Fic: Heaven from Here, PG for now
Jun. 7th, 2005 08:06 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
sharselune.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
mash_slashI come bearing fic. This will be a story with Chapters, yes. Maybe even Plot. Okay, anyway, kick me and I'll continue it. I have another chapter written already. So.
Title: Heaven from Here
Rating: PG for now
Warnings: if I gave you a warning, that would SPOIL it. I HATE WARNINGS. Okay, fine. Character death.
Pairings: none at the moment. Will be slash.
Feedback: YES PLEASE.
Prologue
The porch door was frozen shut again, wedged tight against the frame. Powdered snow sieved through the screen. Hawkeye kicked the door but it didn’t move.
“Goddamn.” He kicked it again. “Dad, the door’s frozen shut again.”
There was no answer from the house. Hawkeye yanked on the handle. The door promptly unstuck itself and snapped back to hit him in the face.
Cursing, Hawkeye rubbed his nose and pulled the door open all the way, kicking at the drift of snow that tumbled onto the porch through the open doorway. There were just a couple inches of snow on the ground but it was cold as a witch’s tit, which was worse than the snow. He hated the cold.
It was late in the morning but the sun had barely risen, turning the clouds white low on the horizon. The car in the driveway still sat in blue shadows. Hawkeye crunched through the snow, hugging his arms to his chest as the wind cut into his face. It was something just below zero out, though Hawk hated to look at the thermometer that hung by the door. Knowing what the temperature actually was always seemed to make it feel colder.
The door to the car was frozen shut as well. He circled the car, remembering to kick ice off the exhaust pipe to avoid poisoning himself, and tried all the doors until he found one that opened, then climbed in and over the front seat to the driver’s seat. With the first bit of luck all day, the car started on the third try. He shifted the car into drive and rolled out of the driveway before the car could stall.
“Soldier boy tell me why do you cry?” crooned the car radio. He reached out and rested his thumb on the power button, slowing at the end of the driveway to turn, waiting for a car to trundle by.
“When you return she'll rush to your side,” the radio insisted. “It's written in the book that she was meant for—”
His thumb twitched. The radio shut off. Rubbing his temple with his free hand, he turned the wheel and pulled out onto the street. Eggs, he would need more eggs. His father had a hangover recipe that involved raw eggs, and between the two of them they went through a dozen eggs every few days. The remedy was hideously disgusting but Hawkeye was willing to try anything twice.
He pulled over to the other side of the road and stopped, putting the car in park and leaning on his door until it gave a loud crunch and opened. He got out quickly and shut it, then circled the front of the car to the row of mailboxes, keeping one gloved palm on the hood of the car to keep his balance on the ice.
There were a handful of letters in the box, a phone bill, an electric bill. A postcard from California. Hawkeye flipped it over.
The Pierces—
Merry Christmas! Saw the Maine weather on the news, feel so sorry for you. It’s 70ºF here and finally green. You should think about coming up here for a few weeks to thaw. Love BJ, Peg, Erin, Mikey & Waggles.
The message was in Peg’s round, feminine handwriting, all except for Erin’s big blocky signature. Not even BJ had signed his own name. Hawkeye shoved the card in his pocket and went back around to the driver’s side door, sliding in. He tossed the rest of the mail on the seat next to him. Putting the car in drive, he headed down the street to the store.
**
Daniel Pierce was getting too old for this kind of thing.
The pipes had frozen during the night so there wasn’t water for a shower, and the toilet water had frozen in the bowl. By the puddle of frozen urine on top, Daniel estimated Ben had been gone for half an hour. Probably wouldn’t be back for a while yet. He unzipping himself and peed.
His head throbbed almost as much as his arthritic knees. He hadn’t had a good morning since before he had retired, but now the only thing that kept him going was drinking enough to convince himself that the shaking in his hands was due to the liquor, not the stroke. He’d quit his practice to keep from slicing something that didn’t need to be sliced. But he still couldn’t sleep at night. Still dreamed constantly of his hands going numb during some sort of routine checkup, of his arms wildly swinging as he attempted to take a temperature, bind a wound.
In the kitchen, a stack of dishes teetered in the sink, and a skim of coffee sat in the bottom of the pot, staining another ring into the glass. Daniel dumped the leftover coffee back into the percolator, then trudged outside with the pot to fill it with snow. The thermometer outside the door said it was –4ºF. That didn’t count the wind chill. Daniel knew, deep inside, that hell had Maine winters, and heaven had Maine summers. This side of the new year, Daniel was a long way from heaven.
Returning to the kitchen, Daniel spooned snow into the percolator, then leveled in a measure of ground coffee and shoved the pot back under the drip. Yesterday’s paper sat folded on the kitchen table. Daniel opened to the obituaries and skimmed through them. Two old patients of his had died. He hoped they wouldn’t expect him to attend the funeral. They weren’t his business anymore.
Coffee burbled in the pot and he poured himself a cup, carrying it into the den. A jar of dusty silk gardenias sat on the window sill, faded to an ugly gray by the sun, and a knotted tangle of monofilament fishing line sat on the couch where Ben must have left it. His worn slippers sat next to his armchair by the fireplace. Setting the cup on the floor by the chair, Daniel lowered himself on creaking limbs to stack kindling in the fireplace, gingerly lighting it with shaking hands. His fingers fumbled and dropped the first match but he got it on the second one and a cone of newspaper caught, flaring up into the thin bits of kindling. The pigment in the paper flared green and yellow, quicker than a rainbow.
He pulled his chair a little closer and sat down, wrapping his shoulders with the brown and yellow afghan that Magdalene had knitted. She’d been dead for twenty years but it still smelled like her, slow and sweet. He sipped his coffee, watching the fire. The heat felt like the sun on his face. If he closed his eyes, he could just about imagine it was summer. He could almost hear birds, and young Ben playing with Tommy by the unused boat house on the shore. Without opening his eyes, he set the empty coffee cup on the floor beside him and picked up the small wooden box that the afghan had been covering. His thumb ran over the soft edge of the balsa wood, and then he lifted the cover.
The gun was so cold in his hands. He wrapped his fingers in Magdalene’s afghan and picked up the gun again, pushing the barrel firmly against the wrinkled flesh of his chin. His eyes were still closed. He could hear the waves on the shore, and smell Magdalene’s hair shampoo in the weave of the afghan. He could almost see heaven from here.
tbc
next chapter
x-posted
Title: Heaven from Here
Rating: PG for now
Warnings: if I gave you a warning, that would SPOIL it. I HATE WARNINGS. Okay, fine. Character death.
Pairings: none at the moment. Will be slash.
Feedback: YES PLEASE.
Prologue
The porch door was frozen shut again, wedged tight against the frame. Powdered snow sieved through the screen. Hawkeye kicked the door but it didn’t move.
“Goddamn.” He kicked it again. “Dad, the door’s frozen shut again.”
There was no answer from the house. Hawkeye yanked on the handle. The door promptly unstuck itself and snapped back to hit him in the face.
Cursing, Hawkeye rubbed his nose and pulled the door open all the way, kicking at the drift of snow that tumbled onto the porch through the open doorway. There were just a couple inches of snow on the ground but it was cold as a witch’s tit, which was worse than the snow. He hated the cold.
It was late in the morning but the sun had barely risen, turning the clouds white low on the horizon. The car in the driveway still sat in blue shadows. Hawkeye crunched through the snow, hugging his arms to his chest as the wind cut into his face. It was something just below zero out, though Hawk hated to look at the thermometer that hung by the door. Knowing what the temperature actually was always seemed to make it feel colder.
The door to the car was frozen shut as well. He circled the car, remembering to kick ice off the exhaust pipe to avoid poisoning himself, and tried all the doors until he found one that opened, then climbed in and over the front seat to the driver’s seat. With the first bit of luck all day, the car started on the third try. He shifted the car into drive and rolled out of the driveway before the car could stall.
“Soldier boy tell me why do you cry?” crooned the car radio. He reached out and rested his thumb on the power button, slowing at the end of the driveway to turn, waiting for a car to trundle by.
“When you return she'll rush to your side,” the radio insisted. “It's written in the book that she was meant for—”
His thumb twitched. The radio shut off. Rubbing his temple with his free hand, he turned the wheel and pulled out onto the street. Eggs, he would need more eggs. His father had a hangover recipe that involved raw eggs, and between the two of them they went through a dozen eggs every few days. The remedy was hideously disgusting but Hawkeye was willing to try anything twice.
He pulled over to the other side of the road and stopped, putting the car in park and leaning on his door until it gave a loud crunch and opened. He got out quickly and shut it, then circled the front of the car to the row of mailboxes, keeping one gloved palm on the hood of the car to keep his balance on the ice.
There were a handful of letters in the box, a phone bill, an electric bill. A postcard from California. Hawkeye flipped it over.
The Pierces—
Merry Christmas! Saw the Maine weather on the news, feel so sorry for you. It’s 70ºF here and finally green. You should think about coming up here for a few weeks to thaw. Love BJ, Peg, Erin, Mikey & Waggles.
The message was in Peg’s round, feminine handwriting, all except for Erin’s big blocky signature. Not even BJ had signed his own name. Hawkeye shoved the card in his pocket and went back around to the driver’s side door, sliding in. He tossed the rest of the mail on the seat next to him. Putting the car in drive, he headed down the street to the store.
**
Daniel Pierce was getting too old for this kind of thing.
The pipes had frozen during the night so there wasn’t water for a shower, and the toilet water had frozen in the bowl. By the puddle of frozen urine on top, Daniel estimated Ben had been gone for half an hour. Probably wouldn’t be back for a while yet. He unzipping himself and peed.
His head throbbed almost as much as his arthritic knees. He hadn’t had a good morning since before he had retired, but now the only thing that kept him going was drinking enough to convince himself that the shaking in his hands was due to the liquor, not the stroke. He’d quit his practice to keep from slicing something that didn’t need to be sliced. But he still couldn’t sleep at night. Still dreamed constantly of his hands going numb during some sort of routine checkup, of his arms wildly swinging as he attempted to take a temperature, bind a wound.
In the kitchen, a stack of dishes teetered in the sink, and a skim of coffee sat in the bottom of the pot, staining another ring into the glass. Daniel dumped the leftover coffee back into the percolator, then trudged outside with the pot to fill it with snow. The thermometer outside the door said it was –4ºF. That didn’t count the wind chill. Daniel knew, deep inside, that hell had Maine winters, and heaven had Maine summers. This side of the new year, Daniel was a long way from heaven.
Returning to the kitchen, Daniel spooned snow into the percolator, then leveled in a measure of ground coffee and shoved the pot back under the drip. Yesterday’s paper sat folded on the kitchen table. Daniel opened to the obituaries and skimmed through them. Two old patients of his had died. He hoped they wouldn’t expect him to attend the funeral. They weren’t his business anymore.
Coffee burbled in the pot and he poured himself a cup, carrying it into the den. A jar of dusty silk gardenias sat on the window sill, faded to an ugly gray by the sun, and a knotted tangle of monofilament fishing line sat on the couch where Ben must have left it. His worn slippers sat next to his armchair by the fireplace. Setting the cup on the floor by the chair, Daniel lowered himself on creaking limbs to stack kindling in the fireplace, gingerly lighting it with shaking hands. His fingers fumbled and dropped the first match but he got it on the second one and a cone of newspaper caught, flaring up into the thin bits of kindling. The pigment in the paper flared green and yellow, quicker than a rainbow.
He pulled his chair a little closer and sat down, wrapping his shoulders with the brown and yellow afghan that Magdalene had knitted. She’d been dead for twenty years but it still smelled like her, slow and sweet. He sipped his coffee, watching the fire. The heat felt like the sun on his face. If he closed his eyes, he could just about imagine it was summer. He could almost hear birds, and young Ben playing with Tommy by the unused boat house on the shore. Without opening his eyes, he set the empty coffee cup on the floor beside him and picked up the small wooden box that the afghan had been covering. His thumb ran over the soft edge of the balsa wood, and then he lifted the cover.
The gun was so cold in his hands. He wrapped his fingers in Magdalene’s afghan and picked up the gun again, pushing the barrel firmly against the wrinkled flesh of his chin. His eyes were still closed. He could hear the waves on the shore, and smell Magdalene’s hair shampoo in the weave of the afghan. He could almost see heaven from here.
tbc
next chapter
x-posted
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