Mostly Hal Centered Gen-Fic
Orders
[Gen-fic, Hal-centered, pre-series]
“Milord?” The question is almost hesitant, is doubtful. As if it want enough of an insult that it was a question at all. Hal closes his eyes, hands clenched into fists, a manifest to barely withheld patience, and the threat of what will happen when his limit has been reached.
“What part of ‘kill’ is so hard for you to grasp?” HAl snaps, his voice sharp, and for a moment there is silence. Then, the other man speaks up once more.
“But, Milord-” He starts, but his words are cut off by the hand that finds its way around his throat, tight.
“I gave you an order, and you will obey it. It doesn’t matter if I tell you to kill it our to lick it off of the wall, or I will have you flogged. Do you understand me?” The words are venomous and loud, something barely withheld from his voice and the man who’s throat he is at nods frantically, and he releases his grip.
The man takes a moment to recover, and another moment passes, and the sound of something hard hitting the wall before he speaks. “I-It’s dead.”
Hal relaxes visibly, opening his eyes, and smiling easily at the increasingly terrified man. “Was that so hard?”
Hal moves, and the man is dead before he has a chance to answer. He straightens his clothing, and let’s out a brief, involuntary shudder at the smudge on the wall.
Most of Hal’s neurosis are his own, are products of the techniques that he has learned to keep himself in check, or the effects of his withdrawal. Most.
Hal has never been able to stand spiders.
Upstairs
[Gen-fic, Hal-centered, pre-series]
There are times, in southend, where Hal is more of a ghost than Pearl. When he is the slow, methodically careful sound of dominoes against glass as he sets them up in the flat above the barber shop to take them down. While the chatter from downstairs carries up, Leo’s easy conversations with his customers as he works with them, and the fond, restrained smile he can’t see as Pearl criticizes them and the passerby, or their own conversations when time is slow.
Hal decided himself that it was too dangerous to go downstairs while the shop was open, between the mirrors and the people. He can block them out well enough, with stairs and closed doors between them but it means he blocks out the rest, too.
Smiles and conversation passed behind the backs of the living, and the strains of Louis Armstrong, Ray Charles and Robert Johnson. They are familiar songs, familiar things, some life at the edge of his consciousness as he does his best to keep every stray fiber of his being and the world around him in order.
He manages, of course, and life around him, below him, continues on.
Gloves
[Gen, Drabble, Tom, post 4x03]
“More gloves?” There’s something almost disbelieving in the question, and Tom nods his head yes to his boss, who looks at him, baffled. “But we just got a box in last week!” Tom shrugs.
“Yeah, well, yer gonna hafta pick s’more up. Migh’ wan’ t’make it a biggun.”
“What happened to them?” he wants to know, curiousity sneaking into his voice and Tom breathes in and looks at the ceiling, the previous work week going through his head, the hundreds-odd pairs of gloves he’d seen gone through.
“Hal’s a bit thorough, tha’s all.” Tom reassures him, “Real big on cleanliness like, take me word for it. …oh, an’ make tha’ two boxes. Hold’im maybe tha nex’ week or so. ‘pprecciate it.”
[Gen-fic, Hal-centered, pre-series]
“Milord?” The question is almost hesitant, is doubtful. As if it want enough of an insult that it was a question at all. Hal closes his eyes, hands clenched into fists, a manifest to barely withheld patience, and the threat of what will happen when his limit has been reached.
“What part of ‘kill’ is so hard for you to grasp?” HAl snaps, his voice sharp, and for a moment there is silence. Then, the other man speaks up once more.
“But, Milord-” He starts, but his words are cut off by the hand that finds its way around his throat, tight.
“I gave you an order, and you will obey it. It doesn’t matter if I tell you to kill it our to lick it off of the wall, or I will have you flogged. Do you understand me?” The words are venomous and loud, something barely withheld from his voice and the man who’s throat he is at nods frantically, and he releases his grip.
The man takes a moment to recover, and another moment passes, and the sound of something hard hitting the wall before he speaks. “I-It’s dead.”
Hal relaxes visibly, opening his eyes, and smiling easily at the increasingly terrified man. “Was that so hard?”
Hal moves, and the man is dead before he has a chance to answer. He straightens his clothing, and let’s out a brief, involuntary shudder at the smudge on the wall.
Most of Hal’s neurosis are his own, are products of the techniques that he has learned to keep himself in check, or the effects of his withdrawal. Most.
Hal has never been able to stand spiders.
Upstairs
[Gen-fic, Hal-centered, pre-series]
There are times, in southend, where Hal is more of a ghost than Pearl. When he is the slow, methodically careful sound of dominoes against glass as he sets them up in the flat above the barber shop to take them down. While the chatter from downstairs carries up, Leo’s easy conversations with his customers as he works with them, and the fond, restrained smile he can’t see as Pearl criticizes them and the passerby, or their own conversations when time is slow.
Hal decided himself that it was too dangerous to go downstairs while the shop was open, between the mirrors and the people. He can block them out well enough, with stairs and closed doors between them but it means he blocks out the rest, too.
Smiles and conversation passed behind the backs of the living, and the strains of Louis Armstrong, Ray Charles and Robert Johnson. They are familiar songs, familiar things, some life at the edge of his consciousness as he does his best to keep every stray fiber of his being and the world around him in order.
He manages, of course, and life around him, below him, continues on.
Gloves
[Gen, Drabble, Tom, post 4x03]
“More gloves?” There’s something almost disbelieving in the question, and Tom nods his head yes to his boss, who looks at him, baffled. “But we just got a box in last week!” Tom shrugs.
“Yeah, well, yer gonna hafta pick s’more up. Migh’ wan’ t’make it a biggun.”
“What happened to them?” he wants to know, curiousity sneaking into his voice and Tom breathes in and looks at the ceiling, the previous work week going through his head, the hundreds-odd pairs of gloves he’d seen gone through.
“Hal’s a bit thorough, tha’s all.” Tom reassures him, “Real big on cleanliness like, take me word for it. …oh, an’ make tha’ two boxes. Hold’im maybe tha nex’ week or so. ‘pprecciate it.”