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rareslashMore Malcolm in the Middle fic. I've caught the bug, apparently ;) Feedback appreciated, as ever.
Title: Clarathea
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
girlofprey
Pairing: Spangler/Francis
Warnings: PG-13, to be safe. Slashy thoughts, mainly.
‘I am Lolita’s father/I am her father…’
Commandant Spangler was a strict man. That much was obvious to anyone who met him. And he ran a strict academy. His boys were in the military, after all, and he made damn sure they knew it. No cadet of his left without at least knowing how to march, how to wear (really wear) a uniform, and how to salute with something approaching respect. No corridor in his academy was left littered, scuffed, or muddy. No bed was left ‘rumpled’ or ‘messy’, or ‘slept in’. No cadet’s hair was a quarter-inch over army regulations within an hour of their arrival.
But the thing he was most proud of was that in all his years of accepting and watching over and teaching boys – in all his years of disciplining boys, of assigning them push-ups and laps and cold showers – of boys in the corridors, in the halls, at the tables, sweating in the gyms, showering in the bathrooms, sleeping in the beds, standing to attention in his office or running wild outside – he had never touched a single one of them. And lord knows he’d been tempted. But he never had. He never even looked for too long. Never even considered it for more than an excusable second. Discipline was his specialty after all; and he prized it most of all in himself.
But, like most of the rules he laid down, it was something Francis Wilkerson seemed set to destroy.
Francis Wilkerson, who never wore his uniform when he could get away with a baggy t-shirt and sweatpants.
Francis Wilkerson, who only ever seemed to excel at pool and trouble.
Francis Wilkerson, who he’d pretty much given up on ever wringing a decent citizen out of, never mind a decent soldier. Whose hair was the same colour as the long grass behind the academy where he’d caught him smoking so many times. Whose eyes were the same blue as the sky he invariably stared at throughout all of his classes.
And it still wasn’t right. In fact, it was even more wrong, because the last thing a boy that far gone needed was his teacher, his guide, fantasising about him. But Francis sits in his office in the very definition of trouble, and just smirks at him, just looks up at him, challengingly, from under heavy dark lashes, and he finds himself thinking words like ‘powder’ and ‘cornsilk’, and ‘oh Lord’.
He stares down into that defiant gaze and wonders if Francis might not welcome the opportunity to break another rule.
But then for Francis, letting people know he was breaking the rules was always half the fun.
Even the other cadets seem to take a similar attitude to young Francis. Some roughhousing and bullying are par for the course in the military – but when an entire regiment gangs up on one of its members in particular like that, there’s only one thing it tends to mean. Although it wasn’t as bad as it had been – the beatings were much less frequent now, and Francis had even made a few friends – but oh, they did still enjoy watching him get punished. Running laps around the fields while the rest of them were coming in for the night, doing some sort of work down in the grounds when the rest of them were just getting up. Working, puffing, sweating, to the best of his ability. It was an appealing sight…
Which had nothing to do with Francis’ punishments, of course. He managed that just fine on his own. Every night almost, caught doing something. The set of accomplices varied, but always always him amongst them, always there too.
Even in a group you could always pick him out. Even somewhere in the back, even just ‘along for the ride’. Always the rest of them tense, poker-straight, scared, guilty, and always him, slouching, somehow, in his uniform, lips already curving into a smile, blue eyes flashing.
And then back to his office for punishment, and working it off in the fields the next day, lean arms and legs pumping, and then caught again in the evening, starting all over again, round and round, unchanging, forever.
The other night it was moonshine he was caught with, him and five or so other boys. He can still see him with his eyes closed, blue eyes blinking in the sudden glare of the flashlight illuminating him, his cohorts, the long grass at his feet, skin bleached almost white in it. And a smile was starting even then at the corners of his lips. He expects to be caught by now. Waits for it, even. Likes it.
Is maybe even waiting for something else…
Spangler looks at his clock. Late, very late. He sighs. He thinks about this too much, far, far too much. Inexcusably.
He pushes himself away from his desk and all the work he’s not doing, and lacing his robe shut, he leaves his office for the night. Heads down the corridor, to the kitchens. Water, to go with the Scotch nightcap in his room, and then a few hours of sweet oblivion.
The corridors are silent, of course, and dark. Splashes of moonlight light them up at regular intervals, coming from the windowed rooms on either side, and who, oh, who should he see just up ahead of him, but Francis, of course, Francis, the bane of his life? The moonlight rhythmically washing over his skin, clothes, hair; his steps as silent as the corridor itself. Moving like an imp, a dream. Oblivious – so far.
“ Bad dreams, cadet? ” His voice low, but carrying. Never breaking his stride.
He spins immediately on his heel, like an animal caught in a snare. Surprised for once. But before Spangler even comes to a measured stop a few feet away from him, he’s over it, relaxing. Spangler can see it in his eyes – ‘caught again’. They’re standing in one of the random patches of moonlight. They can see each other quite clearly. Francis smiles and rolls an empty glass between his hands.
“ No, sir. ” Subdued, ‘respectful’. “ Just couldn’t sleep. ”
For a moment they just look at each other in the silence. Spangler in his red flannel robe. Francis in his customary grey t-shirt and sweatpants. Just large enough to hang just right. Pale arms curving out of the sleeves, over his chest, and – of course – barefoot beneath the sweatpants, explaining the silence of his walk, and, oh –
“ Sir? ” The change in tone yanks him out of his thoughts. “ Are you alright? ”
He looks up, and the blue eyes are wide now, lit with actual concern, and goddamit, goddamit, of all the things Francis does that annoy him, this one is the worst, because this is the one, this is the one, where –
He straightens up. He tells himself he’s a stupid, stupid old man, and to stop dreaming.
He says:
“ I’m fine, cadet. ” Looks at him an extra second for reassurance, then resumes his stride down the corridor, past him, away.
“ Get some sleep. ”
He heads into the darkness, not looking back.
Title: Clarathea
Author:
girlofpreyPairing: Spangler/Francis
Warnings: PG-13, to be safe. Slashy thoughts, mainly.
‘I am Lolita’s father/I am her father…’
Commandant Spangler was a strict man. That much was obvious to anyone who met him. And he ran a strict academy. His boys were in the military, after all, and he made damn sure they knew it. No cadet of his left without at least knowing how to march, how to wear (really wear) a uniform, and how to salute with something approaching respect. No corridor in his academy was left littered, scuffed, or muddy. No bed was left ‘rumpled’ or ‘messy’, or ‘slept in’. No cadet’s hair was a quarter-inch over army regulations within an hour of their arrival.
But the thing he was most proud of was that in all his years of accepting and watching over and teaching boys – in all his years of disciplining boys, of assigning them push-ups and laps and cold showers – of boys in the corridors, in the halls, at the tables, sweating in the gyms, showering in the bathrooms, sleeping in the beds, standing to attention in his office or running wild outside – he had never touched a single one of them. And lord knows he’d been tempted. But he never had. He never even looked for too long. Never even considered it for more than an excusable second. Discipline was his specialty after all; and he prized it most of all in himself.
But, like most of the rules he laid down, it was something Francis Wilkerson seemed set to destroy.
Francis Wilkerson, who never wore his uniform when he could get away with a baggy t-shirt and sweatpants.
Francis Wilkerson, who only ever seemed to excel at pool and trouble.
Francis Wilkerson, who he’d pretty much given up on ever wringing a decent citizen out of, never mind a decent soldier. Whose hair was the same colour as the long grass behind the academy where he’d caught him smoking so many times. Whose eyes were the same blue as the sky he invariably stared at throughout all of his classes.
And it still wasn’t right. In fact, it was even more wrong, because the last thing a boy that far gone needed was his teacher, his guide, fantasising about him. But Francis sits in his office in the very definition of trouble, and just smirks at him, just looks up at him, challengingly, from under heavy dark lashes, and he finds himself thinking words like ‘powder’ and ‘cornsilk’, and ‘oh Lord’.
He stares down into that defiant gaze and wonders if Francis might not welcome the opportunity to break another rule.
But then for Francis, letting people know he was breaking the rules was always half the fun.
Even the other cadets seem to take a similar attitude to young Francis. Some roughhousing and bullying are par for the course in the military – but when an entire regiment gangs up on one of its members in particular like that, there’s only one thing it tends to mean. Although it wasn’t as bad as it had been – the beatings were much less frequent now, and Francis had even made a few friends – but oh, they did still enjoy watching him get punished. Running laps around the fields while the rest of them were coming in for the night, doing some sort of work down in the grounds when the rest of them were just getting up. Working, puffing, sweating, to the best of his ability. It was an appealing sight…
Which had nothing to do with Francis’ punishments, of course. He managed that just fine on his own. Every night almost, caught doing something. The set of accomplices varied, but always always him amongst them, always there too.
Even in a group you could always pick him out. Even somewhere in the back, even just ‘along for the ride’. Always the rest of them tense, poker-straight, scared, guilty, and always him, slouching, somehow, in his uniform, lips already curving into a smile, blue eyes flashing.
And then back to his office for punishment, and working it off in the fields the next day, lean arms and legs pumping, and then caught again in the evening, starting all over again, round and round, unchanging, forever.
The other night it was moonshine he was caught with, him and five or so other boys. He can still see him with his eyes closed, blue eyes blinking in the sudden glare of the flashlight illuminating him, his cohorts, the long grass at his feet, skin bleached almost white in it. And a smile was starting even then at the corners of his lips. He expects to be caught by now. Waits for it, even. Likes it.
Is maybe even waiting for something else…
Spangler looks at his clock. Late, very late. He sighs. He thinks about this too much, far, far too much. Inexcusably.
He pushes himself away from his desk and all the work he’s not doing, and lacing his robe shut, he leaves his office for the night. Heads down the corridor, to the kitchens. Water, to go with the Scotch nightcap in his room, and then a few hours of sweet oblivion.
The corridors are silent, of course, and dark. Splashes of moonlight light them up at regular intervals, coming from the windowed rooms on either side, and who, oh, who should he see just up ahead of him, but Francis, of course, Francis, the bane of his life? The moonlight rhythmically washing over his skin, clothes, hair; his steps as silent as the corridor itself. Moving like an imp, a dream. Oblivious – so far.
“ Bad dreams, cadet? ” His voice low, but carrying. Never breaking his stride.
He spins immediately on his heel, like an animal caught in a snare. Surprised for once. But before Spangler even comes to a measured stop a few feet away from him, he’s over it, relaxing. Spangler can see it in his eyes – ‘caught again’. They’re standing in one of the random patches of moonlight. They can see each other quite clearly. Francis smiles and rolls an empty glass between his hands.
“ No, sir. ” Subdued, ‘respectful’. “ Just couldn’t sleep. ”
For a moment they just look at each other in the silence. Spangler in his red flannel robe. Francis in his customary grey t-shirt and sweatpants. Just large enough to hang just right. Pale arms curving out of the sleeves, over his chest, and – of course – barefoot beneath the sweatpants, explaining the silence of his walk, and, oh –
“ Sir? ” The change in tone yanks him out of his thoughts. “ Are you alright? ”
He looks up, and the blue eyes are wide now, lit with actual concern, and goddamit, goddamit, of all the things Francis does that annoy him, this one is the worst, because this is the one, this is the one, where –
He straightens up. He tells himself he’s a stupid, stupid old man, and to stop dreaming.
He says:
“ I’m fine, cadet. ” Looks at him an extra second for reassurance, then resumes his stride down the corridor, past him, away.
“ Get some sleep. ”
He heads into the darkness, not looking back.
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no subject
Date: 2005-08-09 09:30 am (UTC)... job well done ;)
no subject
Date: 2005-08-09 05:25 pm (UTC)You should totally stop thinking about. You certainly shouldn't write fic. No. Never ::tempts::
Thank you :)
no subject
Date: 2006-03-27 12:24 am (UTC)I like this; But Francis sits in his office in the very definition of trouble, and just smirks at him, just looks up at him, challengingly, from under heavy dark lashes, and he finds himself thinking words like ‘powder’ and ‘cornsilk’, and ‘oh Lord’. And I like it a whole lot. Great job. :)
no subject
Date: 2006-03-27 09:31 pm (UTC)