isaysimplewords (
isaysimplewords) wrote2011-02-03 10:10 pm
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MM: get what you see
Today, Cal is vomit-free.
He has a small scarlet feather in his hair, though. He hasn't noticed it yet.
He's at a table with a cup of coffee, half-watching the crowd.
He has a small scarlet feather in his hair, though. He hasn't noticed it yet.
He's at a table with a cup of coffee, half-watching the crowd.
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"Marrying into the Chandler family is usually a political power move. Maybe a social one." Deborah hadn't been interested in politics, but she'd certainly enjoyed the social cache that came with being his wife. And as they've established, James is not Deborah.
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A few minutes ago, that agreement would have been much more emphatic, but now his heart just isn't in it.
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Does he think at all? Because Cal didn't start thinking until he was thirty-seven, and judging from James's age, it'll be a while before his double gets there.
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Until the first time he was confronted with the fact that his wife had just ordered a hit on somebody.
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Doesn't say anything.
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"What happened to your wedding ring?"
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"It didn't come with me when I died."
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"I was in the mob's pocket for a long time. They didn't like it very much when I decided to stop."
His words are cold and quiet; any hint of the developing camaraderie of before is gone.
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He probably shouldn't be telling her this. If his double is anything like him, he'll rebel eventually too. Cal could be changing their timeline by giving her what basically boils down to advance warning.
In this moment, he can't bring himself to care very much.
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"The person I was," he says sharply, "was a cowardly lying sack of shit. I let Gliardi run my career for years because I didn't have the fucking spine to tell him to go fuck himself. When I finally did, it was too late for me to get out alive, and I deserved that. I am not that person anymore."
He won't let himself be.
Ever.
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It's a humorless, derisive sound.
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Tightly: "Yes?"
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Perhaps he could hand her the gun as he warned her, to save them both some time.
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"Thanks for telling me," she says at last, not quite steadily.
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(It must be an act. He doesn't even consider the possibility that it isn't.)
"I probably shouldn't have," he says. "Maybe you'll get lucky and he'll overdose or something instead."
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"I don't blame you for not trusting me. I don't even have the right to blame you for not trusting me. I wouldn't, if I were you."
And yet, somehow, it still hurts.
"Does getting drunk help, in your experience? I've never tried."
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"I was never much of a drinker," he says. "I preferred heroin."
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