Fic: Into Dust (Heroes; Claire/Adam)
I'm not sure if I have a sense of humour that translates well into this pairing... Oh well.
Claire and Adam. PG. Mourning is a young man's sport.
I want to tear up the earth until I find you,
so I can kiss your noble skull,
unbandage your mouth, and bring you back to life.
- Miguel Hernandez, 'Elegy'
Into Dust
'Loan us a tenner, would you, Claire?'
The devil on your shoulder hands your money to the one-eyed vendor, and draws fastidiously thin, colour-me-in lines over the other plasticy condiments with red and yellow sauce bottles. The two of you walk across the dehydrated lawn together, your arms not quite touching.
'How is it?' you ask, watching him take a huge bite.
Swallowing thoughtfully, he grins: 'Indigestible.'
Inflation's been a nuisance these last fifty years, but New York hotdogs clearly never change.
Adam snatches up two ancient bouquets from passing graves, while you spot under a tree a tangle of weeds, grown knee-high from neglect. The tiny white wildflowers you pick join the brown, brittle stalks in his arms.
Peter's gravestone is covered with ivy, thick tangled leaves obscuring the engraved letters of his name.
'Well,' says Adam quietly, putting the flowers down in front of it. 'Shall I do the honours?' He takes out his pocket knife, but this time you hold out your hand for it. 'No, I'll do it,' you say.
Surprised, he gives it to you.
You kneel down and draw your own red line across your palm, holding the edge of the knife against the cut to keep it open, allowing blood to fall onto the grave. When you finally allow the wound to close, the grass beneath you is thick and luxuriant and deadly still.
Adam touches a fingertip to a newly bloomed rose just breaking out of its bed of mottled pink crepe, stroking its bright petals almost tenderly. He's been waiting for you, you've always known that.
'All right.'
He looks up. 'All right, what?'
Is there expectancy in his blue eyes?
You brush yourself off, turning your back on the miniature garden that you created, that lives because of you, if only for a little while. You hope that Peter, wherever he is, appreciates all that you've done to keep his memory alive; but really, you doubt it.
'Let's go,' you say. 'I'm ready.'
30 June 2008
Claire and Adam. PG. Mourning is a young man's sport.
I want to tear up the earth until I find you,
so I can kiss your noble skull,
unbandage your mouth, and bring you back to life.
- Miguel Hernandez, 'Elegy'
Into Dust
'Loan us a tenner, would you, Claire?'
The devil on your shoulder hands your money to the one-eyed vendor, and draws fastidiously thin, colour-me-in lines over the other plasticy condiments with red and yellow sauce bottles. The two of you walk across the dehydrated lawn together, your arms not quite touching.
'How is it?' you ask, watching him take a huge bite.
Swallowing thoughtfully, he grins: 'Indigestible.'
Inflation's been a nuisance these last fifty years, but New York hotdogs clearly never change.
Adam snatches up two ancient bouquets from passing graves, while you spot under a tree a tangle of weeds, grown knee-high from neglect. The tiny white wildflowers you pick join the brown, brittle stalks in his arms.
Peter's gravestone is covered with ivy, thick tangled leaves obscuring the engraved letters of his name.
'Well,' says Adam quietly, putting the flowers down in front of it. 'Shall I do the honours?' He takes out his pocket knife, but this time you hold out your hand for it. 'No, I'll do it,' you say.
Surprised, he gives it to you.
You kneel down and draw your own red line across your palm, holding the edge of the knife against the cut to keep it open, allowing blood to fall onto the grave. When you finally allow the wound to close, the grass beneath you is thick and luxuriant and deadly still.
Adam touches a fingertip to a newly bloomed rose just breaking out of its bed of mottled pink crepe, stroking its bright petals almost tenderly. He's been waiting for you, you've always known that.
'All right.'
He looks up. 'All right, what?'
Is there expectancy in his blue eyes?
You brush yourself off, turning your back on the miniature garden that you created, that lives because of you, if only for a little while. You hope that Peter, wherever he is, appreciates all that you've done to keep his memory alive; but really, you doubt it.
'Let's go,' you say. 'I'm ready.'
30 June 2008