Fic: the Future
Apr. 7th, 2006 08:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
knights_say_nihJack and Belial.
“I am exhausted.”
Satan glances up from the newspaper he’s not actually reading. There’s very little indication he’s paying any attention whatsoever, except a slight flick of eyes behind his sunglasses. It doesn’t particularly worry Jack, who’s feeling rather petulant.
“And the past days have been absolutely stupid.” That important fact pronounced, he moves closer, perching carefully on the arm of the chair Belial’s sitting in glancing down to try to see over his shoulder. His attitude is nonchalant, quiet, if a touch pushy. As though he had just seen him yesterday, as though they stumble upon each other every day, as though this is nothing new.
A certain brightness to his eyes makes it a lie.
But his voice is calm when he asks;
“What are you reading?”
“Nothing, Jack.”
Satan just wants people to think he’s reading, because that’s what one does in an armchair in a lobby in Italy when one is watching for interesting people, things, faces, but doesn’t bother to explain it. He doesn’t need to, after all, Jack understands.
That does, however, make the newspaper rather fair game, so its snatched away so Jack can tip sideways in the armchair, falling gracelessly into Belial’s lap, legs dangling over one arm and elbows resting back against the other, bracing himself in a half upright position.
Satan sighs, long suffering, and takes the newspaper back without comment, opening it again between him and Jack. He isn’t surprised- nor particularly annoyed, really- when it’s snatched away again and dropped off the edge of the chair.
“Stupid little boy” sneers Satan. Because the ruler of Hell does not feel affection.
“You have been calling me a little boy for nine hundred years now, Belial.”
There are some things to which one becomes accustomed. For Jack, it’s jibes and harsh words and an attitude crafted to push away.
For Satan, it’s thin arms wrapping around your neck and pressing a kiss to your cheek in greeting.
For the first time in a hundred years or so they have it again and Jack- who knew he missed it- can only babble on about the strange old man Belial must watch for while Satan- who pretends he didn’t- can only hold on to the frostling and nod occasionally and consider Italy and then stupid little boys as his thoughts escape him.
From there Jack begins to babble cheerfully, rambling about strange people, wine, song, fighting, while Satan shrugs, and then reaches up to idle pick at a bit of frozen red liquid on Jack’s skin, pulling away the flakes of ice. You would never know he was actually listening.
Jack doesn’t ever stop to wonder that perhaps he isn’t. Why should he? It’s his Belial. So he chatters away, rattling off events and if his posture changes just slightly when he finally works his way up to what’s important that he’ll want to know. When Satan speaks, his voice is bland, almost stern; mostly without inflection but it makes Jack sigh anyways and try to think of a reasonable sounding explanation for a concept that he has but simply can’t articulate.
As he struggles to explain, his feet begin to kick, almost to bounce, one leg then the other in a quick beat, so Satan eventually tells him quite sharply not to fidget but Jack doesn’t really mind because he’s only concerned because his story is not very pleasant so tells him in return not to whine so Belial lifts one leg slightly, upsetting Jack’s balance in his lap and making him flail momentarily, grabbing for support and simultaneously whacking Satan over the head with the slightly crumpled newspaper.
The document subsequently bursts into flames but this goes largely unnoticed because Jack was expecting it, after all, and drops it before the heat can touch his fingers, as Belial knew he would and if it should extinguish rather more quickly than is natural then no one will pay any notice, really.
Jack does, it should be noted, stop kicking. Even if he now has to squirm to get comfortable again; this is annoying in and of itself but can’t really be helped.
As he sets his head on Satan’s shoulder and wraps a spare arm around his knees, curling them into the chair as well, Jack has to wonder briefly if this is something of a reward for information, for stories about the bar and the comings and goings. Maybe his doubt shows in his voice when he whispers ‘his name is Dworkin’ and stills at last, listening to the beat of a heart that shouldn’t be there.
Maybe it’s a further reward- or another manipulation- or a trick or a lie when Satan doesn’t push him away, no, pulls him a bit closer and shifts so very slightly to make sure he’s comfortable. He is the Prince of Lies, after all, and Jack hasn’t forgotten it, no matter how long it is been. Maybe it is a reminder of affection, that he did once touch him and did once smile at him in a bar a very long time away from here. Maybe----
----his breath let out into Belial’s shoulder is sharp, audible, and, if he says so himself, rather silly and emotional, but he finds he can’t help it. Fingers, just slid into his hair, ruffle gently then fall to curl around his waist in a gesture that’s quietly protective, in a language Jack sort of almost understands. Not quite demonstrative enough to be a trick and not quite subtle enough to be an accident and blue eyes scan the room refusing to meet his as he seeks out his latest game.
“Will you take me dancing tonight Belial?”
Here, he does get spared a cursory glance, before Satan looks away again.
“Must we?”
Jack grins. Because it’s not a ‘no.’
“We must.”
And they do.
“I am exhausted.”
Satan glances up from the newspaper he’s not actually reading. There’s very little indication he’s paying any attention whatsoever, except a slight flick of eyes behind his sunglasses. It doesn’t particularly worry Jack, who’s feeling rather petulant.
“And the past days have been absolutely stupid.” That important fact pronounced, he moves closer, perching carefully on the arm of the chair Belial’s sitting in glancing down to try to see over his shoulder. His attitude is nonchalant, quiet, if a touch pushy. As though he had just seen him yesterday, as though they stumble upon each other every day, as though this is nothing new.
A certain brightness to his eyes makes it a lie.
But his voice is calm when he asks;
“What are you reading?”
“Nothing, Jack.”
Satan just wants people to think he’s reading, because that’s what one does in an armchair in a lobby in Italy when one is watching for interesting people, things, faces, but doesn’t bother to explain it. He doesn’t need to, after all, Jack understands.
That does, however, make the newspaper rather fair game, so its snatched away so Jack can tip sideways in the armchair, falling gracelessly into Belial’s lap, legs dangling over one arm and elbows resting back against the other, bracing himself in a half upright position.
Satan sighs, long suffering, and takes the newspaper back without comment, opening it again between him and Jack. He isn’t surprised- nor particularly annoyed, really- when it’s snatched away again and dropped off the edge of the chair.
“Stupid little boy” sneers Satan. Because the ruler of Hell does not feel affection.
“You have been calling me a little boy for nine hundred years now, Belial.”
There are some things to which one becomes accustomed. For Jack, it’s jibes and harsh words and an attitude crafted to push away.
For Satan, it’s thin arms wrapping around your neck and pressing a kiss to your cheek in greeting.
For the first time in a hundred years or so they have it again and Jack- who knew he missed it- can only babble on about the strange old man Belial must watch for while Satan- who pretends he didn’t- can only hold on to the frostling and nod occasionally and consider Italy and then stupid little boys as his thoughts escape him.
From there Jack begins to babble cheerfully, rambling about strange people, wine, song, fighting, while Satan shrugs, and then reaches up to idle pick at a bit of frozen red liquid on Jack’s skin, pulling away the flakes of ice. You would never know he was actually listening.
Jack doesn’t ever stop to wonder that perhaps he isn’t. Why should he? It’s his Belial. So he chatters away, rattling off events and if his posture changes just slightly when he finally works his way up to what’s important that he’ll want to know. When Satan speaks, his voice is bland, almost stern; mostly without inflection but it makes Jack sigh anyways and try to think of a reasonable sounding explanation for a concept that he has but simply can’t articulate.
As he struggles to explain, his feet begin to kick, almost to bounce, one leg then the other in a quick beat, so Satan eventually tells him quite sharply not to fidget but Jack doesn’t really mind because he’s only concerned because his story is not very pleasant so tells him in return not to whine so Belial lifts one leg slightly, upsetting Jack’s balance in his lap and making him flail momentarily, grabbing for support and simultaneously whacking Satan over the head with the slightly crumpled newspaper.
The document subsequently bursts into flames but this goes largely unnoticed because Jack was expecting it, after all, and drops it before the heat can touch his fingers, as Belial knew he would and if it should extinguish rather more quickly than is natural then no one will pay any notice, really.
Jack does, it should be noted, stop kicking. Even if he now has to squirm to get comfortable again; this is annoying in and of itself but can’t really be helped.
As he sets his head on Satan’s shoulder and wraps a spare arm around his knees, curling them into the chair as well, Jack has to wonder briefly if this is something of a reward for information, for stories about the bar and the comings and goings. Maybe his doubt shows in his voice when he whispers ‘his name is Dworkin’ and stills at last, listening to the beat of a heart that shouldn’t be there.
Maybe it’s a further reward- or another manipulation- or a trick or a lie when Satan doesn’t push him away, no, pulls him a bit closer and shifts so very slightly to make sure he’s comfortable. He is the Prince of Lies, after all, and Jack hasn’t forgotten it, no matter how long it is been. Maybe it is a reminder of affection, that he did once touch him and did once smile at him in a bar a very long time away from here. Maybe----
----his breath let out into Belial’s shoulder is sharp, audible, and, if he says so himself, rather silly and emotional, but he finds he can’t help it. Fingers, just slid into his hair, ruffle gently then fall to curl around his waist in a gesture that’s quietly protective, in a language Jack sort of almost understands. Not quite demonstrative enough to be a trick and not quite subtle enough to be an accident and blue eyes scan the room refusing to meet his as he seeks out his latest game.
“Will you take me dancing tonight Belial?”
Here, he does get spared a cursory glance, before Satan looks away again.
“Must we?”
Jack grins. Because it’s not a ‘no.’
“We must.”
And they do.
