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3pipeproblemI just wrote vaguely slashy Verbal/Keaton for this week's ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
contrelamontre. Not only that, I wrote it from Verbal's POV. First person. What the fuck am I on?
Furthermore, the thing is inspired by a fortune cookie (which was the challenge, but still). The fortune was "Everything is not yet lost."
For theinsane curious, here it is. 43 minutes of writing, 17 minutes of editing. No explicit spoilers, but if you haven't seen the movie it's going to make no sense at all.
I knock on Keaton's door and instead of demanding to know what I want, this time he invites me in. He's seated at the very edge of his bed and I shuffle over to him, wishing I’d waited to do this. My hand is tingling, my leg is cramped. My clothes are stiff with dried salt water. "Keaton."
He looks up at me, his hands shoved in his pockets—an unusual position if you really think about it. Sitting on your bed with your hands in your pockets...he hasn't changed his clothes either.
I’d be worried—well, I’d pretend to be worried—but I know he has others, despite the fact that this was intended to be a one shot deal. He told himself this was the last job, that we were going to be here overnight and that’d be it, but here he is with a suitcase full of clothes. I don't think he even realized it at the time, but he knows by now. He has to.
I wait for him to say something, anything. He doesn't, just stares at me with what he probably thinks of as understanding. It's pity. That's all he ever leaves me with when he's not yelling and I wouldn't mind at all, only it makes it difficult for me to play him. I'm the talkative one, so I tell him that everything's set for his "message" to Soze and McManus even found some guy who could get us janitor's uniforms. I explain that this is good because we wouldn't want to have to kill any janitors. Keaton nods wearily, oblivious to the humor (although I can’t exactly fault him for that), and takes a hand out of his pocket to rub his eyes.
"Do you think this can work?" I ask, with a feigned anxiety that comes naturally now, hitches my voice in the same way the limp hitches my walk.
He shakes his head, closes his eyes. "I don't know, Verbal. You heard what I said. I don't care about the plan or killing Kobayashi or any of it. I have to see this through. That's all."
"For Edie." I say her name more than Keaton's when having conversations with him. Not that it's unusual. People are like that. It’s what makes them pitifully easy to manipulate.
He laughs, laughs in a way only he can, mocking me and Edie and himself all in a single breath. "I meant what I said. This is for me. Look at me, Verbal." His tone is angry but he shrugs in surrender, repeats the same hollow laugh. "I just finished burying someone with my bare hands because of a truck I hijacked fourteen years ago. Anyone who tells me this is ever gonna be over is talking through his fucking hat. I need to end it."
He sounds purposeful and looks purposeful but with Keaton it always wavers. He's charismatic and determined and he'll pull you right along with him, but he never takes the final step. Never fully believes in anything so much that saying no to him is tantamount staring down the barrel of a gun. There's always this lingering doubt, probably because he was a corrupt cop. A tricky breed—you never know where they stand and half the time they don't either.
I shake my head. "Don't end it like this." If he plays his cards right, Edie can get out of it alive. Not that I care one way or the other, but for Keaton I feel obliged to try.
He closes his eyes once more and when he opens them, there's a glimmer—just a hint, but I catch it right away—of real determination. He's going to die and now we both know it. What matters is that it'll be by his own choice, by his own hand. Or so he thinks.
And now I can ask him if he wants to run, because I'm certain he'll say no.
contrelamontre. Not only that, I wrote it from Verbal's POV. First person. What the fuck am I on?Furthermore, the thing is inspired by a fortune cookie (which was the challenge, but still). The fortune was "Everything is not yet lost."
For the
I knock on Keaton's door and instead of demanding to know what I want, this time he invites me in. He's seated at the very edge of his bed and I shuffle over to him, wishing I’d waited to do this. My hand is tingling, my leg is cramped. My clothes are stiff with dried salt water. "Keaton."
He looks up at me, his hands shoved in his pockets—an unusual position if you really think about it. Sitting on your bed with your hands in your pockets...he hasn't changed his clothes either.
I’d be worried—well, I’d pretend to be worried—but I know he has others, despite the fact that this was intended to be a one shot deal. He told himself this was the last job, that we were going to be here overnight and that’d be it, but here he is with a suitcase full of clothes. I don't think he even realized it at the time, but he knows by now. He has to.
I wait for him to say something, anything. He doesn't, just stares at me with what he probably thinks of as understanding. It's pity. That's all he ever leaves me with when he's not yelling and I wouldn't mind at all, only it makes it difficult for me to play him. I'm the talkative one, so I tell him that everything's set for his "message" to Soze and McManus even found some guy who could get us janitor's uniforms. I explain that this is good because we wouldn't want to have to kill any janitors. Keaton nods wearily, oblivious to the humor (although I can’t exactly fault him for that), and takes a hand out of his pocket to rub his eyes.
"Do you think this can work?" I ask, with a feigned anxiety that comes naturally now, hitches my voice in the same way the limp hitches my walk.
He shakes his head, closes his eyes. "I don't know, Verbal. You heard what I said. I don't care about the plan or killing Kobayashi or any of it. I have to see this through. That's all."
"For Edie." I say her name more than Keaton's when having conversations with him. Not that it's unusual. People are like that. It’s what makes them pitifully easy to manipulate.
He laughs, laughs in a way only he can, mocking me and Edie and himself all in a single breath. "I meant what I said. This is for me. Look at me, Verbal." His tone is angry but he shrugs in surrender, repeats the same hollow laugh. "I just finished burying someone with my bare hands because of a truck I hijacked fourteen years ago. Anyone who tells me this is ever gonna be over is talking through his fucking hat. I need to end it."
He sounds purposeful and looks purposeful but with Keaton it always wavers. He's charismatic and determined and he'll pull you right along with him, but he never takes the final step. Never fully believes in anything so much that saying no to him is tantamount staring down the barrel of a gun. There's always this lingering doubt, probably because he was a corrupt cop. A tricky breed—you never know where they stand and half the time they don't either.
I shake my head. "Don't end it like this." If he plays his cards right, Edie can get out of it alive. Not that I care one way or the other, but for Keaton I feel obliged to try.
He closes his eyes once more and when he opens them, there's a glimmer—just a hint, but I catch it right away—of real determination. He's going to die and now we both know it. What matters is that it'll be by his own choice, by his own hand. Or so he thinks.
And now I can ask him if he wants to run, because I'm certain he'll say no.
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Date: 2003-12-07 11:41 pm (UTC)Ah, theirloveissonearlycanon.