doors? why doors?
Oct. 6th, 2003 01:58 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
suaine.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
ds_flashfictionThis is a 45-minutes, after-midnight kind of fic. It happened because I saw "Dead Men Don't Throw Rice" for the first time. All mistakes are mine, the plane crash is something I heard in school a long time ago, Ray and Frase are having hot monkey sex in all the scenes they don't show on television and pigs can fly. (one of the above statements is not like the others in such a way as it isn't true. Take your pick ;)
Survivors, Dummy
by Suaine
This one is the hardest door not to go through.
Doors have two natural states, open and closed. An open door issues an invitation, it says loud and clear to come and see what's on the other side. A closed door is different, either tries to keep someone out or someone else in; it impersonates a wall but never quite manages the task because the possibility is there. To open. To go through. To see the other side.
This door is wide open, almost off the hinges, screaming and begging for me to go through. This time dad isn't there to distract me, this time I'll leave borderland behind and see the real thing.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
It's such a familiar voice, I don't need to turn around to see him. Ray. I can tell from the way his voice echoes in the ethereal hallway that he's angry about something, judging by his words it's probably me - not that it hasn't always been me, anyway.
"I'm finished," I say, "There's no obligation left for me to fulfill."
I really don't want to turn around to face him, but I suppose since my wants and needs never mattered when I was alive they won't make a difference now. His hand on my shoulder flips me around and he's right there, eyes sparkling with anger.
"What about me, then? No obligations towards me? No unfinished business between us?" And I could almost believe that he sounds hopeful.
"Well, should there be, Ray?" I don't say 'Do you want there to be?', the unspoken words searing my tongue. He's a figment of my imagination, nothing said or done here will change anything.
The door is still open. There's a glow, something warm and bright.
"Shoulda, coulda, woulda - it doesn't matter what I think. What do you think?" Impossibly, he comes closer. "What do you feel?"
Right now, slightly claustrophobic. Short of breath, high heart rate, blood rushing to regions no self-respecting ghost-blood has any reason to be. He has that effect on me. Always had. I say, "Fine," because that's my answer when I don't have one.
"I," he says, poking me in the chest, "Don't," another poke, "Believe," poke, "You," poke.
Wonderful, give the man a glass of champagne. "Well, since I am the one about to die, I rather think that what you believe or don't believe is moot."
Oh, now he's very angry. The narrowed eyes and the tensing of every muscle in his lithe body are telltale signs. So is the fire that emits from his nostrils. Hey, I saw the ghost of my dead father for years, I never claimed my hallucinations made sense.
"Fraser," he says. It sounds like a threat. "Imagine a plane with three hundred and twenty-two passengers. The plane has engine trouble and calls in 'Mayday, mayday, we're going down'," here Ray changes his voice and he suddenly sounds exactly like a female flight attendant in full panic, "but it's too late. The plane crashes, and this is important Fraser, right spot in the middle of the border strip between two countries. So, where do they bury the survivors?"
It's like an Inuit story from hell. "Well, apparently, Ray, most countries have signed pacts and treaties that would allow the return of the-"
"Not the point here, Fraser."
"I'm not sure, I assume the airline would be responsible for the bodies. They'd bury them in the country the airline came from."
For a reason only he can fully fathom, Ray smiles. It's that blinding smile, the one he only gave me and, on occasion, Diefenbaker. That's why I don't see the fist coming and it connects square with my jaw. Deja fait?*
I can only hear Ray babble on and on about love and how leaving your partner is 'so not buddies' before darkness takes me. The last thing I register is the very loud and satisfying slam of a door.
* * *
It's cold here. Ray is there, his face merely inches above my own, and he's talking still. I want to tell him that it's going to be okay, but I'm not really sure what is going on.
"...stupid fucking Mountie, jumping into a fucking lake. A frozen lake, like the water isn't below 30 degrees, like it didn't fucking matter what happened to him..."
I don't tell him that water can, under normal physical conditions, never be colder than 32 degrees or it would be ice. I don't think he'd appreciate being nagged right now, and in a way I just don't want him to stop talking, because it's still very cold.
"...leaving me alone, Fraser? Who's gonna show me how to repair a snowmobile...never think you deserve anything good, do you? And how about me, I'd die without you..."
I want to tell him I love him. I want to tell him that the door is no longer open, but it can never be closed entirely. I want to say that, whatever happens, I never want to go there again except with him by my side, and if it takes forty years than it takes forty years.
My mouth is dry, but I can press a few words out. "They don't bury the survivors," and it shouldn't make sense to him, though somehow it does. I have never seen him happier in my life.
This is a different door, it's been standing wide open for a long time now, maybe since we met. Him on one side, me on the other, it's the hardest door to go through. But I do, and he does, and it's better than either of us could have imagined.
Not The End
* Fraser is a pun-happy guy, deja vu = already seen --> deja fait = already done ;)
PS: Lookee, new icon.
Survivors, Dummy
by Suaine
This one is the hardest door not to go through.
Doors have two natural states, open and closed. An open door issues an invitation, it says loud and clear to come and see what's on the other side. A closed door is different, either tries to keep someone out or someone else in; it impersonates a wall but never quite manages the task because the possibility is there. To open. To go through. To see the other side.
This door is wide open, almost off the hinges, screaming and begging for me to go through. This time dad isn't there to distract me, this time I'll leave borderland behind and see the real thing.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
It's such a familiar voice, I don't need to turn around to see him. Ray. I can tell from the way his voice echoes in the ethereal hallway that he's angry about something, judging by his words it's probably me - not that it hasn't always been me, anyway.
"I'm finished," I say, "There's no obligation left for me to fulfill."
I really don't want to turn around to face him, but I suppose since my wants and needs never mattered when I was alive they won't make a difference now. His hand on my shoulder flips me around and he's right there, eyes sparkling with anger.
"What about me, then? No obligations towards me? No unfinished business between us?" And I could almost believe that he sounds hopeful.
"Well, should there be, Ray?" I don't say 'Do you want there to be?', the unspoken words searing my tongue. He's a figment of my imagination, nothing said or done here will change anything.
The door is still open. There's a glow, something warm and bright.
"Shoulda, coulda, woulda - it doesn't matter what I think. What do you think?" Impossibly, he comes closer. "What do you feel?"
Right now, slightly claustrophobic. Short of breath, high heart rate, blood rushing to regions no self-respecting ghost-blood has any reason to be. He has that effect on me. Always had. I say, "Fine," because that's my answer when I don't have one.
"I," he says, poking me in the chest, "Don't," another poke, "Believe," poke, "You," poke.
Wonderful, give the man a glass of champagne. "Well, since I am the one about to die, I rather think that what you believe or don't believe is moot."
Oh, now he's very angry. The narrowed eyes and the tensing of every muscle in his lithe body are telltale signs. So is the fire that emits from his nostrils. Hey, I saw the ghost of my dead father for years, I never claimed my hallucinations made sense.
"Fraser," he says. It sounds like a threat. "Imagine a plane with three hundred and twenty-two passengers. The plane has engine trouble and calls in 'Mayday, mayday, we're going down'," here Ray changes his voice and he suddenly sounds exactly like a female flight attendant in full panic, "but it's too late. The plane crashes, and this is important Fraser, right spot in the middle of the border strip between two countries. So, where do they bury the survivors?"
It's like an Inuit story from hell. "Well, apparently, Ray, most countries have signed pacts and treaties that would allow the return of the-"
"Not the point here, Fraser."
"I'm not sure, I assume the airline would be responsible for the bodies. They'd bury them in the country the airline came from."
For a reason only he can fully fathom, Ray smiles. It's that blinding smile, the one he only gave me and, on occasion, Diefenbaker. That's why I don't see the fist coming and it connects square with my jaw. Deja fait?*
I can only hear Ray babble on and on about love and how leaving your partner is 'so not buddies' before darkness takes me. The last thing I register is the very loud and satisfying slam of a door.
* * *
It's cold here. Ray is there, his face merely inches above my own, and he's talking still. I want to tell him that it's going to be okay, but I'm not really sure what is going on.
"...stupid fucking Mountie, jumping into a fucking lake. A frozen lake, like the water isn't below 30 degrees, like it didn't fucking matter what happened to him..."
I don't tell him that water can, under normal physical conditions, never be colder than 32 degrees or it would be ice. I don't think he'd appreciate being nagged right now, and in a way I just don't want him to stop talking, because it's still very cold.
"...leaving me alone, Fraser? Who's gonna show me how to repair a snowmobile...never think you deserve anything good, do you? And how about me, I'd die without you..."
I want to tell him I love him. I want to tell him that the door is no longer open, but it can never be closed entirely. I want to say that, whatever happens, I never want to go there again except with him by my side, and if it takes forty years than it takes forty years.
My mouth is dry, but I can press a few words out. "They don't bury the survivors," and it shouldn't make sense to him, though somehow it does. I have never seen him happier in my life.
This is a different door, it's been standing wide open for a long time now, maybe since we met. Him on one side, me on the other, it's the hardest door to go through. But I do, and he does, and it's better than either of us could have imagined.
Not The End
* Fraser is a pun-happy guy, deja vu = already seen --> deja fait = already done ;)
PS: Lookee, new icon.
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no subject
Date: 2003-10-06 12:11 am (UTC)Lovely Fraser's POV!
I especially liked this line:
"I," he says, poking me in the chest, "Don't," another poke, "Believe," poke, "You," poke.
Don't rightly know why... I guess because it's such a DS moment.
I'm also in awe of how fast you wrote this.
no subject
Date: 2003-10-06 12:19 am (UTC)Don't rightly know why... I guess because it's such a DS moment.
That's the moment where Ray took over the story :) It's the only thing I can see real clear in my head (well, that and the image of caveman!Ray dragging off the unconscious Fraser to have his wicked way with him ;)
I'm also in awe of how fast you wrote this.
Me too, actually. And I'm even more in awe that I actually finished it.
Thanks so much for the nice comments :)
no subject
Date: 2003-10-06 05:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-10-06 10:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-10-06 07:41 pm (UTC)Right now, slightly claustrophobic. Short of breath, high heart rate, blood rushing to regions no self-respecting ghost-blood has any reason to be. He has that effect on me. Always had.
Me, too. And kudos on the icon - dS has the best subtext...
no subject
Date: 2003-10-06 07:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-10-06 10:19 pm (UTC)(Let me give you a word of unsoliticed advice--don't preface an excellent story like this with "Beware." Those who have been burned before will take you at your word, and not realize that something wonderful lies behind the cut tag. If I were queen of the universe, I'd stop people from posting these sorts of disclaimers--I'd make them either post the thing and stand confidently behind it, or not post it if they thought it was shoddy work. Which this certainly is not, the rapidity of its conception notwithstanding. )
no subject
Date: 2003-10-06 10:30 pm (UTC)Right you are. It's a refelex, some kind of remnant from the time I got flamed so bad my harddrive almost burned out. I'm a better writer now but my confidence is still shot to shit if you excuse my wording ;)
And I'm rather fond of the thing myself. Frankly, the best ideas do come to me after midnight although they rarely make it to the finish line (one of the reasons why a tape recorder is sitting next to my bed). Thank you so much for the nice words - you make me blush :)
no subject
Date: 2003-10-06 11:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-10-07 02:16 am (UTC)Or after, for that matter. Or at all.
no subject
Date: 2003-10-07 03:07 pm (UTC)Great way to not-end it. I really enjoyed this, and I thought it developed really nicely.
I'd never heard the trick question before, so although I caught it (go, me!), I thought it was just another Ray-ism. Until you proved otherwise, beautifully.
no subject
Date: 2003-10-08 03:42 am (UTC)