "Every time she rearranged her skirts, she stomped my feet and said I was being rude.”
“I'd sympathize, but I heard you tell the court historian to chronicle the fight with me clutching Alanna's favor to my chest.”
“I thought it added a certain ambiance to the story,” Jon smirked happily at the reminder.
George rolled his eyes and sighed, clipping his arm around Jon's shoulders and he tugged them forward into a walk. “I'm confused where I supposedly gathered this favor. She never carries a kerchief, I don't think she owns a ribbon, and the only sash she wore was holding up her pants.”
“Oh, you missed that part, then,” Jon said, recounting the tale with childish enthusiasm. “The Lioness, Sir Alanna of Trebond, Olau, and Baronness of Pirate's Swoop, King's Champion under the Reign of King Jonathan the III, and his beautiful wife, Thayet jian Wilima, answered her king's call to stand forth on the field of battle to defend the honor of her husband, the brave and noble Baron Cooper; the kind-spirited common-born servant of the king who proven himself valiant despite his birth when he stood stoically among the knights of Tortall during the Tirragen and Eldorne Rebellion lead by Duke Roger, the king's own cousin, against the goodly Jonathan on the day of his coronation.”
“Goodly, Jon?” George asked, pained.
“Hush, I am very goodly. I'm goodly at chess. I'm goodly at poker. I'm goodly at mocking Lord Termodge long-winded speech as to why his comments about me and my court were entirely founded and not at all insulting and the whole mess was Alanna's womanly vapors acting up.”
“You still haven't explained what favor I wept into as Sir Kalvan's blade sang menacingly down, down, ever slowly downward– which is likely why he lost – towards my true love's heart.”
Jon smiled, feeling the shake of George's shoulders as he laughed, bright green eyes dancing merrily in his tan face. George was a beautiful man, not simply for the strength of his body and his captivating bearing, but for his humble confidence and earthly features. He was strong in himself without vanity – a skill Jon had never mastered – and because of his comfort, he cared little for impressing his appearance on anyone else. His hair was combed, but hardly stylish, his clothes were clean, but too simple for fashion. He was solid and enduring, and Jon wanted to kiss his lips because they curled into a smile without shame and his eyes crinkled without a though to age and wrinkles.
“Jon?” George stopped, watching him thoughtfully.
“Ah,” Jon shook his head, “Sorry.”
“I interrupted you,” George said without a hint of question. “You disappeared as soon as Termodge issues his formal apology. It isn't like you. You've been tense over this whole ordeal; I've noticed.”
“It's nothing, George,” Jon pushed away, separating them. “It's simply the first time I've had to issue a challenge of insult for the crown.”
“But that's exactly it, isn't it?” George challenged, allowing him his space, even as he cornered him with words. “You didn't issue a challenge of insult for the crown. You issued it for me.”
Blasted man was too bloody smart, Jon cursed, even as he knew his actions had been transparent. “I ennobled you. A question of your nobility is an insult to me, which is an insult to Tortall.”
“Except you didn't issue the challenge after he called me a fatherless street squalor.”
“Why are you pressing this, George?” Jon snapped abruptly, anger rushing through him hot and bitter. “What will it accomplish? Do you want a confession? You already have it. Do you want to hear how his blatant wanton entitlement boiled my blood, how I wanted to wield my sword myself and declare you mine? It's bloody well and good, isn't it? Here, remind me I'm a mortal man and the world doesn't bend to my whims. You do it so often, but this, reminding me I can't have this is the sharpest tool you have.”
“Stop it,” George said sharply, “You claim to love me one moment and then toss my integrity in the dirt the next. I'm worried about you, Jon, but I won't accept your sneering any more than I'll settle for Termodge's.”
“I am not-”
“Going to call me a whore as well, Jon? It would be an improvement. That would be the first insult you didn't mean.”
“Why do you do this,” Jon yelled, throwing his dignity by the wayside, letting his temper rage openly. “You call my bluff and cut me open and expect me to greet you with a polite 'Oh, thank you', as if salting my wounds is exactly the sort of pain I needed,” Jon jabbed a finger hard in his chest. “You're a better man than me, you always have been, but by all the gods, George, you are still a cruel one.”
Jon expected an tirade in return, but to his surprise, George dropped his head and said regretfully, “I don't mean to be. I worry and I can't leave well enough alone, I know. But, Jon, you're hurting and I can't stand that. I keep pretending it isn't my fault, that I can snap my fingers and solve any problem, but I can't, can I?”
Jon's anger deflated, leaving him tired and hollow as he shook his head and stepped back. “No, you can't,” he agreed.
“But,” to his shock, George caught him by the wrist and pulled him back. His green eyes were serious as he told Jon, without a hint of question, “I can fix this one, can't I?”
“George-” Jon never managed to complete his thought and, later he wouldn't remember whether he was objecting or asking, but the hot press of press cut him off and he learned there were some things a king would never learn on his own.
Jon nearly yelled when George pulled away sharply, a look of thoughtful consideration on his face. If he changed his mind, Jon was going to murder him.
Thankfully, George merely shook his head and gasped out, “Not the place.”
But, apparently, the small scribing office to their left was exactly the place. It had a convenient flat surface, plenty of empty space, and a chair, right there, for them to toss all of their clothing.
Of course, later, when Alanna appeared tired and stunned, they'd realize it didn't have a lock.