before the dawn
Blame this fic on just having watched Drive this morning. I'd had the idea of language shifting and that particular translated line floating around in my head forever, and today the plotbunny just jumped up and gave me a reason to use it. *pets the bunny* Somehow I just didn't imagine Luka dreaming about Sam after the day he'd had, never mind her involvement in parts of it. and yes, my het OTP for this series is showing again. :)
Title: Before The Dawn
Author: Chanter
Series: ER
Characters/pairings: Carol-Luka
Rating: R for dark/graphic imagery
Summary: Immediately post Drive, Luka has a very rough night.
Minor spoilers for Drive, you have been warned.
474 words
It’s twilight, when he finally gets away. The sky is glowing purple and gold, the remnants of clouds spinning silver traces to the horizon, the trains are
teeming with migrating life and the lights are going down. It’s twilight, and he flees.
To flee, perchance to close the windows, close the door, turn the key in the lock and turn the bedclothes down. To attempt to fall asleep… and maybe to
manage in the end. An hour, two, and all the while riddled with dreams.
He dreams that night, all that night of wheels turning silver and iron, black grinding against grey and the scent of dust and scorching rubber riding thick
in the air, crowding him, in his hair, in his nose and clinging to his clothing. He dreams of hot silver and fabric burned to charcoal, children’s screams
and adults screams and the desperate whine of wheels on pavement just before a crash.
He dreams of fire, of the acrid scent of smoke and singed cloth, the rhythm of his own heart racing in his ears and the rhythm of hers, that much more unsteady
by contrast, frantic, needy fluttering under his hand. And when he looks down all he sees is dark hair, dark eyes and curls, features that haunt, outlines
that torment.
And when he leans down all he can smell is the coppery scent of blood pooling somewhere unseen, out of his reach, tragedy masking faint hints of lavender,
tangible fear obscuring the lingering breath of her perfume. And all he hears is her ragged breathing in, out, and again, needy for oxygen and clinging
to life, broken compared to his own.
And when she speaks, somewhere between one held breath and the next, one heartbeat and the next, one rhythm and the next she’s speaking directly to him,
pleading with him, imploring him in all the languages he knows and some that he doesn’t, in his own familiar Croatian, in French and Portuguese and the
Russian he knows she was raised on. “Eu no posso fazer este sozinho Luka, je ne peux pas faire ce seul, please Luka, please, I can’t do this alone.”
And his reassuring answer and the breath-swift brush of his mouth to her hair are lost in the depth of his strengthening accent, the taste of bitter iron
on his lips, and the tangle of cotton ivory against his skin as darkened red melts to paler colors and he wakes.
To dream, perchance to wake up in cold shivers, ice running in his veins and his heart as unsteadily frantic as hers had been moments before, dream-her,
the woman he sees and the woman he names, speaking out loud to the darkness in a tremulous attempt at calm.
“Carol, Carol.”
It’s twilight when he gets away, but all the same, he’s followed until dawn.
Title: Before The Dawn
Author: Chanter
Series: ER
Characters/pairings: Carol-Luka
Rating: R for dark/graphic imagery
Summary: Immediately post Drive, Luka has a very rough night.
Minor spoilers for Drive, you have been warned.
474 words
It’s twilight, when he finally gets away. The sky is glowing purple and gold, the remnants of clouds spinning silver traces to the horizon, the trains are
teeming with migrating life and the lights are going down. It’s twilight, and he flees.
To flee, perchance to close the windows, close the door, turn the key in the lock and turn the bedclothes down. To attempt to fall asleep… and maybe to
manage in the end. An hour, two, and all the while riddled with dreams.
He dreams that night, all that night of wheels turning silver and iron, black grinding against grey and the scent of dust and scorching rubber riding thick
in the air, crowding him, in his hair, in his nose and clinging to his clothing. He dreams of hot silver and fabric burned to charcoal, children’s screams
and adults screams and the desperate whine of wheels on pavement just before a crash.
He dreams of fire, of the acrid scent of smoke and singed cloth, the rhythm of his own heart racing in his ears and the rhythm of hers, that much more unsteady
by contrast, frantic, needy fluttering under his hand. And when he looks down all he sees is dark hair, dark eyes and curls, features that haunt, outlines
that torment.
And when he leans down all he can smell is the coppery scent of blood pooling somewhere unseen, out of his reach, tragedy masking faint hints of lavender,
tangible fear obscuring the lingering breath of her perfume. And all he hears is her ragged breathing in, out, and again, needy for oxygen and clinging
to life, broken compared to his own.
And when she speaks, somewhere between one held breath and the next, one heartbeat and the next, one rhythm and the next she’s speaking directly to him,
pleading with him, imploring him in all the languages he knows and some that he doesn’t, in his own familiar Croatian, in French and Portuguese and the
Russian he knows she was raised on. “Eu no posso fazer este sozinho Luka, je ne peux pas faire ce seul, please Luka, please, I can’t do this alone.”
And his reassuring answer and the breath-swift brush of his mouth to her hair are lost in the depth of his strengthening accent, the taste of bitter iron
on his lips, and the tangle of cotton ivory against his skin as darkened red melts to paler colors and he wakes.
To dream, perchance to wake up in cold shivers, ice running in his veins and his heart as unsteadily frantic as hers had been moments before, dream-her,
the woman he sees and the woman he names, speaking out loud to the darkness in a tremulous attempt at calm.
“Carol, Carol.”
It’s twilight when he gets away, but all the same, he’s followed until dawn.