fic: saved too many times
rpf au thing. matt/kaz. 600 words. She stops yelling eventually. Turns to face the wall and he looks at the curve of her spine and hates her for just a moment.
notes: written because of this graphic. and because S doubted that it corresponded to a rockstar/politician verse.
Some nights he wakes up to her standing at the open window, smoking cigarette after cigarette, and staring out at the street below. He studies the line of her back, the way her fingers clench around the cigarette, the soft sigh she gives with each inhale.
“Kaz.”
“Go back to sleep.”
In the morning she’s always gone. Even the stale scent of smoke doesn’t linger after her and he’d accuse her of trying to write herself out of his life but he’s not in a position to make such claims.
-
He meets her at a charity function- cancer or something, the specifics escape him but it’s a good cause, good for his name, good for his image.
He knows who she is. God, everyone knows who she is. There’s an ad, perfume maybe, with her face- eyes dark and lips soft that he passes on his way to the office some mornings. He knows who she is.
In person it’s still a surprise. The red of her hair almost unbearably bright against her pale skin and when she smiles, all lips and no warmth, he looks straight at her and it’s like she’s looking through him.
“Matt Smith,” he says. Her hand is warm against his.
“That’s actually your name? How terribly dull.” It’s awkward. The words form themselves in her mouth and she doesn’t really pay attention to what order they fall in. She’s still not looking at him.
“At least I don’t look like I’m in the wrong decade.”
The dress is purple. Long and purple, and not just wrong decade but wrong setting. She belongs in a film, black and white and when the camera pans across her face she breaks every heart in the cinema.
She laughs, sharp, people turn to look, and drops a hand to his lapel.
“I’m not so sure about that, Mr. Smith.”
-
He got into politics to change things, to make the world better. He stayed because of the rush. She said essentially the same thing about music once and it sounded honest but he reads her better than that these days.
He’s never been to a show. Turns off the radio any time her voice comes on but sometimes when she in the shower he presses ear to the bathroom door and just listens. Her voice is sharp edges and sharper sweetness and it breaks his heart.
She breaks his heart.
-
They have these arguments, long drawn out affairs that he starts and then can’t help but be surprised when she digs nails and knives and words into him. It’s her lifestyle, it’s her job (“or rather lack there of”) it’s that she’s photographed with a new man every week and that she goes drinking every night and always reeks of smoke and those pills she takes aren’t strictly prescription.
“I don’t know what you’re even doing with me.”
She stops yelling eventually. Turns to face the wall and he looks at the curve of her spine and hates her for just a moment.
-
The problem isn’t really either of them. It’s the circumstances. It’s that he’s going somewhere fast. It’s that his image is respectable said with a certain gravitas that died out fifty years ago but he’s a good enough actor to pull it off. It’s that she’s been featured in every major tabloid since she was seventeen- young and pale and pretty and just looking at her felt a bit voyeuristic.
But he won’t give her up. Not yet. Not until he has to.
When she laughs against the side of his neck, gasps out “shut up” voice doing things to the vowels that shouldn’t be allowed, that he’ll mock her for later- he can’t image he’ll ever be able to watch her leave.
notes: written because of this graphic. and because S doubted that it corresponded to a rockstar/politician verse.
Some nights he wakes up to her standing at the open window, smoking cigarette after cigarette, and staring out at the street below. He studies the line of her back, the way her fingers clench around the cigarette, the soft sigh she gives with each inhale.
“Kaz.”
“Go back to sleep.”
In the morning she’s always gone. Even the stale scent of smoke doesn’t linger after her and he’d accuse her of trying to write herself out of his life but he’s not in a position to make such claims.
-
He meets her at a charity function- cancer or something, the specifics escape him but it’s a good cause, good for his name, good for his image.
He knows who she is. God, everyone knows who she is. There’s an ad, perfume maybe, with her face- eyes dark and lips soft that he passes on his way to the office some mornings. He knows who she is.
In person it’s still a surprise. The red of her hair almost unbearably bright against her pale skin and when she smiles, all lips and no warmth, he looks straight at her and it’s like she’s looking through him.
“Matt Smith,” he says. Her hand is warm against his.
“That’s actually your name? How terribly dull.” It’s awkward. The words form themselves in her mouth and she doesn’t really pay attention to what order they fall in. She’s still not looking at him.
“At least I don’t look like I’m in the wrong decade.”
The dress is purple. Long and purple, and not just wrong decade but wrong setting. She belongs in a film, black and white and when the camera pans across her face she breaks every heart in the cinema.
She laughs, sharp, people turn to look, and drops a hand to his lapel.
“I’m not so sure about that, Mr. Smith.”
-
He got into politics to change things, to make the world better. He stayed because of the rush. She said essentially the same thing about music once and it sounded honest but he reads her better than that these days.
He’s never been to a show. Turns off the radio any time her voice comes on but sometimes when she in the shower he presses ear to the bathroom door and just listens. Her voice is sharp edges and sharper sweetness and it breaks his heart.
She breaks his heart.
-
They have these arguments, long drawn out affairs that he starts and then can’t help but be surprised when she digs nails and knives and words into him. It’s her lifestyle, it’s her job (“or rather lack there of”) it’s that she’s photographed with a new man every week and that she goes drinking every night and always reeks of smoke and those pills she takes aren’t strictly prescription.
“I don’t know what you’re even doing with me.”
She stops yelling eventually. Turns to face the wall and he looks at the curve of her spine and hates her for just a moment.
-
The problem isn’t really either of them. It’s the circumstances. It’s that he’s going somewhere fast. It’s that his image is respectable said with a certain gravitas that died out fifty years ago but he’s a good enough actor to pull it off. It’s that she’s been featured in every major tabloid since she was seventeen- young and pale and pretty and just looking at her felt a bit voyeuristic.
But he won’t give her up. Not yet. Not until he has to.
When she laughs against the side of his neck, gasps out “shut up” voice doing things to the vowels that shouldn’t be allowed, that he’ll mock her for later- he can’t image he’ll ever be able to watch her leave.