fic: method of differences
METHOD OF DIFFERENCES
the hour, lix storm/randall brown, pg-13.
this is how he keeps his memories, always was, all lined up in a row.
nb; no spoilers for series two episode two
though the waters are rising
there’s still no surprising you
vanderlyle crybaby geeks; THE NATIONAL
They are not in love.
Remember this.
“You were in Paris, weren’t you?” Hector says, idly.
She hums in ascent, “For a spell.”
“I suppose you know Mr Brown, then?”
She shakes her head a little too quickly, but then again, Hector never was any good at reading her. “Not at all.”
Bel calls him a monster and it makes her chuckle, the way she scuttles around half a step behind him, Mr Brown this, and Mr Brown that. It reminds her of Paris, of her broken, prep school French and the way she too, used to follow hopeless in his wake.
He was angry, back then, he cared about things.
Once he even cared about her.
The years have not been kind to him. He walks hunched, his shoulders tight and his knees making audibly clicks when they bend. His rhythm is the same, though: the easy, regular tap of leather soles on vinyl floors. His knuckles scuttle across the door of her office.
“This place is a fucking mess,” he says, and she’s not sure if he’s talking about this place, in particular, or some abstract higher plane.
She hedges, “Budget cuts, I’m afraid. The cleaners haven’t been around for days.”
He pauses, halfway through pouring a scotch, “I had a tutor at Oxford,” he starts, stops, “told me that humour was a poor mechanism for defence.”
“What did he suggest as an alternative?”
“Artillery shells.” He deadpans.
She almost laughs out loud.
This is how they come to exist. Morning turns to afternoon and he finds himself in her office, a mug of whiskey and a half-smoked cigarette. They never talk of anything substantial; the underground and the weather and the cricket remain enough to entertain them indefinitely, it would seem.
She will never admit it, but she just likes to hear his voice.
There’s a last time, because she never knew that their previous last time was, well, going to be their last time, and she always was one to finish what she started.
He’s changed less than she’d imagined and she’s not sure which she’s less likely to admit to: that she was wrong, or that she was imagining.
This is where it is important to remember that they are not in love, and that goes both ways.
It’s a cliché, but a last time is never the last time, far from it. His hands bunch in her curls, pulling them tight across her scalp when she presses a hand against him. There’s a fine line between sadism and masochism, that she knows, and when he palms her breast harder than she likes it’s clear that he does too.
She lights a cigarette, a sly glance in his direction when he shrugs his slacks back on, sets about rearranging the talismans that litter his desk. This is how he keeps his memories, always was, all lined up in a row.
“This isn’t helping,” he says, abrupt.
“No,” she agrees, slowly frowning, “But did you really expect it to?”
He only shrugs, leans over for a light.
One day, she fears, he will find her out. She crafts a careful illusion, that she cares about nothing and no-one, never has and never will.
The trouble is this: she cares about him, always has and always will.
She does not love him. He does not love her.
They are not in love.
Eventually a last time is the last time, occurring by definition and it becomes clear to her that they cannot be in love.
Not anymore.
end.
the hour, lix storm/randall brown, pg-13.
this is how he keeps his memories, always was, all lined up in a row.
nb; no spoilers for series two episode two
though the waters are rising
there’s still no surprising you
vanderlyle crybaby geeks; THE NATIONAL
They are not in love.
Remember this.
“You were in Paris, weren’t you?” Hector says, idly.
She hums in ascent, “For a spell.”
“I suppose you know Mr Brown, then?”
She shakes her head a little too quickly, but then again, Hector never was any good at reading her. “Not at all.”
Bel calls him a monster and it makes her chuckle, the way she scuttles around half a step behind him, Mr Brown this, and Mr Brown that. It reminds her of Paris, of her broken, prep school French and the way she too, used to follow hopeless in his wake.
He was angry, back then, he cared about things.
Once he even cared about her.
The years have not been kind to him. He walks hunched, his shoulders tight and his knees making audibly clicks when they bend. His rhythm is the same, though: the easy, regular tap of leather soles on vinyl floors. His knuckles scuttle across the door of her office.
“This place is a fucking mess,” he says, and she’s not sure if he’s talking about this place, in particular, or some abstract higher plane.
She hedges, “Budget cuts, I’m afraid. The cleaners haven’t been around for days.”
He pauses, halfway through pouring a scotch, “I had a tutor at Oxford,” he starts, stops, “told me that humour was a poor mechanism for defence.”
“What did he suggest as an alternative?”
“Artillery shells.” He deadpans.
She almost laughs out loud.
This is how they come to exist. Morning turns to afternoon and he finds himself in her office, a mug of whiskey and a half-smoked cigarette. They never talk of anything substantial; the underground and the weather and the cricket remain enough to entertain them indefinitely, it would seem.
She will never admit it, but she just likes to hear his voice.
There’s a last time, because she never knew that their previous last time was, well, going to be their last time, and she always was one to finish what she started.
He’s changed less than she’d imagined and she’s not sure which she’s less likely to admit to: that she was wrong, or that she was imagining.
This is where it is important to remember that they are not in love, and that goes both ways.
It’s a cliché, but a last time is never the last time, far from it. His hands bunch in her curls, pulling them tight across her scalp when she presses a hand against him. There’s a fine line between sadism and masochism, that she knows, and when he palms her breast harder than she likes it’s clear that he does too.
She lights a cigarette, a sly glance in his direction when he shrugs his slacks back on, sets about rearranging the talismans that litter his desk. This is how he keeps his memories, always was, all lined up in a row.
“This isn’t helping,” he says, abrupt.
“No,” she agrees, slowly frowning, “But did you really expect it to?”
He only shrugs, leans over for a light.
One day, she fears, he will find her out. She crafts a careful illusion, that she cares about nothing and no-one, never has and never will.
The trouble is this: she cares about him, always has and always will.
She does not love him. He does not love her.
They are not in love.
Eventually a last time is the last time, occurring by definition and it becomes clear to her that they cannot be in love.
Not anymore.
end.