Fic: all of these lines
fandom: 24
title: all of these lines
word count: 486
warnings: Spoilers for the series, mentions of torture and general PTSD
a/n: This is for adrenalin211, who prompted with something totally different but than said she'd rather read this. Totally unbetaed, so chyeah. We'll see if you think so once you're done, A:P The complete list of prompts is here.
Title and cut text are from Brandi Carlile's "The Story."
************
His body is a topographical map of scar tissue, but he has no specific memory of an origin point for most of the marks.
In China (at first), he dreamt of touch without pain.
He remembered the faraway warmth of Kim’s small, chocolate-sticky hand wrapped in his on the walk back from the ice-cream store, or the bounce of her bunny-slippered foot on his leg, the way her whole body curled neatly into his lap, fleecy pajamas brushing his arm while he read (or recited) How the Grinch Stole Christmas for the hundred and fiftieth time.
He ached for the stroke of Audrey’s fingers on his 8 p.m. stubble, for the silk of her fancy blouses on his palms, for the breeze of her laughter on his neck as she mocked his impatient tugging, for the pressure of her hands on his muscles as she rubbed his tired back.
When they’d come, with the acid or the molten metal or the skin-splitting canes, he’d close his eyes and let them have his body while he melted away in his mind, back to a memory or a daydream.
Teri. Kim. Audrey.
Flannel shirts, cotton boxer briefs, worn-in jeans, smooth soft strands of shampoo-fresh hair, lotion-slick palm up the inside of his thigh, lick of mint-flavored tongue on his lip.
Those dreams didn’t last long.
As the days drained by (no way to measure time but in torment or respite, darkness and brief moments of half-light), he learned to associate touch with pain.
Nothing contacted his skin that didn’t sear. If it wasn’t active attempts by the Chinese to get him to talk, it was his shivering body alone in unbroken darkness, trying to position himself on the freezing floor in some configuration that didn’t put pressure on the most recent wounds.
Before long, even the daydreams were about solitude.
When they prepared the latest dose of pain, he’d picture himself sitting on the bright sand of a deserted beach, waves rushing up to his toes, nothing touching his skin but the sun.
************
“I hate this one,” she murmurs.
Renee’s stretched out on top of him, the warm slick curves of her cooling as they both try to breathe. Her hair slides over his chest as she shifts in the darkness.
Her fingers are charting the scar on the left of his abdomen.
It kind of tickles. It feels good.
“I know,” he says, reaching for her face, touching his lips to hers in that lazy just-after way he loves to savor because it isn’t going anywhere.
He remembers this scar, of course. What he remembers most though isn’t the sharp sudden pain of the knife in his side. He remembers her face, the exact moment she came back, watching it happen in her eyes.
His fingers glide over her shoulder to the raised line on the right side of her neck. “But even if I cared, which I don’t,” he continues, “I think we’re even.”
************
HOW is it six days until Christmas? I just don't understand. Yikes. Also, do you guys have snow? We have no snow. Nor any snow in the foreseeable future. I would really like to special order some at the moment. How is everybody (well, everybody who celebrates) dealing with the final rush of holiday madness? As a parent, I found this comic strip wildly appropriate. They're all pretty funny, especially if you scroll back a few to the plastic surgery one:)
title: all of these lines
word count: 486
warnings: Spoilers for the series, mentions of torture and general PTSD
a/n: This is for adrenalin211, who prompted with something totally different but than said she'd rather read this. Totally unbetaed, so chyeah. We'll see if you think so once you're done, A:P The complete list of prompts is here.
Title and cut text are from Brandi Carlile's "The Story."
************
His body is a topographical map of scar tissue, but he has no specific memory of an origin point for most of the marks.
In China (at first), he dreamt of touch without pain.
He remembered the faraway warmth of Kim’s small, chocolate-sticky hand wrapped in his on the walk back from the ice-cream store, or the bounce of her bunny-slippered foot on his leg, the way her whole body curled neatly into his lap, fleecy pajamas brushing his arm while he read (or recited) How the Grinch Stole Christmas for the hundred and fiftieth time.
He ached for the stroke of Audrey’s fingers on his 8 p.m. stubble, for the silk of her fancy blouses on his palms, for the breeze of her laughter on his neck as she mocked his impatient tugging, for the pressure of her hands on his muscles as she rubbed his tired back.
When they’d come, with the acid or the molten metal or the skin-splitting canes, he’d close his eyes and let them have his body while he melted away in his mind, back to a memory or a daydream.
Teri. Kim. Audrey.
Flannel shirts, cotton boxer briefs, worn-in jeans, smooth soft strands of shampoo-fresh hair, lotion-slick palm up the inside of his thigh, lick of mint-flavored tongue on his lip.
Those dreams didn’t last long.
As the days drained by (no way to measure time but in torment or respite, darkness and brief moments of half-light), he learned to associate touch with pain.
Nothing contacted his skin that didn’t sear. If it wasn’t active attempts by the Chinese to get him to talk, it was his shivering body alone in unbroken darkness, trying to position himself on the freezing floor in some configuration that didn’t put pressure on the most recent wounds.
Before long, even the daydreams were about solitude.
When they prepared the latest dose of pain, he’d picture himself sitting on the bright sand of a deserted beach, waves rushing up to his toes, nothing touching his skin but the sun.
************
“I hate this one,” she murmurs.
Renee’s stretched out on top of him, the warm slick curves of her cooling as they both try to breathe. Her hair slides over his chest as she shifts in the darkness.
Her fingers are charting the scar on the left of his abdomen.
It kind of tickles. It feels good.
“I know,” he says, reaching for her face, touching his lips to hers in that lazy just-after way he loves to savor because it isn’t going anywhere.
He remembers this scar, of course. What he remembers most though isn’t the sharp sudden pain of the knife in his side. He remembers her face, the exact moment she came back, watching it happen in her eyes.
His fingers glide over her shoulder to the raised line on the right side of her neck. “But even if I cared, which I don’t,” he continues, “I think we’re even.”
************
HOW is it six days until Christmas? I just don't understand. Yikes. Also, do you guys have snow? We have no snow. Nor any snow in the foreseeable future. I would really like to special order some at the moment. How is everybody (well, everybody who celebrates) dealing with the final rush of holiday madness? As a parent, I found this comic strip wildly appropriate. They're all pretty funny, especially if you scroll back a few to the plastic surgery one:)