So hot the men of Rome
Yes, I watched Angels & Demons for a second time, and yes, I wrote slash -- because how could I not? On a side note, I think this is one of the few cases where I like the film better than the book, although I'm not sure that says anything about the quality of either.
Anyway, these ficlets are spoiler-heavy and movie-based, just so you know. (And of course, I'm not making money from either of them.)
Sede Vacante
Chartrand reaches the stairwell just a second before the Camerlengo lights the fire. Their eyes meet fleetly, Chartrand stops dead, his hand clasping the gun -- and this moment of hesitation is enough, and the Camerlengo is aflame, untouchable, out of reach.
The horror of it doesn't break him. If anything from these last twenty-four hours is going to break him, Chartrand thinks, it won't be this, nor the almost-asphyxiation, the fear, the panic, the hunt. No -- if anything is going to come back to haunt his dreams, it will be the memory of standing there on St. Peter's Square, seeing the parachute and wanting to cry for the first time in years; then breathlessly running to the Conclave, giddy with wild, bubbling joy.
His hand curls around the gun, his heart hollow; his eyes sting as he watches the flames, unable to look away.
New York, 2 a.m.
Vincenzi grabbed his phone, feeling annoyed. He'd just fallen asleep after what felt like hours; however, one glance at the display told him the call was worth answering.
"Ernesto?"
Olivetti's voice was even tenser than usual. "You're sleeping?"
"Not anymore," said Vincenzi with a grimace. He pressed the phone closer to his ear and sat up. "Why are you calling?"
After some minutes of explanation, Vincenzi found himself unpleasantly awake. "Dear Lord," he muttered.
"Indeed," Olivetti said.
"And this -- Robert Langdon." Vincenzi frowned. "You think he may be of any help?"
"I hope so." Olivetti's voice was grim. "Just get him here as quick as you can, will you?"
"Will do," said Vincenzi, throwing a glance at his watch. He wondered if this Langdon was in the habit of rising early.
"And Claudio..."
"Yes?"
Vincenzi waited, but only silence followed -- a silence common between the two of them, conveying more meaning than any words could have done. Just like on missions, when they rarely talked, communicating silently with nods and glances instead, reading each other with a skill born out of several years of intimacy.
Suddenly he couldn't get back to Rome soon enough. Closing his eyes, Vincenzi took a breath and muttered into the phone, "Me too."
"See you in a few hours, then," Olivetti said, hanging up.
Anyway, these ficlets are spoiler-heavy and movie-based, just so you know. (And of course, I'm not making money from either of them.)
Sede Vacante
Chartrand reaches the stairwell just a second before the Camerlengo lights the fire. Their eyes meet fleetly, Chartrand stops dead, his hand clasping the gun -- and this moment of hesitation is enough, and the Camerlengo is aflame, untouchable, out of reach.
The horror of it doesn't break him. If anything from these last twenty-four hours is going to break him, Chartrand thinks, it won't be this, nor the almost-asphyxiation, the fear, the panic, the hunt. No -- if anything is going to come back to haunt his dreams, it will be the memory of standing there on St. Peter's Square, seeing the parachute and wanting to cry for the first time in years; then breathlessly running to the Conclave, giddy with wild, bubbling joy.
His hand curls around the gun, his heart hollow; his eyes sting as he watches the flames, unable to look away.
New York, 2 a.m.
Vincenzi grabbed his phone, feeling annoyed. He'd just fallen asleep after what felt like hours; however, one glance at the display told him the call was worth answering.
"Ernesto?"
Olivetti's voice was even tenser than usual. "You're sleeping?"
"Not anymore," said Vincenzi with a grimace. He pressed the phone closer to his ear and sat up. "Why are you calling?"
After some minutes of explanation, Vincenzi found himself unpleasantly awake. "Dear Lord," he muttered.
"Indeed," Olivetti said.
"And this -- Robert Langdon." Vincenzi frowned. "You think he may be of any help?"
"I hope so." Olivetti's voice was grim. "Just get him here as quick as you can, will you?"
"Will do," said Vincenzi, throwing a glance at his watch. He wondered if this Langdon was in the habit of rising early.
"And Claudio..."
"Yes?"
Vincenzi waited, but only silence followed -- a silence common between the two of them, conveying more meaning than any words could have done. Just like on missions, when they rarely talked, communicating silently with nods and glances instead, reading each other with a skill born out of several years of intimacy.
Suddenly he couldn't get back to Rome soon enough. Closing his eyes, Vincenzi took a breath and muttered into the phone, "Me too."
"See you in a few hours, then," Olivetti said, hanging up.