fic: skirmish (three)
Title: Skirmish
Authors: neverwiser and sixtieshairdo
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Dear Reid (Or perhaps, dear Doctor Oliver. How far into one’s soul does a person have to be before you’re on first name terms?)
Previous chapters: prologue | one | two
Authors' Note: As a general rule, neverwiser writes Luke and sixtieshairdo writes Reid. Warnings for angst.
I wonder, as I write this, what you thought I would think reading your words. I wonder if you thought I would find closure, if you thought I’d smile slightly, and sigh, and finally be able to let go of you.
I’ll never let go of you. You’re like a tumour, like a growth, like a bullet lodged in my brain.
I hate you.
I wrote you another letter once. A long time ago. A letter you never received because you didn’t stick around to receive it, and it started with the words “I hate you”.
Do you think that telling me you love me with make me go to sleep without nightmares? Did you think of yourself, writing that letter, as a paternal figure, soothing ridiculous, tempestuous Luke Snyder? Did you cross me off your to-do list - placate ex-boyfriend coming only one line below buy sandwich ingredients and save lives?
I didn’t want your pathetic professions of love. I’m starting to think that you don’t know what loves means, never did. Because if you did, if you do, then that’s not the letter I should have received.
I hate you.
And yet I dream of you. I dream of you at the other end of a beach, and every night I battle with myself to run across the mine-strewn land and find you, but I never do. Every night I wait for you to come to me, but every night I know you won’t. You wouldn’t cross a minefield for me and I know, Reid Oliver - because I’m young but I’m not stupid - that you never would.
I didn’t write to you because I wanted you to love me. I wrote to you because I wanted you to know that I loved you.
That I love you.
If I’m destined to receive the same weak and pathetic sentiments as last time - if that is all you can deign to give me, don’t bother writing back again.
*
The paper seems to burn Reid’s fingers, and he unexpectedly drops it to the floor. Reading the letter was the first thing he did when he stepped into his house, nearly tripping over his shoes when he rushed to tear the envelope open and devour Luke’s words.
It’s been more than two weeks since that first letter and he doesn’t know if he should be angered or elated by the sudden reappearance of Luke’s ghost. Mostly, he is wistful but there is no denying the hope he has in the wait to hear from the man who still occupies the recesses of his dreams.
Yes, he dreams now. Because he sleeps now.
Fitful, restless nights have now been replaced by long, deep slumber. His dreams are dark clouds and broken vases; random people in obscure places amidst flimsy things. They may very well be meaningless save for one thing: in every dream, Reid is flustered and wind-swept, looking for Luke.
Luke’s words haunt him to the point that he looks forward to falling asleep, headlong into these dreams that allow him to live out what he cannot in real time. In these dreams, his feet stomp the ground as he runs, his hands clawing through floods of people and hurricanes of leaves.
In these dreams, he is powerful like Superman and powerless like Lois Lane.
Or maybe, it’s the other way around.
He sees a hint of blonde, a flash of smile, an inflection of a happy laugh in the faceless crowd and it makes him swim. It makes him fly. But to no avail.
Always, to no avail.
The reply he’d been waiting so desperately for, now lies facedown on the carpet beneath his feet. He wants to resent Luke for the hurtful words but he understands Luke’s anger.
He finds strange gratification in Luke's dreams. Though they aren't physically together, their dreams seem to be intertwined. Reid is more than a little surprised to learn that Luke wants to be found, that Luke is awaiting his arrival. Given their arguments, he'd come under the impression that the great gulf that lies in their relationship is his possessive nature and Luke's utter distaste at the very idea of belonging to someone.
He picks up the letter, and rereads those hurtful words once over.
Luke says I hate you twice. Then he says that he loved Reid. That he still does.
Reid wants to laugh at Luke's temperamental expressions but he finds his heart aching desperately at the memories of their past together, where he used to laugh at Luke's oxymorons and paradoxes. It wasn't always bad or painful or angry.
Luke is one big contradiction - probably the biggest contradiction in his life - and he realizes that maybe, just maybe, the great gulf between them isn't only due to his possessive streak but Luke's inability to know, or to understand, what he truly wants from their relationship.
*
He takes a long shower, the spray of water like breaking sand, like crumbling brick over his head.
Luke's last line in the letter is a familiar twist of knife in his gut; something he oddly relished.
...don't bother writing back.
He knows it's Luke's way of demanding he'd better write back, or else.
He wishes he could make Luke wait, respond in a month's time or so, but his pen scribbles hard and fast on white paper and the letter is complete before he even realizes.
*
Luke is a beckoning finger in the empty plateau.
Reid can run as far as he wants, but Luke's grasp over his soul is inevitable.
When he dreams that night, he finds himself sitting calmly on an empty bench, his hands clasped hopefully on his lap.
This time, he will wait.
He will wait until Luke's ghost drifts by and anchors his soul once more before resuming his search.
The minefield is deceivingly calm; a contrast to the chaos, the war inside his head, but he sits and waits, still as a statue.
When he wakes, he finds his hand clutching his shirt, over his heart.
Authors: neverwiser and sixtieshairdo
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Dear Reid (Or perhaps, dear Doctor Oliver. How far into one’s soul does a person have to be before you’re on first name terms?)
Previous chapters: prologue | one | two
Authors' Note: As a general rule, neverwiser writes Luke and sixtieshairdo writes Reid. Warnings for angst.
I wonder, as I write this, what you thought I would think reading your words. I wonder if you thought I would find closure, if you thought I’d smile slightly, and sigh, and finally be able to let go of you.
I’ll never let go of you. You’re like a tumour, like a growth, like a bullet lodged in my brain.
I hate you.
I wrote you another letter once. A long time ago. A letter you never received because you didn’t stick around to receive it, and it started with the words “I hate you”.
Do you think that telling me you love me with make me go to sleep without nightmares? Did you think of yourself, writing that letter, as a paternal figure, soothing ridiculous, tempestuous Luke Snyder? Did you cross me off your to-do list - placate ex-boyfriend coming only one line below buy sandwich ingredients and save lives?
I didn’t want your pathetic professions of love. I’m starting to think that you don’t know what loves means, never did. Because if you did, if you do, then that’s not the letter I should have received.
I hate you.
And yet I dream of you. I dream of you at the other end of a beach, and every night I battle with myself to run across the mine-strewn land and find you, but I never do. Every night I wait for you to come to me, but every night I know you won’t. You wouldn’t cross a minefield for me and I know, Reid Oliver - because I’m young but I’m not stupid - that you never would.
I didn’t write to you because I wanted you to love me. I wrote to you because I wanted you to know that I loved you.
That I love you.
If I’m destined to receive the same weak and pathetic sentiments as last time - if that is all you can deign to give me, don’t bother writing back again.
*
The paper seems to burn Reid’s fingers, and he unexpectedly drops it to the floor. Reading the letter was the first thing he did when he stepped into his house, nearly tripping over his shoes when he rushed to tear the envelope open and devour Luke’s words.
It’s been more than two weeks since that first letter and he doesn’t know if he should be angered or elated by the sudden reappearance of Luke’s ghost. Mostly, he is wistful but there is no denying the hope he has in the wait to hear from the man who still occupies the recesses of his dreams.
Yes, he dreams now. Because he sleeps now.
Fitful, restless nights have now been replaced by long, deep slumber. His dreams are dark clouds and broken vases; random people in obscure places amidst flimsy things. They may very well be meaningless save for one thing: in every dream, Reid is flustered and wind-swept, looking for Luke.
Luke’s words haunt him to the point that he looks forward to falling asleep, headlong into these dreams that allow him to live out what he cannot in real time. In these dreams, his feet stomp the ground as he runs, his hands clawing through floods of people and hurricanes of leaves.
In these dreams, he is powerful like Superman and powerless like Lois Lane.
Or maybe, it’s the other way around.
He sees a hint of blonde, a flash of smile, an inflection of a happy laugh in the faceless crowd and it makes him swim. It makes him fly. But to no avail.
Always, to no avail.
The reply he’d been waiting so desperately for, now lies facedown on the carpet beneath his feet. He wants to resent Luke for the hurtful words but he understands Luke’s anger.
He finds strange gratification in Luke's dreams. Though they aren't physically together, their dreams seem to be intertwined. Reid is more than a little surprised to learn that Luke wants to be found, that Luke is awaiting his arrival. Given their arguments, he'd come under the impression that the great gulf that lies in their relationship is his possessive nature and Luke's utter distaste at the very idea of belonging to someone.
He picks up the letter, and rereads those hurtful words once over.
Luke says I hate you twice. Then he says that he loved Reid. That he still does.
Reid wants to laugh at Luke's temperamental expressions but he finds his heart aching desperately at the memories of their past together, where he used to laugh at Luke's oxymorons and paradoxes. It wasn't always bad or painful or angry.
Luke is one big contradiction - probably the biggest contradiction in his life - and he realizes that maybe, just maybe, the great gulf between them isn't only due to his possessive streak but Luke's inability to know, or to understand, what he truly wants from their relationship.
*
He takes a long shower, the spray of water like breaking sand, like crumbling brick over his head.
Luke's last line in the letter is a familiar twist of knife in his gut; something he oddly relished.
...don't bother writing back.
He knows it's Luke's way of demanding he'd better write back, or else.
He wishes he could make Luke wait, respond in a month's time or so, but his pen scribbles hard and fast on white paper and the letter is complete before he even realizes.
*
Luke is a beckoning finger in the empty plateau.
Reid can run as far as he wants, but Luke's grasp over his soul is inevitable.
When he dreams that night, he finds himself sitting calmly on an empty bench, his hands clasped hopefully on his lap.
This time, he will wait.
He will wait until Luke's ghost drifts by and anchors his soul once more before resuming his search.
The minefield is deceivingly calm; a contrast to the chaos, the war inside his head, but he sits and waits, still as a statue.
When he wakes, he finds his hand clutching his shirt, over his heart.