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ccorneliast · 7 years

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A Heart In Barcelona - Chapter 2: A Carrison Fanfiction

Rating: M Summary: Carrie and Harrison go on a weekend getaway to Barcelona during filming of The Empire Strikes Back in the late seventies. Something happens on that trip that changes their lives forever. Disclaimer: this is a real person fan fiction, so it all definitely came from my imagination and I’m not trying to offend anyone (you know the drill). I did take some creative liberty on what concerns the timeline, so stuff that is mentioned/places they visit may not have existed in the seventies, I apologize in advance; I do use/paraphrase some parts from Carrie’s books, as a way of making it feel more like them. A/N: The second chapter goes to space sister Jazz ( @kyberheartford ), for her excitment and for her love of harrison character development. Such big thanks to Maria ( @rosesjedi ) for editing this for me at midnight lol u rock boo.

On AO3

I hope you enjoy this new story of mine and don’t forget to reblog and tell me your opinion!

Their cabbie pulls over on Passeig de Grácia, a large thoroughfare where every shop is inscribed with an expensive name: Dolce & Gabbana, Yves Saint Laurent. Yet, amidst this luxury, shines an actual gem: Casa Milà, or as it is commonly called, La Pedrera.

Carrie and Harrison dash below an awning and squint through the blinding sunlight, across the intersection, at its interesting stone facade.

“Did you know,” Carrie reads from her very informative brochure: “That a wealthy man called Milà commissioned Gaudí to design the building?” she explains.

“It’s beautiful.” He exhales, in awe.

“Your first Gaudí!” she exclaims, excitedly. She clutches his arm like a proud girlfriend: “How do you feel?”

“Like I said,” he repeats, still fixated on the frontage. “It’s unbelievable.”

Its grandiose structure is made up entirely of waves and curves, there not being a single straight line of construction. It was the home of the Milà family, as well as several other renters, but most of the locals despised it as eyesore – exactly how the same generation of Parisians felt about the Eiffel Tower.

“I wonder how it would’ve felt back then,” Carrie confesses. “I’d like to think I would’ve been one of those people who understood this was special.”

“You have an eye for special things, kid,” he states, matter-of-factly. He probably didn’t even think twice about his comment, he just said it. Like most of the things he does, he does them very true to his character, without thinking twice whether they’re hurtful or meaningful. This time around, Carrie cautiously rejoiced in his words. She knew there was a possibility that he just blurted it out without feeling it, but nonetheless, she’d record those words in her mind.

“Nice roof,” Harrison says. “But mine in London is better.” He waggles his eyebrows at her. She nudges him, and he nudges back.

La Pedrera’s rooftop is notorious for its weird, bulky chimneys: some shaped like medieval armory, others imitating soft-served ice-cream. The waves of tourists go up and down the Escher-esque stairs, around the chimneys again and again, like an endless ocean of dissimilar people.

“Harrison, stand right there,” she orders, hurriedly.

“Here?” he motions to the empty space in between tourists and chimneys.

“Yeah,” she pulls out her disposable camera and swiftly snaps a shot. “Smile for me, baby,” the pet name escapes her mouth without a warning. Thank God for the camera hiding her face. He obliges, surprisingly, and she takes the picture. “Perfect.”

“Let’s go?” he rushes, noticing of the amount of people surrounding them.

“Yeah, you wanna visit the other house?” she offers.

“Aham,” he’s already descending the stairs, a strange mixture of nervousness and fear.

“Harrison, wait for me!” She shouts, without being able to keep up with him.

She reaches the bottom and he’s waiting for her amongst the trees.

“What was that?” she asks, partially annoyed.

“What was what?” he asks back, impassive.

“That! Up there! That whole scene!” she’s still rather out of breath, trying to keep up with his fast pacing.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He’s already half-way into the subway station. She notices its name in yellow: Metro, oh-so-different from its brother in London.

“You’re infuriating sometimes.” She presses, taming her disheveled hair.

“Same could be said about you, dear.” His back is still turned to her while they await the metro that’ll be taking them to Casa Batlló.

“What is that supposed to mean?” her tiny frame manages to jump up to his shoulders, grabbing his attention.

“Carrie, stop.” He warns, his tone somber. His eyes still don’t look at hers.

“No,” she jumps again, this time grabbing a hold of his shoulders, making him tumble backwards.

“Stop, I mean it.” This time, his face is turned towards her. It’s dark and… wet? She doesn’t remember hearing his voice breaking from crying, nor does she remember to actually see him cry. She always imagined a specimen like Harrison Ford was not capable of any emotion, much less sadness. If any, he’d be able to feel empathy or lust, but not sadness. A form of male animal like him feeling anything other than that was scary. She chose him because he was safe, because she was sure he couldn’t feel. Then, a frightening thought came to mind:

Carrie couldn’t help but wonder, if Harrison cried so easily like this, though she still didn’t know why, then… could he feel other inane things like love?

“You wanna see something cool?” he pokes her chest.

“I’m looking at it.” She teases, biting her lip. It takes all of his strength not to start making out with Carrie in the middle of the crowded street.

“Shut up,” he laughs. “Turn around for me, dear.”

They’re standing across the street from Casa Batlló, another Gaudí masterpiece. The surface is covered in ceramic-shard mosaics – aqua and cobalt, rusty orange and yellow gold – in rough, skinlike patterns. As if that wasn’t enough, the rooftop is another force to be reckoned with, with an animalistic arch of metallic tiles that’s curved like the back of a mighty dragon.

“I like this one even more, huh?” she says. His eyes widen with speechlessness.

“This one is more you,” Harrison tries. “It’s the bright colors, I think.” He smiles his signature crooked smile.

“Look at us, we look like we’re shopping for houses together.” She jokes, bumping his side. He doesn’t laugh, though. In fact, he doesn’t react at all.

“Next?” he asks, glancing at the watch on his wrist. It’s a little bit past one in the afternoon.

“Should we eat?” the scalding sun feels like it must burn through her pale skin.

“If that’s what you want.” His tone is monochroic, yet he smiles momentarily.

They hop on a bus en route to the Gothic Quarter, in hopes of freshening up and eating a late lunch at the market. Carrie switches to a baggy shirt and a flowy, thin skirt. Changing was practically a requirement with such unbearable heat.

“That’s the one!” she exclaims as they turn left at Las Ramblas and enter a huge agglomerate of people. The scent of fresh food and organic produce fills the air. Harrison immediately gravitates towards the charcuterie section, promptly getting a chorizo sandwich. Carrie follows suit. The two actors sit down on the sidewalk outside the La Boqueria market and eat in silence. After a while, Carrie asks: “Where should we go next?” impatient to cut through the awkward atmosphere that was threatening to set.

“The guy at the front desk gave me this,” he hands her the map of Barcelona, with the major tourists’ spots circled. “While you were changing, he showed me that.” He explains, succinctly.

“Sagrada Família?” Carrie tries. It sure is famous.

“I was thinking more of Parc Güell.”

And off they go.

As soon as they enter the subway for a very long trip to the edge of Barcelona, it’s quite evident that, with the number of tourists in the same situation as them, there is sure to not be a seat for them to rest their feet for a while. They hold on to the railing for a few stops, chatting sparingly. Then, someone gets off the subway and Carrie nudges him. Then, she sprints as effectively as one can sprint inside a crowded subway and snatches the seat. He laughs.

“You’ll never be as fast as Princess Leia!” she shouts, annoying the people around them with their childish antics.

“What was that? I’ll never be as fat as Princess Leia?” he jokes, winking at her.

She melts.

“Shut up.” She retorts with a shaky voice. Then, she says. “Your feet must be killing you.”

“They’re fine, Carrie.” He responds.

“No, sit here.” She gets up to offer him the seat.

“You’re crazy, sit down.” He insists.

“Harrison,” her tone is harsh even. “Sit down.” He obliges, how could he not?

“We’ll share it, then.” He moves to the side and gives her a tiny portion of the seat.

“Okay.” She answers, giggling. This had been her plan all along.

She sits down next to him: “I’m falling, Harrison.” Someone beside them laughs.

“Just sit back a little.” And she does. She sits further back until she’s blatantly sitting on his lap. He doesn’t seem to mind as his arms wrap around her waist and his head burrows on the crook of her neck. She lets her head fall back, settling on his shoulder, until they’re a mesh of limbs on a public transportation. The vibration of the tracks lulls them to a blissful state of reverie. Even if she tried, she realized, she just couldn’t get him out of her head.

They emerge into a neighborhood that’s emptier and dirtier. No one exits the station with them, and there are no street signs for their destination.

“Is this the right place?” she asks.

Harrison scratches his head. “I think so. Let’s try up there, sweetheart.”

He points towards an area that looks less barren. They hike up the streets, their hands brushing as they go. Everything feels abandoned as they reach a long hill with several sets of stairs and escalators. Escalators. Carrie’s never been happier to see escalators in her life.

As they ride the rickety steps, the sun gets brighter and brighter. When they reach the top of the hill, worn out and sweaty, the sky clears. Pleasant sunshine.

There’s another, smaller hill across the street. “The park?” she asks. He nods, encouragingly.

Then, with a burst of energy, Harrison scoops her up over his shoulder and runs towards it. Carrie screams with laughter. He shouts in mad glee. She pounds his back with her fists, yet Harrison doesn’t show signs of letting go. Only when they’ve gone through the gates and are on the summit does he let her down. He throws up his arms in triumph: “Now who’s the strongest, sweetheart?” he snickers. Then, he buckles like a weak hinge. “I’m dying.”

Carrie grins. “Serves you right.”

Harrison lifts his head. “You think so, baby?” And then she sees his expression change as he notices what lies behind Carrie. She turns to look. Their bodies straighten in amazement.

They’re not on just on top of the final hill. They’re on top of Barcelona.

In the far distance, they can see the turrets and sculptures that Gaudí designed for the park – and its accompanying crowds – but, up here, everything is trees and serenity. A landscape of Mediterranean greens sprawls across to the horizon, with sprinkles of yellow, pink and blue tiles throughout – Parc Güell.

“Come and sit here,” she motions to a secluded area, off path. Suddenly, her heart beats faster.

The air smells of mountains and pines. There is a crazy number of trees here: cypress trees, olive trees, palm trees and just mystery trees with plump red berries.

Their bodies clash on the ground. They sneak through the foliage. She leans in and their lips meet, her body on top of his. He unbuttons her shirt, and his hands are around her back, caressing her smooth skin. But as quickly as their making out begins, he pulls away, gasping.

“Never mind, we can’t do this. If we go any further, the stopping part will be excruciating.” He looks at her through his eyelashes. “It already is.”

“You wanna go back to the hotel?” she reaches out to touch him, but he rolls away.

“Don’t you want to see the park?” he questions.

“We can come back later.” She proposes.

“And climb all of that again?” he grins.

“You’re right, Mr. Ford.” She says.

They sit in silence for a few moments, immovable.

Then, the sun dips below the treeline, and suddenly, Harrison is backlit by a stunning golden light. He looks so dashing even when he’s sweaty and dirty. She wiggles upward until she reaches his lips. They kiss, heavily, until Carrie can’t handle it anymore.

“Take that off.” She tugs at his shirt and he, surprisingly, indulges.

Now, a woman is playing the guitar, strumming the strings beautifully. The famous lizard is directly below them, they have the perfect view to look at it. The entirety of Barcelona in all its glory is given to them in a silver platter.

Yet, the only thing they can focus on is each other.

Her hands tentatively touch his abdomen, feeling every bump, every curve, almost like he’s La Pedrera himself. Her nails graze his scruff, her lips enveloping his skin in a leisurely manner. Why bother? They have the city to themselves.

His fingers get lost on her brown locks and his hazel eyes latch on to hers. His plump lips explore her chest, the soft, sensitive skin of her breasts. Her heavy breathing propels them to a more serious, less teasing, kiss. Their lips meet in a fusion of passion and desperation, their bodies never being close enough. The grass beneath his skin tickles and the sun on her bare back burns, but all that truly matters is her skin on his mouth and her hands on his neck.

“I didn’t bring any, Carrie,” he manages to breathe. “They’re all at the hotel.”

“What?” she murmurs, while she licks his earlobe, teasingly. “How could you not have brought any?”

“Well, this wasn’t exactly on the tour guide.” He chuckles at his own remark. She doesn’t stop though, which alarms him.

“Carrie, are you on the pill?” he asks, praying to God that her answer is affirmative.

She nods. And the heavens explode.

#a heart in barcelona #carrison #carrie fisher #harrison ford #carrison fanfiction #carrison rpf #carrison trash #tita writes

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