[Fic] Slide Show
Sep. 27th, 2007 07:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesadeTitle: Slide Show
Fandom: The Covenant
Characters: Caleb, Chase
Word Count: 884
Rating: PG
Summary: Slices of life from a redeemed Chase.
Chase looked around the room for a moment before closing his eyes and just breathing in the air, deeply and with a smile on his face. The whole house smelled of Caleb, and he had quickly discovered he liked that.
Caleb hadn't told the others about him, of course. Or at least, not yet. Or at least, not where he was. He'd tried to offer Chase a room and Chase had made some sort of snide remark about skeletons in closets. The conversation deteriorated from there. Eventually Caleb had stormed off with clenched fists and tightly held-in Power, muttering something about Chase finding his own damn place to sleep. Chase had chosen the attic. He liked the idea of looking down at everyone moving around below, maybe unaware that he was even there. He also liked the idea of his own little Fortress of Solitude.
He perched on the windowsill that was more than wide enough to have fit him and a lover if he'd had one. One knee half drawn up in front of him, other leg stretched out, hands folded over his shin. He wasn't sure what else he needed here, having moved in a bed and a couple shelves, a trunk for clothes. He had some things, nothing personal, nothing that wasn't subsistence level.
It wasn't what he had grown up with, that was for certain. It wasn't what he had lived with but it was what he had become used to. A series of insignificant and nearly identical apartments, all of them prefurnished and never taking more from them than he could fit in a couple of suitcases and a backpack. He still had the ring around his neck. That was about it. His father's ring, he thought. He might have stolen it from somewhere, but he didn't remember. It kind of bothered him that he didn't remember.
"Aren't you going to go talk to them?" Caleb asked. Chase was playing pool by himself. "Wasn't that the point of all this?"
Chase stepped back from the table, chalked his cue and eyed a particularly tricky shot. "Do you really thing they'd have anything to say to me? Anything polite," he amended, trying to line it up. It just wasn't coming. Also, his back hurt. Stupid arthritis.
"Actually I think Pogue might …" Caleb didn't finish that, but Chase filled in the part about killing him on sight anyway. "Doesn't mean you have to stay here all the time."
"I like it here," Chase said, just to bother him. "It's nice. Homey."
It was anything but, and the choice of words had been deliberate and provocative. Instead of saying anything, though, Caleb just turned and started to walk out. The space between them turned thick and choked and dusty and Chase still couldn't think of anything to say. Pathetic, really, considering their last conversation in a small, enclosed space.
His hand reached out towards Caleb's back, two fingers curled, but the other man had left before Chase had even gathered the power to lift him. He let his hand drop and the power die away, wondering if he'd ever really meant to in the first place.
Family dinners weren't. Chase and Mrs. Danvers ate while Caleb either poked at his food or was absent entirely, most likely off with the rest of his friends. Mrs. Danvers wasn't entirely there either, although she and Chase became pretty good at making vapid conversation that required little to no thought. He sleepwalked through his days, not leaving the house not by request but by the instinct that said if he tried to go anywhere without Caleb's express permission, Caleb might kick his ass. Or try.
Another, more subtler instinct suggested that Caleb might even succeed, but he didn't listen to that part.
Nights were more interesting. He heard Caleb clambering about on the roof, listened to him and whoever his girlfriend was going at it in the middle of the night, heard the son dragging the mother to bed after one of her binges. He was a shadow player in the other man's life, a mockery of a fifth brother. He didn't participate, he watched, like some shameful and hidden voyeur. The light in the attic seemed to fade and bleach everything gray the more days passed without him venturing further than the front gate.
He wanted to. He really did want to, but something stopped him. Weariness, he thought. It was all too much to deal with again, the boys, their power. He was older than they were in body, just as young as they were in years, and he was too goddamn tired to deal with them. It was surprising the first time he thought it. It was exhausting the fifth or sixth time.
Chase and Caleb did run into each other more than a few times in the halls. Caleb glared, but didn't threaten, not when Chase wasn't leaving the grounds. Glares turned to puzzled and (Chase thought) sullen stared, and watching him as the older young man kept walking away. After a little while it was as though he didn't even exist. Mrs. Danvers didn't exist. He lived his life in between moments of life, flashes of vivid torture, electric bolts of stimulation. Otherwise it was just dull and gray.
Fandom: The Covenant
Characters: Caleb, Chase
Word Count: 884
Rating: PG
Summary: Slices of life from a redeemed Chase.
Chase looked around the room for a moment before closing his eyes and just breathing in the air, deeply and with a smile on his face. The whole house smelled of Caleb, and he had quickly discovered he liked that.
Caleb hadn't told the others about him, of course. Or at least, not yet. Or at least, not where he was. He'd tried to offer Chase a room and Chase had made some sort of snide remark about skeletons in closets. The conversation deteriorated from there. Eventually Caleb had stormed off with clenched fists and tightly held-in Power, muttering something about Chase finding his own damn place to sleep. Chase had chosen the attic. He liked the idea of looking down at everyone moving around below, maybe unaware that he was even there. He also liked the idea of his own little Fortress of Solitude.
He perched on the windowsill that was more than wide enough to have fit him and a lover if he'd had one. One knee half drawn up in front of him, other leg stretched out, hands folded over his shin. He wasn't sure what else he needed here, having moved in a bed and a couple shelves, a trunk for clothes. He had some things, nothing personal, nothing that wasn't subsistence level.
It wasn't what he had grown up with, that was for certain. It wasn't what he had lived with but it was what he had become used to. A series of insignificant and nearly identical apartments, all of them prefurnished and never taking more from them than he could fit in a couple of suitcases and a backpack. He still had the ring around his neck. That was about it. His father's ring, he thought. He might have stolen it from somewhere, but he didn't remember. It kind of bothered him that he didn't remember.
"Aren't you going to go talk to them?" Caleb asked. Chase was playing pool by himself. "Wasn't that the point of all this?"
Chase stepped back from the table, chalked his cue and eyed a particularly tricky shot. "Do you really thing they'd have anything to say to me? Anything polite," he amended, trying to line it up. It just wasn't coming. Also, his back hurt. Stupid arthritis.
"Actually I think Pogue might …" Caleb didn't finish that, but Chase filled in the part about killing him on sight anyway. "Doesn't mean you have to stay here all the time."
"I like it here," Chase said, just to bother him. "It's nice. Homey."
It was anything but, and the choice of words had been deliberate and provocative. Instead of saying anything, though, Caleb just turned and started to walk out. The space between them turned thick and choked and dusty and Chase still couldn't think of anything to say. Pathetic, really, considering their last conversation in a small, enclosed space.
His hand reached out towards Caleb's back, two fingers curled, but the other man had left before Chase had even gathered the power to lift him. He let his hand drop and the power die away, wondering if he'd ever really meant to in the first place.
Family dinners weren't. Chase and Mrs. Danvers ate while Caleb either poked at his food or was absent entirely, most likely off with the rest of his friends. Mrs. Danvers wasn't entirely there either, although she and Chase became pretty good at making vapid conversation that required little to no thought. He sleepwalked through his days, not leaving the house not by request but by the instinct that said if he tried to go anywhere without Caleb's express permission, Caleb might kick his ass. Or try.
Another, more subtler instinct suggested that Caleb might even succeed, but he didn't listen to that part.
Nights were more interesting. He heard Caleb clambering about on the roof, listened to him and whoever his girlfriend was going at it in the middle of the night, heard the son dragging the mother to bed after one of her binges. He was a shadow player in the other man's life, a mockery of a fifth brother. He didn't participate, he watched, like some shameful and hidden voyeur. The light in the attic seemed to fade and bleach everything gray the more days passed without him venturing further than the front gate.
He wanted to. He really did want to, but something stopped him. Weariness, he thought. It was all too much to deal with again, the boys, their power. He was older than they were in body, just as young as they were in years, and he was too goddamn tired to deal with them. It was surprising the first time he thought it. It was exhausting the fifth or sixth time.
Chase and Caleb did run into each other more than a few times in the halls. Caleb glared, but didn't threaten, not when Chase wasn't leaving the grounds. Glares turned to puzzled and (Chase thought) sullen stared, and watching him as the older young man kept walking away. After a little while it was as though he didn't even exist. Mrs. Danvers didn't exist. He lived his life in between moments of life, flashes of vivid torture, electric bolts of stimulation. Otherwise it was just dull and gray.