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Sep. 28th, 2004 01:35 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
nifra-idril.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
ds_flashfictionTitle: Endure
Sin: Pride
Word Count: 606
Pairing: None
When Fraser lies down, he can feel his bones settle into place, feel them decompress as his back straightens out and his hips flatten against the cot. He folds his hands over his stomach and expels a long, slow breath at the ceiling. On his thigh and his right shoulder he can feel bruises starting to form – the muscles there feel heavy, swollen and stiff – and there are scratches that sting on his forearm and forehead.
It’s raining outside, and even with his desk lamp on, his office is cramped and grey. It’s clean, that much Fraser makes sure of, but all of it looks aged. A hand-me-down office, a glorified broom closet, a shoebox sized sanctuary. Hardly anything here belongs to Fraser, and what does is small and unimpressive.
When Fraser wakes up in the morning, it’s hard to push himself off the cot. It’s hard to open his eyes, but he does, and even though his whole body hurts, he does sit ups and push-ups before showering. He stretches his arms and legs under the hot water, and lets old bruises and new strains loosen up.
He polishes his boots and burnishes his buttons and eats a breakfast with just the right amount of caloric intake, and sits at his desk and answers phone calls, and he wonders what would happen – what could possibly happen – if he were to hang up the phone, throw it across the room, and walk out of the Consulate. If he slammed the door behind him, loudly enough for it to echo through the foyer, down the long hallway, into his
office and shake the grim windows there.
What if he never came back? What if he let himself disappear?
Fraser looks down at his desk, at the stacks of paper there, and hears Turnbull shrieking at the kitchen appliances again, and he sees how pale the skin on his hands is, and he thinks he’s not so far from disappearing anyway. He thinks that maybe the only thing that keeps him from doing that is routine.
His heart is used to beating, and so it does.
Or maybe that’s too simplistic. Maybe it’s that he has weathered frostbite and avalanches and stab wounds and bullets and the loss of both his parents and the touch of Victoria Metcalf that keeps him going. None of those things brought Fraser low, sent him running – he’s stronger than that. Maybe it’s all of that that keeps Fraser where he is – whole and visible.
If he could bear that, he thinks, staring down at his hands, then he can bear this. He *will* bear this, he thinks, remembering it all again: how his skin stuck to the ice when his gloves wore thin; the way his mother’s body looked, sprawled before the cabin; Victoria’s eyes.
He owes it to himself. If Fraser broke now – if he crumbled because he was *lonely* of all things – then living through all of that would mean less than nothing.
Fraser has been lonely before, and, he thinks as he shuffles the forms of paper on his desk, he will be lonely again. It’s the human condition, or it has been in Fraser’s experience, and the trick is to rise above that. To push beyond what is thrown at you, and to continue. To endure, and not allow yourself to be shattered.
This, Fraser knows, is something at which he excels. It’s what he does, every morning as he stands even though his left knee gets weaker with each leap off a roof or a car, and every night when he closes his eyes to how desperate his world has become.
He endures, and that’s no small thing, he tells himself. It’s no small thing.
Sin: Pride
Word Count: 606
Pairing: None
When Fraser lies down, he can feel his bones settle into place, feel them decompress as his back straightens out and his hips flatten against the cot. He folds his hands over his stomach and expels a long, slow breath at the ceiling. On his thigh and his right shoulder he can feel bruises starting to form – the muscles there feel heavy, swollen and stiff – and there are scratches that sting on his forearm and forehead.
It’s raining outside, and even with his desk lamp on, his office is cramped and grey. It’s clean, that much Fraser makes sure of, but all of it looks aged. A hand-me-down office, a glorified broom closet, a shoebox sized sanctuary. Hardly anything here belongs to Fraser, and what does is small and unimpressive.
When Fraser wakes up in the morning, it’s hard to push himself off the cot. It’s hard to open his eyes, but he does, and even though his whole body hurts, he does sit ups and push-ups before showering. He stretches his arms and legs under the hot water, and lets old bruises and new strains loosen up.
He polishes his boots and burnishes his buttons and eats a breakfast with just the right amount of caloric intake, and sits at his desk and answers phone calls, and he wonders what would happen – what could possibly happen – if he were to hang up the phone, throw it across the room, and walk out of the Consulate. If he slammed the door behind him, loudly enough for it to echo through the foyer, down the long hallway, into his
office and shake the grim windows there.
What if he never came back? What if he let himself disappear?
Fraser looks down at his desk, at the stacks of paper there, and hears Turnbull shrieking at the kitchen appliances again, and he sees how pale the skin on his hands is, and he thinks he’s not so far from disappearing anyway. He thinks that maybe the only thing that keeps him from doing that is routine.
His heart is used to beating, and so it does.
Or maybe that’s too simplistic. Maybe it’s that he has weathered frostbite and avalanches and stab wounds and bullets and the loss of both his parents and the touch of Victoria Metcalf that keeps him going. None of those things brought Fraser low, sent him running – he’s stronger than that. Maybe it’s all of that that keeps Fraser where he is – whole and visible.
If he could bear that, he thinks, staring down at his hands, then he can bear this. He *will* bear this, he thinks, remembering it all again: how his skin stuck to the ice when his gloves wore thin; the way his mother’s body looked, sprawled before the cabin; Victoria’s eyes.
He owes it to himself. If Fraser broke now – if he crumbled because he was *lonely* of all things – then living through all of that would mean less than nothing.
Fraser has been lonely before, and, he thinks as he shuffles the forms of paper on his desk, he will be lonely again. It’s the human condition, or it has been in Fraser’s experience, and the trick is to rise above that. To push beyond what is thrown at you, and to continue. To endure, and not allow yourself to be shattered.
This, Fraser knows, is something at which he excels. It’s what he does, every morning as he stands even though his left knee gets weaker with each leap off a roof or a car, and every night when he closes his eyes to how desperate his world has become.
He endures, and that’s no small thing, he tells himself. It’s no small thing.
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no subject
Date: 2004-09-28 10:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-04 09:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-28 11:07 am (UTC)*waves pom-poms like mad*
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Date: 2004-10-04 09:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-28 11:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-04 09:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-28 11:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-04 09:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-28 12:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-04 09:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-28 01:14 pm (UTC)office and shake the grim windows there.
What if he never came back? What if he let himself disappear?
God - Kill me why don't you. This is *incredible*
Dude - freaking *amazing* work on these.
no subject
Date: 2004-10-04 09:21 am (UTC)*clings to you, like a limpet*
But I'm glad you liked these, Live Estrella. *snugs* Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2004-09-28 04:27 pm (UTC)He owes it to himself. If Fraser broke now – if he crumbled because he was *lonely* of all things – then living through all of that would mean less than nothing.
God, Fraser just kills me sometimes.
*adores*
no subject
Date: 2004-10-04 09:23 am (UTC)(Although, I haven't really grown up, so it works out.)
Also -- this is totally a cracked out response to a really thoughtful and sweet bit of feedback, and my only excuse at all for the totally amount of insanity I'm hurling your way right now is the fact that I have had OMIGOD SO MUCH COFFEE this morning.
It's like I've replaced my blood with high test caffeine. WHee!
But -- yes. Focus, Nifra. Focus.
Fraser is just so sad, and I'm glad that you liked this and felt that it was Frasery. *snugs* Thank you, honey.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-28 04:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-04 09:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-28 05:14 pm (UTC)But geeze already, somebody give that poor guy a hug!
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Date: 2004-10-04 09:24 am (UTC)Thank you, babe!
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Date: 2004-09-28 05:18 pm (UTC)He endures, and that’s no small thing, he tells himself. It’s no small thing.
And it is, but it isn't everything and Fraser knows that. *sighs*
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Date: 2004-10-04 09:25 am (UTC)But, I'm glad you enjoyed this! Thank you!
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Date: 2004-10-04 09:26 am (UTC)Thank you so much, hon!
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Date: 2004-09-28 09:08 pm (UTC)Oh, ow. It hurt like hell, but it was so good. Thank you.
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Date: 2004-10-04 09:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-29 03:57 am (UTC)And I totally agree with
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Date: 2004-10-04 09:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-30 05:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-04 09:30 am (UTC)