Title: Quiet Spaces

Author: MustangAlley

Rating: FRT

Summary: He feels them everywhere, and every night he prays a little more, a little harder that they will leave him be.

Author's Notes: This was the last piece I had written before a major personal crisis in the death of my best friend-slash-twin brother in a tragic accident at the age of 19. I have a feeling the fluff I wanted to write after this is no longer forthcoming. Eventually, when I can, I'll try to do it again, but not for now. In other news, I am looking for a beta – it's sporadic work but thus is the life of a college student. Message me or leave a note at my LJ if you're interested.


"They know no urge of seasons; they feel no kiss of sun, no lash of wind and weather. They live forever by not living at all."

-Leopold Aldo, A Sand County Almanac


Every year, he visits this place.

It's not because he particularly wants to, or has to. It's not because he chooses to be here, doing this. It's not even because he feels some slight tug somewhere in the soul that he has long since determined exists no longer.

He is here because they are.

Actually, they don't want to be here either. And given half a chance, he would trade places with any of them, and count his blessings on both hands. He was sure they felt the same.

He misplaces them, some days; unfortunately it never lasts for long. It sneaks up on him, in the quiet of the evening or the still of the pre-dawn dimness. It's little things; a flash of shadow where there shouldn't be anything, a shade of green in the leaves of a tree on the Mall. He feels them everywhere, and he prays a little more, a little harder each night that their ghosts will leave him be. He didn't ask for this, doesn't want this, wishes he could give back what he has taken. But he can't. He's trying.

Some nights, he will sit in his recliner. The apartment is quiet, the phone is unplugged, and in theory his partner is safe at home or within the confines of her lab; it's his chance to just be. He will pour a finger of Kentucky bourbon; one, and then two and three, until the bottom of the bottle is the same shade as the neck. He will not regret it. And the next morning, when his partner reprimands him for drinking alone on a work night, he will not regret it anymore than he did the night before, or apologize. She does not understand. He accepts that; her number is much lower than his, and if, God forbid, she should ever catch up, she will still not understand.

He can't explain that it's not drinking alone when you're in a room full of ghosts.

So here he is, in this place. Alone, afraid, cold down to the bottom of his missing soul.

The ghosts, they're waiting for him. He can but hope that there is no revenge in the afterlife.


Reviews and comments would be appreciated. Just let me know.