Drabble: you are what you're running from (The Millennium Trilogy, Lisbeth/Mikael, PG)
Title: you are what you're running from
Author: aphrodite_mine
Info: The Millennium Trilogy, Lisbeth Salander. Lisbeth/Mikael. 500 words for calasara for qldfloodauction.
The bar’s a bit mainstream and everyone is staring at her. Hyperbole. Lisbeth shrugs against her leather jacket, takes another sip. The alcohol is less than she’s paid for, the lemon past its ripeness. Her pinky finger taps the glass. She doesn’t close her eyes, the bar is dark enough. Smoke lingers around her nose and mouth like a ghost.
He hasn’t spotted her, strangely enough. She feels eyes like oil slide over her, but never his.
She’s wearing heels. She’s practiced running in them.
A big guy, his tie undone and hanging limp around his neck, steps up to the jukebox player. He’s careful with his selection, flipping through the racks of CDs with consideration at each one. Lisbeth watches him, watching with the gentle eye of someone who doesn’t really care, someone who would rather be somewhere else.
“Another?”
There’s the bartender to her right, his hand on the counter. He’s placed his fingers in a puddle of condensation. His eyes are dead.
Lisbeth nods, fingering a bill in her pocket, working it loose and laying it in the water. Liquid seeps through the thin paper in a pattern like a rock dropping into a pool. Outwards, outwards, outwards.
“The same,” she says, her voice flat.
Her reflection is there when the barkeep turns his back, leaving space in the mirror behind him for her echo. She hasn’t taken out the jewelry, but her hair is blonde this time. She takes a moment, fingers the collar of her jacket, smoothes it down. The man at the jukebox types in his selection, and the gears rumble quickly before a song jolts into the smoky air.
And again, she takes the time to focus in on him, across the bar, almost swallowed up by the noise and the grit of this place. A candle on his table flickers, and she remembers what the lines in his face feel like.
The bartender slides her fresh drink towards her, collects his payment, dropping coins in a tip jar after checking in with the cash register. He doesn’t offer her the change.
Lisbeth takes a deep breath, lets her eyelids drop. This place smells older than it is, something filthy lurking around the walls, in the darkest corners. She sees flames on the inside of her eyelids, the darkness blinking away in shades of orange.
She takes a burning swallow, slamming the empty glass back down and hopping off the chair. She’ll remember how to speak in a moment, stepping towards him, knowing the ground isn’t giving way. Her throat hurts, like something’s stuck there. She remembers hands and hands on her and waking up to feel the same every morning. His are nothing special, she knows. His hands on her, warm.
Not like fire, but somehow like sunlight through a window, and looking out the ground is ready for spring.
Author: aphrodite_mine
Info: The Millennium Trilogy, Lisbeth Salander. Lisbeth/Mikael. 500 words for calasara for qldfloodauction.
The bar’s a bit mainstream and everyone is staring at her. Hyperbole. Lisbeth shrugs against her leather jacket, takes another sip. The alcohol is less than she’s paid for, the lemon past its ripeness. Her pinky finger taps the glass. She doesn’t close her eyes, the bar is dark enough. Smoke lingers around her nose and mouth like a ghost.
He hasn’t spotted her, strangely enough. She feels eyes like oil slide over her, but never his.
She’s wearing heels. She’s practiced running in them.
A big guy, his tie undone and hanging limp around his neck, steps up to the jukebox player. He’s careful with his selection, flipping through the racks of CDs with consideration at each one. Lisbeth watches him, watching with the gentle eye of someone who doesn’t really care, someone who would rather be somewhere else.
“Another?”
There’s the bartender to her right, his hand on the counter. He’s placed his fingers in a puddle of condensation. His eyes are dead.
Lisbeth nods, fingering a bill in her pocket, working it loose and laying it in the water. Liquid seeps through the thin paper in a pattern like a rock dropping into a pool. Outwards, outwards, outwards.
“The same,” she says, her voice flat.
Her reflection is there when the barkeep turns his back, leaving space in the mirror behind him for her echo. She hasn’t taken out the jewelry, but her hair is blonde this time. She takes a moment, fingers the collar of her jacket, smoothes it down. The man at the jukebox types in his selection, and the gears rumble quickly before a song jolts into the smoky air.
And again, she takes the time to focus in on him, across the bar, almost swallowed up by the noise and the grit of this place. A candle on his table flickers, and she remembers what the lines in his face feel like.
The bartender slides her fresh drink towards her, collects his payment, dropping coins in a tip jar after checking in with the cash register. He doesn’t offer her the change.
Lisbeth takes a deep breath, lets her eyelids drop. This place smells older than it is, something filthy lurking around the walls, in the darkest corners. She sees flames on the inside of her eyelids, the darkness blinking away in shades of orange.
She takes a burning swallow, slamming the empty glass back down and hopping off the chair. She’ll remember how to speak in a moment, stepping towards him, knowing the ground isn’t giving way. Her throat hurts, like something’s stuck there. She remembers hands and hands on her and waking up to feel the same every morning. His are nothing special, she knows. His hands on her, warm.
Not like fire, but somehow like sunlight through a window, and looking out the ground is ready for spring.