❪ here are some of the things that she can learn about him, elliot alderson, if she looks closely at his things:
look at the way he’s crammed drawers and cupboards and bookshelves together. it’s a game of tetris that he’s not particularly skilled at, born from mismatched furniture bought off craigslist. there’s a brightly-coloured drawing of him bluetacked to one of his books, facing outwards. elliot, or you’re so paranoid you probably think this drawing is about you. kennedy (it is you). so he has people who care about him. he actually has a lot of books. the drawing is bluetacked to a section that isn’t touched very often, so he can see it without having to move it.
in the bookshelf by his mattress-on-the-floor excuse for a bed there’s crime novels (no trace: a brock and kolla mystery, a book about an abducted child), paranoia literature (the extreme covert catalogue: world’s most complete guide to electronic surveillance), historical fiction books (the report: a novel), nerd shit he’s had for an extremely long time (weaving the web: the original design and ultimate destiny of the world wide web). there’s a surprising amount of books set in london; he avoids himself right down to his country.
dvds in the shape of pulp fiction and back to the future 2. back to the future movies 1 and 3 are conspicuously missing. usb sticks of varying size (literal and gigabytes) and color and shape are strewn on bookshelf edges and tops. on his messy little coffee table there’s a permanent fixture made of an allsafe security mug filled with pencils and wires. there’s a sense of unwelcome tidiness in certain places; a clean kitchen that doesn’t match the general mess everywhere else and bed sheets that are not only freshly washed, but new. tyrell’s touch. he seems determined that if he’s going to spend any time in eliot’s apartment, it should be up to his standards. it’s a slow, creeping process, and i spend a lot of time avoiding thinking about why i don’t fight him harder on this stuff.
he keeps the room dim. wires drape and dangle off his desk. trinkets sit next to cans of bug spray and sealant and drills and personal photos on his shelving. organised chaos is what elliot would call it; everything the way i like it, everything where i remember it. a pigsty is probably what tyrell would call it. a glance over at lisbeth. there’s a comforting sense that mess is going to be one of the last things she cares about. he wonders if her place is even really that different from his or if it’s the same organised disaster, same do-what-i-want-in-my-own-space approach. he wonders if she has anyone who comes in and leaves their mark, like he does.
he shakes his head. ❫
‘I was just … ’
❪ what was i doing before she came here? do you know? does it matter? i get the feeling it doesn’t. it doesn’t. a myriad of distracting thoughts poke at the inside of his brain - not least of which is an ugly desire to get high, but what’s new about that - but with some effort he pulls them in, pulls them to focus. ❫
‘D’you want something to eat? I was gonna get pizza.’
