Raison D'être | Chapter 1
A League of Extraordinary Gentleman Fanfiction
Pairing: Dorian + Tom
Warning: Slash. Wicked dreams.
Timeline: Movie.
This is an amateur effort and does not intend to infringe on the rights of Allan Moore, Kevin O'Neil, the movie producers and their associates.
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He always saw him as a father, a mentor. It was true, Tom Sawyer realized, what the others had said about him. He was a party crasher, not an asset to the league. He had waltzed into the game as if he had the right to, too willing to prove himself, too eager to impress. What happened? He had lost the man who had willingly taught him everything he knew.
Tom Sawyer sat alone on the bed in his cabin, staring at the gun he had brought along with him from the States. He had left its twin at Alan Quatermain's grave. He had given it to the man, it was only right that a weapon follows a hunter to his death.
Death. His fault.
What had he contributed to the League other than mayhem and trouble? Others had to keep watching his back. Not even a woman like Mina Harker needed as much protection as he did.
Rodney Skinner had been severely injured to save him. Alan died doing so.
Tired of staying in his lonesome room, Tom got up from the couch and stalked out into the corridors.
A few rooms down from his, Tom Sawyer thought he heard somebody cry. He paused. Perhaps it was another guilt-stricken soul like him? He wondered. He paused outside the cabin door, thinking about what to do, and then raised his hand into a fist to knock.
"Come in," Mina replied. The American saw the vampire dabbing her eyes with a dainty hanky before turning around to meet him. He chose not to say anything. Sometimes, it was better to leave a woman alone.
"Done with your unpacking?" He asked, deciding to go for the neutral approach and looked around the room. Finally, his attention was drawn to a framed canvas in Mina's hands. "What is that?"
Hurt misted over the lady's eyes before she held out the painting to show him what it was. It was the portrait of Dorian Gray.
The painting was very well done. If Tom had not known better, he would have sworn he saw the immortal himself staring at him in the face now, smirking like the asshole he was. Whoever the artist was, it must have been someone who knew Gray well enough to capture every curve and nuance of his handsome face.
Mina had not said anything about her fight with Gray when they returned back to the Nautilus. Tom had assumed she managed to kill the man, immortal as he was, like she had wanted. So why hold on to his painting now that the double-crosser was dead?
As if reading his mind, she tried to explain.
"This painting was the reason why Dorian betrayed us. M stole it from him."
What? Tom wanted to yell. Betraying his ex-lover and an entire League, helping to bring about a world war, just for a stupid painting of himself?
Mina shook her head sadly.
"I don't expect you to understand. I don't understand myself why I am still keeping this." She held up the painting with one hand, tracing across Gray's painted face with the other. "I want to keep looking at this, to have something to remember him by. But at the same time, I don't want to keep it." She sighed and turned to the boy with a sad smile.
Tom frowned. "I can keep it for you if you want. I'll return it when you feel ready." The American took the painting from her and tucked it under his arm with a grin. He had to do something. Maybe if he could relieve Mina of her misery, he could add some value into his participation in the League.
There was no League. His mind reminded. M was dead.
Mina regarded him with a critical eye and petted the top of his head lightly, as if he was a child. Compared to her, he was a child. Tom realized. But he was not about to let his pride get in the way.
"I'm not sure if I will ever be ready."
"Forever is a very long time to condemn yourself." Tom muttered.
Mina nodded in agreement.
***
Tom found a nail on the wall and decided to hang the painting up there. Much as it was a portrait of the man he detested, he had to admit that it was a beautiful painting. He might not be a connoisseur of art, but he could tell when something was extraordinary.
He took a step back and examined the painting carefully.
The Dorian Gray in the painting was so lifelike that Tom half expected the immortal to step out of the painting there and then, holding a sword in his hands. The agent grinned, scratched his nape lightly, silently chiding himself for being ridiculous.
Tom yawned and tossed a glance at his wall clock.
It was time for bed.
***
He was in a beautiful place filled with shelves and shelves of books. The library was huge; tapestries decorated the walls with their colorful glamour, only if the wall was not taken up from a framed painting of two.
Tom remembered this place. It was Dorian Gray's library. He met the members of the League for the first time here. But he also knew it was a dream. He looked around, suddenly aching for the familiar weight of his rifle in his hands.
Could anyone die in dreams?
Something at the far end of the room caught his eyes. It was a wall. Unlike the others in the library, that particular wall was bare except for a painting hung with its right side facing the wall.
Tom raised an eyebrow and made his way to that wall, wanting to put it back to its correct place when the tapping of a walking stick followed by a familiar drawl forced him to turn around.
"Well, well, seems like you have found yourself at another private party, Sawyer."
Tom rolled his eyes. Of all people he could have meet in his dreams, why did it had to be Gray? Could it not be Mina? Then maybe it could work its way into some nicely scripted wet dream if it were she. Argh!
"There are no other guests here." Tom retorted. "Unless you invited Skinner and he decides to prance around naked in your library."
Dorian only smirked. "Have I accused you of being a gatecrasher this time?" The Englishman strutted to where he had his scotch and poured out two glasses. "Let me assure you that you are not, and that you are the only guest I intend on entertaining tonight."
"What's more, Skinner is not the one I want prancing naked in my library." Dorian added, gesturing to a couch in the middle of the room. "There, take a seat."
Tom Sawyer felt the hair on the back of his neck stood on their ends. The way Dorian had spoken, it was as if he was saying something and meaning something else all together. He took the glass Dorian was offering with shaking hands and dropped himself heavily on the couch, waiting for his strange dream to end.
Dorian sat down on the chair opposite the agent and settled in comfortably. There was silence and there was silence. Neither man spoke. Tom was staring hard at the liquid in his glass, once in a while lifting his head up to see Dorian staring into space, seemingly looking at whatever that was behind him.
"That was my portrait." Dorian suddenly said. He lowered his lids, watching the swirls in his glass contemplatively and then focused on the wall again. "I had it done when I was a young man. I don't grow old…but that portrait will. Year after year, older and uglier…it was my demon."
Tom did not know what to say about that. He figured that the portrait was important to Dorian, but how so that he panicked when it was stolen? Was he afraid that others would see how old and ugly he really was, despite what his immortality shows?
Narcissistic fool, Tom snorted in disgust.
Suddenly, Dorian stood up urgently and stared out of the windows with a cold hard look in his eyes. Tom faced the windows too. But it appeared that the immortal saw something Tom could not see. It was weird, but it was a dream after all. Tom could not be more bothered about it.
"Morning's coming." Dorian announced. He came around the coffee table and smiled at Tom. A truly grateful smile; it was an expression that Tom had never once seen on the European's face before. "Thank you for your time, Sawyer. Thank you for listening to me."
Tom nodded confusedly as his surroundings blurred into blackness.
The first thing Tom Sawyer saw when he woke up was the portrait he had hung up the day before. He had not realized the wall he had hung it on was facing his bed directly. Oh well, Tom pushed himself upright and shrugged. Not like it mattered.
As he was pulling on his boxers, the secret agent glanced at the painting again. "You're welcome," he mouthed.
End of Chapter 1
Continue to Chapter 2