Fic: Heaven From Here, (PG), Chapter 2
Jun. 10th, 2005 06:12 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_slashNot sure how I feel about this chapter but I'm going to post it anyway. I was going to post it yesterday and held off, but I think it's okay. Moving right along.
Title: Heaven From Here
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sharselune
Rating: PG still
Pairing: Eventual Hawk/Beej
previous chapters:
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
There hadn’t been a call for a week, which either meant that the death of Daniel Pierce had cured all Crabapple Cove of its ills, or they were holding off calling him out of pity.
Hawkeye tended towards the latter, and that pissed him off. He didn’t need pity, he needed money. He needed to get back to curing his neighbors of their stupid little problems, so he could spend less time dwelling on his own. He needed to get out of this hellhole of a house and start doing something, something that mattered, not sit around and drink himself into a stupor.
Dishes from the past week were stacked up in the sink. He’d run out of perishables and in the last few days had been subsisting on cans of tuna and packets of crackers. A dull, soupy light came in the one uncurtained window and flashed off the sheen of grease on the water in the sink. A bloated slice of bread floated in the corner between bobbing cups and stacked plates. Faintly in the depths he could see glittering knives and forks. The cup of coffee that Margaret had poured him seven days ago still sat on the kitchen table, dried to a black sludge.
The door to the living room was closed firmly. He hadn’t looked in there for a while. He didn’t want to. There was no reason, in any case.
Perhaps what the townsfolk needed was to see him in town looking sane and happy. He needed food anyway. This way he could kill two birds with one stone: refill his cupboards and present himself as groomed and well-adjusted. That way no one would fear him showing up to their house in a bathrobe and a week’s worth of beard, stinking of gin.
He found a nice set of clothes, slacks and a sweater, and then took a quick shower, scrubbing days of grime off his body. The beard took a little longer; he was almost loathe to see it go. Now he would have to look at his face again, at the age that dragged at his jowls and the corners of his eyes. His whole body was tired and it was starting to show.
“Ring, damn you,” he snapped at the phone before opening the fridge and peering inside. It was empty, which didn’t really help. Might as well not even make a list. He was going to need everything.
There was only half a pack of crackers left, and one can of tuna. Maybe that would last him for the rest of the day. No, dammit, he was going to have to go to town now if he wanted to ever work again. The longer he wallowed, the more likely they would go off and find a new physician. It’s not as though he were indispensable.
“Why don’t you ring?” he demanded of the phone, and knocked on the side of it hard. The receiver fell off the cradle and bounced at the end of its cord. He picked it up and held it to his ear.
Silence.
Not even the operator. He jiggled the cradle a few times, hanging up and listening again. Still nothing. The phone was dead. Of course he hadn’t been getting calls. What the fuck was wrong with the phone company? They always paid their phone bill on time. Daniel had usually paid the utilities, and—
Hawkeye’s brain froze. He stopped. And. And if there were no phones, no one could call for help when they found Daniel’s body, getting rid of that pesky risk of saving him before he died. Hawkeye hadn’t found the body. A neighbor had said that Daniel had called him a week previous to arrange a meeting to discuss the bill for an unpaid house call, so he walked in on the body. Daniel’s neat way of making sure Hawkeye didn’t find the body, not that Hawkeye thanked him for it. With no phones, there was no way for him to get business, if anyone was going to call anyway because suicide was for the mentally ill and who was going to hire the son of a mentally ill doctor, anyway?
“Are you trying to kill me?” Hawkeye exploded, and kicked the door to the living room, which popped open. Darkness yawned at him. The rug seemed wet, but that was just a shadow. The couch, which had been there since Hawkeye’s mother had been around and still had the knitted doily on top, held a pool of shadows in its sagging cushions. The windows were half lidded and empty. Hawkeye wanted to throw up. They would have every right to call him mentally ill.
He had to get out of here, and fast. The car keys hung on a hook by the door. The path worn in the snow from his door to his car could be taken in two long strides. The trees at the edge of his property cracked and popped against bands of ice. He kicked the door until it opened and sat in the car, turning the key again and again until it started, miraculously. It was cold in the car but he’d forgotten his jacket. He wasn’t going back into the house. He grabbed a blanket from the back seat and wrapped it around his shoulders, then shifted the car into reverse.
**
The celery stalks were looking the worse for wear at this time of year. Glady Peterson sniffed and picked one up, peering critically at the edge of brown around the bottom. “Four cents a pound? That’s a crime.”
Mr. Friedman shrugged and polished his glasses. “That’s all we’ve got, Mrs. Peterson. The last shipment froze and they came in black as anything.”
Gladys did not look happy about that but Mr. Friedman reflected that she wasn’t often happy with anything, so he took what he could get.
“I’ll start growing my own celery,” Gladys grumbled, peering at the celery some more.
“When you start doing that, I’ll be glad to sell it here, Mrs. Peterson. For three cents a pound.”
She wrinkled her nose and glared at him, then dropped the celery into a bag. “I’ll take this and ten stamps.”
He counted out ten stamps from the roll as the bell jingled and Ben Pierce came in, looking like death not quite warmed over. Gladys glanced over her shoulder at him, her thin lips crimping into what could have been a smile.
“Dr. Pierce,” she said. “How are you holding up?”
The young doctor gave a smile to rival Mrs. Peterson’s. “I’m doing fine,” he mumbled. His hair looked freshly washed but wanted a trimming, and his eyes were sunken and tired looking. He was looking more and more like his father every day—old.
“He was a good man, you father,” Gladys continued. “Delivered four of my children. I always say, the only way to deal with life passing from this world is to bring life into it, isn’t that true, Doctor?”
“I think you’re doing a good job with that,” Dr. Pierce replied tightly.
Gladys breezed right over that. “When are you going to get married, Doctor? Your going to need little Pierces to carry on the family business.”
“I’m not planning on dying just yet,” Pierce said carefully, skirting the issue.
“No one plans on dying,” Gladys countered pointedly.
“It was nice seeing you, Mrs. Peterson. Mr. Friedman.” The doctor edged back towards the vegetables and Mr. Friedman decided that the poor boy had had enough of Mrs. Peterson’s unsheathed talons.
“That’ll be forty-four cents, Mrs. Peterson,” he said, ringing her up. “Have a nice day.”
**
He stopped at the mailbox on the way home, a paper bag of milk and bread slumping against the passenger’s seat. The box was full, more mail than he’d gotten in a year. Sympathy cards mostly, Hawkeye figured. He tossed a few handfuls of mail into the bag of groceries and then made his way down the driveway to the house.
The sky was as gray as the snow, with only the black line of trees to delineate. His house sat like a paper cutout at the end of the driveway, flat, faded. He reached into the bag of groceries and pulled out the letters.
With deepest sympathies.
Our prayers are with you at such a dark time.
In this sad time…
And then something else.
Dear Ben,
I hope this finds you well. I heard the news and you have my deepest sympathies. This may not be the best time for me to make this offer, but I hope you’ll listen to it anyway.
Our head of cardiology is retiring from Boston General soon and we’re unofficially looking for his replacement before the news gets out. Offical job interviews won’t start for another month. I thought you might be interested in this position, especially with your heart concentration. I can’t tell you that you’re a shoe in, but from all the options I’ve seen, you’re among the most qualified. As one friend to another, if you were to be interested, there’s a conference in San Francisco given by a Dr. Wilson Greatbatch on new technology in cardiography that would help your case tremendously. I hope to see your face among the interviewees.
Regards,
Dr. Frank Greenwalt
Staring out the windshield, Hawkeye folded the letter carefully. The house stared back at him.
next chapter
Title: Heaven From Here
Author:
sharseluneRating: PG still
Pairing: Eventual Hawk/Beej
previous chapters:
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
There hadn’t been a call for a week, which either meant that the death of Daniel Pierce had cured all Crabapple Cove of its ills, or they were holding off calling him out of pity.
Hawkeye tended towards the latter, and that pissed him off. He didn’t need pity, he needed money. He needed to get back to curing his neighbors of their stupid little problems, so he could spend less time dwelling on his own. He needed to get out of this hellhole of a house and start doing something, something that mattered, not sit around and drink himself into a stupor.
Dishes from the past week were stacked up in the sink. He’d run out of perishables and in the last few days had been subsisting on cans of tuna and packets of crackers. A dull, soupy light came in the one uncurtained window and flashed off the sheen of grease on the water in the sink. A bloated slice of bread floated in the corner between bobbing cups and stacked plates. Faintly in the depths he could see glittering knives and forks. The cup of coffee that Margaret had poured him seven days ago still sat on the kitchen table, dried to a black sludge.
The door to the living room was closed firmly. He hadn’t looked in there for a while. He didn’t want to. There was no reason, in any case.
Perhaps what the townsfolk needed was to see him in town looking sane and happy. He needed food anyway. This way he could kill two birds with one stone: refill his cupboards and present himself as groomed and well-adjusted. That way no one would fear him showing up to their house in a bathrobe and a week’s worth of beard, stinking of gin.
He found a nice set of clothes, slacks and a sweater, and then took a quick shower, scrubbing days of grime off his body. The beard took a little longer; he was almost loathe to see it go. Now he would have to look at his face again, at the age that dragged at his jowls and the corners of his eyes. His whole body was tired and it was starting to show.
“Ring, damn you,” he snapped at the phone before opening the fridge and peering inside. It was empty, which didn’t really help. Might as well not even make a list. He was going to need everything.
There was only half a pack of crackers left, and one can of tuna. Maybe that would last him for the rest of the day. No, dammit, he was going to have to go to town now if he wanted to ever work again. The longer he wallowed, the more likely they would go off and find a new physician. It’s not as though he were indispensable.
“Why don’t you ring?” he demanded of the phone, and knocked on the side of it hard. The receiver fell off the cradle and bounced at the end of its cord. He picked it up and held it to his ear.
Silence.
Not even the operator. He jiggled the cradle a few times, hanging up and listening again. Still nothing. The phone was dead. Of course he hadn’t been getting calls. What the fuck was wrong with the phone company? They always paid their phone bill on time. Daniel had usually paid the utilities, and—
Hawkeye’s brain froze. He stopped. And. And if there were no phones, no one could call for help when they found Daniel’s body, getting rid of that pesky risk of saving him before he died. Hawkeye hadn’t found the body. A neighbor had said that Daniel had called him a week previous to arrange a meeting to discuss the bill for an unpaid house call, so he walked in on the body. Daniel’s neat way of making sure Hawkeye didn’t find the body, not that Hawkeye thanked him for it. With no phones, there was no way for him to get business, if anyone was going to call anyway because suicide was for the mentally ill and who was going to hire the son of a mentally ill doctor, anyway?
“Are you trying to kill me?” Hawkeye exploded, and kicked the door to the living room, which popped open. Darkness yawned at him. The rug seemed wet, but that was just a shadow. The couch, which had been there since Hawkeye’s mother had been around and still had the knitted doily on top, held a pool of shadows in its sagging cushions. The windows were half lidded and empty. Hawkeye wanted to throw up. They would have every right to call him mentally ill.
He had to get out of here, and fast. The car keys hung on a hook by the door. The path worn in the snow from his door to his car could be taken in two long strides. The trees at the edge of his property cracked and popped against bands of ice. He kicked the door until it opened and sat in the car, turning the key again and again until it started, miraculously. It was cold in the car but he’d forgotten his jacket. He wasn’t going back into the house. He grabbed a blanket from the back seat and wrapped it around his shoulders, then shifted the car into reverse.
**
The celery stalks were looking the worse for wear at this time of year. Glady Peterson sniffed and picked one up, peering critically at the edge of brown around the bottom. “Four cents a pound? That’s a crime.”
Mr. Friedman shrugged and polished his glasses. “That’s all we’ve got, Mrs. Peterson. The last shipment froze and they came in black as anything.”
Gladys did not look happy about that but Mr. Friedman reflected that she wasn’t often happy with anything, so he took what he could get.
“I’ll start growing my own celery,” Gladys grumbled, peering at the celery some more.
“When you start doing that, I’ll be glad to sell it here, Mrs. Peterson. For three cents a pound.”
She wrinkled her nose and glared at him, then dropped the celery into a bag. “I’ll take this and ten stamps.”
He counted out ten stamps from the roll as the bell jingled and Ben Pierce came in, looking like death not quite warmed over. Gladys glanced over her shoulder at him, her thin lips crimping into what could have been a smile.
“Dr. Pierce,” she said. “How are you holding up?”
The young doctor gave a smile to rival Mrs. Peterson’s. “I’m doing fine,” he mumbled. His hair looked freshly washed but wanted a trimming, and his eyes were sunken and tired looking. He was looking more and more like his father every day—old.
“He was a good man, you father,” Gladys continued. “Delivered four of my children. I always say, the only way to deal with life passing from this world is to bring life into it, isn’t that true, Doctor?”
“I think you’re doing a good job with that,” Dr. Pierce replied tightly.
Gladys breezed right over that. “When are you going to get married, Doctor? Your going to need little Pierces to carry on the family business.”
“I’m not planning on dying just yet,” Pierce said carefully, skirting the issue.
“No one plans on dying,” Gladys countered pointedly.
“It was nice seeing you, Mrs. Peterson. Mr. Friedman.” The doctor edged back towards the vegetables and Mr. Friedman decided that the poor boy had had enough of Mrs. Peterson’s unsheathed talons.
“That’ll be forty-four cents, Mrs. Peterson,” he said, ringing her up. “Have a nice day.”
**
He stopped at the mailbox on the way home, a paper bag of milk and bread slumping against the passenger’s seat. The box was full, more mail than he’d gotten in a year. Sympathy cards mostly, Hawkeye figured. He tossed a few handfuls of mail into the bag of groceries and then made his way down the driveway to the house.
The sky was as gray as the snow, with only the black line of trees to delineate. His house sat like a paper cutout at the end of the driveway, flat, faded. He reached into the bag of groceries and pulled out the letters.
With deepest sympathies.
Our prayers are with you at such a dark time.
In this sad time…
And then something else.
Dear Ben,
I hope this finds you well. I heard the news and you have my deepest sympathies. This may not be the best time for me to make this offer, but I hope you’ll listen to it anyway.
Our head of cardiology is retiring from Boston General soon and we’re unofficially looking for his replacement before the news gets out. Offical job interviews won’t start for another month. I thought you might be interested in this position, especially with your heart concentration. I can’t tell you that you’re a shoe in, but from all the options I’ve seen, you’re among the most qualified. As one friend to another, if you were to be interested, there’s a conference in San Francisco given by a Dr. Wilson Greatbatch on new technology in cardiography that would help your case tremendously. I hope to see your face among the interviewees.
Regards,
Dr. Frank Greenwalt
Staring out the windshield, Hawkeye folded the letter carefully. The house stared back at him.
next chapter
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-06-10 10:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-10 11:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-10 11:24 pm (UTC)This community is not a writer's group.
If you are looking for this kind of feedback and help with your writing, I'd suggest that you post your chapters on your journal, and post a link here asking for help with them. Then when you are happy with what you've written, you can publish it.
I hadn't actually realised that you were posting your chapters here looking for a public beta, rather than publishing them. If you want a story beta'd, or edited, or even proofread, it really is necessary to be clear and specific about what you're after - especially in a community which isn't specifically a writing group.
no subject
Date: 2005-06-11 01:01 am (UTC)In a chaptered story, not every chapter can be perfect. This chapter was not perfect but as I found it satisfactory to keep the story going, I posted it so I can continue with the story rather than dithering about with the chapter ad nauseum. This story is a work in progress, as I'm sure you realize.
no subject
Date: 2005-06-11 08:27 am (UTC)Okay, so why say you were? "Perhaps I am too used to writer's groups in which I can present a piece of work with the comment that I'm not sure about the effectiveness of the chapter, and I can expect constructive feedback." Was this a mere random comment, or were you asking for a beta-read?
I do know that this is not a professional publication, and that we are not all professional writers here. I am sorry if you were expecting perfection; unfortunately, you won't find that with me.
Now you're setting up a straw man. Where did I ever say I "expected perfection"?
What I did say was that you shouldn't publish till you're happy with what you're written. If you're unhappy with it, if you think it could be better, then work on it till you are happy with it.
I've seen you give very harsh comments to other writers due to the lack of polish/perfection in their work, and that should have warned me that there is little sympathy to amateur work in this group.
I have, on one occasion, not in this group but in
and that should have warned me that there is little sympathy to amateur work in this group.
Now that really is passive-aggressive. I'm (AFAIS) the only one who is saying anything negative: you should not judge the entire group by me. Further, what I am saying is not that I don't like your writing - I read the prologue and your standard of writing seemed fine to me - but that I didn't like your negative comment about your own work.
In a chaptered story, not every chapter can be perfect.
If you mean perfect, well, again, who can achieve perfection, and who brought perfection up? You did. I didn't. I said you had to be happy with your work. If you're not happy with it, don't publish it.
This chapter was not perfect but as I found it satisfactory to keep the story going, I posted it so I can continue with the story rather than dithering about with the chapter ad nauseum. This story is a work in progress, as I'm sure you realize.
Yes, but that doesn't mean you have to publish work you're unhappy with in order to write the next chapter. Don't publish the chapter if you're unhappy with it: set it aside, maybe ask for a beta-read, and get to work on the next chapter anyway.
no subject
Date: 2005-06-11 03:31 pm (UTC)In the future, I shall avoid making negative comments to preface my work. It simply irritated me to get what I saw as a condescending and unwarranted comment on what I had said. I know you meant well, and I know that this was addressed recently in the community, so I shall try to heed that in the future. Truce?
no subject
Date: 2005-06-11 04:06 pm (UTC)*blinks* Okay, I'll bear that in mind. You should note, however, what the author said here (http://www.livejournal.com/community/mash_slash/80097.html?thread=447969#t447969). No shrinking violet, she.
In the future, I shall avoid making negative comments to preface my work. It simply irritated me to get what I saw as a condescending and unwarranted comment on what I had said. I know you meant well, and I know that this was addressed recently in the community, so I shall try to heed that in the future. Truce?
Fair enough. Truce it is.
no subject
Date: 2005-06-11 04:38 pm (UTC)No hard feelings, by the way :)
no subject
Date: 2005-06-11 04:54 pm (UTC)Like anyone who really wants to be a good writer, she evidently doesn't want to discourage people from commenting on her stories by being worried that they'll hurt her feelings if they say what they think about her writing. Good for her.
No hard feelings, by the way :)
:-) None at all. I'm aware that many fanwriters actively do not want anything but polite pleasantries in response to their stories, and I (mostly) adopt the rule that unless someone actually asks for honest comments, "if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all". It's such a widely accepted rule in fandom that I find moving away from it only gets me into trouble... ;-)
no subject
Date: 2005-06-11 06:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-12 12:02 am (UTC)Criticism or praise of the story may, of course, enable the writer to become a better writer, long term. In that context, I find writers who say they want "constructive criticism" but object to "harsh criticism" generally mean they still confuse criticism of their story or their writing with a personal attack, and it's better to avoid beta-reading for those writers.
Once a story is published, it is fair game for anyone to write about however they please - a writer who can't take being criticised harshly had better not publish.
no subject
Date: 2005-12-29 09:17 pm (UTC)Neither the old nor current rules for that community require lj-cuts, no matter the quality of the drabbles being posted.
no subject
Date: 2005-06-10 10:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-11 03:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-11 06:24 am (UTC)Gah, is she a moron or is she purposely being a bitch?
Uh, yeah, I liked this chapter. Always a good sign when a character is real enough to where you want to slap them. ^^
no subject
Date: 2005-06-11 03:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-11 06:27 am (UTC)Please continue :)
no subject
Date: 2005-06-11 03:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-11 07:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-11 03:34 pm (UTC)I don't know why that makes me laugh. Whenever I read over this chapter, it made me want to eat tuna. Mm, tuna.