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3pipeproblemMore Matchstick Men fic. The CoaDM is on its way, it's just harder to write because Chuck Barris doesn't reside in my skull. Thank God. Written for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
contrelamontre's fight challenge in 47 minutes. It's a little odd, flipping back and forth between past and present, because Frank and Roy fight (or bicker, at least) all the time, and I couldn't see them hitting one another or anything, but I wanted to do something different. Although I was tempted to have them get into a food fight. Anyway, takes place waaaay before the events of the film. And I'm aware that the cut tag is evil ;)
"What the hell were you thinking?" Roy doesn't look at him, even, stares fixedly at the road and strikes the steering wheel. It shudders under the force of his hand, and Frank thinks he knows how it feels.
"Fuck. Fuck, man, I'm sorry." Saying it makes Frank seethe, because he means it and he suspects Roy won't give a fuck.
Roy laughs bitterly. "You're sorry. That's great. You know, we're supposed to be able to work together. It's not even a principle of con artistry. It's common sense. Ever played bridge? Know how to read your partner!"
Out of the corner of his eye, Frank watched Roy shuffle the cards, his fingers working them delicately, barely brushing the flimsy plastic surfaces. Roy had long, thin fingers, perfect for any number of cons, as well as pickpocketing or playing the piano. Frank watched those fingers flip cards over, throw them down, sweep them off the table. When he got up the nerve to look at Roy's face, the man was completely absorbed, totally unaware of his cigarette raining ash over the table.
"It was our first time out..." Frank says, stops himself before he sounds like a whiny teenager at the end of a bad date. He looks over at Roy, who hasn't so much as glanced at him during the course of the entire conversation. Not that it matters, because he's wearing those damned sunglasses again. "You aren't even looking at me," he mutters.
Roy nods angrily. Nods at the window, as if they share an understanding. "No. I'm not. And just to clarify, Frank, in case you're having trouble reading me, I'm angry. I am upset. I am this close to dropping you off at your apartment and never coming back."
The people poured in and out of the diner, talking and laughing, flirting with the waitresses and demanding that their steaks be cooked longer. Roy was silent, the only sound he made the gentle inhalation of smoke, teasing it from the cigarette like money from a mark. Frank scrambled for a cigarette of his own, was cleaning out his pockets in desperate search of match when Roy, still shuffling the cards, held up a hand. "Only one smoker."
"Yeah, okay...partner." Frank said the word deliberately, looked to Roy for a reaction. Got none.
"Look, I fucked it up. I admit it." Which is more than Frank usually does, but Roy doesn't know that. Roy just knows Frank can't run a simple short con. Can't look away from his partner long enough to read the mark. All Roy knows about Frank is that he wears obnoxious clothes and sports an attitude to match. "It could be--" Frank hits on an idea, a brilliant, inspired notion. "It's like the dress rehearsal of a play. Roy?" He searches out the other man's eyes, is rewarded by a slight tilt of the head. "You know, they say the worse the rehearsal, the better the show."
The couple—you could work couples with this con, Roy had told him, in fact they were better because the guy was always trying to impress the girl—the couple was already eying them as they started on the script.
"You suck at card tricks. Can't you see I'm trying to eat lunch? Spare me."
Roy's eyes gleamed as he pleaded with Frank, as they tossed the lines back and forth, embellishing and editing, emphasizing choice words and making exaggerated hand gestures.
"Huh. I'll bet they want to see." Only then did Roy's gaze wander to the couple. The targets. The money.
Frank snorted. "You trying to ruin their happiness, too, now?" He leaned towards them, confident, assured. "You don't wanna see his pathetic excuse for a card trick, do you?"
Roy looks at him now, his mouth drawn in a hard line. "It was short con. All you had to do was signal to me. That was all I needed." He spreads his arms, spreads his arms while he's still driving, that's how exasperated he is. How hopeless Frank is. "If you can't handle that, I can't trust you. I can't work with you."
Frank hadn't even realized he'd forgotten the cue. Had been too caught up in observing his partner, too busy thinking how expressive Roy's eyes were. How honest they seemed. He'd never worked with anyone whose eyes didn't shift constantly, who wasn't always trying to cover up the fact that he couldn't manage a straightforward gaze. Even when he finally figured out what he’d been doing, Frank’s first reaction was to wonder if Roy knew he was staring, if the couple did. If they cared.
And the cards were already spread out between them, each as innocent as the next. And Roy with no way of knowing which one the guy had picked.
So Roy called it off. Dismissed it as a bad card trick, let the couple off the hook. A joke without a punch line. A setup without a score.
"I want to work with you," Frank pleads, really pleads, his voice pinched and unfamiliar. "I can work with you. Just gimme a second chance, OK?" Christ, it sounds like he's gonna cry. He glowers at his reflection in the window, gasps out a few breaths, tries to tell himself that money is what’s important here. "OK, partner?"
"Fine," Roy spits the word out, sneering slightly, then relents and adds as a concession, "partner."
Partner. Frank, looking out the window and not registering one bit of the landscape, turns the word over in his head. It's the first time Roy's used it.
Partner. Like they're dancing together.
Dancing and out of step.
For now.
contrelamontre's fight challenge in 47 minutes. It's a little odd, flipping back and forth between past and present, because Frank and Roy fight (or bicker, at least) all the time, and I couldn't see them hitting one another or anything, but I wanted to do something different. Although I was tempted to have them get into a food fight. Anyway, takes place waaaay before the events of the film. And I'm aware that the cut tag is evil ;)"What the hell were you thinking?" Roy doesn't look at him, even, stares fixedly at the road and strikes the steering wheel. It shudders under the force of his hand, and Frank thinks he knows how it feels.
"Fuck. Fuck, man, I'm sorry." Saying it makes Frank seethe, because he means it and he suspects Roy won't give a fuck.
Roy laughs bitterly. "You're sorry. That's great. You know, we're supposed to be able to work together. It's not even a principle of con artistry. It's common sense. Ever played bridge? Know how to read your partner!"
Out of the corner of his eye, Frank watched Roy shuffle the cards, his fingers working them delicately, barely brushing the flimsy plastic surfaces. Roy had long, thin fingers, perfect for any number of cons, as well as pickpocketing or playing the piano. Frank watched those fingers flip cards over, throw them down, sweep them off the table. When he got up the nerve to look at Roy's face, the man was completely absorbed, totally unaware of his cigarette raining ash over the table.
"It was our first time out..." Frank says, stops himself before he sounds like a whiny teenager at the end of a bad date. He looks over at Roy, who hasn't so much as glanced at him during the course of the entire conversation. Not that it matters, because he's wearing those damned sunglasses again. "You aren't even looking at me," he mutters.
Roy nods angrily. Nods at the window, as if they share an understanding. "No. I'm not. And just to clarify, Frank, in case you're having trouble reading me, I'm angry. I am upset. I am this close to dropping you off at your apartment and never coming back."
The people poured in and out of the diner, talking and laughing, flirting with the waitresses and demanding that their steaks be cooked longer. Roy was silent, the only sound he made the gentle inhalation of smoke, teasing it from the cigarette like money from a mark. Frank scrambled for a cigarette of his own, was cleaning out his pockets in desperate search of match when Roy, still shuffling the cards, held up a hand. "Only one smoker."
"Yeah, okay...partner." Frank said the word deliberately, looked to Roy for a reaction. Got none.
"Look, I fucked it up. I admit it." Which is more than Frank usually does, but Roy doesn't know that. Roy just knows Frank can't run a simple short con. Can't look away from his partner long enough to read the mark. All Roy knows about Frank is that he wears obnoxious clothes and sports an attitude to match. "It could be--" Frank hits on an idea, a brilliant, inspired notion. "It's like the dress rehearsal of a play. Roy?" He searches out the other man's eyes, is rewarded by a slight tilt of the head. "You know, they say the worse the rehearsal, the better the show."
The couple—you could work couples with this con, Roy had told him, in fact they were better because the guy was always trying to impress the girl—the couple was already eying them as they started on the script.
"You suck at card tricks. Can't you see I'm trying to eat lunch? Spare me."
Roy's eyes gleamed as he pleaded with Frank, as they tossed the lines back and forth, embellishing and editing, emphasizing choice words and making exaggerated hand gestures.
"Huh. I'll bet they want to see." Only then did Roy's gaze wander to the couple. The targets. The money.
Frank snorted. "You trying to ruin their happiness, too, now?" He leaned towards them, confident, assured. "You don't wanna see his pathetic excuse for a card trick, do you?"
Roy looks at him now, his mouth drawn in a hard line. "It was short con. All you had to do was signal to me. That was all I needed." He spreads his arms, spreads his arms while he's still driving, that's how exasperated he is. How hopeless Frank is. "If you can't handle that, I can't trust you. I can't work with you."
Frank hadn't even realized he'd forgotten the cue. Had been too caught up in observing his partner, too busy thinking how expressive Roy's eyes were. How honest they seemed. He'd never worked with anyone whose eyes didn't shift constantly, who wasn't always trying to cover up the fact that he couldn't manage a straightforward gaze. Even when he finally figured out what he’d been doing, Frank’s first reaction was to wonder if Roy knew he was staring, if the couple did. If they cared.
And the cards were already spread out between them, each as innocent as the next. And Roy with no way of knowing which one the guy had picked.
So Roy called it off. Dismissed it as a bad card trick, let the couple off the hook. A joke without a punch line. A setup without a score.
"I want to work with you," Frank pleads, really pleads, his voice pinched and unfamiliar. "I can work with you. Just gimme a second chance, OK?" Christ, it sounds like he's gonna cry. He glowers at his reflection in the window, gasps out a few breaths, tries to tell himself that money is what’s important here. "OK, partner?"
"Fine," Roy spits the word out, sneering slightly, then relents and adds as a concession, "partner."
Partner. Frank, looking out the window and not registering one bit of the landscape, turns the word over in his head. It's the first time Roy's used it.
Partner. Like they're dancing together.
Dancing and out of step.
For now.
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no subject
Date: 2003-10-04 07:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-10-04 10:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-10-05 12:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-10-06 03:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-10-06 11:57 am (UTC)DYING for something concrete
The day may come...perhaps in the epic post-movie fic...the problem is that Frank won't do anything about it, he has to wait for Roy. And Roy is oblivious a lot of the time...still, we shall see.