(no subject)
Title: Again
Author: Bethany Bliszczak
Rating: PG
Fandom: Chicago
Pairing: Roxie Hart/Velma Kelly
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I don't own either of the characters and the time may come when I'll renounce any claim to the idea too.
Summary: Velma's back in the business.
Feedback: Please.
Notes: Written in thirty-seven minutes for the contrelamontre challenge. I apologise for the ultra-cheesy ticking off the minutes thing. Looking back on this I'd really like for me to not have done that. Also, reading over it, the piece seems quite long, but I tried to think of how it would appear if it were actually filmed - Roxie's thoughts, of course, wouldn't be shown, and so it would move along a lot faster, with the entrance of another person and everything.
Warning: Spoilers for the movie "Chicago."
Five forty one.
He's late. Roxie picks at her sleeve. The coat is much too large for her and everyone comments on it. "It's not mine. It's my partner's," she always says. It smells like Velma, and sometimes she'll turn her head and catch a breath of familiar perfume, but she doesn't do that now. Instead she wonders again why she's here. She doesn't check her watch, but she will. Somewhere across the city, under the eye of a woman named Mama Morton, Velma Kelly is smoking a cigarette and relishing being in the papers again.
Roxie thinks she'll swing this time, and doesn't believe Velma when she professes not to care.
Five forty two.
Roxie fingers the money in the cloth bag clutched in her lap. Billy's rates have gone up since they last met, but Roxie doesn't mind: somewhere in the ratio of her earning power to his pay, it all works out fair. Roxie knows she's not worth a dime without Velma, though; knows that Velma's going to overshadow her when she gets out, like she always did. Roxie thinks that she doesn't care if she never steps on stage again as long as Velma keeps her around. They still think they hate each other, but hate in the deep of night can translate differently from hate in the light of day.
Five forty three.
Roxie checks her watch and wonders why time is moving so slowly. It's been four years since she and Velma became a team. Three years and seven months since they became lovers. Three years and two months since Billy Flynn kissed her on the mouth and five minutes less since she pushed him away. One year and eight months since she last saw him in the street, face drawn and eyes cold.
And now it's two weeks until Velma Kelly will be tried for the murder of a stage hand.
Why'd you do it, Velma? Why'd you waste everything on that?
Five forty four.
"Miss Hart?"
Roxie pulls her sleeve guiltily over her watch and looks up. "Yes?"
The man at the door smiles blandly. One of Billy's staff, no doubt. "We've had word from Mr Flynn. He regrets he can't make your meeting this evening; he's been held up in court. He asked that I give you this."
Roxie takes the letter from him, dazed. She doesn't notice as he shuts the door and leaves her alone, the paper slicing her fingers as she scrambles to unfold it, to see if he'll take Velma's case.
Somehow before she reads it she can see his cold eyes, the grim line of his mouth as she and Velma walked arm in arm past him on the street. Still she reads the words over and over, not able to believe them.
(Billy Flynn don't care about no one but Billy Flynn,) Velma whispers from a year long behind them both.
Neither of them were ever as clever as Billy, ever as quick; but the double meaning behind his handwriting doesn't go over her head.
You know what they say, Roxie. Nobody in Chicago can swing like Velma Kelly.
Five forty five.
Roxie pulls Velma's matchbook from the coat pocket. She's never smoked, though she's always thought it glamorous. She'll never be as glamorous as Velma and now she doesn't even try. Instead she takes a match from the pack and strikes it alight.
Blue eyes that aren't as big as Velma's reflect the glow of the desk as she sets the match to the paperwork on it, and, as the desk catches fire, red lips that aren't as red as Velma's curve into a smile.
Roxie Hart, the sweetest little jazz killer in Chicago, heads for the door.
Author: Bethany Bliszczak
Rating: PG
Fandom: Chicago
Pairing: Roxie Hart/Velma Kelly
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I don't own either of the characters and the time may come when I'll renounce any claim to the idea too.
Summary: Velma's back in the business.
Feedback: Please.
Notes: Written in thirty-seven minutes for the contrelamontre challenge. I apologise for the ultra-cheesy ticking off the minutes thing. Looking back on this I'd really like for me to not have done that. Also, reading over it, the piece seems quite long, but I tried to think of how it would appear if it were actually filmed - Roxie's thoughts, of course, wouldn't be shown, and so it would move along a lot faster, with the entrance of another person and everything.
Warning: Spoilers for the movie "Chicago."
Five forty one.
He's late. Roxie picks at her sleeve. The coat is much too large for her and everyone comments on it. "It's not mine. It's my partner's," she always says. It smells like Velma, and sometimes she'll turn her head and catch a breath of familiar perfume, but she doesn't do that now. Instead she wonders again why she's here. She doesn't check her watch, but she will. Somewhere across the city, under the eye of a woman named Mama Morton, Velma Kelly is smoking a cigarette and relishing being in the papers again.
Roxie thinks she'll swing this time, and doesn't believe Velma when she professes not to care.
Five forty two.
Roxie fingers the money in the cloth bag clutched in her lap. Billy's rates have gone up since they last met, but Roxie doesn't mind: somewhere in the ratio of her earning power to his pay, it all works out fair. Roxie knows she's not worth a dime without Velma, though; knows that Velma's going to overshadow her when she gets out, like she always did. Roxie thinks that she doesn't care if she never steps on stage again as long as Velma keeps her around. They still think they hate each other, but hate in the deep of night can translate differently from hate in the light of day.
Five forty three.
Roxie checks her watch and wonders why time is moving so slowly. It's been four years since she and Velma became a team. Three years and seven months since they became lovers. Three years and two months since Billy Flynn kissed her on the mouth and five minutes less since she pushed him away. One year and eight months since she last saw him in the street, face drawn and eyes cold.
And now it's two weeks until Velma Kelly will be tried for the murder of a stage hand.
Why'd you do it, Velma? Why'd you waste everything on that?
Five forty four.
"Miss Hart?"
Roxie pulls her sleeve guiltily over her watch and looks up. "Yes?"
The man at the door smiles blandly. One of Billy's staff, no doubt. "We've had word from Mr Flynn. He regrets he can't make your meeting this evening; he's been held up in court. He asked that I give you this."
Roxie takes the letter from him, dazed. She doesn't notice as he shuts the door and leaves her alone, the paper slicing her fingers as she scrambles to unfold it, to see if he'll take Velma's case.
Somehow before she reads it she can see his cold eyes, the grim line of his mouth as she and Velma walked arm in arm past him on the street. Still she reads the words over and over, not able to believe them.
(Billy Flynn don't care about no one but Billy Flynn,) Velma whispers from a year long behind them both.
Neither of them were ever as clever as Billy, ever as quick; but the double meaning behind his handwriting doesn't go over her head.
You know what they say, Roxie. Nobody in Chicago can swing like Velma Kelly.
Five forty five.
Roxie pulls Velma's matchbook from the coat pocket. She's never smoked, though she's always thought it glamorous. She'll never be as glamorous as Velma and now she doesn't even try. Instead she takes a match from the pack and strikes it alight.
Blue eyes that aren't as big as Velma's reflect the glow of the desk as she sets the match to the paperwork on it, and, as the desk catches fire, red lips that aren't as red as Velma's curve into a smile.
Roxie Hart, the sweetest little jazz killer in Chicago, heads for the door.