Title: Gravestones and Lockers
Author: James Walkswithwind
Fandom: seaQuest DSV (season one)
Pairing: Ben Krieg/other
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: not mine, no profit made
Archive: www.jbx.com/~gila/ficindex.html
Summary: Ben remembers someone who is gone.
Author's Notes: karenbear's fault. She made me SQ icons.
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Gravestones and Lockers
There was probably a gravestone somewhere. Ben didn't know where, didn't know what the likelihood was of there being one. He could have checked -- could have simply asked. But he didn't need a gravestone to talk to.
It wasn't like he was buried there, anyhow. There was no body, not even dogtags to wrap up and return. Just the scattering of personal belongings he'd left in his kit, which Ben and Joseph had packed up for the Captain to be shipped back to his parents.
Joseph hadn't said anything when Ben set a few items aside. Ben didn't know if Joseph knew why he'd wanted them, or if wanting something to remember a friend and shipmate was enough. Ben had pocketed them, and none of it had been missed when the bags were turned in.
Ben hadn't felt guilty for keeping the stuff -- and now, all these years later, he had them as a physical remembrance that did what no gravestone could do. Things he could keep with him, stashed away in his locker, nestled carefully among his own most personal belongings. Ben would crawl onto his bunk, window dimmed and the door locked during those hours the Supply Office was allowed to be closed, and take them out one by one, turning them over in his hands.
A wristwatch, not so cheap but not so expensive either -- not UEO issue and thus not one he'd worn. But he'd kept it, for reasons he'd never been able to adequately explain to Ben. Not sentimental, no gift from a favorite uncle or heirloom passed down for generations. Just a watch, one that he'd held onto because he liked it. Enough of a reason for Ben to hold onto it, knowing it wouldn't have even been on the manifest of items returned.
Two photographs, one a single shot during shore leave in Manila, the other a double, the two of them the same night. They'd been wearing absurd straw hats, playing at being tourists when everyone around could tell they were submariners just by their accents much less their uniforms. Ben rarely lingered over the photos though he always took them out, always looked at each, once. Just enough to remember the images before setting them aside.
A small wooden whistle. Carved by someone, Ben couldn't recall who, if he'd ever even been told. Someone from childhood, some toy he'd been given and kept unbroken for all those years. Ben had heard it often, blown in their tiny bunkroom seconds before reveille sounded. He'd leap out of bed and grab for the whistle, always pretending he was going to snap it in two. He never did, hadn't ever seriously meant to, but it was rather a surprise, looking back, that it hadn't been ruined during the laughing wrestling matches that followed the rude awakenings.
All inconsequential momentos, things that no one would think twice about if they ever had to pack up *Ben's* belongings and ship them home. He brushed the thought aside -- it hardly mattered, hardly *would* matter what anybody thought if he got himself killed and someone had to box up his things. Didn't make any difference if anyone recognised the importance of these four items and paid their proper respect.
These items, forming a traveling gravestone carved in wood and film and rubber, detailing tiny pieces of a man's life. Tiny, disparate pieces that told nothing substantial about the man who'd owned them. You couldn't fit them together and see what it was that made the man who'd owned them so special. But that wasn't their purpose. Ben didn't need such vivid reminders. He didn't need things to make him remember what kind of man his lover had been.
The items were far more than reminders. They were things that Ben could touch which had once touched a man who was now gone. Ben could hold the watch and touch rubber and plastic that had once wrapped around his lover's wrist. He could hold the whistle and touch the wood that had pressed against his lover's mouth. He could hold the photos and see a smile that had once graced his lover's face in public, in private, on duty or off. The smile that had carried him into service, or met him late at night, pressed close to Ben's own in the darkness.
Each time he pulled them out, lying back on his bunk behind closed door and hours ahead with nothing he need do -- barring alerts and unscheduled drills -- he could almost remember the feel of those hands. The sound of his laughter. The taste of his mouth. He could lie back and close his eyes and hold them close and pretend...almost pretend that his lover had not completely gone from him.
If there were a gravestone, somewhere, high above the sea, Ben knew it would give him less than this. Carved rock, or poured and molded concrete that bore a name and date and 'beloved son' would give him nothing.
It didn't stop him from thinking, each time when he put his lover's things away, that he might look in the records. Might do a little research and find out if a gravestone existed. He could even ask Bobby's father, and no one would ever be the wiser for why he wanted to know.
Each time he never did, and after awhile the fading memories drove him to lock the door again and pull out his lover's momentos, and try to recall those lingering and so fleeting nights they'd had.
the end
Author: James Walkswithwind
Fandom: seaQuest DSV (season one)
Pairing: Ben Krieg/other
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: not mine, no profit made
Archive: www.jbx.com/~gila/ficindex.html
Summary: Ben remembers someone who is gone.
Author's Notes: karenbear's fault. She made me SQ icons.
%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%
Gravestones and Lockers
There was probably a gravestone somewhere. Ben didn't know where, didn't know what the likelihood was of there being one. He could have checked -- could have simply asked. But he didn't need a gravestone to talk to.
It wasn't like he was buried there, anyhow. There was no body, not even dogtags to wrap up and return. Just the scattering of personal belongings he'd left in his kit, which Ben and Joseph had packed up for the Captain to be shipped back to his parents.
Joseph hadn't said anything when Ben set a few items aside. Ben didn't know if Joseph knew why he'd wanted them, or if wanting something to remember a friend and shipmate was enough. Ben had pocketed them, and none of it had been missed when the bags were turned in.
Ben hadn't felt guilty for keeping the stuff -- and now, all these years later, he had them as a physical remembrance that did what no gravestone could do. Things he could keep with him, stashed away in his locker, nestled carefully among his own most personal belongings. Ben would crawl onto his bunk, window dimmed and the door locked during those hours the Supply Office was allowed to be closed, and take them out one by one, turning them over in his hands.
A wristwatch, not so cheap but not so expensive either -- not UEO issue and thus not one he'd worn. But he'd kept it, for reasons he'd never been able to adequately explain to Ben. Not sentimental, no gift from a favorite uncle or heirloom passed down for generations. Just a watch, one that he'd held onto because he liked it. Enough of a reason for Ben to hold onto it, knowing it wouldn't have even been on the manifest of items returned.
Two photographs, one a single shot during shore leave in Manila, the other a double, the two of them the same night. They'd been wearing absurd straw hats, playing at being tourists when everyone around could tell they were submariners just by their accents much less their uniforms. Ben rarely lingered over the photos though he always took them out, always looked at each, once. Just enough to remember the images before setting them aside.
A small wooden whistle. Carved by someone, Ben couldn't recall who, if he'd ever even been told. Someone from childhood, some toy he'd been given and kept unbroken for all those years. Ben had heard it often, blown in their tiny bunkroom seconds before reveille sounded. He'd leap out of bed and grab for the whistle, always pretending he was going to snap it in two. He never did, hadn't ever seriously meant to, but it was rather a surprise, looking back, that it hadn't been ruined during the laughing wrestling matches that followed the rude awakenings.
All inconsequential momentos, things that no one would think twice about if they ever had to pack up *Ben's* belongings and ship them home. He brushed the thought aside -- it hardly mattered, hardly *would* matter what anybody thought if he got himself killed and someone had to box up his things. Didn't make any difference if anyone recognised the importance of these four items and paid their proper respect.
These items, forming a traveling gravestone carved in wood and film and rubber, detailing tiny pieces of a man's life. Tiny, disparate pieces that told nothing substantial about the man who'd owned them. You couldn't fit them together and see what it was that made the man who'd owned them so special. But that wasn't their purpose. Ben didn't need such vivid reminders. He didn't need things to make him remember what kind of man his lover had been.
The items were far more than reminders. They were things that Ben could touch which had once touched a man who was now gone. Ben could hold the watch and touch rubber and plastic that had once wrapped around his lover's wrist. He could hold the whistle and touch the wood that had pressed against his lover's mouth. He could hold the photos and see a smile that had once graced his lover's face in public, in private, on duty or off. The smile that had carried him into service, or met him late at night, pressed close to Ben's own in the darkness.
Each time he pulled them out, lying back on his bunk behind closed door and hours ahead with nothing he need do -- barring alerts and unscheduled drills -- he could almost remember the feel of those hands. The sound of his laughter. The taste of his mouth. He could lie back and close his eyes and hold them close and pretend...almost pretend that his lover had not completely gone from him.
If there were a gravestone, somewhere, high above the sea, Ben knew it would give him less than this. Carved rock, or poured and molded concrete that bore a name and date and 'beloved son' would give him nothing.
It didn't stop him from thinking, each time when he put his lover's things away, that he might look in the records. Might do a little research and find out if a gravestone existed. He could even ask Bobby's father, and no one would ever be the wiser for why he wanted to know.
Each time he never did, and after awhile the fading memories drove him to lock the door again and pull out his lover's momentos, and try to recall those lingering and so fleeting nights they'd had.
the end