You Are Here by Spacedmonkey (PG)
Title: You Are Here
Author: Spacedmonkey
Rating: PG
Genre : H/C
Disclaimer: Not Mine, Never Were, More's the Pity.
Word Count: 629
Summary: "This is an awareness that he’s now so far out into uncharted waters that old map makers would hastily be drawing sea monsters and dragons in the hope that they would dissuade even the most adventurous or foolhardy explorer from going past their mark."
This is not what they do.
Injuries are acknowledged, treated and dealt with but only ever commented on if they are fuel for future blackmail or humour such as arrows in the ass or trying to save the world while your insides are held in with the surgical equivalent of Gaffer tape. If one of them is in the Infirmary, then of course the other will be there, but often because they are just as banged up, poking the afore mentioned fun or stealing food from the infirmed party. However, THIS, is not what they do.
This is crossing a line that has never been mentioned but has always been clearly stated. This is the total inability not to stare at the dark, ragged cut above his left eye and the way the skin is discoloured not only by the blood but by the bruising that surrounds it. This is the slow and careful touch of fingertips, light as cobwebs, over the dried blood of a split lip.
This is an awareness that he’s now so far out into uncharted waters that old map makers would hastily be drawing sea monsters and dragons in the hope that they would dissuade even the most adventurous or foolhardy explorer from going past their mark.
This is not what they do.
As fingers gently ease up the material of the t-shirt, unhindered by the object of his study, he tries to school his face away from the gut clenching fear that almost floors him at what he sees. Bruises, scars, cuts scarce healed by the brief period of time that has elapsed. He traces each one, memorising the cartography of torture that is laid out before him, realising that there are no jokes to be found here and that no, this is not what they did before, but THIS is what they do now.
Because each joke has taken them here. Each pudding cup stolen from the bedside or competitive jibe called from the next infirmary bed about who has the better injury or the more tubes coming out of their body, has taken them a step closer to this exact point in time. Each smile and nudge and face that has been pulled has led them to this point where an injury to the other person is felt just as sorely as if the insult were to their own body.
Sea monsters be damned, because as hazel eyes finally look up and meet his own with what he is sure will be a poor imitation of reassurance, he knows that there’s no way back now. This is where he needs to be and where he will stay until the scars heal and bruises fade. This new step into the unknown is terrifying, but nowhere near as fearful as the knowledge that this is going to happen again, and again, and again because this is not a safe world.
This is what they do.
The world throws crap at them, and they throw it back in the hope that their arm is just a little stronger and their aim a little more true. But when they fall, and they do fall again and again and again, then they are always there to catch each other. This time, however, the hold is a little tighter and the fear a little harder to shake. So as arms enfold him into the embrace designed not only to comfort and protect but also to stop the hazel eyes that are so desperate to impart the lie of “I’m fine!” to the blue ones that are studying them so critically, he finally sees his path clear before him as if some-one suddenly added a large red arrow that proclaims “You Are Here!”.
Because this is what they do.
Feedback loved and adored.
Author: Spacedmonkey
Rating: PG
Genre : H/C
Disclaimer: Not Mine, Never Were, More's the Pity.
Word Count: 629
Summary: "This is an awareness that he’s now so far out into uncharted waters that old map makers would hastily be drawing sea monsters and dragons in the hope that they would dissuade even the most adventurous or foolhardy explorer from going past their mark."
This is not what they do.
Injuries are acknowledged, treated and dealt with but only ever commented on if they are fuel for future blackmail or humour such as arrows in the ass or trying to save the world while your insides are held in with the surgical equivalent of Gaffer tape. If one of them is in the Infirmary, then of course the other will be there, but often because they are just as banged up, poking the afore mentioned fun or stealing food from the infirmed party. However, THIS, is not what they do.
This is crossing a line that has never been mentioned but has always been clearly stated. This is the total inability not to stare at the dark, ragged cut above his left eye and the way the skin is discoloured not only by the blood but by the bruising that surrounds it. This is the slow and careful touch of fingertips, light as cobwebs, over the dried blood of a split lip.
This is an awareness that he’s now so far out into uncharted waters that old map makers would hastily be drawing sea monsters and dragons in the hope that they would dissuade even the most adventurous or foolhardy explorer from going past their mark.
This is not what they do.
As fingers gently ease up the material of the t-shirt, unhindered by the object of his study, he tries to school his face away from the gut clenching fear that almost floors him at what he sees. Bruises, scars, cuts scarce healed by the brief period of time that has elapsed. He traces each one, memorising the cartography of torture that is laid out before him, realising that there are no jokes to be found here and that no, this is not what they did before, but THIS is what they do now.
Because each joke has taken them here. Each pudding cup stolen from the bedside or competitive jibe called from the next infirmary bed about who has the better injury or the more tubes coming out of their body, has taken them a step closer to this exact point in time. Each smile and nudge and face that has been pulled has led them to this point where an injury to the other person is felt just as sorely as if the insult were to their own body.
Sea monsters be damned, because as hazel eyes finally look up and meet his own with what he is sure will be a poor imitation of reassurance, he knows that there’s no way back now. This is where he needs to be and where he will stay until the scars heal and bruises fade. This new step into the unknown is terrifying, but nowhere near as fearful as the knowledge that this is going to happen again, and again, and again because this is not a safe world.
This is what they do.
The world throws crap at them, and they throw it back in the hope that their arm is just a little stronger and their aim a little more true. But when they fall, and they do fall again and again and again, then they are always there to catch each other. This time, however, the hold is a little tighter and the fear a little harder to shake. So as arms enfold him into the embrace designed not only to comfort and protect but also to stop the hazel eyes that are so desperate to impart the lie of “I’m fine!” to the blue ones that are studying them so critically, he finally sees his path clear before him as if some-one suddenly added a large red arrow that proclaims “You Are Here!”.
Because this is what they do.
Feedback loved and adored.