Going to a Town, Epilogue
So, I hear (because I haven't read it yet, don't anyone dare spoil it for me) that epilogues are kind of unpopular right now...but I do kind of like this, if it makes sense to anyone. I mean, even if only makes sense to me, I like it.
Title: Epilogue
Characters: You'll see!
Warnings: A very, very odd kind of fluff, I must say. Or at least I think. Also, as vague and confusing as I think I've gotten.
Disclaimer: Not mine at all, although I wish.
Special Thanks: I really am thankful to all of you. Who read, who comment, who inspire, blah blah blah special cakes. But especially indyhat without whom I would've never done this. So, if you've enjoyed this at all, round of applause to her. And, you know, if you've hated it, all her fault.
Sunday mornings are her favorite. She doesn’t have to worry about getting the kids to school, her husband sometimes brings her breakfast in bed, and her mother still comes by to help cook dinner, something everyone is glad for. And it’s usually the only day she has time to stay.
He’s sure he must be awake. But he still feels the hard ground underneath him, the gentle mountain sun on his face, the soft warmth on his chest, the steady breaths grazing his skin. And when he opens his eyes, he’s sure he must be dreaming again.
***
She’s always glad to see him, even on his worst days. Because on the best ones, when he’ll catch a glimpse of her ring, the brightness of his eyes and the smile he gives remind her of being taken to movies her parents wouldn’t let her see, buying her ice cream and cotton candy, making her feel a little closer to adulthood but not too much, which is more than enough to justify to her husband why she still wears it.
He looks down to dark hair that demands to be stroked, and as he does the honors the owner gives a satisfied hum that vibrates through him and he has to choke back a sob, as his body is covered by another’s and familiar eyes meet his.
***
She thinks maybe today she can spend the afternoon, maybe take him to the planetarium; he’d seemed to enjoy that the last time they went. He’s still refusing to leave the apartment and that’s worrying, but maybe if she calls her father he can talk some sense into him. And then maybe they can go to lunch, or he can come over to dinner. She wishes her kids had gotten to know him before, but on his best days it’s close enough.
“Are ya all right there, mate? Ya look like ya’ve just seen a ghost.” He hears, and looks up to eyes filled with laughter and a grin that rivals the sun.
“I don’t sound like that,” he says through tears.
“Yes you do,” is the answer, as the smile is pressed to his lips and deft finger smooth his skin, flat and scarred alike, tracing, remembering.
***
She steps inside the apartment, to dizzying heat and the buzzing of flies and a feeling of unease. Calls out to him, rambling about the milk she’s dropped in the hallway and taking care of it before it starts to smell, although that service she should probably provide in here as well.
When he doesn’t respond, she starts to worry a bit. And steps into the bedroom, tiny and dimly lit, normally, but today the window is open.
Don’t wake up, his mind demands, as his hands take inventory of familiar spots that press giggles into his mouth. Don’t wake up, as soft sighs by his ear make his neck tingle.
“You won’t,” he hears, just above a whisper, but still clear.
“What?” He asks, just to be sure.
And the weight from his chest is lifted as the boy pulls away a moment, just to be able to meet his eyes, probably.
“You won’t.”
And it’s only then Claude realizes that Peter is glowing.
***
He’s not asleep; she’s not sure how she knows but there’s something about the stillness of everything that makes it obvious. He looks content, and wears a smile she hasn’t seen in ages, a sense of peace she doesn’t think she ever knew.
She steps closer to the bed, not quite sure why, not quite sure of anything except that something else has taken over her body because she’s watching everything from a distance.
She sees herself stroke his hair, turned white before its time, and kiss him on the forehead.
She sees herself notice something, tucked under his hand, soft and plain.
She sees herself pull it out, unfold material ancient and well worn. A cotton handkerchief, with her own pathetic attempts at embroidery, from an age where she still thought trying to make something beautiful would accomplish it. She smoothes it out, wonders how it got here; there are stains that look like they might have been blood at one point, too set-in to ever wash out.
“They look different, don’t they?” He says, curious. Because they do, brighter, maybe if in the same approximate places at this time of night. He’s surprised he still remembers where they used to be.
“What?” He hears, the surface radiating annoyance but with amusement underneath.
He moves a little closer, even though it’s not cold and probably won’t be. Which makes the presence of the tent, intact and still as suffocating to be in, a little odd, since it probably won’t be raining either. At least there aren’t sheep to worry about, as if they’d actually cared that much before.
“Probably because we’re closer, right?” And looks up to impossibly blue eyes rolling at him good-naturedly, gleaming even without firelight.
“The fault is not in the stars, but in ourselves,” he adds, because it’s the first thing that comes to mind. And settles back down, warmer than he ever remembers being, and thinks maybe a cooler night or two might not be such a bad thing.
***
She isn’t even sure why she isn’t more upset. All she can think is, Dad’ll want to know, and so she steps outside to make the call.
Two figures cling together, watched over, a little jealously perhaps, by ancient constellations.
“I’m sorry,” one says, eyes full of regret for time squandered and moments lost.
“It doesn’t matter,” the other responds, knowing that it doesn’t, knowing that forgiveness is unnecessary.
Enough, the sky whispers.
Everything, responds the wind.
And Forever binds the two, envelopes them like the soft waves of a peaceful ocean.
A/N: Ahem... Well, I guess that's it then. Comments? Concerns? Anything to extend this even further, because without it I think my soul will feel empty? Let me know.
Title: Epilogue
Characters: You'll see!
Warnings: A very, very odd kind of fluff, I must say. Or at least I think. Also, as vague and confusing as I think I've gotten.
Disclaimer: Not mine at all, although I wish.
Special Thanks: I really am thankful to all of you. Who read, who comment, who inspire, blah blah blah special cakes. But especially indyhat without whom I would've never done this. So, if you've enjoyed this at all, round of applause to her. And, you know, if you've hated it, all her fault.
Sunday mornings are her favorite. She doesn’t have to worry about getting the kids to school, her husband sometimes brings her breakfast in bed, and her mother still comes by to help cook dinner, something everyone is glad for. And it’s usually the only day she has time to stay.
He’s sure he must be awake. But he still feels the hard ground underneath him, the gentle mountain sun on his face, the soft warmth on his chest, the steady breaths grazing his skin. And when he opens his eyes, he’s sure he must be dreaming again.
***
She’s always glad to see him, even on his worst days. Because on the best ones, when he’ll catch a glimpse of her ring, the brightness of his eyes and the smile he gives remind her of being taken to movies her parents wouldn’t let her see, buying her ice cream and cotton candy, making her feel a little closer to adulthood but not too much, which is more than enough to justify to her husband why she still wears it.
He looks down to dark hair that demands to be stroked, and as he does the honors the owner gives a satisfied hum that vibrates through him and he has to choke back a sob, as his body is covered by another’s and familiar eyes meet his.
***
She thinks maybe today she can spend the afternoon, maybe take him to the planetarium; he’d seemed to enjoy that the last time they went. He’s still refusing to leave the apartment and that’s worrying, but maybe if she calls her father he can talk some sense into him. And then maybe they can go to lunch, or he can come over to dinner. She wishes her kids had gotten to know him before, but on his best days it’s close enough.
“Are ya all right there, mate? Ya look like ya’ve just seen a ghost.” He hears, and looks up to eyes filled with laughter and a grin that rivals the sun.
“I don’t sound like that,” he says through tears.
“Yes you do,” is the answer, as the smile is pressed to his lips and deft finger smooth his skin, flat and scarred alike, tracing, remembering.
***
She steps inside the apartment, to dizzying heat and the buzzing of flies and a feeling of unease. Calls out to him, rambling about the milk she’s dropped in the hallway and taking care of it before it starts to smell, although that service she should probably provide in here as well.
When he doesn’t respond, she starts to worry a bit. And steps into the bedroom, tiny and dimly lit, normally, but today the window is open.
Don’t wake up, his mind demands, as his hands take inventory of familiar spots that press giggles into his mouth. Don’t wake up, as soft sighs by his ear make his neck tingle.
“You won’t,” he hears, just above a whisper, but still clear.
“What?” He asks, just to be sure.
And the weight from his chest is lifted as the boy pulls away a moment, just to be able to meet his eyes, probably.
“You won’t.”
And it’s only then Claude realizes that Peter is glowing.
***
He’s not asleep; she’s not sure how she knows but there’s something about the stillness of everything that makes it obvious. He looks content, and wears a smile she hasn’t seen in ages, a sense of peace she doesn’t think she ever knew.
She steps closer to the bed, not quite sure why, not quite sure of anything except that something else has taken over her body because she’s watching everything from a distance.
She sees herself stroke his hair, turned white before its time, and kiss him on the forehead.
She sees herself notice something, tucked under his hand, soft and plain.
She sees herself pull it out, unfold material ancient and well worn. A cotton handkerchief, with her own pathetic attempts at embroidery, from an age where she still thought trying to make something beautiful would accomplish it. She smoothes it out, wonders how it got here; there are stains that look like they might have been blood at one point, too set-in to ever wash out.
“They look different, don’t they?” He says, curious. Because they do, brighter, maybe if in the same approximate places at this time of night. He’s surprised he still remembers where they used to be.
“What?” He hears, the surface radiating annoyance but with amusement underneath.
He moves a little closer, even though it’s not cold and probably won’t be. Which makes the presence of the tent, intact and still as suffocating to be in, a little odd, since it probably won’t be raining either. At least there aren’t sheep to worry about, as if they’d actually cared that much before.
“Probably because we’re closer, right?” And looks up to impossibly blue eyes rolling at him good-naturedly, gleaming even without firelight.
“The fault is not in the stars, but in ourselves,” he adds, because it’s the first thing that comes to mind. And settles back down, warmer than he ever remembers being, and thinks maybe a cooler night or two might not be such a bad thing.
***
She isn’t even sure why she isn’t more upset. All she can think is, Dad’ll want to know, and so she steps outside to make the call.
Two figures cling together, watched over, a little jealously perhaps, by ancient constellations.
“I’m sorry,” one says, eyes full of regret for time squandered and moments lost.
“It doesn’t matter,” the other responds, knowing that it doesn’t, knowing that forgiveness is unnecessary.
Enough, the sky whispers.
Everything, responds the wind.
And Forever binds the two, envelopes them like the soft waves of a peaceful ocean.
A/N: Ahem... Well, I guess that's it then. Comments? Concerns? Anything to extend this even further, because without it I think my soul will feel empty? Let me know.