Ficlet: Touch (Turnbull, Vecchio, G)
Fic: Touch
Characters: Turnbull, RayV
Rating: G
Words: 447
Notes: Companion piece to Brush, takes place concurrently.
--you're touching me.
I am somewhat used to your ranting by now. I have yet to understand its purpose; for what reason would a man so often continue doing something he clearly dislikes? It is perhaps an uncharitable thought, but I have to wonder why you don't simply get on with it. Your voice is not unpleasant. I just cannot fathom how one would go about appeasing you. Perhaps the ranting serves a purpose I have yet to divine.
I have nothing but time, standing sentry, and it does not appear as though matters will change any time soon, so I imagine I will figure it out eventually.
I can't say I disagree with your assessment of my current job. I don't suppose you can imagine what I've come from, what came before this. It is all right. Neither, often, can I. I'm rather puzzled you would take the time to rant on my behalf, in any case. Clearly you are feeling harassed enough by your occupation with Constable Fraser. If I could speak, I would assure you that you needn't expend any more on me. You gesticulate wildly and I have a strange sort of interest in your manner of motion at the same time as I have a minor urge to reach out and still your hands simply to see what it is you would do if I did.
I need not, in the end. You are touching me.
My cheeks are numb, but I most certainly feel your touch, and I am taken aback that you would step into my personal space in this fashion. The urge to grab your hands is brighter, now; I want to bat you away, but I do not. Your purpose is clear, and I feel guilt for that urge. I had not forgotten the spitballs, but I could no longer feel them, and as you brush them away the slight sting of dried paper tearing away from skin is given more contrast by the warmth of your fingers.
You rant even now, abrasive words on my behalf that are at odds with the care with which you remove the spitballs. The image of Inspector Thatcher literally punching me in the testicles flits through my mind before everything is halted by your compliment, and the warmth it leaves in my gut is followed quickly by a strange sadness I cannot identify.
I don't quite hear the last thing you say. Later, I will translate the sounds I remember into words and understand, but for now, you have gone.
The wind blows. I am cold, but I remember your compliment.
Characters: Turnbull, RayV
Rating: G
Words: 447
Notes: Companion piece to Brush, takes place concurrently.
--you're touching me.
I am somewhat used to your ranting by now. I have yet to understand its purpose; for what reason would a man so often continue doing something he clearly dislikes? It is perhaps an uncharitable thought, but I have to wonder why you don't simply get on with it. Your voice is not unpleasant. I just cannot fathom how one would go about appeasing you. Perhaps the ranting serves a purpose I have yet to divine.
I have nothing but time, standing sentry, and it does not appear as though matters will change any time soon, so I imagine I will figure it out eventually.
I can't say I disagree with your assessment of my current job. I don't suppose you can imagine what I've come from, what came before this. It is all right. Neither, often, can I. I'm rather puzzled you would take the time to rant on my behalf, in any case. Clearly you are feeling harassed enough by your occupation with Constable Fraser. If I could speak, I would assure you that you needn't expend any more on me. You gesticulate wildly and I have a strange sort of interest in your manner of motion at the same time as I have a minor urge to reach out and still your hands simply to see what it is you would do if I did.
I need not, in the end. You are touching me.
My cheeks are numb, but I most certainly feel your touch, and I am taken aback that you would step into my personal space in this fashion. The urge to grab your hands is brighter, now; I want to bat you away, but I do not. Your purpose is clear, and I feel guilt for that urge. I had not forgotten the spitballs, but I could no longer feel them, and as you brush them away the slight sting of dried paper tearing away from skin is given more contrast by the warmth of your fingers.
You rant even now, abrasive words on my behalf that are at odds with the care with which you remove the spitballs. The image of Inspector Thatcher literally punching me in the testicles flits through my mind before everything is halted by your compliment, and the warmth it leaves in my gut is followed quickly by a strange sadness I cannot identify.
I don't quite hear the last thing you say. Later, I will translate the sounds I remember into words and understand, but for now, you have gone.
The wind blows. I am cold, but I remember your compliment.