fic repost: Skirmish (two)
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
Authors' Note: As a general rule, neverwiser writes Luke and sixtieshairdo writes Reid. Warnings for angst.
Luke,
I guess I must’ve changed from your impression of me.
I didn’t sigh. I didn’t put the letter down. And I certainly didn’t think you are melodramatic.
Words cannot express…
Fuck it.
I’m sorry I broke you. I’m sorry I turned the bright, happy person that you were into a sullen, depressed being. I don’t think I can prove to you the hate I have for myself, the anger I feel for being such a coward and leaving you, instead of staying and fighting for you.
You see, Luke, I am convinced that with time, you’d be able to see that life without me is the life that you are better suited for. No, I am not patronizing you, forgive me if it sounds like I am.
I remember the way you used to laugh, the way your eyes used to twinkle at me, the tilt of your head as you smiled.
Do you know how much I’ve missed seeing that side of you? I only blame myself. My possessiveness, my jealousy, my insecurity.
You are one of the strongest fighters I know of. You’re a survivor and you don’t let anyone, or anything, break you down.
Until me.
Why did you let me hurt you like this? Why didn’t you punch me in the mouth and leave me for someone better? Why did you keep taking my bullshit over and over and over and over?
I.
I know the answer to these questions, Luke.
And it makes me hate myself even more.
But you must know, if this is the last time you ever hear it, that I love you.
I do.
But I don’t deserve you.
This is for the best.
I hope you can find it in you to see where I’m coming from.
Reid.
*
Reid, Luke hisses into the paper as he clutches it to his cheek.
The truth is, he never thought he’d receive a reply. Writing to Reid was like writing to Santa Claus - safe, because he could ask for anything, and beg for anything, and spill every messy drop of blood-and-ink onto the paper, and it didn’t matter because there would be no consequences.
He presses the letter into his face, crumpling it, hiding in it and trying to avoid the sounds of guns and bombs and death.
After a long moment, he pulls it away from his face, smoothes it out and rereads it.
“Oh, Reid,” he says aloud, and the words sound garishly real in the silence.
*
He associates silence with Reid.
Long, silent nights; warm and safe in his arms.
But then, later, long, silent nights, the air cold with unsaid words.
Where the fuck did it all go wrong? When does silence stop tasting sweet and start tasting like bitter, coppery blood?
*
He nearly tears it up several times. Once he puts it in the shredder at the Foundation offices, before quickly ripping it out. There’s a long gash at the top now: an open, ragged wound.
He’s Luke Snyder. He makes metaphors.
He’s starting to hate himself.
*
He carries it around for days without replying. In his pocket it burns, and as he walks there’s a sharp pain like shrapnel, buried deep within him. Something that tastes like unfinished business.
He rereads it so regularly that the words are imprinted within him. He’s not sure why. Somehow, however many times he reads the words, they never say what he wants them to say. It might be better, he thinks, to stop reading them. To just imagine them, because then they can be whatever it is that he wants them, needs them to be.
But Reid...Reid didn’t believe in playing games, in fooling oneself, in denial.
Reid didn’t hide in the trenches, Reid went over the top. And stood there, and waited for the bullets to hit him.
Luke glances over the letter again.
Why did you wait for my bullet, Reid? Why won’t you fight?
*
Because the letter says everything he dreamed it would say.
But he still can’t believe that Reid loves him.
skirmish: three
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
Authors' Note: As a general rule, neverwiser writes Luke and sixtieshairdo writes Reid. Warnings for angst.
Luke,
I guess I must’ve changed from your impression of me.
I didn’t sigh. I didn’t put the letter down. And I certainly didn’t think you are melodramatic.
Words cannot express…
Fuck it.
I’m sorry I broke you. I’m sorry I turned the bright, happy person that you were into a sullen, depressed being. I don’t think I can prove to you the hate I have for myself, the anger I feel for being such a coward and leaving you, instead of staying and fighting for you.
You see, Luke, I am convinced that with time, you’d be able to see that life without me is the life that you are better suited for. No, I am not patronizing you, forgive me if it sounds like I am.
I remember the way you used to laugh, the way your eyes used to twinkle at me, the tilt of your head as you smiled.
Do you know how much I’ve missed seeing that side of you? I only blame myself. My possessiveness, my jealousy, my insecurity.
You are one of the strongest fighters I know of. You’re a survivor and you don’t let anyone, or anything, break you down.
Until me.
Why did you let me hurt you like this? Why didn’t you punch me in the mouth and leave me for someone better? Why did you keep taking my bullshit over and over and over and over?
I.
I know the answer to these questions, Luke.
And it makes me hate myself even more.
But you must know, if this is the last time you ever hear it, that I love you.
I do.
But I don’t deserve you.
This is for the best.
I hope you can find it in you to see where I’m coming from.
Reid.
*
Reid, Luke hisses into the paper as he clutches it to his cheek.
The truth is, he never thought he’d receive a reply. Writing to Reid was like writing to Santa Claus - safe, because he could ask for anything, and beg for anything, and spill every messy drop of blood-and-ink onto the paper, and it didn’t matter because there would be no consequences.
He presses the letter into his face, crumpling it, hiding in it and trying to avoid the sounds of guns and bombs and death.
After a long moment, he pulls it away from his face, smoothes it out and rereads it.
“Oh, Reid,” he says aloud, and the words sound garishly real in the silence.
*
He associates silence with Reid.
Long, silent nights; warm and safe in his arms.
But then, later, long, silent nights, the air cold with unsaid words.
Where the fuck did it all go wrong? When does silence stop tasting sweet and start tasting like bitter, coppery blood?
*
He nearly tears it up several times. Once he puts it in the shredder at the Foundation offices, before quickly ripping it out. There’s a long gash at the top now: an open, ragged wound.
He’s Luke Snyder. He makes metaphors.
He’s starting to hate himself.
*
He carries it around for days without replying. In his pocket it burns, and as he walks there’s a sharp pain like shrapnel, buried deep within him. Something that tastes like unfinished business.
He rereads it so regularly that the words are imprinted within him. He’s not sure why. Somehow, however many times he reads the words, they never say what he wants them to say. It might be better, he thinks, to stop reading them. To just imagine them, because then they can be whatever it is that he wants them, needs them to be.
But Reid...Reid didn’t believe in playing games, in fooling oneself, in denial.
Reid didn’t hide in the trenches, Reid went over the top. And stood there, and waited for the bullets to hit him.
Luke glances over the letter again.
Why did you wait for my bullet, Reid? Why won’t you fight?
*
Because the letter says everything he dreamed it would say.
But he still can’t believe that Reid loves him.
skirmish: three