SV fic post: Transference
6/10/07 08:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle:are you kidding?
Fandom:SV
Rating:3
okay, so this is futurefic--kind of, and AU--kind of. The idea is definitely not original, but I hope to at least do something interesting with it. I make no promise about finishing it, but I hope that by posting it, I'll be inspired to. Let's just say I'm writing this on the wing. Please let me know what you think.
Liam Miles woke at five AM. He woke at five AM every day, including Saturdays and Sundays, but he usually went back to sleep after waking on those days. Some days, he laid for a minute or two, imagining life elsewhere. For a few brief minutes.
He rose, headed towards the little bathroom and prepared to shower. The first thing he did was examine himself in the mirror. He did this every morning; he didn’t think of it as particularly narcissistic, it was just something he did. Given his history, it made good sense. He checked for changes--new moles, bruises, thickening of the skin--he raised his arm over his head, and slid his fingers through the sparse hair in his armpits, felt for swelling. He trailed his fingers down and over the dusting of hair across his chest, around his nipples. He watched dispassionately as his nipples tightened and darkened—the proper response to stimulus. He combed his hands over his head, through the heavy mop of hair, and then stroked one hand over his groin, wondered briefly if he should trim the unruly bush of hair surrounding his dick…by this point the water was hot, so he stepped into the shower. Five thirty AM.
He washed thoroughly. Mr. Miles hated dirt, the smell of himself, he liked to know that he was squeaky clean. He spent a long time washing his hair, he enjoyed it as a sensual experience, he loved the feel of his fingers pressing into his scalp, the feel of his hair sliding between his fingers, the way the thick strands clung and then gave under the force of the water--he loved the smell of the shampoo, he'd picked it because it always caused wonderful sense memories…he had an erection by the time he'd finished washing his hair, and took care of it, efficiently, as a matter of course.
By six-fifteen, he was dressed, flat-front khakis, oxford shirt with a ridiculously expensive tie—a mad moment in Metropolis two years past. The tie still gave him pleasure…over shirt and tie he wore a sweater, a v-neck navy boring sweater. Nice and safe and scholarly looking. It was a uniform he rarely varied, every morning, he dressed nearly the same, khakis, sweater, oxford shirt and only the tie pattern varied.
Breakfast was also the same, simple and sufficient--coffee, a poached egg, a slice of toast and the morning paper. The paper came like clockwork at six thirty AM every morning. It took him a few tries with different papers until he found the outfit that understood that a morning paper meant just that—not a brunch-ish paper, not a lunch-time paper. He needed a paper with breakfast, a part of the ritual he required to start the day. Once, Mr. Miles might have rained down blood and fire on the newspaper company unwise enough to deliver a morning paper at noon, or a paper rendered by rain into a soaking wet solid log of unreadable paper pulp—these days, he just cursed, and looked for a new provider. The kid who placed the paper, wrapped in plastic and centered on his top doorstep every single morning got a tip that once upon a time would have seemed trifling to Mr. Miles. It was sufficient to send little what's his name whistling—practically tap-dancing--down the walk, the days he came to collect.
By eight o'clock, Liam Miles was at his desk, getting ready for the kids. They'd be reviewing projects today…the groups should be in a little early to set up what ever they'd come up with and prepare to defend their work. He sipped the coffee he'd brought from home, and the wheels of his chair squeaked as he rolled back to take a stapler out of the desk drawer.
"Hey Mr. Miles!"
Jerry Schuster, one of the kids in his class stuck his head in the door and waved like mad. He was loud, outgoing and kind of cute, but Liam kept that to himself. "Crying out loud, Schuster—is everyone in your family deaf?"
Jerry grinned, and was jostled inside by the rest of Liam's students, all of them calling out various permutations of 'hi, Mr. Miles.'
Liam was popular with his students and his peers. That was the by product of Liam actually enjoying the hours he spent with them. His former occupation was vastly different—and at the same time—quite similar. Leading people—making them believe the thoughts they had sprang from their own minds and not his, instilling in them the desire to do what Liam wanted—it was remarkable similar, only the end results were different, and he had to say—more satisfying then he could have imagined.
"All right. Everyone in, and lets get started. How's the progress on your projects?"
Liam moved in and out of the tables, checking in on the groups, giving advice where needed, gently guiding—a soft word here or there, a quiet nudge in the right direction, but all in all, his students figured it out on their own. "Self-reliance, responsibility, hear the words, get to know them—understand them," that was how he started every new class. "Be responsible for yourselves—your work, your attitude. It's all on you." Liam firmly believed that every man was in charge of his own destiny.
The day went quickly—no one exploded anything, no one's project made anyone gag. It was a good day. It was one in a line of good days that Mr. Miles felt were long over due—these good days, he could argue, were his right—but he knew they were gifts he no longer deserved—gifts parceled out to a murderer.
The last bell rang, and Liam was shoving papers into his briefcase, and thinking about stopping to pick up dinner at the 'Cow Patty'. The name was precious, but he didn’t hold it against the proprietor, he made truly the best hamburger on the planet. He smiled when a familiar face poked around the corner. "Hey, Mr. Miles. Are you leaving yet?"
"I am, Jerry. Taking off early today—or I should say, on time." He walked to the door, shut off the lights and walked past Jerry.
"So, can I catch a ride to the CP with you, that's where you're going right, I wasn't sure, I figured you might be, I have to come back tonight, we’re having dress rehearsal, did I tell you we're doing Arsenic And Old Lace--my folks can't pick me up they have something else to do, some kind of meeting so--"
"Jerry, my god, take a breath before you pass out!" Liam laughed lightly. "I'm pretty sure I don’t have the strength to drag you to the nurse's office."
Jerry blushed an incandescent red. "Oh, ha—I know, everyone says I talk too much.
Sorry."
Liam shook his head. "No, no," he assured the embarrassed boy. "I like not having to carry the conversation. It's very relaxing" He smiled at Jerry, tried to keep his expression light and friendly. Jerry made him uncomfortable to a certain extant. Tall, black hair and green eyes, with a tendency to blush easily and an unfortunate desire to be his friend—to cast Liam in a mentor role. As he feared, Jerry took the small smile as an invitation, and trailed after him to the parking lot. Liam unlocked the door, and pretty much as he expected Jerry slid in—how did that type of man come so easily to believe that they had a right to friendship? Liam shook himself. Anger was clouding his judgment—this was a boy, who had no concept of how the world worked.
"So, what music do you have in here—geez, it's all classical. That's all you listen to?"
"Well, yes, we old folk like that sort of thing," he replied, and smiled. Once, though… his tastes had been different….
Jerry blushed on cue. "I kind of expected something—I don’t know--"
"Cooler? Not me, I'm afraid. I'm a fuddy-duddy of the highest order." And waited for Jerry's laugh. Right. This was not working. The laugh slid right into his brain as though he was a puzzle and Jerry's laughter was a missing piece. Liam made a mental note to avoid the boy more diligently in the future.
"Anyway, we have dress rehearsal tonight, so my folks know I'm not coming home…" he glanced over at Liam, cheeks stained red, and his eyes…Liam felt his heart stutter—was this kid, this child--coming on to him? No—no. Jerry looked at him again, and smiled, his eyes dropped and lashes rested against flushed cheeks…fuck. Liam felt a rush of memory blind him—red mouth and a blue tee-shirt, pulled tight on work hardened arms…"We're here!" he tried not to gasp, and wondered what possible penance he could do for imagining for even one fleeting moment that it would be easy to influence this boy into doing…anything, so easy….
Jerry was met by a young lady Liam assumed was his girlfriend, a Christine he vaguely remembered from seeing around the school. She was perky, brash and blonde, not a natural blonde but it suit her well. She had big brown eyes and was blessed with a ton of energy that she spread with great good will. Liam felt a shiver of relief.
She jumped in Jerry's lap and kissed him with great enthusiasm. "Oh my gosh, Jerry—you'll never believe what happened to—oh!" She slid off his lap and blushed prettily. "Oh wow, sorry. Am I interrupting something official?"
Jerry was even redder than Christine, as he explained that he was just waiting with Liam until his food came.
"It's all right; you guys go do whatever it is…you…do…" Liam trailed off, regretting his choice of suggestive sounding words. They both blushed and glanced at each other and Liam felt a bite of envy—envy that the two kids seemed so much in tune. Envy for a friendship close as that.
He grabbed his order, and waved, and left as quickly as he could. Liam could barely remember having a relationship with someone that wasn't motivated by some goal other than romance. When he made the decision to redirect his life, he'd vaguely assumed that somewhere down the line, something like love would happen; some one would enter his life. He never counted on not being able to forget and move on.
That was just one more hurt he could lay at the feet of the cold unfeeling bastard who'd destroyed his life.
*****
Liam checked his e-mail, graded the projects his kids had presented. Jerry's group wasn't necessarily the best, but they worked hard—they worked to the best of their ability, and Jerry had the making of a good leader.
He watched the evening news as he ate his hamburger, listened to music as he went over the next day's lesson plan. Watched a movie…yawned…went to bed.
*****
"Liam, we're going bowling tomorrow night—why don’t you come? Aaron was hanging over the hood of his car, smiling.
Liam stared. A part of him sat up and spit nails. Bowling? Was he insane? He smiled back, "Thanks but I've never bowled a day in my life. I doubt my fragile ego could take the beating."
"Come on, Liam. We've got a girl we want you to meet." Aaron and his girlfriend were perennial matchmakers. They'd made Liam their project. Liam thought it was annoying, but he assumed co-workers sometimes became a little too involved in each other's lives.
"No. Absolutely not. But the next time you have a girl you want to introduce me to at a restaurant, let me know." He winked, jumped in his car and escaped.
He drove out to the park a few miles from the school, with a Metropolis paper and a cup of coffee. He read the byline of one of their more interesting columnists--Clark Kent. Settled back on a bench, and read all about Daily Planet's take on LuthorCorp, and its unsavory business practices. "Since the dissolution of LexCorp three years ago, and the resurgence of LuthorCorp, there's been a corresponding rise in the incidences of drug crime and traffic in illegal arms in Metropolis's Suicide Slum area."
The article went on to suggest links to Lucas Luthor, the head of LuthorCorp, and Liam tsked. 'Way to get yourself sued, Kent'…though that particular Luthor was nearly as arrogant as the dead Luthors—would probably just choose to ignore the reporter. He hummed as he skimmed the rest of the paper, enjoying his coffee and the fresh air. In the distance he could see a couple of kids playing ball, and watched them for a while, made a mental note to help fund new uniforms for the T-ball team Cow Patty sponsored.
He scratched a note on the edge of a post-it he pulled out of his briefcase, a reminder to check his accounts.
*****
His apartment felt close and confining, the cheap polyester rug under his feet felt almost sticky. It was hot, and humid, the fan blades over his bed turned silently, trying to cool the air. It was too hot for the time of year, and Liam refused to feel the heat by an act of sheer will. He tossed and turned on the narrow bed, and finally drifted off. Liam slept and dreamed….
"Your father doesn't like me, does he? It's okay." His scalp is warm and smooth under his hand, he draws it over and drops his hand to his side, and he smiles ruefully. "I've been bald since I was nine. I'm used to people judging me before they get to know me." He turns to the full length mirror, and he can see the boy behind him, looking a little confused, a little sympathetic, as if he wants to understand.
The boy says, "It's nothing personal. He's just not crazy about your dad."
"Figures the apple doesn't fall far from the tree? Understandable." He turns from the mirror, and gets a feeling of the scene having played out before, a million times, like the words he was about to speak had to be voiced, and he had no choice. "How about you? Did you fall far from the tree?"
The boy looks away and then up at him from under thick lashes...the heat is instant, insistent..."I better go. Thanks for the truck."
The keys nestle in his palm, warm from being in the boy's pocket, from resting close to his thigh.
"Clark...Do you believe a man can fly?" The boy turns with an unsettled expression.
"Sure. In a plane."
He makes an impatient gesture. "No, I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about soaring through the clouds with nothing but air beneath you."
"People can't fly, Lex"
"I did. After the accident, when my heart stopped. It was the most exhilarating two minutes of my life."
For a moment, he's not there; he's flying high over Smallville, over the world, nothing but cloud and sun around him… "For the first time, I didn't see a dead end. I saw a new beginning. Thanks to you I have a second chance. We have a future, Clark...And I don't want anything to stand in the way of our friendship."
The words echo and echo, like they always do. Hollow words, words that should have been prophetic. Instead they were a warning…and the beginning of the end.
TBC?
Fandom:SV
Rating:3
okay, so this is futurefic--kind of, and AU--kind of. The idea is definitely not original, but I hope to at least do something interesting with it. I make no promise about finishing it, but I hope that by posting it, I'll be inspired to. Let's just say I'm writing this on the wing. Please let me know what you think.
Liam Miles woke at five AM. He woke at five AM every day, including Saturdays and Sundays, but he usually went back to sleep after waking on those days. Some days, he laid for a minute or two, imagining life elsewhere. For a few brief minutes.
He rose, headed towards the little bathroom and prepared to shower. The first thing he did was examine himself in the mirror. He did this every morning; he didn’t think of it as particularly narcissistic, it was just something he did. Given his history, it made good sense. He checked for changes--new moles, bruises, thickening of the skin--he raised his arm over his head, and slid his fingers through the sparse hair in his armpits, felt for swelling. He trailed his fingers down and over the dusting of hair across his chest, around his nipples. He watched dispassionately as his nipples tightened and darkened—the proper response to stimulus. He combed his hands over his head, through the heavy mop of hair, and then stroked one hand over his groin, wondered briefly if he should trim the unruly bush of hair surrounding his dick…by this point the water was hot, so he stepped into the shower. Five thirty AM.
He washed thoroughly. Mr. Miles hated dirt, the smell of himself, he liked to know that he was squeaky clean. He spent a long time washing his hair, he enjoyed it as a sensual experience, he loved the feel of his fingers pressing into his scalp, the feel of his hair sliding between his fingers, the way the thick strands clung and then gave under the force of the water--he loved the smell of the shampoo, he'd picked it because it always caused wonderful sense memories…he had an erection by the time he'd finished washing his hair, and took care of it, efficiently, as a matter of course.
By six-fifteen, he was dressed, flat-front khakis, oxford shirt with a ridiculously expensive tie—a mad moment in Metropolis two years past. The tie still gave him pleasure…over shirt and tie he wore a sweater, a v-neck navy boring sweater. Nice and safe and scholarly looking. It was a uniform he rarely varied, every morning, he dressed nearly the same, khakis, sweater, oxford shirt and only the tie pattern varied.
Breakfast was also the same, simple and sufficient--coffee, a poached egg, a slice of toast and the morning paper. The paper came like clockwork at six thirty AM every morning. It took him a few tries with different papers until he found the outfit that understood that a morning paper meant just that—not a brunch-ish paper, not a lunch-time paper. He needed a paper with breakfast, a part of the ritual he required to start the day. Once, Mr. Miles might have rained down blood and fire on the newspaper company unwise enough to deliver a morning paper at noon, or a paper rendered by rain into a soaking wet solid log of unreadable paper pulp—these days, he just cursed, and looked for a new provider. The kid who placed the paper, wrapped in plastic and centered on his top doorstep every single morning got a tip that once upon a time would have seemed trifling to Mr. Miles. It was sufficient to send little what's his name whistling—practically tap-dancing--down the walk, the days he came to collect.
By eight o'clock, Liam Miles was at his desk, getting ready for the kids. They'd be reviewing projects today…the groups should be in a little early to set up what ever they'd come up with and prepare to defend their work. He sipped the coffee he'd brought from home, and the wheels of his chair squeaked as he rolled back to take a stapler out of the desk drawer.
"Hey Mr. Miles!"
Jerry Schuster, one of the kids in his class stuck his head in the door and waved like mad. He was loud, outgoing and kind of cute, but Liam kept that to himself. "Crying out loud, Schuster—is everyone in your family deaf?"
Jerry grinned, and was jostled inside by the rest of Liam's students, all of them calling out various permutations of 'hi, Mr. Miles.'
Liam was popular with his students and his peers. That was the by product of Liam actually enjoying the hours he spent with them. His former occupation was vastly different—and at the same time—quite similar. Leading people—making them believe the thoughts they had sprang from their own minds and not his, instilling in them the desire to do what Liam wanted—it was remarkable similar, only the end results were different, and he had to say—more satisfying then he could have imagined.
"All right. Everyone in, and lets get started. How's the progress on your projects?"
Liam moved in and out of the tables, checking in on the groups, giving advice where needed, gently guiding—a soft word here or there, a quiet nudge in the right direction, but all in all, his students figured it out on their own. "Self-reliance, responsibility, hear the words, get to know them—understand them," that was how he started every new class. "Be responsible for yourselves—your work, your attitude. It's all on you." Liam firmly believed that every man was in charge of his own destiny.
The day went quickly—no one exploded anything, no one's project made anyone gag. It was a good day. It was one in a line of good days that Mr. Miles felt were long over due—these good days, he could argue, were his right—but he knew they were gifts he no longer deserved—gifts parceled out to a murderer.
The last bell rang, and Liam was shoving papers into his briefcase, and thinking about stopping to pick up dinner at the 'Cow Patty'. The name was precious, but he didn’t hold it against the proprietor, he made truly the best hamburger on the planet. He smiled when a familiar face poked around the corner. "Hey, Mr. Miles. Are you leaving yet?"
"I am, Jerry. Taking off early today—or I should say, on time." He walked to the door, shut off the lights and walked past Jerry.
"So, can I catch a ride to the CP with you, that's where you're going right, I wasn't sure, I figured you might be, I have to come back tonight, we’re having dress rehearsal, did I tell you we're doing Arsenic And Old Lace--my folks can't pick me up they have something else to do, some kind of meeting so--"
"Jerry, my god, take a breath before you pass out!" Liam laughed lightly. "I'm pretty sure I don’t have the strength to drag you to the nurse's office."
Jerry blushed an incandescent red. "Oh, ha—I know, everyone says I talk too much.
Sorry."
Liam shook his head. "No, no," he assured the embarrassed boy. "I like not having to carry the conversation. It's very relaxing" He smiled at Jerry, tried to keep his expression light and friendly. Jerry made him uncomfortable to a certain extant. Tall, black hair and green eyes, with a tendency to blush easily and an unfortunate desire to be his friend—to cast Liam in a mentor role. As he feared, Jerry took the small smile as an invitation, and trailed after him to the parking lot. Liam unlocked the door, and pretty much as he expected Jerry slid in—how did that type of man come so easily to believe that they had a right to friendship? Liam shook himself. Anger was clouding his judgment—this was a boy, who had no concept of how the world worked.
"So, what music do you have in here—geez, it's all classical. That's all you listen to?"
"Well, yes, we old folk like that sort of thing," he replied, and smiled. Once, though… his tastes had been different….
Jerry blushed on cue. "I kind of expected something—I don’t know--"
"Cooler? Not me, I'm afraid. I'm a fuddy-duddy of the highest order." And waited for Jerry's laugh. Right. This was not working. The laugh slid right into his brain as though he was a puzzle and Jerry's laughter was a missing piece. Liam made a mental note to avoid the boy more diligently in the future.
"Anyway, we have dress rehearsal tonight, so my folks know I'm not coming home…" he glanced over at Liam, cheeks stained red, and his eyes…Liam felt his heart stutter—was this kid, this child--coming on to him? No—no. Jerry looked at him again, and smiled, his eyes dropped and lashes rested against flushed cheeks…fuck. Liam felt a rush of memory blind him—red mouth and a blue tee-shirt, pulled tight on work hardened arms…"We're here!" he tried not to gasp, and wondered what possible penance he could do for imagining for even one fleeting moment that it would be easy to influence this boy into doing…anything, so easy….
Jerry was met by a young lady Liam assumed was his girlfriend, a Christine he vaguely remembered from seeing around the school. She was perky, brash and blonde, not a natural blonde but it suit her well. She had big brown eyes and was blessed with a ton of energy that she spread with great good will. Liam felt a shiver of relief.
She jumped in Jerry's lap and kissed him with great enthusiasm. "Oh my gosh, Jerry—you'll never believe what happened to—oh!" She slid off his lap and blushed prettily. "Oh wow, sorry. Am I interrupting something official?"
Jerry was even redder than Christine, as he explained that he was just waiting with Liam until his food came.
"It's all right; you guys go do whatever it is…you…do…" Liam trailed off, regretting his choice of suggestive sounding words. They both blushed and glanced at each other and Liam felt a bite of envy—envy that the two kids seemed so much in tune. Envy for a friendship close as that.
He grabbed his order, and waved, and left as quickly as he could. Liam could barely remember having a relationship with someone that wasn't motivated by some goal other than romance. When he made the decision to redirect his life, he'd vaguely assumed that somewhere down the line, something like love would happen; some one would enter his life. He never counted on not being able to forget and move on.
That was just one more hurt he could lay at the feet of the cold unfeeling bastard who'd destroyed his life.
*****
Liam checked his e-mail, graded the projects his kids had presented. Jerry's group wasn't necessarily the best, but they worked hard—they worked to the best of their ability, and Jerry had the making of a good leader.
He watched the evening news as he ate his hamburger, listened to music as he went over the next day's lesson plan. Watched a movie…yawned…went to bed.
*****
"Liam, we're going bowling tomorrow night—why don’t you come? Aaron was hanging over the hood of his car, smiling.
Liam stared. A part of him sat up and spit nails. Bowling? Was he insane? He smiled back, "Thanks but I've never bowled a day in my life. I doubt my fragile ego could take the beating."
"Come on, Liam. We've got a girl we want you to meet." Aaron and his girlfriend were perennial matchmakers. They'd made Liam their project. Liam thought it was annoying, but he assumed co-workers sometimes became a little too involved in each other's lives.
"No. Absolutely not. But the next time you have a girl you want to introduce me to at a restaurant, let me know." He winked, jumped in his car and escaped.
He drove out to the park a few miles from the school, with a Metropolis paper and a cup of coffee. He read the byline of one of their more interesting columnists--Clark Kent. Settled back on a bench, and read all about Daily Planet's take on LuthorCorp, and its unsavory business practices. "Since the dissolution of LexCorp three years ago, and the resurgence of LuthorCorp, there's been a corresponding rise in the incidences of drug crime and traffic in illegal arms in Metropolis's Suicide Slum area."
The article went on to suggest links to Lucas Luthor, the head of LuthorCorp, and Liam tsked. 'Way to get yourself sued, Kent'…though that particular Luthor was nearly as arrogant as the dead Luthors—would probably just choose to ignore the reporter. He hummed as he skimmed the rest of the paper, enjoying his coffee and the fresh air. In the distance he could see a couple of kids playing ball, and watched them for a while, made a mental note to help fund new uniforms for the T-ball team Cow Patty sponsored.
He scratched a note on the edge of a post-it he pulled out of his briefcase, a reminder to check his accounts.
*****
His apartment felt close and confining, the cheap polyester rug under his feet felt almost sticky. It was hot, and humid, the fan blades over his bed turned silently, trying to cool the air. It was too hot for the time of year, and Liam refused to feel the heat by an act of sheer will. He tossed and turned on the narrow bed, and finally drifted off. Liam slept and dreamed….
"Your father doesn't like me, does he? It's okay." His scalp is warm and smooth under his hand, he draws it over and drops his hand to his side, and he smiles ruefully. "I've been bald since I was nine. I'm used to people judging me before they get to know me." He turns to the full length mirror, and he can see the boy behind him, looking a little confused, a little sympathetic, as if he wants to understand.
The boy says, "It's nothing personal. He's just not crazy about your dad."
"Figures the apple doesn't fall far from the tree? Understandable." He turns from the mirror, and gets a feeling of the scene having played out before, a million times, like the words he was about to speak had to be voiced, and he had no choice. "How about you? Did you fall far from the tree?"
The boy looks away and then up at him from under thick lashes...the heat is instant, insistent..."I better go. Thanks for the truck."
The keys nestle in his palm, warm from being in the boy's pocket, from resting close to his thigh.
"Clark...Do you believe a man can fly?" The boy turns with an unsettled expression.
"Sure. In a plane."
He makes an impatient gesture. "No, I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about soaring through the clouds with nothing but air beneath you."
"People can't fly, Lex"
"I did. After the accident, when my heart stopped. It was the most exhilarating two minutes of my life."
For a moment, he's not there; he's flying high over Smallville, over the world, nothing but cloud and sun around him… "For the first time, I didn't see a dead end. I saw a new beginning. Thanks to you I have a second chance. We have a future, Clark...And I don't want anything to stand in the way of our friendship."
The words echo and echo, like they always do. Hollow words, words that should have been prophetic. Instead they were a warning…and the beginning of the end.
TBC?
Tags:
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6/11/07 02:41 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/11/07 03:12 am (UTC)I've got my fingers crossed the line holds! *G*