Amory Felix (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fatespoken) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tampered2010-11-30 09:22 pm
fatespoken) wrote in tampered2010-11-30 09:22 pm
log | [ completed ]
When; monday night.
Rating; pg
Characters; Amory (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fatespoken ) and Charlotte (sarcodes )
Summary; Old friends, a hospital room and small talk.
Log;
By some miracle, Amory had become a model patient. The doctors could do what they needed to do. He had adopted an inscrutable mask without fuss or fidget. Simple, straightforward responses were the kernel of his conversation—nods of the head, yes’s and no’s—as if everything else had been scraped out and thrown out with the chaff. He stood on the periphery, detached and languid. What motivation was there for him to be in his body? There was the click of his jaw, the muffled pain of two ruined legs, all the creakings and groanings of a body too human. Death clattered against its thoughts and stymied its machine, and then the doors-- the doors had been thrown open, windows left unshut and cabinets rifled without constancy to tend its hallways.
“You’re a fool, Amory. Always too obsessed with your own pride. As long as it’s your truth, you’ll believe it. Common sense would cost you less.”
“Cut the lecture crap.”
It was enough of an opening for her to force her way in. He had a reason to hate Charlotte—a person can find a reason to hate everyone, really—but a desperate man needs a reminder. And she had come hastily, arriving in perfection as she always did; lingering notes of Chanel N°5 soured by hospital disinfectant; dark blue draped silk and heels in clean, black symmetry. He wonders how she got in-- if he’s even allowed visitors now, under this clinical lockdown. Aren’t there rules? A man in a prison cell would have more freedom than an invalid stuck in a hospital bed. But she had managed her way in as she always does, whether manipulated by guile or artful charm. And she had brought flowers, setting the lilies on the table next to Lady Death’s white chrysanthemums. They had made him scowl his first scowl of the week, and thus the dissipated Amory Felix made a lukewarm return.
“You delude yourself,” she says, calmly, arranging the last of the flowers with a careful hand. “And you worry me.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
“You let me in.”
“So what then?” he bites back, as he sinks further the bed. There’s a head ache driving bolts into his head, and the steady gnaw of dull pain pulsing through his gums. He’s been clenching his jaw, he realizes. “What do you want?”
“ You have a reason. You would have yelled at them to keep me out, if it was not the case.”
“I have poor judgment. You said it yourself."
“I didn’t come here to argue. Not when you are—“
“Not when I’m what? Human? That I’m not your kid ideal, anymore?”
Charlotte pushes in a sigh, pressing fingers—the second and the middle—against her forehead. Have you ever tried to mold hard clay? It was a very similar motion when it came to dealing with Amory, as it always has been. It takes a troop of men to knock down the wall of fortified castle. With this boy, it took a woman who knew exactly what she was doing.
“You are being overly dramatic. Unnecessarily bellicose, entirely juvenile.”
“I see your eyes. You’re trying not to look; you’re trying to study me even if your curiosity’s failing you. You’re looking at me now,” he questions, straightening his back as he turns to stare at her, wide eyed—a flicker half-traversed to lunacy. “Yes, Charlotte. This is my mortality. It’s an ugly thing. Can you see it? Isn’t it a bitch?” His words grind against his throat, sore and unused, but they’re made out sharp and exacting.
“You’re scared, Amory.”
“You’re giving me a reason to be angry."
“And you only find a need to be this nasty when there’s something to protect. Needles and shells, it is all the same with you.”
“I’m not—“
“All I need is a glance. You may call that face indifference, but how long have I know you? You’re frightened. “
“I’m sick. Hard to look decent when your body’s off trying to destroy itself.”
She leans against the table beside his bed, crossing one leg in front of the other, clasping laced hands against her stomach.
“You blind yourself until it’s too late, until you are lying here mangled—“
“Are you suggesting it’s entirely my fault? That I did something stupid enough to warrant two bullets in the thighs? No, of course not,” he interrupts. Fingers bend into the sheets, pulling them tight into their grip. “There’s a psychopath out there who’s either got too much brotherly love for his partner, or a hard on for a little bitch. Both are the same for me.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Then what? What do you want, Charlotte? I’m tired.”
“I would ask you to tell me who it was.”
There’s silence after she speaks, and she turns to him—mouth slightly ajar, enough for white teeth to make their presence known. She worries. Of course she worries, with such a folly under her care.
“Why? So you can rip out his throat?” He raises an eyebrow at her. Maybe he’s still being facetious.
“Not that crass, Amory. Talk to me properly.”
“Revenge would be a cyclical affair. He takes revenge on me, I take revenge on him, and we’ll start bloody paradigm.” Looking at her, he can’t help but linger on her face. More spoken in a single visage than words could support. His shoulders fall back against the pillow, as he continues to look at her, waiting for her to speak.
“I will not.”
“But you would, if I asked. You would rip out his heart if I asked, even though you know I dislike you.”
“You don’t dislike me,” she responds, softly. For a moment, Charlotte appears like a burning figure under the bright glare of hospital fluorescents, until a few steps closer bring her to a soft clarity. She leans toward him and lifts a hand to his cheek, tracing fingers lightly—hovering, nearly—above the marks cut into his face. “You have only gotten worse at lying.”
He doesn’t fidget. He doesn’t push her away, but lets her fingers take their place. Silence seems appropriate now, as much as uncertainty seems appropriate, when he leans his head forward to kiss her. The pressure stings the cuts against his lip, and there’s again the dull throb of his jaw--- all ignored as they assume a familiar position.
“Why do you always do this?”
“Do what?”
“Nevermind."
Rating; pg
Characters; Amory (
fatespoken ) and Charlotte (sarcodes )Summary; Old friends, a hospital room and small talk.
Log;
By some miracle, Amory had become a model patient. The doctors could do what they needed to do. He had adopted an inscrutable mask without fuss or fidget. Simple, straightforward responses were the kernel of his conversation—nods of the head, yes’s and no’s—as if everything else had been scraped out and thrown out with the chaff. He stood on the periphery, detached and languid. What motivation was there for him to be in his body? There was the click of his jaw, the muffled pain of two ruined legs, all the creakings and groanings of a body too human. Death clattered against its thoughts and stymied its machine, and then the doors-- the doors had been thrown open, windows left unshut and cabinets rifled without constancy to tend its hallways.
“You’re a fool, Amory. Always too obsessed with your own pride. As long as it’s your truth, you’ll believe it. Common sense would cost you less.”
“Cut the lecture crap.”
It was enough of an opening for her to force her way in. He had a reason to hate Charlotte—a person can find a reason to hate everyone, really—but a desperate man needs a reminder. And she had come hastily, arriving in perfection as she always did; lingering notes of Chanel N°5 soured by hospital disinfectant; dark blue draped silk and heels in clean, black symmetry. He wonders how she got in-- if he’s even allowed visitors now, under this clinical lockdown. Aren’t there rules? A man in a prison cell would have more freedom than an invalid stuck in a hospital bed. But she had managed her way in as she always does, whether manipulated by guile or artful charm. And she had brought flowers, setting the lilies on the table next to Lady Death’s white chrysanthemums. They had made him scowl his first scowl of the week, and thus the dissipated Amory Felix made a lukewarm return.
“You delude yourself,” she says, calmly, arranging the last of the flowers with a careful hand. “And you worry me.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
“You let me in.”
“So what then?” he bites back, as he sinks further the bed. There’s a head ache driving bolts into his head, and the steady gnaw of dull pain pulsing through his gums. He’s been clenching his jaw, he realizes. “What do you want?”
“ You have a reason. You would have yelled at them to keep me out, if it was not the case.”
“I have poor judgment. You said it yourself."
“I didn’t come here to argue. Not when you are—“
“Not when I’m what? Human? That I’m not your kid ideal, anymore?”
Charlotte pushes in a sigh, pressing fingers—the second and the middle—against her forehead. Have you ever tried to mold hard clay? It was a very similar motion when it came to dealing with Amory, as it always has been. It takes a troop of men to knock down the wall of fortified castle. With this boy, it took a woman who knew exactly what she was doing.
“You are being overly dramatic. Unnecessarily bellicose, entirely juvenile.”
“I see your eyes. You’re trying not to look; you’re trying to study me even if your curiosity’s failing you. You’re looking at me now,” he questions, straightening his back as he turns to stare at her, wide eyed—a flicker half-traversed to lunacy. “Yes, Charlotte. This is my mortality. It’s an ugly thing. Can you see it? Isn’t it a bitch?” His words grind against his throat, sore and unused, but they’re made out sharp and exacting.
“You’re scared, Amory.”
“You’re giving me a reason to be angry."
“And you only find a need to be this nasty when there’s something to protect. Needles and shells, it is all the same with you.”
“I’m not—“
“All I need is a glance. You may call that face indifference, but how long have I know you? You’re frightened. “
“I’m sick. Hard to look decent when your body’s off trying to destroy itself.”
She leans against the table beside his bed, crossing one leg in front of the other, clasping laced hands against her stomach.
“You blind yourself until it’s too late, until you are lying here mangled—“
“Are you suggesting it’s entirely my fault? That I did something stupid enough to warrant two bullets in the thighs? No, of course not,” he interrupts. Fingers bend into the sheets, pulling them tight into their grip. “There’s a psychopath out there who’s either got too much brotherly love for his partner, or a hard on for a little bitch. Both are the same for me.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Then what? What do you want, Charlotte? I’m tired.”
“I would ask you to tell me who it was.”
There’s silence after she speaks, and she turns to him—mouth slightly ajar, enough for white teeth to make their presence known. She worries. Of course she worries, with such a folly under her care.
“Why? So you can rip out his throat?” He raises an eyebrow at her. Maybe he’s still being facetious.
“Not that crass, Amory. Talk to me properly.”
“Revenge would be a cyclical affair. He takes revenge on me, I take revenge on him, and we’ll start bloody paradigm.” Looking at her, he can’t help but linger on her face. More spoken in a single visage than words could support. His shoulders fall back against the pillow, as he continues to look at her, waiting for her to speak.
“I will not.”
“But you would, if I asked. You would rip out his heart if I asked, even though you know I dislike you.”
“You don’t dislike me,” she responds, softly. For a moment, Charlotte appears like a burning figure under the bright glare of hospital fluorescents, until a few steps closer bring her to a soft clarity. She leans toward him and lifts a hand to his cheek, tracing fingers lightly—hovering, nearly—above the marks cut into his face. “You have only gotten worse at lying.”
He doesn’t fidget. He doesn’t push her away, but lets her fingers take their place. Silence seems appropriate now, as much as uncertainty seems appropriate, when he leans his head forward to kiss her. The pressure stings the cuts against his lip, and there’s again the dull throb of his jaw--- all ignored as they assume a familiar position.
“Why do you always do this?”
“Do what?”
“Nevermind."