New DS fic - In Chicago The Weather Is Warm
I had no internet this morning so I wrote fic! Not terribly long. Thanks to brooklinegirl for the super speedy beta!
Title - In Chicago The Weather Is Warm
Pairing - F/K
Rating - boys in love
In Chicago The Weather Is Warm
The airport is small but crowded, filled with people saying either hello or goodbye, but for you two there is nothing to say. Thank you is too formal, goodbye too final. You sit in the hard plastic chairs, staring straight ahead in silence. Today is just like every other day since you've met; you manage to tell him everything by saying nothing at all.
The attendant calls his flight to Chicago; her voice is tinny and harsh over the speakers. He stands from his chair and slaps his hand against the thigh of his worn jeans. He looks down at you and only one corner of his mouth lifts in a smile.
"I guess that's me," he says. You want to deny it. To say no, to ask him to stay. Instead you stand up and reach out to shake his hand.
"It is indeed."
He looks at you for a moment, his eyes sharp and blue. Diefenbaker chose to say his goodbye earlier and remain at home, so there is nothing now to distract you. Nowhere else for you to focus your attention. He pulls you forward in a hug, the same slap on the back as the first time he held you, but now he whispers against your ear, "I'm gonna miss you, buddy."
Unlike the first time, this time you don't want to let go.
*
It's harder for you to get used to silence again, than it was for you to get used to the noise in Chicago. At night, it's so quiet you can hear the boards in the cabin floor creak as they settle. You can hear snow fall against the roof. You can hear yourself breathe.
You hear his voice in your head, as loud and as clear as if he were still right beside you. You remember sleeping in a tent, snow around you both, dogs barking and the fire crackling in the distance. He talked to you in a low tone of voice, and you fell asleep every night to his quiet laughter and the feel of his breath against the back of your neck.
*
Work is the same as it had always been. Here you track poachers and litterers, where there you tracked murderers and pirates.
You try not to compare the two; that's neither smart nor fair. That was your life then, and this is your life now. If you never realized before how much you craved the noise and chaos of Chicago that's really no one's fault but your own.
*
Every night you cook for yourself, and leave some extra for Diefenbaker. You bring your bowl and spoon and fork to the table, you fill your glass with milk and fold your napkin carefully over your lap.
You eat and then you clean and then you sit in your chair and read a book while a candle flickers from the table beside you. In Chicago it is baseball season, and the weather there is warm.
He's probably at home, watching the television with his feet on the table and a beer in his hand. He's probably yelling loudly at the game, or pumping his fist in the air in triumph (though, you've watched baseball with him before, and it's far more often the former than the latter.)
Dinner for him was most likely pizza or Chinese, and the remnants (boxes and napkins and containers) are probably sitting empty on his counter, balled-up napkins lying next to them. The sun is most likely just setting, shining in through the windows of his apartment, making the tips of his hair glow gold and his eyes sparkle.
He probably doesn't miss you at all.
*
A month goes by, and then two. You had said you would write to him, but you don't know how to start. Another month passes and you find yourself at the kitchen table, a pad and pen in front of you.
You compose the letter in your head:
My house is empty. The silence is too loud. I shouldn't have let you leave. I miss you.
You don't write any of it. Instead, you listen to the snow fall, and the floor creak, and your heart beat. When you go to bed you close your eyes and tell yourself that you'll write to him tomorrow, when you have something to say.
*
Mary Alice Simmons' baby comes three weeks early, and it was lucky that you were at the detachment and not at home when the call came. It took you only thirty minutes to get to the Simmons house, and baby Roger Aaron Simmons III was born shortly after that.
You looked down into his shrieking red face, listened to him cry and howl with his fists shaking in the air. The medics arrived just after the birth, and your presence was no longer necessary, but Roger Simmons II thanked you profusely for coming out to help them, his eyes wet with unshed tears.
These are the things you're here for, the things that you wouldn't be doing if you were still in Chicago. The helping people and the making a difference. You go home that night smiling for what feels like the first time in months, but when you open the door the cabin is dark and cold. Dief runs in ahead of you, settling down onto his rug at the foot of your bed, and you close the door behind you and make your way into the kitchen, hanging your coat on a kitchen chair as you pass.
By the time you're sitting at the table and eating, you barely remember what you were happy about to begin with.
*
It takes nearly four months for you to decide to go back home. You tell Diefenbaker that it's time for you both to leave, and he licks your hand and sits and waits by the door.
The flight to Chicago is long and tiring, but when you step from the plane and into the airport you haven't felt more awake in months. It's the middle of the night, but people are still loud and talking. They bump into you as they pass and no one stops to check if you're okay or apologize. You laugh to yourself and reach down to ruffle Dief's fur.
His apartment building is dark and quiet, and your footsteps echo loudly on the stairs. So many times you've walked up these steps, down this hall, across to this doorway, but never exactly like this.
You knock once, softly, and hold your breath when you hear his footsteps from inside. There is a pause before the door opens, but then he's there. He's in front of you. He's watching you with curious eyes and a smile playing on his lips, and you take your first breath since he hugged you goodbye in a Canadian airport more than four months ago.
"Ray," you say. Your voice sounds rough and odd, as if you haven't used it in a while.
His fingers are warm against your wrist, and you shiver as he tugs your arm, pulling you inside. "Took you long enough," he says, but he's smiling as he says it, and then he closes the door and wraps his arms around you.
You close your eyes and bury your face against his neck. You hear the fan click on and the cars as they pass outside and his breath against your ear. You hear a dog bark and a screen door slam shut and a man coughing as he walks past the window.
The floor creaks under your boots where you're standing, but then it creaks again as he steps closer to hold you tighter.
##
Title - In Chicago The Weather Is Warm
Pairing - F/K
Rating - boys in love
In Chicago The Weather Is Warm
The airport is small but crowded, filled with people saying either hello or goodbye, but for you two there is nothing to say. Thank you is too formal, goodbye too final. You sit in the hard plastic chairs, staring straight ahead in silence. Today is just like every other day since you've met; you manage to tell him everything by saying nothing at all.
The attendant calls his flight to Chicago; her voice is tinny and harsh over the speakers. He stands from his chair and slaps his hand against the thigh of his worn jeans. He looks down at you and only one corner of his mouth lifts in a smile.
"I guess that's me," he says. You want to deny it. To say no, to ask him to stay. Instead you stand up and reach out to shake his hand.
"It is indeed."
He looks at you for a moment, his eyes sharp and blue. Diefenbaker chose to say his goodbye earlier and remain at home, so there is nothing now to distract you. Nowhere else for you to focus your attention. He pulls you forward in a hug, the same slap on the back as the first time he held you, but now he whispers against your ear, "I'm gonna miss you, buddy."
Unlike the first time, this time you don't want to let go.
*
It's harder for you to get used to silence again, than it was for you to get used to the noise in Chicago. At night, it's so quiet you can hear the boards in the cabin floor creak as they settle. You can hear snow fall against the roof. You can hear yourself breathe.
You hear his voice in your head, as loud and as clear as if he were still right beside you. You remember sleeping in a tent, snow around you both, dogs barking and the fire crackling in the distance. He talked to you in a low tone of voice, and you fell asleep every night to his quiet laughter and the feel of his breath against the back of your neck.
*
Work is the same as it had always been. Here you track poachers and litterers, where there you tracked murderers and pirates.
You try not to compare the two; that's neither smart nor fair. That was your life then, and this is your life now. If you never realized before how much you craved the noise and chaos of Chicago that's really no one's fault but your own.
*
Every night you cook for yourself, and leave some extra for Diefenbaker. You bring your bowl and spoon and fork to the table, you fill your glass with milk and fold your napkin carefully over your lap.
You eat and then you clean and then you sit in your chair and read a book while a candle flickers from the table beside you. In Chicago it is baseball season, and the weather there is warm.
He's probably at home, watching the television with his feet on the table and a beer in his hand. He's probably yelling loudly at the game, or pumping his fist in the air in triumph (though, you've watched baseball with him before, and it's far more often the former than the latter.)
Dinner for him was most likely pizza or Chinese, and the remnants (boxes and napkins and containers) are probably sitting empty on his counter, balled-up napkins lying next to them. The sun is most likely just setting, shining in through the windows of his apartment, making the tips of his hair glow gold and his eyes sparkle.
He probably doesn't miss you at all.
*
A month goes by, and then two. You had said you would write to him, but you don't know how to start. Another month passes and you find yourself at the kitchen table, a pad and pen in front of you.
You compose the letter in your head:
My house is empty. The silence is too loud. I shouldn't have let you leave. I miss you.
You don't write any of it. Instead, you listen to the snow fall, and the floor creak, and your heart beat. When you go to bed you close your eyes and tell yourself that you'll write to him tomorrow, when you have something to say.
*
Mary Alice Simmons' baby comes three weeks early, and it was lucky that you were at the detachment and not at home when the call came. It took you only thirty minutes to get to the Simmons house, and baby Roger Aaron Simmons III was born shortly after that.
You looked down into his shrieking red face, listened to him cry and howl with his fists shaking in the air. The medics arrived just after the birth, and your presence was no longer necessary, but Roger Simmons II thanked you profusely for coming out to help them, his eyes wet with unshed tears.
These are the things you're here for, the things that you wouldn't be doing if you were still in Chicago. The helping people and the making a difference. You go home that night smiling for what feels like the first time in months, but when you open the door the cabin is dark and cold. Dief runs in ahead of you, settling down onto his rug at the foot of your bed, and you close the door behind you and make your way into the kitchen, hanging your coat on a kitchen chair as you pass.
By the time you're sitting at the table and eating, you barely remember what you were happy about to begin with.
*
It takes nearly four months for you to decide to go back home. You tell Diefenbaker that it's time for you both to leave, and he licks your hand and sits and waits by the door.
The flight to Chicago is long and tiring, but when you step from the plane and into the airport you haven't felt more awake in months. It's the middle of the night, but people are still loud and talking. They bump into you as they pass and no one stops to check if you're okay or apologize. You laugh to yourself and reach down to ruffle Dief's fur.
His apartment building is dark and quiet, and your footsteps echo loudly on the stairs. So many times you've walked up these steps, down this hall, across to this doorway, but never exactly like this.
You knock once, softly, and hold your breath when you hear his footsteps from inside. There is a pause before the door opens, but then he's there. He's in front of you. He's watching you with curious eyes and a smile playing on his lips, and you take your first breath since he hugged you goodbye in a Canadian airport more than four months ago.
"Ray," you say. Your voice sounds rough and odd, as if you haven't used it in a while.
His fingers are warm against your wrist, and you shiver as he tugs your arm, pulling you inside. "Took you long enough," he says, but he's smiling as he says it, and then he closes the door and wraps his arms around you.
You close your eyes and bury your face against his neck. You hear the fan click on and the cars as they pass outside and his breath against your ear. You hear a dog bark and a screen door slam shut and a man coughing as he walks past the window.
The floor creaks under your boots where you're standing, but then it creaks again as he steps closer to hold you tighter.
##