(no subject)
Um. Okay. Very short, 845 words or so. Death fic. F/K. 'Nuff said.
[ETA: I have now done this as an audiofic for your fannish pleasure. Go here for disclaimers and a link to download from.]
[Disclaimer: Not mine, You're in the wrong country, mate.]
Photograph
Your picture is on the mantelpiece; I know it is there, though I rarely look at it. I don't need to, because I distinctly remember catching you padding out of the bathroom one morning so I might use the new camera -- your face was scrubbed, but sleep-creased and rosy, and when you saw the camera you gave me a startled, uncertain grin.
You were lovely, and somehow unlike yourself for the split-second it took for the shutter to click -- but as soon as I lowered the camera, your grin changed from uncertain to familiarly mischievous; soon enough you'd wrestled the camera from me and me onto the bed.
Those pictures are here too, but I can hardly put any of them on the mantelpiece. You might dare me to, if you were --
Well.
I've looked at that picture precisely three times, Ray -- I can tell you about each one. The first -- the first was right after we'd had the pictures developed; I'd had to flip through a number of my own pictures to find you, as I recall -- I'd only taken the one of you, and you'd finished the roll with ones of me. But I found it eventually, and I remember being quite mesmerized by the haphazard angles in your hair -- the pillow seemed to have flattened some sections and spiked others -- and wanting to push my fingers into the picture and touch you. Fortunately, you chose that moment to come shuffling in, bringing stocking-cap-muddled hair and cold-slapped cheeks with you. I doubt you knew what I was thinking at the time, but then you seemed more interested in licking along the vein in my neck than questioning my motives.
The second time was -- after, and -- I found it entirely by accident, I swear to you. I hadn't wanted -- I hadn't needed -- I happened upon them, while going through your drawers. I apologize for intruding on your privacy, Ray, but I'm afraid that space is rather valuable in the cabin, and...well. I kept one of your sock drawers full, I often -- it doesn't matter. But at any rate, I found the photographs there, in a manila envelope -- you must have put them there, because it was sealed improperly -- and then...well. I don't precisely recall what happened then. Diefenbaker informs that I shed -- well. That's not important either, is it, now.
And the last time was when Buck visited. He was talking to me quite boisterously about his last attempt to organize a series of sled-driving classes for children -- and then he suddenly fell silent, so naturally I turned to see what he was looking at; that was when I saw it again. He hadn't -- known, yet, at the time, but he immediately understood what the picture's presence meant. I'm thankful for that; I don't think I could have managed to tell him, really. It was difficult enough writing the letters, and I can't -- I can't afford to become slothful here, Ray. You understand that. I can't malinger. I want to -- God, I want to, you must know that. But there's work to be done. It's the dead of winter. I hope that your -- well, your continued absence, as it were, isn't due to you holding that against me. I can't -- come with you, Ray. The people need me here. I can only remember -- that's all I have in my power.
And remember -- remember I shall, Ray. That's why I can't look at you -- don't you see? I can't bear to think of you as two-dimensional; if I do, you'll truly be -- gone. And right now I still have you, all three -- hell, all four, all twenty -- dimensions of you here, with me. I know that you're more liable to have a scowl on your face than a grin, and any grin that's not uncertain. I know, Ray; I remember. I remember how you stubbornly scowled your way through nearly all of our first kiss. I remember that your skin doesn't feel perfectly smooth and dry, the way the photograph does -- I know that you have scars where they've shot you, and coarse hair on your stomach and legs. I remember what it felt like to wake with your sleeping, lax mouth pressed open against my pulse. I remember that you didn't smell of developing chemicals, but of sweat and coffee and sometimes beer. I remember --
-- oh, God, Ray --
-- I remember how you didn't bleed, how I saw the caribou trotting away and leaving you lying in the snow and thinking that you must be all right because the snow was still white, the snow was still white, and so you must -- be bruised, be hurt, but alive, because you were nestled in snow, so quiet, so safe -- and I'd only looked away for five minutes --
-- but I'm not bleeding now, Ray. I'm not bleeding, either.
--fin
And I'm just going to wander off and throw up now. Excuse me.
[ETA: I have now done this as an audiofic for your fannish pleasure. Go here for disclaimers and a link to download from.]
[Disclaimer: Not mine, You're in the wrong country, mate.]
Photograph
Your picture is on the mantelpiece; I know it is there, though I rarely look at it. I don't need to, because I distinctly remember catching you padding out of the bathroom one morning so I might use the new camera -- your face was scrubbed, but sleep-creased and rosy, and when you saw the camera you gave me a startled, uncertain grin.
You were lovely, and somehow unlike yourself for the split-second it took for the shutter to click -- but as soon as I lowered the camera, your grin changed from uncertain to familiarly mischievous; soon enough you'd wrestled the camera from me and me onto the bed.
Those pictures are here too, but I can hardly put any of them on the mantelpiece. You might dare me to, if you were --
Well.
I've looked at that picture precisely three times, Ray -- I can tell you about each one. The first -- the first was right after we'd had the pictures developed; I'd had to flip through a number of my own pictures to find you, as I recall -- I'd only taken the one of you, and you'd finished the roll with ones of me. But I found it eventually, and I remember being quite mesmerized by the haphazard angles in your hair -- the pillow seemed to have flattened some sections and spiked others -- and wanting to push my fingers into the picture and touch you. Fortunately, you chose that moment to come shuffling in, bringing stocking-cap-muddled hair and cold-slapped cheeks with you. I doubt you knew what I was thinking at the time, but then you seemed more interested in licking along the vein in my neck than questioning my motives.
The second time was -- after, and -- I found it entirely by accident, I swear to you. I hadn't wanted -- I hadn't needed -- I happened upon them, while going through your drawers. I apologize for intruding on your privacy, Ray, but I'm afraid that space is rather valuable in the cabin, and...well. I kept one of your sock drawers full, I often -- it doesn't matter. But at any rate, I found the photographs there, in a manila envelope -- you must have put them there, because it was sealed improperly -- and then...well. I don't precisely recall what happened then. Diefenbaker informs that I shed -- well. That's not important either, is it, now.
And the last time was when Buck visited. He was talking to me quite boisterously about his last attempt to organize a series of sled-driving classes for children -- and then he suddenly fell silent, so naturally I turned to see what he was looking at; that was when I saw it again. He hadn't -- known, yet, at the time, but he immediately understood what the picture's presence meant. I'm thankful for that; I don't think I could have managed to tell him, really. It was difficult enough writing the letters, and I can't -- I can't afford to become slothful here, Ray. You understand that. I can't malinger. I want to -- God, I want to, you must know that. But there's work to be done. It's the dead of winter. I hope that your -- well, your continued absence, as it were, isn't due to you holding that against me. I can't -- come with you, Ray. The people need me here. I can only remember -- that's all I have in my power.
And remember -- remember I shall, Ray. That's why I can't look at you -- don't you see? I can't bear to think of you as two-dimensional; if I do, you'll truly be -- gone. And right now I still have you, all three -- hell, all four, all twenty -- dimensions of you here, with me. I know that you're more liable to have a scowl on your face than a grin, and any grin that's not uncertain. I know, Ray; I remember. I remember how you stubbornly scowled your way through nearly all of our first kiss. I remember that your skin doesn't feel perfectly smooth and dry, the way the photograph does -- I know that you have scars where they've shot you, and coarse hair on your stomach and legs. I remember what it felt like to wake with your sleeping, lax mouth pressed open against my pulse. I remember that you didn't smell of developing chemicals, but of sweat and coffee and sometimes beer. I remember --
-- oh, God, Ray --
-- I remember how you didn't bleed, how I saw the caribou trotting away and leaving you lying in the snow and thinking that you must be all right because the snow was still white, the snow was still white, and so you must -- be bruised, be hurt, but alive, because you were nestled in snow, so quiet, so safe -- and I'd only looked away for five minutes --
-- but I'm not bleeding now, Ray. I'm not bleeding, either.
--fin
And I'm just going to wander off and throw up now. Excuse me.