fic: we stood tall
Aug. 8th, 2010 08:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
puchuupoetTitle: we stood tall
Author: Puchuupoet
Pairing: Zachariah/Uriel, slight vaguely implied Zachariah/Chad Michael Murray
Word Count: ~900
Rating: pgish
Heads-up: Spoilers through the end of season 5, takes place pre-5.18
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened, completely fictional.
Notes: Honestly, I don't even know anymore :p Buzzed and un-beta'd. Inspired by House of Wax and Mumford & Sons' "After the Storm". And since I try to avoid private celebrity gossip, my Chad is based on a combo of his House of Wax character and what I've gleaned from fandom (the douchey, cocky asshole of a best friend that may or may not be rooting for true love). For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cecilylee, for all of her encouragement ♥
Zachariah looks at the kid in front of him. He had bumped into him at the bar, watched for a moment before he nodded to the bartender, who slid a glass of whiskey in front of Zach and another beer in front of the kid. They headed towards a table, tucked away in a back corner, buffered by the noise, and Zachariah stares at the boy before him.
The first word that comes to mind is scrappy, lean with an easily provoked attitude, and that's exactly what Zachariah is looking for. He doesn't doubt his orders, but there are times when he feels a protection plan is needed, in case things turn sour - again. Zachariah tips his glass back, not that he needs it but it puts the boy at ease, who in response downs half his beer in one movement.
"What's your name?" Zachariah asks, actually curious this time, and he's pleased when the boy looks him up and down before answering.
"Chad."
Zachariah smiles, the protector, and he hopes it finally works in his favor this time. "Chad," he leans forward, doing his best not to touch the sticky table top. "I have a proposition for you."
-----
Zachariah had watched when Uriel died, waited til the others had left to drift down, had slid into his vessel so that he could walk among the warehouse, making sure to step over the charred outline of Uriel's wings before pausing to crouch down next to the empty body. He had traced his fingers over Uriel's face, eyes closed as he memorized the feel, an unexpected huff escaping him as his fingers reached the sticky trail of blood still drying in the hollow of Uriel's throat.
He had pressed his mouth there once, in an impulsive fit that had caught them both off-guard and had left Uriel smirking at him for the following two weeks. It was something easier left unsaid than faced, and the fact that Uriel left it that way, unreported, his fingers constantly brushing against his collarbone, told Zachariah that Uriel had experienced the same thing he had.
They had had similar goals, of revolutions and paradise, although Zachariah was the first to admit that Uriel was more devoted, more obsessed with it all. Zachariah wanted paradise, a breath of fresh air from all the bullshit. Uriel had demanded a cleansing.
Zachariah had just listened to his rants, Uriel's pleas and arguments for a better garrison, a cleaner one. Zachariah had nodded, not endorsing but accepting, and Uriel had plunged headfirst into it all, shimmering with sweat and devotion and a faith that had both motivated Zachariah and left him breathless.
Zachariah had watched when Uriel died, bloody and prideful, crumpling to the ground like so many before, the corpse jerking as Uriel was pulled from it, a sharp burst of light that burned at Zachariah's eyes. He had stepped carefully, unwilling to smudge what Uriel had left behind, what remained of him. His fingers had kept moving, down the buttons of Uriel's shirt, had swept up to cover his breast pocket. Zachariah had glanced at the handkerchief for a moment before tugging it free, had held on to it, gripped it in his fist before sliding his hand into his pocket. He could still feel the heat radiate off of the fabric when he finally left the warehouse.
---
The kid's a natural, settles in to the Green Room with no problem, leaning back and kicking his feet up on the table. He grabs a Heineken from the cooler on the table - Zachariah knows better than to try to impress him with luxury - and opens it with his ring.
Zachariah notices how Chad keeps an eye on him as he talks, sipping at his beer and pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. There's a bitter taste in the back of Zachariah's throat, one that catches him off-guard and reminds him of the past, of what could have been. He's grateful for this second chance, the ability to get things back on track and headed towards the Apocalypse, even if it's turned into a mad scramble at the last minute.
The kid's talking at him, ideas and demands that are to be expected. Zachariah remembers the day when concepts were shared through a raised eyebrow and a smirk, a low chuckle if both he and Uriel were in agreeable moods, and he longs for that subtle silence.
The handkerchief's still tucked away on this vessel, safe inside an inner pocket, and Zachariah allows his hand to brush against it before letting his hands fall to his sides. He smiles and tips his head. "So, what do you say?"
He moves closer, allows himself to rest a hand on the boy's shoulder, a brief enough touch that allows him to see further within the body in front of him. It holds what he's been looking for, what he needs for the next stage to continue. There's something else there, something that encourages Zachariah to shift his hand closer, passing his thumb over the kid's skin. Zachariah traces down his collarbone before running it up over his vocal chords, and he can feel the slight shiver that runs through the boy's body.
Chad coughs, more of a gut reaction than an actual need, and lifts his beer to his lips with a cocky smile. "I'd say we have a deal."
Author: Puchuupoet
Pairing: Zachariah/Uriel, slight vaguely implied Zachariah/Chad Michael Murray
Word Count: ~900
Rating: pgish
Heads-up: Spoilers through the end of season 5, takes place pre-5.18
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened, completely fictional.
Notes: Honestly, I don't even know anymore :p Buzzed and un-beta'd. Inspired by House of Wax and Mumford & Sons' "After the Storm". And since I try to avoid private celebrity gossip, my Chad is based on a combo of his House of Wax character and what I've gleaned from fandom (the douchey, cocky asshole of a best friend that may or may not be rooting for true love). For
cecilylee, for all of her encouragement ♥Zachariah looks at the kid in front of him. He had bumped into him at the bar, watched for a moment before he nodded to the bartender, who slid a glass of whiskey in front of Zach and another beer in front of the kid. They headed towards a table, tucked away in a back corner, buffered by the noise, and Zachariah stares at the boy before him.
The first word that comes to mind is scrappy, lean with an easily provoked attitude, and that's exactly what Zachariah is looking for. He doesn't doubt his orders, but there are times when he feels a protection plan is needed, in case things turn sour - again. Zachariah tips his glass back, not that he needs it but it puts the boy at ease, who in response downs half his beer in one movement.
"What's your name?" Zachariah asks, actually curious this time, and he's pleased when the boy looks him up and down before answering.
"Chad."
Zachariah smiles, the protector, and he hopes it finally works in his favor this time. "Chad," he leans forward, doing his best not to touch the sticky table top. "I have a proposition for you."
-----
Zachariah had watched when Uriel died, waited til the others had left to drift down, had slid into his vessel so that he could walk among the warehouse, making sure to step over the charred outline of Uriel's wings before pausing to crouch down next to the empty body. He had traced his fingers over Uriel's face, eyes closed as he memorized the feel, an unexpected huff escaping him as his fingers reached the sticky trail of blood still drying in the hollow of Uriel's throat.
He had pressed his mouth there once, in an impulsive fit that had caught them both off-guard and had left Uriel smirking at him for the following two weeks. It was something easier left unsaid than faced, and the fact that Uriel left it that way, unreported, his fingers constantly brushing against his collarbone, told Zachariah that Uriel had experienced the same thing he had.
They had had similar goals, of revolutions and paradise, although Zachariah was the first to admit that Uriel was more devoted, more obsessed with it all. Zachariah wanted paradise, a breath of fresh air from all the bullshit. Uriel had demanded a cleansing.
Zachariah had just listened to his rants, Uriel's pleas and arguments for a better garrison, a cleaner one. Zachariah had nodded, not endorsing but accepting, and Uriel had plunged headfirst into it all, shimmering with sweat and devotion and a faith that had both motivated Zachariah and left him breathless.
Zachariah had watched when Uriel died, bloody and prideful, crumpling to the ground like so many before, the corpse jerking as Uriel was pulled from it, a sharp burst of light that burned at Zachariah's eyes. He had stepped carefully, unwilling to smudge what Uriel had left behind, what remained of him. His fingers had kept moving, down the buttons of Uriel's shirt, had swept up to cover his breast pocket. Zachariah had glanced at the handkerchief for a moment before tugging it free, had held on to it, gripped it in his fist before sliding his hand into his pocket. He could still feel the heat radiate off of the fabric when he finally left the warehouse.
---
The kid's a natural, settles in to the Green Room with no problem, leaning back and kicking his feet up on the table. He grabs a Heineken from the cooler on the table - Zachariah knows better than to try to impress him with luxury - and opens it with his ring.
Zachariah notices how Chad keeps an eye on him as he talks, sipping at his beer and pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. There's a bitter taste in the back of Zachariah's throat, one that catches him off-guard and reminds him of the past, of what could have been. He's grateful for this second chance, the ability to get things back on track and headed towards the Apocalypse, even if it's turned into a mad scramble at the last minute.
The kid's talking at him, ideas and demands that are to be expected. Zachariah remembers the day when concepts were shared through a raised eyebrow and a smirk, a low chuckle if both he and Uriel were in agreeable moods, and he longs for that subtle silence.
The handkerchief's still tucked away on this vessel, safe inside an inner pocket, and Zachariah allows his hand to brush against it before letting his hands fall to his sides. He smiles and tips his head. "So, what do you say?"
He moves closer, allows himself to rest a hand on the boy's shoulder, a brief enough touch that allows him to see further within the body in front of him. It holds what he's been looking for, what he needs for the next stage to continue. There's something else there, something that encourages Zachariah to shift his hand closer, passing his thumb over the kid's skin. Zachariah traces down his collarbone before running it up over his vocal chords, and he can feel the slight shiver that runs through the boy's body.
Chad coughs, more of a gut reaction than an actual need, and lifts his beer to his lips with a cocky smile. "I'd say we have a deal."
