Gettin' Your Mind Off Of It

Rating: I'm going to stick with a PG-13 rating for now, folks. Just bear with me.

Content: Romance/Angst/Slash/ weird junk. Rodney Skinner/Tom Sawyer. Come on, I can't be the only one that sees the connection. ;)

WARNINGS: Sex, language, violence and SLASH. You KNOW what that means. Gay, homosexual, whatever. If that's not your cup of tea, DO NOT READ THIS STORY, clear? So any flames, for that alone, I'll assume are nullified. Also, if you don't like the coupling, sorry. I do.

As it stands, I will try and finish this fic, but I won't make any promises. I try, peoples. I hope you enjoy.

And with that, let the insanity begin. X_x

He didn't know how he was going to handle this damn silence. It cut through him hard tonight, thinking about all of this and contemplating how to process it. His mind continously danced around the scenario of Quartermain and how he died. When he died. Where. The first night he was going to spend mulling over that death. In the back of his head, he hoped it would also be the last. Tom Sawyer collapsed in his chair, staring at the desk in front of him and rubbing his temples harshly. He had felt a tightness in his throat, but was nowhere close to tears. After all, he hadn't known the man well enough for that. Instead it was more of a profound depression that added to the eerie silence around him in its depth. There had been a small celebration among the remaining league that night, both to commemorate Alan Quartermain, possibly alleviating some of the tension while his death rang heavy amidst them, and to naturally celebrate themselves and their victory.

            Sawyer mostly kept to himself during the congregation, offering up a smile or a sarcastic comment if any statement came directed towards him. Mostly, he was thinking. Ms. Harker noticed, half-heartedly telling him to lighten up before going back to mingling with Dr. Jekyll. The others chose to say nothing more to him out of respect for what they took to be his mourning. The collaboration of Rodney Skinner's clothing sat upright in a chair a distance away, framing his apparition of a body as he jabbered on about some inane thing to the uninterested Captain Nemo.

            After the ineptly played revelry, each of them had retired to their own quarters in this massive submarine creature that Nemo so prided himself on for a night of sure sleeplessness. See the world, that was the only real specification of their plans together for the future. Over the noise of a few randomly invited crew members, he had heard Nemo mention something about delighting in a visit to the orient, to which he heard no objection. Perhaps it would be safe to assume as much that they were headed to the east. These thoughts, however, kept young Tom in poor company. He was still enveloped in a dull silence that made him feel very, although it seemed rather emasculating to say so, lonesome. He heaved a gruff sigh, looking at the blank sheet of paper on the desk before him and returning to the concept that he had come up with earlier that day.

            He needed desperately something to occupy his mind as of now, lest he be forced to face this current tragedy and die underneath its intensity. After leaving Africa, and Quartermain, behind, it occurred to him that he may want to write these events down. He had never considered himself much of a writer, but to remember these things as clearly as he could now somehow held a great significance. "Hmm…" he said aloud, almost shocked by the suddenness of a sound. He tapped the corner of the paper with a pen, leaning forward to scrawl down a few words.

            'A few days back, I met a man named Alan Quartermain who told me this: I…'

            That was…no good. Sounded like some cheap Sunday article that no one ever read. He scratched out the words in a hurry and furrowed his brow in thought.

            'The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. That's what they called it when I signed up for this gig. I didn't know it then, but this shaped out to be quite an adventure.'

            Scratch. What kind of sundry crap was that? In those mere two sentences, it was already over. It came easily to him why he had never thought of writing as a career. But still, there was an oppressive yearning to document these things. What should he do, then? Make a blunt list?

            'I met this gang of awkward freaks.'

            'We took a joyride on Nemo's giant toothpick sub.'

            'Turns out Grey was more of a jackass than we thought...'

            That sits real nice on the tongue. Sawyer thought bitterly, letting the pen rest again in an idle state against his fingers. He wondered what everyone else was doing at the moment, surely he supposed they were awake. Maybe he could go have a late night chat with someone…anyone, really. This stuff was god damn boring. Maybe a conversation would give him more inspiration, an insight into recent events. Or maybe he was kidding himself. Even though he was sure that his comrades were all most likely very conscious, it was rude to act upon such an assumption. Who would he go to, anyway? Nemo? What would he have to say to a young ruffian? There was no normal conversation with that man. How about Skinner? Right, as if the man would actually want to prompt any meaningful discussion. There was Ms. Harker…

            The lovely vampiress. Sure, she may have had some very definite differences from the women he was used to back in America, but she did have a certain charm. He doubted that she would even give him the time of day, and seemed to be rather interested with Jekyll all the same. But then there was that moment between them at the carnival before Gray took off…she had been so willing to tend to that minor cut on his head. A very tender touch of her hand did not go unnoticed by him. And how she had held that captivating gaze with him. Suddenly he felt a very uncomfortable pressure on his crotch, growling to himself in annoyance. "Hell…" he grumbled. Actually becoming aroused at the thought of a woman glancing at him? How pathetic…The strange force, however, was not gotten rid of so easily. It intensified and he shifted his weight with a grunt, only to have the pressure leap to his stomach and push into his waist. Jumping into an upright position, he cried out in shock. "A-rmmmff!" he exclaimed, his shout muffled by a hand over his mouth. In a moment of blind panic, he struggled to swipe at his attacker, only to find him unseen. Unseen…? His arms dropped to his sides in relief as he heard the voice that belonged to the hand.

            "Relax, mate, ain't gonna hurt ya!" it chuckled, slowly removing the hand that covered his mouth.

            Sawyer panted heavily, alarm dissipating. "Skinner, what in the hell-" he snapped.

            "Just foolin' with ya!" he laughed, obviously pleased with his superb ability to utilize the element of surprise. "Didn't mean to bring ya so close to a heart attack."

            "Well you damn near did." Tom's boyish features scowled in resentment. "Now ya mind lettin' go a'me?" he said, feeling the weight of a hand still pinned on his stomach.

            "Nah, I think I'll keep you geussin'."

            "And just what's that supposed t'mean?" he snorted, eyes searching in vain to find the face of the speaker.

            "Well aren't we touchy t'night?" he mock-scolded. "Just seein' if your were up is all."

            Tom was suddenly very wary of this affectionate state the other man seemed to be in. Perhaps Skinner was drunk…but he didn't smell like alcohol. Funny, considering that he usually did. "Yeah, well, what's on yer mind, then?"

            "What ain't on my mind, that's the million dollar question." He replied, relinquishing the offending hand. "Just walkin' around givin' everyone a good scare is all. Bored as hell. What's the harm now, eh?"

            "Stop by Ms. Harker's room to try yer little gag and you'll find out real quick." Tom jabbed dryly.

            Skinner grumbled something with a chortle. "Why do you think I opted for you?"

            "So…how's the uh…well, you know, your…skin? I-I mean, you know, you're healin' pretty well, right?" he queried, changing the subject to recall Skinner's selfless rescue.

            "S'alright." He said, a little more seriously. "I think I got a few more in me. 'Sides, ya can hardly see the scars." Tom could hear a grin breaking his words.

            "Ha ha." He drawled. "Guess I owe you one all the same."

            "Ah, you know I had ta do it Sawyer. Couldn't let that old tin can turn you into a scrawny blond fish stick, now could I?" he defended, apparently loathe to accept any heroic mention. "We gotta watch out for each other, us extraordinary folk."

            "Speakin' a'watchin' over…" Tom pointed out. "How long exactly were you spyin' on me?"

            "Ah mate, no need to get fussy. Just long enough to see your poetry in motion." He said, referring to Sawyer's ingenious writings.

            Sawyer felt a somewhat cold sweat forming. How humiliating to have Skinner observe his trite draft of poorly scribbled words. "Ain't really none of your business." He mumbled, irritated.

            "Didn't mean ta hack you off, sharpshooter." He said, somewhat amused. "Didn't know you was the writin' type."

            " 'S'cause I ain't, thanks very much." Tom muttered to him. "Now put some damn clothes on and get to bed."

            "Struck a chord now, did I?" he asked, a trickle of sincerity seeping into his tone.

            "Naw, I just think it's a little funny for a man to be in another man's room at this hour, don't you?"

            "Whatcha can't see don't hurt ya none." He laughed back, ruffling the younger man's hair. "You're riled too easy, kid."

            Sawyer grimaced and shook his head to replace his mussed locks. "Well 'scuse me if I ain't in a jokin' mood."

            "Sheesh." Skinner mused. "I knew somethin' was eatin' at ya. Sorry if I offended." He said, a bit more somber.    

            "Just a little put off about the whole deal, that's all." He sighed. "Barely escaped with our skins, you know."

            "Shook up?" he guessed, tapping him on the shoulder sympathetically. "He was a good man, no doubt about that there."

            "He was a hero, for sure…But then I guess he was a long time before ours…You think the world's gonna need us heroes again someday?" he yawned, cracking his knuckles against the wooden chair.

            "World always needs heroes." Was Skinner's response. "No one can do good for 'emelves nowadays."

            "Yeah…" Tom swallowed, looking down and contemplating some ghost behind his eyes.

            "Somethin' wrong?" his invisible cohort inquired after a moment of awkward stillness.

            "Just thinkin' is all…" he said quietly. Guilt was what he was feeling. He hoped that he was hiding it well.

            "Can't fool me, Sawyer." Skinner clucked his tongue. "Somethin' else is up."

            "Oh really? And what makes you so sure about that?"

            "When people don't know you're watchin', you get to be pretty familiar with what no one wants you to see." He said factually.

            "Hm." Tom smirked, rubbing the side of his face in thought. "Well why don't you tell me, then?"

            "I'd call it stress." Skinner decided.

            "Stress." Sawyer repeated, unimpressed. "That's your diagnosis, Doc?"

            "Yeah, so tense. Must be an American thing." He taunted.

            Despite himself, Tom let out a loud laugh. "Hey, British are the one's walkin' around with a permanent stick up their ass."

            "So maybe you picked it up along the way?"

            "Look, I'm not 'tense', okay?" he said, scratching his head.

            "Not tense?"


            "Not stressed?"






            "Boy, you are one bloody cold bastard than, aren't you?" Skinner chuckled.

            "I…" Tom paused, then sneered. "Yeah, maybe that's just what it is."

            "Lighten up, kid." He suggested, clamping both hands down on his shoulders. "I think I get your drift alright. Beatin' yourself up pretty hard over it, eh? This whole Quartermain deal?"

            Tom was silent, pondering his current state. Beating himself up? Hardly…Well, maybe. He shrugged one shoulder hard to try and rid it of the hand, grunting harshly. "Hmp."

            "Come on now, junior, ya don't really think you're t'blame, now do ya?" he asked, intrigued. He replaced the hand back on the other shoulder.

            "Sorry 'mate'," he scoffed. "Don't exactly have the cash for therapy at the moment, you understand."

            "Growl." Skinner teased, kneading his hands into the boy's shoulders. "Relax, Sawyer, you need t'take it easy. Stiff as a board for such a young chap."

            Tom squirmed, folding his arms. "Mmf." He mumbled uncomfortably.

            "That's what I love about Americans. All so articulate, that bunch." He said, moving his hands slower down his forearms.

            Tom swallowed hard, averting his gaze to the desk in front of him. "Yeah, um." He cleared his throat, feeling the invisible touches on his body. Wait a minute, what was with all of this touching? "Look Skinner, what exactly are y-" he was cut off once again by a hand muffling his speech.

            "Listen here, Sawyer…" he muttered quietly. "All this mopin' is bringin' me down. We're supposed to be celebratin', you know that? For one, we finished our little quest and two, we're on a vacation as of now, you hear? So maybe you should start actin' like it…"

            "Gmhrmm." Tom tried, lifting an eyebrow. He was no fool, he could sense what Skinner was up to. He just shocked that he was trying his little tricks on him. He reached up blindly for a second to remove the hand over his face. "Wait…no, what are you doin'? What…the hell do you think this…is?" his eyes scanned the air around him.

            "Just a little stress reliever…nothing t'be worried about…" he informed, smoothing a piece of hair away from the younger man's eyes. "Ease up a little, hm?"

            "Uh, I don't really think-rrf" Tom was cut off yet again by Skinner's hand. He couldn't really find the will to protest, as confused as he was with present company currently kissing his neck. He subconsciously looked down as the hand on his shoulder suddenly traveled down to open his shirt, stroking the skin beneath his clothes. His eyes widened and his breath came shorter, one of his hands clutching at the base of the chair while the other fell into his lap. What was Skinner planning on doing? Or what was he planning to let Skinner do…?

            Somewhere along the line, his lips were locked against his in a numb kiss, Tom's head swimming with shock from the whole situation. Was this some kind of joke? What was Skinner thinking? And he was standing now. Funny how he didn't remember having stood…There were arms around his body, pinning his arms to his sides and crushing his body mercilessly against another. His head was craned back, eyes half closed in a hazed stupor as he felt the kissing traveling over his chest and throat. It felt…good. In perhaps a very strange way…Good to let go for a moment and breathe, sit back and release the tension in his muscles, surrender to someone else for if only a second. He actually felt somewhat at ease for the first time since this whole ordeal began. His tousled blond hair was soon flat and strewn randomly across his face, only to be pushed away gently by some hidden force. He was panting heavily as his back hit the bed, the pressure of the man above him driving him downward and making the heat between them nearly unbearable.

            "That's better…eh?" Skinner purred between ragged breaths, pulling Tom's shirt away completely and tossing it carelessly over a shoulder. The younger man made no response, merely laying against the bed sheets heaving slow gasps of air. Of course the idea of having sex with a man he hardly knew very well, let alone a man he couldn't see, seemed strange to him, but to hell with normality. Extraordinary circumstances were more exciting all the same… His partner suddenly seemed a little concerned about receiving no reply. "Y'alright, Sawyer?"

            Tom's eyes fell across a vast space of nothing as he shrugged. "I thought you were s'posed t'tell me." A small smile graced his dazed features. He again found himself in a kiss that came so strongly it made his tongue sore and his lungs throb, hands reaching up blindly to feel the body on top of him. There was a hand on his stomach, creeping downward easily underneath the rim of his pants and loosening the belt. Tom bit back a groan, releasing instead a quiet murmur as the hand worked its way down the rest of the distance, adding to the progressing ache that rested there. His head fell back to the side as he felt the tender caressing of lips against his neck again, the pressure in his groin increasing tenfold as the hand boldly gripped him.

            The next moments were a great blur to him, fingers brushing against burning skin and lips grazing against sensitive areas. Vibrant sensations crawled over him, hands gripping the sheets as though they were the only thing holding him down at some points and traveling over the other man's body at others. Through the flurry of fevered groping and stroking, he lost track of when and where his shoes and pants had suddenly disappeared to or how he had managed to end up under the sheets with his arms pinned by the wrists at either side to the bed while he was helplessly ravaged. The kisses were becoming deeper and more desperate, both out of breath but continuing at an ever-increasing fervor.

            He couldn't guess how many minutes or hours, or however it could be measured, had passed before he could feel the building sensation of relief growing within him. It was slow coming, and he was every bit sure that Skinner meant for it to be that way. His restraint at last broke and he clenched his teeth as the feeling of release rushed through him. He closed his eyes and his back arched, his consciousness wavering slightly through the wild torrent of touches and moans. When it was over, he fell limp against the bed, releasing haggard breaths and eyes watching the ceiling above him with a distant gaze.

            He felt lips press softly against his again, this time gentle and undemanding as an arm slid up to place a hand behind his head. He grumbled and kissed back just as the feeling pulled itself away from him. "…Now…" Skinner said in a husky rasp. "…now I think I just might let ya get some sleep…"

            Tom let out a small chuckle. "Gee…thanks…" he felt one last warm caress of a hand against his cheek before Skinner rolled out of the bed, standing up.

            "Sawyer…I'll see ya in the mornin', a'right?" he yawned.

            Tom leaned up onto his elbows, glancing towards where he guessed the other man would be with a dizzy grin on his features. "You the type t'love 'em and leave 'em, Skinner?"

            "Ha!" Skinner laughed. "I'll be back…you can be sure a'that. Don't want no one else getting' any ideas, though. Jealous bastards, this crew. Just gonna have to tell 'em that I got to you first."

Tom collapsed back onto the bed, exhausted. "Savin' my skin for me again?"

            "Savin' your skin." He confirmed, exiting the room and back to his quarters.

            A/N: Okay, so this could kind of stand by itself. But it'll continue, I suppose. Thank you for reading, stay tuned. ^^