Prairie Dove, 1867
Soooo... forever ago, my dear Ena gave me another prompt for Q and Uki: breathing red. And I had a story muse. And I started to write an angsty angst death!fic.
And then the muse went on vacation. I sent it all kinds of love letters and postcards and emails, pleading with it to come back, and it finally got sick of it. So instead it sent me it's second cousin...
...who apparently does a lot of crack cocaine because it gave me an eerie, getting-old-without-aging fic which I'll probably still finish anyway and... this. Which is a multi-part Transcontinental Railroad AU. Yeah...
Okay, I'm done personifying story ideas. Enjoy?!
He breathes smoke rings into the night sky, and the lit end of his cigarette burns red enough to hide the stars.
--
He is young, between hay and grass as they say, but he is strong. It’s not surprising he finds work on the railway. The days are hard, stretched long and hot and the weight of the hammer in his hand is almost unbearable by the setting of the sun sometimes. But he is thankful for it. When he works so hard he nearly drops, he forgets where he came from, where he’s going, who he is.
When he crawls into his tent out away from camp, he can focus on the sweat drying into his clothes and the cool prickle of the evening air. He lights a cigarette, breathes deep and believes himself happy.
--
He dreams and all the colors turn ugly. He is accosted by light and dark and something thick like blood, women in black robes with stern eyes who lock him in the shadows and never let him escape. He dreams of long red hair pooled around his thighs, his hand on the woman’s shoulder, a faint sigh he knows is his own, but then there’s sun and guilt when he wakes again.
The stark and sudden cold of the river water when he washes is enough to pull the sleep and the dreams from his mind, even if the memories stay right where they have always been.
--
He doesn’t jeer with the other men when the new hands first arrive, but he lets his eyes fall to a Celestial who is tall for his kind, and older if the grey hair is any indication. There is such a bright spring in his step as he goes and finds a hammer that he can’t help but wonder if maybe he’s judging too soon though. He remembers hearing about the great influx of men from the East, but it still strikes him as odd that he has come all this way when he could be with his kin instead.
He watches him closely, curiously, and eventually the man turns his head, looks into the crowd and spots him up on his rock above everyone else. The man waves and the smile that crosses his face makes the world slow for a moment.
No one has ever smiled at him like that.
--
Their eyes meet for a moment across struck spikes, and he ignores the way the Celestial’s deep brown eyes make his skin crawl.
--
The company comes to a stop one night and the next day there is a town of tents erected around them. It’s a town full of debauchery and sin and women and booze, but he doesn’t mind so much. He becomes intimately familiar with the alcohol burn across his cheeks and working through a pounding headache. Some days he tries to creep away from his shift early, but then he spots the Celestial still working, and he stays behind to wait it out.
It becomes a competition, and he can almost admit to himself that he looks forward to it. They don’t talk. They don’t need to talk. They just work to the steady beat of iron against iron until the sun dips low and the evening shift starts filtering out. The foreman comes down, sleep and an aching tiredness clinging to the dark bags under his eyes, and tells them to leave ‘cause there’s no way, no how he’s payin’ them extra!
The Celestial smiles that time stopping smile and tips the brim of his yellow straw hat, slipping back into camp. As usual there is not a word exchanged between them.
--
Her name is Molly. Molly something or other, he can't remember. She is very beautiful in that strange, sinful way that prairie doves so often are, and her hair rolls in heavy red waves across her shoulders, and down her back. His hand finds the broad curve of her hip and the headboard and together they make the cheap spring mattress scream.
--
When he stumbles into camp that night, singing some hymn he can’t quite remember from his days under the nun’s eye, the Celestial is the only one around, standing beside a fire. For a moment, he recognizes the chill bite in the air and knows that winter is coming again, but then he realizes he knows the look in the Celestial’s eye far better then he does the autumn air.
He glares across the great chasm between them and almost loses his temper.
The Celestial follows him back to his separate tent in its quiet little clearing, but he ignores him, lighting a cigarette and laying back in the grass. He manages to keep his surprise from showing on his face when the man merely settles at his side and watches the sky with him
--
He’s not sure how he got here, but suddenly he’s throwing himself at a man at least twice his size. The one part of his mind not muffled by cotton and whiskey fluff says they're defending Her honor, but he can’t really recall which her it’s supposed to be. The flash of a slapped red cheek against red hair makes that unreasonable anger come back like a vengeful ghost though, and he doesn’t check himself as he tackles the man and swings. Again. Again. And again.
His knuckles crack and split, and he’s dragged off of the man eventually. Before he’s dead anyway. Hopefully.
Truth is, he doesn’t get much of a look at the man before he’s shoved past the edge of the rail town, and told to stay out. He knows they won’t really keep him away if he decides to return though. As long as he’s paying. Something about the ache in his hands and the taste of iron on his lip makes him decide maybe it’s time to go back.
The fluff has somehow managed to escape him in the meantime, and he wonders how it can be that right when he wants it most, it’s gone.
Before he turns towards camp, he sees Molly something or other watching him from the corner of a tent, makeup still streaked, cheek still red though that’s fading surely as the horizon is turning grey and pink just at the corner of his eye. He doesn’t let her say anything, shaking the dust and early frost out of his coat, and slipping off into the shadows of the scraggly trees.
--
The Celestial is sitting in the clearing by the tent, watching the sunrise, and when he steps up, the man turns to watch him curiously. There’s something soft and gentle in his expression.
“What?” he finally spits at him, trying to ignore the way the soft light shining off the Chinaman’s grey hair is one of the most intriguing things he’s ever seen, only to realize that’s the first word he’s ever said to him. The realization makes him shift back a step.
“Was… very brave thing you did,” the man answers after a moment, and his accent is quite heavy, but it’s certainly not Chinese. He pauses, stunned, and the not Celestial pulls slowly to his feet. “Ne?”
The little questioning noise jerks him out of his surprise, and he shakes his head quickly. “No. No, just… stupid. What are you doing here?” But he just gets a chuckle and a low bow for his trouble.
“Namae wa Ukitake Jyuushiro. I will… make some tea, ne?” The not Celestial bows again, smiling up through the curtain of silver-grey hair that falls across his face when he rises.
“Uh… Charlie,” he murmurs after a moment, mesmerized by the careful, almost ceremonious way in which he - Ukitake? - sets the tea things out one by one. Like they’re precious. And once it’s all been set out, he smiles even wider then usual and takes the teapot out to the river for water.
The birds suddenly begin cheeping as loudly as their little throats can possibly cheep, and Charlie laughs, noticing that for the first time this year his breath is visible in the morning air. The rising sun turns the steam pink and orange and red, like he’s breathing fire instead of cigarette smoke, and he believes himself happy, if only for the moment.
--
Charlie quickly discovers that Ukitake’s English is not very good, but they have time to work on it. The railroad is not even close to being finished after all.
Ah you hate to watch another tired man
Lay down his hand
Like he was giving up the holy game of poker
And while he talks his dreams to sleep
You notice there's a highway
That is curling up like smoke above his shoulder
And suddenly you feel a little older
And then the muse went on vacation. I sent it all kinds of love letters and postcards and emails, pleading with it to come back, and it finally got sick of it. So instead it sent me it's second cousin...
...who apparently does a lot of crack cocaine because it gave me an eerie, getting-old-without-aging fic which I'll probably still finish anyway and... this. Which is a multi-part Transcontinental Railroad AU. Yeah...
Okay, I'm done personifying story ideas. Enjoy?!
He breathes smoke rings into the night sky, and the lit end of his cigarette burns red enough to hide the stars.
--
He is young, between hay and grass as they say, but he is strong. It’s not surprising he finds work on the railway. The days are hard, stretched long and hot and the weight of the hammer in his hand is almost unbearable by the setting of the sun sometimes. But he is thankful for it. When he works so hard he nearly drops, he forgets where he came from, where he’s going, who he is.
When he crawls into his tent out away from camp, he can focus on the sweat drying into his clothes and the cool prickle of the evening air. He lights a cigarette, breathes deep and believes himself happy.
--
He dreams and all the colors turn ugly. He is accosted by light and dark and something thick like blood, women in black robes with stern eyes who lock him in the shadows and never let him escape. He dreams of long red hair pooled around his thighs, his hand on the woman’s shoulder, a faint sigh he knows is his own, but then there’s sun and guilt when he wakes again.
The stark and sudden cold of the river water when he washes is enough to pull the sleep and the dreams from his mind, even if the memories stay right where they have always been.
--
He doesn’t jeer with the other men when the new hands first arrive, but he lets his eyes fall to a Celestial who is tall for his kind, and older if the grey hair is any indication. There is such a bright spring in his step as he goes and finds a hammer that he can’t help but wonder if maybe he’s judging too soon though. He remembers hearing about the great influx of men from the East, but it still strikes him as odd that he has come all this way when he could be with his kin instead.
He watches him closely, curiously, and eventually the man turns his head, looks into the crowd and spots him up on his rock above everyone else. The man waves and the smile that crosses his face makes the world slow for a moment.
No one has ever smiled at him like that.
--
Their eyes meet for a moment across struck spikes, and he ignores the way the Celestial’s deep brown eyes make his skin crawl.
--
The company comes to a stop one night and the next day there is a town of tents erected around them. It’s a town full of debauchery and sin and women and booze, but he doesn’t mind so much. He becomes intimately familiar with the alcohol burn across his cheeks and working through a pounding headache. Some days he tries to creep away from his shift early, but then he spots the Celestial still working, and he stays behind to wait it out.
It becomes a competition, and he can almost admit to himself that he looks forward to it. They don’t talk. They don’t need to talk. They just work to the steady beat of iron against iron until the sun dips low and the evening shift starts filtering out. The foreman comes down, sleep and an aching tiredness clinging to the dark bags under his eyes, and tells them to leave ‘cause there’s no way, no how he’s payin’ them extra!
The Celestial smiles that time stopping smile and tips the brim of his yellow straw hat, slipping back into camp. As usual there is not a word exchanged between them.
--
Her name is Molly. Molly something or other, he can't remember. She is very beautiful in that strange, sinful way that prairie doves so often are, and her hair rolls in heavy red waves across her shoulders, and down her back. His hand finds the broad curve of her hip and the headboard and together they make the cheap spring mattress scream.
--
When he stumbles into camp that night, singing some hymn he can’t quite remember from his days under the nun’s eye, the Celestial is the only one around, standing beside a fire. For a moment, he recognizes the chill bite in the air and knows that winter is coming again, but then he realizes he knows the look in the Celestial’s eye far better then he does the autumn air.
He glares across the great chasm between them and almost loses his temper.
The Celestial follows him back to his separate tent in its quiet little clearing, but he ignores him, lighting a cigarette and laying back in the grass. He manages to keep his surprise from showing on his face when the man merely settles at his side and watches the sky with him
--
He’s not sure how he got here, but suddenly he’s throwing himself at a man at least twice his size. The one part of his mind not muffled by cotton and whiskey fluff says they're defending Her honor, but he can’t really recall which her it’s supposed to be. The flash of a slapped red cheek against red hair makes that unreasonable anger come back like a vengeful ghost though, and he doesn’t check himself as he tackles the man and swings. Again. Again. And again.
His knuckles crack and split, and he’s dragged off of the man eventually. Before he’s dead anyway. Hopefully.
Truth is, he doesn’t get much of a look at the man before he’s shoved past the edge of the rail town, and told to stay out. He knows they won’t really keep him away if he decides to return though. As long as he’s paying. Something about the ache in his hands and the taste of iron on his lip makes him decide maybe it’s time to go back.
The fluff has somehow managed to escape him in the meantime, and he wonders how it can be that right when he wants it most, it’s gone.
Before he turns towards camp, he sees Molly something or other watching him from the corner of a tent, makeup still streaked, cheek still red though that’s fading surely as the horizon is turning grey and pink just at the corner of his eye. He doesn’t let her say anything, shaking the dust and early frost out of his coat, and slipping off into the shadows of the scraggly trees.
--
The Celestial is sitting in the clearing by the tent, watching the sunrise, and when he steps up, the man turns to watch him curiously. There’s something soft and gentle in his expression.
“What?” he finally spits at him, trying to ignore the way the soft light shining off the Chinaman’s grey hair is one of the most intriguing things he’s ever seen, only to realize that’s the first word he’s ever said to him. The realization makes him shift back a step.
“Was… very brave thing you did,” the man answers after a moment, and his accent is quite heavy, but it’s certainly not Chinese. He pauses, stunned, and the not Celestial pulls slowly to his feet. “Ne?”
The little questioning noise jerks him out of his surprise, and he shakes his head quickly. “No. No, just… stupid. What are you doing here?” But he just gets a chuckle and a low bow for his trouble.
“Namae wa Ukitake Jyuushiro. I will… make some tea, ne?” The not Celestial bows again, smiling up through the curtain of silver-grey hair that falls across his face when he rises.
“Uh… Charlie,” he murmurs after a moment, mesmerized by the careful, almost ceremonious way in which he - Ukitake? - sets the tea things out one by one. Like they’re precious. And once it’s all been set out, he smiles even wider then usual and takes the teapot out to the river for water.
The birds suddenly begin cheeping as loudly as their little throats can possibly cheep, and Charlie laughs, noticing that for the first time this year his breath is visible in the morning air. The rising sun turns the steam pink and orange and red, like he’s breathing fire instead of cigarette smoke, and he believes himself happy, if only for the moment.
--
Charlie quickly discovers that Ukitake’s English is not very good, but they have time to work on it. The railroad is not even close to being finished after all.
Ah you hate to watch another tired man
Lay down his hand
Like he was giving up the holy game of poker
And while he talks his dreams to sleep
You notice there's a highway
That is curling up like smoke above his shoulder
And suddenly you feel a little older