Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5131067.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Minority_Report_(TV_2015)
  Relationship:
      Arthur/Dash
  Character:
      Arthur_(Minority_Report), Dash_(Minority_Report), Agatha_(Minority
      Report)
  Additional Tags:
      Protectiveness, First_Time, Incest, Visions, Backstory, Blue_Lagoon
      Fiddler's_Neck_style
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-11-02 Words: 4697
****** Origins ******
by Lenore
Summary
     Arthur will never let anyone hurt his brother, bourbon doesn't make
     anyone smart, and everyone on Fiddler's Neck has something to hide:
     OR a story of beginnings.
Notes
     I wrote most of this story before Fiddler's Neck, which jossed it a
     bit. The show seems to break its own rules about what pre-cogs can
     see, though, so I have no regrets. Also, a warning: there's non-
     explicit mention of sexual abuse in a school setting that doesn't
     involve any of the canon characters. And finally, big thanks to
     Stepquietly for talking this idea through with me!
A water stain covers half the bedroom ceiling, a vaguely boot-shaped memento of
last winter when snow stayed piled on the roof so long they needed every bowl,
bucket and empty milk carton in the house to catch all the leaks. Arthur can't
clearly make out the dark blot in the pre-dawn dimness, but he knows it's
there, a persistent testament to everything that's wrong with this island of
misfit people.
From downstairs, he can hear the faint ticking of the rooster clock that Agatha
paid actual money for. "It's an antique," she says whenever Arthur eyes it
dubiously. But it isn't the ticking that's keeping him awake. Sometimes he can
ignore the steady hum in his head, the distant chatter of names, addresses,
facts, endless data, data, data, but now is not one of those times.
His restlessness makes him even more aware than usual of the low-grade,
persistent stink of the island. Agatha insists it's all in Arthur's
imagination, but he's smelled it since they first got here: fetid and damp,
seeping in past the windows and beneath the doors, getting everywhere, clinging
to everything. He hates this place almost as much as the milk bath.
He can just make out Dash in the other bed, turned on his side and curled
tightly in on himself, sleeping peacefully. There's an empty room down the hall
with an unused wardrobe standing against one wall and cobwebs overtaking the
corners. They tried staying in separate rooms the first night they were here.
Sometime in the bleak hours, Arthur gave up and went to retrieve his brother.
Together, they'd dragged Dash's bed into this room where it belonged. Dash has
slept here ever since.
The distant hum in Arthur's head suddenly crackles and clears. A signal comes
blaring through: Phillip A. Elbert 42 years old 919 Chamberford Drive married
5/12/2044 wife Sharon 22 stab wounds to her abdomen chest neck. On cue Dash
starts to toss and turn and, finally, all-out thrash. He whimpers, lets out a
little gasp, and falls silent, his shoulders working with the effort to keep
from crying out. The noise in Arthur's head cranks up to a higher volume,
flooding him with details, a stream of everything he'd rather not know about
wife-killer Phillip A. Elbert. He lets out his breath, squints against the
headache that's building behind his eyes, and slides out from beneath the
covers.
In the two years they've been here, Arthur has broadened through the shoulders.
Dash has grown so much taller. They barely fit in the same bed anymore, and
Arthur has to press close to keep from falling out. He slips an arm around
Dash's waist. At first Dash flinches away, the way he does when the afterimage
of a vision is still too vivid, but eventually he lets out a shaky breath,
almost a sob, and relaxes into Arthur's hold. When Arthur feels Dash's
breathing slow, deepen, he shuts his eyes. His head is blessedly quiet.
===============================================================================
Dash is already up when Arthur wakes again, and the chatter is back, a nagging
distraction. He flops onto his stomach, closes his eyes more tightly, and
spends maybe two minutes determinedly trying to go back to sleep before the
scent of coffee drifts into the room like a recrimination. Agatha has ideas
about breakfast being the most important meal of the day. Arthur gives up on
sleep.
Before heading downstairs, he fishes out the notebook he keeps hidden beneath
his mattress and writes down everything he knows about Phillip A. Elbert, every
last banal, appalling detail. The bored-looking government psychologist Arthur
met with a handful of times to prepare for life post milk bath had recommended
keeping a journal. It'll help you process the information you're pulling in, so
you can let it go. Arthur has taken that advice, although he's found a much
more profitable use for writing things down.
In the kitchen, Dash is already bent over a plate of eggs. He looks hollow-
eyed, the way he always does after one of the more intense visions, but his
hand doesn't shake as he mechanically moves his fork from plate to mouth. There
have been worse aftermaths.
Arthur heads single-mindedly for the coffee pot, in need of caffeine after
another wakeful night. Agatha dishes up a plate of eggs and hands it to him.
Here's another thing she believes in: the steadying effect of a regular
schedule with set meal times. Of the three of them, she's the one who has truly
embraced life on the island, grabbed onto it with both hands as if it's a life
preserver that will keep them afloat. Domesticity is her buffer against the
casual atrocities that thread secondhand through their daily existence. Arthur
won't be surprised if he comes home some day to find her canning vegetables and
tatting lace doilies.
"We'll do the next physics unit this morning," she declares once they're all
gathered at the table. "And spend time this afternoon reading the first ten
chapters of Oliver Twist."
Some government sys admin had the foresight to head off problems over truancy
by filing homeschooling paperwork for Arthur and Dash. Unfortunately, Agatha
has taken that to heart, determined they will get an education if she has to
strong-arm them into it. Whenever Arthur sabotages the virtual classroom
program, she calmly fixes it and assigns them twice as much homework.
"I need to pick up that salve for the horses this morning," Arthur reminds her,
in the code they use in front of Dash.
Agatha turns her glance on him, her expression opaque as ever. "When you get
back then."
Dash looks almost comically confused. Normally Agatha doesn't brook any excuse
for missing lessons. And since when has Arthur been interested in helping with
the horses? Arthur plows through the rest of his breakfast and heads out before
Dash can start asking questions.
Escaping quantum mechanics should feel like freedom, but there's no such thing
on a five-square-mile piece of nowhere hemmed in on every side by flat, gray
water. The road leading into what passes for town is rutted and unpaved, little
more than tire tracks worn into the ground. The gravel crunches beneath
Arthur's feet, and the damp, rotting stink of the place coils all around him.
Main Street consists of a half dozen stores that time has passed by, the
displays in the front windows long since faded and covered in dust. A bar
stands on one corner, where grim-faced men go to sit in silence, staring into
their glasses of whiskey as if they'll find answers there. In the barracks-
shaped building at the end of the block, you can buy live bait or a whole
armory full of weapons in the back room if you know the pass code. The
government chose to hide them in this place for a reason. Everyone here has
some secret to protect.
Arthur skirts the edge of town and takes the familiar path down to the
waterfront. A tumbledown shack slumps next to the dock, the unremarkable hub of
criminal activity on the island. When they were first set free, none of them
had any idea how to take care of themselves, and there was no one to ask for
help. It wasn't long before they'd used up the meager balance of credits that
had been their only compensation for their stolen childhoods. Sheer desperation
drove Arthur to turn his notebook into a means of survival.
"You bring it?" Jameson cuts to the chase as Arthur steps through the door.
He's a short, square-jawed block of a man with an old knife wound to one cheek,
the story of his life in three inches of scar tissue.
Arthur hands over the memory stick with five meticulously detailed life
histories. Jameson will add the necessary forged documents and sell the false
identities for ten times what he's paying Arthur. As soon as Arthur has
perfected his own forgery skills, there will be no more need for a middleman, a
fact he and Jameson are both well aware of.
"Thorough, as always," Jameson says with a satisfied nod after he's examined
the files. He swipes at his pad, transferring the agreed upon credits, creating
a false trail that will make it appear as if the money is for the sale of
horses. On paper at least, Agatha's business is a booming success.
For a criminal, Jameson is surprisingly honest. He's never tried to shortchange
Arthur on the price. Never asked any questions, not even that first time when
Arthur came barreling in without an introduction, barely fifteen years old,
overeager to prove the value of what he had to sell. The only thing Jameson
concerns himself with is making a profit. If Arthur were the type to have a
role model, this man would be it.
When he gets home, he expects the usual approving nod from Agatha. Don't tell
Dash, that was all she'd said the first time Arthur turned up with more credits
than he could possibly explain. He's not sure why they've settled into this
collusion of silence. Maybe it's because Dash is too idealistic to approve. Or
because he's the only one of them with any innocence left, and neither Arthur
or Agatha wants to be the one who destroys it.
What Arthur finds instead is a stranger planted on their living room sofa. A
teapot and cookie plate sit on the coffee table, as if hospitality is something
they have to offer. Agatha sips primly at her tea. Dash looks relieved to see
Arthur.
"This is Mr. Lewis, the principal from the local high school," Agatha says
calmly.
"I get to meet the whole family after all." The man rises to his feet and holds
out his hand to shake Arthur's.
He looks like every other middle-aged man on the island with his gut-strained
plaid shirt and his carefully arranged comb-over. There's no reason for Arthur
to despise him on sight, but he does just the same. He shoots a glance at
Agatha, who answers his unspoken question. "Mr. Lewis has come to discuss our
homeschooling arrangement."
The man resettles on the sofa, stretching his arm along the back of the
cushions. His hand comes very close to brushing Dash's shoulders, and that near
bit of contact doesn't seem accidental. Arthur instinctively plunks down onto
the arm of the sofa, leaning protectively into his brother's space.
"Is something wrong?" Arthur asks.
"Not a bit," Lewis says, reassuringly. "I just like to get to know all the
families on the island. And I admit I do have an ulterior motive for stopping
by. I've seen you boys around town and thought: I sure would love to have them
enrolled at school."
"Why?" Arthur asks, challenging. "What can we learn there that we're not
already learning here?"
Lewis flashes a patronizing smile. "No doubt your sister does a fine job. But
there's more to an education than simply—"
The rest of the man's blather fades into white noise as data breaks across
Arthur's thoughts: Daniel Anderson Steven Simons Hunter Collins Matty Drummond
Connor Nixon. On and on, a parade of victims long into the future and far into
the past.
"What about sports?" Lewis slides his gaze over Arthur before settling it on
Dash, an acquisitive gleam in his eyes. "You play baseball? I coach varsity. If
you're interested in going out for the team, I'd be happy to work with you one-
on-one."
Dash stares in confusion, his eyes wide and blinking, his lips bitten pink.
Still so innocent despite everything, and Arthur doesn't need to be a pre-cog
to know what the perv sitting in their living room wants to do to his little
brother. His hands curl into fists.
Agatha rises smoothly from her chair. "We appreciate your stopping by, Mr.
Lewis. But homeschooling works very well for us."
Lewis takes the hint and follows Agatha to the door. "I respect your decision,
but Dash and Arthur will always be welcome if you change your mind."
She shuts the door firmly behind the man, and it's just in time because Dash
has gone pale, has started to shake. Arthur presses closer, shoulder-to-
shoulder, trying to offer comfort.
"God," Dash says when the vision has passed, his voice wobbly and strained. "We
have to—"
"No," Agatha says sharply. "We don't have to. And we can't afford to."
Dash's expression takes a mutinous turn, but he doesn't actually argue. As
kids, before the milk bath, Agatha was their bossy big sister, always calling
the shots, and they've slipped back into those roles since they've been free.
The rest of the day they spend on physics and literature because it's going to
take more than a visit from the local pedophilic school official to derail
Agatha's lesson plan. Neither Arthur or Dash manages much in the way of
concentration. Dinner passes in near silence, and as soon as they've finished
cleaning up, Arthur goes up to his room to record everything he knows about
Principal Lewis.
He's always agreed with Agatha: they can't risk revealing who they are by
getting involved, and they don't owe anyone anything, not after what they've
been through. So it makes no sense that he just gets angrier and angrier as he
writes down the names of Lewis' victims and the details of his crimes. Somehow
Dash's name keeps slipping into the loop in Arthur's head, although he
wasn't—Arthur would never let anyone hurt his brother.
"Arthur," Dash says quietly, watching intently from the other bed. "Don't you
think we should—"
Arthur records the last bit of information and snaps the notebook shut. "You
heard what Agatha said."
"But—"
"Just go to bed."
Of course, Arthur can't sleep once they've turned out the light. The usual roar
in his head is compounded by the playback of names, all the boys Lewis has
already preyed on and the ones he'll target in the future. A memory splashes
up, the glinting, greedy-eyed way he'd stared at Dash. Something tightens in
Arthur's gut, a protectiveness so fierce it leaves him weak, because Dash is
his other half. Because Dash is his.
He looks over at his brother who is sleeping the innocent sleep of children,
one hand tucked beneath his chin, so open, so trusting. Arthur still agrees
with Agatha, but he will always protect what's his, and there are other ways to
deal with problems than by going to the authorities.
===============================================================================
If Arthur sleeps at all, it's light and fitful, and he's awake again in time to
see dawn break mottled and pale across the horizon. He slips out of the room
without waking Dash and creeps down the stairs, carrying his shoes and avoiding
the squeaky tread in the hopes that Agatha won't hear him. He's so intent on
sneaking that he nearly jumps out of his skin when he finds her standing at the
sink, staring out the window at the hazy landscape.
"You should be careful," she says, calm as ever. "We can't know how it will
affect us."
Arthur gives a nod. He has every intention of being careful and no intention of
being stopped.
The little strip of Main Street is just coming awake, shop owners turning on
the lights, getting ready for the day ahead. The unmarked little hole in the
wall that houses the off-channel communications hub is always open. For enough
credits, you can send a message that's perfectly anonymous and utterly
untraceable.
Principal Lewis, better known as Stan Jones, has skipped from one false
identity to the next, leaving in his wake a mountain of outstanding warrants.
He's been clever at hiding his tracks—clever enough to pass the school board's
background check—but Arthur knows it all, every detail, including the names and
contact information of the fathers who are the most likely to take justice into
their own hands. A few strategically placed anonymous calls passing along
Principal Lewis' whereabouts, and it's only a matter of time before someone
takes care of the problem.
The clerk at the desk can't be much older than Arthur, but he has the same
world-weary air. Working at a place like this, no doubt he's seen it all. He
nudges the pad toward Arthur to transfer the credits. Arthur is about to swipe
to complete the transaction when a stream of information breaks through, a
string of criminal statutes: 120.70 luring a child, 130.53 persistent sexual
abuse, 130.96 predatory sexual assault against a child...
It's a series of crimes that's all too familiar.
"Fuck," Arthur says under his breath.
The clerk doesn't blink as Arthur drops the pad and tears out of there. Outside
he can hear the distant screech of tires, what sounds like an entire caravan of
vehicles. That would be the Guard, Arthur guesses, going to round up Principal
Lewis to turn him over to the off-island authorities. Dash stands on the
sidewalk, shuffling his feet awkwardly, looking vaguely apologetic.
"What did you do?" Arthur demands.
Dash's expression turns mulish. "I couldn't let you just—calling the Guard was
the right thing to do. He can't hurt anyone else now, and you won't—"
Have blood on your hands. Dash doesn't need to finish that sentence for Arthur
to know.
Arthur lowers his voice. "We all made a promise. You can't just go off on your
own and put us at risk."
Dash tightens his jaw. "Yeah? And what were you doing? Also, you're not the
only one who knows how to make an anonymous call, Arthur."
There's an angry buzz building in Arthur's head, and the fact that Dash is
right just makes it worse.
"How did you even know?" Dash sees the crime; Arthur gets the details. That's
the way it works. The only way Dash could know about the outstanding warrants
and all the aliases—he must have read Arthur's notebook.
Dash ducks his head sheepishly, knowing he's busted. "Let's just go home,
okay?"
That's the last thing Arthur wants to do. He feels like he'll vibrate out of
his skin if he doesn't—he doesn't even know what. His gaze lands on the
battered liquor store across the street. That's one answer.
"Hey, wait," Dash says, trotting to keep up.
The bored-looking man behind the counter barely spares them a glance as they
roam the dusty aisles. For a moment when Arthur plunks down a bottle of bourbon
onto the counter, the clerk hesitates as if he might ask for ID, but finally he
just shrugs, apparently deciding underage drinkers aren't his problem.
"Where are we going?" Dash asks, sticking close as Arthur heads out of town.
"Do you really think you should drink that stuff?"
Probably not, but Arthur hefts the brown paper bag closer and doesn't answer.
Distantly he recognizes that it makes no sense to be as angry as he is. Lewis
got what was coming to him. Why does it matter that Arthur wasn't the one to
bring him down? He doesn't know. It just does. And now he needs some way to
work off the frustrated desire for vengeance.
There's a copse of trees—not far off the road but still private—where Arthur
goes sometimes when he needs to practice his forging. He strikes off in that
direction, and Dash follows doggedly. Pine needles form a carpet beneath the
branches, and Arthur sits, unscrews the cap. The first swallow burns all the
way down, and only pride keeps him from sputtering and coughing. Those grim-
faced men who slump on their barstools all day long seem even more desperate
now that he's tasted their consolation.
"Arthur," Dash says, low and urgent. "Don't be mad. I swear I didn't do
anything that can be traced back to us."
The whiskey hasn't quieted the noise in Arthur's head—just made it garbled—and
he's in no mood for conversation. He pushes the bottle at Dash. "Drink or go
home."
Dash sniffs at the open bottle, his nose wrinkling. Arthur rolls his eyes and
reaches to take it back, and that spurs Dash on. He forces down a gingerly sip,
makes a face, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "That's gross."
Arthur doesn't disagree, but the hot simmer of anger hasn't cooled yet, and
drinking gives him something to do. They pass the bottle back and forth in
silence. There's a slurred riot breaking out in Arthur's head, the chaos of
half-received information. Possibly whiskey was not the best idea he's ever
had.
Dash's eyes have gone bright and a little glassy. He leans in close. "I know
what he was thinking." His cheeks, already pink, turn even pinker. "But it's
not like—he didn't hurt me, Arthur."
He could have, though. That's the problem, the reason why rage still shimmers
in Arthur's blood. For most of his life, nothing has been in his control, and
Principal Lewis was finally it, the last straw. No stranger is going to walk
into Arthur's house and look at his brother as if he's something to take and
use and throw away, not without Arthur making him pay for it. Except the Guard
got there first, and now Arthur is left with this impotent fury, this
unresolved need to strike back, the taste for violence amplified by the bourbon
hammering his bloodstream.
"Arthur," Dash says, an earnest whisper, and he lays a hand on Arthur's arm.
Every muscle in Arthur's body is tensed for action, anger coiled in the pit of
his stomach, and Dash's touch makes him want to react, do something physical
and extreme. He'd never hurt his brother, though, and that leaves him with his
hand twisted in Dash's shirt and nowhere to go from there.
Dash doesn't hesitate. He scoots closer, winds his arms around Arthur's waist,
and refuses to be budged. The urge toward violence hasn't disappeared, but it's
only instinct for Arthur to hug his brother back. Dash has grown so fast,
several inches in just the past few months, that his body is gangling, almost
painfully thin, but when Arthur slides his hands over Dash's back, he feels
solid. Strong. Arthur presses his face against Dash's shoulder and breathes in
his scent, fabric softener and flannel and boy, deeply familiar. Arthur holds
onto him fiercely, the need for revenge transmuting into the desire to never
let his brother go.
Dash's voice is barely a whisper. "Arthur." He presses his lips to Arthur's
neck, his breath warm and humid on Arthur's skin.
Arthur freezes, because his head is so fuzzy, and this can't be happening. It
has to be his imagination. Wrong, perfect. But Dash does it again, kisses
Arthur's neck eagerly, open mouthed, making Arthur shiver. The fact that
Arthur's never had sex doesn't stop him from picturing exactly what he wants
from his brother. The fact that this isn't so very different from what
Principal Lewis wanted makes him jerk away.
"No." Dash grabs onto his arm and won't let go. "It's not like that and—" He
flushes hotly. "We do. I saw it." He bites his lip, and his voice drops lower.
"And I want to. Arthur, I want—"
Dash's eyes are too bright, his cheeks hot and flushed from the alcohol, and
Arthur's thoughts are muddled, data distantly fizzing in and out. There's no
way he should cup Dash's jaw in his hand and kiss his mouth. But bourbon
doesn't make anyone smart.
Dash gasps, a surprised, pleased sound, and he scrabbles at Arthur's shoulders
as if he wants to climb inside Arthur's skin. Arthur is already hard, and the
thought of them being inseparably close, the way they're meant to be, makes him
ache for it.
No one would ever mistake Arthur for innocent, but he's no less a virgin than
his brother, his only experience his own hand in the middle of the night when
he hopes no one else is awake. Their kisses are fumbling, spitty, and Arthur
can't get enough. He's operating purely on instinct when he topples Dash onto
his back and climbs on top of him. The bottle of bourbon goes flying, spilling
onto the ground, as they grope and flail, kissing frantically and rubbing
against each other.
Dash grapples at Arthur's shoulders, clinging with all his strength, as if he's
still half afraid that Arthur will change his mind. There's no chance of that,
and Arthur bites down hard on Dash's neck, laying claim to him, desperately
pushing their hips together. The inside of Arthur's head is so cloudy, and yet
one thing is absolutely clear: Dash is his.
A little whimper spills out of Dash, and he bucks up, dragging the hot, hard
ridge of his dick against Arthur's thigh. There's a dull ache in the pit of
Arthur's stomach, and he ruts against Dash, driven by the need to get closer,
to touch his brother everywhere. It surprises him to realize that the white
noise in his head has gone quiet. All he can hear now are the breathy,
demanding sounds Dash is making. It's as if nothing exists but them, the
boundaries blurring, the two of them merging until there's nothing separate
anymore, not their thoughts or their skin or their wills.
When Arthur comes, he stutters to a stop and squeezes his eyes tightly shut.
Dash gasps and shakes and goes still. Arthur rolls off, and they lie next to
each other, panting. Arthur's underwear clings to his skin, unpleasantly damp
and sticky. His head has cleared enough to consider that maybe he really
shouldn't have had semi-drunken sex with his little brother. He remembers
Agatha's warning and wonders if this was what she actually meant. We can't know
how it will affect us. Fuck.
"Let's get back," he says, not able to look Dash in the eye.
They don't talk on the way home, not for lack of Dash trying. Arthur keeps his
head down and walks purposefully. What is there to say? If he could pin it all
on the bourbon, that would be something, but when he looks back on his reaction
to Principal Lewis, he can see now that there was as much jealousy and
possessiveness wrapped up in it as brotherly protectiveness.
At the house, they find Agatha out by the barn working with the horses. It's a
fair bet she knows what they've done, but her expression is as composed as ever
when she tells them, "You can get started on the next history lesson. I'll come
inside in a few minutes."
"Arthur," Dash says as soon as they're through the door, grabbing him by the
arm.
Just that simple touch lights up Arthur's body, makes him feel too warm in the
pit of his stomach. The urge to kiss Dash, to put his hands and mouth all over
him hasn't gone away, not even a little bit.
Arthur pulls away and swipes the view screen to bring up the virtual classroom,
relieved for once to focus on the dusty trivia of yesteryear.
Dash bides his time, waits until they're alone in their room that night, until
after they've turned out the lights and Arthur's a captive audience, to bring
it up again. "I'm not sorry. It wasn't the bourbon. We both wanted it."
Arthur tightens his jaw and tries not to listen. Nothing about their lives has
ever been normal, but having sex with his little brother, wanting to do it
again even now, takes not-normal to a whole new level.
"It's going to happen again," Dash says, soft and very certain.
A stream of information floods Arthur's head: dates, locations, enough details
about sex acts to make even him blush. The next time will be tomorrow
afternoon, the abandoned old fishing cabin, Dash and Arthur both finding out
what Arthur can do with his mouth. He closes his eyes, and dates keep
unreeling, stretching far into the future, maybe even for the rest of their
lives.
"Goodnight, Arthur," comes softly from the other bed.
Nothing about them has ever been normal, and in this one regard at least,
Arthur can't bring himself to regret it.
"Goodnight, Dash."
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