Two Looper drabbles for comment_fic
Title Poetic
Pairing: Joe/Old Joe (eh.. ish?)
Prompt: Looper, Joe/Old!Joe, calloused hands
Rating: PG13
Warnings: language
Joe's got a funny way of holding his blunderbuss. Too close to the mouth, the rough lower ridge resting against the edge of his palm. You'll blow your fucking fingers off, Seth said, shaking his head.
He hasn't managed that yet, but he's got a nice, hard set of callouses on his left hand. Reminders. Brands. Grave-markers.
Suzie hates them, but sitting across the table from his nemesis (how poetic, Joe thinks), he can't help noticing that they seem to fascinate him. Old Joe's familiar eyes tick across them a dozen times.
"You work too hard," he finally says. "Cut that shit out."
Title: Delivery
Pairing: Joe/Sara (again... ish?)
Prompt: any, any(/any), singing
Rating: PG
Warnings: language
He hears Sara's voice through the cracked-open window, rich and rough like a shot of decent whiskey.
She's got Cid doing some homemade addition worksheet at the kitchen table - she's forever torturing the kid; Joe wouldn't blame him if he grew up to fucking kill everyone - while she makes dinner, singing low and mostly to herself.
Joe recognizes the tone - bittersweet, lullaby shit - but not the words. He strains for a few moments to hear, but then decides it's not important. If his job has taught him anything, it's that sometimes, the message matters less than the delivery.
Pairing: Joe/Old Joe (eh.. ish?)
Prompt: Looper, Joe/Old!Joe, calloused hands
Rating: PG13
Warnings: language
Joe's got a funny way of holding his blunderbuss. Too close to the mouth, the rough lower ridge resting against the edge of his palm. You'll blow your fucking fingers off, Seth said, shaking his head.
He hasn't managed that yet, but he's got a nice, hard set of callouses on his left hand. Reminders. Brands. Grave-markers.
Suzie hates them, but sitting across the table from his nemesis (how poetic, Joe thinks), he can't help noticing that they seem to fascinate him. Old Joe's familiar eyes tick across them a dozen times.
"You work too hard," he finally says. "Cut that shit out."
Title: Delivery
Pairing: Joe/Sara (again... ish?)
Prompt: any, any(/any), singing
Rating: PG
Warnings: language
He hears Sara's voice through the cracked-open window, rich and rough like a shot of decent whiskey.
She's got Cid doing some homemade addition worksheet at the kitchen table - she's forever torturing the kid; Joe wouldn't blame him if he grew up to fucking kill everyone - while she makes dinner, singing low and mostly to herself.
Joe recognizes the tone - bittersweet, lullaby shit - but not the words. He strains for a few moments to hear, but then decides it's not important. If his job has taught him anything, it's that sometimes, the message matters less than the delivery.