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slashing_lorne2006-10-10 11:25 am
imagechild.livejournal.com) wrote in slashing_lorne2006-10-10 11:25 am
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Title: When nowhere else feels like home
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
imagechild
Pairing: Lorne/Parrish
Word Count: 700
Rating: PG
Summary: Some days are too long
Warnings: none
Prompt: Oct 9 - Thanksgiving Day in Canada/Columbus day in United States: write a drabble/ficlet about what Lorne is grateful for in his lover. Single word prompt: turkey
Disclaimer: Thanks for the Beta-O-awesomeness byria_kukalaka
Home never seemed home after a mission like the one to P4X 776. One where you can't not look at the scattered bodies, there are too many, and the stench of the dead covers your clothes and your skin. Sheppard had them burn the dead and look for survivors--there were none of course...no one to tell them if their culture thought burning a fit end to a life or whether everything they have done is sacrilege. Atop the stench of death is a thick layer of smoke and ash darkening his cheeks and fingertips. The gateroom is a cheery, bright place upon leaving but sometimes on returning, even the event horizon looks worn and tattered, a ragged gateway to yet another ragged world.
Wearily they slipped back through, the smell of smoke and desolation following them though he doesn't know if the science backs that particular delusion up. The Marine who accepts his P-90 was clean. His uniform perfectly pressed, face stubble-free and Lorne swears fresh-washed. He hates that Marine just a little, as he shuffled past him. He pushed the weapon into his too-clean hands. He caught himself hoping it'll stain the man's hands, like it's stained his.
The door to the suite opened quietly, with a soft shushing sound that's usually comforting, familiar but today it just seems to mock him with its delicacy. He fought down a sudden surge of anger and kicked his dirty boots off, sending them skittering across the small living area's natty blue rug. His Tac vest followed, making a satisfying thump as he threw it to the floor beside his boots.
There is a soft tapping sound, and he glanced up, noticing the scene he'd been too enraged to see moments earlier. David was shirtless, leaned against the dividing bar between the small living area and the smaller kitchenette. His bare feet stick from beneath a pair of Lorne's faded grey sweatpants. The ones with no string. The ones that hang low on his lover's hips and always seem on the verge of falling off. David's shears made soft click-tap sounds as he cuts the ends from a few Athosian peony-like flowers, sliding each one into the large vase at his elbow once it's clipped. David kept his head bowed, back to Lorne--though he knows he's there. Marc can tell by the tight line of his shoulders and back. But David doesn't give Lorne's rage the benefit of being noticed. He just kept on serenely clipping blooms and sliding them into the vase, as if nothing is wrong, as if there aren't people dying everywhere, as if the world isn't filled with charred remains and desolate cities.
With a start, Lorne realizes David's world isn't. David's world is this. Plants and home and long hours waiting for his Airman-boyfriend to stumble back, dirty and weary. He stripped out of his dirty overshirt, leaving himself in a drab undershirt--mostly clean. He wrapped his arms around David's waist from behind, and could practically feel the content smile David's wearing. His David was safe, his home was safe and he has this to come home to every day, for as long as he wants. Lorne buried his face in the warm crook of David's shoulder, breathes in the skin and soap smell of him, lightly tinged with the scent of growing things.
Anyone else would say "rough day?" or "was it bad this time?" But David knows. David somehow always knows when things have gone bad and when Lorne needs the quiet, needs the peace. He finished cutting his blooms and laid the shears aside. Lorne feels an intense surge of thanks for David, his serene pool of normality in a place so often full of dizzying chaos and tasks that he doesn't want to complete but has to.
"Thank you." Lorne whispered softly, his lips brushing the bony plane of David's shoulder.
David shrugged and wrapped his arms around Lorne's where they cross his ribs.
"Any time." David whispered back, turning in Lorne's encircling arms to give him a long, calming kiss.
"Any time."
Author:
imagechildPairing: Lorne/Parrish
Word Count: 700
Rating: PG
Summary: Some days are too long
Warnings: none
Prompt: Oct 9 - Thanksgiving Day in Canada/Columbus day in United States: write a drabble/ficlet about what Lorne is grateful for in his lover. Single word prompt: turkey
Disclaimer: Thanks for the Beta-O-awesomeness by
ria_kukalakaHome never seemed home after a mission like the one to P4X 776. One where you can't not look at the scattered bodies, there are too many, and the stench of the dead covers your clothes and your skin. Sheppard had them burn the dead and look for survivors--there were none of course...no one to tell them if their culture thought burning a fit end to a life or whether everything they have done is sacrilege. Atop the stench of death is a thick layer of smoke and ash darkening his cheeks and fingertips. The gateroom is a cheery, bright place upon leaving but sometimes on returning, even the event horizon looks worn and tattered, a ragged gateway to yet another ragged world.
Wearily they slipped back through, the smell of smoke and desolation following them though he doesn't know if the science backs that particular delusion up. The Marine who accepts his P-90 was clean. His uniform perfectly pressed, face stubble-free and Lorne swears fresh-washed. He hates that Marine just a little, as he shuffled past him. He pushed the weapon into his too-clean hands. He caught himself hoping it'll stain the man's hands, like it's stained his.
The door to the suite opened quietly, with a soft shushing sound that's usually comforting, familiar but today it just seems to mock him with its delicacy. He fought down a sudden surge of anger and kicked his dirty boots off, sending them skittering across the small living area's natty blue rug. His Tac vest followed, making a satisfying thump as he threw it to the floor beside his boots.
There is a soft tapping sound, and he glanced up, noticing the scene he'd been too enraged to see moments earlier. David was shirtless, leaned against the dividing bar between the small living area and the smaller kitchenette. His bare feet stick from beneath a pair of Lorne's faded grey sweatpants. The ones with no string. The ones that hang low on his lover's hips and always seem on the verge of falling off. David's shears made soft click-tap sounds as he cuts the ends from a few Athosian peony-like flowers, sliding each one into the large vase at his elbow once it's clipped. David kept his head bowed, back to Lorne--though he knows he's there. Marc can tell by the tight line of his shoulders and back. But David doesn't give Lorne's rage the benefit of being noticed. He just kept on serenely clipping blooms and sliding them into the vase, as if nothing is wrong, as if there aren't people dying everywhere, as if the world isn't filled with charred remains and desolate cities.
With a start, Lorne realizes David's world isn't. David's world is this. Plants and home and long hours waiting for his Airman-boyfriend to stumble back, dirty and weary. He stripped out of his dirty overshirt, leaving himself in a drab undershirt--mostly clean. He wrapped his arms around David's waist from behind, and could practically feel the content smile David's wearing. His David was safe, his home was safe and he has this to come home to every day, for as long as he wants. Lorne buried his face in the warm crook of David's shoulder, breathes in the skin and soap smell of him, lightly tinged with the scent of growing things.
Anyone else would say "rough day?" or "was it bad this time?" But David knows. David somehow always knows when things have gone bad and when Lorne needs the quiet, needs the peace. He finished cutting his blooms and laid the shears aside. Lorne feels an intense surge of thanks for David, his serene pool of normality in a place so often full of dizzying chaos and tasks that he doesn't want to complete but has to.
"Thank you." Lorne whispered softly, his lips brushing the bony plane of David's shoulder.
David shrugged and wrapped his arms around Lorne's where they cross his ribs.
"Any time." David whispered back, turning in Lorne's encircling arms to give him a long, calming kiss.
"Any time."
no subject
David is definitely sweet and innocent enough but at the same time strong enough to be Lorne's rock. Plus like you said we needed a little Lorne/Parrish. :)
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