Pairing: Dorian/Tom
Warning: Slash. Angst.
Rating: PG-15, for now.
Timeline: Movie
This is an amateur effort and does not intend to infringe on the rights of Alan Moore, Kevin O'Neil, the movie producers and their associates.
A/N: Back by popular demand. I still can't believe I'm doing this…writing a sequel to a story just because my readers beg so prettily. ^0^
Chapter OneTom knew he should have returned to the Mississippi, where he had grown up in. But he did not, opting to travel upwards to a little port town in New Hampshire and settle there.
He could not bear it, going back to his old life, pretending that it had never changed so drastically for him. Everything he used to believe about life, about himself, had dissolved into nothing. He had lost an important connection when his feet touched land. He had lost a vital part of who he was on board the Nautilus. Impossible as it seemed, Tom Sawyer was now trying to recapture that connection. Here, at Portsmouth, in New England, a state that had just been recognized by the US government, Tom hoped to find back what he had lost, and perhaps renew the spirit in his eyes that he no longer see.
The ex-secret agent rubbed at his stubble thoughtlessly and went up to his rented room, crashing down unceremoniously on the moth-eaten mattress. He was a wreck, but he did not care. Tom believed, almost religiously, that he could find his way back from the dead here.
Besides, he smiled wryly. It was probably the closest he could get to Europe without toppling headfirst into the Atlantic Ocean. If he just closed his eyes and imagined hard enough, he might have been back in that library of that house beside the London docks, instead of being in this small little American town with the name of an English one.
The brown package he had brought back from his little European adventure was still intact, lying against the wall almost nonchalantly, unaware of the pain it had caused, and was still causing, the American. Tom never did unwrap it. What was the point? He already knew what was being hidden under the brown paper anyway.
Nothing. Just like how he felt now. An empty shell of has-beens.
With a sigh, Tom pushed himself off the bed and walked to stand beside his window, overlooking the busy harbor where goods were being loaded and unloaded, where hundreds of people swamped in everyday, mostly the Brits and the French. Most of them were like Tom, wanting to try their luck at a new settlement, searching for something they might never find.
Upset at his own stream of thoughts, Tom muttered a curse under his breath, wanting nothing more than a couple of drinks to drown him into an alcohol-induced oblivion.
Then something down below caught his eye.
Another English ship had just made berth. Its passengers flooded on excitedly onto the harbor, most of which were large families. Cockneys, or so it seemed, from their dressing and manner. Only one had stood out like a sore thumb among the rest.
The familiar gray-blue suit, the confident stance as the man swung his cane almost casually, removing his hat with a free hand. Dark shoulder-length hair that Tom had remembered from another lifetime. But it was those eyes that undid him. Again. It was the same dark brown pools he had gazed into in his dreams, under the cold starless London night.
It was Dorian Gray.
***
Tom dreamt again that night. This time it was not in the house at the London docks though. It was somewhere else decorated in a similar fashion, somewhere that Tom did not recognize. He smelt the sea, just like he always. But something told him that he was smelling the sea breeze on the other side of the Atlantic. They were on the other side of the Atlantic. It was America.
He ran his fingers through his hair with a sigh, and pushed open the doors in front of him. It seemed like the most natural thing, to see the man he had been dreaming about for so long out at the balcony, leaning over the railings to watch the white foam of the sea, to listen out for Siren's call.
"Dorian…?" The European turned around, a slight smile on his face, gesturing for Tom to take his place at the railings beside him. Tom did. Together, in companionable silence, they watched the night view of the little port town together.
"I didn't expect to find you here, Sawyer."
Tom felt his heart sink at the polite use of his last name. "So, we are back to 'Sawyer' and 'Gray'." Dorian gazed back at him, dark eyes deep and contemplative. The immortal pursed his lips a little and looked down. Tom noted with worry how Dorian's hands were clenched tightly on the metal railings, knuckles white from the effort.
It worried him. Dorian obviously had something else to tell him, something that he would not say. And Tom woke up with that worry still nagging at his mind.
The American drew in a sharp ragged breath, pushing himself up to a sitting position on his pathetic excuse for a bed. Any rational and scientific person would not let himself be so much affected by a dream. But unfortunately for Thomas Sawyer, love coated with despair was never rational and he had seen too much of the supernatural in his days to be totally scientific. He gladly allowed the dream to sustain him for what he knew he had to do.
If it were indeed Dorian Gray he had seen at the harbor that afternoon, he would have to search him out.
He rubbed the back of his hand against his stubble, smiling at the covered painting leaning against the wall. Time for Secret Agent Sawyer to be back in action.
***
He cleaned up easily enough. The first thing he did was to get him a blade to shave the stubble off his face. Tom cocked his head at his reflection in the mirror. He looked so different. He almost could not recognize himself when he first looked into the mirror. He saw a dead man, so profoundly dead that he brought an aura of despair to everywhere he went to.
Tom ran a finger down the now smooth chin and smiled. It was shocking how much difference a stubble could make. True, his eyes were still sunken, his cheekbones were still too jarringly defined for him to look like his old self. But it was an improvement. Nothing that a good night's sleep would not cure. Although Tom knew he would never have one unless he found what he was looking for.
The gun was holstered to his belt, an age-old action that the agent had not managed to forget. He shrugged on his coat, patting lightly at the bulge on his hip, checking to see if the outline of the gun was overly obvious. This might be America, where everybody knew better than not to go around with a gun, but there were still too many immigrants in town for him not to be careful.
Taking one last look in the mirror, he cheerfully hopped down the stairs, greeting his landlady with a smile when he left.
"Good morning, Mrs Jackson."
The old woman frowned slightly at the diminishing back view of the young lad she had taken in. And then she smiled. She had never seen the boy looked so much like his age before. It was…refreshing.
Tom put all his secret agent training into use that day. It was not difficult, not at all, to find out all he could about the elegant Englishman that had just moved into town. Everybody had heard about him. About how beautiful he was, wondering why someone of his class would want to leave England where he could be gallivanting with rest of the aristocrats. Tom wondered too, with no small amount of delight, that his love might be trying to find him.
It must be. Dorian had found some way to return to the living, and would spare no cost in bringing his lover back to his side. Had he seen the rest of the League and have them tell him that they had dropped Tom at Louisiana. Had he tracked the boy up to New Hampshire, growing increasingly frantic and worried when he heard accounts of him falling deeper and deeper into depression each day? Tom grinned inwardly to himself. Not that he wanted to cause Dorian that much pain, but it felt good to have someone care about and love him as much as he did them.
He sorted through the accounts and soon found himself standing in front of a grand English mansion on the other side of town. He took in its appearance silently. How different it seemed from Dorian's house back in London!
The American took a deep breath and cupped his hands behind his head, as if bracing himself for an ordeal. What would he say, when they finally met? What would he do? What would Dorian do? With unanswerable questions in mind, Tom knocked.
He waited for a moment in silence, until the door opened slightly and then wider when the owner of the house realized whom his visitor was. The handsome face was wearing an expression of surprise, curiosity and what could have been mistaken for…fear?
"Tom?"
"Hi, Dorian." Tom replied pleasantly.
"Dorian?" A female voice called from inside the house. The Englishman spun around with a frown. "Who's there?" The mysterious woman asked again.
Tom stared, startled. For the first time that night, he realized Dorian was only dressed in a sleeping robe.
"No one," he heard Dorian reply. Even without turning around to face his ex-lover once, the immortal closed the door in his face.
Tom's world collapsed around him once more.
***
End of Chapter 1
Continue to Chapter 2