2minsforslashing | Warm November night (Reply)

Title: Warm November night
Characters/pairing: Marc Savard/Vladimir Sobotka
Rating: PG
Time: November 2008
Summary: Marc misses his anchor
Author's note: This fic was inspired by a quick shot of the Bruins bench after Blake Wheeler's recent hat trick. The Bruins were all smiling and chatting, except for Marc, who was sitting quietly, staring into space.
Disclaimer: A fictional story, written for entertainment purposes only

He sits on the bench at the Garden while the world swirls around him, a small, silent, unfocused island in a sea of sound and fury.

The roar of the crowd. Thumping bodies, skate blades clashing on ice. Shouting, swearing, laughter, hoots of derision. Music, pronouncements, the "ooooh," sound wrenched from thousands of throats at a missed net, a missed hit, a missed opportunity.

It leaves him untouched, like mist in a breeze. A tease, barely a whisper, it bounces off his ears, white noise, the sound of static on a radio dial when you're searching for a station. He is silent, alone in a cacophony, walled off. Not there.

Then he jumps on the ice, and the world would suddenly jumps into focus. Sound rushes into his ears, teammates call his name, everything is sharp and clear. He plays the game the way it was meant to be played, skating into openings, taking the body, snapping off perfect passes, racing, racing, racing, as the seconds tick and his heart rate escalates and his breathing grows labored and he skates back to the bench and climbs over the boards and sits down and the fog descends again. Focus disappears, sound mutes, an Expressionist painting, all soft edges and blurry colors.

The game stutters, stops, stutters and starts again. He jumps in and crawls out. Sharp, focus, skate, shoot, score, shout, celebrate, drag, crawl, sit, breathe, stare, disappear. Again. Again. And again.

And then it's over. Had it ever happened? Was it a dream? Skate onto the ice, surround Timmy, bonk heads. Timmy looking at him, studying him. "You OK, man?"

"I'm fine, how are you?" eyes still unfocused, staring, answering on autopilot, not taking in anything, not grasping, the world sliding by, riding on a carousel, faster and faster, getting blurry. Dizzy now, got to sit down.

Sitting in the locker room. Questions, questions. Click goes the autopilot. He feels the cliches drop from his lips, rolling down, landing with a thump. Dumb questions. Dumb answers. They go away happy. Just go away.

He stares down at his feet, then looks at his sweaty hands, pulls his shirt off, rips off his equipment. The sudden burst of energy dissipates as quickly as it's come. Lethargy sets in again. He stares back at his feet. All those damn laces. Is it true that Bobby Orr skated barefoot? How was that possible? Ask Chief. He'd know. Laces. All those fucking laces. Tape. Pads. He feels a sudden stab of envy for basketball players. Volleyball players. Beach volleyball. Barefoot in bathing suits on the warm sand. How fucking cool is that? So sick of pads and tape and helmets and gloves and goddam, I'm suffocating. He throws his helmet into his locker with a crash. His teammates stare. He doesn't notice, eyes gone again, staring without looking.

Where was he? Laces. Ropes. Knots. Tangles. Whatever happened to those skates he was supposed to get? Those heated blades? Gotta ask his agent. He stares at his skates, sweat still dripping from his face, as his teammates joke, jostle, shower, dress, depart. A large hand rests on the base of his neck, rubs. He closes his eyes.

"Are you all right, Marc?" a soft, low voice. Chara. Suddenly everything is sharp and crystal clear. It's almost frightening. The fog is better.

"I'm fine." A whisper. "Really." Can you take my skates off for me, Zee? Because I don't think I can. I can't seem to move. He bites his lip.

Zdeno pauses. The world stands still, just for a moment. A squeeze. "OK." Gone.

He watches his hand move down his leg, pull at the laces. White noise roars in his ears. The sound of surf. A shell held to his ear. "Mommy, I can hear the ocean! Listen!" Warm sand beneath his bare feet. Hands pulling at his laces. "Hold still," he hears. Whose voice is that? His own? Must be. The locker room is practically empty. His skates hit the carpeted floor with a muffled thunk.

He undresses the rest of the way, automatically. Showers, automatically. Dresses, automatically. Leaves the Garden, automatically. Standing alone in the warm November night, he blinks. He walks, his head down, warm mist closing in around him. Warm November night. Too warm. Unsettling. "Un. Settle. Ing," he says aloud. The stones of the old street remain silent, but a thousand voices suddenly break in his ears. He freezes, listening. White noise. Ocean waves. Voices. He shivers in the warmth and walks on. The voices echo off the old buildings, the pyschic echo of hundreds of years. They beckon to him. One more step, one more step, I'm over the edge, walking with them. Lost.

Not lost. Home. He walks up the steps of the familiar building as the voices fade, falling away, a trickle, a drip. Stop.

He opens his door, expecting the dark, blinking at the light. Cheerful. Cheerful light, the kitchen nightlight, winking happily at him. His eyes focus, looking at the calico cat that adorns the light.

"Daddy, did you know that calico cats are always girls?"

"I didn't know that!"

He feels his heart leap. Blood thunders in his ears. He breathes in deeply, relishing the blessed joyousness of life. Even his sore legs suddenly feel good.

He snaps the light off and turns; the twinkling stars of nightlight in the hallway beckon to him. He follows, walking softly; the bedroom door is ajar. He touches it, lightly. It swings open, and he sees a tousled mess of blond hair and an extended arm, porcelain in the dim light. He hears soft, steady breathing.

Focus, complete. The world snaps back into place with an audible click.

He moves silently into the bedroom, sheds his clothes, slips into bed. The sleepy form stirs, murmurs, turns, whispers: "You're here."

"I'm here," he confirms. He buries his face in that young, powerful shoulder. "Miluji tě," he whispers.

A soft chuckle in response.

"Did I say it wrong?"

"No." A strong hug. "It was perfect."

"I need you."

"I know. Miluji tě."

He is home. He is safe.

He is real.