Aaaand...DONE.
Jan. 31st, 2012 03:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
handful_ofdustLackadiasy Nostalgiac, Part Five
Fandom: Lackadaisy
Viktor Vasko/Mordecai Heller
1927:
So here he is today, taking yet one more engine apart in the very same garage, where he always seems to find himself—that or downstairs, attempting to play barkeep for a nightly “crowd” of five to none. Wondering what on earth Rocky and that cousin of his could possibly have done to rile the man who used to own this truck of “his” up so explosively, not to mention what they ended up doing with his body, after they discovered it; he hopes it was them, anyhow. Since they probably only figured it out once the man began to smell, and he if he had to wish that particular surprise on anyone, he'd prefer it didn't turn out to be Ivy Pepper.
And hurting, at the same time, always: Everywhere, inside and out—all day and most of the night, with little recompense, no relief. Like it is, in fact, his job.
Still, the tricks a pain-dazed mind plays on itself can at least provide distraction. Just last night, he only now remembers, he dreamt that Mordecai Heller came stealing into his room on silent feet, stripped off and got into bed with him, fitted his body along the side of Viktor's and dug his face into the crook of Viktor's neck, where the pulse pounds. And then fell asleep, fast and deep as any child.
More a memory than a dream, he supposes; six of one, half-dozen of the other. And something he used to think would never happen again, ever, though after certain events of the last few weeks, he's no longer quite so sure.
Viktor comes to with a spanner in his hand, having probably loosened and re-tightened the same nuts several times in a row. Sighing, he puts the tool back down and takes up his cane instead, hobbling for the back door—maybe he'll eat lunch, then try again. And at first he thinks he's still fooling himself, because the closer he gets to the door-knob, the more distinctly he seems to hear voices, one of which might be Mordecai's—hard to tell, though, because (on further reflection) it's more like two voices, or maybe four: One woman's, unamused, plus another woman's, very amused indeed. And the same again, except with two men.
He turns the knob and puts his shoulder to the door, leaning on it hard enough to grunt, until it opens to reveal—God Almighty, yes: Mordecai, trenchcoat buttoned up to his habitual red tie, hat in hand (he always removes it when talking to a lady), trying his best not to react as Ivy pokes him in the chest, twisting her finger like a dagger. Behind him are two people who Viktor's never seen before: Siblings if similarity of feature is anything to go by, not to mentioned similarly well-dressed, covertly armed and leaned up lazily against the car they all must have come in, trading jokes in a language that sounds something like French, but not quite.
“I'm not sure why this all has to be so dramatic, Miss Pepper,” Mordecai is saying. “I need to talk with Viktor, that's all; I've done it before, and recently.”
“Yeah? Well...you can't do it now! Viktor doesn't want to see you, Mister Heller, so the sooner you get that through your thick—”
“I'd much prefer to hear that from him.”
“And I'd much prefer you leave before things get ugly, you and your two—who is it these mooks are, exactly?”
Sister raises her high-plucked eyebrows, while brother gives a great, charming guffaw. “Us?” She drawls, like Ivy's the cutest thing she's seen today. “All you got to know 'bout us, p'tite, is we work wit' Mister Heller, jus' lak you use to. 'Cept fo' a different flower.”
Ivy bristles, shooting back: “I never worked with him, thank you very much!” To which Mordecai simply nods, and replies—
“That's right, you never did; simply benefitted from the work we carried out, Viktor and I, on your uncle's behalf. Just like him.”
“Don't you talk about my uncle, you—”
“Dievka,” Viktor says warningly, from right behind her, making her jump and the other three turn. Brother and sister both look him up and down, frankly appraising, after which brother gives an appreciative whistle, while sister fans herself ostentatiously. Remarking, a moment later, to Mordecai: “Dis him? Ooh la! He ain' dat old.”
Now it's Mordecai's turn to raise a brow. And: “Yes, well,” he replies. “What did I tell you?”
“Not much, peekon, lak always.” With a flirtatious glance Viktor's way: “Guess you use to dat, dough, prob'ly. Ain' dat right, Slovak man?”
Viktor shrugs, provoking a flurry of fresh laughter; the two of them have themselves a grand time finding comedy at Mordecai's expense, while Mordecai himself studies his watch, utterly unperturbed. Caught between, Ivy obviously doesn't even know which way to stand so she can see everybody at once, let alone how to react to the spectacle.
“Mais, we fine wit' dat, us,” brother finally concludes. To Ivy: “So, mousie—you serve un bonne repas' in dis Little Daisy of yours, is what I hear. True, dat?”
He's already taken a step towards her, straightening up, and Viktor watches her shiver in his shadow, less with fear than with fascination. “We, uh...” she begins. “...well, the stove isn't on, I don't think.”
“Oh, I'm good wit' stoves, me. Let me in, I fix it up for you real nice.”
“I don't—”
“Aw, c'mon now, cher, what it's gon' hurt? Give dem two time to get re-acquaint', wit no interruption.”
Have her pinned between them now, one on each arm, a sight which might make Viktor bristle if sister wasn't giving him a wink at the same time, or if Mordecai weren't so relaxed around them, either. Relaxed as he ever is, at any rate: Business relaxed, with just the tiniest smidgen of something more...familiar. Which means he must trust them, in his own odd way—as far as they can throw him, at any rate.
And should the implications make Viktor jealous? Hardly. It's been a year, after all; Mordecai's a grown man, well able to defend himself and fully capable of making his own decisions. Not to mention how—going strictly by the pair's male half's effect on Ivy, along with that of its female half on Viktor himself—these two seem as though they might well be...difficult to resist, in general.
But then again...
...he did come back to me, first, Viktor can't quite keep himself from thinking. As though that really means anything.
“Eep,” is all Ivy really has time to say, vaguely, before they hustle her off through the Little Daisy Cafe kitchen door. And then it's just Viktor and Mordecai, alone at last—Viktor stepping back, holding the garage door open once more; Mordecai inclining his head, dignified as ever, and stepping through past him, graciously allowing Viktor to block the only exit.
Fandom: Lackadaisy
Viktor Vasko/Mordecai Heller
1927:
So here he is today, taking yet one more engine apart in the very same garage, where he always seems to find himself—that or downstairs, attempting to play barkeep for a nightly “crowd” of five to none. Wondering what on earth Rocky and that cousin of his could possibly have done to rile the man who used to own this truck of “his” up so explosively, not to mention what they ended up doing with his body, after they discovered it; he hopes it was them, anyhow. Since they probably only figured it out once the man began to smell, and he if he had to wish that particular surprise on anyone, he'd prefer it didn't turn out to be Ivy Pepper.
And hurting, at the same time, always: Everywhere, inside and out—all day and most of the night, with little recompense, no relief. Like it is, in fact, his job.
Still, the tricks a pain-dazed mind plays on itself can at least provide distraction. Just last night, he only now remembers, he dreamt that Mordecai Heller came stealing into his room on silent feet, stripped off and got into bed with him, fitted his body along the side of Viktor's and dug his face into the crook of Viktor's neck, where the pulse pounds. And then fell asleep, fast and deep as any child.
More a memory than a dream, he supposes; six of one, half-dozen of the other. And something he used to think would never happen again, ever, though after certain events of the last few weeks, he's no longer quite so sure.
Viktor comes to with a spanner in his hand, having probably loosened and re-tightened the same nuts several times in a row. Sighing, he puts the tool back down and takes up his cane instead, hobbling for the back door—maybe he'll eat lunch, then try again. And at first he thinks he's still fooling himself, because the closer he gets to the door-knob, the more distinctly he seems to hear voices, one of which might be Mordecai's—hard to tell, though, because (on further reflection) it's more like two voices, or maybe four: One woman's, unamused, plus another woman's, very amused indeed. And the same again, except with two men.
He turns the knob and puts his shoulder to the door, leaning on it hard enough to grunt, until it opens to reveal—God Almighty, yes: Mordecai, trenchcoat buttoned up to his habitual red tie, hat in hand (he always removes it when talking to a lady), trying his best not to react as Ivy pokes him in the chest, twisting her finger like a dagger. Behind him are two people who Viktor's never seen before: Siblings if similarity of feature is anything to go by, not to mentioned similarly well-dressed, covertly armed and leaned up lazily against the car they all must have come in, trading jokes in a language that sounds something like French, but not quite.
“I'm not sure why this all has to be so dramatic, Miss Pepper,” Mordecai is saying. “I need to talk with Viktor, that's all; I've done it before, and recently.”
“Yeah? Well...you can't do it now! Viktor doesn't want to see you, Mister Heller, so the sooner you get that through your thick—”
“I'd much prefer to hear that from him.”
“And I'd much prefer you leave before things get ugly, you and your two—who is it these mooks are, exactly?”
Sister raises her high-plucked eyebrows, while brother gives a great, charming guffaw. “Us?” She drawls, like Ivy's the cutest thing she's seen today. “All you got to know 'bout us, p'tite, is we work wit' Mister Heller, jus' lak you use to. 'Cept fo' a different flower.”
Ivy bristles, shooting back: “I never worked with him, thank you very much!” To which Mordecai simply nods, and replies—
“That's right, you never did; simply benefitted from the work we carried out, Viktor and I, on your uncle's behalf. Just like him.”
“Don't you talk about my uncle, you—”
“Dievka,” Viktor says warningly, from right behind her, making her jump and the other three turn. Brother and sister both look him up and down, frankly appraising, after which brother gives an appreciative whistle, while sister fans herself ostentatiously. Remarking, a moment later, to Mordecai: “Dis him? Ooh la! He ain' dat old.”
Now it's Mordecai's turn to raise a brow. And: “Yes, well,” he replies. “What did I tell you?”
“Not much, peekon, lak always.” With a flirtatious glance Viktor's way: “Guess you use to dat, dough, prob'ly. Ain' dat right, Slovak man?”
Viktor shrugs, provoking a flurry of fresh laughter; the two of them have themselves a grand time finding comedy at Mordecai's expense, while Mordecai himself studies his watch, utterly unperturbed. Caught between, Ivy obviously doesn't even know which way to stand so she can see everybody at once, let alone how to react to the spectacle.
“Mais, we fine wit' dat, us,” brother finally concludes. To Ivy: “So, mousie—you serve un bonne repas' in dis Little Daisy of yours, is what I hear. True, dat?”
He's already taken a step towards her, straightening up, and Viktor watches her shiver in his shadow, less with fear than with fascination. “We, uh...” she begins. “...well, the stove isn't on, I don't think.”
“Oh, I'm good wit' stoves, me. Let me in, I fix it up for you real nice.”
“I don't—”
“Aw, c'mon now, cher, what it's gon' hurt? Give dem two time to get re-acquaint', wit no interruption.”
Have her pinned between them now, one on each arm, a sight which might make Viktor bristle if sister wasn't giving him a wink at the same time, or if Mordecai weren't so relaxed around them, either. Relaxed as he ever is, at any rate: Business relaxed, with just the tiniest smidgen of something more...familiar. Which means he must trust them, in his own odd way—as far as they can throw him, at any rate.
And should the implications make Viktor jealous? Hardly. It's been a year, after all; Mordecai's a grown man, well able to defend himself and fully capable of making his own decisions. Not to mention how—going strictly by the pair's male half's effect on Ivy, along with that of its female half on Viktor himself—these two seem as though they might well be...difficult to resist, in general.
But then again...
...he did come back to me, first, Viktor can't quite keep himself from thinking. As though that really means anything.
“Eep,” is all Ivy really has time to say, vaguely, before they hustle her off through the Little Daisy Cafe kitchen door. And then it's just Viktor and Mordecai, alone at last—Viktor stepping back, holding the garage door open once more; Mordecai inclining his head, dignified as ever, and stepping through past him, graciously allowing Viktor to block the only exit.
