K (karanguni) wrote in 1931, @ 2008-06-20 21:45:00 |
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Entry tags: | fic, ladd, luck, short fic |
Drabbles (Ladd, Claire)
Just some quick drabbles from my journal, because I fail at life too much to write fic right now:
Ladd Russo: the sickness/the symptoms
The sickness wasn't the sickness; though anyone else might have called it that: guns, knives, murder and an affinity for neatly pressed clothes. Stuff you'd call manic or deranged - that's what's wrong with Ladd Russo, he's sick in the head with madness and violence.
'I'm not sick, Uncle,' Ladd laughs into the old man's face the day it gets brought up (you should go see a doctor, you crazy son of a --). He's shaving in front of his Uncle's mirror at the far side of the room, but even from that distance the elder man can see the glint and slide of Ladd's razor. He shuts his mouth.
Ladd comes over after he's wiped the lather off his chin. 'I just had a traumatic childhood,' Ladd says, soothingly. 'Losing my father and mother at a young age, it couldn't possibly have been good for me, could it? Leads to an unbalanced lifestyle, where I lacked all the maternal and paternal influences that would've shaped me into a wholesome young man. Isn't that so, Uncle? Being fostered into your care, all I had around me were weapons and grunts and people who shout a lot. Did I ever have a chance to play?' Ladd flips his neatly-folded razor blade up and down in the air. 'Did I ever get the chance to know the warm press of a feminine bosom up against my face, or the loud baritone of Daddy saying it's going to be all right? '
Ladd laughs when he smells the sweat and fear pour off of the old man. 'It's okay,' he says, reaching over to pat his Uncle on the shoulder. Pat (flinch), pat (flinch). 'All I'm missing is love. That's what's really wrong with me. It's all right. That can be fixed. Uncle,' he declares, his teeth making a white gash of a smile across his face, 'I'm going to go get married.'
Luck: I need a taste of what it's like
Seemed to Luck that Claire never really walked; he floated, or flew, soared - the ground wasn't good enough for Claire. There had to be movement, or height, the rush of air or the cold of altitude.
Luck had never been brave enough to venture, had always had his feet firmly planted. Moved slowly, deliberately. Planned where he was going.
The real world bored Claire, and consumed Luck.
It was 1935, the Depression spiralling ever downwards, when Luck and Claire were on the balcony of Luck's room, looking downwards at the empty street below. The streetlights burned a low light in the witching hour blackness.
'How was the circus?' Luck said, abruptly. 'I never asked you before.'
Claire chuckled, and hopped up onto the bar of the balcony railing, balancing neatly. 'It was fun. Challenging for a while.'
'Were you ever afraid of falling?' Luck asked.
Claire looked down at him and smiled, half-indulgent, half full of amusement. 'No.'
'Give me a hand up,' Luck said, which did surprise Claire.
'What's this?' Claire asked, pulling his brother up. 'Luck Gandor, taking a risk?'
'I want to know how it feels like to be Claire Stanfield,' Luck shrugged, trying hard to find his centre on the limited length of the rail. 'You're more immortal than I am. But still, please remember not to try and catch me,' he added, and then let go of Claire's shoulder.
It was a glorious second of freedom, and then two more during the fall. It tasted like triumph and fire and alcohol and magic.
When Luck came to, he had a blanket over his shoulders and was seated in an armchair on the first level of the house.
'You're crazy,' Claire told him, but Claire was grinning, and grinning wide.