Fic: La Roue / The Wheel (Reaper/OFC)
Jul. 25th, 2010 09:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
urbancateTitle: La Roue / The Wheel
Pairing: Reaper/OFC
Length: 650 words
Rating: R
Summary: Pre-movie. Reaper gets dragged to Vegas. Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-syndicated.gif)
ohownovel .
La Roue / The Wheel
“You are coming, man, and that is the final word,” Duke declares with authority, an authority he doesn’t technically have, except as John’s friend.
“I’d rather stay here, man.”
“Sure you would. Cuz Goat is a real fucking scream of a time when we’re not on a job. Or do you want to go on leave with Portman. Don’t tell me you’re gonna get all freaky like Portman on our asses.”
“No worries. Still just my own freaky self.”
“Good. Then you’re coming.”
Which is how John ends up here. In Las Vegas, of all the cliched destinations for drunkenness and debauchery. It’s blindingly bright and dark as a pit all at once and he wonders which part will have the final say.
He always wonders.
- -
It’s the quiet ones who will be the death of her, she thinks. It’s always the quiet ones. It’s a terrible, aching weakness she has and sometimes she fucking hates it. The same way she hates and loves and hates again and gets high from this city and the life and the capriciousness of fate. Not the dice or the cards, but the cosmic force that brought her here and keeps her here. Dealing vingt-et-un to every kind of folk, including this one now, the quiet one with the sad eyes and the sinful mouth.
She smiles, the exact shade of cool friendliness desired from the person revealing fates and taking money, but her mind is only half on the deal and the movement of cards and the rest of the table. He makes her think of lazy humidity and alligators and the great dried-up ‘Sip, before it was a desert and the people flocked to this mirage.
She catches his eye without meaning to and there’s a flash of something more in there, something dangerous.
Always the quiet ones, she thinks.
- -
The small silver tag above her left breast reads Helene, her fingers are long and deft with the cards, and she’s been watching him with dark, curious eyes. Her skin looks like silk and spices he can’t name and he’s wondering what she tastes like when their eyes meet and catch electricity.
He leaves the table, but not before tipping her one of the bigger chips and palming the Queen with the address written on the back.
He walks into the concrete heat and tells himself he won’t be seeking her out, but he knows it’s a lie. He still doesn’t know who will win. He feels too much like Reaper today; he shouldn’t be here.
- -
It’s a tiny house at the far edge of the sprawl - scrub-brush and dirt in the back and a tree hanging with colored-glass bottles in the front. She opens the door in bare feet, a tank top and underwear. He pauses with a hand on the doorframe - some part of him is still undecided.
“Are you coming in or not?” she says before turning her back to the open door. A small tattoo of a salamander curls around her right shoulder blade. He follows.
- -
In the dark, even when he speaks, he is quiet. And everything she needs to know, he tells her with his body - appetite and rough fingers and careful control. It is not so much that he treats her like she might break as that he acts as if he might break her.
Always the quiet ones.
“You are not death. You think you are, but you aren’t,” she whispers into his skin, when she is sure he is asleep.
- -
Sin City, it’s called. And maybe Goat is right - that it’s a hellhole, a pit of depravity, a place where a man can lose his soul. But if Reaper is already lost, it is possible that John can still be found.
Pairing: Reaper/OFC
Length: 650 words
Rating: R
Summary: Pre-movie. Reaper gets dragged to Vegas. Written for
ohownovel .La Roue / The Wheel
“You are coming, man, and that is the final word,” Duke declares with authority, an authority he doesn’t technically have, except as John’s friend.
“I’d rather stay here, man.”
“Sure you would. Cuz Goat is a real fucking scream of a time when we’re not on a job. Or do you want to go on leave with Portman. Don’t tell me you’re gonna get all freaky like Portman on our asses.”
“No worries. Still just my own freaky self.”
“Good. Then you’re coming.”
Which is how John ends up here. In Las Vegas, of all the cliched destinations for drunkenness and debauchery. It’s blindingly bright and dark as a pit all at once and he wonders which part will have the final say.
He always wonders.
- -
It’s the quiet ones who will be the death of her, she thinks. It’s always the quiet ones. It’s a terrible, aching weakness she has and sometimes she fucking hates it. The same way she hates and loves and hates again and gets high from this city and the life and the capriciousness of fate. Not the dice or the cards, but the cosmic force that brought her here and keeps her here. Dealing vingt-et-un to every kind of folk, including this one now, the quiet one with the sad eyes and the sinful mouth.
She smiles, the exact shade of cool friendliness desired from the person revealing fates and taking money, but her mind is only half on the deal and the movement of cards and the rest of the table. He makes her think of lazy humidity and alligators and the great dried-up ‘Sip, before it was a desert and the people flocked to this mirage.
She catches his eye without meaning to and there’s a flash of something more in there, something dangerous.
Always the quiet ones, she thinks.
- -
The small silver tag above her left breast reads Helene, her fingers are long and deft with the cards, and she’s been watching him with dark, curious eyes. Her skin looks like silk and spices he can’t name and he’s wondering what she tastes like when their eyes meet and catch electricity.
He leaves the table, but not before tipping her one of the bigger chips and palming the Queen with the address written on the back.
He walks into the concrete heat and tells himself he won’t be seeking her out, but he knows it’s a lie. He still doesn’t know who will win. He feels too much like Reaper today; he shouldn’t be here.
- -
It’s a tiny house at the far edge of the sprawl - scrub-brush and dirt in the back and a tree hanging with colored-glass bottles in the front. She opens the door in bare feet, a tank top and underwear. He pauses with a hand on the doorframe - some part of him is still undecided.
“Are you coming in or not?” she says before turning her back to the open door. A small tattoo of a salamander curls around her right shoulder blade. He follows.
- -
In the dark, even when he speaks, he is quiet. And everything she needs to know, he tells her with his body - appetite and rough fingers and careful control. It is not so much that he treats her like she might break as that he acts as if he might break her.
Always the quiet ones.
“You are not death. You think you are, but you aren’t,” she whispers into his skin, when she is sure he is asleep.
- -
Sin City, it’s called. And maybe Goat is right - that it’s a hellhole, a pit of depravity, a place where a man can lose his soul. But if Reaper is already lost, it is possible that John can still be found.
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no subject
Date: 2010-07-26 04:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-26 04:24 am (UTC)