FICLETS! Holiday: Day Fifteen
For hackthis
Michael
Michael knows how to get out of almost any situation you can name. He knows trap doors and excuses, alibis and how to set off a detonator when he truly needs a distraction. None of that, of course, helps a single damn bit when it comes to dinner with his family.
Madeline has guilt down to an art form, manipulating the few buttons that Michael still has, the ones worn down from use as a kid, but left alone for twenty years as he roamed the world, finding other buttons to push and be pushed, things that didn’t cut so deep as a breath of cigarette smoke and the smooth taste of a shot of contraband whiskey while in the kitchen under the guise of doing something else.
Nate makes it even harder, because Michael looks at him and wonders if he could have done better by his brother, if he doesn’t owe something to Nate for leaving him to deal with whatever got left behind. The way Michael figures it though, it had to be easier with him gone. His dad saw Michael and saw red. Nobody else got hurt unless they got caught in the crossfire.
Still, there’s pork chops that are too dry, Shake-N-Baked to death and drowned in Worchestshire sauce and Rice-A-Roni on the side, chicken and mushroom flavor, and ice tea that’s too sweet on his tongue, against his teeth. Madeline dumps a bag of salad in a bowl and calls it dinner, waiting until they all choke down the first bite before she lights her cigarette and blows smoke across the room.
Michael eats quickly, his eyes moving around the room for signs of weapons or traps, watching the shadows across the window at Nate’s back. It’s habit and he can’t help it, even though he knows that any danger to him lies inside this house more than beyond the walls, and he’s as safe as he can be, because his father’s too far gone to come home.
For nolivingman
Will/Norrington
Will watches him as he moves along the ship, talking to each of the men as they go about their jobs. He’s stern and brooks no mischief, but he still speaks to each man as though he has some worth that only Norrington himself can see. Will counts the paces that he walks along the deck, measuring his stride and how it’s changed over the intervening years.
He remembers the feel of his hands on him after he’d been taken below. The ship’s surgeon had examined him and Will had fought, not wanting to be touched, not wanting anything found or found out. Instead he struggled until the young man had come over and rested his hands on Will’s shoulders, holding him to the wooden table. Will had stared up into his eyes, watched them watch him coolly, detached from everything going on around them.
Will remembers the feel of his hands as well as he remembers the way his journey along the ship used to take three less paces. Remembers how the turn at the quarterdeck is always accompanied with a quick look at the masts, eyes on the rigging. There were calluses on his hands, rough at the ball of the palm against Will’s bare shoulders.
“Do you need something, Mr. Turner?”
Will watches him as he strides down the dock toward him, his boots firm against the weathered planks. Heat shimmers in the air and Will can almost taste the wig powder on his tongue. “I was wondering if I could see your sword, sir.”
“It is nothing much, I’m afraid. As I’m sure even your apprentice’s eyes can see.”
“No, nothing much.” Will nods and turns it in his hand, a far inferior piece of workmanship to that which he is about to give Governor Swann to give to this man. “Pity. A man of your standing needs a better weapon.”
“A man of my standing, Mr. Turner, needs no weapon at all. It is simply to his advantage to carry one.”
“And what of a man of my standing?”
Norrington smiles and holds out his hand, curving it around the handle as Will turns it back toward him. “You have no standing, Mr. Turner. In fact, I would venture to say that you’ll spend far more time on your knees or your back than standing on your feet.”
Michael
Michael knows how to get out of almost any situation you can name. He knows trap doors and excuses, alibis and how to set off a detonator when he truly needs a distraction. None of that, of course, helps a single damn bit when it comes to dinner with his family.
Madeline has guilt down to an art form, manipulating the few buttons that Michael still has, the ones worn down from use as a kid, but left alone for twenty years as he roamed the world, finding other buttons to push and be pushed, things that didn’t cut so deep as a breath of cigarette smoke and the smooth taste of a shot of contraband whiskey while in the kitchen under the guise of doing something else.
Nate makes it even harder, because Michael looks at him and wonders if he could have done better by his brother, if he doesn’t owe something to Nate for leaving him to deal with whatever got left behind. The way Michael figures it though, it had to be easier with him gone. His dad saw Michael and saw red. Nobody else got hurt unless they got caught in the crossfire.
Still, there’s pork chops that are too dry, Shake-N-Baked to death and drowned in Worchestshire sauce and Rice-A-Roni on the side, chicken and mushroom flavor, and ice tea that’s too sweet on his tongue, against his teeth. Madeline dumps a bag of salad in a bowl and calls it dinner, waiting until they all choke down the first bite before she lights her cigarette and blows smoke across the room.
Michael eats quickly, his eyes moving around the room for signs of weapons or traps, watching the shadows across the window at Nate’s back. It’s habit and he can’t help it, even though he knows that any danger to him lies inside this house more than beyond the walls, and he’s as safe as he can be, because his father’s too far gone to come home.
For nolivingman
Will/Norrington
Will watches him as he moves along the ship, talking to each of the men as they go about their jobs. He’s stern and brooks no mischief, but he still speaks to each man as though he has some worth that only Norrington himself can see. Will counts the paces that he walks along the deck, measuring his stride and how it’s changed over the intervening years.
He remembers the feel of his hands on him after he’d been taken below. The ship’s surgeon had examined him and Will had fought, not wanting to be touched, not wanting anything found or found out. Instead he struggled until the young man had come over and rested his hands on Will’s shoulders, holding him to the wooden table. Will had stared up into his eyes, watched them watch him coolly, detached from everything going on around them.
Will remembers the feel of his hands as well as he remembers the way his journey along the ship used to take three less paces. Remembers how the turn at the quarterdeck is always accompanied with a quick look at the masts, eyes on the rigging. There were calluses on his hands, rough at the ball of the palm against Will’s bare shoulders.
“Do you need something, Mr. Turner?”
Will watches him as he strides down the dock toward him, his boots firm against the weathered planks. Heat shimmers in the air and Will can almost taste the wig powder on his tongue. “I was wondering if I could see your sword, sir.”
“It is nothing much, I’m afraid. As I’m sure even your apprentice’s eyes can see.”
“No, nothing much.” Will nods and turns it in his hand, a far inferior piece of workmanship to that which he is about to give Governor Swann to give to this man. “Pity. A man of your standing needs a better weapon.”
“A man of my standing, Mr. Turner, needs no weapon at all. It is simply to his advantage to carry one.”
“And what of a man of my standing?”
Norrington smiles and holds out his hand, curving it around the handle as Will turns it back toward him. “You have no standing, Mr. Turner. In fact, I would venture to say that you’ll spend far more time on your knees or your back than standing on your feet.”