fic: Barefoot
So! I am successfully relocated but still have no permanent internet connection or really permanent anything. The life of a nomad, how sweet it is... I have seen and enjoyed the new episodes of Prison Break, and I intend to try my best to keep caught up on all the fannish goodness. Or to get caught up. One of those. Too many shows, too little time to waste in internet cafes. *sigh*
In the meantime, here is a little ficlet from Life.
Title: Barefoot
Fandom: Life
Characters: Charlie, Ted
Rating: PG
Word Count: 800 I think
Summary: See icon.
Disclaimer and Notes: Not mine, but I loved him first. (Am I going to get beaten up for saying that? Fangirls are scary.)
It’s cold out, but he’s barefoot. He likes the feel of smooth cool tile on his feet. He likes the feel of clean and largely untrodden. He likes that he can leave this room, and walk outside or get on a plane and go far far away. No one will stop him, no will stick a baton in his gut or a knife in his back. Not here.
He curls his toes, then stretches them wide. A few are crooked--broken and never set quite right--but it still feels nice to grip the floor, to feel space between his toes, freedom to move. He rolls to the balls of his feet and back again, gentle rock and easy movement.
He can hear Ted move in the house, can hear the water softener and the soothing hum of temperature control. It’s peaceful, in his big house with no furniture. It’s quiet and it’s relaxed. At night there will be crickets, and sometimes owls and coyote. Natural sounds instead of hundreds of snoring men, or screaming men, or shouted insults. Instead of dead quiet and stifled noise, uneasy echoes of his own movements in his isolated cell. He doesn’t know which was worse but he has to close his eyes to black it all out and push it away again.
“Charlie?”
He cracks open one eye. It’s Ted come up behind him, hand outstretched but not quite touching.
“Charlie? Are you alright? I made smoothies.”
Charlie closes his eye again and rocks a little more, then presses the soles of his feet down flat and soaks up the chill, feels it up to his knees, little goose bumps all over his skin.
“Not just now, Ted,” he says. “I’m having a moment.”
“Oh,” Ted says, and clears his throat a little. “A moment.”
“Yes, Ted,” Charlie says. “A single moment, here, where I can absorb and acknowledge the tranquility of my environment.”
“Okay,” Ted says. “Well, ah, in case after your moment you’re hungry, I’ll put yours in the fridge.”
“Thank you, Ted.”
“Anytime,” Ted says and stands beside him, faces the same direction, the view that overlooks the patio and the pool, and the arid land beyond it on the hill. Charlie doesn’t have to open his eyes to see Ted mirror his stance, or to see the view in front of him. It’s wide open space and plenty of room to breathe, the details aren’t what’s most important.
He shifts from side to side, feels the bones in his ankles pop and slide, the same in his knees. There’d been days he’d thought they’d never work again, but here he is, standing, and able. He could run over that dry land, dodge around the cacti, if he wanted, feel his muscles stretch and contract, pulling him along and forward to some new place, to any place at all.
He pictures it, with his eyes closed and his head tilted back. He can hear Ted breathing next to him, a little impatient and a little frustrated and a little exasperated. He smiles, and Ted finally huffs a bit and moves off. He’ll go back and read his newspapers and dream his big dreams and usually get a full night’s sleep.
Charlie pictures flying over the ground, legs pumping, body straining, imagines himself soaring past rivers and lakes and through valleys and over mountains. All the bones in his spine relax, here, with his eyes closed where he can’t see the past twelve years of his life. Here, he is the earth beneath him and the air around him. He is joy and life, and definitely not condemnation and deceit. He is the blood in his veins and the wind in his lungs, and bones and tendons and muscles under his skin. He is not bruises and breaks, or scars and crooked toes. He is--
The blender starts up, abruptly, and Charlie startles enough to open his eyes.
“I’m adding mango to the smoothies, Charlie,” Ted calls from the kitchen when the blender shuts off.
Charlie stares at the glass doors in front of him, feels the twinge in his side from where he’d gotten shanked so bad, feels the aches all over his body, and the chill in his feet. He stretches and curls his toes again, and shakes himself out as he smiles and heads off for mango smoothies, and maybe some socks.
In the meantime, here is a little ficlet from Life.
Title: Barefoot
Fandom: Life
Characters: Charlie, Ted
Rating: PG
Word Count: 800 I think
Summary: See icon.
Disclaimer and Notes: Not mine, but I loved him first. (Am I going to get beaten up for saying that? Fangirls are scary.)
It’s cold out, but he’s barefoot. He likes the feel of smooth cool tile on his feet. He likes the feel of clean and largely untrodden. He likes that he can leave this room, and walk outside or get on a plane and go far far away. No one will stop him, no will stick a baton in his gut or a knife in his back. Not here.
He curls his toes, then stretches them wide. A few are crooked--broken and never set quite right--but it still feels nice to grip the floor, to feel space between his toes, freedom to move. He rolls to the balls of his feet and back again, gentle rock and easy movement.
He can hear Ted move in the house, can hear the water softener and the soothing hum of temperature control. It’s peaceful, in his big house with no furniture. It’s quiet and it’s relaxed. At night there will be crickets, and sometimes owls and coyote. Natural sounds instead of hundreds of snoring men, or screaming men, or shouted insults. Instead of dead quiet and stifled noise, uneasy echoes of his own movements in his isolated cell. He doesn’t know which was worse but he has to close his eyes to black it all out and push it away again.
“Charlie?”
He cracks open one eye. It’s Ted come up behind him, hand outstretched but not quite touching.
“Charlie? Are you alright? I made smoothies.”
Charlie closes his eye again and rocks a little more, then presses the soles of his feet down flat and soaks up the chill, feels it up to his knees, little goose bumps all over his skin.
“Not just now, Ted,” he says. “I’m having a moment.”
“Oh,” Ted says, and clears his throat a little. “A moment.”
“Yes, Ted,” Charlie says. “A single moment, here, where I can absorb and acknowledge the tranquility of my environment.”
“Okay,” Ted says. “Well, ah, in case after your moment you’re hungry, I’ll put yours in the fridge.”
“Thank you, Ted.”
“Anytime,” Ted says and stands beside him, faces the same direction, the view that overlooks the patio and the pool, and the arid land beyond it on the hill. Charlie doesn’t have to open his eyes to see Ted mirror his stance, or to see the view in front of him. It’s wide open space and plenty of room to breathe, the details aren’t what’s most important.
He shifts from side to side, feels the bones in his ankles pop and slide, the same in his knees. There’d been days he’d thought they’d never work again, but here he is, standing, and able. He could run over that dry land, dodge around the cacti, if he wanted, feel his muscles stretch and contract, pulling him along and forward to some new place, to any place at all.
He pictures it, with his eyes closed and his head tilted back. He can hear Ted breathing next to him, a little impatient and a little frustrated and a little exasperated. He smiles, and Ted finally huffs a bit and moves off. He’ll go back and read his newspapers and dream his big dreams and usually get a full night’s sleep.
Charlie pictures flying over the ground, legs pumping, body straining, imagines himself soaring past rivers and lakes and through valleys and over mountains. All the bones in his spine relax, here, with his eyes closed where he can’t see the past twelve years of his life. Here, he is the earth beneath him and the air around him. He is joy and life, and definitely not condemnation and deceit. He is the blood in his veins and the wind in his lungs, and bones and tendons and muscles under his skin. He is not bruises and breaks, or scars and crooked toes. He is--
The blender starts up, abruptly, and Charlie startles enough to open his eyes.
“I’m adding mango to the smoothies, Charlie,” Ted calls from the kitchen when the blender shuts off.
Charlie stares at the glass doors in front of him, feels the twinge in his side from where he’d gotten shanked so bad, feels the aches all over his body, and the chill in his feet. He stretches and curls his toes again, and shakes himself out as he smiles and heads off for mango smoothies, and maybe some socks.