Ficlet: Our Mortal World (Watchmen)
Dec. 23rd, 2009 01:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
anactoriaTitle: Our Mortal World
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
anactoria
Characters/Pairing: Dan/Adrian
Rating: G
Summary: Adrian sleeps; Dan thinks about stuff.
Notes: Set in the same universe as Solidarity, taking place between chapters 13 and 14.
flyingrat42, this is for your eyes only at the moment now unlocked, but thank you for the original prompt, and Merry Christmas! I hope you enjoy it.
Dan switches off the TV and pulls himself up off of the couch, the first time he's done that in what feels like forever.
It's late. Adrian went to bed an hour or so ago, saying goodnight with a gentle smile and a squeeze of Dan's hand, but Dan's just been sitting here, listening to the news with one ear and the quiet of the apartment block with the other. He's gotten used to not having a TV of his own, or a couch, or even a place that's really a home, and now he can't quite remember whether it felt the same, before.
Before he knew how easily all the little pieces that make up a life could be taken away. Couches, TVs, smiles, the freedom to walk down the street without wondering whether the Patrol van parked on the corner would be the one to finally take you away.
He guesses that maybe it wasn't the same. Before the Party, Dan had pretty much thought that he'd already seen rock bottom -- after the Keene Act, or after he'd seen Rorschach die in the snow and New York in ruins -- that he had nothing much to lose. He never used to be scared for the ordinary things, scared of how fragile they all were. Okay, so the whole world had been terrified when nuclear war looked like an inevitability, but that kind of fear was almost too big to hold in his mind all at once. Everything just gone, obliterated. He's learned since that worlds don't end as quickly as that. They can be taken away, piece by piece, and you don't even notice until it's too late, until you're scrabbling desperately to keep a foothold in the ruins, upon the little island of life that hasn't crumbled away from beneath your feet.
And now he's standing in this little shoebox of an apartment, with mismatched furniture and a draft coming in under the front door and someone who he loves despite all the shouldn'ts in the world sleeping in the next room, and it's enough to make his heart feel like it will burst for fear of losing this. Just this.
Dan takes off his glasses, closes his eyes tiredly. Then he opens them again.
Everything is still there. There are no footfalls on the stairs, no sirens, no searchlights shining in through the windows. He puts his glasses back on, shuts off the light in their front room, and closes the door carefully behind him.
Adrian stirs minutely in his sleep, just enough that the light coming in through the gap between the curtains (they have curtains now, not blackout blinds) cuts across his face. He's frowning, and for a second Dan feels an interior lurch of worry.
Only for a second, though. Okay, so they've never had much in the way of peace or privacy, but Dan's figured out that sometimes, Adrian just needs time to sit and be quiet with his sadness. That's been in even shorter supply than usual lately. Perhaps it isn't surprising that it preys on his mind in sleep, instead.
Toeing off his shoes, Dan sits down on the edge of the bed, reaching over to place his hand on top of Adrian's. His own warmth, his own closeness and humanness -- that's all he has to comfort Adrian with, but usually it seems to be enough.
Tonight, it is. He actually sees Adrian relax, a tightness and a tension going out of all of him, a tiny smile softening his face at the familiar contact. And even though Adrian can't see it, he can't help smiling back, something loosening inside his chest, a small piece of his fear fading away. Sometimes it amazes him, sometimes even scares him a little, that this is all he has -- just his own, everyday self, just the fact that he cares -- and that it suffices, that he can still do this.
Right now, though, he decides to be glad. All the little things that go towards making up a life -- sometimes they're enough to save one, too.
Dan gets undressed, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor, for now, and climbs under the covers. He curls around Adrian, waits for him to settle sleepily into the embrace. Then he closes his eyes.
If Adrian can manage to sleep without nightmares in this world, then he can, too. And who knows -- stranger things have happened -- maybe they'll even be okay.
Author:
anactoriaCharacters/Pairing: Dan/Adrian
Rating: G
Summary: Adrian sleeps; Dan thinks about stuff.
Notes: Set in the same universe as Solidarity, taking place between chapters 13 and 14.
flyingrat42, this is Dan switches off the TV and pulls himself up off of the couch, the first time he's done that in what feels like forever.
It's late. Adrian went to bed an hour or so ago, saying goodnight with a gentle smile and a squeeze of Dan's hand, but Dan's just been sitting here, listening to the news with one ear and the quiet of the apartment block with the other. He's gotten used to not having a TV of his own, or a couch, or even a place that's really a home, and now he can't quite remember whether it felt the same, before.
Before he knew how easily all the little pieces that make up a life could be taken away. Couches, TVs, smiles, the freedom to walk down the street without wondering whether the Patrol van parked on the corner would be the one to finally take you away.
He guesses that maybe it wasn't the same. Before the Party, Dan had pretty much thought that he'd already seen rock bottom -- after the Keene Act, or after he'd seen Rorschach die in the snow and New York in ruins -- that he had nothing much to lose. He never used to be scared for the ordinary things, scared of how fragile they all were. Okay, so the whole world had been terrified when nuclear war looked like an inevitability, but that kind of fear was almost too big to hold in his mind all at once. Everything just gone, obliterated. He's learned since that worlds don't end as quickly as that. They can be taken away, piece by piece, and you don't even notice until it's too late, until you're scrabbling desperately to keep a foothold in the ruins, upon the little island of life that hasn't crumbled away from beneath your feet.
And now he's standing in this little shoebox of an apartment, with mismatched furniture and a draft coming in under the front door and someone who he loves despite all the shouldn'ts in the world sleeping in the next room, and it's enough to make his heart feel like it will burst for fear of losing this. Just this.
Dan takes off his glasses, closes his eyes tiredly. Then he opens them again.
Everything is still there. There are no footfalls on the stairs, no sirens, no searchlights shining in through the windows. He puts his glasses back on, shuts off the light in their front room, and closes the door carefully behind him.
Adrian stirs minutely in his sleep, just enough that the light coming in through the gap between the curtains (they have curtains now, not blackout blinds) cuts across his face. He's frowning, and for a second Dan feels an interior lurch of worry.
Only for a second, though. Okay, so they've never had much in the way of peace or privacy, but Dan's figured out that sometimes, Adrian just needs time to sit and be quiet with his sadness. That's been in even shorter supply than usual lately. Perhaps it isn't surprising that it preys on his mind in sleep, instead.
Toeing off his shoes, Dan sits down on the edge of the bed, reaching over to place his hand on top of Adrian's. His own warmth, his own closeness and humanness -- that's all he has to comfort Adrian with, but usually it seems to be enough.
Tonight, it is. He actually sees Adrian relax, a tightness and a tension going out of all of him, a tiny smile softening his face at the familiar contact. And even though Adrian can't see it, he can't help smiling back, something loosening inside his chest, a small piece of his fear fading away. Sometimes it amazes him, sometimes even scares him a little, that this is all he has -- just his own, everyday self, just the fact that he cares -- and that it suffices, that he can still do this.
Right now, though, he decides to be glad. All the little things that go towards making up a life -- sometimes they're enough to save one, too.
Dan gets undressed, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor, for now, and climbs under the covers. He curls around Adrian, waits for him to settle sleepily into the embrace. Then he closes his eyes.
If Adrian can manage to sleep without nightmares in this world, then he can, too. And who knows -- stranger things have happened -- maybe they'll even be okay.
