[Western] Kitten and Victor (2010)
Mar. 22nd, 2010 04:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesadeTitle: Kitten and Victor
'Verse: Western
Word Count: 2,000
Characters: Victor, Kitten
Summary: An argument between sort-of lovers.
A/N: And here's the revised version. It actually turned out less changed than I thought. If anyone wants to discuss the whole revising process, let me know, or, you know. Just offer observation/commentary/I liked it better the other way around. Still not sure what I'm ultimately going to do with half this stuff, but here it is.
He wasn’t smart. He had the survival instincts of a cat with two lives left and he knew how to use people, but that didn’t make him smart. It gnawed at his temper, the knowledge that no matter how many books he tried to understand he would never be as smart as she was.
His one consolation was that she belonged to him. Whether she wanted it or not, her body resonated to his fingers plucking her strings. She came when he called, however reluctantly, and she had lost all name in the town except the one he had given her. Everyone knew her as Victor’s Kitten, and nobody but the two of them knew who she had been two years ago. One time he’d found a diary she kept, recording the memories of who she’d been before she was his. He let her keep it, but he made sure that no one else knew where it was. Wouldn’t do to have anyone else knowing.
She was the most beautiful woman in the town, and it weren’t ‘cause her teeth were straighter or her hair had more shine or her limbs were whiter than anyone’s. All that were true, but that didn’t make her beautiful. No one could tell what it was. Something less solid, might be, like the way she spoke soft or that quiet quick way about her. She was wanted by most men in town, and the only reason she wasn’t fighting them off was because she was his. ‘Course she was.
Victor watched her reading in the garden for several minutes before he said anything. She was the only woman he knew who read real books and liked it. Most times he made noises and said as how he didn’t understand, but he was proud of her deep down where she couldn’t see.
“Kitten.” He made his voice gruff, like he wasn’t happy.
She didn’t look up. “What do you want?”
“You the only one in this town by now who talks back to me, you know that?” he walked in far enough for her to point at the ground and stopped at the line on the sand she had drawn with her mind. He wasn’t smart, not in the way of books and knowing things, but he knew better than to push when he didn’t have to.
“Probably ‘cause I’m the only one who knows you’re really a coward.” Her eyes still didn’t lift from her book. He could have hit her for that. Didn’t. “Everyone else is scared of a straw man.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, and this time the gruff was only half fake. He didn’t know what she was talking about. More books, he guessed, teaching her words that meant things other than what they said. That kind of double talk didn’t stand right with him.
“Never mind.”
Now he was grumpy, for true. He didn’t like when she talked over his head on purpose, as though he were too dumb to understand what she was talking about. He’d at least try to understand, though he wouldn’t read the books like she did. Waste of time, he said, she’d just tell him anyway. But that had been what she’d liked about him in the beginning. If she explained it to him, he’d think about it.
These days she didn’t do the explaining. “What you’re talking about’ll have to wait. There’s a wedding party going on tomorrow night. I want you dressed and ready.”
That got her attention. “Wedding?”
“Dorfmann and that Consuela girl. They getting hitched, we’re going to show up and give them our blessing.”
She snorted. “As though that means anything.”
“Means a hell of a lot to them.”
“Only ‘cause you’ve fooled them all into thinking you’re a something in big boots,” she snapped. Her hair started to fall into her eyes again, and she brushed it back with a slapping gesture fit to leave marks on her face.
“Who shat in your strudel tonight?” he snapped back, hurt. Hurt, and angry that he was hurt. He put a hand to his chest and took a step back like he was some kind of real elegant type. “Did I do something to offend?”
She slammed the book shut and threw it at his head so fast he didn’t have time to duck. It hit him corner to forehead, and he yelled. She yelled back. “Why are you such a fucking ass? Is there some sort of sigil tattooed on your butt to make you act all high-handed and like the rest of us don’t matter?”
“Kitten, when have I ever treated you like you don’t matter, huh?” They’d closed on each other, and her hair was getting in her eyes again. At least she probably wouldn’t hit him if she couldn’t see him. Maybe. Wouldn’t count on it, though; he got ready to grab her if she started getting violent. “What the hell…”
“Run right over all the rest of us,” she continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “Never ask so much as do you want or would you like or hey, Mickey, mind if I get your bar shot up ‘cause my boys can’t hold their liquor and I need to brag to some two-bit shitheels from out of town?”
Memory hit him like a hangover. The memory of the hangover, too, come to think. He’d been at the bar the other night, Miguel’s joint, and they’d had one too many. Lit into some road-horses. He didn’t remember what happened after that, but no one came to his door, so he figured no one had died. Was he wrong? “Kitten?”
She slapped him.
He grabbed her wrist on the backswing. “Kit, I got no beef with you, but you keep hitting me like that and we’re going to have words.”
Blue eyes glared at him like the worst kind of sun in the sky. He loved her like that.
“What happened, Kitten?”
She kicked him in the knee and jerked her hand out of his grasp. He winced, but if she’d meant the kick to hurt he’d be on the ground and writhing, maybe with a snapped knee. Girl knew how to fight dirty as any of his boys, though he didn’t know where she’d learned. “His kid got caught when you boys were firing through the ceiling. They took his foot off at the knee. Was going to be a prize herder, too. Now he’s going to stay behind the bar the rest of his life.”
Victor blinked. Not that he felt sorry for the kid, it was the price you paid for being in a bar full of drunken pistoliers night after night, but she would. It explained why she was so mad at him. “Look.” He knelt down by her chair, and she took the hint and sat back down. “I’m sorry as all hell about the kid. We’d been drunk, and we didn’t know he were up there.” Not that they could have aimed around him if he was. Couldn’t miss what you couldn’t see any more than you could shoot at it. He wasn’t telling her that, though. Her scarf was on the table; he reached out and wrapped it around her hair again.
“There ain’t much I can do about it now, though. And it don’t serve to get mad at me because you know I’m not a rational type of man. So why don’t you calm down and we’ll take a little something over to Miguel and his family tomorrow, after the wedding, all right?”
A little something meant a gift basket of bread, cheese, and cash. She knew that, knew his way of making quiet reparations to keep people from deciding he was just the biggest bastard on the row. She was right, most of what she said about him, even though he never liked to think about it much.
“Might be that it’ll take a lot more than money to fix this,” she warned him. Her eyes were soft now, though, and her face was more sad than angry. “Might be it’ll take something…”
He moved in front of her and bared his teeth in what he tried to think of as a charming smile. The mirror was dumb enough not to fool him, but maybe she thought it was nice. “I’ll make it right, you know I’m good for it.”
“Hmmph,” she said, but this time she didn’t look away. Her eyes closed, and she brought up her hands to her face and pressed her fingertips to her forehead as though her head ached. “I’m tired, Victor. I know you like it here but I’m not cut out for this kind of life.”
Fear wasn’t his thing either, any more than compassion. No fear, no sorries, nothing that meant he had to live in the real world like a person. But the thought of his Kitten leaving him left him cold as a desert winter wind. Something like the wind that was crawling down his spine right now. He grabbed her arms, dug his fingers in till she dropped her hands and looked like she was going to squeak.
“You ain’t leaving me, Kitten,” he told her. Didn’t ask, didn’t beg. Victor never begged. He told her, same as he would tell anyone else, body and mind hardening into a statue of brutal immortality. “You ain’t leaving me. I know you ain’t. I know you’re not that stupid.”
She stared at him with widened eyes, as though she wanted to argue with him or maybe just tell him he was scaring her. He wanted her to say that, because he couldn’t scare her so much anymore. Or maybe she just meant to tell him to get his hands off her. She didn’t say any of those things.
“I didn’t say I was leaving, Victor.” Her voice was calm and slow, the kind of voice a man used talking down a bucking stallion with mares nearby. “I didn’t say I was going anywhere. I said I was tired. That’s all.”
He couldn’t figure what that meant for the life of him, but all that mattered was that she said she wasn’t going. So that was to the good and he could breathe again and pretend to be warm and loving like most men in town. “Okay.” He let out a gusty breath, and she waved her hand in front of her. Her eyes were bright, though. Just playing. “Okay. And quit making faces, would you? I’m not that bad.”
“You been eating onion soup again,” she said, and punched him on the arm.
“That I been, yes. It’s good for you. Gets you through the winter.”
“It’s almost Midsummer, Victor.”
“See? Got me through the winter all right.”
She leaned forward and dropped her head into her hands, almost pushing her scarf off again. For a minute he thought she was going to bring up leaving, even though she said she wasn’t going to. Instead she sighed, muttering something that probably wasn’t very nice before he caught the words ‘Mickey’ and ‘son’ and ‘help.’
“I’ll see they get everything they need,” he promised. “Don’t you worry, Kitten. You worry too much about everyone, it’s not healthy. Going to run yourself to pieces trying to fix everyone all at once.”
He said the words, but he didn’t understand it. She was with him and still keeping all her old sensibilities about helping people in trouble and having a soft spot for people who damn well should have known what they were getting into. Like crusty old bartenders who let Victor into their bars. Far as he was concerned, what happened to Miguel’s kid was just a side effect of having him and his pistoliers for their custom. Tragic, but that was what you got. Kitten didn’t see it that way, though, and if he wanted peace in his house and her in his life he’d better see it her way at least part way through. He was smart enough to know that.
She nodded. If she recognized the lie she didn’t call him on it either. Maybe she was tired, maybe she’d started to believe it. He didn’t know and didn’t care.
“Come on, Kitten.”
“Hmm?”
“You said you’re tired.” He reached out and tugged her into his arms. “Get you to bed, get you a good night’s sleep. Things’ll be better in the morning, I promise.”
She muttered something, but her head was on his shoulder inside of a minute. She smelled of jasmine and roses, drawing him into softer thoughts as he set her down on their bed. Time enough for that later, he told himself, turning out the lights.
“Good night, Kitten,” he murmured. “Get some good sleep, you hear?”
She had fallen asleep already.
'Verse: Western
Word Count: 2,000
Characters: Victor, Kitten
Summary: An argument between sort-of lovers.
A/N: And here's the revised version. It actually turned out less changed than I thought. If anyone wants to discuss the whole revising process, let me know, or, you know. Just offer observation/commentary/I liked it better the other way around. Still not sure what I'm ultimately going to do with half this stuff, but here it is.
He wasn’t smart. He had the survival instincts of a cat with two lives left and he knew how to use people, but that didn’t make him smart. It gnawed at his temper, the knowledge that no matter how many books he tried to understand he would never be as smart as she was.
His one consolation was that she belonged to him. Whether she wanted it or not, her body resonated to his fingers plucking her strings. She came when he called, however reluctantly, and she had lost all name in the town except the one he had given her. Everyone knew her as Victor’s Kitten, and nobody but the two of them knew who she had been two years ago. One time he’d found a diary she kept, recording the memories of who she’d been before she was his. He let her keep it, but he made sure that no one else knew where it was. Wouldn’t do to have anyone else knowing.
She was the most beautiful woman in the town, and it weren’t ‘cause her teeth were straighter or her hair had more shine or her limbs were whiter than anyone’s. All that were true, but that didn’t make her beautiful. No one could tell what it was. Something less solid, might be, like the way she spoke soft or that quiet quick way about her. She was wanted by most men in town, and the only reason she wasn’t fighting them off was because she was his. ‘Course she was.
Victor watched her reading in the garden for several minutes before he said anything. She was the only woman he knew who read real books and liked it. Most times he made noises and said as how he didn’t understand, but he was proud of her deep down where she couldn’t see.
“Kitten.” He made his voice gruff, like he wasn’t happy.
She didn’t look up. “What do you want?”
“You the only one in this town by now who talks back to me, you know that?” he walked in far enough for her to point at the ground and stopped at the line on the sand she had drawn with her mind. He wasn’t smart, not in the way of books and knowing things, but he knew better than to push when he didn’t have to.
“Probably ‘cause I’m the only one who knows you’re really a coward.” Her eyes still didn’t lift from her book. He could have hit her for that. Didn’t. “Everyone else is scared of a straw man.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, and this time the gruff was only half fake. He didn’t know what she was talking about. More books, he guessed, teaching her words that meant things other than what they said. That kind of double talk didn’t stand right with him.
“Never mind.”
Now he was grumpy, for true. He didn’t like when she talked over his head on purpose, as though he were too dumb to understand what she was talking about. He’d at least try to understand, though he wouldn’t read the books like she did. Waste of time, he said, she’d just tell him anyway. But that had been what she’d liked about him in the beginning. If she explained it to him, he’d think about it.
These days she didn’t do the explaining. “What you’re talking about’ll have to wait. There’s a wedding party going on tomorrow night. I want you dressed and ready.”
That got her attention. “Wedding?”
“Dorfmann and that Consuela girl. They getting hitched, we’re going to show up and give them our blessing.”
She snorted. “As though that means anything.”
“Means a hell of a lot to them.”
“Only ‘cause you’ve fooled them all into thinking you’re a something in big boots,” she snapped. Her hair started to fall into her eyes again, and she brushed it back with a slapping gesture fit to leave marks on her face.
“Who shat in your strudel tonight?” he snapped back, hurt. Hurt, and angry that he was hurt. He put a hand to his chest and took a step back like he was some kind of real elegant type. “Did I do something to offend?”
She slammed the book shut and threw it at his head so fast he didn’t have time to duck. It hit him corner to forehead, and he yelled. She yelled back. “Why are you such a fucking ass? Is there some sort of sigil tattooed on your butt to make you act all high-handed and like the rest of us don’t matter?”
“Kitten, when have I ever treated you like you don’t matter, huh?” They’d closed on each other, and her hair was getting in her eyes again. At least she probably wouldn’t hit him if she couldn’t see him. Maybe. Wouldn’t count on it, though; he got ready to grab her if she started getting violent. “What the hell…”
“Run right over all the rest of us,” she continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “Never ask so much as do you want or would you like or hey, Mickey, mind if I get your bar shot up ‘cause my boys can’t hold their liquor and I need to brag to some two-bit shitheels from out of town?”
Memory hit him like a hangover. The memory of the hangover, too, come to think. He’d been at the bar the other night, Miguel’s joint, and they’d had one too many. Lit into some road-horses. He didn’t remember what happened after that, but no one came to his door, so he figured no one had died. Was he wrong? “Kitten?”
She slapped him.
He grabbed her wrist on the backswing. “Kit, I got no beef with you, but you keep hitting me like that and we’re going to have words.”
Blue eyes glared at him like the worst kind of sun in the sky. He loved her like that.
“What happened, Kitten?”
She kicked him in the knee and jerked her hand out of his grasp. He winced, but if she’d meant the kick to hurt he’d be on the ground and writhing, maybe with a snapped knee. Girl knew how to fight dirty as any of his boys, though he didn’t know where she’d learned. “His kid got caught when you boys were firing through the ceiling. They took his foot off at the knee. Was going to be a prize herder, too. Now he’s going to stay behind the bar the rest of his life.”
Victor blinked. Not that he felt sorry for the kid, it was the price you paid for being in a bar full of drunken pistoliers night after night, but she would. It explained why she was so mad at him. “Look.” He knelt down by her chair, and she took the hint and sat back down. “I’m sorry as all hell about the kid. We’d been drunk, and we didn’t know he were up there.” Not that they could have aimed around him if he was. Couldn’t miss what you couldn’t see any more than you could shoot at it. He wasn’t telling her that, though. Her scarf was on the table; he reached out and wrapped it around her hair again.
“There ain’t much I can do about it now, though. And it don’t serve to get mad at me because you know I’m not a rational type of man. So why don’t you calm down and we’ll take a little something over to Miguel and his family tomorrow, after the wedding, all right?”
A little something meant a gift basket of bread, cheese, and cash. She knew that, knew his way of making quiet reparations to keep people from deciding he was just the biggest bastard on the row. She was right, most of what she said about him, even though he never liked to think about it much.
“Might be that it’ll take a lot more than money to fix this,” she warned him. Her eyes were soft now, though, and her face was more sad than angry. “Might be it’ll take something…”
He moved in front of her and bared his teeth in what he tried to think of as a charming smile. The mirror was dumb enough not to fool him, but maybe she thought it was nice. “I’ll make it right, you know I’m good for it.”
“Hmmph,” she said, but this time she didn’t look away. Her eyes closed, and she brought up her hands to her face and pressed her fingertips to her forehead as though her head ached. “I’m tired, Victor. I know you like it here but I’m not cut out for this kind of life.”
Fear wasn’t his thing either, any more than compassion. No fear, no sorries, nothing that meant he had to live in the real world like a person. But the thought of his Kitten leaving him left him cold as a desert winter wind. Something like the wind that was crawling down his spine right now. He grabbed her arms, dug his fingers in till she dropped her hands and looked like she was going to squeak.
“You ain’t leaving me, Kitten,” he told her. Didn’t ask, didn’t beg. Victor never begged. He told her, same as he would tell anyone else, body and mind hardening into a statue of brutal immortality. “You ain’t leaving me. I know you ain’t. I know you’re not that stupid.”
She stared at him with widened eyes, as though she wanted to argue with him or maybe just tell him he was scaring her. He wanted her to say that, because he couldn’t scare her so much anymore. Or maybe she just meant to tell him to get his hands off her. She didn’t say any of those things.
“I didn’t say I was leaving, Victor.” Her voice was calm and slow, the kind of voice a man used talking down a bucking stallion with mares nearby. “I didn’t say I was going anywhere. I said I was tired. That’s all.”
He couldn’t figure what that meant for the life of him, but all that mattered was that she said she wasn’t going. So that was to the good and he could breathe again and pretend to be warm and loving like most men in town. “Okay.” He let out a gusty breath, and she waved her hand in front of her. Her eyes were bright, though. Just playing. “Okay. And quit making faces, would you? I’m not that bad.”
“You been eating onion soup again,” she said, and punched him on the arm.
“That I been, yes. It’s good for you. Gets you through the winter.”
“It’s almost Midsummer, Victor.”
“See? Got me through the winter all right.”
She leaned forward and dropped her head into her hands, almost pushing her scarf off again. For a minute he thought she was going to bring up leaving, even though she said she wasn’t going to. Instead she sighed, muttering something that probably wasn’t very nice before he caught the words ‘Mickey’ and ‘son’ and ‘help.’
“I’ll see they get everything they need,” he promised. “Don’t you worry, Kitten. You worry too much about everyone, it’s not healthy. Going to run yourself to pieces trying to fix everyone all at once.”
He said the words, but he didn’t understand it. She was with him and still keeping all her old sensibilities about helping people in trouble and having a soft spot for people who damn well should have known what they were getting into. Like crusty old bartenders who let Victor into their bars. Far as he was concerned, what happened to Miguel’s kid was just a side effect of having him and his pistoliers for their custom. Tragic, but that was what you got. Kitten didn’t see it that way, though, and if he wanted peace in his house and her in his life he’d better see it her way at least part way through. He was smart enough to know that.
She nodded. If she recognized the lie she didn’t call him on it either. Maybe she was tired, maybe she’d started to believe it. He didn’t know and didn’t care.
“Come on, Kitten.”
“Hmm?”
“You said you’re tired.” He reached out and tugged her into his arms. “Get you to bed, get you a good night’s sleep. Things’ll be better in the morning, I promise.”
She muttered something, but her head was on his shoulder inside of a minute. She smelled of jasmine and roses, drawing him into softer thoughts as he set her down on their bed. Time enough for that later, he told himself, turning out the lights.
“Good night, Kitten,” he murmured. “Get some good sleep, you hear?”
She had fallen asleep already.