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comment_fic. *shrugs*
Title: Shadows in Grey
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Collateral (2004)
Characters/Pairings: Max, considering Vincent
Summary: Max doesn't ride the train much anymore (post movie)
Wordcount: 360
Warnings/Notes: Aftermath of movie events
Disclaimer: Not mine
comment_fic. *shrugs*Title: Shadows in Grey
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Collateral (2004)
Characters/Pairings: Max, considering Vincent
Summary: Max doesn't ride the train much anymore (post movie)
Wordcount: 360
Warnings/Notes: Aftermath of movie events
Disclaimer: Not mine
Shadows in Grey
Max doesn't ride the train much, anymore. Maybe it oughta be the cab that worries him, that reminds him, but it's the train. Waiting for shadows in grey suits to appear. Wondering if anyone else will notice them.
He still doesn't understand. Didn't. Doesn't. Vincent. Any of it. Mostly Vincent. He doesn't understand ... why.
The man could have killed him. He'd lived, every moment, every second of that night, knowing that. Vincent was an assassin, he killed people for a living. And Max had known. Vincent had been the single most dangerous human being he'd ever met. Had killed enough people right in front of Max to make that point.
So ... why?
Why had Vincent saved him. Yeah, sure. They'd been messing with his work, they'd been taking the briefcase. Vincent killed people first of all for that. But he hadn't had to save Max, too.
Why had Vincent spared him. Annie's office, Vincent hadn't known Max would shoot. Even after the cab, even after Max had ... tendered his resignation on the assignment, rather thoroughly. Vincent hadn't thought Max would shoot.
But the train. He had to have known. The train, with Annie right there. He had to have known Max would, that Max had to. And he did that for a living. And Max had messed with Vincent's work. And light or no light, wound or no wound ... Vincent should have killed Max, then. Two of them shooting in the dark, and Max had dodged, but still.
The two of them, shooting in the dark. The one who'd hit something ... shouldn't have been him.
Max doesn't understand. Can't.
He dreams, sometimes, of grey-suited shadows sliding slowly away, head bowed and bloodied. He dreams, men getting on the train in LA, nobody noticing. He dreams of terror, and desperation, of crashing cabs and gunshots and trains. He dreams of the man, grey and terrible, who'd driven it all.
And he wonders. For all the things that happened that night, for all the things he did, that Vincent should have killed him for.
He wonders who the hell he'd been, to that man, that Vincent should have let him live.
Max doesn't ride the train much, anymore. Maybe it oughta be the cab that worries him, that reminds him, but it's the train. Waiting for shadows in grey suits to appear. Wondering if anyone else will notice them.
He still doesn't understand. Didn't. Doesn't. Vincent. Any of it. Mostly Vincent. He doesn't understand ... why.
The man could have killed him. He'd lived, every moment, every second of that night, knowing that. Vincent was an assassin, he killed people for a living. And Max had known. Vincent had been the single most dangerous human being he'd ever met. Had killed enough people right in front of Max to make that point.
So ... why?
Why had Vincent saved him. Yeah, sure. They'd been messing with his work, they'd been taking the briefcase. Vincent killed people first of all for that. But he hadn't had to save Max, too.
Why had Vincent spared him. Annie's office, Vincent hadn't known Max would shoot. Even after the cab, even after Max had ... tendered his resignation on the assignment, rather thoroughly. Vincent hadn't thought Max would shoot.
But the train. He had to have known. The train, with Annie right there. He had to have known Max would, that Max had to. And he did that for a living. And Max had messed with Vincent's work. And light or no light, wound or no wound ... Vincent should have killed Max, then. Two of them shooting in the dark, and Max had dodged, but still.
The two of them, shooting in the dark. The one who'd hit something ... shouldn't have been him.
Max doesn't understand. Can't.
He dreams, sometimes, of grey-suited shadows sliding slowly away, head bowed and bloodied. He dreams, men getting on the train in LA, nobody noticing. He dreams of terror, and desperation, of crashing cabs and gunshots and trains. He dreams of the man, grey and terrible, who'd driven it all.
And he wonders. For all the things that happened that night, for all the things he did, that Vincent should have killed him for.
He wonders who the hell he'd been, to that man, that Vincent should have let him live.
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