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fandom: jpiii, fic fandom: jpiii, fic genre: slash, fic pairing: alan/billy

Montana in August is hot, too damned hot, and the sweat slicks Billy's skin. It collects in the hollow of his throat and the sight captures Alan; he's entranced, frozen in this one moment in time, watching as the rapid pulse beating in Billy's neck sends the beads dancing over his skin. Billy swallows, peering up at him through slitted lids, and his throat ripples under Alan's hungry gaze.

It's an invitation he can't refuse.

He leans forward and darts out his tongue, lapping up the moisture while Billy groans beneath him, gasping as Alan's teeth graze the skin. He doesn't bite down, doesn't mark, however tempted he is. It's enough, for the moment, to do this, to touch, to lick the salt from Billy's neck.

Besides, there are marks enough already.

When he sits back up again, there's another bead adorning Billy's chest. It blossoms redly where he's unwittingly pressed the raptor claw in too hard as he bent forward to steal that taste.

He frowns, his fingers tightening convulsively on the claw, feeling the harsh lines of it digging into his palm. It's spoiled the line he was aiming for. He needs to concentrate more on what he's doing, and not let himself be distracted by how Billy looks, how Billy tastes, no matter that in both regards the answer is 'appetising'. This isn't about pleasure, not this time. This is about everything else. Everything they don't talk about.

They never talk about Isla Sorna.

He licks his thumb, all too aware of the way Billy's gaze fixates on the movement, of Billy watching raptly as he reaches down with another frown and wipes away the blood with fingers that barely shake. Aware as well of Billy's attention returning to his face, and of everything in those hazel eyes, the emotions flashing across Billy's face as rapidly as his heart beats under Alan's hand.

He's tempted to lean forward and steal another kiss, press his mouth against Billy's to swallow that sweet gasping sound Billy makes every time his own sweat burns into the marks on Billy's skin but unless he concentrates, unless he moves onward with what he's doing, the marks will fade and the image will be lost. Besides, if he leans forward again he'll miss watching the world in Billy's eyes.

So he bites back on that desire and raises his hand again, holding the black fossil with an ease that speaks of too much practice. Billy's attention flickers from his face to that instead. Good. He likes watching Billy watch him as he works. He likes the look in Billy's eyes.

Fear. Guilt. Need.


If anything gets through to him when they're like this, if anything can get through, it's the way that Billy looks at him, as though he has all the answers that Billy needs. As though he's everything. What touches him then is something approaching awe, seeing the almost evangelical light in Billy's eyes, like he's salvation when he's anything but.

When he sees that look, Billy's not the only one who's afraid.

He lowers the claw, strokes it over skin, and Billy lets out another gasp before his teeth clamp closed and the breath hisses out of him instead. Billy's learned not to make a sound if he can help it, to keep the cries in, locked down tight. You never know who might be listening. You never know what predators might be lurking in the dark shadows just waiting for a chance.

It's been a harsh lesson, but one he's learnt well. He keeps as silent as he can while Alan continues his work, although the muscles in his arms bunch and flex as he strains against the strap around his wrists. The lucky strap, the one that saved his life over two years ago and the one that saves him now. Keeps him still when his instinct might be to run, and it's never a good idea to move while that claw travels over his chest; Tyrannosaurus Rex redux.

There are some things that there is no escaping from. They've both learnt that lesson.

Although Billy's arms, face and neck are dark where the summer sun has kissed them, the rest of his skin is pale. He wears t-shirts now, never takes them off no matter how hot the noonday sun grows. Some days he even wears long sleeved tops to hide the scars left by claws other than the one that's now tracing red lines over his chest.

Alan is good and Alan is careful. He has to be when what's under his hands is the most precious of things. He rarely draws blood unless he means to, and the marks he leaves fade with time. But then he's used to coaxing long dead things into a semblance of life again, drawing them out from beneath the earth that buries them, even if what he recovers is twisted out of shape by too much time and too great a weight.

He's smart too - he never marks Billy's arms where such marks may be seen, not when this is for them and them alone. Instead he concentrates on Billy's chest, where the skin is pale and smooth, the perfect canvas. There's a faint dusting of hairs between Billy's nipples, but he works around that, makes it part of the picture. Billy's skin is sensitive now, so much so that the lines rise up almost immediately under his attentions, white lines on red, dotted here and there with tiny beads of blood where he's broken through the skin for emphasis.

They'll itch as they heal, those scratches, but they won't scar.

Billy has enough scars, but he leaves those for last. First there are wings to sketch out, spread over Billy's torso and swooping down along his sides. Billy isn't ticklish there. Not any more. Not when they do this. There was once a time when he could make Billy giggle by simply running his fingers lightly along his side. If he persisted Billy would convulse, twist away from those tormenting digits, spluttering and whooping as he fought to catch his breath and escape, laughing so hard that the tears would run down his cheeks.

It's been a long time since he's heard Billy's laugh.

He sits back and reviews his handiwork again, a part of him enjoying the clean lines of his art in that moment before they blur into redness. He eyes the taut pink nipples in the centre of each span appreciatively and then leans down to nip at them, one after another, feeling another groan reverberate through Billy's body, although the sound remains muted. He lifts his head again, tilts it to the side and starts anew, watching as this particular masterpiece unfurls beneath his careful hands. It's beautiful, as fierce and raw as the creatures that inspire him. As beautiful and raw as the creature whose skin twitches beneath his fingertips, and whose eyes are fixed on him, psyche stripped bare.

The whole world is in Billy's eyes and he's the centre of it, and the look in them, the need in them appears older even than the bones they rip from the earth.

This is plunder of a different sort.

He moves on from the wings, his hand gliding over Billy's belly, smoothing down the soft hairs that grow thicker here, arrowing towards Billy's groin. He has to move back to give himself room to work and settles himself on Billy's thighs, ignoring Billy's hard cock as it bobs and sways in front of him, pressing itself into his stomach as he leans forward. The tip is hot and wet against his skin and Billy lets out a small whimper.

He ignores that too, focuses only on the task he's set himself, that task and the look on Billy's face, in Billy's eyes as he raises his head from the pillow, craning to see what Alan's doing even though he already knows.

It's become a ritual of sorts and they both have their part to play.

He starts sketching again, the cool claw he holds growing clammy as the heat of the day dampens his hands just as it's slicking Billy's skin. His hands don't shake anymore and the lower he goes, the harder he presses, hard enough now to draw minute beads of blood to the surface, here where the skin is concealed by Billy's pants. It's needed for this part, the head. The beak. Nature, red in tooth and claw.

The claw's red now too, and a tiny droplet glistens on the end as he raises it before it falls back to splatter on Billy's flat stomach. He's cut deeper than he planned too, drawn more blood than he intended and for a second his heart pounds painfully in his chest, leaving him almost dizzy, breathless. But in the end what's one more scar to add to the tally that Billy's betrayal has left them both with?

Sometimes he wonders whether this fossil is still sharp enough to not only scratch Billy's flesh but to slice into it as the raptors they've seen in the flesh slice into their prey. Sometimes he wonders what would happen if instead of the care he takes he took the claw in both hands, raised it above his head and swept it down into Billy's belly, twisting it the way he showed Timmy so many, many years ago.

Sometimes he sees the look in Billy's eyes and knows that Billy wonders that too.

How sharper than a serpent's tongue, his mind whispers to him as he stares at the marks adorning his lover's body, swirling the fingers of his free hand in the sweat and small beads of blood that paint Billy's skin, smearing the outline of the Pteranodon's head. He's back to shaking slightly and, as he feels the muscles of Billy's belly twitch beneath his callused fingertips, he loosens his grip on the claw until it's almost slipping through his fingers.

He wants to cast it aside, throw it so hard across the room that it will scar the wall too but Billy's still watching him, adoration and desperation mingled in his eyes just as the blood and sweat mingle on his belly. He knows what Billy craves. He knows what those eyes are begging him for, and it's not just a physical release.

He's never been able to say no to Billy, not when it mattered.

He moves up Billy's body again, swinging his leg up and over so that he's no longer straddling his lover but resting by his side.

Billy's gaze is still fixed on him, eyes far too bright, and even as he watches a single tear escapes, rolling down over Billy's face to mingle with the salt of his sweat. He reaches up and wipes it away, leaving a smear of blood high on Billy's cheek.

There are older scars here, scars left by teeth and claws that aren't Alan's. Scars that wrap over Billy's shoulders and gouge into the flesh. He traces these too with the surrogate claw he holds, pressing just hard enough into the skin so that tomorrow and the day after the skin will be tender, and each time Billy pulls on his ever-present rucksack he will remember.

As though Billy could ever forget. As though either of them could.

He finally puts the claw aside, setting it carefully down on the top of the bedside table because he aches to hurl it away from him with all of the force he can muster, away from both of them, so very badly. He lowers his hand, moves his fingers over the outline he has drawn and feels Billy shiver beneath his fingertips, although still Billy makes no sound. Another tear escapes and this time he gives into the impulse and leans forward, his tongue snaking out to lap it up. It tastes of the same salt as Billy's sweat but there's something else there, something bittersweet. Something of Billy's pain in it.

He touches Billy's cheek for a moment, leaving bloody fingerprints, and kisses him, sweet and soft before letting his hand slip lower. It glides first over Billy's throat where it rests for a moment, feeling the beat of Billy's heart flutter against his palm, reminding himself that in spite of appearances there is more than a semblance of life here. It's real and raw and beating frantically underneath his touch. And where there's life there's pain.

He's not sure he believes in 'hope' anymore.

He moves his hand lower still, sliding the salt of Billy's sweat into the myriad of scratches and small cuts that adorn his torso and feeling the minute flinches Billy lets out as it stings. This time he swallows the hisses that Billy lets out; it's the least he can do. And then he's moving his hand through the pooled sweat and blood on Billy's belly, slicking his fingers with it before he finally grasps Billy's erection.

Now Billy moves. Now Billy makes a sound, letting out a groan as he bucks up into Alan's grasp. His eyes are closed though, and Alan knows from experience that Billy won't open them again until the rest of this is over. He wishes he could see them, see straight into Billy's soul, but there's some pain that Billy hides from him even now.

Perhaps it's just that Billy's too afraid of what he'd see on Alan's face.

They don't talk about it.

Billy's teetering on a knife's edge and it doesn't take long for Alan to wring his orgasm from him, his semen spilling over his stomach, obscuring the lines of Alan's picture further. Alan rubs his fingers in the mess, both rubbing salt, literally, into the wounds and collecting Billy's seed to coat his own erection.

Billy rolls over. There was a time when Alan would have turned him, digging those fingers into Billy's hip until dazed hazel eyes opened up enough to stare at him and then rolled Billy over onto his front, but they're both used to this by now, although Billy still flinches slightly when those semen coated fingers first ease their way into his body.

Even after all this time Billy is still tight but Alan takes his time. Time is something they have now. The only demons they're running from these days exist in the spaces between them, in those dark and needy silences. By the time he's finally fully encased in that tight heat, the sweat is starting to dry on the small of Billy's back. He leans forward, scrapes his teeth over one of the scars on the back of Billy's shoulder. Billy bucks beneath him, a whimper torn from his throat. He's shivering; Alan can feel the tremors course through him as he presses his body against Billy's back. He slides his hand around to Billy's stomach, feels the wetness against his fingers as he pulls Billy back against him, but he's no longer sure whether it's sweat or semen or blood.

He's no longer sure he cares. They're all one and the same now, all tied up in this thing they do, binding the two of them together more strongly than Billy's lucky strap binds him to the bed.

He rides Billy slowly. Billy won't come again, he knows that, but there's still pleasure to be had to counteract the pain, or so he thinks when Billy sighs and moans underneath his hands and lips as he angles his thrusts to move over Billy's prostate. He slides easily over Billy's back, sweat pooling between their heated bodies again, and it's that feel of Billy's skin - Billy's unmarked skin - rubbing against his own as much as anything that finally drives him over the edge. He empties himself into Billy's tight heat, another bodily fluid spilt to bind them together.

Billy's face is wet when he releases him but he expected that. And Billy won't look at him now, keeping his face averted, but he expected that too. Just like he knows that as soon as he's untied Billy, as soon as the lucky strap is thrown to one side, Billy will twine himself around him and cling on for dear life.

Just like he knows what Billy will say, a constant litany, over and over again, whispered desperately in Alan's ear.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I won't do it again, Alan. I'm so sorry."

He presses Billy to him, tangles his fingers in the damp curls at the nape of Billy's neck, kisses away the salt trails from his face and closed eyelids. Billy's body is hot everywhere that it's pressed against his and, not for the first time after one of these sessions, he wonders if Billy is running a fever rather than it being a product of the harsh Montana heat.

He pulls Billy closer, uncaring of the stickiness of drying semen between them or the harsh tang of sweat in the air - both fear and heat induced. His hands move soothingly up and down Billy's back as he presses kisses into Billy's hair. It won't help. It never does. They just have to let it play out, as they always do. The litany will reach its peak, and Billy will doze for a while, his fingers clutching and grasping at Alan in his sleep, and when he wakes Alan will wash the sweat and rusty stains from his skin and kiss him while he clings to Alan in the shower. And the marks will fade in a day or so, the scratches be healed within a week and things will go back to normal.

Until the next time.

"I'm sorry, Alan. I'm so, so sorry. I won't do it again. I didn't know it would be so dangerous. I didn't know they'd follow."

It's a familiar refrain and still he can't help but clench his eyes tightly shut against the sharp spike of grief it engenders, his soul drinking in Billy's pain and guilt the way that his skin is soaking up Billy's hot tears, spilling against his neck. He adds Billy's hurt to the heavy mass of his own guilt and pain, which sits below his heart like a leaden lump in his chest. It's the same old refrain and still Billy doesn't get it.

It's not the theft of the raptor eggs that's torn into his soul, that's left him, both of them, this burden to bear. It's watching Billy take a leap into the void while he's left to stumble up the stairs in Billy's wake, reaching out too late to stop him. It's watching Billy fly then fall and knowing that it's his fault as amusement park monsters rip into his lover's flesh and drive him beneath the river's surface.

It's watching Billy's wounds healing, leaving a multitude of scars behind, and knowing he's inflicted them. And it's knowing that his culpability in this is something they both need reminding of.

Billy hasn't yet got it but he's smart and someday he will. He'll figure it out and then when he looks at Alan there will still be need in his eyes but it will be need for Alan and not for Alan's absolution. And then maybe, just maybe, he'll help alleviate the burden of Alan's guilt too.

"I'm sorry, Alan. So sorry." Billy's hands grab painfully at his back, pulling him closer still until it feels like they'll merge, become a twisted tangle of bones for some other palaeontologist a million years from now to untangle. "Please. Forgive me."

He tightens his grip, presses his lips against Billy's ear. "I will," he says, his voice heavy with grief. "Eventually."

The End