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janie_tangerineSo basically none of my longer things was on my regular computer, I couldn't be bothered to turn on the netbook and so I just figured let's fill some bingo squares.
Title: stop your frantic fingers
Pairing: mild Roland/Eddie, but it's... very platonic.
Rating: PG13 with reservations
Words: 1480
Spoilers: for The Drawing Of The Three, though just the first part of it.
Warnings: look at the prompt I used. So basically, one of them doesn't have two fingers and the other is in heroin withdrawal. There's some phantom limb syndrome going on. Also, second person POV.
Summary: “Man, you lost two damned fingers, not your hat. They’re… fuck, I dunno, a part of you, maybe? You’re allowed to miss them. Hell, you’re even allowed to call them Smith and Wesson and mourn them and come to terms with the fact that they’re in some of these things’ stomachs instead of just touching there. Which, if you forgot, or as you’re ignoring, won’t help you.”.
A/N: for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sevvy23 because she had the awesome idea to suggest DT drabbles to fulfill my quota of ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
mini_nanowrimo for today. And I just looked at prompts and this came and idek what it is but I hope it's decent? Using for my kissbingo square body: hands and for my hc_bingo square loss of limb/limb function, which btw is canon, so if you read the books you know what it's about. Title stolen from Nick Cave in a moment of desperation.
It’s easy to ignore them. The secret is not thinking about it.
The point is that it was easier before that first door closed. Before it did, you had to worry about not getting eaten altogether, you had to worry about the door itself, you had to worry about the prisoner and you had to worry about convincing him to come with you.
But now he is with you (and you might not be well, you might be close to dying, but he isn’t much better off than you are), you both aren’t in any condition to travel much far and you have no excuse not to think about your fingers.
It’s not like you’re in huge shock over it. Or them. It happens. It’s your life. You always knew that something like that could happen. It’s not even that huge. You could have lost an entire hand or an entire foot or they could have killed you altogether. Granted, the reason you don’t have those fingers anymore is the reason you’re currently half dead and you need more of that medicine whose name you can’t pronounce right, but it still could have been worse.
Except.
It might be because you’re feverish and at times you just can’t realize where you are or when you are.
(Otherwise the pris – Eddie wouldn’t be asking you who is Cuthbert.)
It’s just two fingers. You shouldn’t even notice two stupid fingers, and it’s not like it will stop you from using a gun. (You still have an entire left hand at your disposal, anyway.)
But still. It itches. It bothers you. And the worst thing is, it feels like they’re there. It isn’t something new to you – you heard enough people who lost entire arms or legs claiming that they felt like they were still there. But one thing is hearing it, one thing is feeling it.
You sense them. There. Just attached to your hand. Ready to flex and curl and press a trigger, but they aren’t, and you can’t avoid it when your other hand reaches forward and touches them, or well, the hollow they left, and –
“Christ, will you quit that already? It’ll just heal slower if you keep on fucking touching it. Didn’t they teach you that at some point?”
You aren’t sure that you like Eddie’s endless chattering most of the times, but at moments you feel grateful for it. Not only because endless chattering reminds you of Cuthbert (even if there’s this difference where you don’t get half of what Eddie says), but because it pulls you out of that haze clouding your head. Which you’re hating. Your entire life has depended upon thinking clearly and you can’t afford to lose it now.
Oh, but it hurts.
“Let me guess, you’re the kind of person who won’t do something when someone else tells them even if they know they’re being told right, aren’t you?”
You think it’s a pretty apt description, but you don’t answer and you turn your head. Eddie is visibly shivering and his arm is thrown over his knees. He’s pale and he’s sweating, even if it seems like he’s cold, but apparently he still can’t help chattering.
Well, for once you don’t mind. You don’t even bother to nod.
“Too high and mighty to answer, huh? I probably should up the aspirine but if I do it it’ll be over before we know so maybe not. Christ, you were a lot more of a company when you were just inside my head, but some company is better than nothing, I guess. Whatever, time for it anyway. Open up and don’t make it even more difficult than it already fucking is,” Eddie says, and you part your lips and swallow when he pushes a pill down with shaking hands.
“At least you aren’t what I’d call a terrible patient. Though seriously, I know you’re all tough and stuff, but if you want to fucking complain about those fingers, do it.”
You turn your head towards him, shaking it. You don’t really get what he means.
He rolls his eyes like he has figured it all out already.
“Man, you lost two damned fingers, not your hat. They’re… fuck, I dunno, a part of you, maybe? You’re allowed to miss them. Hell, you’re even allowed to call them Smith and Wesson and mourn them and come to terms with the fact that they’re in some of these things’ stomachs instead of just touching there. Which, if you forgot, or as you’re ignoring, won’t help you.”
You know that he’s right, or at least that the general idea behind what he’s saying is right. But you also don’t really want to admit it, for some reason which is escaping you by now, and you just stare at your hand again.
Not there.
But it feels like –
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Eddie says before dropping down close to you, way closer to you than necessary, so that he’s almost on top of you, but it’s what you did when the door closed and you feel like there’s fire burning you from the inside and you can’t even move.
“You,” he starts again, moving closer, shaking harder than before, “are,” he keeps on, bringing a hand around your wrist and stopping your left hand from touching your right, “the most goddamn stubborn person I ever had the displeasure to meet,” he ends, making sure that your hands are nowhere near each other. “And I can’t even say I didn’t have an idea when I decided to come to Adventureland with you, because I think I had one. Also, you still owe me a bunch of bare breasted girls,” he mutters, crawling closer, and he’s on top of you now. He really isn’t that heavy.
“But, since you did save my ass and I would feel like one, ass, I mean, if I just left you to your own fucking devices, and since I’m trying not to let you die on my watch here, just fucking stop doing that. And if you don’t like it, say it. And fuck if in the end Dr. Phil wasn’t such a waste of time,” Eddie says, and as usual you don’t get what he meant in the end, but the rest is clear enough and maybe he isn’t that wrong. But saying it is not what you were taught, and even if it hurts you just don’t say it because you don’t, because that’s how you learned it was, and damn, your index is flexing. Curling.
No, it isn’t.
“I don’t –” you start, and then he shakes his head, and if only he wasn’t trembling and his face wasn’t so pale, you’d almost think that he was expecting it and that he might find it funny. You wonder what would be fun in this.
“What I thought,” he whispers, and then he moves so close that there’s virtually no space between you and he brings your right hand to his lips. He kisses the knuckles on your fourth and fifth finger, light, careful, and you don’t realize you had been holding your breath until you have to let it out. His palm is pressed against yours and he’s pressing another soft kiss on the other side, and you don’t know why he’s doing it but it feels nice enough and you’re shaking as much as him. Enough that you couldn’t say no even if you wanted.
“You feel like they’re still there, don’t you?”
You raise an eyebrow and he almost scoffs. “Just so you know, my brother went to war and I watched enough fucking movies to know what a phantom limb is. I’m not that clueless,” he says, his voice strangely low, like it hurts to speak. But you have an idea that he’ll die talking and that he’d rather do that than stay silent.
“Just swear you won’t kill me when you’re better,” Eddie says, and you can’t help raising an eyebrow at that, because the problem is that he might not get better.
Apparently, Eddie has a gift for reading people, because now he looks like he’s ready to punch you straight in the face.
“Man, people like you don’t die from infections. Just let all the antibiotics in your system do their magic and stop trying to be Superman. Even if sometimes I think you’d kick his ass, in your top condition,” and then he brings your hand forward and kisses the empty space between your thumb and your remaining finger.
If there’s a strangled sound coming from your throat, you both ignore it.
If when, a lot later, he shakes harder against you and instead of reaching around to touch that empty space again you move your right hand so that it’s right on the back of his head, none of you says a word about it.
But if you focus on the way his skin feels beneath your remaining fingers, not thinking about the missing ones is easier.
You’re pretty sure you won’t kill him for this.
End.
Title: stop your frantic fingers
Pairing: mild Roland/Eddie, but it's... very platonic.
Rating: PG13 with reservations
Words: 1480
Spoilers: for The Drawing Of The Three, though just the first part of it.
Warnings: look at the prompt I used. So basically, one of them doesn't have two fingers and the other is in heroin withdrawal. There's some phantom limb syndrome going on. Also, second person POV.
Summary: “Man, you lost two damned fingers, not your hat. They’re… fuck, I dunno, a part of you, maybe? You’re allowed to miss them. Hell, you’re even allowed to call them Smith and Wesson and mourn them and come to terms with the fact that they’re in some of these things’ stomachs instead of just touching there. Which, if you forgot, or as you’re ignoring, won’t help you.”.
A/N: for
sevvy23 because she had the awesome idea to suggest DT drabbles to fulfill my quota of mini_nanowrimo for today. And I just looked at prompts and this came and idek what it is but I hope it's decent? Using for my kissbingo square body: hands and for my hc_bingo square loss of limb/limb function, which btw is canon, so if you read the books you know what it's about. Title stolen from Nick Cave in a moment of desperation.It’s easy to ignore them. The secret is not thinking about it.
The point is that it was easier before that first door closed. Before it did, you had to worry about not getting eaten altogether, you had to worry about the door itself, you had to worry about the prisoner and you had to worry about convincing him to come with you.
But now he is with you (and you might not be well, you might be close to dying, but he isn’t much better off than you are), you both aren’t in any condition to travel much far and you have no excuse not to think about your fingers.
It’s not like you’re in huge shock over it. Or them. It happens. It’s your life. You always knew that something like that could happen. It’s not even that huge. You could have lost an entire hand or an entire foot or they could have killed you altogether. Granted, the reason you don’t have those fingers anymore is the reason you’re currently half dead and you need more of that medicine whose name you can’t pronounce right, but it still could have been worse.
Except.
It might be because you’re feverish and at times you just can’t realize where you are or when you are.
(Otherwise the pris – Eddie wouldn’t be asking you who is Cuthbert.)
It’s just two fingers. You shouldn’t even notice two stupid fingers, and it’s not like it will stop you from using a gun. (You still have an entire left hand at your disposal, anyway.)
But still. It itches. It bothers you. And the worst thing is, it feels like they’re there. It isn’t something new to you – you heard enough people who lost entire arms or legs claiming that they felt like they were still there. But one thing is hearing it, one thing is feeling it.
You sense them. There. Just attached to your hand. Ready to flex and curl and press a trigger, but they aren’t, and you can’t avoid it when your other hand reaches forward and touches them, or well, the hollow they left, and –
“Christ, will you quit that already? It’ll just heal slower if you keep on fucking touching it. Didn’t they teach you that at some point?”
You aren’t sure that you like Eddie’s endless chattering most of the times, but at moments you feel grateful for it. Not only because endless chattering reminds you of Cuthbert (even if there’s this difference where you don’t get half of what Eddie says), but because it pulls you out of that haze clouding your head. Which you’re hating. Your entire life has depended upon thinking clearly and you can’t afford to lose it now.
Oh, but it hurts.
“Let me guess, you’re the kind of person who won’t do something when someone else tells them even if they know they’re being told right, aren’t you?”
You think it’s a pretty apt description, but you don’t answer and you turn your head. Eddie is visibly shivering and his arm is thrown over his knees. He’s pale and he’s sweating, even if it seems like he’s cold, but apparently he still can’t help chattering.
Well, for once you don’t mind. You don’t even bother to nod.
“Too high and mighty to answer, huh? I probably should up the aspirine but if I do it it’ll be over before we know so maybe not. Christ, you were a lot more of a company when you were just inside my head, but some company is better than nothing, I guess. Whatever, time for it anyway. Open up and don’t make it even more difficult than it already fucking is,” Eddie says, and you part your lips and swallow when he pushes a pill down with shaking hands.
“At least you aren’t what I’d call a terrible patient. Though seriously, I know you’re all tough and stuff, but if you want to fucking complain about those fingers, do it.”
You turn your head towards him, shaking it. You don’t really get what he means.
He rolls his eyes like he has figured it all out already.
“Man, you lost two damned fingers, not your hat. They’re… fuck, I dunno, a part of you, maybe? You’re allowed to miss them. Hell, you’re even allowed to call them Smith and Wesson and mourn them and come to terms with the fact that they’re in some of these things’ stomachs instead of just touching there. Which, if you forgot, or as you’re ignoring, won’t help you.”
You know that he’s right, or at least that the general idea behind what he’s saying is right. But you also don’t really want to admit it, for some reason which is escaping you by now, and you just stare at your hand again.
Not there.
But it feels like –
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Eddie says before dropping down close to you, way closer to you than necessary, so that he’s almost on top of you, but it’s what you did when the door closed and you feel like there’s fire burning you from the inside and you can’t even move.
“You,” he starts again, moving closer, shaking harder than before, “are,” he keeps on, bringing a hand around your wrist and stopping your left hand from touching your right, “the most goddamn stubborn person I ever had the displeasure to meet,” he ends, making sure that your hands are nowhere near each other. “And I can’t even say I didn’t have an idea when I decided to come to Adventureland with you, because I think I had one. Also, you still owe me a bunch of bare breasted girls,” he mutters, crawling closer, and he’s on top of you now. He really isn’t that heavy.
“But, since you did save my ass and I would feel like one, ass, I mean, if I just left you to your own fucking devices, and since I’m trying not to let you die on my watch here, just fucking stop doing that. And if you don’t like it, say it. And fuck if in the end Dr. Phil wasn’t such a waste of time,” Eddie says, and as usual you don’t get what he meant in the end, but the rest is clear enough and maybe he isn’t that wrong. But saying it is not what you were taught, and even if it hurts you just don’t say it because you don’t, because that’s how you learned it was, and damn, your index is flexing. Curling.
No, it isn’t.
“I don’t –” you start, and then he shakes his head, and if only he wasn’t trembling and his face wasn’t so pale, you’d almost think that he was expecting it and that he might find it funny. You wonder what would be fun in this.
“What I thought,” he whispers, and then he moves so close that there’s virtually no space between you and he brings your right hand to his lips. He kisses the knuckles on your fourth and fifth finger, light, careful, and you don’t realize you had been holding your breath until you have to let it out. His palm is pressed against yours and he’s pressing another soft kiss on the other side, and you don’t know why he’s doing it but it feels nice enough and you’re shaking as much as him. Enough that you couldn’t say no even if you wanted.
“You feel like they’re still there, don’t you?”
You raise an eyebrow and he almost scoffs. “Just so you know, my brother went to war and I watched enough fucking movies to know what a phantom limb is. I’m not that clueless,” he says, his voice strangely low, like it hurts to speak. But you have an idea that he’ll die talking and that he’d rather do that than stay silent.
“Just swear you won’t kill me when you’re better,” Eddie says, and you can’t help raising an eyebrow at that, because the problem is that he might not get better.
Apparently, Eddie has a gift for reading people, because now he looks like he’s ready to punch you straight in the face.
“Man, people like you don’t die from infections. Just let all the antibiotics in your system do their magic and stop trying to be Superman. Even if sometimes I think you’d kick his ass, in your top condition,” and then he brings your hand forward and kisses the empty space between your thumb and your remaining finger.
If there’s a strangled sound coming from your throat, you both ignore it.
If when, a lot later, he shakes harder against you and instead of reaching around to touch that empty space again you move your right hand so that it’s right on the back of his head, none of you says a word about it.
But if you focus on the way his skin feels beneath your remaining fingers, not thinking about the missing ones is easier.
You’re pretty sure you won’t kill him for this.
End.
