Griff in a Bucket (smgriffin) wrote in fictunes, @ 2008-04-07 02:08:00 |
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Current mood: | tired |
Current music: | I Can't Even Lift My Head - Sufjan Stevens |
[Original], "Waiting," None, Worksafe
Title: Waiting
Fandom: None
Character/Pairing: Garrett, Nate
Rating: Worksafe.
Word Count: 1779
Warnings and A/N: The lack of name references is on purpose. I'm sorry if the shameless abuse of 'he' as the main character annoys you. *sighs* It just... DID. Also, I wrote this at crazy hour, so yeah, typo or weird word architecture, just uh... mention it, I'll try to fix it.
Music: I Can't Even Lift My Head - Sufjan Stevens
Summary: Ugh - I dunno... Dingy apartments, cockroaches, and hopeful contemplations of murder.
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The ceiling was smoke-stained yellow on grey, like the landlady who lived upstairs. He couldn’t imagine her being anything but ancient, but her lascivious offers suggested she’d been less revolting at some point. He kicked the stale pizza box across the floor. These days, he couldn’t bring himself to care about the roaches scurrying after. Ignoring the sink - the water had turned brown two weeks ago and hadn’t been sanitary since he moved in – he stripped off his canvas jacket and grabbed a beer.
The bottle opener had disappeared last week, along with the ugly hooker and his wallet, so he bit the lid. Fuck dentists; bottle caps were hardly the worst thing he’d put in his mouth. Walking into the bedroom, he scrapped a stale chip off the floor and hit the TV, jostling nothing but a soft murmuring static to replace the tuneless screaming. He unplugged it.
The bed, once a cheap re-sale fold-out, now resembled a thawing carcass – firm enough to hold a vague shape, but no weight. It squeaked ominously when he flopped back, bulging towards the floor. Swigging his beer, he noted it was warm. Broken fridge, then. Meant the week-old take-out was off the menu, then. He’d figure out something later, if it bothered him enough.
The walls crackled for a few moments, shaking the radiators until they finally blasted foul smelling heat into the small room. It was impressive how, in July, nothing worked except the heater. Guzzling the last gulps greedily, he tossed the empty bottle across the room and ground his palms into his eyes.
The bathroom door creaked open, followed by clear, heavy steps. He sighed and lolled his head. The heavy grates on the windows ruined the view, but the neon letters for ‘XXX GIRLS’ had lost its charm once the third consonant went out. The steps stopped and the apartment sat quietly. He waited; the tell-tale click would be coming soon. He closed his eyes. Then, BANG, he knew. Bang, just like that.
Bang, and he wouldn’t have to care about the roaches eating holes in his interview shoes.
Bang, and the cops would find his body in the morning, tossed in some dumpster along fifth street, without a wallet, and wrapped in beer-stained bed sheets.
Bang.
So he waited.
The steps shifted and clothing rustled. Seconds now. There was a flick then, and a chink. He waited. Another chink. He sighed. They were waiting, whoever they were. He didn’t care to figure out; too many people didn’t like him. Street gangs, drug gangs, casino gangs, didn’t matter; he owed them all and any one of them had a hundred reasons to fill his debts with a pound of flesh. Still, they were waiting and he’d disappointed enough people in his life, might as well make someone’s day easier.
He rolled over.
Nice shoes; nothing extravagant or over-done, but the type a sensible middle-classed man of morals wore to a good day’s work. His pants matched the image; dark blue Dockers, well-sized, but not tailored. Tough guy; brown leather belt and matching duster, with a glimmer of a shield beneath - a cop, then. Not his first guess, but hardly a surprise. In this part of Chicago, scum was scum was scum. Didn’t matter if you dealt it, you lived it, and that was all that mattered. Who needed proof? Everyone was guilty of something.
The man’s face was a surprise. He was a pretty blond thing that belonged in rich magazines and wore nothing but underwear, not the street beat. Young, too. Probably hadn’t been clean from his blues for more than a year. Hardly the type he’d peg to be disillusioned enough to pot-shot scum for breathing. Then again, you never knew what tragic story took mommy and daddy from little Timmy at a tender age.
He sighed and watched the detective expectantly.
The man leaned against the doorframe, flicking his cigarette before taking another huff. Kid hadn’t been holding a gun, then, just a lighter. Shame. “Smoking’ll kill you.” He stated drolly.
“You don’t know who I am, do you?” came the unexpected question. Cops were odd, he knew, but even if he’d met the man in lock-up on one of his frequent trips, there was no reason to ask in such a sad tone. “Course not,” The blond gave a humorless laugh and shook his head. “course not.”
He didn’t think there was any sense answering him, man obviously had his answer, and so he laid there listlessly, waiting for another confusing line in his not-murder. He wasn’t disappointed.
The heavy steps crossed the short span between door and window, then back again, slow and methodical. The man smoked as he paced for five long minutes, before dropping the burning butt to the floor and grinding it out. He didn’t say anything about the scorch mark. It didn’t matter, anyway. Finally, the cop pulled a billfold out of his pocket and flipped it open, reciting information. “Cleveland Argen, born August 12, 1974. Brown hair, blue eyes, 5’10’’, and 190lbs.” The officer paused and eyed him up and down. “You’ve lost weight.”
“And you caught my hooker.” Cleveland said, turning to stare at the ceiling. If this was a recite of personal information, he wasn’t interested seeing as it was his personal information. Hardly new and exciting.
“Bobby Dowlin down at 22nd Precinct caught your hooker, he just sent me your ID.” The man explained, stopping. “Do you remember Bobby?”
He snorted. “’Fraid not. I meet him when I was arrested for drug possession, or just my drunken disorderly? My memory’s a little shaky.”
“Try my fifth grade Christmas performance. He was Santa Clause.”
“-The hell?” He exclaimed, fruitlessly trying to push himself up to stare. He huffed and gave up, thumping back against the sagging mattress. His life was complete; bad food, infestation, and a psychotic cop. Now all he needed was the YMCA to cancel free showers.
“Look at you,” The came the exasperated man, “You can’t even lift you head!”
“So what?” He snorted, flipping on his stomach insolently. “You gonna help me out? Reform?”
“Garrett…” The whisper was soft and pained, filled with lovingly disappointed hurt. It was familiar to him. His mother had always said his name the same way; soft as a sigh, heavy as a cry. She’d always hide her hands in that ugly old apron she wore and watch him. “What have you done to yourself?” The man continued.
“What do you know?” He snapped, glaring desperately over his shoulder. The copper stared down in weary defeat, blending in with the drab walls and cracked drywall. “Who do you think you are? Big Man, knows my name! What else have you got, eh? Know how many times I shot up? How about my solicitation charges? What about petty theft, I haven’t had a detailed list of those? Come on; tell me what you’ve got!” He screamed, fighting against the mattress, again. “Tell me what I’ve done!”
He didn’t need it, of course. His list was far more organized than anything some kid could toss about in the space of a thirty-second ultimatum. Then again, he’d forgotten that part, hadn’t he? The ‘or else’. Important words always seemed to find a way of slipping past him, just like everything else.
“Garrett Emery Neils,” The soft voice responded, and suddenly, golden boy was back, clashing with the carefully neglected décor. He made a dashing prince, with his tousled hair and fiery eyes. Perhaps on of the girls downstairs would appreciate him. Or one of the guys. People weren’t terribly concerned in these parts. “backyard baseball player, kissed his first girl at 14, and sings happy birthday two keys too high because of a hereditary tin-ear.”
“12,” He corrected automatically, debating whether he should stare. He was somewhat shell-shocked by the whole presence in his bathroom and his still steady pulse, but it was the same somewhat that encompassed ‘somewhat hungry’ and ‘somewhat sober’. ‘Somewhat’ wasn’t worth its weight in piss.
“Born in ’77, not ’74, and fucking hell not August!” The blond man continued on urgently, taking deliberate steps towards him. The room seemed to shift growing and shrinking for dramatic display. If he stared at the back wall while his vistor performed, perhaps he’d get motion sickness. That was the stench missing in his apartment. He hadn’t hurled inside since the sink broke. “February 27.”
A weak trickle of water followed an old stain down the wall, collecting on the warped flooring in the far corner. Three roaches lay in the shallow pool. He wondered distantly if they fancied themselves on vacation, of if they’d drowned.Indiferently, he asked, “Who are you?”
“Damn it, Gar!” The detective exploded, tossing the cheap wooden folding table across the room. It exploded and gouged the plaster, but the wall held together reasonably well. Just another patch of brick beneath the brine.“How many damned Christmas plays have you been to that Bobby Dowlin played fucking Santa?”
“Doesn’t matter.” He explained with a shrug, sliding into his familiar rift in the mattress. “I don’t care. Finish what you want.” Someone else with expectations to ruin, he knew. It didn’t matter who they may be. People always had expectations.
“What did you say?” The young man roared. “What did you say! I want to hear you say that to my face, Garrett!” He groaned, giving over easily when heavy hands jerked him across the failing springs to the floor. The shoes gleaming in his face didn’t fit amongst the bleached out blood stains and unswept carpeting. It reminded him of a school girl at Harvey’s, begging to be broken in. “Tell me to my face, Garrett!”
The floor was cool and slightly mildewed. He had another leak. From his sprawl across the damp floor, he could see the cockroaches spread along the underside of his bed; some squished between the pathetic mattress and bent box. If he paused, he could already feel a pair crawling across his sock. It was easy to ignore.
He smiled, “Go home, Nate.”
Solid weight thumped against the wall as the cop slid down the wall. The dirt streaked his blazer with asbestos. “I want my brother back. Can’t I ask for that?”
In the growing dark, he remembered the week-old take-out and broken plumbing. He looked away, watching the rattling radiator. He couldn’t remember when life became something to pass the time between purgatory and hell, but he realized it didn’t matter, not anymore. He was tired and worn; nothing mattered. There was nothing he could do, anyway.
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