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“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Hawkeye said. “Or demons, or poltergeists, or souls, or anything. The problem being, however, that my disbelief doesn’t seem to be fazing this ghost one iota.”
Ben grimaced apologetically.
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Or: Hawkeye finds out what it really means to be haunted by the past.
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Bookmark Notes:
So so so so so so good.
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Bookmark Notes:
What I’m saying is that I don’t know if it gets better. If we get better. I don’t know. We very well may not. It could be that life is going to be an awful, awful struggle all the way through. But I do know that there will always be moments that justify it. And I do know that I want to be around for those moments. And so I know that you want that, too.”
therapy? expensive. rereading this fic? free.
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Bookmark Notes:
He was alone.
But not unaccompanied.
“What the hell do you want?” Hawkeye snapped. “What are you?”
The boy—Hawkeye—Ben Pierce—whatever he was—looked at him flatly, obviously unimpressed. He was fifteen or sixteen maybe, still baby-faced, but frame familiarly lanky, sitting on the floor in an awkward tangle of coltish limbs. Hawkeye had shot up fast, had hit his adult height by fifteen and had spent the next ten years or so waiting in vain for his frame to fill out. He was still lanky at thirty, of course, but had finally given up on the idea that he’d one day wake up built through the magic of post-pubertal hormonal changes.
“Can’t I hallucinate something pleasant?” he asked himself. “If I’m going to go off the deep end, I’d prefer to do it imagining I’m cracking open a claw at Lobsterfest.”
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to read