Like a typographical error

Ryxen: Chapter 13

2007-11-22T11:11:04Z

Word count: 3,102
Accumulative: 28,689

Hall is waiting for him when he gets back from the Coyote – bar in London, and so much fucking better than the Rose or the Sparrow. The food there tastes like something. The common room, like usual, is pretty much deserted. Completely, really, except for Hall and Greene’s other daughter – the one who tries to be pretty. What’s her name? Laura.

“Tell me again how Joseph and the second coming,” she’s saying as Vincent walks into the room, and he has to bite back a snort. Everyone gets told that story as a kid. Vincent always thought that Joseph was an old fraud – he didn’t die on the cross. And even if he did, he didn’t buy the virgin giving birth to the son of god story for Jesus; he isn’t going to buy it for Joseph either.

Hall apparently does, though, because he launches into a tale that doesn’t seem to have much to do with The Great Death and seems to have a lot more to do with Joseph as a warrior-hero creating miracles left and right. Vincent listens for a few minutes then cuts in with, “fancy seeing you here, Aryn.”

Hall stands easily, smiles at him. “Vincent,” he says with a nod.

“Would you like to come up for a drink? I bought some brandy in London a few days ago. Think you might appreciate it – it’s different.”

Laura is staring at him hard – not with malice, really, but just like he’s betrayed something. Taking her precious Hall – Aryn away. Vincent rolls his eyes; like he’s that fucking likable. Especially when he’s acting like some sort of modern imitation of Jesus Christ or whatever. Saint Aryn. Makes him want to gag.

Hall cocks his head to the side. “That does sound rather interesting. I do believe I’ll accept your offer.” He takes a step towards Vincent, then turns around, asks over his shoulder. “If you don’t mind my taking my leave, Miss Greene?”

Laura is still glaring, still looking like Vincent just – kicked her fucking puppy or something childish like that. He can’t remember how old Nimue said she was, but he’s pretty sure she’s old enough not to be acting like a spoiled cunt. Whatever.

“So?”

Hall nods and makes his way up the stairs and Vincent follows. Laura watches them all the way.

--

Hall is standing at the door. Vincent is sitting on the bed. It’s a little awkward.

“I take it there’s no brandy?”

Vincent smirks at him. “While I’d like to say it was just a clever lie on my part,” he stands smoothly, goes over to his duffle bag and pulls out a heavy bottle. “If you want. Hors D’age; it’s worth it.” He rotates his wrist, and the liquor splashes golden against the side of the bottle.

Hall’s expression is unreadable, then he smiles, politely, and says, “I’m sorry but I’ll have to – ”

Vincent rolls his eyes. “Didn’t I tell you to drop the bullshit?” He sets the bottle on the floor, and goes back to rummaging through the bag. There are some heavy wooden cups in the very bottom, underneath some crumpled newspaper he can’t read, can’t remember why he kept them. “I don’t happen to carry around brandy snifters, so these’ll have to do,” he says as he sets two out.

“I shouldn’t – ”

“You’re not going to get drunk off a sip of brandy, Hall.” He pours one cup half full and hands it to Hall and does the same for himself.

Hall stares at him. Vincent shrugs it off, though not as easily as he usually does and takes a sip of his brandy. It’s mellow – almost woody. Fucking good. Worth the ten pounds he hand to shell out for it. He looks over and Hall’s drinking too.

“Not bad. You bought this at Lawson’s shop, yes?”

Not surprising that Hall would know his liquor, especially after seeing the rows and rows of bottles lining Hall’s cellar. “Mm hm.”

Hall doesn’t say anything, just glances down at the cup. After a few long minutes, he says, “you’ve been accepted.”

Vincent leans heavily against the door frame, crosses his arms over his chest, doesn’t smile at Hall, but his mouth twists. “Have I, huh?” So he’s said – saying and the truth, though? Two different things. He knew he’d be invited back either way. They either really do want him to work for them, or they’re going to kill him.

“Are you going to attend?”

Vincent remembers this story his mother told him once – his mother was a damn smart woman, for all her faults. He can’t remember the details, or the why behind it, or anyone’s names – if they had any – but it ends with these two doors and this guy, this dumb fuck, has to choose between them. And behind one is some beautiful woman and behind the other is some tiger that’s going to rip him to shreds and now, now he feels like he’s making that choice. But, either way, what does it matter? “When?”

“Now.”

Oh. That’s fucking sweet of you Hall. But he’s not going to lose his balance. Better than that – yeah, he’s fucking better than that. Hall’s not the only one with control. He smiles. “Sure. It at your place again?” Like they’re going to get together and watch rugby.

“Yes. I’ll accompany you if you like?” Hall says as he hands his empty cup back to him.

Vincent nods. “Yeah. Sure. Just – give me a second? I’ll meet you down in the commons. Shouldn’t take more than ten minutes.” He can’t help the smirk. “I’m sure Greene – Laura? Yeah. I’m sure she’d love to spend some more quality time with you.”

Hall looks like he’s going for a polite smile, but then falters and just looks at him blankly. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

“Do that.” Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

--

He walks downstairs exactly nine and a half minutes later. He’s changed his shirt, yeah. He’s also shrugged into a heavy sports jacket. Disguises the pistol in the halter under his arm. They didn’t ask him to disarm last time and, the way he sees it, if he’s going to die he’s going to fucking kill someone else too. Maybe that clergyman – the bishop. Maybe the Black Ink girl. Maybe Hall himself. Whoever he can manage. He’s not picky.

“Ready?”

Hall nods, and politely excuses himself from Laura again. Vincent smiles at her this time, as Hall’s walking away. Tells her that men don’t like pissy little twats like her, that, with her dress pulled down that low, she looks like she belongs in an Eastcheap brothel. Hall can hear and they both know it.

She only glares harder.

--

There’s ten chairs cluttered around the table now and they’re the last two in. Vincent smiles as he slides into the empty one – between the Black Ink cunt and James. Hall takes his seat on the other side of James.

Nobody says anything.

“What? Don’t need to know what color my boxers are?” He says it to fill the silence, to be an asshole, to show that he wasn’t shaken last time. He wasn’t.

Next to him, Sierra’s head lolls to the side. Her smile is lazy. “Well, sweetheart, since you mentioned it …”

Doesn’t miss a beat; he says, easily: “Too bad I’m not wearing any, huh?”

She licks her lips in a way that’d probably be really fucking hot if they weren’t in the middle of something fucking important. “Wanna share with the class? I say you drop ‘em.” The reporter – Brandson – nods enthusiastically at that, and even Mortimer is almost leering at him. The fuck?

He rolls his eyes. “Maybe later.”

She leans in close, rests a hand on his shoulder and whispers in his ear. “That a promise?”

“D’you want it to be?” His gaze flickers over to her brother, who is looking at him and Vincent’s damned if he can tell whether he’s trying to be threatening or is just – watching. He’s got that glassy-eyed look, like a dead fish, any way you cut it.

“I wouldn’t complain,” she says, and moves her hand slowly down his arm, under the table, to rest on his thigh. He smiles at her because fuck, he is interested but – not now. This is fucking work.

“Later,” he whispers, and pushes her hand off with another roll of his eyes, this one directed at Hall to fucking do something. This isn’t fucking – social hour. He doesn’t need to commit treason to pick up a fuck.

Hall looks at him, and then to James, whose staring intently at the table. Whispers something that he can’t quite make out, but James must hear well enough, because a second later James jerks his head upwards. “We have a new member,” he says.

Vincent only raises his eyebrows when everyone goes to look at him. Big fucking surprise.

“On probation.” Vincent looks over, and it’s the bishop who’s talking in a voice that manages to be deep and booming with two words. That’s something else really surprising there, he supposes.

“I wouldn’t have expected anything less,” Vincent days dryly. Passing their questioning or no he’s still new – relatively unknown. Of course they’re not going to – fuck, he doesn’t know – invite him to their weddings or whatever.

“Be that as it may,” and that’s Hall, always diplomatic. “You are still accepted as one of us. And with that comes the same responsibilities any of us bear.”

Mortimer – Anon, he supposes, and that’s hard to get used to – Anon smiles from across the table at Hall, then looks to him. “Aryn is our little peace keeper. He’s so very good at it, isn’t he? Quite talented – we’re glad to have him with us.” He says it like Hall’s a particularly smart dog that’s just done something right. Like he’s a possession.

Hall averts his eyes and says, “my lord is too kind,” in a tone that’s not sarcastic or annoyed or anything and that’s fucking impressive. Unless Hall really mans it, which is a fucking funny thought.

“Isn’t he?” James says, a little dryly. “Well then. I suppose we’re on to our first order of business. The state of affairs.”

Beside him, Sierra groans.

--

Vincent learns a lot that session. A lot from what’s said. A lot just from watching. This thing is networked through London – through the southern half of England, and up north? Well, they don’t give a fuck about anything other than making a living, about industry, so if – when – the regime changes it won’t be a big deal to them. As long as their way of life stays intact.

It’s funny how that words. They could probably replace the current king with a dancing monkey and those fucks in the north wouldn’t care as long as they were still making money.

He also learns that Marian Kohldrel-Innes is one of the most ruthless women he’s met, and between her and Brandson they’ve probably got enough blackmail to fuck over half of London. That Everard doesn’t seem to like any of them, and though he’s fine sitting there ripping apart any idea that gets tossed out he’s got none of his own. That Sierra is loud and crass as a matter of course, and probably the only reason she’s there is because her brother is a fucking genius. That James very rarely meets anyone’s eyes. He wonders if that’s for effect because his gaze is so startling or some other reason. He learns that Anon is a fucking creep – which, from Emmeline’s stories he already knew. He learns that, of everyone, people tend to disregard Hall the most.

He’s not so sure that isn’t a mistake.

Most of all he learns that this fucking crazy scheme might actually work. That, and the pressure that’s been in his head screaming do something, fucking anything seems a little less.

--

One by one the conspirators – because that’s what they are, and what else do you call them? The Let’s Plot a Revolution club? They file out, and Vincent meets Hall’s eyes over James’ head. Hall doesn’t have to say anything, doesn’t have to nod or smile. He waits, watches. Kohldrel-Innes and the bishop – neither of them look left or right while Brandson can’t seem to stop looking every direction. Everard gives the Black Ink kids a wide berth on his way out and Sierra pauses beside him to run her fingers down Vincent’s spine as she walks past. Her brother gives him another weird look. James is the last to leave; his head is bent close with Hall’s the entire time. He wonders idly if they’re fucking. Wouldn’t surprise him.

Once James leaves, Hall looks to him. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“What did you think?”

Vincent rests his foot up on his knee. “Does it really matter?”

“You’re part of it now.”

“I – ” He’s watching Hall’s face, but half the lamps have run out of kerosene and the chair is hard wood. “Can we get out of this fucking cellar?”

Hall looks at him blankly for a moment, and then says, “oh. Of course.” He walks around, puts out the final lamps and they’re left alone in the dark. Way to go Hall. Way to fucking go.

“I don’t have the electricity wired down here yet.” In the dark, Hall’s voice sounds creepy – almost disembodied.

“You might want to look into that.”

“I will.” And he’s a few steps closer to him. Vincent wonders if maybe he’s going to try to stab him. He shifts his stance, rebalances his weight. No fucking way he’s going to let Hall shank him in a dark room. He’s not that fucking pathetic.

Hall reaches out and brushes his wrist. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking when I put out those lamps. Do you might if I …?”

“Er, what?”

There’s a strange pause, long and stretched out and then Hall says, “I know my way out by heart, but I doubt you do. Is it alright if I – ?”

Vincent snorts. “You want to hold my hand that badly? Sure, Hall. Go for it.”

Hall doesn’t say anything to that – he merely takes his wrist and guides him out of the cellar. Well, mostly. Vincent hits a box with the toe of his boot, but Hall says there’s nothing really important in the cellar, and he probably didn’t break anything, so whatever. A few seconds and they’re sitting up in Hall’s old lady parlor drinking sangria. Hall is sitting on the sofa while Vincent lounges in an easy chair, legs propped up on the coffee table in the center of the room.

“The Greene family,” Vincent says after half of his second goblet is gone. “I’ve got no idea how you fucking put up with them.”

Hall looks at him questioningly. “Not getting on well?” He says it like he can’t imagine someone disliking that family. Vincent does his best not to show his annoyance. He thinks he manages. Somewhat.

“That’s – one way you could say it. If you were being polite. Which you always are.” So there’s a trace of bitterness at the end there. Whatever.

Hall looks at him, and Vincent just smiles. “Having manners wasn’t a crime last time I checked.”

“I never said it was.”

There’s silence, and then Hall says awkwardly, a little like he’s not really sure how to say it: “you might just stay here. I’ve a spare room.”

“I might.”

They fall into silence once again, and Vincent considers it. Hall is – a good fuck, polite, can keep his mouth shut and stop lying to yourself, Landseer, you’re interested. Fuck. He is. It’s fucking stupid and it’s fucking dangerous because he knows that there’s more to Hall than Hall lets anyone see – except maybe James, or Anon. That it’s fucking dangerous and he’s willing to bet Hall would chew him up and spit him out and not think anything of it if Vincent let him and –

He looks up, and Hall is standing beside him now. He must not have heard him.

“Are you – ” And he knows Hall’s about to ask him if he’s okay, all right, having trouble. If he needs anything. Vincent wants to tell him to shut the fuck up before Hall’s even said anything, but instead he stands, almost jumps, up, slams his mouth down on Hall’s and you could call it a kiss if you really wanted to, but it isn’t. He just wants Hall to shut the fuck up.

He pulls away and looks at Hall and in his expression – there’s this flash, like lightning before a thunderstorm, when the sky is dark and calm and there’s no sound, no rumbling thunder. Just a flicker of bright light, like someone flipped on the light switch for daylight and then it’s dark again – darker than before. You’re blinded and afterwards, when you’re blinking away the memory, you wonder if it was real of if you’re just going mad.

That – that’s what he feels like with Hall. Because sometimes he gets this flicker of expression on his face that’s a little scary but more intriguing than not, like he owns the fucking world and Vincent wants to know why he thinks that, if he really does think that. It’s a little about power, He supposes. Know your enemy or whatever, but there’s something else. He’d rather not think about it.

He says, “what – ” but cuts himself off because that’s a sentence he’d rather not finish – does he even know what he’s asking? Instead he presses his hand against Hall’s cheek, carefully, carefully, like Hall will bolt if he doesn’t. Stupid. It’s not like he’s run away yet. He kisses him a way he only remembers how, and when he pulls away he’s a little breathless, a little trembling and there’s an edge to Hall that wasn’t there before; hasn’t been there before.

When he pulls away Hall isn’t looking at him but through him and Vincent feels almost embarrassed. He kisses Hall again, like he usually does. It’s not a question, it’s a demand. It’s want and he doesn’t give a fuck if Hall enjoys it or not. It’s about him. He’s such a fucking bastard.

Like always, it leads to fucking. Same kind of sex as usual – okay but not outstanding. Hall doesn’t say a word when he undresses and finds the pistol. Vincent would’ve been surprised if he had.

He falls asleep on Hall’s living room floor feeling like he wants to vomit.

Ryxen: Chapter 12

2007-11-21T07:54:42Z

Word count: 2,380
Accumulative: 25,586

He almost runs himself to exhaustion Monday morning. He’s not keeping track of kilometers – he never does – but he’s short of breath and there’s a pleasant ache in his muscles. Sunny days when the ground’s dry don’t come around too often. It makes the adrenaline pound in his veins; he misses the feeling.

He misses the feeling – that’s weird. Odd. Unexpected. Whatever. Too long, he thinks, doing nothing. He never was any good at sitting still. Not really. He’s itching, a little bit, for this revolution Hall’s been talking about.

The sun is setting which should say something about endings – maybe, maybe, but really doesn’t just means that much bullshit to him. He slips out at night. Don’t fight losing battles – the best advice ever given him. It’s cold, it’s cold, and fuck he hates cold weather more than anything he’s ever hated. Baggage – that’s all it is. Fucking bullshit baggage. He’s so sick of feeling like that.

Back in the room, he strips off his sweaty t-shirt. Doesn’t meet his eyes in the mirror. He knows a few things pretty positively – that he doesn’t have the whole story and that Hall and James are the two he’s got to watch out for, James more than Hall. What are the odds that he could die? What does it matter? She said, it’s days like these I think the world is ending and it was funny, because who would care?

He curves a hand around his elbow. Digs his fingernails into the skin. Dominic asked him once, actually. Said, if life is that fucking meaningless to you, why don’t you just end it? It ain’t like you’ve got a lot to live for. He laughed that off, once. Said who really needs something to live for.

You’re a fucking liar. You’re a dirty fucking liar. But when you’re that young, it’s sort of how those things go. They laughed it off.

He steps into the shower, turned cold as it’ll go. He doesn’t like to think about it – doesn’t like to think about much, but he’s stupid like that. Doesn’t have an answer’s why. What could he say? The best he’s got is spite. Make too many people too damn happy if he died. He scrubs his skin clean quick as he can, jumps out.

His voice is a little rougher than usual when he orders his usual shot of vodka from Greene.

--

At noon he walks into Cayworth’s office.

“Punctual as always,” Cayworth says snippily, from behind his desk.

He walks over easily. There’s something comfortable about dealing with Cayworth – maybe knowing that he’s not a threat no matter what might happen. He plants both hands on either side of the desk – a heavy mahogany affair with gold filigree. It’s new. Must’ve been expensive. “What rich widow did you kill to be able to afford something like this?”

Cayworth ignores him like the good little businessman he is. Hands him a small, brown paper package. “This is for you to deliver. Nine pounds is the charge.” Stiffly. Vincent wonders when the last time Cayworth got fucked – if ever.

“Oh? To who?”

“To whom,” Cayworth corrects, like Vincent fucking cares if he got his nouns or whatever mixed up. “To Collier.”

The way his stomach twists at that – that’s fucking not fun. Fucking not fun at all. “Emmeline,” he says flatly. “I thought she was off this shit.”

“She was. She, um, well – she went through a rough spot – ”

“Yeah, and, in your kindness you put her on coke again.”

“It was her decision. You know very well you can discourage an addict as much as you like and it will accomplish nothing if they still insist

“That what you tell yourself, huh?”

“What – ”

“Tell me. Do you manage to believe that all the time, or does it only work when you’re fucked off your head on opium?” And yeah, unprofessional of him, but he’s so fucking pissed – Emmeline and him, well, you wouldn’t call it friendship but there’s some amount of debt there. They look out for each other and this fucking bastard –

“I – ”

“And does that logic only apply to whores who’ve got enough taste not to fuck you, or do you use it for those rich old widows you kill because you want their shit?”

Cayworth goes pale – paler than usual. “Why to you keep implying that I … ?” And he can’t even fucking finish his sentence. If this work wasn’t so goddamn easy there’s no way in fucking hell he’d put up with this bastard.

“This desk,” and he runs his hands along the intricately carved edge, almost like he’d do if it were a body. “Fucking nice. Nicer than something you could afford. So you must’ve stole it.” He turns around so his back is to Cayworth, either hand still resting on the desk. He looks over his shoulder. Smiles. “Well, I know it’d be fucking hard to steal anything this big. Can’t think of anyone who could really manage it were the owner still alive.”

He flips over again, this time leaning all the way over and resting his elbows on the desk, not really caring if he’s crumpling Cayworth’s paperwork, which he is. “So, here’s my theory. Rich old lady – don’t know what the fuck her name is … Trudy? Sounds like a name for an old woman. Well, old Trudy has a habit – I don’t know, opium? But that’s boring – maybe she likes heroin. Whatever it is, she comes to you because her old dealer gets shot in some alleyway – not surprising. Shit happens, right?

“You’re, of course, more than willing to help. Aren’t you kind?” And the sneer isn’t forced; fuckin’ true. Because Cayworth’s such a self-righteous prick about it – but I at least endeavor to help others. Fuck him. “And she invites you to her home, because there’s no way in fuck she’s coming to Eastcheap, no matter how bad she wants her heroin. And you, being the gentleman you are, go to her home.

“She’s rich – richer than you thought before. She can afford to pay your cheap street prices, the cunt. More than pay. Not only that she’s a prickly old bitch going septic in her old age. She don’t fucking deserve it. None of it.

“You give her a pure batch the first time. The second and third definitely, maybe the fourth, but the fifth time you come around you’re fucking sick of her. She treats you like trash. Like you’re scum on the sidewalk – which you are, not matter how refined you like to think you are. But that’s not the point. The point is you’re fucking sick of her looking down on you. And she’s got some nice shit – that’s always part of it.

“You’re good with poisons, of course. Everyone on Eastcheap knows that, and so no one who buys from you is willing to piss you off. Especially no one with any money.” He smiles. “When she’s dead, no one’s going to stop you from having a few of your thugs smuggle this desk out – and maybe some other furniture, you got a new bed recently? – in the dead of night. Of course the cops won’t figure it out – cops in London couldn’t solve the Sabbath killer case if the bastard went up, tapped them on the shoulder and handed them a fucking journal about the whole mess. And you? You’ve got a shiny new desk.

“But. I’m sure you went to confession that Sunday, so it’s perfectly okay. I mean, that and giving ibuprofen to homeless toddlers – your good deed outweigh that bad, I’m sure.”

He leans even closer into Cayworth, until their noses are almost touching. Cayworth pushes himself back in his chair as far as he’ll go. Looks sick. Maybe he’s trembling. Fucking good. “So. How close am I?”

“You – this job needs to be done as soon as possible. I’ll have more work for you if you return tomorrow,” Cayworth says. His voice is hollow and dry and Vincent does his best not to gloat, to keep eyeing him coolly, professionally. There’s still a hint of a smirk at the edge of his mouth though. Whatever.

“The right answer, Cayworth? It’s – what, how would you say it? Oh yeah – ‘brilliant deductive reasoning, Mr. Brown’”

“Why do I suffer your insolence?”

Vincent laughs. “Because I’m fucking good – better than most.” He slips the small brown package into the pocket of his jeans. “Because I think the same way you do.”

Cayworth blanches – must be one of the must fucking disgusting ideas in the world. And, honestly, he says it less because he thinks it’s true and more because he knows it’ll hurt. “I never – ”

“Whatever bullshit gets you through the day, sweetheart.”

--

Anyone in Eastcheap with a cock knows Emmeline Collier. The most gorgeous cunt on two legs, and sure, she’s a raving bitch but most men are willing to put up with that. They’ve fucked once or twice, when she couldn’t pay Cayworth’s bill and he was having trouble finding no-strings-attached sex. They go way back, is the thing. Met the first time he took a job from Cayworth. He was nineteen and she was twenty-two.

The madam at the brothel desk doesn’t bat an eye when he walks in. Yes, Emmeline’s still in 311. No, she’s not with anyone right now. He tips her a twenty pence and makes his way up the stairs. Paper thin walls and the place smells like piss. He thinks if he were living here he’d kill himself. There support beams on the ceiling are bare, so you find a strong enough piece of rope it wouldn’t be hard at all to hang yourself. He wonders how many whores have thought that before. He wonders how many actually did.

He knocks on the door, and Emmeline’s voice – what lots of men like to call low and sultry but what sounds hoarse to him – comes from the other side. Sharp. Annoyed. “Who the fuck is it?”

“Collier. Open the door.”

There’s a long pause, and then. “Brown?” The sound of a bolt sliding and the door clicks open. Emmeline’s in her underwear, long blonde hair hanging around her face like what someone poetic would call a halo. She really is a fucking hot woman. “Vincent.”

“Emmeline.” He strides in easily, comfortably.

The room smells like shit – like sex gone stale and that’s what it is because the whores don’t have the time, don’t have the energy to clean their own rooms and it isn’t like Anon – like Henry fucking Mortimer is going to hire a maid to take care of his livestock. There’s nothing much – a dresser, a bed, a closet, a table and chairs, because what else does a whore need? A bathroom, but that’s less about her and more about the customers. The room hasn’t changed since he’s last been here, except there’s a man wrapped up in the sheets on the bed.

“Thought you weren’t with anyone?”

“I’m not.” Emmeline says, taking a seat in one of the chairs. She crosses her legs like she’s got any sense of modesty. “He’s a friend.”

“Right.” Emmeline’s got a new fucktoy then. Weird – that’s usually not her style; she’s usually got more sense than that, but whatever. That’s her decision. That’s really none of his fucking business.

“So, you’re here to see me?’

“On business.”

“Really?” She leans forward, propping her elbows on the table and her chin on her hands. “What kind of business?”

He reaches into his pocket, takes out the small brown package and sets it on the table. Perhaps with more force than he really needs. “Cayworth’s. He wants nine pounds.”

Emmeline stares at him. Reaches out for the packed but he presses her hand down to the table before her fingers manage to brush it. “Pay first.”

“Vincent. That isn’t fair.”

“You think I don’t have to make a living just like you?”

“I – fine.” She stands up, goes and rummages through the dresser. Comes back carrying eight pounds and a handful of pence. “All I have.”

Which is a lie. They both know it. Vincent raises an eyebrow at that, and suddenly she’s not some petite, pathetic woman; she’s a snarling bitch. Her eyes are narrowed into slits and her lips are turned down. “You just want to fucking rob me, don’t you? You’re such a fucking cocksucker sometimes, Brown.” She stalks over to her bed, pulls out another small purse and plucks out a one pound note.

“Happy?” she asks, as she slams the money down on the table.

“Very.”

She goes back over to the bed, and goes to shove the purse under the mattress. The man on the bed shifts at all the movement. Sits up. The sheet pools around his waist, and Vincent gets a good look at him. Tall. Well-built – bigger than him, looks like he’d hit hard in a fight. Red-haired.

“Emmeline?” He asks groggily, and there’s something to the way he says her name that doesn’t sound quite English.

“Go back to sleep, sugar.” She reaches up and pats his cheek. “Just dealing with a small problem.”

“D’you need help?” That accent again. He’d guess somewhere Slavic.

She laughs, and it sounds surprisingly pleasant. Especially from her. “No, no, dear. Just go back to sleep.”

The man nods, and then falls back into the bed. Emmeline walks over.

“A foreigner?”

“He’s Russian,” she says, answering the question that Vincent didn’t care enough to ask but wanted to know the answer to anyway. “Don’t see why it matters where the hell he’s from.”

“Good fuck?”

“Amazing.” Which is high praise coming from a whore.

“Well, have fun with him,” he says as he stands up, a little briskly.

Her smile is wide and predatory. “I will,” she says. “That’s a promise.”

He rolls his eyes, and his halfway out the door when he turns around, a little randomly and he’s not even sure what he’s doing or saying, but he says “take care,” and her eyes widen a second before she nods. He hopes the dickhead lying in her bed works out for her, as much as shit ever can work out for a whore.

Ryxen: Between Us Here

2007-11-18T10:43:25Z

It's called victiory; a scene from the future. NC-17.

Between Us Here

And I would be the one
to hold you down,
kiss you so hard,
I'll take your breath away

-- Possession, Sarah McLachlan

He slams the door. Not because he’s angry; not it entirely. Sure, there’s some underlying anger there – he had to fight to get home, because people where drunk or dead, rioting in the streets, screaming about how terrible or how wonderful and he’d like to say he had the presence of mind to mark who was saying what but that’d be a lie. He’s tired and he’s short of breath and the adrenaline is pounding in his ears along with, over and over, the king is dead, long live the king, and that it’s Anon scares him so there’s that but it’s not enough, it’s not important and so the door slams shut because he’s too out of it to shut it gently.

There’s a rustle of sound from – where? The library? And he shouts a half-assed “I’m sorry” in case Aryn was reading or something, though he has no idea how could manage that if Vincent is this excited.

Aryn comes into sight a few seconds after Vincent’s pulled his muddy boots off and his breath catches in his throat because he has never, never in these past three years seen Aryn smile like that and suddenly there’s arousal on top of his exhilaration and he can’t breathe. “The streets are a fucking m—”

He doesn’t remember if Aryn said anything or not – he might’ve, but then again he probably didn’t. He doesn’t remember Aryn walking forward, but he must’ve. He doesn’t remember much of the lead-up, not really. It’s there, it happened, it’s gone. What he does remember is getting slammed into the door; Aryn’s mouth on his; feeling like – he can’t even put it into words. So fucking hard, so fucking in love and Aryn pressed up against him –

Saying it’s the best thing he’s ever felt – that’d be cliché and trite and stupid but it’s the best thing he’s got. He moans into Aryn’s mouth, sags into his grip. Aryn’s clutching his arms so tight that he can barely manage to rest his hands on Aryn’s waist let alone anywhere else and it’s so fucking good it almost hurts and – whatever he did to deserve this – oh christ. Aryn’s tongue is in his mouth and Vincent doesn’t want him to ever stop, doesn’t want to ever lose this and Aryn is pressed into him, there’s no distance between the two of them and Vincent moans again. His fingers convulse into fists and Aryn’s waist. He loves this man. Loves him. Oh fuck.

“It’s done,” Aryn murmurs, only pulling away an inch, just enough to breathe, but it’s cold and he’d do anything for Aryn to be back, against him, and he pulls forward, breathless, to capture Aryn’s lips in his own.

He breaks the kiss next time, drawing quick, harsh breaths fast as he can because, fuck, who needs to breath, and Aryn takes the chance to whisper “we’ve done it,” breath hot against Vincent’s face.

We – like electricity, and if he wasn’t already that fucking hard he is now. He shivers under Aryn’s hands – wishes that Aryn would fucking do something with them other than just clutch his arms. Then Aryn’s kissing him again and it doesn’t matter. “I’ve done it,” he says, words almost part of the kiss and then Aryn’s sliding one hand up, burying it in his hair and Vincent pulls Aryn closer – is that possible – closer and he wants to feel Aryn up against him, not through two layers of cotton each.

“You want to fuck me,” but he doesn’t give Aryn a chance to respond. Doesn’t. “I need you to fuck me,” and he’s surprised at how true it comes out sounding. He does.

Aryn tightens the hand in his hair but doesn’t say anything but smiles – smirks, and Vincent, voice rough and raw says, “I need you to fuck me. I need you in me. I – I want this, fuck it Aryn, I want it so – fuck. Did you make me beg? You bastard,” and there’s wonder and he laughs a little, as much as he can.

His expression widens into a smile and Vincent – Vincent’s going to fucking come in his jeans if he doesn’t get fucked soon. “Now,” but by the time he grinds it out Aryn is pulling him to the bedroom and there’s a flurry of movement during which Vincent finds himself pressed up against the wall and kissed raw again – he thinks he’s got everything but his boxers off by then. But that’s a blur. It only goes clear when Aryn is pushing him down on the bed.

“Yes,” he can’t help but gasp, and bites his lip when Aryn pulls away. Without any words Vincent hooks his legs up around Aryn’s shoulders. “Fucking do it.”

And he’s saying, and he’s saying, “remember the Anderson murders,” sliding one lubed finger up his ass and through the haze yeah, fuck yeah he does but what’s this got to do – what’s this got to do with fucking any of it, fucking anything ohshit that felt good but he’s saying, “I liked it – a lot I – ” a second finger. Vincent moans again Jesus why is Aryn this fucking good?

“There was blood everywhere,” he says, “but you – you – ” A third finger, and Vincent wants him to just fuck him already. Doesn’t matter if it hurts a little bit, probably won’t notice but of course Aryn’s going to do it right fuck him and then he’s realized exactly what Aryn says and – it’s so – he remembers the exhilaration and the sex afterwards and he doesn’t have the words – he doesn’t.

When Aryn pulls out, for a second “N-not as,” and then Aryn pushes his cock in and he gasps. He’s this close to coming then and there but fuck it. Not so goddamn soon. “Not as fucking hot – gorgeous as you were. That one time. When you stopped this bulljesuschristshit. Oh fuck Aryn, yes. Shit. Harder. Fuck you harder,” and he’s going to – he can feel it building like a force behind his eyes and he wants it to just keep it building but at the same time – that release. “It was – you, with your hands covered in blood fuck, I wanted you – fuck!” And then Aryn’s coming inside of him and Vincent’s coming too, breathing, “Aryn.” I love you, I love you. He bites his lip. Keeps it back. So fucking perfect.

Aryn falls forward, almost naturally into a kiss and there’s a kind of power behind it and Vincent gives in, let’s Aryn kiss his mouth, his jaw, his neck while he runs his hands over the smooth muscles of Aryn’s back, pulls him closer because he wants every fucking centimeter he can get.

Eventually Aryn stills, sliding off to his side, trapping Vincent’s arm under him. The silence is slow and sweet, but Vincent can’t help but fill it. “You,” he says, voice still hoarse with sex, “you’re the best – I – you’re so fucking amazing – ”

“Aren’t I?” He murmurs, breath brushing Vincent’s ear, and though Vincent can’t see him he can hear the smirk in his voice. Vincent turns his head, touches his lips to Aryn’s more than he actually kisses him.

“Yes.” And he’s falling asleep, might be imagining it, but he could swear Aryn closes the millimeter left between them.

Ryxen: Chapter 11

2007-11-16T08:32:41Z

Word count: 2,156
Accumulative: 23,205

It’s a nice idea, yeah. Revolution. The pay’s an even nicer idea. He smiles a little. Looks around. London, central London, east London – it’s shit and more shit. Shit under your shoes. Shit in the air – buildings even look like they’re made of shit left long enough out in the sun – dull brown-gray and flaky blobs. Falling apart. No surprise, though.

Revolution – but that isn’t gonna keep him alive, now is it? Not going to pay the rent.

He got the job at the restaurant but it’s part time and extra money never hurt and there’s always work in Eastcheap. Cayworth – always Erik fuckin’ Cayworth. He pushes into a door with no sign.

There’s something about walking into to Cayworth’s office – he wouldn’t call it an ego trip. Or not exactly. But there’s still something. Chin up, because he’s a lot of things but he’s not holed up in this hovel for the rest of his life, dealing high-priced drugs to a bunch of poor people suffering pangs of guilt – yeah. Everyone knows how many days a week Cayworth spends locked in the confessional.

“Mr. Brown.”

“Cayworth.”

“It’s been – quite a while.”

“Hasn’t it?” And, like Ianthe, Cayworth doesn’t invite him to sit on his furniture – old, stuff that would’ve been really nice if it didn’t look like Cayworth had gone diving in the dumpsters of the rich for it – but he flops into an ugly floral sofa anyway. “Been out of town – out, about. Around.”

“The mercenaries?”

“Gone.”

“Oh?”

Cayworth doesn’t need to know the details. No one needs to know those details. They’re his to keep. He shrugs. “Past time, really.”

Cayworth is a small man. Slender – almost girlish. Asking around will tell you he was a thief when he was a kid. A bad one. That’s why he’s missing some fingers on one hand. That’s why he’s missing an eye. And you’d think someone would whine about police brutality, but that’s not it, even. The police in London don’t do shit. It was whatever bastard he was stealing from’s own brand of justice. Works, he supposes. Still doesn’t change the fact he’s always thought of Cayworth as fucking stupid, though Cayworth doesn’t know that. Business partners. He keeps his face carefully blank.

“And I assume you’re here for work?” Cayworth says, a little stiffly. The man’s too stiff, so fucking stiff. He’s a fucking drug dealer, not nobility. There’s really no reason for it.

“Yeah.”

“When can you start?”

He leans forward, smiles wide. “Whenever you need me to.”

Cayworth nods – stiffly – and tells him the details. Consistent pay. Easy job – not without some danger, but he’s hardly qualified for anything at a desk and the worst the cops would do is slam him six months in prison, and he’s usually better than that. And it’s not like Cayworth’s got near enough cunning, ruthlessness to betray him. Security, really. Nice thought.

--

As soon as he gets in the door Greene is saying “A lady called for you while you were out,” and he can guess, but Greene says it anyway. “A lady by the name of Ianthe Olmstead? She told me to give you her phone number.” He holds out a piece of paper.

Anymore he hates hearing her name – she didn’t used to be like this. Or maybe he didn’t? Does it really matter anymore? It’s over and it’s been over for fucking ever. End story. Give up. Anymore is beating a dead horse.

Of course, it’s partly his fault. Why why did you sleep with her, Landseer? You fucking idiot. You fucking moron. Of course he was drunk and she was – whatever she was. Desperate? Lonely? Hadn’t been fucked in forever; she begged – or did he? It’s all fucking foggy, kinda dizzy, but he remember that month where he was so fucking drunk that – nothing mattered. Whatever the fuck you want, Ianthe, whatever the fuck.

“She sounded worried-like. Desperate.”

Right. I’m glad I’ve got your expert opinion. Fuck you, Greene. What he says is, “Thanks.” Accepts the paper. Waste right there – this shit isn’t cheap to make.

“This your lady-friend that came by a few days ago?”

Who? Vincent stares at him, and Greene makes some weird hand gesture, says “that skinny girl? With the freckles?”

Oh. Nimue. “No,” he says. Walks up the stairs before Greene can say anything else. Fuck. Why can’t anyone mind there own business?

--

He calls her even though he doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to – he’d rather go through the question and answer session again. He does, though, because some part of him – owes her that much, he supposes. Maybe the best way to put it is that she’s a debt. And she is. No mistake about that.

And, as much as he’d like to pretend he doesn’t care, there is something – he owes her that much. If not because he feels responsible for the kid, because there’s some history there.

He’s gotten out of the habit of reflecting on that, though.

He sits on the bed, picks the phone up off the receiver. Dials the number. It only rings once, and then she’s answering.

“Ianthe.”

There’s a long pause, and then she says “you called back.”

“Yes.”

He remembers thinking once she had a pretty laugh. Now it sounds sort of like that outward wheeze you make when you get punched in the stomach. He wonders if something changed, or if he was just stupid. “I wasn’t expecting you to.”

He doesn’t respond to that. She sighs heavily. “It’s Bradley.”

Isn’t it always? “What about him?”

“He has the chicken pox.”

“And?”

“I thought,” and her voice is nasty and sharp and he thinks she learned that from her cunt of a sister, because she never talked like that when they were sixteen. Of course, when they were sixteen he might’ve given a fuck. “I thought that you might deign to come visit your own flesh and blood, Vincent.”

What she says isn’t all that funny – he knows that. He knows she’s deadly serious and hurt. Probably lonely. Injured. Desperate. He laughs anyway, short and clipped and he’s sure, he’s sure even though he can’t see her that her shoulders are going stiff, that she’s straightening herself in that way she has, trying to be intimidating. Maybe half the problem is they know each other too well. Or maybe he knows her too well and she doesn’t know him at all? That, again, is more his fault than hers, though.

“I take it that’s a no, hm?” She asks. He wonders if she’s trembling, or really as cool as she sounds.

He tries to straighten it out. Because as much as he can’t seem to bring himself to give a fuck she doesn’t deserve this – he thinks. Not like he’s really fit to judge who deserves what anyway. “Ianthe,” and then he forgets what he was going to say.

“Yes?”

“This – I think that you – look. Yeah, he’s partly my kid I know that but – I’m not ever going to be a good father. Maybe you should, fuck, I don’t know, look for someone else? You’re, I mean, it’s not like you’re – ” clingy, obnoxious, ugly, annoying, “so bad.”

There’s a long drawn out pause, and he tries not to laugh again. She’s strangling the phone, isn’t she? Trying not to cry. Or scream. Maybe both. “You said you wanted children.”

Now that he didn’t expect. “When?” She must be making shit up. She’s got to be.

“Once – remember that night after we had gone sledding back in Scotland and you were falling asleep and you were talking about – ”

He still doesn’t remember that, but it doesn’t matter. Because – he sighs. “Ianthe. I was sixteen.”

“I – ”

Normally he’d be angry, but he doesn’t really have the energy. “Ianthe. Get out of your house. Get a babysitter. Date someone. Fuck someone,” and he can almost hear her hesitation, her opening her mouth to say something else. Another promise he made when he was saying whatever he could think she wanted to hear. Karma, right? “Who isn’t me, for Christ’s sake. I – look, I’ve got to go. Bye.” He slams the phone down on the receiver harder than he really needs to.

“What are you doing?” he asks – what? The phone? The room? Ianthe? Himself? Burying his face in his hands, so he can’t hear himself even though he knows what he’s saying fuck it. “What the hell are you doing?”

No answer. Surprise.

--

Hall comes to his door Sunday evening with a polite knock and a conscientious smile. It’s funny. He’s mulled it over – such bullshit. There’s no way.

“Hall.” He steps aside easily, so Hall can come in. They’ve fallen into this easily.

Hall nods. “Vincent.”

He shuts the door, and they stand there. Awkward, he’d say. After something like Wednesday night what do you really say?

“I just felt I should see how you’re – ”

He doesn’t know why, but suddenly it’s all too much and he’s so fucking sick of this bullshit, of Ianthe and her guilt and not knowing where the fuck he’s going, not having any fucking goal or anything and then Hall comes here and pretends, like Vincent’s so fucking stupid that he’ll have forgotten and suddenly he’s pushing Hall up against the wall, their faces centimeters apart and he’s hissing “stop with this fucking bullshit, Hall.”

Hall cocks his head to the side, but there’s a weirdness to his expression that Vincent hasn’t seen before, he thinks. “I beg your par—”

“I am actually not stupid, believe it or not,” and he scrabbles to remember everything Shae taught him about speaking properly. Carefully – fuck he wishes he’d gone to some kind of school sometimes. “And if you think, after that charming interview in your cellar, I’m going to buy that you’re just some dreamy idiot scholar – fuck. Seriously. Cut the crap.”

“I have absolutely no idea – ”

“You aren’t a virgin.”

“Excuse me?”

“You aren’t.”

“I never expressly said I was.”

And he laughs. “Don’t give me this fucking bullshit quibbling. It’s not about you’ve had a cock up your ass once instead of never. It’s about that you’re acting it when – I bet – you’ve done it a shitload of times.”

Hall shrugs, and maybe he’s imagining it, but it seems kinda strained, “I don’t see why it – ”

“And,” his voice has gone soft, lips almost brushing Hall’s ear, the back of his hand curled against Hall’s cheek and he thinks it looks like he’s whispering sweet nothings and if that was the sort of thing he did “maybe you think I was too busy getting the piss mindfucked out of me, but I saw that smile,” and if his hand wasn’t flush up against Hall’s cheek he’d miss it, but there’s a second where he goes tense and Vincent smiles, “yeah, you know what I mean.” This time his lips do brush Hall’s ear.

Hall jerks away, moving around him so that they’re further apart. Got breathing room now. “What is it that you want from me?” And Hall’s smile is cold and flat as his tone.

“I’ve only said it twice. What the fuck do you think?”

“Why?”

“Because you’re much more pleasant to deal with that way.” Not it. Not entirely, anyway. He’s more interesting that way. That’s odd too. Been a while since he’s actually been interested. Probably won’t go anywhere. Never seems to.

“And that’s what it is you want,” Hall is saying.

Vincent shrugs, because what’s the point in saying it again? He’s already repeated it more than enough.

There’s a long pause, and then Hall says “All right.” He doesn’t smile, and his expression is still cold and flat. For some reason that makes Vincent push him back against the wall and kiss him.

Sex this time is different – no hesitation on Hall’s part. Fast. A little more violent, and that makes sense. More familiar. Hall seems comfortable now – seems like he’s not terrified or whatever the fuck he was pretending to be before. Against the wall – this is starting to be habit – but Hall doesn’t just lie there and take it and there’s some kind of struggle, and he comes harder than he has before with Hall.

They don’t really waste time touching or cuddling – really, what’s the point? It’s pretty clear that this is just fucking to Hall, and it’s the same to him.

Hall’s on his way out when Vincent asks him without looking at him. “Don’t suppose you want anyone to know about this, huh?”

There’s this unreadable pause. Vincent counts the seconds lazily. After about a minute Hall says, “I would appreciate that,” and then the door of the room clicks shut.

Vincent lies on the bed, starts to drift off. Realizes, a few minutes before he drifts off Hall never said exactly why the fuck he came around.

Ryxen: Chapter 10

2007-11-13T10:21:27Z

Word count: 3,274
Accumulative: 21,048

He wakes up in the morning uncomfortable – can’t seem to get comfortable no matter how he twists in the rough cotton sheets. The sun is just rising, looks like, making the sky that familiar sick shade of gray. He’s tired – that’s no good. Especially not today, but – can’t go back to sleep. Doesn’t want to.

Don’t usually dream. When he does it’s bad. Fuckin’ bad.

Stumbles his way to the bathroom. Too fucking cold in this room for the middle of April. Turns tap on the left – cold as it’ll go. Plunges his hands in to the freezing water. Wakes him up – a little. Splashes it on his face. Wipes his eyes. Face in the mirror – doesn’t get what people see here that they don’t. A murderer, a rapist, a traitor – none of that. Can’t tell by looking, not on anyone, but people can take one glance at him and know.

It isn’t like he’s so strange, he thinks as he twists off the tap. Skin a shade off from the English norm – he doesn’t feel like he stands out here. Looks a lot more English than he does Persian. Maybe his nose is more Persian? He doesn’t think so. He tilts his head to side, watches the way the light plays across the angles of his face. There’s a kind of nobility to it someone said once – he supposes, yeah. If you want to call it that. Smiles, just to test it, try it on – he doesn’t smile pretty. Teeth fairly white – there’s something. He runs his hands through his dark hair. Needs cut, but doesn’t it always?

The thing with him and looking into the mirrors is that he’d be lying if he said he didn’t turn himself on. Yeah, he’s scarred up – his back’s a mess, but that’s what you get growing up like he did. Spare the rod, spoil the child and yeah, Duncan wasn’t Christian but he took that to heart. Scars aside – some people find that hot, most people’ll fuck him, or let him fuck them, even if he’s got shiny scar tissue puckered on his right shoulder blade where someone hit him with a spear, or a thick, heavy cut down the side – that fucking hurt, he remembers, whenever he thinks about it. Life of shit – that’s what it gets you. A decent living, a fucking lot of scars, cheap sex, no conscience. Just –

He looks back at the mirror. Scars. Whatever. He’s still fucking hot. Slender – not skinny like Hall. Not hulking like so many guys his height get. Somehow managed to avoid gangly too. Sure, it doesn’t make up for much, but it’s better than nothing.

He walks out of the bathroom, grabs a pair of jeans off the chair, a belt, one of the new shirts Nimue left. Goes back in. Dresses carefully, quickly. Looks back to the mirror. Adjusts the jeans so the lie just right. The shirt Nimue brought is light gray and long-sleeved and fits perfectly – his measurements. Right. Of course Nimue has them. He runs a comb through his hair, does a quick once over. He’s had a lot of – not girlfriends, not boyfriends. Fuck buddies, if you want to even call them that, call him vain. He shrugs it off. Sure, there’s some of that, he thinks, there’s more to it than that – it puts people off balance. He knows that. And if he’s going to be meeting Hall’s superiors well, he’ll take whatever the fuck he can get.

He pushes out of the room – not running today, not going to ruin his clothes. Just a walk – miles and miles. Killing time. Got a lot of it to kill.

--

When he goes into the commons for lunch, there’s Diana talking to some girl, whose hair is golden and whose skin isn’t freakishly pale – looks like makeup to him, and hair dye. She giggles – shrill. He’s guessing this is the other daughter; Nimue said he should seduce her? Totally fucking joke.

He sits down at one of the tables. Not long before Greene’s coming over, sliding a bowl of stew towards him. Stew. That tastes like chicken broth and water and whatever half-rotten vegetables they could scrounge up. Do these people eat anything else? Or know the meaning of salt?

“Aryn – he comes by to see you huh?” That’s Greene. Talking to him. Why is he still here, talking to him? Oh fuck, are they friends now?

“Sometimes,” he says. Looks up from his stew. The girl’s turned towards them – her eyes are bright blue; maybe she’s not so fake, then? Not that it matters. She’s cocked her head sideways, is smiling at them. Curious. Coy – or that’s what she’s trying for. She just looks young to him. Stupid. Vincent shrugs, shifts carefully. There’s a lot more he could say – they fuck is first in his brain, but he’s pretty sure they wouldn’t buy it. He’s been asking around – about Hall. (Like any sane person would do, and he isn’t stupid. Lots of people like to think that. Good for them.) Hall’s like – they talk about Hall here like he’s fucking Jesus; nails pounded in his hands, bleeding on the crucifix, all that religious bullshit; poor little orphan boy, pity his home burned down all those years ago, amazing how he managed to turn out so decent. Hall could get away with fucking murder. Of course it wouldn’t be his fault even then – raised like that well, everyone’ll have some scars. He doesn’t roll his eyes – just barely. “We’re friends,” because Greene’s waiting for something more. Like he really knows that that means.

“Great guy, Aryn is.” Greene chuckles, and his pudgy stomach shakes. Vincent stares – a little like you stare at hangings, train wrecks, the skeletons in the bottoms. How the fuck do you get that fat when all you've got to eat is watery stew and stale bread? “Laura here,” he nods at the girl – she is his daughter, then, “fancies him pretty badly.”

“Papa!” Vincent’s sure she goes red under her blush, but with her makeup caked on so thick like that he’s not really sure how he’s supposed to be able to tell. She does push Greene – whose like a fucking mountain – weakly. What was it? The lady protests too much? Sounds like.

He nods. Doesn’t really get the appeal. Sure, Hall’s nice. Boring – he’s a fucking accountant, but nice. Not a big fan of nice, not really. Sure. They fill up space. Do their jobs. Waste oxygen, but there you go, Landseer. What else does anyone really do?

Ianthe’s nice. She always was.

“Papa,” she’s – her name’s Laura, right? – whining. “Stop embarrassing me.”

Which is funny, because the last time he checked seemed like he’d actually have to care that she liked Hall. Really, kinda vain of her. Especially like she’s anything special. So she’s got a crush on Hall – half of Merton seems to be in the same place. Laura says something else – maybe Green responds but he’s done listening.

--

He spends the rest of the day walking – applying for a job at the restaurant the next town over, an Italian place which works just fine for him. Smiles at the woman interviewing him just the right way. If it means he gets the job he’d probably be willing to sleep with her, for all she’s thirty and heavy and has a double chin. Whatever it takes. That sort of thing. It’s a trek back, and the sun’s getting low at the sky; he checks his watch. Almost seven, then. He grabs some food at the Sparrow – only other place to eat in Merton – then begins walking, again, this time to Hall’s sorry excuse for a house.

--

He knocks on the door at exactly eight o’clock. Hall’s there to answer it promptly. He nods, and Hall says, “we’re down – in the cellar.” Vincent doesn’t really feel like he needs to reply to that; he just follows Hall. The rest of the house is exactly like the parts he saw last time – old and feminine. Really, the only thing that suggests it’s a single man living in the house is that it’s a fucking pig sty – that’s what he thinks as he kicks a carton of milk out of his way. What’s a carton of milk doing in the middle of the hallway he’s got no clue. Fucking slob.

Hall pushing through the back door, holding it open politely for him. He walks through. Then Hall’s pulling open two heavy doors set in the ground – are they seriously plotting to overthrow the king in a fucking root cellar? He shrugs. Whatever works. Not like he expected a palace.

So, this is kinda creepy, he thinks as Hall pulls the doors shut behind him. It’s dark, cold. He takes a few steps and some lamps come into view around the corner.

“This is him,” Hall says, then slides easily into the seat next to small, wiry man.

There’s nine of them, counting Hall. This grand council. Going to change the world. Gonna make him stand while they ask him whatever the fuck they want, apparently. Vincent smiles. Isn’t this cozy? He slides his hands into his pockets, relaxes into a slouch – years of training, he can control that kind of reaction. Sure, he’s nervous – who wouldn’t be? You never let your enemy know what you’re feeling.

Sometimes, yeah, Duncan did say useful shit.

It’s silent – you could hear a pin drop. Chains clank. Ghosts moan. Whatever. Then: “well. I’m glad my vote was overruled.”

Woman’s voice. His first instinct is jerk his head towards her but he stills it – slides his eyes her way. She’s the one with the tattoos – hot, if you dig that. Next to a guy whose her brother – has to be her brother, he’s covered in the same black tattoos. Of course he knows them. Black Ink. Anyone who knows shit in London knows them.

“This is – ”

“Black Ink,” Vincent says. Hal stops and looks at him. He shrugs.

“Sierra and Reavv.” Sierra’s the woman undressing him with her eyes. Reavv is the guy, who looks like he’s not quite cool with whatever his – sister, right? His sister’s doing.

“John Haverton. Bishop of Carlisle.” Clergy. Now that is odd. Especially sitting next to a thief.

“Next to him is Xerxes Everard,” who is a hulking mass. A cop – can tell by the uniform. Great. “And then Sylvia Brandson.” She smiles like a kid, pulls out a bulky camera and takes his picture and yeah, he flinched at that. Way to fuck up already, Landseer. Way to fuck up.

“Lady Marian Kohldrel-Innes,” a heavier woman – being charitable would call her curvy, she’s not exactly ugly. Dressed finely. He swears he’s heard that name before, but he couldn’t say where.

“Henry Mortimer.” He raises his eyebrows at that. Big name, there. Name even he’s heard. The Duke of Hereford. The man is tall, powerful, smiling. Older, Vincent thinks, then he’s not so sure. “Anon is preferred,” he says. “Especially in these circles.”

Anon. He knows that too. A pimp – almost has a monopoly on the whoring in London. Now there’s something he didn’t know. Huh.

“Of course you know myself,” Hall is saying. “The only one left then is – ”

“Is me.” He’s the man sitting front and center. Small, slender with pale, pale eyes bore into him. Like he’s got no secrets now. Like he’ll never have a secret again. “Welcome,” he says, finally. “My name is Robert James.”

Vincent’s sure he wasn’t supposed to remember all their names – he’s pretty sure he didn’t remember all their names. Whatever. “Vincent Landseer,” though he’s sure everyone here knows that.

“I don’t suppose you’d swing my way, huh?” The Blank Ink cunt again – Sierra. He doesn’t respond that. She tries again. “Cocks or cunts, huh?”

And then he does. “Either.”

“At the same time?”

“Sure.”

“Where were you born?” That’s Hall.

“Scotland. Durness – on the outskirts. On old Landseer property.” Where it’s fucking cold and the house looks like it’s about to fall down any minute – just give up on fucking life.

“How old are you?” The girl with the camera – Braddon? A reporter?

“Twenty-five.” They know this. There’s no way they don’t know this. So why the fuck are they asking?

“How many people’ve you fucked?” Sierra. Again.

“More than I can remember,” and there’s a beat where he takes a chance. “I don’t know. Do you keep count?” Neutrally, almost joking. Yeah. Relaxed enough he can fucking joke. Sierra just smiles at him. Runs her tongue across her teeth.

“How do you feel about murder?” Snapped out by the cop – Everest … Everard who isn’t half so slow as he looks, then.

“What do you mean how to I feel about it?”

“Do you like it?”

“I can do it.”

“Do you get off on it?”

No murder. “No.”

“How many people do you think you’ve killed?”

“I don’t keep count of that either.”

Everard stops, then from nowhere: “can you read?” A low, almost masculine voice but that’s the lady. Of course she’d ask some fucking question like that.

“Can get by well enough.”

“And religion?” The question comes from the clergyman – a bishop – who’s been silent this entire time.

He looks at him. Enunciates very carefully. “Bull. Shit.”

“You think?” And there’s a note – he’s angry, or he would be if he’d let himself.

“Got no reason to think different,” and the silence would’ve been tense if it wasn’t broken half a second later with “prefer to fuck or be fucked?”

Depends on his mood, but one sounds better than the other so, “to fuck. Easily.”

“That’s a lie,” from the cop, and Vincent holds up his hands in easy surrender.

“Right, well, not so easily. Depends on the mood.”

“What did your mother die from?”

He didn’t know at the time but he’s pretty sure now. “Consumption.”

And how did that make him feel? Honestly like fucking shit; ask most nine-year-old brats how they’d feel if their only parent kicked it. But he got over it. Really? And that’s Hall again, eyes trained on him this entire time and Vincent shrugs easily, “you get over stuff like that after long enough,” and then the lady wants to know what his favorite dance is – which is the tango and if you want to know why you’re fucked because who really knows why they like one dance more than the other? And then the other guy from the Black Ink, Reavv, asks him what he fights with. Anything really – preferred weapon, though? He doesn’t have one – best with a sword and then Mortimer – Anon – wants to know if he’s learned the art of fencing, given his grandfather is a duke, and Vincent nods yes (wasn’t taught by his grandfather, but they don’t need to know that) and he mentions . The cop opens his mouth to ask something – probably how he’d hide a body if he committed a murder but Hall butts in. “If your mother died when you were young, who raised you?”

“Mercenaries. What I did for a living,” and his eyes flicker to the papers splayed on the circular table – once again, like they don’t know.

“Why’d you leave?”

“And your father?”

“Never met him.”

“Does that bother you?”

“No.”

“What about your brother?”

Half brother. “What about him?”

“Still on speaking terms?”

“Last time I checked.”

“Are you not in contact with him very often?”

“I’m hard to get a hold of. Travel a lot.”

“Where does he live now?”

And he meets Hall’s eyes there. “None of your fucking business.”

Goes back, then. Ever fucked anyone in public? What do you mean by public, Sierra. Yeah. In an alleyway but not in the middle of Hyde Park ‘cause he’s got some idea of discretion and what do you think of what’s been done to Hyde Park? And that’s a shrug – he doesn’t really give a fuck either way. Said he traveled a lot, yeah, spent the last two years in France. With anyone significant? Bellanca Mancini – caused a lot of scandal yeah and the easiest way to kill someone (is to make it look like an accident) but he shrugs and says poison instead and the entire time his eyes keep flicking to James, away, back again sitting silent, watching and thinking these are Hall’s equals, not his superiors, but this man – the fucking leader if there is any and then:

“Who is Nimue Rhydderch?” Hall. Again.

Fuck. He should’ve known. He should have fucking known. “A friend.”

“How did you meet?”

“We fucked around together when we were younger. I was in Oxford. She was going to college there.”

“Is she important to you?”

“She’s a friend.”

“How important?”

Most dangerous question – the last thing he wants to do is see her dead, in danger, close to it. It’s not that he loves her – nothing there but friendship they both know that but he’s known people and she’s – “she’s a friend,” and he accompanies it with a shrug. It’s not a good act – he’s sit at acting lack of care, but he tries anyway and the cop doesn’t call him on it and he thinks Hall noticed but doesn’t say anything.

“And what’s the most important thing to you? Out of everything in your life?”

He snorts. “My life,” for all it’s worth shit. Who needs reasons? They get you nowhere. They’re so much fucking bullshit. Is Hall smiling?

“And this? Our cause?”

He’s kept his face blank – like he learned – this entire time. Cold. Composed. How you play the game. Now he lets a little slip – smiles. Hall is the only other person in the room – fuck the cunt, fuck the nobility, fuck James. “It’s a job.” Like any other, like any other. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it to the end and I’ll do it good – fucking better than most people could.”

Hall lifts his head almost imperceptibly and there’s a smile – not a little kid’s smile but sick and twisted and not matching his down he don’t think but it’s damn close – fucking close and his breath catches in his throat – no it doesn’t.

“I believe that is all, then,” says James.

Meeting adjourned. Sweetest words in the fucking English language.

--

“With Quickly,” Hall says as they walk back to Merton together. Not sure why they’re walking together – maybe Hall doesn’t trust him. Maybe he wants to keep the tension up. Who knows.

“Yeah?”

“That was – well done.”

When he smiles this time it’s a little baffled. “You expected something else?”

“I – we’re at your room.”

“We are.”

They stand there awkwardly. And, really, what the fuck do you say to someone who’ve you’ve fucked three times and still don’t know very well? Whatever Hall is, he’s pretty sure he isn’t a poor little orphan boy.

Poor little orphan boys don’t smile like that. Not that kind that Merton likes anyway.

“Want to come in?”

Hall hesitates, then gives him a smile – little orphan boy type, rueful version. Vincent tries not to roll his eyes. “Can’t. Have work to do.”

“Pity.” And the weird thing? He kinda means it. He can’t get that expression out of his head. What the fuck, Landseer. How old are you?

“Isn’t it?”

“See you then?”

Hall nods. “I should be back to you by Monday.”

“Alright.”

Hall nods, like he’s confirming something and then is off on his own again, and Vincent goes into his room. Takes off his clothes, showers. Is asleep maybe before his head hits the pillow. Doesn’t dream.

Ryxen: Chapter 9

2007-11-11T10:49:29Z

Word count: 1,683
Accumulative: 17,773

I wasn't going to write this, but it was actually nice to mix up working on this with my essay, so here it is. Almost to the main plot, and with only 20 chapters left! Psh. I need like ... a 500,000 word goal to reach to actually fit all this shit in. Almost positive we're only hitting up the revolution now - if that!

Hall comes to his door the two days later looking wan and pale. He guesses it’s Hall even before he opens the door. Who else would be knocking? Especially with that kind of uncertainty. Kate would break in through the window. A bear like Greene would probably just tear down the fucking door. He doesn’t say anything, and Hall hesitates a long time before he finally comes in. “You did it.” And his voice trembles.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says easily. He sits on the bed, leans backwards on his hands and props on ankle up on his knee. Keeps his face blank – disinterested. This ain’t a test he’s going to fail.

Hall just stares at him. Sets down a four thin bills on the dresser. “Twenty pounds.” Tonelessly. Still. Is he scared of him?

Fuck. Now that’s hard to believe. Vincent smiles and it isn’t a pleasant expression – face twisted, sharp. He smiles like this the first time he learned what revenge could actually accomplish. “Thanks.”

Hall shifts uncomfortably foot-to-foot. He doesn’t offer to for him to sit – wants him off-balance. He relaxes a centimeter more.

“My superiors have told me to speak to you about what we discussed – earlier.”

Vincent looks up at him through his eyelashes. His smile goes from twisted to seductive almost by rote – how he deals with this kind of shit. “Really?”

“The pay is uncertain. Anything you can – you can loot,” and Hall says the word with strong distaste. Necessary evils are like that. Bastard wants a revolution but doesn’t want to pay the price. Fucking wake-up call straight ahead. You’re going to have to deal with this shit eventually, Aryn.

“Loot all I get? Nothing secure?”

Hall presses his lips together like the whole matter leaves a bad taste in his mouth – charming – and goes on. Determined. Isn’t he such a fuckin’ darling? “I was getting to that – uh, you shall receive a stipend of nine hundred pounds.”

Now that is funny. Someone isn’t expecting him to live to the end of this – nine hundred pounds is enough to live on pretty solidly for about a decade. Wonder how many other sods got promised that kind of money. Wonder if he’s bored enough to take the job even though he’ll probably die. Why’s he bothering anyway, honestly? “And were is a bunch of folks – bunch of commoners gettin’ that kind of money? For a group I could understand, but just one mercenary?”

And there’s a second when Hall’s face goes blank in an almost-familiar way but in a split-second he’s back, all nervous smiles and half-slumped shoulders. Fuck – is he imagining shit now? “My superiors haven’t supplied me with that information.”

“You aren’t – ” but he stops. My superiors – that feels like bullshit if he’s ever heard the fuckin’ word. Yeah, maybe Hall isn’t – but you’re just paranoid, Landseer. Fucking with your own head. Don’t think about it again. He may not be as low on the food chain as he’s pretending to be, but her certainly isn’t at the top. Doesn’t have the guts for it. Not in a million fucking years.

“I’m not what?”

“Nothing.” Stupid idea anyway.

“Anyway, my superiors have also requested a meeting with you.”

Now that is interesting. Even more interesting. “Yeah?”

“To get a feel for your character?”

“Oh? That, at least what I did to get that,” and he nods at the dresser where the money is lying on the dresser, “isn’t enough proof?”

Hall shrugs by way of apology. “They’ve never met you.”

“You have.”

“It isn’t as if they take my word on everything – I am merely one of many, and a commoner at that.”

Implying that a lot of the superiors aren’t, especially if they’re not going to take Hall’s word so easily. He’s curious – that’s the truth right there. And if it’s more than a couple upset townspeople waving around pitchforks, well, then it might actually be worth it. He wonders, if he manages to live, if they’ll pay up or quietly dispose of him. “Alright. When? Where?”

“My home, again.” Vincent raises an eyebrow. “It is the most convenient – and the most inconspicuous. Not many people live that far out.”

Makes sense. “And the time?”

“Friday evening – eight o’clock is when they’ll be expecting you.”

Vincent nods and Hall looks at him, looks and looks and finally moves forward, almost like he’s dreaming, like he doesn’t have a choice, to straddle him, to brush his hair out of his eyes with his pale, ink-stained fingers. And yeah, it gets him hard. He’s twenty-five fuckin’ years old – not some hormone driven kid anymore, but sex throws itself at him like this his body’s going to respond. Still, he says, “I don’t need to fuck you as part of the payment or a bribe, or whatever,” maybe a little more harshly than he honestly needs to. If he wants he can find someone willing – he’s good at picking up people for meaningless fucking. One of his many talents.

Hall’s eyes are a strange shade of gray – pale, not the kind of hazel gray most people’s are but lighter. Intense, maybe because they look like they belong on something dead. Compelling, I guess. Hall whispers, “but I want you to.”

And, well, it’s not like he’s going to say no is it? The sex is fast and rough and he does it up against the wall because he doesn’t really care if Hall is new at this and doesn’t really care if it’s good for him – who fucking cares about Hall? It’s about getting off. It’s about fucking getting off and nothing else.

Fifteen minutes, tops and Hall’s on his way out when Vincent calls after him. Hall stills for a second, then turns looking a little hesitant, like Vincent might scream. Throw shit. Or something.

He’s still naked, lying on the bed like he doesn’t got a care in the world. Sometimes feels like it, though he knows that isn’t the truth. “Tell your superiors that I want half up front.”

Hall’s eyes widen a notch. He nods, then walks out. Wednesday.

--

The next day it hits the papers. Accident – no one even suspects foul play. At dinner, Greene talks about how it’s a pity even if Quickly was a criminal and Vincent drinks an extra shot of vodka.

--

Hall was easy – almost expected. He dealt with him because he was no surprise. What he doesn’t expect is Kate, knocking down his door with her fist at three in the morning on Thursday. He’s immediately awake, rolling out of bed, answering the door in a pair of plain green boxers.

Kate strides in line she owns the place. Her mouth – traced heavily by smile lines even with the shit she’s been handed in life – looks fucking weird pulled downward. Ugly. Kate’s really an ugly woman come down to it. Old. Weak. Pathetic. He lets her in calmly.

“You pig.”

Vincent raises an eyebrow, shuts the door and leans against it – Kate stares at him because she knows she’s just blocked herself in, and, come down to a fight between the two of them they both know who’s going to win. “You pig,” but her voice is fainter this time.

“Something wrong, Sneed?”

She steps up to him – though she’s almost a foot shorter than him. “You killed him, you bastard. You fuckin’ killed him.”

“Hm?” He pretends to look interested. His heart isn’t pounding in his chest. No. It’s not. He isn’t getting off from this.

“Graham.” He opens his mouth to cut her off, but she continues. “I know you fuckin’ killed him. I ain’t stupid, y’know. Can put two and two together. Accident my fuckin’ arse.”

He laughs, then, and her eyes get wide – scared, maybe? Kate Sneed. Scared of him. Imagine that. “Too bad you’re a criminal, isn’t it? And there’s no evidence, huh?”

“It isn’t like your name is gold here either, Landseer,” she spits. They both know what she means.

“Isn’t it?” He looks down at the floor, still smiling wide. Trying not to laugh. “Maybe you should look up who, exactly, the Landseer family is.”

She freezes. “That’s low.”

His head snaps up, still smiling – he can’t seem to stop. “Is it?” and there’s a snarl he can’t quite keep out. “That’s low of me, huh, pulling rank, using what I’ve got – my word against yours – but you using my race against me? The way a talk? That’s alright?”

“You’re guilty!”

“Oh grow the fuck up, Kate. How old are you? Guilty? Fuck, that doesn’t exist. You’re a fucking criminal – ”

“Not by choice!”

“You still are. You’re a fucking criminal, and the last thing you have any right to do is feed me this justice bullshit. Quickly died ‘cause he was clumsy – fell and hit his head on a rock in the river. That’s what proof they’ve got, that’s what happened.”

“Some day,” Kate says, all the rage drained out. “Some say you’re going to realize that you’re wrong. Realize you’re being real hypocritical sayin’ one thing, doin’ another. You said you didn’t want to rely on your rank, your standing, ‘cause it’s bullshit, then you turn around and pull this. Some day. You were a decent kid, you know. Potential there. I saw it when we first met, thought you had a chance to be a really great guy. What happened?”

He doesn’t respond to that. She shakes her head and sighs. Repeats, “some day” in the world-weary bullshit tone.

He says, “I wouldn’t hold my breath. Now get the fuck out – I was sleeping.” He steps away from the door, holds it open with a mock bow. Her mouth his tight and her shoulders stiff as she stalks out.

He doesn’t think about what she said to him, not because it actually bothers him but more because it’s not worth it. It doesn’t take him long to fall asleep. He dreams of being hungry, and cold snow, and his mother. He wakes up feeling like he hadn’t slept at all.

Ryxen: Chapter 8

2007-11-10T12:22:37Z

Word count: 2,542
Accumulative: 16,090

I have written a prodigious amount today. This is the longest chapter yet (written in one sitting). I do not feel bad about slacking off either tomorrow or Sunday. I'll make it up during break. Somehow.

He mentions Quickly to Greene. Offhand. It’s always best. “And then she mentioned this guy – Graham Quickly?”

Greene grunts. Looks around. “Say he’s a criminal,” in the sort of way kids talk about the tarantula they’ve got in their backpack – he’s fucking proud. “Part o’ Kate’s gang.”

Diana is sweeping the floor. She looks up from her broom, adds a little sternly. “Dangerous. More dangerous than the rest of them, at least. I think. He lives out near the bottoms. Creepy, that is, what with all those skeletons and rotting houses.”

He agrees. The bottoms – that part of Inner London that’s abandoned, been abandoned for hundreds of years – that’s really fuckin’ creepy.

“What kind of crime? Theft, like Kate?”

Greene looks at Diana before nodding. “That – but he’s not quite like the others. Not in the way you’d think. Some o’ them – they’re okay. Quickly ain’t, though. Never was.” Probably because he doesn’t come into the Rose and have a quick drink – on the house – with the rest of the gang. Greene narrows his eyes. “Why you askin’ anyway?”

Vincent shrugs easily. “Curious. Heard a lot about Kate’s band. I’m not from around here,” Greene smiles thinly at that, “just trying to get a hand on the local politics.”

“Not bad. Not bad. You planin’ on sticking around, then?”

Forever? Not on your fucking life. “Maybe. What else can you tell me about this Kate? Always thought she was pretty interesting.”

That buys him a beer. Tells him the legends of Kate Sneed. He doesn’t get this fucking people. Not at all.

--

Tom Blunt isn’t who you’d call a criminal. Well, he is but not in the way you’d expect. He runs a smithy. He imports alcohol – sells it tax-free, so the townspeople don’t have to pay two times more for a bottle of Italian wine than it’s actually worth. He knows Vincent – knows him from years before Vincent ever met Kate, when Vincent was snot-nosed and stupid and desperate for a friend.

Tom isn’t a friend anymore, but he likes him a shitload better than Kate, even if the bastard isn’t any more practical. Maybe because he’s not disgusted – hard to be disgusted when you knew someone when they were eleven years old and stumbling over their too-long trousers. He shoves his hands in his pockets as he makes his way into the smithy.

It’s loud and noisy and smoky. Tom’s shaggy head is bent over a piece of metal, pounding it in quick, fast strokes. Expert. Another thing he’ll say for the bastard – he knows how to make a sword.

“Tom,” he calls. Raises his voice above the clang of metal on metal. Tom’s near deaf anyway. “Tom!”

He pauses, hammer hanging above the metal. He looks up. “Vincent!” He drops his hammer on the ground. “That Sagrantino you found me was great, Vincent. Lucio’s a really great guy, isn’t he?”

Vincent shrugs. “Alright, I guess.” A decent fuck, at best. A little clingy. A little stupid. Most are, though. “Didn’t really come about that – though, is there anything else I can hunt down?”

“Unless you know where to find a cheap Garganega?”

Of course he knows. Doesn’t he always? He smiles. “I do.”

“You’re fuckin’ shitting me.”

“No.”

“A beer to celebrate?”

That was going to be his suggestion, but if Tom wants to foot the bill that’s fine by him too. He suggests the Rose. Tom agrees genially. Like Greene is going to care if there’s a criminal in the house.

--

Tom’s a big man – taller than him, and he’s fucking tall – and about two times bigger. Pure muscle. He could probably snap him in half if he really tried; but Vincent doesn’t like to think about that. The funny thing about it, though, is big as he is Tom doesn’t drink most days he works. Doesn’t drink on Sundays either. Or holidays. Or bad days – says that makes an alcoholic. Beer’s a special occasion thing. So the thing is about Tom he’s fuckin’ easy to get drunk. Four beers, if that, and he’s slurring his speech. Vincent smiles.

“Kate mentioned something about Graham Quickly?” They were talking about women – like he cares – but Tom just smiles widely, like he doesn’t even notice the change in subject. Probably doesn’t for that matter.

“What? Old Graham? Kate always liked the boy – though he’s an odd fellow.”

“Really?” What? He’s a criminal that doesn’t like to have a beer at the local pub?

“He’s kinda a loner. Don’t like the rest of us much – I mean, helps out now and then, but he’s more or less pretty – pretty self-contained, I guess? He lives out near the bottoms. Doesn’t talk to many people. Don’t do much other than get on the occasional robbery. Fishes. Really loves fishing. Goes up to the Wandle on Sundays – you know the place. Small. Bunch of willow trees around it?”

Now that’s useful. “How is Kate doing?” He asks changing the subject again. He asks about Theodore Perry and his fucked-up brother. Steven Yorke. Joy McDonnell. Because he doesn’t want Tom to remember him asking about Graham Quickly in specific. Doesn’t want Kate to find out if he can help it.

He lets his mind wander while Tom talks. And talks. And talks.

--

When he gets back to the Rose, Nimue’s waiting in the lobby in her typically hideous skirt-and-shirt combination. “Where have you been” are the first words out of her mouth. He’s staring at her. Did she tell him she was going to be visiting? But she’s throwing her skinny arms around his neck, kissing him on the mouth – quick and chaste, standard greeting. He can feel Greene’s eyes on the back of his neck. Can feel Diana staring them down. Looking Nimue in the eye, he leans down and kisses her and it’s not quick. Not chaste either. She gasps, then falls into it.

“What’s the occasion?” She whispers when he breaks away.

“People watching?”

Her eyes dart to the side, and then gets this expression that always surprises him a little – she smirks, says, “better look to be all over you, then,” stands on her toes and kisses him, quick and hard with tongue, then steps away. “To your room?” She says, a little loudly.

“Of course.” Nimue picks up the bulky bag she’s been carrying around with a smile.

--

Nimue has the Chinese cartons spread all over the hotel room floor. “You better enjoy this. I carried this all the way from the restaurant down the street from my shop. All the way. You have no idea what a pain in the arse that was. Did you hear me, Vincent? All the way.”

Vincent slides down to the floor easily and grabs a pair of chopsticks. “At least it’s not beef stew. I am so fucking sick of beef stew. It’s like the only thing they serve here.”

“Well, it isn’t like Merton is known for its cultural diversity,” Nimue says, grabbing the other pair of chopsticks and popping open the carton of fried rice. “Certainly none too friendly to people from away.”

“It’s not like Merton is known for anything other than being totally fucking boring.” Vincent grabs one of the blank white cartons at random. Ends up with some Phad Thai. Shrugs.

“Not adjusting well?”

“Not at all.” It’s too small – stifling. He misses London. He misses Paris. He really misses Damascus, but no use thinking about that. “Finding work, though,” and that’s the important thing. Boring, but low-risk. Killing Quickly isn’t going to be a big deal. Not at fucking all. He’s already planned it out – lots of ways to die when you’re out fishing. Alone, especially. Lots of shit can go wrong.

“That’s always good. I never did much understand how you function without a steady income. Seems awful uncomfortable to me.”

It isn’t like he hasn’t been saving up. He has six bank accounts in six different names and a decent amount of cash in each of them. All of them international. But nobody really needs to know that. He shrugs. “I get by.” And he does

“I know. Still – I worry.” He’s got a half-brother somewhere, and he’s got Ianthe breathing down his neck. He’s got a grandfather and some cousins. He’s got lots of fuck buddies – Hall’s the latest addition but there’s a lot coming before and he’s sure there’ll be a lot after. He’s got a few people who’re less than friends, some people he might call friends, but the only person he really would say he – who matters, well, that’s Nimue. Nimue and her fuckin’ crazy family – his half-adopted family, if he’s honest about it. Still not sure how he feels about that. Even after they broke up he gets Christmas cards from the Rhydderchs – partly in hopes of fixing his evil ways, he’s sure, but partly because he’s always welcome in their home. Not that he’d ever take them up on it, but it’s a nice option to have.

“You shouldn’t. I’m fine. Really.”

Nimue shrugs, eats some more fried rice. “I think you should come and stay with me in London.”

It’s tempting, but he’s got this job going here – and that revolution that may or may not be a shitass stupid idea. He shrugs. “Maybe later. Finish up the work I’m doing here.”

Nimue stares at him. “I don’t know what you’re doing lurking around here you couldn’t do up in London with me.”

He doesn’t like to bring Nimue into his business for one. She doesn’t know – she wouldn’t be able to handle it. Word is she’s pretty cutthroat in a business deal, but there’s a difference between cutthroat business and what he does for a living. “I’ve got one or two things lined up that might get a little interesting – just figured I’d stick around and see ‘em out. Maybe piss off the owner some more.”

“Seduce his daughter?”

He snorts at the thought of the pale girl. “Diana? I don’t think she could fucking smile let alone have sex – well, sex worth having at least. I’m sure if I needed to fuck a cunt she’d do in a pinch.”

“No, no, the other one. Laura her name was? Chopsy girl. Couldn’t keep a thought in her mouth if depended on her life.”

“Laura?”

“Yeah. She came by those three hours I was waiting on your sorry ass. Works in the library? Prettier than the other one, but still not a looker. Cute, though.”

He sets aside his empty Phad Thai and starts on the crab Rangoon. “Haven’t met her.”

“You should – a bit flighty. Not quite your type, but a way to pass time.” And of course, he can always use those. He says he’ll consider it, then asks about her business and she responds in a flurry of words and they eat and talk and he clears away the boxes when they’re done, stacking them neatly in the corner.

She says, “but – as much as I love your company that’s not entirely why I came here.” He just looks at her; she’s smiling wide as she reaches into the bulky duffle she brought with here. Produces a shirt with a flourish. “Brand new. Not a brack on them.”

“And?”

She rolls her eyes. “Same deal as always, love. You try these on I’ll be beholden to you.”

He eyes the sweater – gray sweater, long sleeved. “Thinking of going into men’s clothing?”

“I didn’t lug all this clobber here just to feed your ego, you know. I am. Expansion. Progress. You know.” She shoves the shirt at him. “Try it. It’s made to your measurements. I’ve got a few more and several pairs of trousers.” She starts rummaging through her bag.

He sighs, stands up and strips to his boxers. Slides on the sweater which is – “cashmere?”

She nods from where she’s sitting cross-legged on the floor. “You can keep the samples if you like them.”

“Do you honestly think I’m going to turn down a cashmere sweater?”

Nimue tosses a pair of pair of black trousers. “Try those on too.”

--

After going through twenty or so shirts and about ten pairs of trousers – he keeps all but one shirt – they have sex two times and she falls asleep curled around him. Nimue stays the night, leaves the next morning, and he walks her through the bottoms before making his way back to Merton. Missed some planning time – tomorrow’s Sunday, and he wants this done quick. Quick as possible. He plans all the way back to the Rose, where Greene glowers and him and Diana won’t meet his eyes and he wonders what this Laura girl’s like with the rest of her family being so fucking sour. Not really important in the long run – not sure if he really wants to piss off the guy he’s paying rent to anymore than he already has. Not like he needs anymore twits to deal with. He goes back up to his room, straightens it up. Folds the clothes Nimue left for him. Digs out an old black shirt, black trousers, a pair of gloves. Puts them in the duffle. He’ll stick to the trees – most people should be at church anyway this time in the afternoon. He locks the door and slips out the window.

--

He gets to the area Tom mentioned before Quickly does, but he’s not going to stand there waiting for him in plain sight – even if he doesn’t entirely buy the “my contact told me” story that Hall fed him, he’s pretty sure Quickly did something wrong – he’s being set up as an example.

Graham Quickly whistles – loud. Off-key. Vincent tries not to roll his eyes as the small, sandy-haired man walks into the clearing, fishing pole cocked jauntily on his shoulder. Doesn’t look around – of course not. Fucking Merton criminals – no one would kill him. Maybe he could’ve waited for him in plain sight. Maybe invite him for a game of fucking poker?

Quickly talks to himself while he unpacks his bait – or maybe to his pole. Probably not the only pole of his he talks to. He whistles between talking – if he wasn’t getting paid for this he’d fucking kill the bastard just because he’s that fucking obnoxious. It takes Quickly a decent amount of time to bait his hook. Even longer to nod off. Vincent never thought of himself as remarkably impatient, but Quickly’s driving him insane with this bullshit whistling and humming and talking, and when he finally does nod off Vincent enjoys pushing him into the water, smashing his head against the sharp rocks of the shallow riverbed once – only once (because he simply tripped and fell) – maybe more than he should. The Wandle, this little section of it, goes pinkish-red for a few minutes. Water thins out blood.

He smiles. Leaves him there in a tangle of fishing wire. Idiot. Fucking idiot.

--

He doesn’t go down to the commons for dinner that night – figures that’s less suspicious. His clothes are a scorch mark in an old fire pit somewhere in Merton forest. He doesn’t send a note to Hall – he’s pretty sure Hall knows. Not much left to do but wait.

Glasses drabble

2007-11-10T07:22:07Z

Instead of nanowrimo, I bring you Vincent, and Aryn, right before the start of the revolution.

Aryn walks – stumbles, really – into the kitchen. Smear of ink across his forehead. Bags under his eyes. It’s two in the morning. Pitch dark. The kerosene lamps in the library aren’t bright enough to read by – especially not for hours.

“You keep doing this you’re going to need those glasses all the time,” he says, standing up in one smooth movement. Pressing the cup of coffee into Aryn’s hands – covered in ink too.

Aryn accepts – a little limply. “Yes, well, it’s a small price to pay.”

Vincent looks at him. Smiles – slightly. “Going okay?”

“Almost there.” There’s a tilt to his head. A light to his eyes. Pride. He’s exhausted and still that pride. “Almost perfect.”

He smiles then, all the way. Reaches up carefully – cradles the thin wire frames of Aryn’s reading glasses in either hand. Folds them. Wraps his arms around Aryn’s shoulders and kisses him and the cool lenses of Aryn’s glasses warming in his hand – they’ll be foggy when he tries to put them back on. Whatever. Aryn sets the coffee mug on the table – hasn’t drunk from it yet – and wraps his arms around his waist, kisses back.

The sun is in the sky when they finally fall asleep.

Ryxen: Character meme

2007-11-10T05:32:26Z

Takes place 9 years into the storyline. Spoilers galore.

Character meme - stolen from lilian_cho

1. Choose a few characters (Five at the most. Three or four is probably more comfortable).
2. Make them answer the following questions.

Vincent Landseer
Aryn Hall
Nimue Rhydderch-Kyznetsov
Bayard Kyznetsov

How old are you?

Vincent: Thirty-five. I don't look it. Trust me.
Aryn: Thirty-six, I believe.
Nimue: Thirty-six.
Bayard: Thirty-four.

What's your height?

Vincent: A couple inches over six foot? Just over 6'3" -- I'm like, an inch taller than Aryn.
Aryn: 6'3"
Nimue: 5'7". Why am I so damn short?
Bayard: Hey, don't worry about it honey.
Nimue: You didn't answer the question, love.
Bayard: Oh. Yeah. Um. About Vincent's height?

What are you?

Vincent: Ex-mercenary. I wait tables. Work the black market sometimes. I think I'm heir to some Scottish duchy, but I don't really know.
Aryn: Duke of Highland -- although the reorganization of the feudal system after The Great Death is a complete bastardization of the previous peerage it claims to be

based on.
Vincent: Aryn? No one but you cares.
Aryn: ...
Bayard: Psst! He's also homo.

Aryn: An accountant. And only a thousand times better than you.
Vincent: You forgot modest, humble, shy and harmless there. And arsonist. And traitor.

Nimue: Seamstress and entrepreneur.
Bayard: And only the most amazing, beautiful woman I've ever met.
Nimue: Aww, thanks, love!

Bayard: Ah, me? Well, I'm just a salesman for my wife's company.
Vincent: And an asshole.
Nimue: Shove it, Vincent. He's only the best boyfriend ever. You're just jealous.
Vincent: You wish.

Do you have any bad habits?

Vincent: I'm an alcoholic. I smoke. I swear too much.
Aryn: You have a pathological need for attention.
Vincent: ...
Bayard: You're also kinda an asshole.
Vincent: That's not really a habit.
Bayard: Oh yeah. That's just a character trait, huh?
Vincent: STFU.
Nimue: You're also a bit ... promiscuous?
Vincent: Fuck. You. All.

Aryn: Not really. I -- sometimes am a bit of a perfectionist.
Vincent: Understatement. Of the fucking year.
Aryn: I also hold grudges.
Vincent: And you smoke.
Aryn: I could quit if I so desired.
Vincent: Right.

Nimue: I like to think I'm a pretty decent person.
Vincent: You can't keep your nose out of my shit. Or anyone else's shit, really.
Bayard: Shut up, asshole.
Vincent: Fuck off. It's true.

Bayard: Not anymore. I wrestled with some drug issues when I was younger but I'm over them now.
Nimue: I love you!
Bayard: I love you too.

Are you a virgin?

Vincent: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
Bayard: He's a manslut is what he is.
Vincent: A-are you seriously asking me that? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
Aryn: The answer is 'no.' At any rate, I don't see how it's any of your business.
Nimue: You're not, though, are you?
Aryn: Of course not.

Nimue: I've given birth. What do you think?
Bayard: And are baby girl is the most adorable child ever!
Nimue: Aww, only because of you!
Bayard: No, no! It's entirely you!
Vincent: Shut up.

Bayard: I'm thirty-four and married with kids!
Vincent: Though it's not like he didn't sleep around when he was younger.
Bayard: I've got nothing on you!
Vincent: I'll remember that next time you try to pretend like you've fucked more people than I have.
Nimue: Well, the question is, fucked or been fucked isn't it?
Vincent: Had sex with. And even if we cut out all of the the times I was fucked --
Bayard: God! I don't want to know!
Nimue: I do!
Vincent: Why are we friends? No. Really.

Who's your mate/spouse? If not, got anyone in mind?

Vincent: No ... y-yes.
Bayard: Really? Who?
Nimue: I know something you don't know~ ♥
Aryn: Hm?
Vincent: Nimue, seriously, shut up. But really it's Aryn. Only Aryn. End story.
Nimue: I didn't say it!

Aryn: I-I was in love once, and we were engaged, but then she died. I never quite got over it.
Vincent: Bullshit
Aryn: Or maybe I never saw her as much beyond a means to an end and believe the concept of love is utter tripe?
Vincent: Ah.
Aryn: T-that's not what I meant.
Vincent: Mm hm.

Bayard: Nimue is my wife, and I'm so glad to have someone as wonderful and beautiful as she is.
Nimue: Aw, I'm just glad to have a husband as wonderful as you are!

Do you have any kids?

Vincent: One. Though not because I wanted it. Accidents happen. Girlfriends don't get abortions because the thing is just too darling. Bullshit.
Bayard: Bastard.
Vincent: It isn't your problem. Keep the fuck out. I'm a shitty parent anyway.
Bayard: That's why you left her to raise the poor boy by herself?
Vincent: Uh, yes?

Aryn: My only love is dead and gone. We didn't have a chance to start the family we had planned on.
Vincent: She was pregnant.
Aryn: I know! Such a pity.
Vincent: Thank fucking God she died when she did.
Aryn: I know. Trust me. I know.
Vincent: Do you?
Aryn: Don't be stupid.
Vincent: After what you said last time ...
Aryn: You know I want to spend the rest of my life with you, idiot.
Vincent: ...
Aryn: Yes really. You can stop looking at me like that now.

Bayard: We have one gorgeous daughter named Natalie!
Nimue: And we're hoping for a second!
Bayard: And Dexter!
Nimue: Oh yes! Dexter is our black lab -- he's like a child. We raised him from puppyhood.

What's your favorite food?

Vincent: Not really picky. I like stuff with flavor. People here eat like, stew and shit -- now that's fucking gross.
Nimue: Only someone who regularly eats eel and sheep's stomach and raw fish.
Vincent: Whatever.

Aryn: I have no preference. Though sometimes the food Vincent makes grosses me out
Vincent: Shut up. And he likes strawberries.

Nimue: Rabbit -- cooked like they do at home -- and Cawl. I also do enjoy Italian an awful lot.

Bayard: I'm not picky ... burgers? Fries? I guess? Not the disgusting shit Vincent cooks.
Vincent: Fuck off.

What's your favorite ice cream flavor?

Vincent: Not a big fan of ice cream. Too sweet.
Aryn: Any kind, really. It's not something I actively seek out.
Nimue: Cookie dough, though I'd rather just a plain banana split.
Bayard: Chocolate.

Have you killed anyone?

Vincent: Why would any one answer that honestly?
Bayard: You have. I know you have.
Vincent: In the middle of the war, yeah. Before that, during fights and shit, yeah. Sure.
Bayard: In cold blood?
Vincent: Like anyone could really prove it.

Aryn: Of course not. Probably more people than you have ever met. And the utterly perfect thing? You will never actually know. Accidents happen,

correct?

Nimue: No? Why would I do something like that? It's a sin. It's a terrible thing to do!

Bayard: A couple times yeah. In self-defense. In war. That sort of thing.
Vincent: And you know he beat himself up afterwards. "B-but they have families too!"
Bayard: Shut up.

Have any secrets?

Vincent: From everyone? Not really. From everyone who isn't Aryn? Uh, yeah. A lot.
Aryn: The revolution was a fairly large secret, but now not really. My entire life is one deception atop another. Is there anything about me that isn't a

secret may, perhaps, be the more accurate question.
Nimue: Not really? I don't keep much from my friends or my husband.
Bayard: Not anymore. Nimue found them all out.

Do you hate anyone?

Vincent: Yes. Too many people to list. It seems like there are more and more each day.

Aryn: Not really.
Vincent: Or everyone.
Aryn: ~~Including myself.~~

Nimue: Yes. Her name is Emmeline.
Bayard: Nimue!
Nimue: There's no bloody way you're going to convince me, love. Give up.

Bayard: Hate is such a strong word ... so no. Not really.

Do you love anyone?

Vincent: Yes.
Bayard: Who?
Vincent: You and Nimue.
Bayard: Really?
Vincent: Yes really.
Nimue: And a certain special someone?
Bayard: Who?!
Vincent: None of your fucking business. Aryn.

Aryn: Not since Gloria died. Yes.
Vincent: Damn fucking straight.

Nimue: I love mum and da and Bran and Cadfan and Vincent. And I'm in love with Bayard, of course.
Bayard: Aww! Thanks Nimue! I love you too!

What is your job?

Vincent: Didn't we already go through this? Mercenary. Waiter. Dealer. Nobility. Whatever pays the bills.
Aryn: And gives you the desired adrenaline rush.
Vincent: Whatever.

Aryn: Accountant. And amateur historian.
Vincent: Arsonist. King-maker.
Aryn: So you said.

Nimue: Sewing. Running my business!
Bayard: And she's damn good at it too! I help. Doing sales.
Vincent: Only because he couldn't get a job himself.
Nimue: ...
Bayard: Not funny, asshole.
Vincent: ... you're right. Sorry.

Boy or girl?

Vincent: Know a lot of girls name Vincent, do you?
Aryn: Male. I am thirty-six. I am not a boy.
Nimue: Girl!
Bayard: I'm a guy, yeah.

What do you do to relax?

Vincent: Run or jog. Spar with Bayard. Read with Aryn. Cook. Do chores. Shower. Useful shit.

Aryn: Play either the violin or the piano or the cello. Or play chess. Read, either literature or history.
Vincent: Smoke when you really shouldn't.
Aryn: ...

Nimue: Read. True crime or suspense fiction. Cuddling with Bayard.
Bayard: Uh. It's pretty much the same here. Just being with Nimue. Oh, and sparring with Vincent. Playing with Natalie. Taking Dexter out for a walk.

What's something that you like?

Vincent: Hot weather. I fucking hate the weather here.
Aryn: History. Especially the era right before the Great Death.
Nimue: Knitting, even though I'm bloody terrible at it.
Bayard: Just hiking -- during like, August or something.

What did you want to be when you grew up?

Vincent: Join the miltary of some type. Or something. I wanted to protect people. See how well that worked out, huh?
Aryn: I I-I actually wanted to be the king, but this worked out for the better, I believe.
Nimue: A business woman. I'm serious.
Bayard: An actor.

What's your favorite clothes/outfit?

Vincent: Anything that's clean. And fits.
Nimue: Because you look good in anything?
Vincent: Yes?
Bayard: Jesus, Nimue, swell his ego a little more why don't you?
Vincent: What? It's true.
Bayard: UGH!

Aryn: Jeans. A shirt. Anything that's comfortable, really.
Vincent: And two sizes too big?
Aryn: Yes, well.

Nimue: My favorite tank top and my long gray skirt. Vincent said the skirt is ugly, but it's only the most comfortable thing in the world.
Vincent: Even if it makes you look twenty pounds heavier and ten years older?
Bayard: Shut up! You're beautiful no matter what, Nimue!
Vincent: Grow up. You know she's ten times more attractive in that black dress than that shirt and skirt any day.
Nimue: ... r-really?
Bayard: ... uh -- he does have a point.
Nimue: I'll keep that in mind. But that's still my favorite outfit.

Bayard: Jeans and a button-up. Unbuttoned.
Vincent: Show-off.
Nimue: Pot, kettle?
Vincent: I don't run around half-naked.
Bayard: I don't spend half an hour in front of the mirror every morning.
Vincent: Shut up.

What would you change - if you could change one thing in your life?

Vincent: Oh fuck. There's a lot I guess? I don't really know. I wouldn't be losing Aryn so fucking soon.
Aryn: Gloria wouldn't have died. The Revolution would have been perfect.
Nimue: I wouldn't have lost my virginity so young, so cheaply, to some guy who didn't give a shit about me.
Bayard: My family would still be alive and well.

Ryxen: Chapter 7

2007-11-08T08:25:52Z

Word count: 2,576
Accumulative: 13,546

They’re dressed in heavy, dark coats against the rain. Sitting on a bench at Merton station, they’re sharing gin out of a flask.

“Your shipment isn’t coming.”

“Shut up.” She takes a gulp of dry gin that tastes like paint thinner. Cheapest shit she could buy; probably spent the money she saved on poor kid’s socks or something useless like that.

“You said it was going to be noon.”

“Yeah? So what?”

Sometimes he really fucking hates this cunt. “It’s four hours after noon. It’s not coming.”

She presses her lips together. Looks down the empty tracks. Takes another gulp of gin, then passes the flask to him. “It should’ve been here by now, damnit,” she mutters. He doesn’t think she wanted him to hear that. He drinks some gin; tries hard not to taste it. They’ve gone through most of the flask. He’s still thinking clearly – not even a buzz – but Kate’s slurring her words pretty heavily. If the train showed up – four hours late – he’d be doing this bullshit heist by himself.

“Who else knew about this?”

She starts. “What?”

“Who else knew?” She’s turned a slightly blank stare on him. He gestures at the empty tracks. “About this. The job.”

“Oh.” She catches her lip between her half-crooked teeth. “The usual. Graham. Steven. Joy. The Perry brothers. Tom Blunt,” she trails off, then says, “and Aryn, of course.”

It takes him a second. Aryn – oh. Hall. “Why the fuck would Hall know?”

“The re – ” she cuts herself off, and looks almost angry. “I was goin’ to wait ‘til after this to tell you, y’know. I’m not sure if I can trust you.” And Kate called him straightforward?

“Are you asking me if you can?”

She doesn’t say anything.

“Mercenary work,” he says, a little harshly. “You know what it means, Kate?”

She looks at him. Sneers. “That you whore yourself out. Yeah, and you can say it ain’t like you’re sellin’ your body, but aren’t you? The person buying it don’t use it for sex, but he uses it just the same. And what do you get for it? Like any other whore – a bunch of money.”

His mouth twists. Not sure if you’d call it a smile. “Right.” Of course. Was born a shit wad, is a shit wad. Will probably die a shit wad. Supposed to be some shame about that, he thinks, but he doesn’t really give a fuck. It’s only the truth. Other people are kinda idiots anyway. “That’s how far you can trust me. It’s about money.”

She looks at him. Confused. Shocked? “Anyone else would’ve denied that y’know. It ain’t a flattering picture.”

He shrugs, pulls the flask of gin from her hand. Drinks from it. “You know where I stand at least. If we’re talking trust. I don’t want you coming after me with this idea like I – dunno, betrayed trust in this great cause. You pay me and I’ll keep my mouth shut. For anything.”

Kate’s got this way of looking at you – through you. Like she knows everything – fucking everything. He doesn’t squirm in his seat, or bite his lip because he’s older than that, but if he said he was entirely comfortable – well, that’d be a lie. “And if I tell you about this, you decide you don’t want the job?”

Vincent rolls his eyes. “It’d bad business to tell. I won’t turn around out of – what? Morals? Yeah right. I won’t tell whoever you’re planning to – fuck, I don’t know. Rob. Ruin. Kill.” Kate flinches with every word. So it’s that bad, huh?

“I don’t like the way you work,” she says finally. Flatly.

That’s funny. “I’m not a big fan of you either, but you can trust me with whatever deal you’re wanting to make.”

There’s a long pause, and then she says, “it’s a revolution. Aryn is … not the head of it, but he’s part of it. A big part. I kinda wonder about that - I think the poor boy'll hate himself when push comes to shove but - well, I’m a part of it too and we were talkin’ – we were thinkin’ that, well, you’ve got plenty of experience – mercenary and all, right? And I’m here seein’ if you’re interested.”

“You wanted to test me.”

She doesn’t have an answer to that. He shrugs. Way of the fucking world. “I’m not surprised.”

“Are you interested?”

“Depends. How much? How well-planned? Details, Kate. I’m not promising my life away for some stupid dream that doesn’t got a chance in Hell of working.” No matter if he’s promised half the money in King Michael’s bank account.

“You’d have to talk to Aryn about that.”

He’s not as surprised about Hall planning a revolution as he maybe should’ve been. Not after that speech, of course, but there’s something else to it – seems like the type. Though when the bastard has time do that and write a – what was it, novel? – he’s got no idea. “Might as well do that now.” He pauses thoughtfully. “He might have an idea about the train too.”

Kate stares longingly down the tracks.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, we both know it’s a lost cause. Let’s go.” And he starts walking back to Merton proper. She’ll catch up eventually.

--

They find him at Barrett’s Accounting. Vincent has to go in because Kate’s technically wanted around here.

Fuck. Like anyone would actually do anything. Maybe invite her in for tea. Some biscuits. Talk about the weather.

The secretary is pretty in a bland sort of way. He flirts with her, totally half-assed, while he waits for Hall to get out of his meeting. It takes about half an hour, and when Hall finally comes down the stairs, ink-splattered as usual, he’s a little nervous and so fucking bored of the secretary, whose name is Lisa and who likes to read Jane Austen in her free time – like he fucking cares.

“Vincent!” Hall says genially. “What brings you here?”

The secretary looks at Hall a little like she’s in love with him. Vincent shoves his hands in his pockets and smiles as innocently as he can. Which is – not very. “I was wondering if you had some time for dinner. It’s about – ” he stops. Way to go, Kate, and not give him some kind of fucking code. “I had some questions about that paper you were writing on the steam engine, and I figured you’d probably be hungry.”

Hall tilts his head slightly to the side, then smiles that little kid smile again. “Of course. Allow me one moment to order my papers.”

Vincent nods – because what the fuck else is he gonna do? Say no? Hall’s gone, then, and he’s left alone with Lisa.

Fuck.

--

Twenty minutes later they’re on their way out. Kate’s waiting for them right outside the building. Vincent snaps, “why did you even have me go in when you were just going to sit right here?” before he manages to bite it back.

She looks at him calmly. “What’s wrong with sitting right here?” She says, then smiles brightly at Hall. “Aryn. Been a while since I saw you!”

“Hasn’t it, Kate?”

Vincent’s still staring at the cunt, a little disbelieving – she’s such a fuckin’ idiot, such a fucking idiot – but just smiles a little tightly. Whatever. Eventually – cutesy little Merton won’t be like this long. Just the way things fucking happen.

“It’s been too long. Did you get taller?”

Hall smiles, and Vincent tries not to roll his eyes – not very hard, though. Jesus fucking Christ he’s – got to be at least twenty-four, probably more than that. It isn’t like the asshole is shooting up like a weed – he’s not a fucking sixteen-year-old boy. “I have other shit to do,” he says, even though it’s a lie. Kate and Hall both turn to look at him. He sighs. “Dinner?”

Hall looks at Kate, then back to him, and then he makes a small “ah” sound in the back of his throat. “We could go to my house? It isn’t exactly the grandest place but – ”

It’s someplace private. “Fine with me.”

Kate just nods.

--

The first thing Vincent thinks when they get to Hall’s house – if you can really call it that – is it’s kind-of a shit hole. Really a shit hole. About half a kilo out from Merton proper it’s what some people would call ‘well-used.’ Kate thinks it’s charming. Vincent thinks the place is fucking falling to pieces.

It’s half overgrown with plants. The porch – that it has one is fuckin’ weird – is made of graying wood that’s mostly rotted through and if the roof had half the shingles it should have he’d be shocked. Hall bows his head, a little self-conscious – not that Vincent really blames him – and holds the door for the two of them. “Sorry. It’s not much, I know, but it’s home.”

“That’s alright, kiddo. At least you got one. A home is a great thing to have.” Kate’s tone is warm and wistful. Vincent wouldn’t know. He steps past her into a house that looks like it crawled out of an old woman’s wet dream. Floral print curtains. Doilies on the arms of the easy chair. What looks like a basket for knitting. A chessboard – almost out of place. Like he killed the pathetic cunt who lived here and chucked her carcass in the woods outside to rot.

“So,” Hall says eventually. Pleasantly. Nah. “I take it this isn’t about my project on the steam engine?”

Vincent shakes his head. “No. Sorry. But I figured you wouldn’t appreciate me asking about this revolution thing in the middle of your office.”

Hall raises his eyebrows high. “Oh? Kate told you about that?”

“Yeah,” he says, and flicks his gaze sideways. Kate looks a little ashamed. She never could follow orders worth shit – not even the orders of this guy she seems to think is her long lost kid.

“What all did she say?”

“She – ”

“It wasn’t like I just blurted out, you understand,” Kate interrupts a little roughly. “We was just waitin’ and the train wasn’t comin’ and I thought I – you know – needed to mention it to him before he up and left again – he does that sometimes. Up and leaves if he ain’t doin’ anything interesting. Don’t you, Vincent?”

He shrugs a little roughly. Doesn’t answer the question. “You’re plotting something – didn’t mention any details, nothing like that. Asked if I’d be interested.”

“And are you?” There’s a strange light burning in Hall’s eyes. Makes him look a little less washed out.

“Depends.” He sits down on Hall’s sofa – an off-pink thing with doilies on the armrests and covered with a bunch of over-stuffed lace pillows. “How much does it pay and how well’s it planned out?” He laughs. “The first is pretty useless without the second, you know. Money don’t mean shit if I’m dead.”

Hall nods and sits down in an easy chair. “I suppose that makes sense.” He pauses. “I can’t say I know everything myself. I’m not running the operation, not really. What I do know is our intent is to remove King Michael from the throne, and revise the monarchy, leaving, in it’s place, a society more fit for all mankind to live in.”

Bullshit ideals, but that isn’t want he cares about. “The pay?”

“It will take a long time.”

“I’m not busy.” His life’s going nowhere fast. Ever since he was ten or so he’s always been on the move – working towards something. He got that. Bit him in the ass. Time to move on. Find something else. “The pay?” he asks again.

Hall shrugs. “I don’t know. I’d have to ask my superiors.”

“Get back to me on that?”

“Right.” Hall nods. “Any other questions?”

Vincent shakes his head. Doesn’t sound very promising right now. “Nothing about that. Figure out the details before you try to make a deal, huh?” Some day someone is going to dupe this idiot so fucking bad.

Hall nods. Looks a little like he’s blushing, except his still pale. Almost waxy. “Any thing else? You mentioned the shipment didn’t come through?” This directed at Kate.

“No. We waited four hours. You sure your info wasn’t all snarled up or somethin’?”

Hall shakes his head. “No. It was – I just found out about an hour ago myself. Graham Quickly. You know him?”

Kate’s mouth is a thin line again.

“The government has been paying him to inform on us for some time – you’ve yet to tell him about the revolution, right?”

Kate goes pale under her tan. “No. ‘Course not.”

Hall nods. “Right, well, something must be done about Graham’s actions. I trust I can leave that up to you?”

Kate nods stiffly. “Of course,” she says. “Always.”

Vincent shifts, a little uneasily. “What’re you going to do Kate?”

Her eyes flash, and her smile is twisted. Harsh. “Make that bastard’s life a living hell. A living fucking hell.”

“His life, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Vincent leans back in the sofa. It’s thick and comfortable and he doesn’t like the feeling – like he’s sinking into too-soft cushions. He sits up again. “Why’re you going to let him live?”

Kate freezes. “What?”

“Why let him live?” He smiles, lopsidedly. “He betrayed you. For money. After he swore he wouldn’t – why let him do it again? Because he will. You’re fucking stupid if you think he won’t.”

Kate stands up, all fury and right and what the fuck ever else she believes in. She snarls at him, the wrinkles around her mouth going deep, making her look years older.

“Screw you, Landseer. Screw you. You’re such a little shit. Would it kill you to have a little fuckin’ faith?” She shakes her head, then turns, deliberately, and makes here way out of the house.

“Bad blood,” he says to Hall by way of apology.

Hall nods. Looks a little nervous.

“She told him, you know.”

“I supposed. Kate doesn’t have much discretion, come down to it.”

“You should. Kill him, that is.”

Hall looks up at him, eyes wide. Paler than usual. Maybe he trembles a bit. “What?”

“You want him silenced, right?”

“Yes, but – ”

“That’s the only way you’ll really shut him up.” He shrugs back into the sofa.

“I couldn’t – ”

“Pay me what Kate was going to pay me and I will. Can do it fast. Make it look like an accident. I’m good at this kinda shit – Kate knows it, even if she doesn’t approve.”

Hall looks at him, eyes wide – any wider and it looks like they might – he doesn’t know. Fall out? “I’ll – I’ll – ”

“Have to have a chat with the higher ups? Figured.” Vincent stands up, stretches. Enjoys the feeling in tendons and ligaments sliding back into place. He hates sitting down longer than necessary. “Just get back to me soon, alright?” Hall just stares at him, like he’s suggested the worst crime imaginable. Idiot. Vincent walks over, pecks him n the cheek. “See you around?”

Hall nods dumbly.

--

Two days later a letter comes to the room. There’s one word on it in a neat, precise hand. It says simply that it’s a go. Doesn’t mention what it is. Doesn’t need to.

He wonders exactly what kind of folk these higher-ups are. But that’s not important. Has to go figure out the best way to kill – murder – Graham Quickly.

Ryxen: Chapter 6

2007-11-07T09:06:51Z

Word count: 1,942
Accumulative: 10,990

Like in Paris, he runs every day. Out of habit more than anything. Two, three, sometimes four miles in the morning. Merton is surrounded by trees – huge, old ones. Trees didn’t get killed off in the Great Death, unlike everything else.

He gets in at about eight in the morning, as always, the Rose’s owner – Joseph Greene – hands him a slip of paper with a bland nod. Vincent doesn’t get the bastard – he’s sullen and stupid and doesn’t do anything but glare at him and sit at the desk, writing in some thick, leather bound book like his job is something important. “It was a call,” Greene says, voice deep.

“Hm?” but he knows who.

“Her contact information.”

“Great. Thanks.” He crumples the note. Shoves it in his pocket. Knows Greene is expecting a tip, but he doesn’t have money to waste so he just gives him the laziest smile he’s got. Walks upstairs. Thinks about ignoring the note another day, but figures he might as well. He’ll deal with it. After a shower.

--

Nothing makes his mood good enough to deal with this shit. Nothing. He runs a hand through dark, damp hair and stares at the note, now spread out on the dresser, held down on one end with a pistol and on the other with his pocket knife.

Ianthe.

You look back on it, and it’s – weird. Only word for it. Weird. Once upon a time. That sort of thing. He can’t really remember what being in love with her felt like, but he remembers thinking it they’re all tangled up in each other at the bottom of a snowy hill – two dark heads peppered with snowflakes; lips meet in a chaste kiss; they part breathlessly.

‘Course, he remembers thinking he’d save the world too, and what about that?

He sits down at the table, runs his eyes over the letters of her name. First words he learned to write – she taught him herself. His writing is still shit.

How are you even supposed to feel about this? He remembers untangling himself from her; standing up; offering her a hand (she took it with a wide grin). He remembers kissing her on the cheek; telling her to hold on tight; flying downwards like if they go too fast the sled’ll crash, spin out of control – he remembers that. What he doesn’t remember loving her though, even though he remembers saying the words.

That was a long time ago anyway. Sixteen is a hazy memory anymore. And being sixteen doesn’t have shit with what he’s got to deal with now.

Now. This whole thing is such a fucking mess. He turns away from the dresser. Walks to the edge of the room. Turns around. Walks back again. Repeat. Repeat. Why the fuck is this room so fucking small?

He stops. Rests his arms on the dresser, his forehead against the cool iron of the pistol. Fuck. Fuck.

He doesn’t want to deal with it, but putting it off another day won’t fix anything. He stands up, runs a hand through his hair again. Smiles tightly at his reflection. She lives somewhere around St. James’ Park. Long walk.

The sun keeps climbing in the sky. It ain’t getting any earlier. He tugs on a jacket, shoves his wallet in his back pocket. Makes his way out of the room. Takes longer locking the door than he needs to. Stops to talk to the owner’s pale daughter – Diana, or something. She asks him where he’s going and he tells her. Makes a comment about it being a long walk. She smiles, says something about digging up a kind of underground steam engine. It’s fucking everywhere. Fucking everywhere.

--

Her house is large and airy, like he remembers it. Clean and well-lighted – lots of money going into it, but he already knew that. He knocks on the door. Five seconds, flat, she pulls it open.

“It’s been three years,” is the first thing out of her mouth, and the words are harsh and sharp.

He shrugs them off. “I sent money.”

“That is not the same thing,” she says, lifting her chin high, but stepping aside in wordless invitation. He accepts with a nod. Walks in to the house, with its big windows and bamboo floorboards and he wants to ask how much this cost, how much money she wasted on importing wood to lay down on the ground, but it isn’t any of his goddamn business. He shoves his hands into his pockets.

“So.” Ianthe says, shutting the door.

He turns around. Looks at her. Every time she looks thinner, paler. Like she’s beings stretched out on the rack.

“You look the same as always,” she says. Odd. Fucking weird. “France treated you well, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“Meet anyone special?”

He seats himself on her sofa – soft pale brown leather – even though she didn’t invite him to sit. “Don’t I always,” which isn’t true, but it makes her go even paler and he presses his lips together to keep from smirking.

“Oh? And what was he like?”

“She was rich, gorgeous and Italian.” Like they were in a relationship. She was also fifteen years older than him. Not like Ianthe needs to know that. Course, Ianthe doesn’t need to know any of this.

Ianthe smiles, a little bitterly, her mouth curved into a thin line. She sits gingerly on the sofa – closer to him than he’d like. “I don’t suppose you left her with child.”

He looks at her. She looks back, eyes big and too wide and bright blue in her long, bony face. Earnest. Still. Grow the fuck up. He looks away. “How much?”

“What?”

“Cut the guilt trip, Ianthe. How much money do you want?”

She stands up in a flurry of heavy, colorful skirts. “You think this about money?” She sounds indignant, and then their eyes meet and she just sounds defeated. Her shoulders slouch. She stares at the floor. “That isn’t it. I – I can care for Bradley on my own. I’m certainly more wealthy than you. I just – ”

Wait in silence. Fine. It isn’t like he’s got shit to say.

“I miss you Vincent. I still love you – ”

Enough. He stands up. “I’ll mail you a hundred pounds for the year – ”

“He needs his father – ”

“Find someone else to be his father! I’m not the only thing with a cock in England.”

“But you’re the one I want!”

“And I don’t want you.” Should he feel bad saying that? It’s only the truth. He’s kind of a shitwad anyway, so what does it matter. “It takes two. Face facts, Ianthe. It’s never going to happen.”

She stops – freezes. She’s flushed now, pale and trembling. Looks like she might scream. “A real man,” she measures out her words careful. They shake. “A real man would have taken responsibility.”

Fuck. Her. He steps close, mere inches apart. She’s tall for a woman – tall for a lot of men, too, but he still has at least four inches on her. “Don’t you dare pin this on me, you cunt.” She flinches at the word. He smiles. “We agreed – we fuckin’ agreed that we didn’t want this kid, that we couldn’t raise him together. You made that decision on your own. It isn’t my responsibility you decided you couldn’t go through with it.”

She’s trembling now – scared. He’s angry. He steps away, because he’s this close to hitting her.

“I’m going back to Merton,” he says. He slams the door.

--

It starts raining on the way back. Fucking figures. Happy fucking April. He grinds his teeth together against the cold, shoves his hands in his pockets and tries to forget on top of that mess he just had to slog through he’s wet and fucking cold – does a piss-poor job at forgetting too.

It isn’t his fault, he thinks as he quickens his step. It isn’t his fucking fault. They had agreed – rationally, because they were too young and it was just sex anyway. He thought that was that. He could have dealt with that being that – still friends. He honestly never wanted to fuck up their friendship, but he isn’t, he isn’t going to let her blame him for shit that isn’t his fault.

It’s still raining hard when he reaches Merton, which is sleepier than usual. No open-air markets or brats playing in the street or laundry hung out to try. All the lights off because it’s late. It looks almost as dead as inner London.

He shivers, because it’s getting colder and colder and the Rose is a good quarter mile onward and he’s fucking freezing. He looks around, and sees some light through the rain so he pushes towards that. Gets a little closer. Figures it’s the fucking library that’s open. Merton and it’s higher learning. Doesn’t stop him from going in, though.

The inside isn’t a lot warmer. It’s lit with lamps, not a fire. He strips off his jacket, tosses it on the main desk, and is about to sit down when he hears a scraping of sound a few selves over. He tenses, brushes his hand against the hilt of the knife in his pocket. “I’m afraid if you’re looking for the librarian she’s out,” comes a voice – Hall’s – from the other side of the stacks. A few seconds later the voice is followed by Hall himself. “She’s just lending me the key for some late-night research – ah.”

“I got caught in the rain,” Vincent says, a little lamely. He tries to fend off another shiver. “Hope you don’t mind.” Though he doesn’t really care if Hall minds or not. And the librarian can live with a few water stains on her wood floor.

“Of course not.” Hall looks at him, like he’s judging something. “Why were you out in this mess?”

“Visiting a friend. In London.”

“Ah.”

Vincent shifts awkwardly, then says, “so, what’re you here for?”

“Research. I’m writing a treatise on steam power during the first industrial revolution. I was going to attempt to have it published in one of the major academic journals concerning the industrial revolution of today.” Hall smiles, a little self-deprecatingly. “Unfortunately I realized that my knowledge of the actual science is somewhat lacking. I’m endeavoring to rectify that mistake.”

“I thought you were an accountant?”

Hall shrugs, sets the books down. “It’s a hobby.”

“Huh.”

There’s no words to it, not really. Meeting eyes. Hall’s got clear body language – too clear, Vincent thinks but the thought is hazy and unformed and he really can’t place the why he thought that. This time he pulls Hall to him by the shirtfront and bites more than kisses him. Hall replies just as strong, winds his hands around Vincent’s arms. Pushes him back to the wall.

It’s not quite like Bellanca’s sex in church, but it has the same effect.

--

“Sorry.” They both know he’s not.

Hall shrugs. He’s way too comfortable to be as “new at this” as he claims. But whatever. People lie. Have their secrets. Whatever. Maybe that’s how he deals with liking cock. None of his business.

“The rain’s let up,” Hall says, looking out the door.

“I’m going back, then.” There’s a flicker, and Hall looks almost disappointed. He hopes he’s not one of those kids. Fuck someone once, twice – they think it’s some kind of fuckin’ relationship. Yeah. Right. Bullshit. You’re a cock, a cunt, an ass, a pair of tits. A body. Bones.

Meat.

He hopes Hall isn’t that type. Doesn’t think he is. Doesn’t really matter anyway. “Later.” Back to his shit hole.

Ryxen: Chapter 5

2007-11-06T09:36:25Z

Word count: 2,122
Accumulative: 9,047

She’s waiting for him at the bar. Plain daylight, wearing jeans and heavy boots, a leer on her face as she runs a finger around the edge of her pint. “Deal?” To the point. As always.

“You knew I would.” He slides his hands in his pockets; sits at the bar. Orders vodka, straight, with a snap. The bartender doesn’t look happy – watch your tone young man. Fuck ‘em. Way of the fuckin’ world, and if you’re too stupid, living in cozy little Merton that don’t know shit about the rest of the world well then that’s your fucking problem.

“Did I?” She smiles, stretching her thin, pale lips over her teeth. “Sometimes I ain’t so sure ‘bout you, Vince.”

Not like he didn’t know; still, there’s a slight chill. “What do you mean?”

“You ain’t like us. Not like us here in Merton.” And Kate’s dark eyes are cold. Suspicious. Vincent pulls his mouth into a smile.

“Yeah, well, the rest of us can’t afford to be like you.”

“What do you mean by that.”

Sharp. Still got it in her. He shrugs, downs the shot of vodka the bartender finally brought him. “Another,” he says, before turning back to her. He could say it. You’re a bunch of fucking pets to these people; the rest of us, we don’t get this bullshit comfy life thrown at us. Can’t steal money for the poor. Medicine. You fucks here – you’re a joke. He wonders what she’d do if he said that. Not worth it; they work too good together. He lets it drop. “Tell me the details.”

She’s still looking at him hard, but she gulps her beer, takes a breath, says, “train coming through Merton like I mentioned. This Thursday. Three days from now. It’ll stop to pick up passengers here from noon to one. It’ll just be you ‘n me. The third to last car in the train – that’s the cargo hold. One box is all we need. It’ll be in a crate – marked with the red cross. You know what it looks like. We smuggle it out when no one’s lookin’. Simple as that.”

“Half-cocked as that, you mean.” Not like he was expecting any less.

Kate shrugs. “You don’t do good with fancy plans. I don’t either. We go from there.”

“Alright.”

She holds out her hand for him to shake, and he takes it. From hours in the sun she’s tanned dark like her hair’s bleached white, but still not the same shade as him – there’s an olive tone to it, from his grandmother he knows. She’s looking at their entwined hands then into his face. She’d never say it, like he’d never say the bit about her.

He smiles. Sharp. Fucking English. “I’ve got shit to do,” and he drops her hand a little faster than is really polite. “Later.”

He doesn’t bother to listen for her reply.

--

He stares out the hotel window. The sky is still covered in a grayish haze this far out. Can’t get away from industry – progress. Not even Merton is all sunshine. He kicks the dirt. Forgot how much he hated this place. Quaint. Cheery. Boring.

Sighs. Stretches. If Merton had any kind of night-life other than the family pub he’d be out. Doing something. But it doesn’t. He lies down. Stares at the rough boards of the ceiling – cedar. Closes his eyes.

There’s a knock at the door. He’s not sure if he was asleep of not, but he drags himself off the bed, straightens his shirt, opens the door. There’s a man standing there – blonde, twenty-something, strange. Familiar. He smiles. Says, “good afternoon. My name is –”

It’s the voice that does it. Clicks into place. That bullshit speech. “Aryn Hall. I heard. I’m Vincent Landseer.”

The man stops, then smiles. “Why yes. How did you guess?”

“I saw you yesterday. Someone pointed you out. That speech.”

“Ah, yes, and what did you think of that?”

“It was – er, d’you want to come in? Kinda awkward to have you standing outside.” He stands aside. With a nod Hall walks in. Vincent shuts the door. “We’ll have to take the bed if you’d like to sit. No chairs.” He doesn’t wait for Hall to respond, but sits on the edge of the mattress. A few seconds later Hall joins him. “You’re a good speaker.”

“Ah.”

“And you’re right.” He shrugs. “But revolution? In Merton? I think that’s bullshit.”

Hall smiles, tucks a strand of longish blond hair behind one ear – the stain was ink, there’s more all over his hands – and lets a small laugh. “Kate said you were straightforward.”

His gut twists unpleasantly. “Did she?” He wonders what the fuck else Kate said.

“You’re new here, then?” Hall is looking at the window too. The sun is setting.

Makes it sound like he’s going to live here – maybe start up a cute little hut with a thatched roof and too many kids and some fat wife. “I’m not staying.” But then Vincent smiles to himself. Smart man, this Hall guy. But from his speech yesterday he should’ve already knew that. Kinda funny, though, talking about how no one gets any education when this guy obviously has got some.

Hall raises an eyebrow. “Not a big fan of Merton?”

“You could say that.” Fits. I fucking hate this shit hole fits more, but Hall’s nice enough so he bites it back.

When Hall laughs, it’s this benevolent chuckle. Vincent wonders if he’s ever thought of offending anyone. “Yes. It does have its faults. But as does everywhere.” He stops, looks at Vincent, smiles – genuinely. “Speaking of which, where are you from? I can’t quite place your accent.”

None of your business. But nobody asks. “Scotland. Born there at least. Raised lots of different places. My father and I traveled a lot when I was a kid.” The trick is being general – no details. “It all kind of mixed together.”

“That sounds interesting. What was your father’s occupation?”

Why do people fucking care. “Sales,” he says. “He worked for a company up in Scotland, and after my mother died he didn’t like the thought of leaving me alone for months at a time, so I started traveling with him. Mostly to Persia, Egypt, that area.”

“Ah. Any particular reason why?”

Vincent shrugs. “My father’s mother was half Persian. It was – familiar to him, I guess. Didn’t really know. Didn’t really care.”

Hall stares at him, then asks quietly, a little subdued, “you mentioned your mother?”

“Yeah. She died when I was nine.” He still remembers the day. Middle of January. Freezing cold. He thought she was sleeping at first. Strange how distant that feels anymore.

“I’m sorry about your mother,” Hall is saying, laying a warm, ink-spattered hand on his wrists.

Vincent looks over at him. His face is close, closer than he remembers it being. He has gray eyes. Pale blonde eyelashes. Pale skin. Attractive in a way he hadn’t noticed before. “Don’t be,” he breathes, like he actually broken up about it. “It happened a long time ago.”

Hall nods, and his breath is warm on his cheek. “Still,” he says, voice whisper-soft, “I’m sorry.”

He’s not so horny he couldn’t turn away, but Hall seems willing enough, so he closes the inch between them, brushes his lips across Hall’s quick, almost fleetingly, then pulls away. Hall is looking at him, a little intensely, but not disgusted. Good. He doesn’t want to waste time on assurances right now – no, I’m not leading you into mortal sin or what the fuck ever.

“Alright?”

Hall leans in, kisses him this time, a little tentative. Vincent wraps his arm around his shoulders – thin, slightly bony – and Hall slides his hands under Vincent’s shirt.

“Done this before?” He asks when they break away.

“I-I’ve never – not that I know of. I mean, there was a party once and I – I don’t think so.”

“Mm.” He moves his hand a little lower. Hall isn’t all bones, but he’s pretty thin. “And what’s this, then?” He pauses, smiles. “Curiosity?”

“I-I suppose you could say that,” he pulls off the Vincent’s shirt then, and Vincent returns the favor. Then he pulls Hall’s jeans off – a couple sizes too big for him, they have to be. He’s half-hard through his boxers.

“Bottom or top?” Vincent asks idly as he massages Hall’s cock.

“Whichever. I don’t mind.”

Bottom. Like he trusts this guy to top, and the last thing he needs is to be sore there. He stands up, rifles through his duffle bag and pulls out some lube. Pulls off his jeans while he walks over to the bed.

“Where do you want …?” At least Hall doesn’t look scared. Young, though. He wonders just how old the man is. Older than him he thought, but right now he looks about fourteen. A little lost.

“Over,” and he motions with his fingers. “You sure? You don’t look so great.”

“Yes, yes,” Hall says. Vincent pulls off his boxers, while running his eyes over Hall, who’s pale and slender, smooth, well-defined muscles and doesn’t look like he’s about to cry or anything. The last thing he needs is some whiny, effeminate shithead that might as a girl with a cock and some balls.

“Alright,” and he straddles Hall, slides his boxers off. Hall shivers a bit, but he’ll be fucked if he’s going to stop now. If Hall needs him to he’ll fucking say it. He coats his fingers in the lube – it’s cold – slides one in Hall’s ass. He gasps a little bit, but presses back on his hand. Two. Then three. Scissoring motions. He kinda wishes something would’ve bothered with this his fucking first time.

Finally he pulls his fingers out, rubs some lube on his cock. Positions himself, considers asking ‘ready’ but figures Hall’s a grown man and can take it and slides in slowly.

Hall groans. “D-don’t – faster.” It’s a half whisper, and a little harsh. Vincent slides in and out, a little faster, building up rhythm and it’s comfortable, unremarkable but he fucking needed this.

He comes with a fast, inward-sucking of air, and a few seconds later he hears a muffled groan and Hall’s coming too. He pulls out, lies beside him for long minutes.

“Thank you,” Hall says.

Vincent almost smirks. “Any time.” And he means it. A fuck is always welcome.

“I have to go now.”

“Whatever.”

A few minutes of rustling clothes, Hall walks out. The door clicks closed. Vincent relaxes on the bed. Not bad. Not fuckin’ bad at all.

--

He calls Nimue later that night, tells her his address.

“You just got laid,” she says, as soon as he stops talking.

“What?”

“You get this accent – I’ve no idea where it’s from, sounds almost Scottish – but whenever you’ve just had sex you sound like that. Was it good?”

“Sure. I mean, nothing special. Not bad.”

Nimue laughs. “What would special be?”

“It was his first time.” Vincent leans back on the bed – the sheets are stained with dried come and it smells vaguely musky in the room. Figures it’ll piss the innkeep off. Good. “Or he said it was. I kinda doubt it.” Virgins aren’t that comfortable. Or that loose.

“Having taken the virginity of so many unsuspecting boys and girls, you’d know, I suppose.”

Vincent smiles, a little darkly. “Make it sound like I’m some kind of rapist.”

Nimue snorts on the other end of the line. “You know that isn’t what I mean. Seduction must be your middle name.”

“My middle name is Marcus.”

He can’t see Nimue, but he’s pretty sure she’s rolling her eyes. “You know what I meant Vincent.”

“Yeah yeah. Just calling to say where I was. Anything you need?”

There’s a long, uncomfortable pause. “Ianthe called me today.”

Vincent feels irritation turn into anger at that. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Nimue’s voice is almost nasty. “I told her I had no idea where you were. She refused to believe me. Sometimes I think that girl has gone ‘round the bend.”

“I’ll take care of her. Soon.” Fucking Ianthe.

“I don’t think anything short of ‘marrying’ of her will take care of anything, but you’re welcome to try.”

Vincent snorts. “I’ll keep that in mind. Is that all?”

“Yep. I’ll be by to visit sometime this week. Maybe meet this not-virgin you’ve shacked up with.”

“Yeah. Whatever. It’ll be good to see you.”

“Ditto.” There’s a long pause, then Nimue says, “toodles,” he says “bye” and they hang up.

It was just sex, but now that he thinks about it, there was something about it that made it uneasy – weird. Whatever. Watch out. Like he’s ever lax about these things.

Ryxen: Chapter 4

2007-11-05T09:25:09Z

Word count: 1, 848
Accumulative: 6,921

The further out you go, the worse it gets. Like some fuckin’ ghost story they used to tell around the fire when he was a kid once upon a time, there was a beautiful lady – murdered. Dead, bloody, dismembered on white satin sheets – what women of the upper classes sleep on, he guesses. He listened as a kid – everyone did. Now, though, he wonders why. Walking through the outskirts of London, seems to him like there’s a whole lot of fuckin’ ghost stories that are real. The buildings here aren’t poor in the way Eastcheap buildings are poor – those are at least alive.

He’s thinking rot. Maggots. Skeletons with the meat hanging off in rags. Bleached bones in the desert, sometimes. Like this hell bullshit the church is constantly preaching.

Whatever it is it’s fucking creepy. The streets are uneven brick, overgrown with myrtle, the shutters half-hanging on dead-looking windows. All of the doors are locked – most of them say quarantine; that’s the biggest word he knows. The word everyone knows, even if they can’t spell their own names.

He walks a little faster. Of course there’s a train that goes to Merton, but it’s hardly any distance and he’d rather not waste the money. Still, he hates this barrier between inner London and outer London. Screw digging up artifacts – maybe they should tear down this kind of shit. He walks even faster.

--

Merton was destroyed a few years after the Great Death. Most of southern London was – that was where it was the worst. They scorched it to the ground.

He wouldn’t know if Nimue hadn’t told him one day – her fucking obsession with the past – and he wouldn’t be able to tell if he didn’t know – it’s grassy, sunny, clean. Almost primitive. He kicks up dust as he walks down the dirt path. Dirt. So fuckin’ weird.

Merton of today is big enough to be called bustling, but most Londoner’s call it quaint, and Vincent agrees. Thatched roofs. Plaster cottage walls. Sheep dotting the yards – it’s like something out of those old stories. The ones his mother used to tell him, when he was a little shit too stupid to know better.

He checks in to the biggest inn he can find. Kate’ll find him, not the other way around. He goes out, jogs for a few miles and comes back. There’s a note waiting for him, with her sloppy little boy’s handwriting. He smiles at that. He’ll be there.

--

If you asked any of the fucks that lived here, they’d say that the alleyways are as safe as any place to walk in Merton – pride. Merton is a family environment; crime doesn’t exist.

Fact of the matter is crime’s pretty much everywhere, if you know where to look. He sees the alley Kate designated in her letter, but not the noon crowd that’s supposed to make things look a little less than blatant – there’s a solid knot of people milling about, but they’re all groupded together around a scaffolding that reminds him of some of the shit he saw in Persia. He shivers. Grinds his teeth. This better not be a fucking joke. Or a trap. Cursed Kate Sneed. It’d be just his fucking luck.

He ducks under the sign with a picture of a fish that looks like a salmon on it and into the alleyway. She’s waiting there, smile on her face. “Took you long enough, Vince.”

Nobody knows how old she is. There’s a rumor that she’s over a century, some that say she remembers the Golden Age of man, before everything went down the shitter, but she looks to him like she’s edging into her fifties. Spry. Dangerous. But not this ancient – whatever they seem to think of her as. Goddess? Jesus of criminals?

“So what’s this deal about?”

“Theft. ‘O course.” Kate shrugs, leans against the wall. She’s a tiny woman – barely comes up his shoulder – with pale, white-blond hair and dark eyes. She’s not seven food tall. Her teeth aren’t made out of solid gold – hers are crooked and a little yellow. Laugh lines around the mouth, around the eyes. Really, she looks like a mother.

‘Course, rumor has it she was. Like fuck he’s gonna ask her that.

“Stealing what?”

She smiles. She lost one of her lower teeth once – they say it was some sort of pagan ceremony. Vincent bets it was too much gin and a fist to the mouth. “Stealin’ is such a damn dirty word, don’t cha think, Vince? I mean, th’ king steals from us to feed his bloody army off in – what? Germany? We starve and he rapes us us, fuckin’ King Michael, and then how can you even call it stealin’?” She’s deadly serious, and he knows her well enough to keep his mouth shut, not provoke her.

“What’re the goods then?”

“You like money?” Fucking dumb question. Who doesn’t? But she keeps on going: “’O course you do – how could I forget. Vincent fuckin’ Landseer,” she snorts, unimpressed. He ignores her easily. “Anyway it’s – ”

A cheer rises up from the crowd in the square, and they both stop, turn to look. A man is standing on the scaffolding, getting ready to speak. Vincent rolls his eyes – probably some bullshit about the love of God, maybe having faith n the future. He turns back to Kate, but she’s standing, eyes fixed on the man on the scaffold, almost rapt.

“Sneed,” he says, warningly. She does not look at him. “Kate.”

She waves a hand at him. “Shut up Vincent. This is – this is somethin’ worth shuttin’ up for. The deal can wait.”

He rolls his eyes, but focuses on the guy up on the scaffold. Doesn’t look like anything special. Pale, blond, vaguely okay-looking. Dressed shabbily in clothes that don’t quite fit, and a dark smear of something across his forehead; probably dirt – or maybe it’s ink. Whatever it is don’t matter very much.

“Who is he?” he asks, more like because it’s good to know than because he actually cares.

“Aryn Hall. Accountant. Little orphan boy from around here. And – just listen. He’s a gem.” Vincent watches the man on the stage. He holds himself like he’s not sure if he really wants to be there, or run away.

“People of Merton.” His voice is pleasant. Dull. Nice enough. Vincent’s already bored, but Kate is smiling broadly, like this Hall guy is someone really great – almost like he’s her son and she’s proud. “People of Merton, I have been asked to give this oration by the Mayor,” he nods to a tall man in a dark suit, “and have thus obliged – ”

A cheer goes through the crowd at this. Vincent rolls his eyes.

“Without further ado – ” he clears his throat. Vincent thinks the crowd is holding its breath. Hall straightens, beings – in earnest? His voice gets deeper, less polite. Colder. Says, “in the past there existed a society run by men – men who were equals, who were elected on basis of merit, and not blood, or land or money. It was the prominent form of government during the Golden Age; it existed in a society where all men were equals. In wealth. In status. In power

“And what has happened? Why, now, do we find ourselves the downtrodden of the earth? We are called lowly, left uneducated while a privileged few lay to waste our limited resources,” there’s a bitter not of derision in there. Vincent straightens a bit. Not as boring as he thought. “Why are we left to labor long hours in factories and fields while the rich do nothing but idle about their mansions, talking of fine art and literature?

“I am not saying they are undeserving of this, but are not all men created equal? And, following that syllogism, are not we entitled to those self-same rights the landed gentry endow on themselves?” This followed by a few twitters of the audience – probably distress. Radicalism. Though this hardly seems radical compared to what Vincent heard in France. “We do not deserve more than our noble brethren, but do we not deserve to be equal?”

A louder cheer this time. Hall raises his voice. “We are all but men, and like all men we deserve equality, to be each seen as sentient creatures, rather than as servants and beasts of burden! Trust yourself: each heart vibrates that iron string. We are bound together by flesh and clay, each and every one of us. So why,” he goes almost melancholy here, “why then, are we reduced beyond what we, as men, truly deserve?

“I am not here to tear down any institutions, but rather to suggest some thought on your part – for you to truly search your soul, and come to the truth I know you will find. And once that truth has been obtained, come to me, and tell me of this truth, and we will stand together, and return to the triumph of the Golden Age!”

The crowd goes wild in ways usually reserved for games of football and hangings. Vincent watches in a sick kind of fascination – smells like some kind of revolution. His gaze flickers to Kate, who’s watching the scene like she wants nothing more

“That boy,” she says finally, slowly, “will change the world, bless his heart.”

Vincent shrugs. Maybe. Who knows. The king’s not fuckin’ stupid. And the people of Merton are a bunch of farmers. Pretty words, but that doesn’t mean shit; you can’t talk someone to death, can’t change the world with words. And nothing but force is going to change a country as pig-headed as this.

Whatever. Who fucking cares? “The job?”

“Oh. Yes.” Kate smiles widely. “There’s a shipment of medicine coming through Merton in a few days – cure for the flu. They just figured it out. You help me steal it, I’ll pay you.”

“How much?”

“Twenty quid.”

He raises an eyebrow. “The catch?”

Kate shrugs. “It’s risky. You’ll earn all twenty of your pay.”

Vincent watches her for long seconds. “I’ll think on it.” Because this is Kate, and he’s not going rushing in to one of her fucking insane Robin-Hood schemes. And that’s what he is. Whatever the rumors say, no one can say Kate Sneed isn’t doing her share to help the dirt poor.

--

Back at the inn – The Rose, so fucking stupid – there’s another message. He doesn’t know how she knew where he’d be, but he stares at her spindly handwriting – a lot like her – and then shoves it in his pocket. He’ll deal with it later. Now it’s Kate; it’s business.

The thing is, there’s no way of really knowing what “risky” means. How badly does he need this job?

How much does risky actually matter?
Be honest: you’re fuckin’ bored. And this, this might be just what you need – or not what you need, but what you want.

Either way, it’s worth asking for details.

He slides his clothes off, crawls under the cotton sheets in just his boxers but doesn’t sleep for hours.

Ryxen: Chapter 3

2007-11-04T08:55:26Z

Word count: 1,895
Accumulative: 5,073

He wakes up to the sun flitting through the slats in the blinds. Past noon and Nimue’s hands are cold against the skin of his back. His legs are tangled in hers, in the sheets. It’s different, like this. Not really awkward; not familiar. Yeah. Just.

“Nimue.” Moves his shoulder gently. She mumbles something. Hugs him tighter.

“Nimue,” and this time he slides his hand over to her shoulder and shakes her. “Get up. It’s late. And I don’t want to lay in bed all day.”

She shifts sleepily, opens one eye. “What?” Her accent is thick in her mouth, thicker than it usually is, the ‘a’ drawn out long, and her breath is hot on his face.

“It’s late. Get up.”

“What’s wrong with laying in bed all day? We were up all night.” She curls closer to him.

“Two isn’t all night.” He shifts, sits up, and she makes a small noise in the back of her throat. Probably cold now they’re not touching anymore. He’s a little cold too. The air in the loft is freezing. End of March. It shouldn’t still feel like the middle of winter.

“Yes, will, it’s bloody late enough for me. I’m tired.”

Vincent looks down at her. She’s pulled into herself, balled up on the mattress, eyes squeezed tight against the light. Like a little kid. “Y’know, looking pathetic didn’t work for Oliver. It’s not gonna work for you either.” She only groans and curls up even tighter. He rolls his eyes. “I know you’re ticklish.”

She opens a single eye, props her head up. Her hair falls into her face. She looks even younger. “You wouldn’t.”

Vincent raises an eyebrow. “I’ll either that or dumb could water on your head. I know where the bathroom is.”

She groans flips onto her stomach, burying her head in her pillow. “Obnoxious, you are.”

Vincent gives up nudging her, and actually pushes her this time.

“I’m coming! You go ahead. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

--

Half an hour later – it’s almost three – he walks in fully dressed and she’s still naked, in bed, the covers pulled up around her shoulders and he’s this close to pulling her out of bed.

“I thought you wanted to drag me to that dumbass museum?” He says instead, leaning back against the wall of the room.

She mumbles something, and the only thing he catches is “decent hour” and “bastard.” He just smiles, walks over to the bed, and wrenches the bedcovers off the bed and her with them. She screams; hits the floor with a thud. So fucking worth it. “Up, now.” He walks over to her dresser, rifles through her clothes and tosses some underwear at her, then chooses one of her best skirts out, and a shirt that makes her look like she’s got some kind of tits. He misses her head with the underwear, but both the skirt and shirt hit the target.

“I can’t abide you sometimes, I hope you know.”

He just smiles. “I’ll be waiting for you downstairs in the shop, alright?”

--

She finally gets her freckled ass down the stairs, and Vincent looks her over critically. “Why don’t you wear the shirt more often?”

She fiddles with the sleeve. “B-because it – ”

“It isn’t two sizes too big? And it doesn’t make you washed out? And is actually almost in fashion? C’mon, Nimue.” He grabs her chin, tilts it upward. “You’re not ugly. Don’t dress like it.” He lets her go and she stumbles backwards a step or two. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Nimue sighs, takes a few quick steps forward and links her arm in his. “You’re such a girl sometimes, you know,” she says brightly, a little falsely, but that’s Nimue. “More of a girl every time I see you, actually.” He just rolls his eyes. She looks down at the ground, says haltingly: “but I do appreciate it.”

He rolls his eyes again. “Yeah. Whatever. Let’s get going.”

--

The Museum – that’s what they call it – spans most of what used to be Hyde Park. It’s outdoors, full of towering relics to the time before The Great Death. Things that they don’t understand, but half-worship anyway. It’s fucking dumb. Who gives half a shit about stuff that doesn’t make any sense? They’ve got people dying in the streets and they’re digging up these huge-ass flying machines halfway rusted to oblivion.

“And this, according to the pamphlet, is what they called a ‘van’ – there were smaller versions called ‘mini-vans’.” Nimue says slowly, looking up from the folded parchment at the thing in front of them. He’s easily as tall as it. The doors are rusted shut, and in places bits of shiny red paint cling to the metal skeleton of the thing. “It ran on petroleum – apparently they’re working on a method to refine oil so we can run things off petroleum rather than coal.”

Vincent shrugs. “Why does it matter?”

Nimue sighs, looks up at the sky. “It’s filthy here, Vincent.” He follows her gaze. The sky’s the same shade of gray it always is. The air reeks of smoke and steam. He remembers faintly seeing blue, blue sky in England, but that was so long ago. He supposes she has a point.

“The Second Industrial Revolution,” she says a little bitterly. “Leeching everything out of the world that’s beautiful.”

Doesn’t have much use for things that are beautiful. “Progress, Nimue.”

“But there are better alternatives!” And he looks down at her, her face flushed red against the cold air, with passion. “I’m reading a history about it – life before the Great Death was so much better, Vincent. The environment – everything was okay. Petroleum didn’t cloud the sky! We could get place so much faster! It’s almost like humanity got too close to God and suffered the consequences. Oh, it’s so terrible.”

“Look,” he shoves his hands in his pockets, knows this is a losing argument. “I know it’s nice but – ” can you honestly believe there was a time where life wasn’t shit piled on more shit but she doesn’t know that, doesn’t need to know that, so he shrugs instead – seems like it’s all he can do sometimes, and says, “I bet things weren’t as perfect as you’d like to think.”

She looks at him, like he’s so fucking ignorant and he grinds his teeth together, says, a little nastily, “don’t see why the past matters so fuckin’ much anyway.”

If anything, she looks a little haughtier. “Because we’ve lost so much. And if we could just regain it we’d – ”

Bullshit. “If your God,” and she stiffens while he sneers, “like you said, didn’t want us to get that close to his great holy whatever the fuck, then shouldn’t be satisfied with well enough?”

Nimue stares at him. “We could do it right this time, though. The problem, I think, was the lack of faith – the twenty-first century A.D. was infamous for that. If we advance but we keep our faith – well, that’s how we survived after the Great Death, isn’t it?”

Vincent doesn’t know, but if you sitting around on your knees praying to some imaginary power hanging around in the sky saved anyone, the world’s more fucked up than he thought before. He doesn’t say anything, though. Nimue knows. Not worth it. Just move on to the next exhibit. Keep your mouth shut.

“And what’s this?” he asks, pointing at the misshapen thing of twisted plastic. “And how would it be useful? At all?”

Nimue looks at the thing, rifles through her pamphlet. It’s a box like thing, with a thick – shattered – glass window in the front, making it look like some sort of weird little kid’s nightmare or whatever.

“They say it was some kind of calculating device? It might be a remnant of what they call a ‘computer’ but it could be a ‘television’ as well.” She sticks her nose deep into the pages of the pamphlet, says something about “imitating the human mind” and “great feats” but it all sounds half-made up and he’s stopped listening. It looks like it’s going to rain.

Fifteen minutes later proves him right.

--

They dive into the first restaurant they see, soaking wet and both in half foul moods. Turns out to be a quaint little Italian place run by a cheery family. Their host – the oldest son – speaks terrible English, so when Vincent talks to him in Italian, his face lights up immediately, and he seats them off in a romantic corner of the room, best in the house he assures them.

“He’s cute,” Nimue says, eyes trained on his ass.

Vincent follows her gaze. Sure, he’s got a tight ass, and his trousers fit him pretty fucking nice, but he’s also round-faced and genuine – overly enthusiastic and probably a virgin, probably straight. “You want to ask him out?”

Nimue snorts. “Not my type.”

“And you think he’s mine?”

Nimue smirks at him, a little nastily, and it’s a weird expression on her open face. “Well, you don’t seem the most … discerning when it comes to sexual exploits. And did you see the way he blushed when you talked to him in his own language? How many Englishmen bother with that?”

“So, I was polite?”

Nimue snorts then, says, “you’re no great example of mannerly conduct.” Sarcastic bitch.

“Shut the fuck up. Besides, I got laid last night. You not wanting to go for it tonight?”

“That isn’t what I said, is it Vincent bach? I’m thinking perhaps you should invite him along. What’s the French word for it?”

“Ménage à trois?” Leave it to Nimue. “With that kid? No way. Not now. Don’t feel like fucking some straight kid probably doesn’t got any idea between a cock and a cunt just – no fucking way. Besides I – ”

“What can I get for you?” They both look up a little guiltily, and the boy’s sister is standing there, a small smile on her face. Her English is better, but still bad. Vincent orders in Italian for the both of them. He makes sure it’s something Nimue really fucking hates.

She glares at him from across the table the rest of the meal. He smiles. Nods. Feels pretty fucking proud of himself.

--

Three days later of the same sex-sightseeing-dinner combination, it’s April second and he thinks he’s put it off long enough.

“I have to go,” he says over breakfast. He’s already packed. “I promised someone I’d meet her some time in April.”

Nimue looks like she’s about to protest, but then nods. “Gonna meet the twit while you’re at it?”

Why the fuck does she keep bringing her up? “Probably. I owe her that.” All about duty. He’s set aside money for what he owes her. “Probably not immediately though.”

“Where are you going to be going then?”

“Not far.” He thinks back to the letter. Where Kate usually is. “Around Merton.” Or at least that’s where he’ll start. And go from there. And figure out something – and if not – if not – he’ll figure something out. He always does.

Nimue nods. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll visit.”

She smiles, bright, cheery. Stands up, wraps her arms around his shoulders. “Good.” Kisses him on the cheek.

He lets her hold him there for a few seconds. Stands up. “I better get going.”

Ryxen: Chapter 2

2007-11-03T07:56:41Z

Word count: 2,108
Accumulative: 3,178

Goes by in a blur. English countryside is drab, gray, cold and he misses hot, dry sand and the lazy, fluid lines of Arabic and being warm; fuck, he even misses France. The weather was shitty, but not this shitty. He gets tired of looking out the window – it’s all the same – and focuses on the back of the seat in front of him. See-sawing of the train – not much different between that and The Dreadnought except here if you hurl there’s not the reek of fish to hide the smell. In the seat behind him he hears a some kid coughing hard and a quick memory of rotting skin and puss and screaming mothers surfaces but he pushes it to the back of his mind. That was a long time ago. That wasn’t here.

He sighs, rests his head back against the hard back of the seat that’s more like a bench and closes his eyes. Tries not to think but ends up doing it anyway. What’s he doing? Really. What the fuck does he think he’s doing?

Coming back here probably wasn’t the best idea. If not today, tomorrow or the day after of the day after that he’s going to have to deal with his – whatever the fuck you want to call it. Domestic issues. And he’s going to have to deal with Kate. And he’s going to have to deal with people he’s not even sure he knows how to deal with anymore. He’d bitch about life getting so fucking complicated, but when was it ever not?

Sometimes he thinks he shouldn’t have left France. Even though, in most ways it wasn’t any better than England. Sometimes it was a lot fucking worse.

The train speeds towards London anyway, and eventually he thinks he dozes off because the next thing he remembers is the train pulling in to Charing Cross.

--

Fucking filthy, disgusting – just like he remembers it. Smells like people shit and piss in the street, and it really wouldn’t surprise him if they did. He walks blindly because he’s tired and hasn’t stopped moving for – days, he thinks. Fucking days.

He wants a drink. He wants a bed. He wants a fuck too, but that can wait. He can wait. Not sure if he’d even be able to last at all the state he’s in.

He stumbles in a direction he’s pretty sure is east. Even surer when the buildings get rattier, smaller, hunched together like a bunch of penniless assholes begging on the street. Because people can’t get fucking jobs here, because this asshole king leeches money away from the dirt-poor people so he can have his fucking wars, to expand the empire, and doesn’t care that people are starving to death in the street, killing each other. The rich – like they ever gave a fuck about anyone that wasn’t them.

He makes his way to an inn that he’s pretty sure is also a brothel that he’s never heard of – same shit as always. It’s actually pretty deserted inside – a few drunken teenagers slouched off to the side of the room, a handful of lonely old men; maybe the place has got shitty service, maybe all the whores have got the clap. Not like it matters either way.

A haggard old woman rushes up to him, smiles broadly and Vincent stares a little at the gaps between her teeth, at her rotting gums, but manages to pull his eyes up to meet hers. Polite. Last thing he needs to do is piss off the woman he’s about to rent a room from.

“Can I help you, love?”

“I need a room.”

She raises an eyebrow. Looks him over top to toe to top again and her gaze is almost slimy. “Jus’ a room?”

“Just a room.” Because the last thing he wants is some half-dead whore crawling into his bed at night. “How much?”

Then this look goes over her face, like she’s suddenly figured out something – something big. Then she’s not eyeing him appraisingly, lustfully – she’s looking at him like he’s a murderer. “You’re not from ‘round here, you’re not.”

He fights the urge to roll his eyes. Fucking English. Scared of fucking everyone that didn’t talk like them, look like them, act like them, smell like them. The world’s a fucking bigger place than that, “yes. No. Born here. Been away.”

“Away where? Doin’ what?”

Oh fuck this. “Away. Working. Since it’s hard to find here.” Which is true enough. It’s not like the cunt needs to know. He’s renting a room for the night, not the year.

“You not one o’ them – ”

“I’ll pay you three quid for the night.” Which he knows is more than even her best room is worth, but he just wants her to shut up and he wants to sleep.

She stops. Narrows his eyes. “You crooked?”

“I’m paying.” Fucking English. Fucking ignorant English. He pulls three shillings out of his pocket, flashes them in front of her face and her eyes get wide, like she didn’t believe him before and if he felt like being fair it’d be hard to blame her, but it’s fucking hard to be fair. “I’ll be gone by noon tomorrow.”

She reaches out for the shillings, like she’s never seen money before, but he pulls the coins away before her fingers can brush the silver. Her face falls, and he almost smiles, but doesn’t. Keeps his face blank. “I get the room?”

Ugly expression, greed is. Really fucking ugly. Her mouth twists downwards and she makes a soft whine, like she’s in pain. Like letting a foreigner like him stay in her shitty inn is going to ruin her reputation. Cunt. The woman is a fucking cunt. “Deal,” she says, haughtily, like she’s a fucking noble lady and he’s scum underfoot and he just grins, bears is.

Says, “give me my fucking key.”

And she does. Like she’s handing over rubies and not the key to a small, windy room that probably has maggots in the mattress. He bites back a sneer, stomps up stairs. Falls asleep with his shoes on. Same fucking shit.

--

He almost doesn’t manage to force himself out of bed in the morning. It would be a lot easier just to lie here. Even if the sheets are fucking disgusting.

But he said noon. And he’s pretty sure if he isn’t gone by then the mistress’ll pound down the door. Possibly call the constable on him for some trumped-up charge or another and that’s the fucking last thing he needs. He throws back the covers, stumbles over to the mirror. His reflection stares back. Looks like shit.

“Fuck.” He runs his fingers over the stubble on his jaw, thick enough it can’t even be called a five o’clock shadow. It feels like there’s fur or something growing on his teeth. His jeans are stained with sweat and grime from the London streets. Circles under his eyes. Chapped lips. Looks like so much fuckin’ shit. He considers getting out his razor, brushing his teeth, changing his clothes, but figures any water he’d get here would be pretty rank and he’s just going to get dirty again, so he pulls on his shoes, grabs his knapsack and almost jogs down the stairs. Pauses a second to leave the key on her desk. Can’t get out of this shithole fast enough is what he thinks when he pushes open the door and walks out into the street, but it’s not like that’s any better. London in daylight isn’t much better than London in the evening. Still muddy. Still gray. Still cold.

Start going west – he’s not sure if he really wants to go see Nimue when he starts walking, but it seems like a good idea. He shoves his hands in his pockets, watches idly as the buildings look a little less pathetic, beaten down. The beggars look a little fatter. The people look a little happier. Goes past Charing Cross. Picadilly Circus. Oxford street. That’s the address.

He remembers the building – small, pressed between two larger buildings not because that’s all she could afford, but it’s all anyone would rent to her. The sign reads open so he walks straight into the Ladies’ Clothing Shoppe and doesn’t care that several women shoot him scandalized looks. He feels six pairs of eyes on him at least and he takes his time when he stretches, leans on the desk counter and props his head up on his hand. The woman has her back turned to him, is frantically writing in a ledger.

“Ma’am.”

Her hair is pulled in a limp ponytail and she’s pale under her thick freckles. “Bit pushed right now. Be with you in a moment,” she says, absently.

“Nimue.” And then she does turn around. He smiles. “Is that really anyway to treat a paying customer?”

Three seconds of disbelief, she brushes her bangs out of her face, leaving a thick streak of ink across her forehead. “Vincent?”

“Who else?”

She smiles, like a little girl. “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon. Oh, I haven’t seen you for ages.” The women in the shop are staring hard at her now, and she frowns a little bit. “Store hours over. We’re closed. Anyone want to make a purchase come up here in the next five minutes.”

--

“France.”

The loft of the building is small and cozy, and there’s a six cartons of Chinese takeaway between the two of them. “What about it?”

“How was it?”

“Dull.” He’s shaved and showered and brushed his teeth. They’re sitting, facing each other cross-legged, fighting over the last of the sweet and sour pork with chopsticks. “Nicer weather. This place is shit.”

Even Nimue’s laugh is sing-song. “Right enough,” she says, plucking up an eggroll. “Meet anyone?”

Vincent knows what she means, but immediately thinks of Wolfe. Says, “met a lot of people,” mostly just to see Nimue roll her eyes. So easy. Every fuckin’ time.

“Did you meet anyone special?”

“I slept around. With this older bitch a lot. She was a trip.” He leaves it at that because he’d rather not talk about Bellanca. And ‘special’ wouldn’t be the word he’d use. Unless Nimue meant ‘barking mad.’ That about works for the cunt. He snatches up a piece of tofu with his chopsticks.

“I’ll bet.”

He chews, swallows. “You with anyone right now?”

Nimue shakes her head. “Broke it off with Tom. The bastard made out that he was some kind of surgeon, remember?” She snorts. “He flunked out of med school in his first year. That he had the audacity to lie about it, like he was going somewhere with his life? That’s what really made me off.”

“Don’t blame you.”

Nimue uncurls her legs, stretches them. “Foot falling asleep,” she says, when he looks at her. “Anyway, I’m assuming you’ve not been back long enough from France to make any real attachments?”

Vincent rolls his eyes and sets down his chopsticks. “Yeah, Nimue. We can do that friends that fuck thing. It’s fine. Isn’t it always fine with me?”

Nimue shrugs, gives him an impish smile that maker her nose scrunch up. She kind of looks like a pug when she does that, but he’s pretty sure she thinks it’s cute, or whatever, so he doesn’t mention it to her. “Just thought you might actually fancy someone an’ I didn’t want to assume anything.”

“Yeah. Right.”

He knows what she’ll say next. She says it every time. They have this same conversation every fuckin’ time. “When you find love, you’ll regret it, you know. Being such a hypocrite.”

“Sure. Whatever Nimue.”

She just smiles for a second, and then the smile turns sharp. “You gonna visit your old flame while you’re here?”

Ianthe. He knows Nimue hates Ianthe. He gets why. He just doesn’t like talking about her. He’d rather forget she exist. Full stop. She’s something he’s still not quite sure how he feels about. Shame. Guilt. Anger. Whatever. “I should. I promised I would. Need to give her some money at least.”

“Big of you.”

In a way it is. If she hadn’t been such a self-righteous bitch – “Yeah.” He doesn’t want to go here either. “So I can crash here?”

Nimue rolls her eyes. “Rather hard to screw if we’re not staying in the same place, hm?”

“Point.”

She flicks a piece of rice at him, and he brushes it off easily. Asks, “so, how’s the business going?”

Her face lights up in ways it doesn’t for anything else. She talks, he listens. For hours.

Ryxen: Chapter 1

2007-11-02T07:59:49Z

First post in NaNoWriMo
Word count: 1,070

“Sonuva mother fucking whore!” The ship lurches into harbor – The Dreadnought, cheapest passage this side of the Channel. Wolfe lurches with it, would’ve probably hit the ground but Vincent’s got it together enough to reach out, grab his arm, so he lurches into him instead.

“You okay?”

“Y-yeah. Just, can’t wait to be on solid ground. This bitch any further left we’re gonna be sideways. Eatin’ food that ain’t dried. Or crackers. I’m so fuckin’ sick of crackers.”

“I think you’re just fuckin’ sick, Wolfe.”

“I ain’t gonna throw up, Landseer. I ain’t.” Vincent helps him over to the rail anyway. Wolfe holds him his middle finger, but hangs his head. Soon as he starts retching, Vincent turns his back to the rail, leans back on the rail by the elbows. He’d whistle, but he’s got no idea how.

Samuel Wolfe. Spent the last two or so years together in France, in Paris. Split the fare for a room on the trip back. Decent enough, if you go for that. Really, he just needed someone he didn’t have to trip over words with.

“So fuckin’ embarrassing,” he’s saying, rubbing his temples.

Vincent smiles wide and slow, a little crookedly, at the sailor walking by. He goes red in the face, rushes off like someone on the goddamn ship doesn’t know. Can’t help rolling his eyes. Says, “sicking up in Dover harbor? Yeah. Pretty damn bad. Especially because the ship’s docked.”

Wolfe groans. “Shut up Landseer.”

Vincent laughs. “Fine.” Pushes himself off the rail, bends over, hooks his knapsack over his shoulder. “We’re finally off this godforsaken thing, you know.”

Wolfe stares at him. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He nods. Below, a trickle of passengers are making their way, a little shakily, off the ship.

“Thank Christ bleedin’ on the fuckin’ crucifix.” Wolfe pushes himself off the rail and picks up his own luggage – more than Vincent’s own. For the wife and kids, though Vincent’d be shocked if Wolfe actually had a family. Stolen shit, probably. He never mentioned what he was doing for two years in France. Whatever. None of his business.

“Where are you goin’? You never did tell me.”

“London.” Though he’s not sure if that’s true at all. “You?”

Wolfe shrugs. “Family’s in Milton. Workin’. Gonna meet up with them there,” and he opens his mouth probably to suggest going to London together, but Vincent’s got other shit to do – that doesn’t—can’t involve Wolfe.

“Wolfe, hey, luck with your family and all, but I’ve got to go. If you ever want to look me up I’ll be in London. Somewhere.”

And Wolfe opens his mouth again, but Vincent’s halfway done the latter, out of earshot. Doesn’t matter.

--

The docks stink like old vomit and fish and mud mixed with what may or may not be shit. He’s knee deep in muck. It rained yesterday. Rained onboard too.

Fucking England.

He could push his way into the closest pub he can find, but he’s got a letter burning a hole in his pocket and he wants some details before he rushes in so he goes to the Swordfish because that’s where he’ll find Eliot.

It takes longer than he remembers to walk there. It starts raining. Fucking England. He pulls open the door. Lets it slam shut behind him.

The building is as fucking run-down as ever. Was busy once upon a time, an actual inn, but Eliot didn’t have the energy, or the resources to maintain it, so now it’s mostly empty – story of a lot of places around here, half Dover is empty. Of course, half of everywhere is pretty damn empty. But the Swordfish? Now it’s a cheap bar filled with a bunch of thieves and criminals.

Eliot’s at the bar, thirty-something and balding. Vincent strolls up like he owns the place – really, he could if he really wanted to; no one’s going to fucking touch him – and smiles. Sits down at the bar. “Eliot.”

Eliot’s been cleaning the bar with a rag that looks dirtier than the mahogany surface, but he stops here and stares at him hard. Finally says, haltingly. “Landseer. We thought you were dead.”

“And you were really sorry about it, right?”

Eliot shrugs. “You’re good business, Landseer. You’re business period. And you can pay.” A small, bitter smile crosses his face. “Well, most of the time.”

Vincent shrugs. Puts his hands in his pockets. “Whatever. Tell me about Kate.”

“What about ‘er?”

“What’s she doing?” Because if anyone knows it’s Eliot. Fat, balding little shit of a gossip.

“Robbin’ bunch o’ middle class bastards. Bein’ a public enemy. Makin’ news. What’s Kate doin’ ever?”

“She in London?”

“Yeah. Thereabouts, though half the world seems convinced she’s in the wild States. I know better. She’s in London makin’ mischief. Word is she’s got something big in the works.”

Nothing he didn’t already know. He nods like it’s new. “Great.” He stands up.

Eliot’s face falls, jowls tremble. “Not gonna buy anything?”

“And drink that piss you call beer? Not that desperate. Yet, anyway.” He smiles nastily. “Later, Eliot.”

--

What’s it gonna be?

Sits at a table in another pub with no Eliot, no criminals. Painfully middle-class fuck he hates their snide, stick-up-the-ass bullshit but at least no one’s bothering him.

Two birds, one stone. Make a living. Do your civic fuckin’ duty.

What the fuck else is left? He’s sick of running around the fucking continent, but he’s not sure if he wants to commit to whatever crazy scheme Kate’s got rattling around in her half-cocked brain. He’s not sure if he wants to deal with Ianthe again either. But. What else? What the fuck else is there?

He pulls out the letter. Reads it again. Kate’s handwriting is terrible. Looks like a toddler’s.

You bored yet Landseer? I told you would bee. I’m in London. You know where. See you some time befor May, rite?

What could it hurt?

Fine. Catch a train. It’s early. It’s only three hours at the worst. He stands up abruptly, drops some cash on the table. Doesn’t really matter how much. Pushes his way out the door. It’s not raining anymore. The streets are crowded because Dover’s about trade – it doesn’t sleep.

There’s that half-second – jamais vu; slippery, slick feeling of sickness. World spins, a little out of control. Snaps back.

Three hour ride from Dover to London. Get moving. Get fuckin’ moving.