made of ticky tacky and they all look the same (Abaddon/Ilana, PG-13)
Title: made of ticky tacky and they all look the same
Fandom: LOST
Characters: Abaddon/Ilana, Ben, Charles
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,032
Summary: It's not an art, it's a science.
My name's not Abaddon, he tells her, and she laughs.
Matthew catalogues the world into boxes, rows of disjointed photographs he packs tight in a system only he understands. His arms ache as he works, carrying his walls of cardboard and glossy paper from this side of the office to that side.
"It's good to see you again," Charles says awkwardly. He's older and Matthew is not, and it's just a coincidence that they left the island in different decades and arrived at this building on the same day.
Matthew smiles, because that's what old friends do, but it doesn't reach his eyes. It's not at all difficult to form a clear image of Charles in his head. The man is made up of simple shapes and colors, greed and pride and the need to lower others to elevate himself. Like everyone else, Charles Widmore is not an art but a science. Blue and red make purple. Drag that pencil across the page and you have a line.
Matthew takes a folder and files it away in the cabinet. Vain with the vain and liars with the liars. Circles and squares and black and white.
Charles shifts in his new suit, tugs at his tie. The drawer slides shut.
You see, Ben says, destiny is like a box.
Matthew runs a hand over his short curls and peeks at the photos the man's collected of him.
You haven't changed much, Mr. Linus, and the formal address would sound like a joke, if he were the joking type.
Ben's shoulders lift sheepishly. I suppose not.
Jacob tells him about a Russian girl with her mother's eyes and her father's frown. Matthew finds her in a dirty Australian bar, nursing a whiskey and a grudge against her ancient benefactor (there seems to be a lot of that going around).
Matthew waves smoke out of his face and introduces himself with a genuine smile. She's got class written under all that dirt and sweat. He takes her to the hotel, pours her a glass of the good stuff he took from Charles. They spend three days doing nothing but drinking and passing out.
The fourth day he wakes to a horribly bitter smell. Ilana sits at the small table with her washed hair tied back, wearing one of his shirts because she has nothing clean. "Nice day, isn't it?" she says with a miserable grin.
He clutches his head as he joins her at the table. "Obnoxiously bright."
"See, life is like a game of poker," Ilana says, handing him a mug of black coffee. "If you get drunk enough, all your cards start to look the same."
He laughs and it hurts. "Keep it up for very long and you'll run out of money."
Later, when his head stops spinning, she asks, "You want to know a secret?"
Matthew sits up straight. There's a folder on his desk back in London, overflowing with details about her, height and birth date, which schools Jacob sent her to. All of it as detached and meaningless as the names scripted onto rock walls. "Of course."
"One day I decided I was going to get a tattoo. A bird. Jacob said I shouldn't mark my body, and I told him where he could shove his protective father act." Ilana unbuttons the top of her shirt, pushing aside the blue fabric to reveal an angry scar. "He took me to the island to keep an eye on me and I got a bullet in the chest."
Matthew nods, turning his hands over to show her the pink lines on his wrists. "And then he said you were special and had work to do."
"Jacob's a real miracle worker," she agrees flatly.
You can put a square peg in a round hole if you try hard enough, his mother had said. Destiny did not agree.
Now he sits staring at a scrap of paper, his mind looping around things that don't fit. The pen shakes in his hand because he's still young enough to think that names mean something.
Matthew Murdock, he writes, smudging ink on the wooden table.
Her hands are warm on his back as he slides the sleeve of his shirt further down her shoulder. "I have a secret too," he groans into her marked skin.
"And what's that?"
"My name's not Abaddon."
Ilana snickers, pressing her lips to his fading knife wounds. "Then whoever's idea that was had a morbid sense of humor."
Matthew traces the lines and curves of her body, filing away the soft pink of her mouth, the sting of her damp curls as he circles them tight around his fingers. There's something about her that's blurred around the edges, all art and no science.
He kisses her deep because they are alike.
You have a gift, Ben says. You should treat it as one.
Matthew crosses his arms over thin ribs. I would like to return my gift.
Ben laughs and Matthew does not. I'm sure you've heard the story of Pandora? Once you open it you don't get to put it back.
When Ben turns away, Matthew quietly unfolds a scrap of paper peeking out of the desk drawer.
Matthew Abaddon, it reads, and the fresh ink bleeds onto his fingers.
When Ilana falls asleep, he picks up his pants, hoping his eyes are playing tricks on him. He pulls a photo from the pocket, of a young woman with a baby in her arms and a sad smile on her face.
Matthew climbs back into bed, brushing back the dark hair clinging to Ilana's cheeks. "Jacob was right," he mumbles. "You do have your mother's eyes."
He was young and the rejects littered the floor. Black ink on white napkins and envelopes and index cards. Bruce, they read. Peter. Phillip.
Now he offers to help John Locke into the next house on his list. I know how to push myself around, Matthew, is the dry refusal.
He waits in the car, pulls a folder out of the dashboard. John used to make boxes for a living. He should have known.
My name's not Matthew, he tells himself, and nobody laughs.
Fandom: LOST
Characters: Abaddon/Ilana, Ben, Charles
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,032
Summary: It's not an art, it's a science.
My name's not Abaddon, he tells her, and she laughs.
Matthew catalogues the world into boxes, rows of disjointed photographs he packs tight in a system only he understands. His arms ache as he works, carrying his walls of cardboard and glossy paper from this side of the office to that side.
"It's good to see you again," Charles says awkwardly. He's older and Matthew is not, and it's just a coincidence that they left the island in different decades and arrived at this building on the same day.
Matthew smiles, because that's what old friends do, but it doesn't reach his eyes. It's not at all difficult to form a clear image of Charles in his head. The man is made up of simple shapes and colors, greed and pride and the need to lower others to elevate himself. Like everyone else, Charles Widmore is not an art but a science. Blue and red make purple. Drag that pencil across the page and you have a line.
Matthew takes a folder and files it away in the cabinet. Vain with the vain and liars with the liars. Circles and squares and black and white.
Charles shifts in his new suit, tugs at his tie. The drawer slides shut.
You see, Ben says, destiny is like a box.
Matthew runs a hand over his short curls and peeks at the photos the man's collected of him.
You haven't changed much, Mr. Linus, and the formal address would sound like a joke, if he were the joking type.
Ben's shoulders lift sheepishly. I suppose not.
Jacob tells him about a Russian girl with her mother's eyes and her father's frown. Matthew finds her in a dirty Australian bar, nursing a whiskey and a grudge against her ancient benefactor (there seems to be a lot of that going around).
Matthew waves smoke out of his face and introduces himself with a genuine smile. She's got class written under all that dirt and sweat. He takes her to the hotel, pours her a glass of the good stuff he took from Charles. They spend three days doing nothing but drinking and passing out.
The fourth day he wakes to a horribly bitter smell. Ilana sits at the small table with her washed hair tied back, wearing one of his shirts because she has nothing clean. "Nice day, isn't it?" she says with a miserable grin.
He clutches his head as he joins her at the table. "Obnoxiously bright."
"See, life is like a game of poker," Ilana says, handing him a mug of black coffee. "If you get drunk enough, all your cards start to look the same."
He laughs and it hurts. "Keep it up for very long and you'll run out of money."
Later, when his head stops spinning, she asks, "You want to know a secret?"
Matthew sits up straight. There's a folder on his desk back in London, overflowing with details about her, height and birth date, which schools Jacob sent her to. All of it as detached and meaningless as the names scripted onto rock walls. "Of course."
"One day I decided I was going to get a tattoo. A bird. Jacob said I shouldn't mark my body, and I told him where he could shove his protective father act." Ilana unbuttons the top of her shirt, pushing aside the blue fabric to reveal an angry scar. "He took me to the island to keep an eye on me and I got a bullet in the chest."
Matthew nods, turning his hands over to show her the pink lines on his wrists. "And then he said you were special and had work to do."
"Jacob's a real miracle worker," she agrees flatly.
You can put a square peg in a round hole if you try hard enough, his mother had said. Destiny did not agree.
Now he sits staring at a scrap of paper, his mind looping around things that don't fit. The pen shakes in his hand because he's still young enough to think that names mean something.
Matthew Murdock, he writes, smudging ink on the wooden table.
Her hands are warm on his back as he slides the sleeve of his shirt further down her shoulder. "I have a secret too," he groans into her marked skin.
"And what's that?"
"My name's not Abaddon."
Ilana snickers, pressing her lips to his fading knife wounds. "Then whoever's idea that was had a morbid sense of humor."
Matthew traces the lines and curves of her body, filing away the soft pink of her mouth, the sting of her damp curls as he circles them tight around his fingers. There's something about her that's blurred around the edges, all art and no science.
He kisses her deep because they are alike.
You have a gift, Ben says. You should treat it as one.
Matthew crosses his arms over thin ribs. I would like to return my gift.
Ben laughs and Matthew does not. I'm sure you've heard the story of Pandora? Once you open it you don't get to put it back.
When Ben turns away, Matthew quietly unfolds a scrap of paper peeking out of the desk drawer.
Matthew Abaddon, it reads, and the fresh ink bleeds onto his fingers.
When Ilana falls asleep, he picks up his pants, hoping his eyes are playing tricks on him. He pulls a photo from the pocket, of a young woman with a baby in her arms and a sad smile on her face.
Matthew climbs back into bed, brushing back the dark hair clinging to Ilana's cheeks. "Jacob was right," he mumbles. "You do have your mother's eyes."
He was young and the rejects littered the floor. Black ink on white napkins and envelopes and index cards. Bruce, they read. Peter. Phillip.
Now he offers to help John Locke into the next house on his list. I know how to push myself around, Matthew, is the dry refusal.
He waits in the car, pulls a folder out of the dashboard. John used to make boxes for a living. He should have known.
My name's not Matthew, he tells himself, and nobody laughs.