((everything he knows is worn smooth))
Tried to write some quick Stella/Flack smut last night. Wasn’t happening.
Sadly, this is not porn. Not in the least.
title: Between Midnight and Morning
with: Flack (gen; possible subtext)
rated: R (language)
herein: Flack doesn’t sleep.
disclaim: They live in my brain, but they’re not mine.
note: Set post-CotP, after Flack’s back on the job.
Flack’s bone-heavy and tired when he finally gets to crawl into bed, so it doesn’t take too terribly long to get comfortable, not too long until his mind loosens and drifts out.
Everything-tilts-and he’s wide awake, heart-shaking knotted awake. Almost trembling as the jolt of adrenaline sends a wave of heat prickling down his body.
Pushing the sheet away, Flack rolls onto his back, and the air conditioner starts humming like it’s psychic. The air drafts across his face and neck, his throat goes dry, and he’s not sure if these two things are connected or not.
But he’s wire tight, and fuck. Just-motherfuck. The clock’s glaring two-fifteen, so he hadn’t even fallen asleep, had he? Barely, at best.
He’d been thinking about-something normal. Sports, yes, but he can’t remember-
Earlier, Hawkes had been trying to sell him on soccer, saying it was just like hockey but no ice and no sticks, and maybe he was thinking about that, or something close to that. Flack lifts his head for a second, mashing the pillow. He wipes the sweat from the back of his neck. Okay, he wasn’t thinking about soccer, and he might’ve been thinking about hockey-that certainly seems right. His mind goes skimming over all the details he knows by heart, but doesn’t catch on a single one. Like everything he knows is worn smooth.
The old t-shirt he’s wearing is twisted, so he straightens it and leaves an arm wrapped across his waist. And this is bullshit. This is so much bullshit. Flack does not have trouble sleeping. He doesn’t. He tightens his palm on his hip, then relaxes it, trying to get the rest of his body to relax too. He sure as fuck shouldn’t have the energy to lie here all tense like this. The first week off restricted duty had worn him out pretty quick-quicker than he’d ever fucking admit.
Not that there’s anyone to admit it to. He’s done with the mandatory shrink sessions (thank God) and he wouldn’t tell her anyway. Even if he could-even if everything weren’t going straight into a report on his fitness for duty-she’d only heard about one out of five words he said, and shrinks were supposed to goddamn listen weren’t they?
He rubs his forehead again, rubs his hand through his hair, and he’ll do fine on four hours sleep and several cups of coffee, but that means he has to fall asleep now. He stares at the ceiling, at the yellow line of streetlight that cuts through a gap at the top of the blinds and angles across the dark ceiling. He shifts, stretches out a little better, lying almost diagonal across the bed. Now the line of streetlight’s not at such a sharp angle.
The phone is right there on the bedside table. He doesn’t need to turn his head to see the little red light that says it’s charging, to know he could reach it without rolling over.
Could reach it, and who the fuck is he going to call at-almost three in the morning now? And what the fuck is he going to say?
Hey, Danny, I happened to be awake and thought you might want to come over and watch the Yankee game I taped. I know we’ve both seen it already, but pick up some sandwiches from that deli near your place and when you get here just ignore the way I can’t quit shaking.
Christ.
Flack presses his hand over his eyes, rubs the bridge of his nose.
Somewhere deep in his scarred gut, Flack knows that Mac understands whatever this bullshit is. The problem with calling someone on the phone is there’s nothing much you can do over the phone but talk. He can almost hear himself talking to Mac, but he certainly can’t hear Mac talking to him.
How the fuck did he end up with such a short list of people in his life anyway. His mom is chronically disappointed that he’s not seeing anyone-that he didn’t have a girlfriend to sit next to him when he was still in the hospital-that he didn’t have a girlfriend to sit next to her when she was there too.
When it came down to it, he didn’t know a lot of people off the job. Still, no one from homicide visited more than once-except Maka-which was fine with him because he didn’t need them all standing around and staring like he was made of glass. No, it’d been Mac and Stella and Danny coming by like clockwork. Like they’d signed up for shifts. Hell, they probably had.
And Gavin. Gavin had been there a lot, particularly at first, when the meds were still thick in him and he felt stuffed with cotton.
Flack takes a deep breath and tries to shut his eyes because it’s after three now and he’s nowhere near sleep. The apartment below him blares with techno music for about fifteen seconds. Nice. He frowns and opens his eyes again and starts to laugh because it’s absurd.
His eyes sting, and when he closes them again it’s wet. He rests the heel of his palm on his forehead, fingers threading through his hair. His nose stings a little too, and it makes him think of the ocean, being a kid who could barely swim and getting swamped by a wave one summer at Coney. He tries to breathe, but he chokes a little and tightens his jaw. So it’s a sharp breath in through his nose and out through his teeth.
He sure as fuck isn’t calling Gavin now.
Gavin’s asleep right now, next to his wife, who is also asleep, and Flack’s going to call and wake them both up and drag Gavin out of his bed? Hell can freeze over first.
He gives in and wipes his face with the sheet, and when he swallows it’s a little easier.
Maybe he’ll call Gavin tomorrow, but what’s he think he’s going to say to Gavin? Flack’s healed up and back on the job, full-time, so everything should be back to normal-or damn close to it. He’s not going to call Gavin and whine about not sleeping-like he’s turned out to be a fucking pussy and a failure-
Flack swallows again, and fatigue is finally starting to pull him down. He rubs his face with his hand and sinks under the weight of it all.
Maybe he will call Gavin tomorrow and see if he can come into the city sometime this weekend. Just for a couple hours. They can have lunch at the Thai place that just opened up a couple blocks away. That would be normal. Flack could get through that.
Sadly, this is not porn. Not in the least.
title: Between Midnight and Morning
with: Flack (gen; possible subtext)
rated: R (language)
herein: Flack doesn’t sleep.
disclaim: They live in my brain, but they’re not mine.
note: Set post-CotP, after Flack’s back on the job.
Flack’s bone-heavy and tired when he finally gets to crawl into bed, so it doesn’t take too terribly long to get comfortable, not too long until his mind loosens and drifts out.
Everything-tilts-and he’s wide awake, heart-shaking knotted awake. Almost trembling as the jolt of adrenaline sends a wave of heat prickling down his body.
Pushing the sheet away, Flack rolls onto his back, and the air conditioner starts humming like it’s psychic. The air drafts across his face and neck, his throat goes dry, and he’s not sure if these two things are connected or not.
But he’s wire tight, and fuck. Just-motherfuck. The clock’s glaring two-fifteen, so he hadn’t even fallen asleep, had he? Barely, at best.
He’d been thinking about-something normal. Sports, yes, but he can’t remember-
Earlier, Hawkes had been trying to sell him on soccer, saying it was just like hockey but no ice and no sticks, and maybe he was thinking about that, or something close to that. Flack lifts his head for a second, mashing the pillow. He wipes the sweat from the back of his neck. Okay, he wasn’t thinking about soccer, and he might’ve been thinking about hockey-that certainly seems right. His mind goes skimming over all the details he knows by heart, but doesn’t catch on a single one. Like everything he knows is worn smooth.
The old t-shirt he’s wearing is twisted, so he straightens it and leaves an arm wrapped across his waist. And this is bullshit. This is so much bullshit. Flack does not have trouble sleeping. He doesn’t. He tightens his palm on his hip, then relaxes it, trying to get the rest of his body to relax too. He sure as fuck shouldn’t have the energy to lie here all tense like this. The first week off restricted duty had worn him out pretty quick-quicker than he’d ever fucking admit.
Not that there’s anyone to admit it to. He’s done with the mandatory shrink sessions (thank God) and he wouldn’t tell her anyway. Even if he could-even if everything weren’t going straight into a report on his fitness for duty-she’d only heard about one out of five words he said, and shrinks were supposed to goddamn listen weren’t they?
He rubs his forehead again, rubs his hand through his hair, and he’ll do fine on four hours sleep and several cups of coffee, but that means he has to fall asleep now. He stares at the ceiling, at the yellow line of streetlight that cuts through a gap at the top of the blinds and angles across the dark ceiling. He shifts, stretches out a little better, lying almost diagonal across the bed. Now the line of streetlight’s not at such a sharp angle.
The phone is right there on the bedside table. He doesn’t need to turn his head to see the little red light that says it’s charging, to know he could reach it without rolling over.
Could reach it, and who the fuck is he going to call at-almost three in the morning now? And what the fuck is he going to say?
Hey, Danny, I happened to be awake and thought you might want to come over and watch the Yankee game I taped. I know we’ve both seen it already, but pick up some sandwiches from that deli near your place and when you get here just ignore the way I can’t quit shaking.
Christ.
Flack presses his hand over his eyes, rubs the bridge of his nose.
Somewhere deep in his scarred gut, Flack knows that Mac understands whatever this bullshit is. The problem with calling someone on the phone is there’s nothing much you can do over the phone but talk. He can almost hear himself talking to Mac, but he certainly can’t hear Mac talking to him.
How the fuck did he end up with such a short list of people in his life anyway. His mom is chronically disappointed that he’s not seeing anyone-that he didn’t have a girlfriend to sit next to him when he was still in the hospital-that he didn’t have a girlfriend to sit next to her when she was there too.
When it came down to it, he didn’t know a lot of people off the job. Still, no one from homicide visited more than once-except Maka-which was fine with him because he didn’t need them all standing around and staring like he was made of glass. No, it’d been Mac and Stella and Danny coming by like clockwork. Like they’d signed up for shifts. Hell, they probably had.
And Gavin. Gavin had been there a lot, particularly at first, when the meds were still thick in him and he felt stuffed with cotton.
Flack takes a deep breath and tries to shut his eyes because it’s after three now and he’s nowhere near sleep. The apartment below him blares with techno music for about fifteen seconds. Nice. He frowns and opens his eyes again and starts to laugh because it’s absurd.
His eyes sting, and when he closes them again it’s wet. He rests the heel of his palm on his forehead, fingers threading through his hair. His nose stings a little too, and it makes him think of the ocean, being a kid who could barely swim and getting swamped by a wave one summer at Coney. He tries to breathe, but he chokes a little and tightens his jaw. So it’s a sharp breath in through his nose and out through his teeth.
He sure as fuck isn’t calling Gavin now.
Gavin’s asleep right now, next to his wife, who is also asleep, and Flack’s going to call and wake them both up and drag Gavin out of his bed? Hell can freeze over first.
He gives in and wipes his face with the sheet, and when he swallows it’s a little easier.
Maybe he’ll call Gavin tomorrow, but what’s he think he’s going to say to Gavin? Flack’s healed up and back on the job, full-time, so everything should be back to normal-or damn close to it. He’s not going to call Gavin and whine about not sleeping-like he’s turned out to be a fucking pussy and a failure-
Flack swallows again, and fatigue is finally starting to pull him down. He rubs his face with his hand and sinks under the weight of it all.
Maybe he will call Gavin tomorrow and see if he can come into the city sometime this weekend. Just for a couple hours. They can have lunch at the Thai place that just opened up a couple blocks away. That would be normal. Flack could get through that.