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ds_flashfictionPairing: Very mild Ray/Fraser - pick your Ray, I prefer RayK because of the hair.
Rating: PG-PG-13 for death themes.
Word Count: About 350.
This is my very first fic. I apologise deeply in advance. It sticks to the environmental theme broadly - one of the characters is undergoing something unfamiliar and..well you'll see. I also tried to get in more literal terms of the 'environment' meaning. You can take the meaning of the last line either way.
Five Senses
“It’s all air, son. The world, the environment. You can hear air through the trees, feel air against your skin and in your lungs, if you can smell snow son, you can smell the air, taste it too”
“But dad, You can’t possible see air. It’s invisible”
“Ah, but you can see everything in-between”
“Has anyone told you that perhaps you need to see a psychiatrist?”
“I’m dead, son. Not much call for them around here at $500 an hour”
Vision
Fraser was accustomed to strong arctic winds with horizontal persuasions, where the world was a snap-freezer, with the ability to permanently mould facial expressions to resemble that of a frozen trout. His eyes glaze over trying to imagine the dark, grey concrete around him to be a glacier – he can survive any field of ice, but not the ground of an unfamiliar downtown alleyway surrounded by darkness.
Touch
His world of cold was white… and it was home. This wasn’t home. It started on his upper arms; the familiar prickling and goose bumping, and spread over his entire body, leaving him shaking uncontrollably. He doesn’t feel anything now, not even the pain in his chest that was there a few minutes ago, or even the pain that was there thirty years ago.
Smell
The last time Fraser smelt this at this range, it was from a dead caribou in the Territories a couple of years ago. It’s a pungent sickly smell – of heat, and recent life, and imminent death. The stronger the smell becomes, the less he can feel. He wonders if there is a mathematical equation that could explain it but he is too tired to think of constants.
Taste
The metal of an ice pick. Warm liquid metal on his tongue. Ray.
Sound
In his distant memory, he can hear the wind whipping around his head on the side of a mountain and the voice of an angel reading poetry. His memory of words is dissolved with gunfire, of running footsteps and finally a car. Sirens maybe. A wolf perhaps? Now he can hear another angel calling his name.
Rating: PG-PG-13 for death themes.
Word Count: About 350.
This is my very first fic. I apologise deeply in advance. It sticks to the environmental theme broadly - one of the characters is undergoing something unfamiliar and..well you'll see. I also tried to get in more literal terms of the 'environment' meaning. You can take the meaning of the last line either way.
Five Senses
“It’s all air, son. The world, the environment. You can hear air through the trees, feel air against your skin and in your lungs, if you can smell snow son, you can smell the air, taste it too”
“But dad, You can’t possible see air. It’s invisible”
“Ah, but you can see everything in-between”
“Has anyone told you that perhaps you need to see a psychiatrist?”
“I’m dead, son. Not much call for them around here at $500 an hour”
Vision
Fraser was accustomed to strong arctic winds with horizontal persuasions, where the world was a snap-freezer, with the ability to permanently mould facial expressions to resemble that of a frozen trout. His eyes glaze over trying to imagine the dark, grey concrete around him to be a glacier – he can survive any field of ice, but not the ground of an unfamiliar downtown alleyway surrounded by darkness.
Touch
His world of cold was white… and it was home. This wasn’t home. It started on his upper arms; the familiar prickling and goose bumping, and spread over his entire body, leaving him shaking uncontrollably. He doesn’t feel anything now, not even the pain in his chest that was there a few minutes ago, or even the pain that was there thirty years ago.
Smell
The last time Fraser smelt this at this range, it was from a dead caribou in the Territories a couple of years ago. It’s a pungent sickly smell – of heat, and recent life, and imminent death. The stronger the smell becomes, the less he can feel. He wonders if there is a mathematical equation that could explain it but he is too tired to think of constants.
Taste
The metal of an ice pick. Warm liquid metal on his tongue. Ray.
Sound
In his distant memory, he can hear the wind whipping around his head on the side of a mountain and the voice of an angel reading poetry. His memory of words is dissolved with gunfire, of running footsteps and finally a car. Sirens maybe. A wolf perhaps? Now he can hear another angel calling his name.
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