Niki (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
niki_chidon) wrote2011-05-29 11:36 pm
niki_chidon) wrote2011-05-29 11:36 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Lacerations (Lewis, Lewis/Hathaway preslash)
Title: Lacerations
Writer: Niki
Fandom: Lewis
Disclaimer: I am not Colin Dexter nor am I in any way affiliated with ITV, I write for fun, not profit.
Rating: PG (for passing suicidal thoughts)
Spoilers: to Life Born of Fire
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hc_bingo Prompt: Lacerations & knife wounds
Notes: Part to of a series of fics with a working title, "Hurt/Comfort Sequence", works perfectly well on its own. In the context of the series this is pre-slash, but on its own it can be read as gen.
Summary: They both carried marks after the fire but while his was a sign of his own failure, his boss's hands bore the marks of a hero.
Hathaway had only vague recollections of the night. Zöe's kisses, the words he had needed to hear, the explanations that made very little sense in his drugged mind, then Lewis, saving him, carrying him to safety, stopping him from joining Zöe... from trying to save her.
The older man was unmarked by the whole drama except for the tiny cuts from the falling glass. Seeing them sparked another memory in his mind: lying on the street, weight of someone on him, being shielded from the debris.
Those tiny lacerations on Lewis' skin, his hands and neck, should have been on his but the other man had shielded him with his own body.
They healed fast, faster than the cut on his own face but while that one was a sign of his own failure, his boss's hands bore the marks of a hero. Don't be so melodramatic, Lewis would say, as he had in the hospital, but that didn't make it any less true – it was Lewis who carried him out of the burning building, who shielded him with his body, who stopped him from doing something stupid like following Zöe into the flaming hell... Had he really meant to do that? He had only been trying to stop the woman (man?) from killing herself. Surely.
But he had felt such kinship with her, lying in the bed, waiting for death. Firebirds, both of them, paying for their sins in the cleansing fire. It had made sense at the time. He had wanted that, even. His professional life in ruin, his friend – boss – friend hating him, sins of the past bleeding into his present and he had been quietly glad to be rid of it all, to die in the arms of someone who understood, who cared, because she was just as damaged.
But like Christ, Lewis had bought his salvation with his blood. Sacrilegious comparison, surely, and one he didn't make without considerable amount of humour. Yet there it was. Lewis had deemed him worth saving, despite all their angry words earlier; had gone to physical danger to achieve it, and had shielded him with his body from his own stupidity.
It all came back to those tiny marks in his friend's hands. Blood shed because of him. A minor irritation in the grand scheme of things but he found his eyes fixing on them, following their healing process, watching them fade away in front of his eyes until nothing was left.
The mark on his own face lasted longer, looking like a brand to his guilty eyes. He carried it like a cross, a latter A, like everyone who saw it would realise he had betrayed a friend, then abandoned him, and in shame of that betrayed another friend. Will was gone, but Lewis was still here. Hathaway could apologise, make amends, not lose his friendship.
As much as seeing those marks on Lewis' skin hurt, they brought comfort as well. They were little reminders of forgiveness, a tangible proof of caring.
The wound on his face would heal, like the wounds on Lewis' skin, without a scar, because the cut hadn't – after all – been deep enough.
Writer: Niki
Fandom: Lewis
Disclaimer: I am not Colin Dexter nor am I in any way affiliated with ITV, I write for fun, not profit.
Rating: PG (for passing suicidal thoughts)
Spoilers: to Life Born of Fire
hc_bingo Prompt: Lacerations & knife woundsNotes: Part to of a series of fics with a working title, "Hurt/Comfort Sequence", works perfectly well on its own. In the context of the series this is pre-slash, but on its own it can be read as gen.
Summary: They both carried marks after the fire but while his was a sign of his own failure, his boss's hands bore the marks of a hero.
Hathaway had only vague recollections of the night. Zöe's kisses, the words he had needed to hear, the explanations that made very little sense in his drugged mind, then Lewis, saving him, carrying him to safety, stopping him from joining Zöe... from trying to save her.
The older man was unmarked by the whole drama except for the tiny cuts from the falling glass. Seeing them sparked another memory in his mind: lying on the street, weight of someone on him, being shielded from the debris.
Those tiny lacerations on Lewis' skin, his hands and neck, should have been on his but the other man had shielded him with his own body.
They healed fast, faster than the cut on his own face but while that one was a sign of his own failure, his boss's hands bore the marks of a hero. Don't be so melodramatic, Lewis would say, as he had in the hospital, but that didn't make it any less true – it was Lewis who carried him out of the burning building, who shielded him with his body, who stopped him from doing something stupid like following Zöe into the flaming hell... Had he really meant to do that? He had only been trying to stop the woman (man?) from killing herself. Surely.
But he had felt such kinship with her, lying in the bed, waiting for death. Firebirds, both of them, paying for their sins in the cleansing fire. It had made sense at the time. He had wanted that, even. His professional life in ruin, his friend – boss – friend hating him, sins of the past bleeding into his present and he had been quietly glad to be rid of it all, to die in the arms of someone who understood, who cared, because she was just as damaged.
But like Christ, Lewis had bought his salvation with his blood. Sacrilegious comparison, surely, and one he didn't make without considerable amount of humour. Yet there it was. Lewis had deemed him worth saving, despite all their angry words earlier; had gone to physical danger to achieve it, and had shielded him with his body from his own stupidity.
It all came back to those tiny marks in his friend's hands. Blood shed because of him. A minor irritation in the grand scheme of things but he found his eyes fixing on them, following their healing process, watching them fade away in front of his eyes until nothing was left.
The mark on his own face lasted longer, looking like a brand to his guilty eyes. He carried it like a cross, a latter A, like everyone who saw it would realise he had betrayed a friend, then abandoned him, and in shame of that betrayed another friend. Will was gone, but Lewis was still here. Hathaway could apologise, make amends, not lose his friendship.
As much as seeing those marks on Lewis' skin hurt, they brought comfort as well. They were little reminders of forgiveness, a tangible proof of caring.
The wound on his face would heal, like the wounds on Lewis' skin, without a scar, because the cut hadn't – after all – been deep enough.
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I look forward to your posting later on this month.
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And did I mention that I think you have got James down just right, well you have!