[Fic] Long Way Home
Feb. 16th, 2007 09:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesadeTitle: Long Way Home
Fandom: The Covenant
Characters: Caleb, Pogue
Prompt: Home
Word Count: 1,070
Rating: PG
Summary: Caleb leaves a disturbing message and Pogue goes flying home to take care of him. Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
lover100
Pogue went flying down the highway at speeds that would have killed someone without his reflexes. He should have been worrying about the police, but right now he was more worried about what was going on in Ipswich. Caleb's message hadn't sounded all that urgent, but if there was anyone in their group who knew how much Caleb kept things inside, it was him.
What did that mean, anyway? He knew Evelyn had been sick, but if she had finally… well, Caleb would have said. Wouldn't he?
Maybe he was just worrying over nothing. Yeah. Pogue was reading too much into things, he did that sometimes. It was a danger when you were with someone who kept everything inside all the damn time, and they'd talked about that more than once. Mostly just in the context of quiet concerns and some joking, though. They saved the arguments for who was using and how much.
Oh god. Maybe that was the problem, not Evelyn but Reid. Maybe Reid had backslid into his casual habits, started using again. Only it would be worse now that he was a logging truck.
Shit!
Pogue swerved, managed to avoid it. Thoughts on the road, now. Worry about what was waiting when he got there. Which would be in another two hours. Damn.
Two long, rainy hours. When he pulled up at the Danvers estate it was with water pouring down his helmet and dripping off the ends of his hair, down underneath his jacket. Thank god for leather. The pants weren't all that practical but by now they were warm and he was pretty well dry. He punched in the gate code, pulled into his space in the garage.
It still made him smile. He had a space in the garage. Somehow, that meant he belonged here just a little bit more than the other two.
Caleb was waiting for him under the shelter of the entryway, arms folded over his chest, hands tucked to his body. He was doing that thing with his head where he was looking down without looking down, one foot extended as though he'd been scuffing the floor. He probably hadn't. Caleb could stand still longer than any of them. And when he was standing like that it meant Pogue was in for a long night.
"Hey."
"Hey."
He didn't uncurl until Pogue was right in front of him, and then his arms locked tight around him, palms pressing into his back. Pogue tucked his head to his shoulder and breathed deep, sighing.
"Mom?"
"Yeah."
It wasn't all that unexpected. They went inside, fingers lacing through each other's, rain-damp palm against sweat-damp palm and holding on. Not his room but the lounge. Not the receiving room, either. Too many memories of clinging glass and dark gold liquid and slurred ranting about Power, responsibility, and burning out.
Pogue was the one to tug Caleb to the couch, sprawling in one corner and pulling him against him, half onto his lap. Caleb sighed, stretching out and pressing his face into his shoulder as though he could block out the antiseptic smell of the hospital with the smell of leather and engine grease.
"What's the prognosis?"
His voice was muffled. "They need a transplant. And because…" He didn't want to say it, and he didn't have to. "She's on the bottom of the list. Not the…"
"Not the bottom, bottom, but it's not a priority. Yeah, I know."
Caleb's fingers curled in his shirt and held on tight. "She's doing pretty well. They're talking about sending her home in a couple of days."
Doing pretty well could also mean doing pretty well for someone in her condition, and sending her home could just mean sending her home to die. He'd find out from the hospital. Small favors; at least in Massachusetts they got some kind of visiting rights over each other's families, and if something went wrong with Evelyn they were both listed as emergency contacts.
"Might not be that bad," he murmured, fingers light over the back of his head, through his hair. "They caught it on a scan, looking for something else. No symptoms, no nothing. She's in there for, what, pneumonia? And they've got that covered. People live with this kind of thing all the time."
"Yeah, but…"
But if she was on the transplant list it meant that they didn't expect her to live with it for much longer. If it was bad enough that she needed a transplant, the symptoms were going to start rearing their ugly heads pretty damn soon.
"I know," he whispered. Kissed the top of his head.
Caleb's arm tightened around his waist, fingers balling his shirt in his fist. "I should have … I could still…"
"No. That's not an answer. It's not a solution, and it's not going to fix the problem."
"… I know."
But he'd felt Caleb cringe at that, and hugged him tighter. "I'm sorry, babe. I'm … I know you're worried. I'm worried about her too. I'm also worried about you."
And, really, Evelyn had been doing this to herself for years. Ever since Caleb's Dad had lost his mind and memories twenty, thirty years before his time, Evelyn had crawled into the bottom of a bottle and stayed there. Not that Pogue could exactly blame her. God knew how he'd take it if Caleb went the way his Dad did. Which was part of the reason he'd reacted the way he had.
"I know," Caleb sighed, stretching out a little further on the couch and turning his face more towards the fire, cheek pressed to Pogue's chest. "I'm glad you're here."
"I got your call." His fingertips brushed lightly back and forth over his cheek.
Caleb fell asleep pretty quickly after that. Exhausted, probably. Pogue stayed where he was, shifting only to get comfortable on the couch, and it wasn't as though they hadn't spent a lot of nights on the couch anyway. A few nights in his bed. More often when they'd gone to school, when they'd had a reason to sleep at the Danvers' house rather than the Parrys', or his place above the machine shop. Or the townhouse. Or anywhere but here. Ever since Caleb's father had gone, no, earlier than that. Ever since Evelyn had realized how her husband was slowly killing himself, this house had not been a home. Not to anyone.
Fandom: The Covenant
Characters: Caleb, Pogue
Prompt: Home
Word Count: 1,070
Rating: PG
Summary: Caleb leaves a disturbing message and Pogue goes flying home to take care of him. Written for
lover100Pogue went flying down the highway at speeds that would have killed someone without his reflexes. He should have been worrying about the police, but right now he was more worried about what was going on in Ipswich. Caleb's message hadn't sounded all that urgent, but if there was anyone in their group who knew how much Caleb kept things inside, it was him.
What did that mean, anyway? He knew Evelyn had been sick, but if she had finally… well, Caleb would have said. Wouldn't he?
Maybe he was just worrying over nothing. Yeah. Pogue was reading too much into things, he did that sometimes. It was a danger when you were with someone who kept everything inside all the damn time, and they'd talked about that more than once. Mostly just in the context of quiet concerns and some joking, though. They saved the arguments for who was using and how much.
Oh god. Maybe that was the problem, not Evelyn but Reid. Maybe Reid had backslid into his casual habits, started using again. Only it would be worse now that he was a logging truck.
Shit!
Pogue swerved, managed to avoid it. Thoughts on the road, now. Worry about what was waiting when he got there. Which would be in another two hours. Damn.
Two long, rainy hours. When he pulled up at the Danvers estate it was with water pouring down his helmet and dripping off the ends of his hair, down underneath his jacket. Thank god for leather. The pants weren't all that practical but by now they were warm and he was pretty well dry. He punched in the gate code, pulled into his space in the garage.
It still made him smile. He had a space in the garage. Somehow, that meant he belonged here just a little bit more than the other two.
Caleb was waiting for him under the shelter of the entryway, arms folded over his chest, hands tucked to his body. He was doing that thing with his head where he was looking down without looking down, one foot extended as though he'd been scuffing the floor. He probably hadn't. Caleb could stand still longer than any of them. And when he was standing like that it meant Pogue was in for a long night.
"Hey."
"Hey."
He didn't uncurl until Pogue was right in front of him, and then his arms locked tight around him, palms pressing into his back. Pogue tucked his head to his shoulder and breathed deep, sighing.
"Mom?"
"Yeah."
It wasn't all that unexpected. They went inside, fingers lacing through each other's, rain-damp palm against sweat-damp palm and holding on. Not his room but the lounge. Not the receiving room, either. Too many memories of clinging glass and dark gold liquid and slurred ranting about Power, responsibility, and burning out.
Pogue was the one to tug Caleb to the couch, sprawling in one corner and pulling him against him, half onto his lap. Caleb sighed, stretching out and pressing his face into his shoulder as though he could block out the antiseptic smell of the hospital with the smell of leather and engine grease.
"What's the prognosis?"
His voice was muffled. "They need a transplant. And because…" He didn't want to say it, and he didn't have to. "She's on the bottom of the list. Not the…"
"Not the bottom, bottom, but it's not a priority. Yeah, I know."
Caleb's fingers curled in his shirt and held on tight. "She's doing pretty well. They're talking about sending her home in a couple of days."
Doing pretty well could also mean doing pretty well for someone in her condition, and sending her home could just mean sending her home to die. He'd find out from the hospital. Small favors; at least in Massachusetts they got some kind of visiting rights over each other's families, and if something went wrong with Evelyn they were both listed as emergency contacts.
"Might not be that bad," he murmured, fingers light over the back of his head, through his hair. "They caught it on a scan, looking for something else. No symptoms, no nothing. She's in there for, what, pneumonia? And they've got that covered. People live with this kind of thing all the time."
"Yeah, but…"
But if she was on the transplant list it meant that they didn't expect her to live with it for much longer. If it was bad enough that she needed a transplant, the symptoms were going to start rearing their ugly heads pretty damn soon.
"I know," he whispered. Kissed the top of his head.
Caleb's arm tightened around his waist, fingers balling his shirt in his fist. "I should have … I could still…"
"No. That's not an answer. It's not a solution, and it's not going to fix the problem."
"… I know."
But he'd felt Caleb cringe at that, and hugged him tighter. "I'm sorry, babe. I'm … I know you're worried. I'm worried about her too. I'm also worried about you."
And, really, Evelyn had been doing this to herself for years. Ever since Caleb's Dad had lost his mind and memories twenty, thirty years before his time, Evelyn had crawled into the bottom of a bottle and stayed there. Not that Pogue could exactly blame her. God knew how he'd take it if Caleb went the way his Dad did. Which was part of the reason he'd reacted the way he had.
"I know," Caleb sighed, stretching out a little further on the couch and turning his face more towards the fire, cheek pressed to Pogue's chest. "I'm glad you're here."
"I got your call." His fingertips brushed lightly back and forth over his cheek.
Caleb fell asleep pretty quickly after that. Exhausted, probably. Pogue stayed where he was, shifting only to get comfortable on the couch, and it wasn't as though they hadn't spent a lot of nights on the couch anyway. A few nights in his bed. More often when they'd gone to school, when they'd had a reason to sleep at the Danvers' house rather than the Parrys', or his place above the machine shop. Or the townhouse. Or anywhere but here. Ever since Caleb's father had gone, no, earlier than that. Ever since Evelyn had realized how her husband was slowly killing himself, this house had not been a home. Not to anyone.