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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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.