![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
luciazephyrTitle: Law of Conservation
Author: Lucia Zephyr
Rating: PG
Summary: Energy cannot be created or destroyed, only changed from one form to another.
Warning: It's a deathfic... only not. Also, a ghostfic... but not.
Thanks to:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
miriam_heddy, who enjoyed it despite hating deathfic. She beta'ed this, and contributed the two best lines in the piece. She also gave me the closing poetry. She practically co-wrote it, though I doubt she'd admit it.
Author's Note: To those who hate deathfic- I understand the hate and why you might want to skip over this, but I promise you, this is not your conventional deathfic. Please, try it, if you could stand it.
---
The most surprising thing was how Don showed up sometimes, face drawn and pale, trying to apologize. Even a month after, he still stood just outside the office door, as if certain taking a step inside would be considered an attack.
And, Larry mused, on some level, it would. After what happened, Larry wasn't very keen on Charles's elder brother and avoided him whenever possible.
"You have to forgive him someday." Charles scolded, sitting cross-legged on the desk in front of Larry, his chin in his hands.
"I fail to see a reason why, Charles." Larry murmured, halfway focused on the student papers in his lap, tapping a red pen on the chair's arm.
"It wasn't his fault. He couldn't predict the dealer returning when the place was covered in feds." Charles explained softly, but his voice was even and strong, almost unsympathetic. Almost.
"No, he left the predictions to you, didn't he?" And the lines on the paper blurred in front of his eyes and he rubbed his face. He always felt so tired.
"You should go home. Office hours are over." Charles's tone was as fleeting as his touch, a graze on Larry's shoulder. His hand impossibly had the same weight to it that it always had, but the warmth was gone.
Larry had never noticed that Charles was physically warm. Now, all he noticed was the lack of that warmth.
---
Alan wasn't speaking much anymore. Everyone who was a friend of the Eppes family tried to help, offering aid in any way they could. Larry had spent a night there, trying to get Alan talking, but the man seemed mute, perhaps in a prolonged form of shock.
With Margaret, it was slow and everyone knew it was coming. There was no sudden phone call, no-one knocking at the door in the middle of the night, no exclusive news reports. People had time to come to terms with her death. Well, everyone but Charles, and how was that for irony.
It felt quiet in his house now, something he used to like about it. He remembered as if it was an hour ago, arguing with Charles over the volume of music coming from the stereo and his bright smile, carefree and cheerful. He lay out on Larry's clean, leather sofa, ignoring Larry's complaints about having his shoes on the armrest.
He'd give the universe to have to fight for the stereo remote again, Charles leaning away from him, hiding it behind his back, smug like he'd just found the final digit of pi.
"You're putting too much food on."
The voice was by his ear, timid and careful, but that close, Larry should have been able to feel the exhaled breath on his neck. It didn't come, because it didn't need to anymore.
Larry looked down at the measuring cup of rice, filled to the one cup mark. He wouldn't need that much really. It was still instinctive, still routine.
He tipped half the rice back into the bag and set the cup down to check it again. "I wasn't paying attention," he replied plainly.
"I think you were paying too much attention." Charles pushed himself up on the counter, face pulled into a worried frown.
The words were on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to ask why, wanted to understand his friend again. The chance that asking the question would cause his vision to leave him was too much right now. He'd watched Alan break down, having his youngest son torn away from him without warning. Larry knew he was selfish, but he couldn't go through that.
So he never asked.
---
He didn't know what to do when Amita came into Charles's office and started sobbing. Larry knew he should be feeling that pain; he'd known Charles for nearly two decades and Larry was certain no-one knew the prodigy better than he did. He briefly wondered if something was irreparably wrong with him before Amita had leaned into him and clutched his suit jacket like a life preserver. If he had tears left, if he wasn't entirely stoic, he didn't have the chance to use them, with Charles both gone and present. Despite that, he'd felt enough to hold Amita as long as she'd needed him.
He missed Charles's office now. The clutter was comforting and familiar, lived-in and so obviously decorated by Charles, it was like being surrounded by pieces of him. A lot of his breakthroughs had happened in that office. And before his FBI work, Charles was always okay with someone using his blackboard. The space was always light and open, but concealed away from the world at the same time, like looking through mirrored glass.
"Stop a moment, you forgot to factor in the varied averages," Charles said, his hand closing over Larry's, halting the rhythmic tapping of the chalk. Pressure, no heat.
"Considering this is your job..." Larry let the sentence trail away, like the whole event could be reversed, like it was still in pencil, ready to be erased. Speaking it, though, would be the effect of tracing the words in pen, crisp, clear, and final.
"I'm sorry."
It hurt to look at him, sometimes, but it hurt more to not. Larry felt a fear surface from his subconscious, that if he didn't look often enough, his image of Charles would fade, become foggy and gradually more unclear. So, Larry drank in the vision whenever he could stand it.
Charles wore white- a long-sleeved white shirt with cream trim and white slacks. It made a twisted kind of sense, really. Charles had always worn dark clothes before, always stayed in the shadows of his garage, always shrouded in shadows. Now, he was in white, the color of discovery and knowledge. Another question he'd wanted to ask but didn't dare was if everything became clear in the end. It'd be something to look forward to.
"You have nothing to be sorry for, Charles. Nothing." Larry whispered. Charles laced his fingers together on Larry's shoulder, leaning there, his curls brushing Larry's cheek.
"I left you alone."
Larry tilted his head to look Charles in the eye. "Not yet, you haven't."
If he ever did, Larry was certain he'd end up crying for the first time since he was a child.
---
It was the longest two weeks of his life. It was like a time dilation had started from the moment the bullet took Charles away.
But he hadn't lost Charles, and even now, it made him pause for thought. Maybe the others saw him too, but were too afraid to say anything. It had crossed Larry's mind, the possibility Charles was a visual manifestation of his mourning and long-overdue breakdown. But, he reasoned, even in his own mind, he'd idealize Charles, letting his better traits stand out while others receded. The vision that followed him around lacked that, was completely the same, completely unchanged.
He couldn't bring himself to believe that Charles would be watching Alan and Don. The remaining Eppes were far too melancholy and broken to have the small comfort of Charles hovering over them. Larry wanted to ask why Charles'd chosen him, but Larry didn't think he'd answer. If Charles couldn't make you see the solution yourself, he wouldn't teach it to you. It was the natural teacher in him. Larry knew this was something he would not understand, just like he knew he wouldn't discover the Grand Unification Theory.
"Are you going to be alright?" Charles leaned in the bedroom doorway, watching him move around the room, putting on his suit.
Larry stopped his search for his blue tie to look over at Charles. "You aren't going to be there?"
Charles didn't move an inch. "I will be. You just won't see me."
Larry nodded, trying to swallow the lump in his throat, wondering why it decided to show up now. "You're watching me."
"Yes." Charles pushed away from the door and followed Larry into the room. He walked to the closet door and pointed inside. "If you're looking for the blue one with the silver stripes, it's over here."
Larry walked over and retrieved the tie, slinging it loosely over his shoulders and walking to the bathroom to use the mirror by instinct. "You don't think I can handle it."
"I think you could." Charles ducked his head, looking away. "I just don't want you to."
That was more of an answer than he had expected, but was still unsatisfying. He set the tie under his collar and tried to knot it correctly. Though he was by no means Jewish, he'd thrown a towel over the mirror above his own bathroom sink, tired of seeing his own tired face staring back at him. Without the mirror, he found it made it somewhat difficult to put on his tie. He wondered if he'd see Charles standing behind him in the bathroom if he took the cloth down, and when he closed his eyes, he told himself he felt the brush of Charles's fingers just under his chin, setting the tie to rights.
"Will you be here when I get back?" Larry asked, trying to keep the fear from his voice.
"I'll be there with you at the service, Lawrence." Charles said, putting a hand on Larry's shoulder.
"But I won't see you there." He clasped his hand over Charles's. "Will I see you when I get back?"
In response, Charles's hand slid into his, holding on and giving Larry something to hold onto. "You will."
---
"And if along with these should come
The man I held as half-divine;
Should strike a sudden hand in mine,
And ask a thousand things of home;
And I should tell him all my pain,
And how my life had droop’d of late,
And he should sorrow o’er my state
And marvel what possess’d my brain;
And I perceived no touch of change,
No hint of death in all his frame,
But found him all in all the same,
I should not feel it to be strange."
-Section XIV of 'In Memoriam' by Tennyson
--------
Feel free to review with your thoughts on what it all meant and how you think people would deal with The Thing.
-Luce
Author: Lucia Zephyr
Rating: PG
Summary: Energy cannot be created or destroyed, only changed from one form to another.
Warning: It's a deathfic... only not. Also, a ghostfic... but not.
Thanks to:
miriam_heddy, who enjoyed it despite hating deathfic. She beta'ed this, and contributed the two best lines in the piece. She also gave me the closing poetry. She practically co-wrote it, though I doubt she'd admit it. Author's Note: To those who hate deathfic- I understand the hate and why you might want to skip over this, but I promise you, this is not your conventional deathfic. Please, try it, if you could stand it.
---
The most surprising thing was how Don showed up sometimes, face drawn and pale, trying to apologize. Even a month after, he still stood just outside the office door, as if certain taking a step inside would be considered an attack.
And, Larry mused, on some level, it would. After what happened, Larry wasn't very keen on Charles's elder brother and avoided him whenever possible.
"You have to forgive him someday." Charles scolded, sitting cross-legged on the desk in front of Larry, his chin in his hands.
"I fail to see a reason why, Charles." Larry murmured, halfway focused on the student papers in his lap, tapping a red pen on the chair's arm.
"It wasn't his fault. He couldn't predict the dealer returning when the place was covered in feds." Charles explained softly, but his voice was even and strong, almost unsympathetic. Almost.
"No, he left the predictions to you, didn't he?" And the lines on the paper blurred in front of his eyes and he rubbed his face. He always felt so tired.
"You should go home. Office hours are over." Charles's tone was as fleeting as his touch, a graze on Larry's shoulder. His hand impossibly had the same weight to it that it always had, but the warmth was gone.
Larry had never noticed that Charles was physically warm. Now, all he noticed was the lack of that warmth.
---
Alan wasn't speaking much anymore. Everyone who was a friend of the Eppes family tried to help, offering aid in any way they could. Larry had spent a night there, trying to get Alan talking, but the man seemed mute, perhaps in a prolonged form of shock.
With Margaret, it was slow and everyone knew it was coming. There was no sudden phone call, no-one knocking at the door in the middle of the night, no exclusive news reports. People had time to come to terms with her death. Well, everyone but Charles, and how was that for irony.
It felt quiet in his house now, something he used to like about it. He remembered as if it was an hour ago, arguing with Charles over the volume of music coming from the stereo and his bright smile, carefree and cheerful. He lay out on Larry's clean, leather sofa, ignoring Larry's complaints about having his shoes on the armrest.
He'd give the universe to have to fight for the stereo remote again, Charles leaning away from him, hiding it behind his back, smug like he'd just found the final digit of pi.
"You're putting too much food on."
The voice was by his ear, timid and careful, but that close, Larry should have been able to feel the exhaled breath on his neck. It didn't come, because it didn't need to anymore.
Larry looked down at the measuring cup of rice, filled to the one cup mark. He wouldn't need that much really. It was still instinctive, still routine.
He tipped half the rice back into the bag and set the cup down to check it again. "I wasn't paying attention," he replied plainly.
"I think you were paying too much attention." Charles pushed himself up on the counter, face pulled into a worried frown.
The words were on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to ask why, wanted to understand his friend again. The chance that asking the question would cause his vision to leave him was too much right now. He'd watched Alan break down, having his youngest son torn away from him without warning. Larry knew he was selfish, but he couldn't go through that.
So he never asked.
---
He didn't know what to do when Amita came into Charles's office and started sobbing. Larry knew he should be feeling that pain; he'd known Charles for nearly two decades and Larry was certain no-one knew the prodigy better than he did. He briefly wondered if something was irreparably wrong with him before Amita had leaned into him and clutched his suit jacket like a life preserver. If he had tears left, if he wasn't entirely stoic, he didn't have the chance to use them, with Charles both gone and present. Despite that, he'd felt enough to hold Amita as long as she'd needed him.
He missed Charles's office now. The clutter was comforting and familiar, lived-in and so obviously decorated by Charles, it was like being surrounded by pieces of him. A lot of his breakthroughs had happened in that office. And before his FBI work, Charles was always okay with someone using his blackboard. The space was always light and open, but concealed away from the world at the same time, like looking through mirrored glass.
"Stop a moment, you forgot to factor in the varied averages," Charles said, his hand closing over Larry's, halting the rhythmic tapping of the chalk. Pressure, no heat.
"Considering this is your job..." Larry let the sentence trail away, like the whole event could be reversed, like it was still in pencil, ready to be erased. Speaking it, though, would be the effect of tracing the words in pen, crisp, clear, and final.
"I'm sorry."
It hurt to look at him, sometimes, but it hurt more to not. Larry felt a fear surface from his subconscious, that if he didn't look often enough, his image of Charles would fade, become foggy and gradually more unclear. So, Larry drank in the vision whenever he could stand it.
Charles wore white- a long-sleeved white shirt with cream trim and white slacks. It made a twisted kind of sense, really. Charles had always worn dark clothes before, always stayed in the shadows of his garage, always shrouded in shadows. Now, he was in white, the color of discovery and knowledge. Another question he'd wanted to ask but didn't dare was if everything became clear in the end. It'd be something to look forward to.
"You have nothing to be sorry for, Charles. Nothing." Larry whispered. Charles laced his fingers together on Larry's shoulder, leaning there, his curls brushing Larry's cheek.
"I left you alone."
Larry tilted his head to look Charles in the eye. "Not yet, you haven't."
If he ever did, Larry was certain he'd end up crying for the first time since he was a child.
---
It was the longest two weeks of his life. It was like a time dilation had started from the moment the bullet took Charles away.
But he hadn't lost Charles, and even now, it made him pause for thought. Maybe the others saw him too, but were too afraid to say anything. It had crossed Larry's mind, the possibility Charles was a visual manifestation of his mourning and long-overdue breakdown. But, he reasoned, even in his own mind, he'd idealize Charles, letting his better traits stand out while others receded. The vision that followed him around lacked that, was completely the same, completely unchanged.
He couldn't bring himself to believe that Charles would be watching Alan and Don. The remaining Eppes were far too melancholy and broken to have the small comfort of Charles hovering over them. Larry wanted to ask why Charles'd chosen him, but Larry didn't think he'd answer. If Charles couldn't make you see the solution yourself, he wouldn't teach it to you. It was the natural teacher in him. Larry knew this was something he would not understand, just like he knew he wouldn't discover the Grand Unification Theory.
"Are you going to be alright?" Charles leaned in the bedroom doorway, watching him move around the room, putting on his suit.
Larry stopped his search for his blue tie to look over at Charles. "You aren't going to be there?"
Charles didn't move an inch. "I will be. You just won't see me."
Larry nodded, trying to swallow the lump in his throat, wondering why it decided to show up now. "You're watching me."
"Yes." Charles pushed away from the door and followed Larry into the room. He walked to the closet door and pointed inside. "If you're looking for the blue one with the silver stripes, it's over here."
Larry walked over and retrieved the tie, slinging it loosely over his shoulders and walking to the bathroom to use the mirror by instinct. "You don't think I can handle it."
"I think you could." Charles ducked his head, looking away. "I just don't want you to."
That was more of an answer than he had expected, but was still unsatisfying. He set the tie under his collar and tried to knot it correctly. Though he was by no means Jewish, he'd thrown a towel over the mirror above his own bathroom sink, tired of seeing his own tired face staring back at him. Without the mirror, he found it made it somewhat difficult to put on his tie. He wondered if he'd see Charles standing behind him in the bathroom if he took the cloth down, and when he closed his eyes, he told himself he felt the brush of Charles's fingers just under his chin, setting the tie to rights.
"Will you be here when I get back?" Larry asked, trying to keep the fear from his voice.
"I'll be there with you at the service, Lawrence." Charles said, putting a hand on Larry's shoulder.
"But I won't see you there." He clasped his hand over Charles's. "Will I see you when I get back?"
In response, Charles's hand slid into his, holding on and giving Larry something to hold onto. "You will."
---
"And if along with these should come
The man I held as half-divine;
Should strike a sudden hand in mine,
And ask a thousand things of home;
And I should tell him all my pain,
And how my life had droop’d of late,
And he should sorrow o’er my state
And marvel what possess’d my brain;
And I perceived no touch of change,
No hint of death in all his frame,
But found him all in all the same,
I should not feel it to be strange."
-Section XIV of 'In Memoriam' by Tennyson
--------
Feel free to review with your thoughts on what it all meant and how you think people would deal with The Thing.
-Luce
(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-30 08:16 pm (UTC)Everything is done so well, I almost feel like I'm Larry.
[Charles had always worn dark clothes before, always stayed in the shadows of his garage, always shrouded in shadows. Now, he was in white, the color of discovery and knowledge]
That's my favorite part, I don't know why, it just says so much. Plus the idea of Charlie as not only an angel, but as Larry's angel is just heartbreakingly sweet.
I love it.