miracle (miracle) wrote in luke_noah, @ 2008-12-03 08:30:00 |
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Entry tags: | -[luke/noah]-, fanfic, fanfic: [alternate universe], fanfic: [atwt], fanfic: rating: mature, » by: indigo_5 |
Fic: The Whole Wide World, Chapter 7
Original poster: indigo_5
Title: The Whole Wide World
Author: indigo_5
Chapter: 7
Rating: R maybe? Not sure about this one. Not for kids, but not porn either. Warning: Some disturbing content.
Disclaimers: I own neither Luke, Noah, nor anything else related to ATWT. The show would look a lot different if I did.
Spoilers: None.
To review: This is Chapter 7 of a sequel to A New York Love Story, the fic I did a while back based on the Valentine’s Day AU in New York. Previous chapters can be found here: Chapter 1; Chapter 2; Chapter 3; Chapter 4; Chapter 5; Chapter 6.
The original story can be found here: Chapter 1; Chapter 2; Chapter 3; Chapter 4; Chapter 5.
Summary: Noah’s demons start to come to light.
Notes: Feedback seriously makes my day. Seriously.
It was hot. Noah’s face was damp with sweat, his uniform sticking to his chest. He was vaguely aware that there was something wrong with that. It shouldn’t be this hot in May. Then he remembered that he wasn’t in Missouri, wasn’t in New York, wasn’t in the United States at all. He was in a little town in Iraq, a part of the country that never showed up on the news, and he was afraid.
Noah stopped in his tracks, looking around him, seeing crumbling stone buildings and abandoned old Jeeps with the tires long since torn to shreds. The day was quiet, very quiet, and he suddenly noticed that there was no one around him. He was alone. Very much alone.
Swallowing hard, Noah clutched his hands tighter around his weapon, a reflex, as he began to scan the area for a hiding place. But his palms were sweaty, and the metal slipped out of his grasp. When he looked down to grab it, he saw that his gun had disappeared. And he must have been imagining the feeling of his uniform sticking to his skin, because suddenly there was no uniform. He was naked, exposed, vulnerable. His heart was beating faster, and he had a terrible feeling of dread. Get out, he thought to himself. Run. Now. But he couldn’t move. His feet seemed made of lead, impossibly heavy. Something was coming, he knew it, coming for him, but he couldn’t get away.
Every sense became heightened. Noah was aware of the bitter taste in his mouth, the stench of his own sweat, the sound of something terrifying approaching behind him. And now he was running, running for his life, the heavy feet no longer a problem, but whatever-it-was was gaining on him. He panted, running faster, praying for help. But it was faster than him, coming up behind him, reaching for him...
Noah sat up in bed, gasping, heart pounding, clutching at his chest. He glanced over at Luke and was relieved to see that he hadn’t woken him this time, wouldn’t have to make up another lie about job stress or indigestion or anything else he could think of. He had hoped the dreams would stop when he got back to Luke, but they hadn’t. And he couldn’t figure out why.
Every night was the same. He could never see what was chasing him, but he always woke up terrified, panting, close to screaming. In the dream, he was back in Iraq, during the four-month stretch at the end of his tour of duty when his unit had been temporarily reassigned to do Army combat relief work*. The Army was stretched thin and the fighting had gotten worse, more than they could handle, so they were bringing in troops from other service branches to provide assistance. Except the Army was trained for this, and Noah wasn’t. His unit had received a quick two-week crash course in modern weaponry and combat techniques and was then dumped onto the front lines, no idea what they were doing, no idea how to handle this. And then there was violence. And explosions. And snipers. And worse. Noah had seen some terrible things, things he wanted to wipe out of his mind forever but couldn’t seem to get rid of. He couldn’t talk to Luke about them. He didn’t even want them in his own head, much less in the mind of the one person he wanted to protect from everything unpleasant in the world. He kept hoping that if he just went on with his life, just put the bad stuff behind him and pushed on like he always had, it would all go away and he could forget.
But he couldn’t.
Noah swung his legs around to the side of the bed and stood up, quietly, carefully, watching Luke to make sure he didn’t wake him. As he straightened, he felt himself shaking and had to grab onto the bedside table to keep from falling. “Dehydrated,” he muttered to himself. Just needed to get some fluids. He’d thrown up a day’s worth of food yesterday after his father left, after he pushed Luke, after he almost hurt him. Then he’d run all the way to the water’s edge, so far he had had to find a stranger in the street to give him directions so he could make his way back home. He’d let himself into the coffee shop to wash up before coming back into the apartment, unwilling to let Luke see him like that, but he probably hadn’t drunk enough water to replenish what he’d lost.
Slowly, Noah walked into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water, sitting down at the table and taking a long, slow sip. He concentrated on breathing, trying to calm down. In. Out. In. Out. Drink. He clutched the glass as his breathing began to slow, looking around the apartment to settle himself. When his gaze fell on the sofa, though, he felt his stomach turn over again. From his seat at the kitchen table, he had pretty much the same angle that his father must have had when he walked in on him and Luke having sex. Which meant the Colonel had seen everything. Everything.
Resting his elbows on the table, Noah dropped his head into his hands and closed his eyes. He was in love with Luke, he had no doubt of that. And he had absolutely no reason to feel ashamed of what they did together. Of how much he wanted him. Of how much he loved it when Luke dominated him, when Luke was forceful with him, when Luke fucked him.
But he did.
And now, he couldn’t stop thinking about what the Colonel had seen. Noah on his back, getting fucked, begging for it. Like a bitch. Like a faggot. Like--
“Noah?”
Noah whipped his head around, looking through the bedroom door, seeing Luke sleepily propping himself up on his elbows. “Hey, babe,” he said, straining to keep his voice even, to hide any evidence of what he’d been thinking about. He walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge, running a hand gently through Luke’s hair. So beautiful, he thought to himself, wondering what in the world Luke saw in him, and not for the first time.
“What are you doing?” Luke’s voice was thick, sleepy, his eyelids heavy. Noah knew he probably wouldn’t remember this in the morning.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just getting some water. Go back to sleep.”
“Mmwith me,” Luke mumbled, tugging on Noah’s arm. Noah dutifully lay down next to his boyfriend, allowing Luke to pull his arm over him like a blanket.
“I love you,” Noah whispered. But Luke was already asleep.
****
“Double-tall iced mocha latte, no whip!”
“Grande half-caf vanilla frappuccino!”
“Grande soy milk cappuccino in a venti cup!”
Noah was working furiously, trying to fill each order in turn, failing miserably to keep it all straight. Usually, Saturdays were a slow shift at the coffee shop, and he’d been looking forward to a relatively relaxed afternoon. But today there was a street festival that was drawing a big crowd, and everybody seemed in the mood for coffee. It wasn’t helping that Noah had tossed and turned all night, afraid to go back to sleep. Or that one of his coworkers was two hours late, leaving them short-staffed and frantic. Or that his boss, not a pleasant woman under the best of circumstances, had had a fight with her boyfriend that morning and was taking it out on everyone around her.
“Noah!” she shouted. “Get it right. This customer has been waiting for ten minutes for a tall caramel macchiato. Is it too much to ask for you to prepare a tall caramel macchiato? It is, after all, your job.” Carla’s voice was dripping with condescension, reminding Noah so much of his father that every hair stood up on the back of his neck.
“Not at all,” he muttered, gritting his teeth. He fought to push the anger down, taking a deep breath, grabbing the complicated drink he’d just completed and spinning around to hand it to the customer waiting for it. Just at that moment, Pedro, the only other barista working, backed up and jostled his elbow. Noah lurched forward and spilled the drink all over the floor, splashing himself, Pedro, and most of all, Carla.
“Damn it, Noah!” Carla shouted, slamming her hand on the counter. She kept yelling, but Noah tuned her out, squatting down to mop up the mess with a wet rag, his hearing obscured by the blood pounding in his ears. He closed his eyes. Not again. “Noah, are you listening to me?”
He stood up, slowly, trying hard to remain calm. “I’m sorry, Carla. I’ll just finish redoing this order and then get started on the hazelnut macchiato.”
“Caramel macchiato! Caramel macchiato! Can’t you even get a damned drink order right? Are you just here to waste my time? God damn it, kid, is there anything you know how to do?”
Before he realized he’d done it, Noah had her back against the counter, his forearm pressed to her throat, staring her down with death in his eyes. “If you don’t get the fuck off my back, you’re going to find out exactly what I know how to do,” he growled.
“Noah! Noah!” Pedro was on him, pulling him back, and Noah whirled away from them both and knocked three bottles of flavored syrup to the floor, breaking them all. The coffee shop went quiet, as everyone turned to stare. Noah froze, looking at Carla, trying to breathe.
“Get out,” she said hoarsely, still leaning back over the counter, as if trying to get further away from him. He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off in an instant. “Get the fuck out of here, you freak! You’re fired! Get out!”
Noah swallowed hard and walked out, pushing past the customers, pushing through the door. He stood outside and ran his hands through his hair, closing his eyes, trying to draw in as much oxygen as he could. Breathe. Breathe.
Shit.
What did you just do?
After a few minutes, he turned and started walking, heading in the opposite direction of his apartment. He wasn’t ready to go home. How was he going to tell Luke what happened? How could he explain this? What was the matter with him? He wasn’t a monster. He’d never put his hands on a woman like that in his life. He didn’t know where all this rage was coming from, and it was scaring him that he couldn’t seem to control it. But the idea of Luke finding out what a freak he was, then leaving him, as of course he would, was so terrifying Noah could barely breathe.
He reached the subway and, after a moment’s hesitation, walked down the stairs. Luke wasn’t expecting him at home for hours, and there would be nobody at the station now. He’d go work on his documentary for a while. Editing always seemed to soothe him, the repetition of it, the solitude. That would help. And it would delay the conversation with Luke. And at some point, he’d figure out what to say.
****
“Noah!” Luke pushed open the door to the studio, heading for the editing room. “Noah, are you in here?” His voice was anxious, even a little panicked. If Noah wasn’t here, he wasn’t sure where he was going to check next. But as he walked into the windowless room, he saw a surprised Noah rise up from his workstation, and relief washed over him. “Noah,” he exhaled, grabbing his boyfriend and hugging him close. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”
“Luke? What’s going on? What are you doing here?”
“I stopped by to see you at the coffee shop,” Luke said, feeling Noah stiffen in his arms.
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh. Pedro told me what happened. And then I tried calling you, but your cell kept going straight to voicemail. Did you forget to charge it again?”
“Oh. Yeah. I guess so.” Noah’s voice was flat, emotionless. Luke pulled back to look at him, but he avoided his gaze.
“Noah,” Luke began, but Noah pulled away from him, turning his back.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Luke folded his arms across his chest. “Too damned bad.” Noah turned back to him at that, surprised. “Noah, you need to tell me what’s going on with you. I need to know--”
“No, you don’t!” A quick wave of anger flashed across Noah’s face, and for a moment, Luke was reminded of the way Noah had looked at him the night before. But then it was gone, and Noah was covering his face with his hands. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But you don’t need to know. And I don’t want to tell you.”
Half of Luke wanted to wrap Noah up in his arms and comfort him, tell him he could take all the time in the world with this. But the other half heard warning bells ringing loudly, telling him the man he loved was in trouble and sinking fast, and he needed to do something to stop it. The latter half won out.
Luke walked up to Noah and gently moved his hands away from his face, kissing him softly on the mouth. “You have to talk about it,” he said. “Don’t you see how much it’s hurting you not to?” Noah looked away, biting his lip, but Luke forged ahead. “Do you think I don’t know about your nightmares?” Noah turned his head back quickly, his mouth dropping open. “I’m not stupid, you know. Nobody gets indigestion from a bowl of Cheerios.”
Noah laughed a little, in spite of himself. But he dropped his gaze to the floor, biting his lip again. “I can’t talk about it,” he said.
Luke leaned his forehead in to touch Noah’s, his hands on either side of Noah’s face. “Why not?”
Noah paused, then swallowed. “Because I’ll lose you.”
This time, it was Luke’s jaw that dropped. “Oh, my God, you fucking idiot,” he whispered, covering Noah’s face in kisses. “Don’t you know that I’m in love with you? I’m not going anywhere.” He kissed Noah firmly on the lips, once, twice, three times. “Anywhere,” he said again.
“You don’t know,” Noah whispered.
“I don’t know what?”
“How fucked up I am. What goes through my head. What I’ve seen. What I’ve… what I’ve done.”
“So tell me. Talk to me. Let it out.”
Noah’s body was tense, and Luke suddenly realized that he was trying not to cry. He wrapped his arms around his boyfriend, holding him tight. “Let it out,” he said again. “Let it out.”
****
Noah tightened his muscles, fighting the urge to just push Luke away and run. “Let it out,” he kept saying. Like it was that simple. But there were other voices in his head, voices that were shouting Luke down. His father, telling him crying was for little girls. His commanding officer, telling him to pull back and take cover, to leave his shipmate in the line of fire. Which he did. Because he had to. He was ordered to. But also because he was afraid.
And suddenly he was there, on that street in that small town in Iraq, cowering behind a makeshift barricade, watching Weisman die. He had taken a bullet to the head, and almost certainly would have died anyway, even in the best of circumstances, even if they could have pulled him out of there and rushed him to the Medevac and gotten him the best medical care the US military could provide. But they never got to find out, because he took three more bullets as the crossfire continued, and by the time the dust settled it was long past too late. And it wasn’t his fault, he knew it wasn’t his fault, nobody ever said it was his fault, except Weisman had been his friend, his bunkmate for three years, and he had sat there and watched him die and done nothing. Nothing. What kind of a man does that? What kind of a man could be that scared? What kind of a man?
And now Luke was hugging him closer, squeezing him tight, kissing his neck, whispering his mantra. “Let it out,” he said, again and again. “Let it out.” And finally, Noah did. He clutched Luke back, shutting his eyes tight, feeling a few tears squeeze out, breathing hard. And then his whole body was shaking, shuddering with sobs, and the tears were really flowing now, and Luke was sinking with him to the floor, holding him so tight. He clung to Luke like his life depended on it, burying his head in Luke’s shoulder, really crying for the first time in years. Or maybe ever.
“I’m sorry,” Noah sobbed, clutching Luke tight. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”
Luke held him, his arms strong, rocking him, listening to him. He didn’t shush him, didn’t stop him, didn’t tell him it would be all right. “I’ve got you,” was all he said. But he said it over and over again. And eventually, finally, Noah believed him.
* - Author’s note: the Navy-to-Army-combat reassignment described above really does happen. See http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.c
Chapter 8