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obstinatrix*shuffles* All right, so - this is an angst-fest. I warn you. Includes more references to actual events than I'm used to, notably marriage-related difficulties and children. I was hit by a bolt of inspiration by a comment made by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
starcrossedgirl on halotolerant's latest fic, below. The episode vaguely referred to here is The Way To Eden.
We are angst-ridden, aren't we?
Title: Not Waving, But Drowning
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 713
Disclaimer: This did not happen. I am not saying that it did, nor do I claim any insight into these men's minds.
He is in the spare room, staring at a smear on the ceiling and seeing a face in it, when he realises that it really is over. He is a Family Man, say all the teen magazines, the TV guides, the publicity people. He is a family man: he loves his daughters; he would do anything to protect them. He has been trying, for months, to protect them from this, as a man might try to shield a sandcastle from incoming waves.
He is in the spare room, turning one of the tiny model Enterprises over and over in his hand, when he realises there can be no more trying.
On set, he is quiet, subdued. This is unusual; people clap him on the shoulders, make jokes, feeling uneasy in the absence of the golden smile. The lot is full of people, today, dressed up as flower children in recycled cloth that has made Romulans and Klingons and Capellans out of bit-players. They are all far too cheerful. He watches Leonard, again and again, curving his long fingers into an oval and saying, "One."
"We are one," reply the bit-players, monotonous with the sort of spacey bliss that comes to the drugged. It is only a scene, and they are doing it badly, hence the repetitions. But their dizzy unity is compelling, damning; a tug in Bill's stomach says he'll never have that unity again, and the knowledge is numbing.
He stumbles off the set, into the alleyway behind the building, pressing his back to the wall. Its damp chill is steadying; he finds that he is shivering. He wants a cigarette, but he quit months ago and he doesn't want to go back inside and ask for one. He stares at the sky instead, at the clouds of brown pollution descending with dusk, and lets himself sink beneath the tide.
In California, the darkness falls quickly. The lot is blurred into blackness before many minutes, and when Leonard finds him, grips his shoulders, pulls him to his feet, all Bill can see of him is his silhouette against the faint shimmer of artificial light. But he knows it is Leonard. Strong fingers, strong arms, strong face, soft with concern.
"I want a cigarette," Bill says, gripping the front of Spock's uniform tunic. Leonard closes a hand firmly over Bill's; runs his thumb over the back of it.
"No, you don't," he tells him, gently.
Bill looks at him. His eyes are dark and kind, rich with concern. Bill feels the sharp tang of tears rising in the back of his throat, metallic. He clenches his jaw. "Leonard," he says.
"I know," Leonard tells him; and Bill hasn't told him anything yet, but he knows that Leonard does know, from the way that he is holding him, the firmness of his grip. "You're okay. I got you."
Even as his fingers close on the nape of Leonard's neck, Bill knows it is a madness, but the whole of him is numb and shaking and he cannot seem to help himself. Leonard says nothing, only bows his head slightly as Bill's fingers rub through the soft hair above his collar, leaning a little towards him in the dark. Bill pulls him down towards himself, asking something he doesn't understand, and the kiss is rough and brief and deep like tears.
Leonard breaks it after a moment, gentle and firm. He touches Bill's face. "I got you," he repeats, the same as before; the same as always. He tilts his head. "We're done for the day. You want to get a drink?"
God, does Bill want a drink. He wants to knock back whisky until he can't stand up; he wants to drink until his veins are eighty-seven percent alcohol and maybe that'll be too much for the pain in his chest to register any more. He wants to drink until there's no shame in crying. And then he wants Leonard; wants his closeness and his kindness and a different sort of pain in a cheap motel.
He wants to be the Family Man in the TV guide, but he's never going to be that man again.
So he nods a little, because there's nothing else he can do, and lets Leonard lead him away.
*
starcrossedgirl on halotolerant's latest fic, below. The episode vaguely referred to here is The Way To Eden.We are angst-ridden, aren't we?
Title: Not Waving, But Drowning
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 713
Disclaimer: This did not happen. I am not saying that it did, nor do I claim any insight into these men's minds.
He is in the spare room, staring at a smear on the ceiling and seeing a face in it, when he realises that it really is over. He is a Family Man, say all the teen magazines, the TV guides, the publicity people. He is a family man: he loves his daughters; he would do anything to protect them. He has been trying, for months, to protect them from this, as a man might try to shield a sandcastle from incoming waves.
He is in the spare room, turning one of the tiny model Enterprises over and over in his hand, when he realises there can be no more trying.
On set, he is quiet, subdued. This is unusual; people clap him on the shoulders, make jokes, feeling uneasy in the absence of the golden smile. The lot is full of people, today, dressed up as flower children in recycled cloth that has made Romulans and Klingons and Capellans out of bit-players. They are all far too cheerful. He watches Leonard, again and again, curving his long fingers into an oval and saying, "One."
"We are one," reply the bit-players, monotonous with the sort of spacey bliss that comes to the drugged. It is only a scene, and they are doing it badly, hence the repetitions. But their dizzy unity is compelling, damning; a tug in Bill's stomach says he'll never have that unity again, and the knowledge is numbing.
He stumbles off the set, into the alleyway behind the building, pressing his back to the wall. Its damp chill is steadying; he finds that he is shivering. He wants a cigarette, but he quit months ago and he doesn't want to go back inside and ask for one. He stares at the sky instead, at the clouds of brown pollution descending with dusk, and lets himself sink beneath the tide.
In California, the darkness falls quickly. The lot is blurred into blackness before many minutes, and when Leonard finds him, grips his shoulders, pulls him to his feet, all Bill can see of him is his silhouette against the faint shimmer of artificial light. But he knows it is Leonard. Strong fingers, strong arms, strong face, soft with concern.
"I want a cigarette," Bill says, gripping the front of Spock's uniform tunic. Leonard closes a hand firmly over Bill's; runs his thumb over the back of it.
"No, you don't," he tells him, gently.
Bill looks at him. His eyes are dark and kind, rich with concern. Bill feels the sharp tang of tears rising in the back of his throat, metallic. He clenches his jaw. "Leonard," he says.
"I know," Leonard tells him; and Bill hasn't told him anything yet, but he knows that Leonard does know, from the way that he is holding him, the firmness of his grip. "You're okay. I got you."
Even as his fingers close on the nape of Leonard's neck, Bill knows it is a madness, but the whole of him is numb and shaking and he cannot seem to help himself. Leonard says nothing, only bows his head slightly as Bill's fingers rub through the soft hair above his collar, leaning a little towards him in the dark. Bill pulls him down towards himself, asking something he doesn't understand, and the kiss is rough and brief and deep like tears.
Leonard breaks it after a moment, gentle and firm. He touches Bill's face. "I got you," he repeats, the same as before; the same as always. He tilts his head. "We're done for the day. You want to get a drink?"
God, does Bill want a drink. He wants to knock back whisky until he can't stand up; he wants to drink until his veins are eighty-seven percent alcohol and maybe that'll be too much for the pain in his chest to register any more. He wants to drink until there's no shame in crying. And then he wants Leonard; wants his closeness and his kindness and a different sort of pain in a cheap motel.
He wants to be the Family Man in the TV guide, but he's never going to be that man again.
So he nods a little, because there's nothing else he can do, and lets Leonard lead him away.
*
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Date: 2009-07-24 06:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-07-24 01:36 pm (UTC)