Short But Not-Exactly-Sweet
Jan. 30th, 2012 05:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
handful_ofdustLackadiasy Nostalgiac, Part Four
Fandom: Lackadaisy
Viktor Vasko/Mordecai Heller
Half a week on, then; the roundhouse shock of Atlas's demise, body found bullet-perforated in an alley, with no one—not even Mordecai—in attendance. Mitzi drifting through the expected motions, ignoring significant looks exchanged in her wake; Ivy red-eyed and feverish; even Rocky Rickaby taken aback, stunned to (sadly momentary) silence. Though rumours flew from every direction, Viktor gave them little credence; as always, who he wanted to hear things from—especially now—was the source, no one else. And in this case, neither of the people he suspected had the most information were talking...one because she chose not to, the other prevented from doing so by his own absence.
So Viktor did whatever he could to keep things running, as the rats began to desert what they already assumed was a sinking ship, but the plain fact was working with Mordecai all these years had spoiled him, to the point where doing things single-handed now felt...odd, blunt, clumsy; maimed, almost. Utterly unnatural.
These days, when he thinks of the way his heart lurched to finally see Mordecai appear at the garage door, these days—so foolishly glad, uncomprehending of the threat, lulled into a false sense of security from having it so seldom turned on him—it makes him want to spit.
“Vhere haf you been?” He demanded, without preamble.
“Packing,” Mordecai replied, in much the same tone—though since that was simply the tone he used, generally, it sent up no red flags. “I have to go. I—wanted to tell you, before I did.”
“Vhat is it you do?”
“Leaving, Viktor; I told you. I have to go.”
“Go vhere? I don't...back to New York?”
“I can't go back to New York, Viktor, do you not understand that? I can never go back. When I want to die, that's when. But right now, even now, I don't want to die. Not yet.”
“So you stay.”
“No, I go.” They stared at each other a moment, both seemingly equally flummoxed by the other's willful lack of understanding. “You could come as well,” Mordecai offered, at last, pointing out what he appeared to think was the obvious, to which Viktor just snorted.
“Vith no job?” He asked.
“I've had offers.”
(And: Oh yes, of course you have. Beautiful little monster, Atlas's deadly-sure secret weapon. Not so many people passing the hat 'round for the big Slovak, though, with the bad knee and only one eye...)
“I don't get offers,” Viktor rumbled; Mordecai made a dismissive gesture, like: Don't be an idiot, idiot. Claiming—
“That wouldn't have to matter. They want me, badly, enough to make concessions; if I told them to take you too, they would.”
(And this is true too, as we both know.)
“Vhat are you saying? Atlas is dead, Mordecai; the Lackadaisy is sinking ship, vithout him. Miss Mitzi, she needs us—“
Mordecai snarled. “'Miss Mitzi'!” He repeated, bitter-furious, mocking his own wounds. Then, with something more like a bad parody of his usual control: “Miss Mitzi...has had all she's going to have from me, for now. I did—well, I did what I had to, my duty, and it's done, and so am I. That's all there is to say. And I can't stay here.”
“Yes, you can, god damn. Atlas—“
“Is dead, just like you said. He may have brought me here, Viktor, but you kept me here; I had a life, even if I didn't want it, not at first. And now he's gone, there's nothing—”
“Noting?”
“...you know what I mean.”
“No, I don't. You don't have to do anyting, you don't vant. So stay, Mordecai—stay here, stay vith me. Stay for me, you care so much—”
“God damn you, no!”
How had things accelerated so quickly? Viktor still doesn't know, a year later. Only that they were struggling when it happened, Viktor trying to overpower him, falling back on old tricks—nose to nose, with Viktor keeping up a constant stream of pleading he could barely remember anymore: Is stupid, come ON, you don't go, don't have to, and I don't go, either...vould this be so bad? And that that, or thereabouts, must have been when Mordecai jerked his gun free—maybe only wanting to warn Viktor away, press it into him so hard he'd have a barrel-shaped bruise somewhere obvious, somewhere inconvenient—but somehow pulled the trigger instead, while it was still pressed to Viktor's "good" knee. The blast like a hellish rim-shot, punctuating the world's worst joke: There, see what you made me do—how about it, golem? Believe I mean what I say now?
Not actually saying any of these things, of course. Simply looking down at him in silence as Viktor flopped, roaring, hands pressed tight under the wound: Stock-still and rigid, his face wiped blank, utterly impenetrable. Until, at last, he straightened his pince-nez—carefully re-setting them at an angle which differed only by miniscule degrees from where they'd been just seconds before—and told him, again without any perceptible emphasis:
“...and now you'll have to leave, after you—when you're better. You'll have to. Can't stay, can't hope to do this sort of work, not with—”
“Jezis, boze moi! You—oh my God, vhat? VHAT?”
“I simply—I just—I—don't look at me that way, Viktor! This is all your fault!”
“How, Christ, may you be fucked by goats? How is it my—”
With a great wrench and roll, he almost made it up, grabbing for Mordecai's pant-leg as the other man skipped back, but the strain was impossible; Viktor fell once more, with less a scream than a groan. Clawed at the floor 'til he finally managed to bring out, between gritted teeth—
“Kill you if I see you again! KILL you, Mordecai!”
“I'll call for the doctor,” was all Mordecai said, neat and cold and clinical as a tray full of spotless steel instruments, on his way out the door.
Fandom: Lackadaisy
Viktor Vasko/Mordecai Heller
Half a week on, then; the roundhouse shock of Atlas's demise, body found bullet-perforated in an alley, with no one—not even Mordecai—in attendance. Mitzi drifting through the expected motions, ignoring significant looks exchanged in her wake; Ivy red-eyed and feverish; even Rocky Rickaby taken aback, stunned to (sadly momentary) silence. Though rumours flew from every direction, Viktor gave them little credence; as always, who he wanted to hear things from—especially now—was the source, no one else. And in this case, neither of the people he suspected had the most information were talking...one because she chose not to, the other prevented from doing so by his own absence.
So Viktor did whatever he could to keep things running, as the rats began to desert what they already assumed was a sinking ship, but the plain fact was working with Mordecai all these years had spoiled him, to the point where doing things single-handed now felt...odd, blunt, clumsy; maimed, almost. Utterly unnatural.
These days, when he thinks of the way his heart lurched to finally see Mordecai appear at the garage door, these days—so foolishly glad, uncomprehending of the threat, lulled into a false sense of security from having it so seldom turned on him—it makes him want to spit.
“Vhere haf you been?” He demanded, without preamble.
“Packing,” Mordecai replied, in much the same tone—though since that was simply the tone he used, generally, it sent up no red flags. “I have to go. I—wanted to tell you, before I did.”
“Vhat is it you do?”
“Leaving, Viktor; I told you. I have to go.”
“Go vhere? I don't...back to New York?”
“I can't go back to New York, Viktor, do you not understand that? I can never go back. When I want to die, that's when. But right now, even now, I don't want to die. Not yet.”
“So you stay.”
“No, I go.” They stared at each other a moment, both seemingly equally flummoxed by the other's willful lack of understanding. “You could come as well,” Mordecai offered, at last, pointing out what he appeared to think was the obvious, to which Viktor just snorted.
“Vith no job?” He asked.
“I've had offers.”
(And: Oh yes, of course you have. Beautiful little monster, Atlas's deadly-sure secret weapon. Not so many people passing the hat 'round for the big Slovak, though, with the bad knee and only one eye...)
“I don't get offers,” Viktor rumbled; Mordecai made a dismissive gesture, like: Don't be an idiot, idiot. Claiming—
“That wouldn't have to matter. They want me, badly, enough to make concessions; if I told them to take you too, they would.”
(And this is true too, as we both know.)
“Vhat are you saying? Atlas is dead, Mordecai; the Lackadaisy is sinking ship, vithout him. Miss Mitzi, she needs us—“
Mordecai snarled. “'Miss Mitzi'!” He repeated, bitter-furious, mocking his own wounds. Then, with something more like a bad parody of his usual control: “Miss Mitzi...has had all she's going to have from me, for now. I did—well, I did what I had to, my duty, and it's done, and so am I. That's all there is to say. And I can't stay here.”
“Yes, you can, god damn. Atlas—“
“Is dead, just like you said. He may have brought me here, Viktor, but you kept me here; I had a life, even if I didn't want it, not at first. And now he's gone, there's nothing—”
“Noting?”
“...you know what I mean.”
“No, I don't. You don't have to do anyting, you don't vant. So stay, Mordecai—stay here, stay vith me. Stay for me, you care so much—”
“God damn you, no!”
How had things accelerated so quickly? Viktor still doesn't know, a year later. Only that they were struggling when it happened, Viktor trying to overpower him, falling back on old tricks—nose to nose, with Viktor keeping up a constant stream of pleading he could barely remember anymore: Is stupid, come ON, you don't go, don't have to, and I don't go, either...vould this be so bad? And that that, or thereabouts, must have been when Mordecai jerked his gun free—maybe only wanting to warn Viktor away, press it into him so hard he'd have a barrel-shaped bruise somewhere obvious, somewhere inconvenient—but somehow pulled the trigger instead, while it was still pressed to Viktor's "good" knee. The blast like a hellish rim-shot, punctuating the world's worst joke: There, see what you made me do—how about it, golem? Believe I mean what I say now?
Not actually saying any of these things, of course. Simply looking down at him in silence as Viktor flopped, roaring, hands pressed tight under the wound: Stock-still and rigid, his face wiped blank, utterly impenetrable. Until, at last, he straightened his pince-nez—carefully re-setting them at an angle which differed only by miniscule degrees from where they'd been just seconds before—and told him, again without any perceptible emphasis:
“...and now you'll have to leave, after you—when you're better. You'll have to. Can't stay, can't hope to do this sort of work, not with—”
“Jezis, boze moi! You—oh my God, vhat? VHAT?”
“I simply—I just—I—don't look at me that way, Viktor! This is all your fault!”
“How, Christ, may you be fucked by goats? How is it my—”
With a great wrench and roll, he almost made it up, grabbing for Mordecai's pant-leg as the other man skipped back, but the strain was impossible; Viktor fell once more, with less a scream than a groan. Clawed at the floor 'til he finally managed to bring out, between gritted teeth—
“Kill you if I see you again! KILL you, Mordecai!”
“I'll call for the doctor,” was all Mordecai said, neat and cold and clinical as a tray full of spotless steel instruments, on his way out the door.
