ext_191006 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
acesodapop.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
31_days2006-09-17 11:03 pm
acesodapop.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2006-09-17 11:03 pm
17 september [brick] past the mirror, a shadow
Title: past the mirror, a shadow
Day/Theme: 17 sept // the dead of Stalingrad adjure us
Series: brick [2005 film]
Character/Pairing: laura, the pin
Rating: pg
Notes: i really wanted to write brick! but uh, next time? note to self: watch more film noir before trying to write film noir dialogue.
The Pin's restless and can't stop going up and about, too much for Laura's own panicked frame of mind to handle. For a cripple, he moves an awful lot. She takes the half-done cigarette out of her mouth and taps the ash into the nearby tray, smoke blowing dreamily out of her soft breath. "You done yet, tiger?"
He pauses and shoots his eyes towards her, holds her tight in their field for a moment, and moves away again. "You gonna get out of my chair any time soon then, Lor?" His voice is, as always, understated, sort of cold, sort of distant. He's once-removed from the world and careening way out of orbit.
She smiles widely, despite herself. "All you had to do was say the word, Pin." She neatly picks herself up. He hobbles towards her and slowly sits back, his knuckles whitely gripping against the cane to keep balance. Her painted fingers find their way to his shoulders, fix his collar a bit, gently smooth out the invisible wrinkles on his perfectly fit black coat.
He doesn't stop her, so she goes ahead and keeps doing it, getting a little bold and even playing with the fine hairs on his head. She admires the neatness of his hair, the straight and poised back, even if it is framed by shrunken, weak shoulders. Brendan has those kind of shoulders, too. All small and sharp, but with an iron back supporting them.
"Why isn't Tugger back yet?" He remarks more than asks, finally expelling that long-held doubt from inside with a casual twist.
"He's muscle. He can take as long as he wants to get whatever information he needs." She plays with an astray lock of hair towards the back.
"You're being awfully cool about this." His eyes are on the door, not her, but if she turned the chair to face him then, they would've been boring into her skull.
"You know how I am, soldier."
"No, actually." says Pin. "I really don't."
Her hands stop for a second, then busily resume themselves, but wait a fraction too long.
"What's wrong, Laura? Feeling peaky?" He actually turns now, his face is stone-cold expressionless, and it's only her luck he's holding one of her skinny arms in his cold hand, with his other hand still around the cane.
"What are you playing at, doll?" He asks softly, and the hairs on the back of her head stand up, though she doesn't rightly know why. It might be the ten pounds of pure white powder of the illegal variety she has in her purse at her side. Or maybe the way his thumbs are rubbing the goose bumps on her arm (but if anything, they're making them worse. There's no blood in his limbs.)
Or it could be the fact she had signed his and Tug's death warrents five hours earlier, all for poetic justice, a neat and tidy clean-up, a happy ending for her and Brendan, whatever. She didn't particularly care-- she never had.
She twists the pale hand off, but not before kissing the back of it with a brief sigh full of grace and once-removed regret. "I think I love you, once." She murmurs, and goes out the door, feeling his cold eyes on her the entire time.
*
Day/Theme: 17 sept // the dead of Stalingrad adjure us
Series: brick [2005 film]
Character/Pairing: laura, the pin
Rating: pg
Notes: i really wanted to write brick! but uh, next time? note to self: watch more film noir before trying to write film noir dialogue.
The Pin's restless and can't stop going up and about, too much for Laura's own panicked frame of mind to handle. For a cripple, he moves an awful lot. She takes the half-done cigarette out of her mouth and taps the ash into the nearby tray, smoke blowing dreamily out of her soft breath. "You done yet, tiger?"
He pauses and shoots his eyes towards her, holds her tight in their field for a moment, and moves away again. "You gonna get out of my chair any time soon then, Lor?" His voice is, as always, understated, sort of cold, sort of distant. He's once-removed from the world and careening way out of orbit.
She smiles widely, despite herself. "All you had to do was say the word, Pin." She neatly picks herself up. He hobbles towards her and slowly sits back, his knuckles whitely gripping against the cane to keep balance. Her painted fingers find their way to his shoulders, fix his collar a bit, gently smooth out the invisible wrinkles on his perfectly fit black coat.
He doesn't stop her, so she goes ahead and keeps doing it, getting a little bold and even playing with the fine hairs on his head. She admires the neatness of his hair, the straight and poised back, even if it is framed by shrunken, weak shoulders. Brendan has those kind of shoulders, too. All small and sharp, but with an iron back supporting them.
"Why isn't Tugger back yet?" He remarks more than asks, finally expelling that long-held doubt from inside with a casual twist.
"He's muscle. He can take as long as he wants to get whatever information he needs." She plays with an astray lock of hair towards the back.
"You're being awfully cool about this." His eyes are on the door, not her, but if she turned the chair to face him then, they would've been boring into her skull.
"You know how I am, soldier."
"No, actually." says Pin. "I really don't."
Her hands stop for a second, then busily resume themselves, but wait a fraction too long.
"What's wrong, Laura? Feeling peaky?" He actually turns now, his face is stone-cold expressionless, and it's only her luck he's holding one of her skinny arms in his cold hand, with his other hand still around the cane.
"What are you playing at, doll?" He asks softly, and the hairs on the back of her head stand up, though she doesn't rightly know why. It might be the ten pounds of pure white powder of the illegal variety she has in her purse at her side. Or maybe the way his thumbs are rubbing the goose bumps on her arm (but if anything, they're making them worse. There's no blood in his limbs.)
Or it could be the fact she had signed his and Tug's death warrents five hours earlier, all for poetic justice, a neat and tidy clean-up, a happy ending for her and Brendan, whatever. She didn't particularly care-- she never had.
She twists the pale hand off, but not before kissing the back of it with a brief sigh full of grace and once-removed regret. "I think I love you, once." She murmurs, and goes out the door, feeling his cold eyes on her the entire time.
*