bakerstreet | (no subject)

(no subject)

the lyric prompt meme

HOW TO PLAY:

♪ Comment with your characters.
♪ Post to other characters with lyric prompts and, optionally, a picture to go with it.
♪ The lyrics can come from any song you like, or, hell, you can just link some instrumental music as well. Just so long as there's a song.
♪ Threads happen! Tears are shed.

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[Maitenance is second nature to Blonde, and he's already used to the revolver, so he watches Shoshanna with curious eyes as he works.][He shrugs. Even if he had his gun here, he wouldn't be able to get the right ammunition. When in Rome...] But like I said. I don't got a choice, do I?

[She quirks an eyebrow. She supposes he's got a point there.]

Not really. [She finishes loading the magazine in, racking the slide of her tiny pistol with ease, and glances over at his revolver. The sight of it makes her laugh, a quiet thing.]

My father used to tell me that all Americans were cowboys, as a joke. You don't strike me as the type, even with the gun.

I like cowboys. That count?

[To demonstrate, he shapes his finger into a gun and points at the targets ahead of them. Pshoo.]

[That actually gets a laugh out of her, a real one that isn't masked by a layer of bullshit and caution.]

You're no monsieur Wayne, but it'll do.

[And then, she stands and takes up her pistol and mimics his motion, only she actually takes her mark and shoots, and when she lowers her hand, she's pleased to note that she's hit the mark pretty damn near center.]

You may call me Annie Oakley.

Monsieur Wayne. [Blonde repeats it with a chuckle. He puts the revolver in his occupied hand down and crosses his arms to watch her. He gives a low whistle.] Well, fuck, Annie Oakley.

[Her smile widens, and she leans against the sidewall of the booth they're in, cocking her head toward Blonde expectantly.]

Your turn, then.

[She's not fucking around here. She wants to see what he's made of.]

[Blonde only answers with a smirk. He grabs his revolver and slides off the table. Bullets are on the bench in front of the booth. He reloads, then aims with a smooth, quick motion. He takes his own mark, and blam.

His is even closer.]

I like Clint Eastwood better.

[She watches closely, the ease with which he handles his gun, the ruthless efficiency of his shot, and the accuracy above all. She looks impressed, but his last remark causes some confusion.]

Not bad. But I have no idea who that is.

[He smirks again and puts the revolver down.]

He was the new John Wayne.

You don't say.

[She moves to take another shot, brow furrowing slightly as she stares down the barrel of her gun. When she's taken aim, she exhales deeply, squeezing the trigger as she does. This shot lands between the two previous. She'd like to have bested him, but this will do for now. She turns back to him, smiling.]

Is that how it is in the future, then? Is there a new Lilian Harvey, a new Chaplin?

Something like that, yeah. No flying cars yet, though.

[He nods at her gun.]

Where'd you learn to shoot?

[Dryly] Drat.

[She looks down at the gun in her hand, before setting it back next to his. ]

My friend Marcel taught me, actually. We ran the cinema together.

[Shit. She'd been doing so well not thinking of Marcel, too.]

You and Marcel, huh?

[He picks up his gun again. Blam. Bulleye, this time.]

Ooh.

[She doesn't bother resisting the urge to roll her eyes at him.]

It was nothing like that.

[It was everything like that, actually. She follows suit, only this time she fires three shots in quick succession, and succeeds in widening his bullseye shot.]

Like what?

[Hey lady, you said it. Not him. He jumps back on the bench and watches her shoot. He whistles again, and spins his revolver to show off. Speaking of cowboys.]

I learned how to shoot when I was a kid.

Nothing.

[She fires off her last shot, almost as an afterthought, and it sings through the empty center of the target. As she takes out the cartridge to reload, she takes a deep breath. No good losing her temper, especially when Blonde wasn't exactly asking for it. Calmer now, she looks back up at him while she drops bullets into her magazine.]

Who taught you?

My brother. [He puts the gun down.] Joe, too.

[He holds up a finger at her.]

Not fuckin' bad, by the way.

Who is Joe.

[A bad habit she picked up from living in Paris, phrasing questions as statements, but she's always liked how brusque she sounds doing it. She lifts her eyebrows and the corners of her mouth lift.]

Merci. I've had a bit of practice.

[Especially since the last thing she shot was an actual human being.]

Joe Cabot. I work with him.

[But he's not his boss. He doesn't have a boss.]

On that one bastard, right?

Ah. Right.

[She can't be assed to pretend otherwise, so she just nods.]

That's a good name for him. Fucker.

Fucker or Bastard?

[This time Blonde cheats. From the bench he's sitting on, he points the revolver and motions Shoshanna out of the way.]

Both. [She shouldn't be so candid, but—fuck it.]

I'm glad I did it. Even if he did have it in him to shoot back.

[As if she's in a bad flashback, her heart jumps into her throat when she sees him point his revolver, but then she realizes what he's doing and moves quickly out of the way.]

[Vic notices, but he doesn't comment on it. BLAM. It's a pretty good shot.]

He shot you back?

[Her face remains impassive.]

A few times, actually. And the next thing I knew, I was waking up here, like nothing had happened.

[He lowers the gun and looks at her. He's briefly silent, face unreadable.]

Is he dead?

great!

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