[Fic] Grave Men
Oct. 4th, 2007 05:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesadeTitle: Grave Men
Fandom: The Covenant
Characters: Caleb, Pogue
Prompt: Dirt
Word Count: 1,129
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Pogue has to deal with his father's death.
He pulled a handful of dirt up and let it slide through his fingers, wondering why they still did this. As though it mattered. The people back here behind the houses didn't care, they were six feet under. Which wasn't literally true, either. Not to mention, most of the people back behind the houses were long gone to skeletons or dust. Except, of course, the one under the dirt.
Caleb's hand came down on his shoulder, squeezed gently. He reached up and covered his hand with his dirt-covered fingers.
"I'm sorry."
"I know."
It helped about as much as he had expected, which wasn't noticeably. But it would have been harder without him there, he knew that without having to yell at him to go. So he didn't.
But he didn't know what else to do. Nothing filled the hollow place, the sick place. Dirt had filled the grave and in time the empty rooms would be full of someone else's things but he had a great emptiness inside him that he felt too sharply to even try to cover over. Or fill. Or hide. He let the dirt go, flinging it onto the grave and shaking his fingers a bit as though he could get his hands clean that way. There was still dirt under his fingernails.
Caleb's hand slipped into his without asking, their fingers lacing together tight as they walked back to the house. All of the Parrys were buried in the family graveyard behind the house, all of the Danvers' graves were in a similar location, and so on. Before that they had had the colony houses. And before that they had been in another country and Pogue didn't know how far back the history stretched. He'd slept through those lessons.
Now he wished he kind of knew. It was too late to ask his father. It was too late to ask him a lot of things, and as Caleb squeezed his hand the questions that came to mind were mostly about him and William.
William Danvers was long dead. Buried the first time, for a public funeral, and buried the second time after he'd actually died giving his son the best chance at life he'd had.
William Danvers was also a sore spot in the Parry household, enough so that Pogue had been careful, growing up, when and how he talked about the man. It was easier when they were all children, both because he was permitted more questions on the basis of not knowing any better and because William had been vivid and vital then. Alive. More so than the shell of a man who sat in a wheelchair and was fed by tubes and monitored by beeping boxes. William Danvers and Richard Parry had cared about each other long before that.
But Richard had married Pogue's mother, and William had married Evelyn later, and Pogue wondered how much the one had to do with the other and both of them had to do with William's death.
He pretended he wasn't glancing over at Caleb as they knocked the dirt off their shoes in front of the door. Headed inside, up to the bedroom without a word. His bedroom, he was still in his bedroom and he wasn't going to move, not until that empty space filled up enough that he didn't feel it every time he went outside. Every time he passed Richard's office. Every time he looked at his mom.
There was still dirt under his fingernails. He looked at them, one hand still tight in Caleb's, one hand swinging free.
"I'm gonna go wash up…"
Not that he'd dug the grave himself, of course. He didn't need to do that. The Parrys could have afforded a whole crowd of mourners at the funeral if they hadn't been there already, crowding into his house, touching all his things, touching him. Telling him how sorry they were. They'd barely known his Dad, most of them, it was a formality. He hated that.
Actually, he had dug the grave himself, or at least most of it. He'd gotten out there early in the morning, before the hired men, and gotten into it. Shovel and sweat and doing a chop-shop job of it because, well, it wasn't as though he'd had practice. But he thought the physical labor, moving dirt, would make him feel better. It hadn't. Caleb hadn't come out that time but Pogue had felt him watching from the window. Worrying. Afterwards, Pogue had gone in and showered and gotten changed and then the freak show had begun.
He scrubbed his hands like a surgeon, careful to get each and every microscopic bit of dirt. He wanted to be dirty for a while there, and now he thinks he just wanted to be exhausted. And now he wants to be clean. Instead of sweaty and dirty, which he isn't any more.
Pogue found himself turning on the shower and stepping in, stripped down to the skin. He heard movement in the bedroom and wasn't sure what it was, didn't pay enough attention to check. The shower was unnecessary, but he wanted it anyway. Hot water washing away everything, the dirt, the tears, the thoughts chasing themselves around in cicles and swirling down the drain. He hit the wall a couple of times. He might have screamed. No one came running; it was expected.
No one came running but Caleb did appear in the doorway a moment or two later. He felt more than saw him, didn't hear him come in over the sound of the water.
"Come on out," he said.
Pogue turned the water off but stood there dripping until Caleb pushed back the curtain and threw the towel over his shoulders. Rubbing him down like a dog or a horse. He was shivering pretty badly too. Caleb got him out of the tub and into the bedroom and not much further before Pogue grabbed him, kissed him hard and deep. The heat of the shower hadn't been enough. He'd washed away the dirt, and then he'd washed away the tears, and now he needed to burn away the rest. Cauterize the edges of the wound, maybe. Fill the hole with something else.
Caleb understood. It wasn't his, hadn't been his method of coping, but he understood. Tumbling back onto the bed with him, getting it down to skin on skin and breathless moans and movement. Wanting something he couldn't have gave way to wanting something he could have right now, and Caleb's loud and messy climax brought him to his own. Hands stroking down his spine as his arms gave way and dropped him, trembling, into the pillow, staring at his own curled fingers. No dirt under his nails anymore.
Fandom: The Covenant
Characters: Caleb, Pogue
Prompt: Dirt
Word Count: 1,129
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Pogue has to deal with his father's death.
He pulled a handful of dirt up and let it slide through his fingers, wondering why they still did this. As though it mattered. The people back here behind the houses didn't care, they were six feet under. Which wasn't literally true, either. Not to mention, most of the people back behind the houses were long gone to skeletons or dust. Except, of course, the one under the dirt.
Caleb's hand came down on his shoulder, squeezed gently. He reached up and covered his hand with his dirt-covered fingers.
"I'm sorry."
"I know."
It helped about as much as he had expected, which wasn't noticeably. But it would have been harder without him there, he knew that without having to yell at him to go. So he didn't.
But he didn't know what else to do. Nothing filled the hollow place, the sick place. Dirt had filled the grave and in time the empty rooms would be full of someone else's things but he had a great emptiness inside him that he felt too sharply to even try to cover over. Or fill. Or hide. He let the dirt go, flinging it onto the grave and shaking his fingers a bit as though he could get his hands clean that way. There was still dirt under his fingernails.
Caleb's hand slipped into his without asking, their fingers lacing together tight as they walked back to the house. All of the Parrys were buried in the family graveyard behind the house, all of the Danvers' graves were in a similar location, and so on. Before that they had had the colony houses. And before that they had been in another country and Pogue didn't know how far back the history stretched. He'd slept through those lessons.
Now he wished he kind of knew. It was too late to ask his father. It was too late to ask him a lot of things, and as Caleb squeezed his hand the questions that came to mind were mostly about him and William.
William Danvers was long dead. Buried the first time, for a public funeral, and buried the second time after he'd actually died giving his son the best chance at life he'd had.
William Danvers was also a sore spot in the Parry household, enough so that Pogue had been careful, growing up, when and how he talked about the man. It was easier when they were all children, both because he was permitted more questions on the basis of not knowing any better and because William had been vivid and vital then. Alive. More so than the shell of a man who sat in a wheelchair and was fed by tubes and monitored by beeping boxes. William Danvers and Richard Parry had cared about each other long before that.
But Richard had married Pogue's mother, and William had married Evelyn later, and Pogue wondered how much the one had to do with the other and both of them had to do with William's death.
He pretended he wasn't glancing over at Caleb as they knocked the dirt off their shoes in front of the door. Headed inside, up to the bedroom without a word. His bedroom, he was still in his bedroom and he wasn't going to move, not until that empty space filled up enough that he didn't feel it every time he went outside. Every time he passed Richard's office. Every time he looked at his mom.
There was still dirt under his fingernails. He looked at them, one hand still tight in Caleb's, one hand swinging free.
"I'm gonna go wash up…"
Not that he'd dug the grave himself, of course. He didn't need to do that. The Parrys could have afforded a whole crowd of mourners at the funeral if they hadn't been there already, crowding into his house, touching all his things, touching him. Telling him how sorry they were. They'd barely known his Dad, most of them, it was a formality. He hated that.
Actually, he had dug the grave himself, or at least most of it. He'd gotten out there early in the morning, before the hired men, and gotten into it. Shovel and sweat and doing a chop-shop job of it because, well, it wasn't as though he'd had practice. But he thought the physical labor, moving dirt, would make him feel better. It hadn't. Caleb hadn't come out that time but Pogue had felt him watching from the window. Worrying. Afterwards, Pogue had gone in and showered and gotten changed and then the freak show had begun.
He scrubbed his hands like a surgeon, careful to get each and every microscopic bit of dirt. He wanted to be dirty for a while there, and now he thinks he just wanted to be exhausted. And now he wants to be clean. Instead of sweaty and dirty, which he isn't any more.
Pogue found himself turning on the shower and stepping in, stripped down to the skin. He heard movement in the bedroom and wasn't sure what it was, didn't pay enough attention to check. The shower was unnecessary, but he wanted it anyway. Hot water washing away everything, the dirt, the tears, the thoughts chasing themselves around in cicles and swirling down the drain. He hit the wall a couple of times. He might have screamed. No one came running; it was expected.
No one came running but Caleb did appear in the doorway a moment or two later. He felt more than saw him, didn't hear him come in over the sound of the water.
"Come on out," he said.
Pogue turned the water off but stood there dripping until Caleb pushed back the curtain and threw the towel over his shoulders. Rubbing him down like a dog or a horse. He was shivering pretty badly too. Caleb got him out of the tub and into the bedroom and not much further before Pogue grabbed him, kissed him hard and deep. The heat of the shower hadn't been enough. He'd washed away the dirt, and then he'd washed away the tears, and now he needed to burn away the rest. Cauterize the edges of the wound, maybe. Fill the hole with something else.
Caleb understood. It wasn't his, hadn't been his method of coping, but he understood. Tumbling back onto the bed with him, getting it down to skin on skin and breathless moans and movement. Wanting something he couldn't have gave way to wanting something he could have right now, and Caleb's loud and messy climax brought him to his own. Hands stroking down his spine as his arms gave way and dropped him, trembling, into the pillow, staring at his own curled fingers. No dirt under his nails anymore.