(no subject)
So, er. Apparently I sort of ship Luck and Eve? Apparently I sort of ship Luck and Eve. I'm not sure exactly how this happened. I blame it on the fact they inexplicably remind me of Delita and Ovelia, just in the 1930s (?), better adjusted (?!), and less likely to shoot each other in the face (?!?!?!). Anime canon to be safe (sort of), post-series (MOST DEFINATELY). 839 words. Worksafe.
The body lies warm in the November rain. His coat spread under him, stretched under his arms like a goddamn butterfly. His hat covers his face, but it's riddled with so many holes the rain hits the bridge of his nose and runs down to his lips. They twist. The body, warm and getting warmer, pulls itself up the wall and slumps in shreds against the stoop outside Fiore's Drugstore.
The woman in white tips an umbrella over him.
"With all due respect," he rasps, "this is not the business that should concern you."
Eve Genoard's eyes are large and sad. "You didn't come for dinner."
He pushes his hat off his face. "Critical period in negotiations."
"Your shirt's soaked." She's not talking about the rain.
He pulls the remains of his coat over the mess. "Not mine."
"...that's right." She knows this. "I have a car on the corner."
It’s the most practical suggestion. His jaw tightens. He's got no good reason to say no.
The drive uptown takes longer than what's normal. Things always run slower in the rain. The sky gets paler, but no bluer. He slumps in the back seat of the car. The dried blood on his shoes flakes off on the upholstery.
"We'll cover the damages."
She sits beside him. She watches him out of the corner of her eye, fingering her shawl like she'd rather put it over him. "That's all right."
"I'll insist." His guys don't ask questions. She closes her eyes. When the car sways off Lexington, she sways with it. Her head rests against his shoulder. She doesn't move away. He says nothing, staring blankly at the rain as it rolls off the window.
The townhouse is located at 84th and Fifth, looking out on the park and the museum. He doesn't appreciate the view. He wakes up in her guest suite around noon. The maid's left a set of clean clothes on the chair. They're not his size. He knows whose size they are. In the normal swing of things, he'd never deign to wear them. His other option's covered with incriminating evidence. He takes the bad fit. They've never been worn, like how the guest suite's never been lived in. It's immaculately kept, without a spot of dust. A young girl's hope for a homecoming when the girl's grown up and the home's been sold off a long time ago.
In the parlor there's coffee, pastries, sausage, and cigarettes. He smokes near the window, with the curtains cracked. The maid asks him if he'd like to make a call. He declines. His brothers will understand the delay. It'd be unwise to give away his particular position at this time, no matter how nice the view.
He sees her reflection in the glass before he sees her. "Miss Genoard."
"Mr. Gandor."
"I understand you're a busy woman. My sincerest regrets if our business has inconvenienced you in any way."
She tips her head at the formality, but looks unshaken by it. She's dressed in her Sunday best, back from church and brunch with a councilman. "It hasn't been a bother. You look tired."
"Coming back from the dead's exhausting."
"How many men did you kill this morning?"
His eyebrows shoot up. She pulls a chair to the table. The cigarette hangs from his fingers. "It isn't to your benefit to know."
"They'll say in the papers."
"They'll know better than me."
"Can I hear it from you?"
"Five got out of the car," he says, more easily than he'd like. He's not surprised to hear her gasp. "Rudoph Gant and Sal Ridolfi, definitely. Less sure on the goons they had with them, one them went down. Got Jimmy Hopper in the chest before he plugged me four times in mine. If he's not dead yet, he probably will be by tomorrow." It will save them all a lot of trouble if he is. He's not surprised to see the color go out of her cheeks. "The rest is our business, not yours."
He is surprised when she puts her hands around his head, puts her thumbs against his hollow cheeks, a face that has been hollowed out since before time stopped for him. He's completely surprised when she puts her face against his forehead. He shuts his eyes for her sake. "I'm sorry."
Unprovoked hostilities. Ambush. "I'm not."
"I forgive you."
"What? Because I'm out of God's reach?"
"Yes," she says. Her eyes stay dry. He would have felt otherwise. She moves back so he can look at her again. "Also, I just want to."
"You're a good kid," he tells her, as she sits across from him. Nevermind she's older than he looks, now. "Don't do a foolish thing like that."
She takes his cigarette and puts it out, never breaking eye contact with him.
"Happy birthday," he says, finally.
Her color comes back. Two red spots, in her cheeks. "Oh," she says, looking away. She's a girl again, a little mystified. It's all right. "You remembered."
The body lies warm in the November rain. His coat spread under him, stretched under his arms like a goddamn butterfly. His hat covers his face, but it's riddled with so many holes the rain hits the bridge of his nose and runs down to his lips. They twist. The body, warm and getting warmer, pulls itself up the wall and slumps in shreds against the stoop outside Fiore's Drugstore.
The woman in white tips an umbrella over him.
"With all due respect," he rasps, "this is not the business that should concern you."
Eve Genoard's eyes are large and sad. "You didn't come for dinner."
He pushes his hat off his face. "Critical period in negotiations."
"Your shirt's soaked." She's not talking about the rain.
He pulls the remains of his coat over the mess. "Not mine."
"...that's right." She knows this. "I have a car on the corner."
It’s the most practical suggestion. His jaw tightens. He's got no good reason to say no.
The drive uptown takes longer than what's normal. Things always run slower in the rain. The sky gets paler, but no bluer. He slumps in the back seat of the car. The dried blood on his shoes flakes off on the upholstery.
"We'll cover the damages."
She sits beside him. She watches him out of the corner of her eye, fingering her shawl like she'd rather put it over him. "That's all right."
"I'll insist." His guys don't ask questions. She closes her eyes. When the car sways off Lexington, she sways with it. Her head rests against his shoulder. She doesn't move away. He says nothing, staring blankly at the rain as it rolls off the window.
The townhouse is located at 84th and Fifth, looking out on the park and the museum. He doesn't appreciate the view. He wakes up in her guest suite around noon. The maid's left a set of clean clothes on the chair. They're not his size. He knows whose size they are. In the normal swing of things, he'd never deign to wear them. His other option's covered with incriminating evidence. He takes the bad fit. They've never been worn, like how the guest suite's never been lived in. It's immaculately kept, without a spot of dust. A young girl's hope for a homecoming when the girl's grown up and the home's been sold off a long time ago.
In the parlor there's coffee, pastries, sausage, and cigarettes. He smokes near the window, with the curtains cracked. The maid asks him if he'd like to make a call. He declines. His brothers will understand the delay. It'd be unwise to give away his particular position at this time, no matter how nice the view.
He sees her reflection in the glass before he sees her. "Miss Genoard."
"Mr. Gandor."
"I understand you're a busy woman. My sincerest regrets if our business has inconvenienced you in any way."
She tips her head at the formality, but looks unshaken by it. She's dressed in her Sunday best, back from church and brunch with a councilman. "It hasn't been a bother. You look tired."
"Coming back from the dead's exhausting."
"How many men did you kill this morning?"
His eyebrows shoot up. She pulls a chair to the table. The cigarette hangs from his fingers. "It isn't to your benefit to know."
"They'll say in the papers."
"They'll know better than me."
"Can I hear it from you?"
"Five got out of the car," he says, more easily than he'd like. He's not surprised to hear her gasp. "Rudoph Gant and Sal Ridolfi, definitely. Less sure on the goons they had with them, one them went down. Got Jimmy Hopper in the chest before he plugged me four times in mine. If he's not dead yet, he probably will be by tomorrow." It will save them all a lot of trouble if he is. He's not surprised to see the color go out of her cheeks. "The rest is our business, not yours."
He is surprised when she puts her hands around his head, puts her thumbs against his hollow cheeks, a face that has been hollowed out since before time stopped for him. He's completely surprised when she puts her face against his forehead. He shuts his eyes for her sake. "I'm sorry."
Unprovoked hostilities. Ambush. "I'm not."
"I forgive you."
"What? Because I'm out of God's reach?"
"Yes," she says. Her eyes stay dry. He would have felt otherwise. She moves back so he can look at her again. "Also, I just want to."
"You're a good kid," he tells her, as she sits across from him. Nevermind she's older than he looks, now. "Don't do a foolish thing like that."
She takes his cigarette and puts it out, never breaking eye contact with him.
"Happy birthday," he says, finally.
Her color comes back. Two red spots, in her cheeks. "Oh," she says, looking away. She's a girl again, a little mystified. It's all right. "You remembered."