The hens are teething
In response to (perfectly justified) accusations of cowardice by msmoat (aka PFL), I'm finally posting a thing wot I wrote.
You may remember that msmoat christened her LJ by posting a story snippet she'd come across when transferring to a new computer. Lots of people wanted to see a sequel, and I actually (first time in years) had an idea for one so, with gracious permission from PFL, I wrote it.
Since I've borrowed heavily in terms of style, tone and structure, you really need to read the sequel straight after the original story for it to make any sense, so:
Here's the original snippet
Snippet Sequel
He could feel the sheet beneath him, crisp cotton smooth against his skin. Drifting in the timeless limbo between sleep and waking, he moved drowsily against it, savouring the sensation, thankful for its simple power to hold consciousness at bay.
Sounds teased at his awareness, irritants, intruding on his fragile peace. Somewhere at his side, he caught the faintest rustle of fabric and what might almost have been an indrawn breath. Footsteps and quiet laughter from another room were cut short abruptly by the closing of a door. Beyond that, a complex background murmur spoke of a larger space alive with purpose while, beneath it all, muted by walls and distance, rose the constant tidal swell of a city’s traffic - humdrum, impossible sounds that had no place in his here and now.
The contradiction was disturbing, rousing uneasiness in the watchful, animal part of him that never slept. Unable to reconcile the incongruity, he retreated from it, reaching without conscious thought for the proven reassurance of fantasy.
If he opened his eyes, relinquished the comfortable darkness, what would he see? Painstaking, meticulous, he concentrated on recreating the illusion, letting his imagination take him home.
Uneasiness deepened as the illusion resisted, refusing to take solid form. His need was no less than before, but, this time it seemed the trusted ritual had lost its power. The cluttered bedside table, the clock, the mug remained insubstantial, the cover of the dog-eared paperback blurred to illegibility. He persevered, stubbornly rejecting the possibility of failure, but the fantasy continued to elude him. His breath coming faster, he tensed and shifted, feeling the first cold tendrils of panic…and clutched reflexively at sensation; a drowning man grasping for a lifeline.
He could feel the sheet beneath him; the cool, crisp cotton. Yes. He clung to that, refused to let it slip through his fingers with the rest. He had schooled himself to exist in the moment; untroubled by hope, unshaken by fear or regret. He would hold this feeling fast, make these sensations part of him, ground himself in the physical. No past, no future; only this moment, only the next.
Feel the fine weave of the cotton, the firm yielding of the mattress, the crease in the pillowcase beneath his cheek. Breathe in the freshness of newly-laundered linen, the antiseptic tang of cleaning fluid, and the inexplicably, achingly familiar scent closer at hand that tugged at his memory and his emotions, speaking to him more clearly than anything else of home, safety, security.
Bathed in that scent, lulled by it, he felt his racing pulse begin to slow. Desperately grateful, he breathed deeply, deliberately, blanking his mind, relaxing his tense limbs. No longer thinking, feeling nothing, merely existing.
*****
A new sound intruded, evaporating his hard-won calm. A sound he had replayed endlessly in his imagination, invested with every nuance of feeling, but heard now with a new, startling clarity. A voice murmuring his name, calling him.
"Ray?"
It was just a whisper of sound, but it was the one summons he could never ignore. He opened his eyes.
Bodie leaned over him, face pale beneath a heavy growth of stubble, his mouth tight, eyes burning with more than simple exhaustion.
He was too weary for dissembling, too aware of the improbability of this reprieve. And so, rather than squander the gift in a hopeless search for words, he simply held out his hand - surprising himself with the effort it took, the tremor that shook him as he struggled to raise an arm grown unaccountably heavy - and waited for Bodie to come to him.
How does one measure time where time no longer has any meaning? His heart pumped blood, his lungs filled and emptied. The moment hung on the curve of his breath. And then Bodie moved forward and took Doyle's hand in his. He could feel the calluses on Bodie's palm, the incautious strength of fingers that gripped his with a pressure approaching pain, the tremor that matched and mastered his own.
He drew Bodie to him, patient with his momentary resistance, rejoicing as it melted to his will. He could sense Bodie's shock easing into comprehension even as he moved at Doyle's bidding, wrapping his arms around him without hesitation, holding him close, crushing fear and doubt with the fierceness of his embrace.
The contact shattered Doyle's precarious detachment, dizzying him with an explosion of sensation. But reality was no longer an enemy to be feared or denied; now he rushed to meet it exulting, every sense alert to drink it in. The smell of Bodie's body, his sweat; the acrid topnote of his fear and, yes, the deeper musk of his arousal. The taste of Bodie's skin, the fresh dampness on his face salt to Doyle's tongue. The feel of him; his heat, his solidity, his strength trembling under Doyle's hands. And, oh, the sound of his name in Bodie's voice, need and fear and wanting laid bare.
He revelled in it, let it liberate and cleanse him. It was that other place and time that was illusion now. This was all there was, all he needed, all he'd longed for; his sustaining fantasy made gloriously real.
And they would make it last. Prove it true.
"Bodie."
His voice was a harsh croak, sounding barely human to his ears. He coughed, avid for water, and even before he could voice the need, Bodie was there, lifting and supporting him, steadying a glass at his lips.
The water was a miracle, bathing his parched throat. The look in Bodie’s eyes was another.
Bodie moved closer, filling his vision, his free hand lifting to cup Doyle's face. The metal bed frame jangled with his shifting weight as he leaned down to press his lips to Doyle's, and Doyle shivered at the touch, feeling Bodie's mouth move against his, his breath catching on a murmur barely louder than a sigh.
"Ah, God. Ray."
He was so tired. It was the sweetest relief to give himself over to the sure strength cradling him, to let Bodie ease him back against the pillows, to feel the cool sheet beneath him, crisp cotton smooth against his skin…
Be gentle with me. It's been a while!
You may remember that msmoat christened her LJ by posting a story snippet she'd come across when transferring to a new computer. Lots of people wanted to see a sequel, and I actually (first time in years) had an idea for one so, with gracious permission from PFL, I wrote it.
Since I've borrowed heavily in terms of style, tone and structure, you really need to read the sequel straight after the original story for it to make any sense, so:
Here's the original snippet
Snippet Sequel
He could feel the sheet beneath him, crisp cotton smooth against his skin. Drifting in the timeless limbo between sleep and waking, he moved drowsily against it, savouring the sensation, thankful for its simple power to hold consciousness at bay.
Sounds teased at his awareness, irritants, intruding on his fragile peace. Somewhere at his side, he caught the faintest rustle of fabric and what might almost have been an indrawn breath. Footsteps and quiet laughter from another room were cut short abruptly by the closing of a door. Beyond that, a complex background murmur spoke of a larger space alive with purpose while, beneath it all, muted by walls and distance, rose the constant tidal swell of a city’s traffic - humdrum, impossible sounds that had no place in his here and now.
The contradiction was disturbing, rousing uneasiness in the watchful, animal part of him that never slept. Unable to reconcile the incongruity, he retreated from it, reaching without conscious thought for the proven reassurance of fantasy.
If he opened his eyes, relinquished the comfortable darkness, what would he see? Painstaking, meticulous, he concentrated on recreating the illusion, letting his imagination take him home.
Uneasiness deepened as the illusion resisted, refusing to take solid form. His need was no less than before, but, this time it seemed the trusted ritual had lost its power. The cluttered bedside table, the clock, the mug remained insubstantial, the cover of the dog-eared paperback blurred to illegibility. He persevered, stubbornly rejecting the possibility of failure, but the fantasy continued to elude him. His breath coming faster, he tensed and shifted, feeling the first cold tendrils of panic…and clutched reflexively at sensation; a drowning man grasping for a lifeline.
He could feel the sheet beneath him; the cool, crisp cotton. Yes. He clung to that, refused to let it slip through his fingers with the rest. He had schooled himself to exist in the moment; untroubled by hope, unshaken by fear or regret. He would hold this feeling fast, make these sensations part of him, ground himself in the physical. No past, no future; only this moment, only the next.
Feel the fine weave of the cotton, the firm yielding of the mattress, the crease in the pillowcase beneath his cheek. Breathe in the freshness of newly-laundered linen, the antiseptic tang of cleaning fluid, and the inexplicably, achingly familiar scent closer at hand that tugged at his memory and his emotions, speaking to him more clearly than anything else of home, safety, security.
Bathed in that scent, lulled by it, he felt his racing pulse begin to slow. Desperately grateful, he breathed deeply, deliberately, blanking his mind, relaxing his tense limbs. No longer thinking, feeling nothing, merely existing.
*****
A new sound intruded, evaporating his hard-won calm. A sound he had replayed endlessly in his imagination, invested with every nuance of feeling, but heard now with a new, startling clarity. A voice murmuring his name, calling him.
"Ray?"
It was just a whisper of sound, but it was the one summons he could never ignore. He opened his eyes.
Bodie leaned over him, face pale beneath a heavy growth of stubble, his mouth tight, eyes burning with more than simple exhaustion.
He was too weary for dissembling, too aware of the improbability of this reprieve. And so, rather than squander the gift in a hopeless search for words, he simply held out his hand - surprising himself with the effort it took, the tremor that shook him as he struggled to raise an arm grown unaccountably heavy - and waited for Bodie to come to him.
How does one measure time where time no longer has any meaning? His heart pumped blood, his lungs filled and emptied. The moment hung on the curve of his breath. And then Bodie moved forward and took Doyle's hand in his. He could feel the calluses on Bodie's palm, the incautious strength of fingers that gripped his with a pressure approaching pain, the tremor that matched and mastered his own.
He drew Bodie to him, patient with his momentary resistance, rejoicing as it melted to his will. He could sense Bodie's shock easing into comprehension even as he moved at Doyle's bidding, wrapping his arms around him without hesitation, holding him close, crushing fear and doubt with the fierceness of his embrace.
The contact shattered Doyle's precarious detachment, dizzying him with an explosion of sensation. But reality was no longer an enemy to be feared or denied; now he rushed to meet it exulting, every sense alert to drink it in. The smell of Bodie's body, his sweat; the acrid topnote of his fear and, yes, the deeper musk of his arousal. The taste of Bodie's skin, the fresh dampness on his face salt to Doyle's tongue. The feel of him; his heat, his solidity, his strength trembling under Doyle's hands. And, oh, the sound of his name in Bodie's voice, need and fear and wanting laid bare.
He revelled in it, let it liberate and cleanse him. It was that other place and time that was illusion now. This was all there was, all he needed, all he'd longed for; his sustaining fantasy made gloriously real.
And they would make it last. Prove it true.
"Bodie."
His voice was a harsh croak, sounding barely human to his ears. He coughed, avid for water, and even before he could voice the need, Bodie was there, lifting and supporting him, steadying a glass at his lips.
The water was a miracle, bathing his parched throat. The look in Bodie’s eyes was another.
Bodie moved closer, filling his vision, his free hand lifting to cup Doyle's face. The metal bed frame jangled with his shifting weight as he leaned down to press his lips to Doyle's, and Doyle shivered at the touch, feeling Bodie's mouth move against his, his breath catching on a murmur barely louder than a sigh.
"Ah, God. Ray."
He was so tired. It was the sweetest relief to give himself over to the sure strength cradling him, to let Bodie ease him back against the pillows, to feel the cool sheet beneath him, crisp cotton smooth against his skin…
Be gentle with me. It's been a while!