[It's not that he doesn't see it -- he does. But he doesn't know what to do with it, what's supposed to happen when someone puts their heart in your hands. He can't feed him, he definitely can't kiss him, and he can't hurt the people that made him like this. He can't even pay for his damn drink.
So he just nods, averting his eyes, as if to spare Stephen the embarrassment.]
[He hangs up with a wordless grunt of acknowledgement and puts the communicator in his pocket, freeing his hands to trudge up top with a six pack and his favorite gun. He's back maybe ten minutes later, camera turned outward to give Stephen a view of the CES's current output: a broad swathe of desert, wrinkled with dunes, spotted with stunted trees and patchy grass.]
Edited (SORRY AM HAVING ICON PROBLEMS) 2014-08-23 18:15 (UTC)
[ He doesn't reply, just shows up. His movements are steady, if not as graceful as usual.
Drops a bottle of water between them, and a few gun cases. He opens one to show a graceful silver-colored revolver, something that looks like a family heirloom, but he got it at a pawn shop. They didn't know what they had. ]
Here. Try this.
[ It's old, back from before companies realized that if they made a cheaper product and ensured that it broke, they could make people buy more. Rifling inside. .38. Parts of it handcrafted.
He gestures at one of the larger dunes rising next to them. No way to know if there's someone else in CES, and they might as well make sure no one gets hurt. Shoot into the dune. ]
[Mickey's had a little more time to recuperate than Stephen has, enough that it's not immediately obvious how fraught the day has been. He's calmed down, washed the sweat and tears from his face. He mostly just looks tired now, older than his 19 years, skin even whiter than usual and grey beneath his eyes. Glum might be a good word for it, or blue.
He brightens up a little, though, when he sees the revolver, eyes narrowing keenly.]
Shit, man. This an S&W? Model 3?
[Mickey Milkovich doesn't know a lot, but he definitely knows guns. He shoves his own handgun -- nothing special in comparison, just a Ruger he's particularly fond of -- into his waistband, takes the revolver out of the case, and raises it, squinting along the barrel.]
In England, people don't know guns. They didn't know what they had. [ In fact, they found it all faintly embarrassing. And Stephen was there, he was licensed, he was authorized. He was a safe buyer. ]
Fuck off. I'm the one that dragged that shit up here.
[But he rolls his eyes and puts the gun down long enough to grab a can of his own, taking a drink before he settles into a new stance: weight forward, one hand on the revolver, the other holding the beer close to his chest. He closes one eye, pulls back the hammer, and fires again into the sand.]
[It's funny, the way Mickey talks: he can tell someone to fuck themselves a hundred times in a row and not especially mean anything by it, but his voice takes on a darker, more clipped tone now that sounds more like a warning than any filthy word he could come up with. He's talking now, but he didn't come to talk, and he's here just as much for himself as for Stephen.]
[ He catches the tone, but isn't sure what to do about it. ]
Came here to think about something that isn't - anything.
[ He's not sure if that really makes sense. He tips his head back, and closes his eyes. Gunshot-sounds hurt from this close, but at least it feels real. ]
[Now he falls silent entirely, something darkening, too, in his eyes. He takes a long drink from the can and sets it at his feet, both hands back on the grip when he straightens. Now, when he empties the rest of the chambers into the dune, he can feel the recoil through both arms, down into his stomach, and up into his angry, buzzing brain; it makes his teeth grind together in his clenched jaws.
Good, he thinks, for the same reason as Stephen. It's something that isn't anything but what it is: not loss, not shame, not worry or resentment.
He pops out the cylinder, lets the casings fall at his feet, and mutely holds out the gun for a reload, not quite looking at Stephen.]
[He gets right back into stance to shoot again, aiming at a fresh spot on the dune. Before he pulls the trigger, though, something swims in his head and suddenly, it is something else: a rooftop billions of miles away and a year behind, shooting a different target with a different person watching... But Ian was standing right where Stephen is, he's pretty sure, and Mickey was just as silent, and they were both miserable and angry then, too.
Today, the memory grinds enough on his nerves to make him want to lose it. He uncocks the gun and turns away, tossing it lightly into the sand, pressing the heel of his other hand to his eye.]
[He shakes his head and slouches down onto the sand, reaching for his beer. He sits with his arms looped loosely around his knees, staring at the tiny, pockmarked craters where the bullets hit the sand.]
You're-- it's--
[He shakes his head again.]
Had a visitor.
[There's a twist at the end of it, not exactly a question, seeking confirmation more than an answer: Stephen is, if not in the same boat, apparently a similar one. Right?]
[That's about as much as Mickey knows how to do, both in terms of offering comfort and in terms of seeking it. Stephen rebuffs him and he shuts up again with a slight nod, takes a long drink of his beer.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
[Private, at the end of the day]
So he just nods, averting his eyes, as if to spare Stephen the embarrassment.]
Yeah. I'll see you up there.
[Private, at the end of the day]
[ It's saying something that he doesn't even push for CES. ]
[Private, at the end of the day]
I reserve the right to fucking bail to the range if it's some bullshit glacier in there or something.
[Private, at the end of the day]
[ He doesn't want to see anything familiar. ]
[Private, at the end of the day]
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Drops a bottle of water between them, and a few gun cases. He opens one to show a graceful silver-colored revolver, something that looks like a family heirloom, but he got it at a pawn shop. They didn't know what they had. ]
Here. Try this.
[ It's old, back from before companies realized that if they made a cheaper product and ensured that it broke, they could make people buy more. Rifling inside. .38. Parts of it handcrafted.
He gestures at one of the larger dunes rising next to them. No way to know if there's someone else in CES, and they might as well make sure no one gets hurt. Shoot into the dune. ]
yes I actually looked this shit up
He brightens up a little, though, when he sees the revolver, eyes narrowing keenly.]
Shit, man. This an S&W? Model 3?
[Mickey Milkovich doesn't know a lot, but he definitely knows guns. He shoves his own handgun -- nothing special in comparison, just a Ruger he's particularly fond of -- into his waistband, takes the revolver out of the case, and raises it, squinting along the barrel.]
The fuck did you get a piece like this, Hart?
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In England, people don't know guns. They didn't know what they had. [ In fact, they found it all faintly embarrassing. And Stephen was there, he was licensed, he was authorized. He was a safe buyer. ]
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He shifts his stance, lines up the gun again, and fires once into the nearest dune.]
Nice.
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What are you gonna do -- watch me?
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My hands are busy.
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You never learned how to do both?
[Just to prove the point, he drops one hand from the gun and holds it out for the can.]
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This one's mine. Get your own.
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[But he rolls his eyes and puts the gun down long enough to grab a can of his own, taking a drink before he settles into a new stance: weight forward, one hand on the revolver, the other holding the beer close to his chest. He closes one eye, pulls back the hammer, and fires again into the sand.]
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[ He drinks. He drinks a little too long. He sits down on the ground, against a warm rock. ]
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[It's funny, the way Mickey talks: he can tell someone to fuck themselves a hundred times in a row and not especially mean anything by it, but his voice takes on a darker, more clipped tone now that sounds more like a warning than any filthy word he could come up with. He's talking now, but he didn't come to talk, and he's here just as much for himself as for Stephen.]
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Came here to think about something that isn't - anything.
[ He's not sure if that really makes sense. He tips his head back, and closes his eyes. Gunshot-sounds hurt from this close, but at least it feels real. ]
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Good, he thinks, for the same reason as Stephen. It's something that isn't anything but what it is: not loss, not shame, not worry or resentment.
He pops out the cylinder, lets the casings fall at his feet, and mutely holds out the gun for a reload, not quite looking at Stephen.]
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Today, the memory grinds enough on his nerves to make him want to lose it. He uncocks the gun and turns away, tossing it lightly into the sand, pressing the heel of his other hand to his eye.]
Fuck.
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He curls up a little tighter. ]
You're not - wherever that was.
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You're-- it's--
[He shakes his head again.]
Had a visitor.
[There's a twist at the end of it, not exactly a question, seeking confirmation more than an answer: Stephen is, if not in the same boat, apparently a similar one. Right?]
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[ Short. He doesn't want to talk abut him. ]
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Whatever. You're up.
(no subject)