Post by Deleted on May 2, 2013 3:14:48 GMT -8
Eight initial drabbles, based on the first list here
{i. francis}Francis smells of roses and cigarettes, and it's wonderfully intoxicating. For a moment, it even reminds him of home, of distant memories of the sea breeze against his face and the sound of the waves pouring over the shingles. But Burgas is a thousand miles away and he soon falls back into reality, remembering that he's in London, tangled in bedsheets with a Frenchman he's barely known for a day.
“Mon cher, you are squeezing too tight.” He says, softly.
Since it doesn't sound as if he minds too much, Marko only loosens his arms a little.
“Sorry.”
“Mon cher, you are squeezing too tight.” He says, softly.
Since it doesn't sound as if he minds too much, Marko only loosens his arms a little.
“Sorry.”
{ii. heracles}Marko doesn't like to be mistaken for a Greek.
“You say it like it's a bad thing.” Heracles mumbles, half of his mouth hidden by the palm of his hand, his elbow resting on the table in front of him; meanwhile, his free hand swirls a glass of dark red liquid he'd claimed earlier was 'Greek wine'.
For a second, he pauses, holding that thought – and then, he responds, with a light shrug. “I've had worse.”
He's prepared for an onslaught; he's said such things before in that manner, and they haven't gone down well, but Heracles doesn't utter a single comment in regards to it. Though Marko has to admit, the man's condescending look is enough of a 'fuck off' to make him almost choke on his rakija.
“You say it like it's a bad thing.” Heracles mumbles, half of his mouth hidden by the palm of his hand, his elbow resting on the table in front of him; meanwhile, his free hand swirls a glass of dark red liquid he'd claimed earlier was 'Greek wine'.
For a second, he pauses, holding that thought – and then, he responds, with a light shrug. “I've had worse.”
He's prepared for an onslaught; he's said such things before in that manner, and they haven't gone down well, but Heracles doesn't utter a single comment in regards to it. Though Marko has to admit, the man's condescending look is enough of a 'fuck off' to make him almost choke on his rakija.
{iii. victoria}He comes to a conclusion, after first deciding that a failed date isn't the end of the world, and then deciding that freezing his ass off moping at the side of the Thames isn't going to help. The snow is beginning to fall in flecks when he encounters a small, bespectacled blonde woman, peering into an illuminated shop front.
Marko can be blunt at the worst of times. He thinks this is a good time, though. Without a word, he holds the bouquet of roses out to her. He doesn't mind that he's never met this woman before, and as genuinely surprised as she looks, he's relieved she doesn't seem appalled by this gift from a stranger.
“Thank you...” It takes her a moment to find those words, probably because of the spontaneity of his actions, but when she does, they come with a light smile. Yet it takes her much less time, surveying his face, to somehow understand. “Did she break your heart?”
“I'll get over it.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets, and for the first time that evening, he manages to hold his chin up. “I usually do.”
Marko can be blunt at the worst of times. He thinks this is a good time, though. Without a word, he holds the bouquet of roses out to her. He doesn't mind that he's never met this woman before, and as genuinely surprised as she looks, he's relieved she doesn't seem appalled by this gift from a stranger.
“Thank you...” It takes her a moment to find those words, probably because of the spontaneity of his actions, but when she does, they come with a light smile. Yet it takes her much less time, surveying his face, to somehow understand. “Did she break your heart?”
“I'll get over it.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets, and for the first time that evening, he manages to hold his chin up. “I usually do.”
{iv. daniel}“It's a job.” Daniel says. “Someone's got to do it.” He's snapping pictures of the body, one after another, and so it's a wonder he's still continuing the conversation. “You've got to take care of the living, I've got to take care of the dead.”
The scene is carnage; Marko wouldn't be present at all, were it not for his patient's involvement. Two MPs, one heavily wounded but stable back at his clinic and the other... Well, he's Mr. Hédeváry's patient.
“Looks like we might be dealing with a case of suicide and attempted murder.” Daniel lowers the camera, and gives him his attention. “Is that all you came for?”
“You don't piss about, do you?” Marko can't help but crack a grin. He has a hunch he's going to like working with this guy.
The scene is carnage; Marko wouldn't be present at all, were it not for his patient's involvement. Two MPs, one heavily wounded but stable back at his clinic and the other... Well, he's Mr. Hédeváry's patient.
“Looks like we might be dealing with a case of suicide and attempted murder.” Daniel lowers the camera, and gives him his attention. “Is that all you came for?”
“You don't piss about, do you?” Marko can't help but crack a grin. He has a hunch he's going to like working with this guy.
{v. amelia}The hours ticked on and on, the day seemed like it would never end. It was nothing new, of course; long and stressful days were to be expected around the clinic from time to time, but this was on a completely different level – this was outright frustrating.
Miss Jones is pacing up and down the room. Her coffee sits on the nearby table, untouched. By the time she's calmed down, he expects it'll have gone cold.
“Just... You need to try again.” She clenches and unclenches her fists. She faces him again, and draws in a deep breath. “I'm begging you here – I can't defend a woman that won't tell her side of the story!”
He has to consider the patient's well-being, but he also has to consider the charges pressed against her. Miss Jones has to consider both as well. And they've both been trying since morning to coax a story of any sort out of the woman, but talking to a brick wall might well have gotten them a better response. Overall, Marko just feels sorry for the attorney. She's young, quite a few years younger than he is... To face what was turning out to be such a difficult case... Well, he can understand her frustration perfectly well.
For the meantime, he offers the next best thing. “Will you come back tomorrow?”
She rubs at her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don't have a choice, do I?”
Miss Jones is pacing up and down the room. Her coffee sits on the nearby table, untouched. By the time she's calmed down, he expects it'll have gone cold.
“Just... You need to try again.” She clenches and unclenches her fists. She faces him again, and draws in a deep breath. “I'm begging you here – I can't defend a woman that won't tell her side of the story!”
He has to consider the patient's well-being, but he also has to consider the charges pressed against her. Miss Jones has to consider both as well. And they've both been trying since morning to coax a story of any sort out of the woman, but talking to a brick wall might well have gotten them a better response. Overall, Marko just feels sorry for the attorney. She's young, quite a few years younger than he is... To face what was turning out to be such a difficult case... Well, he can understand her frustration perfectly well.
For the meantime, he offers the next best thing. “Will you come back tomorrow?”
She rubs at her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don't have a choice, do I?”
{vi. mihai}Michael Collins is registered as one of his patients. Registered. God knows who Mihai Chimet is – Marko doesn't ask. Either way, he's surprised to have to have him hauled into the clinic; he hardly ever sees him for check-ups, much less for any bumps or cuts or scrapes.
“You got hit by a moped.” He reiterates for the second time; the first was much less matter-of-fact.
“Yes. Are you suggesting it isn't possible?” Michael is frowning. Marko thinks he may have touched a nerve.
“I'm not suggesting anything.” He snorts a little, and checks the Romanian's arm for bruising. If he had been, he'd have been suggesting that he didn't walk into oncoming traffic any more.
Michael exhales. “It certainly sounds as if you are.”
Marko decides that making a joke about the head of the CI getting mowed down by a tiny vehicle is unprofessional. Besides, he's pretty sure this guy could pull some strings and have him fired. He thinks he might do better to get on his good side, instead.
“You got hit by a moped.” He reiterates for the second time; the first was much less matter-of-fact.
“Yes. Are you suggesting it isn't possible?” Michael is frowning. Marko thinks he may have touched a nerve.
“I'm not suggesting anything.” He snorts a little, and checks the Romanian's arm for bruising. If he had been, he'd have been suggesting that he didn't walk into oncoming traffic any more.
Michael exhales. “It certainly sounds as if you are.”
Marko decides that making a joke about the head of the CI getting mowed down by a tiny vehicle is unprofessional. Besides, he's pretty sure this guy could pull some strings and have him fired. He thinks he might do better to get on his good side, instead.
{vii. nicoleta}“You are, without a single doubt, the most boring man I have ever met.”
Marko has a feeling Nicoleta likes to exaggerate. He's sure she's not telling the truth; he couldn't possibly fit that criteria. She's just saying it to piss him off. In fact, it does piss him off, but that smoky bar that still – to him, for some reason – carries the faint, heady scent of her perfume (even when she isn't present) isn't the time nor the place to get riled up.
Instead, he waits for her to tap the crumbling end off her cigarette. He then – watching the prominent from on her face – chuckles in the back of his throat, nodding his head. “But at least you have met me.”
Marko has a feeling Nicoleta likes to exaggerate. He's sure she's not telling the truth; he couldn't possibly fit that criteria. She's just saying it to piss him off. In fact, it does piss him off, but that smoky bar that still – to him, for some reason – carries the faint, heady scent of her perfume (even when she isn't present) isn't the time nor the place to get riled up.
Instead, he waits for her to tap the crumbling end off her cigarette. He then – watching the prominent from on her face – chuckles in the back of his throat, nodding his head. “But at least you have met me.”
{viii. feliciano}He offered the journalist a story over coffee. And a story he got, but somehow, he didn't think it was going to end up on the front page of the Crown Royal Gazette. He might've liked the fame, actually... At the same time, the story was personal, and so the idea didn't settle too well with him.
“And... You never saw him again?” Feliciano's eyes are so wide, Marko is worried they might suddenly pop out of their sockets.
“Nah. Never seen any of 'em.” He sits back, his arms folded; he makes his response off-hand, because hell, he doesn't want to end up emotional in the middle of a damned coffee shop.
Feliciano seems to be doing that for him, actually. The small pad of paper sits almost empty in front of him – he gave up writing to listen a while back. Now, he appeared to be struggling with the concept of being cast aside by family, thrice over.
“Sorry.” Marko says, after a few long moments of silence have passed. He offers the Italian a sheepish smile. “That story was supposed to be about a patient, wasn't it? It ended up about me.” He reaches for his coffee to take a small sip.
They start again from the beginning, whilst Marko wonders in the back of his mind exactly why he had just poured out his entire life story to an air-headed Italian with a dorky face. Once Feliciano has all the information he wants, or rather, needs, silence falls between them once again.
“You must be so lonely.” The comment comes out of the blue; he wonders for a moment if the Italian is even directing at him.
But when he's assured it is, he shakes his head a little and – not entirely sure how to answer to that – laughs. “Only sometimes.”
“And... You never saw him again?” Feliciano's eyes are so wide, Marko is worried they might suddenly pop out of their sockets.
“Nah. Never seen any of 'em.” He sits back, his arms folded; he makes his response off-hand, because hell, he doesn't want to end up emotional in the middle of a damned coffee shop.
Feliciano seems to be doing that for him, actually. The small pad of paper sits almost empty in front of him – he gave up writing to listen a while back. Now, he appeared to be struggling with the concept of being cast aside by family, thrice over.
“Sorry.” Marko says, after a few long moments of silence have passed. He offers the Italian a sheepish smile. “That story was supposed to be about a patient, wasn't it? It ended up about me.” He reaches for his coffee to take a small sip.
They start again from the beginning, whilst Marko wonders in the back of his mind exactly why he had just poured out his entire life story to an air-headed Italian with a dorky face. Once Feliciano has all the information he wants, or rather, needs, silence falls between them once again.
“You must be so lonely.” The comment comes out of the blue; he wonders for a moment if the Italian is even directing at him.
But when he's assured it is, he shakes his head a little and – not entirely sure how to answer to that – laughs. “Only sometimes.”