One-thousand, six-hundred-and-thirty. The first thousand is the suit itself; three-hundred-twenty for that shirt with the single-stitch tailoring. Shoes, belt, tie to make up the remainder. Smecker leans back in his chair, mentally adjusting his estimate a few dollars when he notes how well the suit moves with Shore's shoulders.
It's rare he has a day off from the Bureau. Hours snatched at a time, and yes to a degree he has autonomy of schedule, but the cost of the life is the knowledge that at any minute the phone may ring with the call and the indisputable summons to the latest abattoir. At least in the Judeo-Christian mythology, the demon goes from hell to earth, not the other way around.
Still, days off do occur. Before, he would have done music, the Boston Philharmonic or an opera. Or driven along the coast until the city was behind him and the only lines the organic chemistry of dune grass, surf, sea, sky.
Before what is of course the question begged. Before what? Descended angels of the Lord's own vengeance? (He's decided Alan Shore had a point; they may do God's work but They Are Not Saints. Angels then.) Before; before he met them. This is the way the world is delineated now; there is before them and there is after them.
There is also before Alan, and there is now. Before Alan Shore, he would not spend a day off in sliding unobtrusively into the last row of seats in a courtroom and watching the lawyer do what he does so very well. Spin a golden vista of words and rhetoric from the base straw of a less-than-golden case; string out a damn impressive line of coke for the jury to inhale. It is not unakin to watching a magician with the cups and balls, and Paul's sharp enough, has always been sharp enough, to know how the trick is done, but where that would normally ruin the fun, now he leans back and watches Alan Shore methodically and brilliantly change every one of the twelve minds that matter.
He's also sharp enough to see that Shore had to fight his own conscience down for every word that comes out in defense of the large chemical corporation. On the FBI agent's face with its sharp-slashed cheekbones and mouth, a brief crocodile grin manifests; it might conceivably be in pity.
Alan's wearing seventy-five more dollars than he himself is, he concludes, while propping his foot against the top back of the chair before him (for no other purpose than to evoke the irritated, disapproving glares of those around him). Seventy-five more dollars, an impassioned expression as he argues and argues well, and smoothly buried, oh so smoothly buried-- if Paul Smecker did not now know what Alan Shore looks like with that one-thousand dollar armor off him, without anything at all in fact, he thinks he might have missed it too-- so very smoothly buried beneath all that, Alan wears a considerable weight of self-loathing and desperation. Nobody wants to be done with the case and out of this courtroom more than Alan does at the moment, even in this moment where he is skilfully playing at the very top of his game with his closing arguments.
He wonders if Alan intends to get drunk after this. It seems very likely. Paul Smecker's eyes slide shut, lazily, as if he's dozing in the afternoon sunlight that streams in the courtroom windows, and he muses on how long it will take before they, Alan's firm, Alan's whole six-figure leather-seat world, ask him to bend that fraction too far. The Amazing Rubber Man.
Shore has an excellent voice and better delivery. Smecker lets the nuances and tone slip into his mind without bothering as to the actual words. Opera. Solo. His fingers tap the beat against his thigh, his suit trousers, almost as nice as Alan's...
They are not all that terribly unalike, are they, to the casual eye. Professional men; Paul does the smirk as unconscious accompaniment. Professional, intelligent, ethical men in a world that cares nothing for their ethics, and only for their intelligence as it can be exploited. Both seeking refuge in the crisp lines of the profession and the crisper lines of Prada or whoever it is this week and the very-crisp-indeed lines of black ink lurking in law books. Smecker wears the gun at the small of his back even off-duty but his weapon of choice is the word and so is Shore's; the quick cut-and-touch, the insinuation and the contemptuous malice that can be disguised as just amusing in a world that doesn't care to take them seriously.
They are not all that terribly unalike.
Shore believes in God, though. Paul's noted that. He wants to treat that with the same snide backslap he delivers to the twins' natural, simple, inbred fucking faith, but Shore would do what the twins wouldn't know enough to, even if they knew how to be cruel-- call him on it, turn it back on him with the swift sideways sting of knowledge-- so he refrains, not so far-fucking-gone that self-preservation is beyond him.
Strong sense of self-preservation that somehow manages to throb right alongside the self-destruction. Ohh yes, he and Shore have their similarities.
Paul Smecker bets they have had some similar experiences and similar steps on the paths to their law degrees and thousand-dollar suits. But Alan wound up here in the courtroom, strangling down already-bruised ethics for the sake of a case he can't possibly care about or believe in, and Paul wound up here in the courtroom, familiar press of holster at the small of his back and such a shiny badge at his belt. Paul deciphers bullet trajectories, which are straight and brutal, and Alan bends himself to be able to speak circuitous predatory subterfuge. Blood versus ink.
Eyes still sleepily closed, Paul flips the question around (as a lawyer would do) and points out that he has his share of ink on his own hands as well. So many documents. So many carefully-gauged reports and playing politics for the career, because it's the self-preservation bitch again, the same bitch that drives Alan. Whatever else, they'll each survive, always; always be able to handle everything anyone can throw at them, everything and anything at all. The system will never break Paul Smecker or Alan Shore; each man is reserving that right solely for himself.
"What are you doing here?" Alan's voice would not be considered 'ragged' to the casual ear, but Paul's ear is far from casual. He opens his eyes slowly, to realize the trial has ended and the courtroom has entirely emptied while he was indulging in the mental catalogue. Paul blinks and sits up straight, tilting his neck to get out a small crack. "Who won?"
Shore shifts, a whole-body thing that is minute yet conveys his total lack of interest in the question. "My client. I repeat. What are you doing here?"
Paul looks up at him, standing there, briefcase in one hand, not a hair out of place but a hollowed look around his eyes and a grim set to the line of his lips, and thinks that for Alan, ink and blood may be indistinguishable.
"Making sure I'm still better dressed than you. Come on, let's get you something to drink."
He doesn't know what it's a sign of that Shore just looks at him, then nods, doesn't argue, doesn't smirk and snap back with something tart and amusing. Perhaps a red flag as to how far Alan's already bent, how close he is to the snap. Perhaps a sign of how tired Alan is.
Perhaps Alan's just grateful, and doesn't know how else to say it.
Fuck! This was supposed to be a porny drabble! Jesus H.
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no subject
It's rare he has a day off from the Bureau. Hours snatched at a time, and yes to a degree he has autonomy of schedule, but the cost of the life is the knowledge that at any minute the phone may ring with the call and the indisputable summons to the latest abattoir. At least in the Judeo-Christian mythology, the demon goes from hell to earth, not the other way around.
Still, days off do occur. Before, he would have done music, the Boston Philharmonic or an opera. Or driven along the coast until the city was behind him and the only lines the organic chemistry of dune grass, surf, sea, sky.
Before what is of course the question begged. Before what? Descended angels of the Lord's own vengeance? (He's decided Alan Shore had a point; they may do God's work but They Are Not Saints. Angels then.) Before; before he met them. This is the way the world is delineated now; there is before them and there is after them.
There is also before Alan, and there is now. Before Alan Shore, he would not spend a day off in sliding unobtrusively into the last row of seats in a courtroom and watching the lawyer do what he does so very well. Spin a golden vista of words and rhetoric from the base straw of a less-than-golden case; string out a damn impressive line of coke for the jury to inhale. It is not unakin to watching a magician with the cups and balls, and Paul's sharp enough, has always been sharp enough, to know how the trick is done, but where that would normally ruin the fun, now he leans back and watches Alan Shore methodically and brilliantly change every one of the twelve minds that matter.
He's also sharp enough to see that Shore had to fight his own conscience down for every word that comes out in defense of the large chemical corporation. On the FBI agent's face with its sharp-slashed cheekbones and mouth, a brief crocodile grin manifests; it might conceivably be in pity.
Alan's wearing seventy-five more dollars than he himself is, he concludes, while propping his foot against the top back of the chair before him (for no other purpose than to evoke the irritated, disapproving glares of those around him). Seventy-five more dollars, an impassioned expression as he argues and argues well, and smoothly buried, oh so smoothly buried-- if Paul Smecker did not now know what Alan Shore looks like with that one-thousand dollar armor off him, without anything at all in fact, he thinks he might have missed it too-- so very smoothly buried beneath all that, Alan wears a considerable weight of self-loathing and desperation. Nobody wants to be done with the case and out of this courtroom more than Alan does at the moment, even in this moment where he is skilfully playing at the very top of his game with his closing arguments.
He wonders if Alan intends to get drunk after this. It seems very likely. Paul Smecker's eyes slide shut, lazily, as if he's dozing in the afternoon sunlight that streams in the courtroom windows, and he muses on how long it will take before they, Alan's firm, Alan's whole six-figure leather-seat world, ask him to bend that fraction too far. The Amazing Rubber Man.
I hate you, LJ
They are not all that terribly unalike, are they, to the casual eye. Professional men; Paul does the smirk as unconscious accompaniment. Professional, intelligent, ethical men in a world that cares nothing for their ethics, and only for their intelligence as it can be exploited. Both seeking refuge in the crisp lines of the profession and the crisper lines of Prada or whoever it is this week and the very-crisp-indeed lines of black ink lurking in law books. Smecker wears the gun at the small of his back even off-duty but his weapon of choice is the word and so is Shore's; the quick cut-and-touch, the insinuation and the contemptuous malice that can be disguised as just amusing in a world that doesn't care to take them seriously.
They are not all that terribly unalike.
Shore believes in God, though. Paul's noted that. He wants to treat that with the same snide backslap he delivers to the twins' natural, simple, inbred fucking faith, but Shore would do what the twins wouldn't know enough to, even if they knew how to be cruel-- call him on it, turn it back on him with the swift sideways sting of knowledge-- so he refrains, not so far-fucking-gone that self-preservation is beyond him.
Strong sense of self-preservation that somehow manages to throb right alongside the self-destruction. Ohh yes, he and Shore have their similarities.
Paul Smecker bets they have had some similar experiences and similar steps on the paths to their law degrees and thousand-dollar suits. But Alan wound up here in the courtroom, strangling down already-bruised ethics for the sake of a case he can't possibly care about or believe in, and Paul wound up here in the courtroom, familiar press of holster at the small of his back and such a shiny badge at his belt. Paul deciphers bullet trajectories, which are straight and brutal, and Alan bends himself to be able to speak circuitous predatory subterfuge. Blood versus ink.
Eyes still sleepily closed, Paul flips the question around (as a lawyer would do) and points out that he has his share of ink on his own hands as well. So many documents. So many carefully-gauged reports and playing politics for the career, because it's the self-preservation bitch again, the same bitch that drives Alan. Whatever else, they'll each survive, always; always be able to handle everything anyone can throw at them, everything and anything at all. The system will never break Paul Smecker or Alan Shore; each man is reserving that right solely for himself.
"What are you doing here?" Alan's voice would not be considered 'ragged' to the casual ear, but Paul's ear is far from casual. He opens his eyes slowly, to realize the trial has ended and the courtroom has entirely emptied while he was indulging in the mental catalogue. Paul blinks and sits up straight, tilting his neck to get out a small crack. "Who won?"
Shore shifts, a whole-body thing that is minute yet conveys his total lack of interest in the question. "My client. I repeat. What are you doing here?"
Paul looks up at him, standing there, briefcase in one hand, not a hair out of place but a hollowed look around his eyes and a grim set to the line of his lips, and thinks that for Alan, ink and blood may be indistinguishable.
"Making sure I'm still better dressed than you. Come on, let's get you something to drink."
He doesn't know what it's a sign of that Shore just looks at him, then nods, doesn't argue, doesn't smirk and snap back with something tart and amusing. Perhaps a red flag as to how far Alan's already bent, how close he is to the snap. Perhaps a sign of how tired Alan is.
Perhaps Alan's just grateful, and doesn't know how else to say it.
Fuck! This was supposed to be a porny drabble! Jesus H.