Barren (Ergo Proxy)
Well, my first fic for this fandom - and one of the first of the fandom, there's like, no fic around, which is sad ;-;
Title: Barren
Rating: PG
Pairing: Vincent/Real
Word Count: 1010
Summary: They find routine in the unknown. Post episode 14, the journey continues.
Author Notes: Much thanks to swedish15, who gave me part of this bunny. This was a lot of fun to do. Partially written in future tense.
Act one, and Real was living in this white (lie) world with sterile walls and organized minds; when she still believed in what she did and her grandfather’s word was law not only for the rest of the people, but for her also.
And then there’s a fracture, and his name is Vincent Law.
Act two, and nothing’s certain anymore in this darkened world outside the walls she had never thought to cross before. She guesses light can blind just as much as not having any source of light but that little flashlight Pino makes hand figures with.
They find routine in the unknown. Camp here, make a fire, sleep with their blankets exactly three meters from each other’s because they’re alone and in need of company but she still won’t get too close. Another day, another can of tasteless food and Pino bouncing up and down on the deck, another city - sometimes crowded, sometimes abandoned. Ruins, tall skyscrapers, blown away domes; it all becomes everyday subject and they’ve long ago stopped reacting to them.
Everything’s the same.
And yet, everything’s different.
It’s always interesting when they will meet someone, when Real has to stay on the sidelines and let Vincent do the talking (and the smiling) so she won’t scare them off with her callousness. Vincent had once told her that it couldn’t be that much of an effort to be nice to people, gulping and fretting and looking everywhere but to her eyes. She hadn’t said a thing, and she still thinks she shouldn’t have had too. She won’t allow him to change her anymore, because he already has turned her into this rebellious, curious thing that wants the truth much more than the delicate balance in her life she had always thought her first priority.
(Sometimes, she wonders if she has changed him. She’s too afraid to ask.)
Some days, Real will turn around too fast and find Vincent staring at her, and then he will stumble with his words or literally with whatever junk is thrown across the deck, face red. And most than anything else of having to cohabitate with him and an infected Auto Rave, what will make her confused, is how such a tame-looking man like him can be the bearer of such a dangerous secret.
The mystery called Vincent is consuming her, she knows.
Real touches him some nights, when they happen to sleep on board, him shifting and frowning as she puts her fingers to his face in order to find that monster that crawls beneath his skin. She frowns, as well, when she can’t find anything and all her logic says human when her instincts say dangerous. He’ll wake up some nights, and pretend he doesn’t, and he’ll say, with that annoying little voice of his “Real-san…” the other day, when they’re ready for another day that tastes the same and he thinks she won’t hear him. Other nights, he’ll remain asleep, mouth partially open and body curled up into a tight ball - and then, then she’ll resent him more, because he looks far too innocent for what she knows he can do.
He won’t touch her, but she’s aware of the way of how he, in turn, sits just next to her when she’s resting, and just like him, Real will pretend she’s asleep. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t touch, doesn’t take - any of the things she’d imagine his counterpart would do, but instead just be there, close enough to feel his body heat. He has never once tried to reach for her gun, as much as she almost would want him to, because that would mean she would know the way he acts.
(And she doesn’t, really doesn’t, and it scares her not being in control.)
She will take her gloves off a few nights before reaching Moscow, when she thinks she’ll just burst open if she doesn’t figure out at least a little bit of the puzzle, and it’s skin against skin when she lets her open hand rest against his cheek, not even trying to be sneaky.
“What are you, Vincent Law,” she’ll whisper real, real low, knowing he’ll be able to hear her. He’ll open his eyes, and she won’t even be surprised. She won’t take her hand off his face, and she’ll trace it instead, looking at her own fingertips instead of the eerie green eyes that stare into hers.
“I don’t know,” he’ll say, mouth moving under her fingertips, body stiff and breathing a bit out of control. “Will you help me find out?” he’ll finally ask after a moment of silence, and against her will, her lips will shape into a little smile.
They’ll stay like that for a while, silent and tense and intimate, Real crouching by Vincent and his hands twitching with the effort of stopping them from curling around her own hands. She will finally reach down and take off his gloves, guide his hands to her face. It’s only to be in equal ground, she’ll think to herself, and he won’t think at all, just breathe harder and touch her thumb to her lips in that way that had seemed so frightening on the night she met his other half.
And that will be it, and Pino will have to wonder why they’re both in such good moods the next day.
They will find Moscow, or maybe they won’t, but whatever happens, she’ll find that she trusts him, as much as she doesn’t want to, and he will find that loving the true person is even better than being infatuated with the shadow of her.
And if she doesn’t throw away the gun, it’ll only be because she needs a reminder of the Real that lived and breathed in Romdeau, if she wants to become the Real that thinks for herself and sees beyond that white (lies) walls that once trapped her.
But Real thinks Vincent knows she won’t use it on him.
Or at least, she chooses to believe so; finally a choice after a lifetime of having none.
Title: Barren
Rating: PG
Pairing: Vincent/Real
Word Count: 1010
Summary: They find routine in the unknown. Post episode 14, the journey continues.
Author Notes: Much thanks to swedish15, who gave me part of this bunny. This was a lot of fun to do. Partially written in future tense.
Act one, and Real was living in this white (lie) world with sterile walls and organized minds; when she still believed in what she did and her grandfather’s word was law not only for the rest of the people, but for her also.
And then there’s a fracture, and his name is Vincent Law.
Act two, and nothing’s certain anymore in this darkened world outside the walls she had never thought to cross before. She guesses light can blind just as much as not having any source of light but that little flashlight Pino makes hand figures with.
They find routine in the unknown. Camp here, make a fire, sleep with their blankets exactly three meters from each other’s because they’re alone and in need of company but she still won’t get too close. Another day, another can of tasteless food and Pino bouncing up and down on the deck, another city - sometimes crowded, sometimes abandoned. Ruins, tall skyscrapers, blown away domes; it all becomes everyday subject and they’ve long ago stopped reacting to them.
Everything’s the same.
And yet, everything’s different.
It’s always interesting when they will meet someone, when Real has to stay on the sidelines and let Vincent do the talking (and the smiling) so she won’t scare them off with her callousness. Vincent had once told her that it couldn’t be that much of an effort to be nice to people, gulping and fretting and looking everywhere but to her eyes. She hadn’t said a thing, and she still thinks she shouldn’t have had too. She won’t allow him to change her anymore, because he already has turned her into this rebellious, curious thing that wants the truth much more than the delicate balance in her life she had always thought her first priority.
(Sometimes, she wonders if she has changed him. She’s too afraid to ask.)
Some days, Real will turn around too fast and find Vincent staring at her, and then he will stumble with his words or literally with whatever junk is thrown across the deck, face red. And most than anything else of having to cohabitate with him and an infected Auto Rave, what will make her confused, is how such a tame-looking man like him can be the bearer of such a dangerous secret.
The mystery called Vincent is consuming her, she knows.
Real touches him some nights, when they happen to sleep on board, him shifting and frowning as she puts her fingers to his face in order to find that monster that crawls beneath his skin. She frowns, as well, when she can’t find anything and all her logic says human when her instincts say dangerous. He’ll wake up some nights, and pretend he doesn’t, and he’ll say, with that annoying little voice of his “Real-san…” the other day, when they’re ready for another day that tastes the same and he thinks she won’t hear him. Other nights, he’ll remain asleep, mouth partially open and body curled up into a tight ball - and then, then she’ll resent him more, because he looks far too innocent for what she knows he can do.
He won’t touch her, but she’s aware of the way of how he, in turn, sits just next to her when she’s resting, and just like him, Real will pretend she’s asleep. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t touch, doesn’t take - any of the things she’d imagine his counterpart would do, but instead just be there, close enough to feel his body heat. He has never once tried to reach for her gun, as much as she almost would want him to, because that would mean she would know the way he acts.
(And she doesn’t, really doesn’t, and it scares her not being in control.)
She will take her gloves off a few nights before reaching Moscow, when she thinks she’ll just burst open if she doesn’t figure out at least a little bit of the puzzle, and it’s skin against skin when she lets her open hand rest against his cheek, not even trying to be sneaky.
“What are you, Vincent Law,” she’ll whisper real, real low, knowing he’ll be able to hear her. He’ll open his eyes, and she won’t even be surprised. She won’t take her hand off his face, and she’ll trace it instead, looking at her own fingertips instead of the eerie green eyes that stare into hers.
“I don’t know,” he’ll say, mouth moving under her fingertips, body stiff and breathing a bit out of control. “Will you help me find out?” he’ll finally ask after a moment of silence, and against her will, her lips will shape into a little smile.
They’ll stay like that for a while, silent and tense and intimate, Real crouching by Vincent and his hands twitching with the effort of stopping them from curling around her own hands. She will finally reach down and take off his gloves, guide his hands to her face. It’s only to be in equal ground, she’ll think to herself, and he won’t think at all, just breathe harder and touch her thumb to her lips in that way that had seemed so frightening on the night she met his other half.
And that will be it, and Pino will have to wonder why they’re both in such good moods the next day.
They will find Moscow, or maybe they won’t, but whatever happens, she’ll find that she trusts him, as much as she doesn’t want to, and he will find that loving the true person is even better than being infatuated with the shadow of her.
And if she doesn’t throw away the gun, it’ll only be because she needs a reminder of the Real that lived and breathed in Romdeau, if she wants to become the Real that thinks for herself and sees beyond that white (lies) walls that once trapped her.
But Real thinks Vincent knows she won’t use it on him.
Or at least, she chooses to believe so; finally a choice after a lifetime of having none.