Desmond ficlet
Little snippet of a Desmond fic, around 1000 words. (I’m still working out the logistics of full-blown Desmond slash. I don’t know if it’s possible. The plot hinges on his love for a woman. And just WHEN would he have time to get it on with anybody…or energy/sobriety to get it up. :) ) And I have one of the same problems I have with Charlie: the accent thing. I don’t know how Scottish people talk, what words they choose. Anyway, here’s something. It’s sorta stream of consciousness, just me taking scruffy, bitter Desmond for a test drive. Spoilers for the beginning of the finale.
ETA: I should be more accurate. Really I should. By snippet of a fic I mean this is a short little story. But whatever it is, it's done.
The drunk was lifting. He was still drinking, but the drunk was lifting. Maybe at some point, the alcohol stopped working. He didn’t know. Maybe it was this island. This fucking island.
People swirled. He hadn’t seen so many people in so long. Seemed like his whole life was solitary. Prison, then back into the swirl, but he almost couldn’t remember that, because then it was that bunker in the ground. Then Kelvin. Then blood on a rock. Then down in the belly of a boat to drink until the wine was gone and who knew what he’d do then.
But here he was. People swirled. There was the bald one, a fucking crazy freak, but a true believer, for what it was worth. Fucking nut. And the doctor. He still didn’t know how it was possible. Stadium to island. It was like a conspiracy. It was like some force in the universe wanted to remind him of seeing Pen, knowing she loved him, watching her climb into the car, knowing some other man had been touching her, knowing he’d do it again.
Sex. He knew he should miss it, but it had become something nearly mythic to him now. Something past that he didn’t do, didn’t feel. Swirling people, did they touch each other? Angry, confused, scared: he knew they must. Sick and sad but working always like a colony of heavy-hearted ants. It felt like they swarmed around him. It was so loud, now that the buzz was lifting. He almost felt himself swaying. It was the feeling of getting drunk in reverse, feeling it slip away from him: loose, numb, warm.
People, all touching. The girl, the one he’d grabbed. Scared beauty, sad and unhappy. He could feel the doctor bark at her, even though he couldn’t hear a word of it. He heard too many words to hear any of them. Then a voice: digging in, forced harsh and deep, but not made for it. Surely not. Made for some slow liquid sort of talking. Made for everything liquid, made for whiskey, not wine. No actual words, just the growl of it, tuned back because he was solemn and whispering, but fierce. Real. Things there that weren’t just anxiety and an over-inflated sense of self-importance. He had always had a hard time with people in charge. They didn’t have a clue. The doctor’s voice alongside this new one was jolting. The doctor didn’t know anything about any of it. If he did, he’d have stopped everything-walking, talking, even drinking-to hear this voice. Words. Sounds. A life in so many pieces it hurt Desmond to hear it.
But such a lovely sound, too. This man needed to touch. God, he did. Every sound he made spoke of it. But he was not the type. He was never touched. Not really. Certainly not here. None of them could. He pieced it together now. It was the voice from before. He’d been so fucking drunk when they stormed onto his boat. He remembered Jack. And he remembered two others: one light, one dark. But he knew the dark one. His voice had some beauty of its own. Restrained and lilting. He could almost hear the man’s tongue flipping against his teeth. But no access-all that pain of his buried so that you wouldn’t even know it. He had been like that once, walking out of the regiment. Then the rain, then the limo. Then there wasn’t anything to disguise it, not even a softness of his voice. He’d always been too fucking earnest.
He could almost remember the way the man looked. Bright and warm like the sun. Strong. Such a contrast to his brain. Gloriously human and there. Beautiful and acting so damn stupid and reckless a person could see it in his eyes. Capable of more, but almost rebelling against doing anything other than hurting.
People swirled past him, drowning out the voice, until he heard it again, and it was so near. Here was the man. Dressed. That made Desmond laugh bitterly. Jeans, no shoes, dark green shirt, buttoned, sleeves rolled up. It was dark, only firelight to see by, and he was so fucking clear to him, this stomping, angry, dark, furious, deep, hard, wonderful floating voice against a soft mouth. Follow mouth down over jaw to the first fastened button halfway down his chest. He could almost taste him, the way his stomach would taste. As if he’d ever tasted a man’s skin, not even in prison.
The man walked by, still talking to the doctor, and they stopped, so nearby he could touch them. If he just got off the ground and let himself into the swirl. But he couldn’t. The doctor walked away, leaving the man-a name sprang into his mind: Sawyer--to stand there. For a moment, his eyes lit on him, then on his bottle. Desmond would offer it, surely, to this creature. And he did, stretching his hand out, and the man took it from him.
Brush of fingers, long scrutinizing gaze, drawled thanks, then a brush of fingers again before he walked away, leaving Desmond with the bottle. And a sudden, painful hard-on.
With an interior laugh that slowly forced itself over his lips as a chuckle, he lurched, falling back against the sand. You’re welcome, he said to himself, and it didn’t sound the same. He stared up at that sky and wondered what that man would have done if he’d taken him by the arm, pulled him down there. But the man wasn’t drunk. And Desmond wasn’t the type. But, suddenly, he was really fucking lonely, here with all these people.
He suddenly wondered if the whole fucking swirl of them were just as miserable as he was, as Sawyer was.
ETA: I should be more accurate. Really I should. By snippet of a fic I mean this is a short little story. But whatever it is, it's done.
The drunk was lifting. He was still drinking, but the drunk was lifting. Maybe at some point, the alcohol stopped working. He didn’t know. Maybe it was this island. This fucking island.
People swirled. He hadn’t seen so many people in so long. Seemed like his whole life was solitary. Prison, then back into the swirl, but he almost couldn’t remember that, because then it was that bunker in the ground. Then Kelvin. Then blood on a rock. Then down in the belly of a boat to drink until the wine was gone and who knew what he’d do then.
But here he was. People swirled. There was the bald one, a fucking crazy freak, but a true believer, for what it was worth. Fucking nut. And the doctor. He still didn’t know how it was possible. Stadium to island. It was like a conspiracy. It was like some force in the universe wanted to remind him of seeing Pen, knowing she loved him, watching her climb into the car, knowing some other man had been touching her, knowing he’d do it again.
Sex. He knew he should miss it, but it had become something nearly mythic to him now. Something past that he didn’t do, didn’t feel. Swirling people, did they touch each other? Angry, confused, scared: he knew they must. Sick and sad but working always like a colony of heavy-hearted ants. It felt like they swarmed around him. It was so loud, now that the buzz was lifting. He almost felt himself swaying. It was the feeling of getting drunk in reverse, feeling it slip away from him: loose, numb, warm.
People, all touching. The girl, the one he’d grabbed. Scared beauty, sad and unhappy. He could feel the doctor bark at her, even though he couldn’t hear a word of it. He heard too many words to hear any of them. Then a voice: digging in, forced harsh and deep, but not made for it. Surely not. Made for some slow liquid sort of talking. Made for everything liquid, made for whiskey, not wine. No actual words, just the growl of it, tuned back because he was solemn and whispering, but fierce. Real. Things there that weren’t just anxiety and an over-inflated sense of self-importance. He had always had a hard time with people in charge. They didn’t have a clue. The doctor’s voice alongside this new one was jolting. The doctor didn’t know anything about any of it. If he did, he’d have stopped everything-walking, talking, even drinking-to hear this voice. Words. Sounds. A life in so many pieces it hurt Desmond to hear it.
But such a lovely sound, too. This man needed to touch. God, he did. Every sound he made spoke of it. But he was not the type. He was never touched. Not really. Certainly not here. None of them could. He pieced it together now. It was the voice from before. He’d been so fucking drunk when they stormed onto his boat. He remembered Jack. And he remembered two others: one light, one dark. But he knew the dark one. His voice had some beauty of its own. Restrained and lilting. He could almost hear the man’s tongue flipping against his teeth. But no access-all that pain of his buried so that you wouldn’t even know it. He had been like that once, walking out of the regiment. Then the rain, then the limo. Then there wasn’t anything to disguise it, not even a softness of his voice. He’d always been too fucking earnest.
He could almost remember the way the man looked. Bright and warm like the sun. Strong. Such a contrast to his brain. Gloriously human and there. Beautiful and acting so damn stupid and reckless a person could see it in his eyes. Capable of more, but almost rebelling against doing anything other than hurting.
People swirled past him, drowning out the voice, until he heard it again, and it was so near. Here was the man. Dressed. That made Desmond laugh bitterly. Jeans, no shoes, dark green shirt, buttoned, sleeves rolled up. It was dark, only firelight to see by, and he was so fucking clear to him, this stomping, angry, dark, furious, deep, hard, wonderful floating voice against a soft mouth. Follow mouth down over jaw to the first fastened button halfway down his chest. He could almost taste him, the way his stomach would taste. As if he’d ever tasted a man’s skin, not even in prison.
The man walked by, still talking to the doctor, and they stopped, so nearby he could touch them. If he just got off the ground and let himself into the swirl. But he couldn’t. The doctor walked away, leaving the man-a name sprang into his mind: Sawyer--to stand there. For a moment, his eyes lit on him, then on his bottle. Desmond would offer it, surely, to this creature. And he did, stretching his hand out, and the man took it from him.
Brush of fingers, long scrutinizing gaze, drawled thanks, then a brush of fingers again before he walked away, leaving Desmond with the bottle. And a sudden, painful hard-on.
With an interior laugh that slowly forced itself over his lips as a chuckle, he lurched, falling back against the sand. You’re welcome, he said to himself, and it didn’t sound the same. He stared up at that sky and wondered what that man would have done if he’d taken him by the arm, pulled him down there. But the man wasn’t drunk. And Desmond wasn’t the type. But, suddenly, he was really fucking lonely, here with all these people.
He suddenly wondered if the whole fucking swirl of them were just as miserable as he was, as Sawyer was.