[fic] In Ardennes (prologue) + Intro
Hi everyone! I've been enjoying reading the fics on here for about a week or so now, and I thought I would delurk and offer a tidbit of fic. I'm pretty new to the show, so hopefully the following isn't terribly OOC.
[Title] In Ardennes (0/?)
[Author] weatherpenny
[Rating] PG (for now)
[Pairing] Eventual Mick/Beth
[Spoilers] None
[Disclaimer] Not mine. Wouldn't mind buying it and continuing the saga with the aid of hand puppets if canceled, though!
Every couple of decades after the Bulge, he went back to visit the city of Liege. It was strange still to see the clean sky and new buildings.
As he climbed the stairway to the Montagne de Bueren, he could almost hear the phantom crunch of ruins and gravel under his boots. A flight of fancy led him to imagine that vampiric hearing was so acute that perhaps it could penetrate what was most impenetrable: time, war, the exhalations of many dying men. When he reached the top of the stairway, four hundred and six steps tall, he stood and relished the eerie feeling of standing in a place of the past. It was pleasant to think that, though dead, his brain could still play tricks on him. If he squinted, the noonday shadows were almost the same color as soot and blood. He resisted the urge to rub his arms. He knew he would find no goosebumps there. Even in the dead of winter, his flesh stayed smooth, as though he were melting.
Whenever he was in Liege, he wished for cigarettes. The last time he was there, he still smoked. He liked how warm the smoke was in his lungs. Josef once said it seemed as though he held and cradled it in his chest like a child. Sometimes Josef's age showed.
A couple of the streets were paved with new brick. It reminded him of how things changed, rapidly and steadily. On a bright evening in July--was it '73? '74?--the thought of change made him so bitter, he tried his hand at alcohol for the first time in maybe thirty years. Every shot tasted like air and sat in his stomach like water. Would his body absorb the poison to cloud his mind? Later, sick of feeling full, he vomited in a gutter. His tongue curled. It tasted like nothing. He went home with the pretty bartender that night.
He had been feeling bad for what he was about to do, but then she said that the bricks reminded her of a river of blood, and he thought you have no idea and reached to take her hand. Sometime before dawn, their legs all twisted up with her sheets, he drank from her until her arms were limp around him and his belly was throbbing with her hot blood. It made him feel warm. Maybe that was why he quit smoking.
Josef always said that life was forgetting. He could never forget Liege, though. He could never forget that girl. Her name had been Annabelle. Her friend told him that. She grabbed his arm when she saw him at the same bar a week later and asked in halting English, 'Did you see Annabelle?'
'Who is Annabelle?' he said.
'My friend,' the girl said. 'People saw you with her. Would you know what happened to Annabelle?'
'No,' he said. 'I don't know.'
The girl shook her head and, not even crying, looked at him and asked, 'How could this happen?'
The words thundered through him. Yes, he thought. How could this happen?
He quit a lot of things that year. He imagined it was like hollowing himself out, in a good way, in a purifying way. Some days he could almost feel the heat of human skin against his lips. He would lie, shivering, starving, until the sensation passed. One night, he hadn't eaten for almost three days, and he had a dream about scraping the guts out of a pumpkin with his fingers so he could fit a candle inside. It had been the first time he'd dreamed in so long.
He let his hair grow out. He bought new towels. He bought modern art and stared at it until he memorized the textures.
Before the words 'private investigator' left his lips, Josef was already laughing in his face. He was laughing so hard, Mick couldn't help but laugh along with him. Once they stopped, though, he said, 'I'm serious, Josef,' and Josef sat very still.
'This is muddled,' Josef said. 'This is very muddled and perverse.'
'No more perverse than chewing on someone's neck,' Mick said.
'You really think this will work, huh, Daywalker?' Josef said, his mouth twitching. 'What clientele are you aiming for? The kind that won't think twice when you ask to meet them for some O positive in a dark alley at sunset?'
'I'll figure it out,' Mick said.
'Oh, will you?' Josef said. 'This will be a lark. Do you suppose waking up at 8 in the morning constitutes as a graveyard shift for us?'
'I'm glad you find this so amusing,' Mick said.
'Muddled,' Josef repeated, and started laughing once more. His amusement seemed endless.
And then there was Beth.
[Title] In Ardennes (0/?)
[Author] weatherpenny
[Rating] PG (for now)
[Pairing] Eventual Mick/Beth
[Spoilers] None
[Disclaimer] Not mine. Wouldn't mind buying it and continuing the saga with the aid of hand puppets if canceled, though!
Every couple of decades after the Bulge, he went back to visit the city of Liege. It was strange still to see the clean sky and new buildings.
As he climbed the stairway to the Montagne de Bueren, he could almost hear the phantom crunch of ruins and gravel under his boots. A flight of fancy led him to imagine that vampiric hearing was so acute that perhaps it could penetrate what was most impenetrable: time, war, the exhalations of many dying men. When he reached the top of the stairway, four hundred and six steps tall, he stood and relished the eerie feeling of standing in a place of the past. It was pleasant to think that, though dead, his brain could still play tricks on him. If he squinted, the noonday shadows were almost the same color as soot and blood. He resisted the urge to rub his arms. He knew he would find no goosebumps there. Even in the dead of winter, his flesh stayed smooth, as though he were melting.
Whenever he was in Liege, he wished for cigarettes. The last time he was there, he still smoked. He liked how warm the smoke was in his lungs. Josef once said it seemed as though he held and cradled it in his chest like a child. Sometimes Josef's age showed.
A couple of the streets were paved with new brick. It reminded him of how things changed, rapidly and steadily. On a bright evening in July--was it '73? '74?--the thought of change made him so bitter, he tried his hand at alcohol for the first time in maybe thirty years. Every shot tasted like air and sat in his stomach like water. Would his body absorb the poison to cloud his mind? Later, sick of feeling full, he vomited in a gutter. His tongue curled. It tasted like nothing. He went home with the pretty bartender that night.
He had been feeling bad for what he was about to do, but then she said that the bricks reminded her of a river of blood, and he thought you have no idea and reached to take her hand. Sometime before dawn, their legs all twisted up with her sheets, he drank from her until her arms were limp around him and his belly was throbbing with her hot blood. It made him feel warm. Maybe that was why he quit smoking.
Josef always said that life was forgetting. He could never forget Liege, though. He could never forget that girl. Her name had been Annabelle. Her friend told him that. She grabbed his arm when she saw him at the same bar a week later and asked in halting English, 'Did you see Annabelle?'
'Who is Annabelle?' he said.
'My friend,' the girl said. 'People saw you with her. Would you know what happened to Annabelle?'
'No,' he said. 'I don't know.'
The girl shook her head and, not even crying, looked at him and asked, 'How could this happen?'
The words thundered through him. Yes, he thought. How could this happen?
He quit a lot of things that year. He imagined it was like hollowing himself out, in a good way, in a purifying way. Some days he could almost feel the heat of human skin against his lips. He would lie, shivering, starving, until the sensation passed. One night, he hadn't eaten for almost three days, and he had a dream about scraping the guts out of a pumpkin with his fingers so he could fit a candle inside. It had been the first time he'd dreamed in so long.
He let his hair grow out. He bought new towels. He bought modern art and stared at it until he memorized the textures.
Before the words 'private investigator' left his lips, Josef was already laughing in his face. He was laughing so hard, Mick couldn't help but laugh along with him. Once they stopped, though, he said, 'I'm serious, Josef,' and Josef sat very still.
'This is muddled,' Josef said. 'This is very muddled and perverse.'
'No more perverse than chewing on someone's neck,' Mick said.
'You really think this will work, huh, Daywalker?' Josef said, his mouth twitching. 'What clientele are you aiming for? The kind that won't think twice when you ask to meet them for some O positive in a dark alley at sunset?'
'I'll figure it out,' Mick said.
'Oh, will you?' Josef said. 'This will be a lark. Do you suppose waking up at 8 in the morning constitutes as a graveyard shift for us?'
'I'm glad you find this so amusing,' Mick said.
'Muddled,' Josef repeated, and started laughing once more. His amusement seemed endless.
And then there was Beth.