retaliatory fic for Esther
Dec. 31st, 2009 02:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chanter1944I told ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
newredshoes I was going to do this, and so I have! and I made my self-imposed deadline, too. gasp! XD
this is in a vague sort of retaliation for... well, it's a very silly story really. Er, the thing I'm retaliating against, not this story, although this one could be viewed as a little silly too depending on whether or not you know![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
milliways_bar. This's also referencing a scene that I sharding love, which is a large majority of the reason why I did it this way. Don't kill me? I really, really hope I've got voices right, especially my narrator, seeing as we're, well, getting the whole ficlet through his eyes. Anyway. Here y'go, Esther. Happy New Year!
It’s the supply tent he’s heading for.
He’s two steps in when he realizes what he’s walking on, and it’s about that time that his eyes catch up with his feet and he stops dead, staring. His mouth ain’t open, but even that was a damn near thing for a second or two. He’s got training, sure he has, but all training aside there are some situations that you just don’t learn about in the Army. “What the...?”
“Hey Luz!” He yells it, yells the first thing he can think of, and before he knows what he’s doing his head’s turned almost a quarter of the way around in his hurry to get an answer. His eyes are on the square of grey Aldbourne daylight over his right shoulder, and what he sees don’t register till he breathes out. “Damn it, Luz! You do something to the--?” He never finishes.
The world’s frozen. Mid-breath, mid-breeze, everything. No sound, no motion; not a goddamn twitch, but the view’s still there. He don’t believe his eyes (who would?), and so he blinks. Once. No change. Twice, same thing. His own footprints are outlined in mud ten feet from the door and trailing in, and the grass that’s been spattered and flattened by his passing don’t move from where it’s lying. He swears—god damn, he’s really seeing this--that there’s a songbird twenty feet up with it’s wings caught on a downstroke, and it ain’t moving a muscle. Midair. “Holy shit.”
Toccoa didn’t break him; the troop ship didn’t break him; this ass backwards corner of England hasn’t even come close. He ain’t even got to the war yet, how can he - but for a second, damned if he’s not afraid of the worst. “Shit,” he says again, and his left hand’s lifting, covering his face before he knows it’s got a mind to leave his side. “I’m still in England and I’m already fuckin’ crazy.”
“You ain’t.” He don’t jump at a voice three feet from his ear, but just now he’s not likely to get startled by anything. That voice is certain, and it’s matter-of-fact, and it’s the sort of calm only one man in Easy can manage. Not Winters, not Lipton, not Shifty; ask him how and he can’t explain it, but this sort of calm is different. There’s a warm hand around his wrist, gentle, steady as you like, and he’s only surprised at his action after he lets his own arm fall. “You might think you seein’ things, but you ain’t crazy.” It’s a second or two before he can turn his head the right way round, and he’s not so much surprised as relieved straight to his boots at what he finds. His ears got it right, and besides. He might not’ve been to the real war yet, but still.
“Hey Alley.”
Doc Roe’s standing at his shoulder, serious as just about always, looking from the door to his face and back again. “Was wonderin’ when another one of us might show up,” he says, and his voice is just like his hands, same as it ever is. “C’mon. I’ll show you what this place’s about. Alright?”
They say the meek shall inherit the earth, and if that’s true, Alley doubts he’ll be getting more than room to stand on for his own come judgment day. No way. He ain’t some lamb, some little girl, but just now, the way he’s feeling and the way Doc’s talking, he follows like he’s on a goddamn string. That way lies reason. That way lies something to hang onto.
And fuck him if he knows why, but for a second, he’s almost sure that something...
Nah.
I'm horrible, yes? :)
Proper New Year's entry to be made once I'm no longer in transit. *goes to finish packing*
newredshoes I was going to do this, and so I have! and I made my self-imposed deadline, too. gasp! XD this is in a vague sort of retaliation for... well, it's a very silly story really. Er, the thing I'm retaliating against, not this story, although this one could be viewed as a little silly too depending on whether or not you know
milliways_bar. This's also referencing a scene that I sharding love, which is a large majority of the reason why I did it this way. Don't kill me? I really, really hope I've got voices right, especially my narrator, seeing as we're, well, getting the whole ficlet through his eyes. Anyway. Here y'go, Esther. Happy New Year! It’s the supply tent he’s heading for.
He’s two steps in when he realizes what he’s walking on, and it’s about that time that his eyes catch up with his feet and he stops dead, staring. His mouth ain’t open, but even that was a damn near thing for a second or two. He’s got training, sure he has, but all training aside there are some situations that you just don’t learn about in the Army. “What the...?”
“Hey Luz!” He yells it, yells the first thing he can think of, and before he knows what he’s doing his head’s turned almost a quarter of the way around in his hurry to get an answer. His eyes are on the square of grey Aldbourne daylight over his right shoulder, and what he sees don’t register till he breathes out. “Damn it, Luz! You do something to the--?” He never finishes.
The world’s frozen. Mid-breath, mid-breeze, everything. No sound, no motion; not a goddamn twitch, but the view’s still there. He don’t believe his eyes (who would?), and so he blinks. Once. No change. Twice, same thing. His own footprints are outlined in mud ten feet from the door and trailing in, and the grass that’s been spattered and flattened by his passing don’t move from where it’s lying. He swears—god damn, he’s really seeing this--that there’s a songbird twenty feet up with it’s wings caught on a downstroke, and it ain’t moving a muscle. Midair. “Holy shit.”
Toccoa didn’t break him; the troop ship didn’t break him; this ass backwards corner of England hasn’t even come close. He ain’t even got to the war yet, how can he - but for a second, damned if he’s not afraid of the worst. “Shit,” he says again, and his left hand’s lifting, covering his face before he knows it’s got a mind to leave his side. “I’m still in England and I’m already fuckin’ crazy.”
“You ain’t.” He don’t jump at a voice three feet from his ear, but just now he’s not likely to get startled by anything. That voice is certain, and it’s matter-of-fact, and it’s the sort of calm only one man in Easy can manage. Not Winters, not Lipton, not Shifty; ask him how and he can’t explain it, but this sort of calm is different. There’s a warm hand around his wrist, gentle, steady as you like, and he’s only surprised at his action after he lets his own arm fall. “You might think you seein’ things, but you ain’t crazy.” It’s a second or two before he can turn his head the right way round, and he’s not so much surprised as relieved straight to his boots at what he finds. His ears got it right, and besides. He might not’ve been to the real war yet, but still.
“Hey Alley.”
Doc Roe’s standing at his shoulder, serious as just about always, looking from the door to his face and back again. “Was wonderin’ when another one of us might show up,” he says, and his voice is just like his hands, same as it ever is. “C’mon. I’ll show you what this place’s about. Alright?”
They say the meek shall inherit the earth, and if that’s true, Alley doubts he’ll be getting more than room to stand on for his own come judgment day. No way. He ain’t some lamb, some little girl, but just now, the way he’s feeling and the way Doc’s talking, he follows like he’s on a goddamn string. That way lies reason. That way lies something to hang onto.
And fuck him if he knows why, but for a second, he’s almost sure that something...
Nah.
I'm horrible, yes? :)
Proper New Year's entry to be made once I'm no longer in transit. *goes to finish packing*
